none and revised by joseph e. loewenstein, m.d. doctor thorne by anthony trollope first published in contents i. the greshams of greshamsbury ii. long, long ago iii. dr thorne iv. lessons from courcy castle v. frank gresham's first speech vi. frank gresham's early loves vii. the doctor's garden viii. matrimonial prospects ix. sir roger scatcherd x. sir roger's will xi. the doctor drinks his tea xii. when greek meets greek, then comes the tug of war xiii. the two uncles xiv. sentence of exile xv. courcy xvi. miss dunstable xvii. the election xviii. the rivals xix. the duke of omnium xx. the proposal xxi. mr moffat falls into trouble xxii. sir roger is unseated xxii. retrospective xxiv. louis scatcherd xxv. sir roger dies xxvi. war xxvii. miss thorne goes on a visit xxviii. the doctor hears something to his advantage xxix. the donkey ride xxx. post prandial xxxi. the small end of the wedge xxxii. mr oriel xxxiii. a morning visit xxxiv. a barouche and four arrives at greshamsbury xxxv. sir louis goes out to dinner xxxvi. will he come again? xxxvii. sir louis leaves greshamsbury xxxviii. de courcy precepts and de courcy practice xxxix. what the world says about blood xl. the two doctors change patients xli. doctor thorne won't interfere xlii. what can you give in return? xliii. the race of scatcherd becomes extinct xliv. saturday evening and sunday morning xlv. law business in london xlvi. our pet fox finds a tail xlvii. how the bride was received, and who were asked to the wedding chapter i the greshams of greshamsbury before the reader is introduced to the modest country medical practitioner who is to be the chief personage of the following tale, it will be well that he should be made acquainted with some particulars as to the locality in which, and the neighbours among whom, our doctor followed his profession. there is a county in the west of england not so full of life, indeed, nor so widely spoken of as some of its manufacturing leviathan brethren in the north, but which is, nevertheless, very dear to those who know it well. its green pastures, its waving wheat, its deep and shady and--let us add--dirty lanes, its paths and stiles, its tawny-coloured, well-built rural churches, its avenues of beeches, and frequent tudor mansions, its constant county hunt, its social graces, and the general air of clanship which pervades it, has made it to its own inhabitants a favoured land of goshen. it is purely agricultural; agricultural in its produce, agricultural in its poor, and agricultural in its pleasures. there are towns in it, of course; dépôts from whence are brought seeds and groceries, ribbons and fire-shovels; in which markets are held and county balls are carried on; which return members to parliament, generally--in spite of reform bills, past, present, and coming--in accordance with the dictates of some neighbouring land magnate: from whence emanate the country postmen, and where is located the supply of post-horses necessary for county visitings. but these towns add nothing to the importance of the county; they consist, with the exception of the assize town, of dull, all but death-like single streets. each possesses two pumps, three hotels, ten shops, fifteen beer-houses, a beadle, and a market-place. indeed, the town population of the county reckons for nothing when the importance of the county is discussed, with the exception, as before said, of the assize town, which is also a cathedral city. herein is a clerical aristocracy, which is certainly not without its due weight. a resident bishop, a resident dean, an archdeacon, three or four resident prebendaries, and all their numerous chaplains, vicars, and ecclesiastical satellites, do make up a society sufficiently powerful to be counted as something by the county squirearchy. in other respects the greatness of barsetshire depends wholly on the landed powers. barsetshire, however, is not now so essentially one whole as it was before the reform bill divided it. there is in these days an east barsetshire, and there is a west barsetshire; and people conversant with barsetshire doings declare that they can already decipher some difference of feeling, some division of interests. the eastern moiety of the county is more purely conservative than the western; there is, or was, a taint of peelism in the latter; and then, too, the residence of two such great whig magnates as the duke of omnium and the earl de courcy in that locality in some degree overshadows and renders less influential the gentlemen who live near them. it is to east barsetshire that we are called. when the division above spoken of was first contemplated, in those stormy days in which gallant men were still combatting reform ministers, if not with hope, still with spirit, the battle was fought by none more bravely than by john newbold gresham of greshamsbury, the member for barsetshire. fate, however, and the duke of wellington were adverse, and in the following parliament john newbold gresham was only member for east barsetshire. whether or not it was true, as stated at the time, that the aspect of the men with whom he was called on to associate at st stephen's broke his heart, it is not for us now to inquire. it is certainly true that he did not live to see the first year of the reformed parliament brought to a close. the then mr gresham was not an old man at the time of his death, and his eldest son, francis newbold gresham, was a very young man; but, notwithstanding his youth, and notwithstanding other grounds of objection which stood in the way of such preferment, and which must be explained, he was chosen in his father's place. the father's services had been too recent, too well appreciated, too thoroughly in unison with the feelings of those around him to allow of any other choice; and in this way young frank gresham found himself member for east barsetshire, although the very men who elected him knew that they had but slender ground for trusting him with their suffrages. frank gresham, though then only twenty-four years of age, was a married man, and a father. he had already chosen a wife, and by his choice had given much ground of distrust to the men of east barsetshire. he had married no other than lady arabella de courcy, the sister of the great whig earl who lived at courcy castle in the west; that earl who not only voted for the reform bill, but had been infamously active in bringing over other young peers so to vote, and whose name therefore stank in the nostrils of the staunch tory squires of the county. not only had frank gresham so wedded, but having thus improperly and unpatriotically chosen a wife, he had added to his sins by becoming recklessly intimate with his wife's relations. it is true that he still called himself a tory, belonged to the club of which his father had been one of the most honoured members, and in the days of the great battle got his head broken in a row, on the right side; but, nevertheless, it was felt by the good men, true and blue, of east barsetshire, that a constant sojourner at courcy castle could not be regarded as a consistent tory. when, however, his father died, that broken head served him in good stead: his sufferings in the cause were made the most of; these, in unison with his father's merits, turned the scale, and it was accordingly decided, at a meeting held at the george and dragon, at barchester, that frank gresham should fill his father's shoes. but frank gresham could not fill his father's shoes; they were too big for him. he did become member for east barsetshire, but he was such a member--so lukewarm, so indifferent, so prone to associate with the enemies of the good cause, so little willing to fight the good fight, that he soon disgusted those who most dearly loved the memory of the old squire. de courcy castle in those days had great allurements for a young man, and all those allurements were made the most of to win over young gresham. his wife, who was a year or two older than himself, was a fashionable woman, with thorough whig tastes and aspirations, such as became the daughter of a great whig earl; she cared for politics, or thought that she cared for them, more than her husband did; for a month or two previous to her engagement she had been attached to the court, and had been made to believe that much of the policy of england's rulers depended on the political intrigues of england's women. she was one who would fain be doing something if she only knew how, and the first important attempt she made was to turn her respectable young tory husband into a second-rate whig bantling. as this lady's character will, it is hoped, show itself in the following pages, we need not now describe it more closely. it is not a bad thing to be son-in-law to a potent earl, member of parliament for a county, and a possessor of a fine old english seat, and a fine old english fortune. as a very young man, frank gresham found the life to which he was thus introduced agreeable enough. he consoled himself as best he might for the blue looks with which he was greeted by his own party, and took his revenge by consorting more thoroughly than ever with his political adversaries. foolishly, like a foolish moth, he flew to the bright light, and, like the moths, of course he burnt his wings. early in he had become a member of parliament, and in the autumn of the dissolution came. young members of three or four-and-twenty do not think much of dissolutions, forget the fancies of their constituents, and are too proud of the present to calculate much as to the future. so it was with mr gresham. his father had been member for barsetshire all his life, and he looked forward to similar prosperity as though it were part of his inheritance; but he failed to take any of the steps which had secured his father's seat. in the autumn of the dissolution came, and frank gresham, with his honourable lady wife and all the de courcys at his back, found that he had mortally offended the county. to his great disgust another candidate was brought forward as a fellow to his late colleague, and though he manfully fought the battle, and spent ten thousand pounds in the contest, he could not recover his position. a high tory, with a great whig interest to back him, is never a popular person in england. no one can trust him, though there may be those who are willing to place him, untrusted, in high positions. such was the case with mr gresham. there were many who were willing, for family considerations, to keep him in parliament; but no one thought that he was fit to be there. the consequences were, that a bitter and expensive contest ensued. frank gresham, when twitted with being a whig, foreswore the de courcy family; and then, when ridiculed as having been thrown over by the tories, foreswore his father's old friends. so between the two stools he fell to the ground, and, as a politician, he never again rose to his feet. he never again rose to his feet; but twice again he made violent efforts to do so. elections in east barsetshire, from various causes, came quick upon each other in those days, and before he was eight-and-twenty years of age mr gresham had three times contested the county and been three times beaten. to speak the truth of him, his own spirit would have been satisfied with the loss of the first ten thousand pounds; but lady arabella was made of higher mettle. she had married a man with a fine place and a fine fortune; but she had nevertheless married a commoner and had in so far derogated from her high birth. she felt that her husband should be by rights a member of the house of lords; but, if not, that it was at least essential that he should have a seat in the lower chamber. she would by degrees sink into nothing if she allowed herself to sit down, the mere wife of a mere country squire. thus instigated, mr gresham repeated the useless contest three times, and repeated it each time at a serious cost. he lost his money, lady arabella lost her temper, and things at greshamsbury went on by no means as prosperously as they had done in the days of the old squire. in the first twelve years of their marriage, children came fast into the nursery at greshamsbury. the first that was born was a boy; and in those happy halcyon days, when the old squire was still alive, great was the joy at the birth of an heir to greshamsbury; bonfires gleamed through the country-side, oxen were roasted whole, and the customary paraphernalia of joy, usual to rich britons on such occasions were gone through with wondrous éclat. but when the tenth baby, and the ninth little girl, was brought into the world, the outward show of joy was not so great. then other troubles came on. some of these little girls were sickly, some very sickly. lady arabella had her faults, and they were such as were extremely detrimental to her husband's happiness and her own; but that of being an indifferent mother was not among them. she had worried her husband daily for years because he was not in parliament, she had worried him because he would not furnish the house in portman square, she had worried him because he objected to have more people every winter at greshamsbury park than the house would hold; but now she changed her tune and worried him because selina coughed, because helena was hectic, because poor sophy's spine was weak, and matilda's appetite was gone. worrying from such causes was pardonable it will be said. so it was; but the manner was hardly pardonable. selina's cough was certainly not fairly attributable to the old-fashioned furniture in portman square; nor would sophy's spine have been materially benefited by her father having a seat in parliament; and yet, to have heard lady arabella discussing those matters in family conclave, one would have thought that she would have expected such results. as it was, her poor weak darlings were carried about from london to brighton, from brighton to some german baths, from the german baths back to torquay, and thence--as regarded the four we have named--to that bourne from whence no further journey could be made under the lady arabella's directions. the one son and heir to greshamsbury was named as his father, francis newbold gresham. he would have been the hero of our tale had not that place been pre-occupied by the village doctor. as it is, those who please may so regard him. it is he who is to be our favourite young man, to do the love scenes, to have his trials and his difficulties, and to win through them or not, as the case may be. i am too old now to be a hard-hearted author, and so it is probable that he may not die of a broken heart. those who don't approve of a middle-aged bachelor country doctor as a hero, may take the heir to greshamsbury in his stead, and call the book, if it so please them, "the loves and adventures of francis newbold gresham the younger." and master frank gresham was not ill adapted for playing the part of a hero of this sort. he did not share his sisters' ill-health, and though the only boy of the family, he excelled all his sisters in personal appearance. the greshams from time immemorial had been handsome. they were broad browed, blue eyed, fair haired, born with dimples in their chins, and that pleasant, aristocratic dangerous curl of the upper lip which can equally express good humour or scorn. young frank was every inch a gresham, and was the darling of his father's heart. the de courcys had never been plain. there was too much hauteur, too much pride, we may perhaps even fairly say, too much nobility in their gait and manners, and even in their faces, to allow of their being considered plain; but they were not a race nurtured by venus or apollo. they were tall and thin, with high cheek-bones, high foreheads, and large, dignified, cold eyes. the de courcy girls had all good hair; and, as they also possessed easy manners and powers of talking, they managed to pass in the world for beauties till they were absorbed in the matrimonial market, and the world at large cared no longer whether they were beauties or not. the misses gresham were made in the de courcy mould, and were not on this account the less dear to their mother. the two eldest, augusta and beatrice, lived, and were apparently likely to live. the four next faded and died one after another--all in the same sad year--and were laid in the neat, new cemetery at torquay. then came a pair, born at one birth, weak, delicate, frail little flowers, with dark hair and dark eyes, and thin, long, pale faces, with long, bony hands, and long bony feet, whom men looked on as fated to follow their sisters with quick steps. hitherto, however, they had not followed them, nor had they suffered as their sisters had suffered; and some people at greshamsbury attributed this to the fact that a change had been made in the family medical practitioner. then came the youngest of the flock, she whose birth we have said was not heralded with loud joy; for when she came into the world, four others, with pale temples, wan, worn cheeks, and skeleton, white arms, were awaiting permission to leave it. such was the family when, in the year , the eldest son came of age. he had been educated at harrow, and was now still at cambridge; but, of course, on such a day as this he was at home. that coming of age must be a delightful time to a young man born to inherit broad acres and wide wealth. those full-mouthed congratulations; those warm prayers with which his manhood is welcomed by the grey-haired seniors of the county; the affectionate, all but motherly caresses of neighbouring mothers who have seen him grow up from his cradle, of mothers who have daughters, perhaps, fair enough, and good enough, and sweet enough even for him; the soft-spoken, half-bashful, but tender greetings of the girls, who now, perhaps for the first time, call him by his stern family name, instructed by instinct rather than precept that the time has come when the familiar charles or familiar john must by them be laid aside; the "lucky dogs," and hints of silver spoons which are poured into his ears as each young compeer slaps his back and bids him live a thousand years and then never die; the shouting of the tenantry, the good wishes of the old farmers who come up to wring his hand, the kisses which he gets from the farmers' wives, and the kisses which he gives to the farmers' daughters; all these things must make the twenty-first birthday pleasant enough to a young heir. to a youth, however, who feels that he is now liable to arrest, and that he inherits no other privilege, the pleasure may very possibly not be quite so keen. the case with young frank gresham may be supposed to much nearer the former than the latter; but yet the ceremony of his coming of age was by no means like that which fate had accorded to his father. mr gresham was now an embarrassed man, and though the world did not know it, or, at any rate, did not know that he was deeply embarrassed, he had not the heart to throw open his mansion and receive the county with a free hand as though all things were going well with him. nothing was going well with him. lady arabella would allow nothing near him or around him to be well. everything with him now turned to vexation; he was no longer a joyous, happy man, and the people of east barsetshire did not look for gala doings on a grand scale when young gresham came of age. gala doings, to a certain extent, there were there. it was in july, and tables were spread under the oaks for the tenants. tables were spread, and meat, and beer, and wine were there, and frank, as he walked round and shook his guests by the hand, expressed a hope that their relations with each other might be long, close, and mutually advantageous. we must say a few words now about the place itself. greshamsbury park was a fine old english gentleman's seat--was and is; but we can assert it more easily in past tense, as we are speaking of it with reference to a past time. we have spoken of greshamsbury park; there was a park so called, but the mansion itself was generally known as greshamsbury house, and did not stand in the park. we may perhaps best describe it by saying that the village of greshamsbury consisted of one long, straggling street, a mile in length, which in the centre turned sharp round, so that one half of the street lay directly at right angles to the other. in this angle stood greshamsbury house, and the gardens and grounds around it filled up the space so made. there was an entrance with large gates at each end of the village, and each gate was guarded by the effigies of two huge pagans with clubs, such being the crest borne by the family; from each entrance a broad road, quite straight, running through to a majestic avenue of limes, led up to the house. this was built in the richest, perhaps we should rather say in the purest, style of tudor architecture; so much so that, though greshamsbury is less complete than longleat, less magnificent than hatfield, it may in some sense be said to be the finest specimen of tudor architecture of which the country can boast. it stands amid a multitude of trim gardens and stone-built terraces, divided one from another: these to our eyes are not so attractive as that broad expanse of lawn by which our country houses are generally surrounded; but the gardens of greshamsbury have been celebrated for two centuries, and any gresham who would have altered them would have been considered to have destroyed one of the well-known landmarks of the family. greshamsbury park--properly so called--spread far away on the other side of the village. opposite to the two great gates leading up to the mansion were two smaller gates, the one opening on to the stables, kennels, and farm-yard, and the other to the deer park. this latter was the principal entrance to the demesne, and a grand and picturesque entrance it was. the avenue of limes which on one side stretched up to the house, was on the other extended for a quarter of a mile, and then appeared to be terminated only by an abrupt rise in the ground. at the entrance there were four savages and four clubs, two to each portal, and what with the massive iron gates, surmounted by a stone wall, on which stood the family arms supported by two other club-bearers, the stone-built lodges, the doric, ivy-covered columns which surrounded the circle, the four grim savages, and the extent of the space itself through which the high road ran, and which just abutted on the village, the spot was sufficiently significant of old family greatness. those who examined it more closely might see that under the arms was a scroll bearing the gresham motto, and that the words were repeated in smaller letters under each of the savages. "gardez gresham," had been chosen in the days of motto-choosing probably by some herald-at-arms as an appropriate legend for signifying the peculiar attributes of the family. now, however, unfortunately, men were not of one mind as to the exact idea signified. some declared, with much heraldic warmth, that it was an address to the savages, calling on them to take care of their patron; while others, with whom i myself am inclined to agree, averred with equal certainty that it was an advice to the people at large, especially to those inclined to rebel against the aristocracy of the county, that they should "beware the gresham." the latter signification would betoken strength--so said the holders of this doctrine; the former weakness. now the greshams were ever a strong people, and never addicted to a false humility. we will not pretend to decide the question. alas! either construction was now equally unsuited to the family fortunes. such changes had taken place in england since the greshams had founded themselves that no savage could any longer in any way protect them; they must protect themselves like common folk, or live unprotected. nor now was it necessary that any neighbour should shake in his shoes when the gresham frowned. it would have been to be wished that the present gresham himself could have been as indifferent to the frowns of some of his neighbours. but the old symbols remained, and may such symbols long remain among us; they are still lovely and fit to be loved. they tell us of the true and manly feelings of other times; and to him who can read aright, they explain more fully, more truly than any written history can do, how englishmen have become what they are. england is not yet a commercial country in the sense in which that epithet is used for her; and let us still hope that she will not soon become so. she might surely as well be called feudal england, or chivalrous england. if in western civilised europe there does exist a nation among whom there are high signors, and with whom the owners of the land are the true aristocracy, the aristocracy that is trusted as being best and fittest to rule, that nation is the english. choose out the ten leading men of each great european people. choose them in france, in austria, sardinia, prussia, russia, sweden, denmark, spain (?), and then select the ten in england whose names are best known as those of leading statesmen; the result will show in which country there still exists the closest attachment to, the sincerest trust in, the old feudal and now so-called landed interests. england a commercial country! yes; as venice was. she may excel other nations in commerce, but yet it is not that in which she most prides herself, in which she most excels. merchants as such are not the first men among us; though it perhaps be open, barely open, to a merchant to become one of them. buying and selling is good and necessary; it is very necessary, and may, possibly, be very good; but it cannot be the noblest work of man; and let us hope that it may not in our time be esteemed the noblest work of an englishman. greshamsbury park was very large; it lay on the outside of the angle formed by the village street, and stretched away on two sides without apparent limit or boundaries visible from the village road or house. indeed, the ground on this side was so broken up into abrupt hills, and conical-shaped, oak-covered excrescences, which were seen peeping up through and over each other, that the true extent of the park was much magnified to the eye. it was very possible for a stranger to get into it and to find some difficulty in getting out again by any of its known gates; and such was the beauty of the landscape, that a lover of scenery would be tempted thus to lose himself. i have said that on one side lay the kennels, and this will give me an opportunity of describing here one especial episode, a long episode, in the life of the existing squire. he had once represented his county in parliament, and when he ceased to do so he still felt an ambition to be connected in some peculiar way with that county's greatness; he still desired that gresham of greshamsbury should be something more in east barsetshire than jackson of the grange, or baker of mill hill, or bateson of annesgrove. they were all his friends, and very respectable country gentlemen; but mr gresham of greshamsbury should be more than this: even he had enough of ambition to be aware of such a longing. therefore, when an opportunity occurred he took to hunting the county. for this employment he was in every way well suited--unless it was in the matter of finance. though he had in his very earliest manly years given such great offence by indifference to his family politics, and had in a certain degree fostered the ill-feeling by contesting the county in opposition to the wishes of his brother squires, nevertheless, he bore a loved and popular name. men regretted that he should not have been what they wished him to be, that he should not have been such as was the old squire; but when they found that such was the case, that he could not be great among them as a politician, they were still willing that he should be great in any other way if there were county greatness for which he was suited. now he was known as an excellent horseman, as a thorough sportsman, as one knowing in dogs, and tender-hearted as a sucking mother to a litter of young foxes; he had ridden in the county since he was fifteen, had a fine voice for a view-hallo, knew every hound by name, and could wind a horn with sufficient music for all hunting purposes; moreover, he had come to his property, as was well known through all barsetshire, with a clear income of fourteen thousand a year. thus, when some old worn-out master of hounds was run to ground, about a year after mr gresham's last contest for the county, it seemed to all parties to be a pleasant and rational arrangement that the hounds should go to greshamsbury. pleasant, indeed, to all except the lady arabella; and rational, perhaps, to all except the squire himself. all this time he was already considerably encumbered. he had spent much more than he should have done, and so indeed had his wife, in those two splendid years in which they had figured as great among the great ones of the earth. fourteen thousand a year ought to have been enough to allow a member of parliament with a young wife and two or three children to live in london and keep up their country family mansion; but then the de courcys were very great people, and lady arabella chose to live as she had been accustomed to do, and as her sister-in-law the countess lived: now lord de courcy had much more than fourteen thousand a year. then came the three elections, with their vast attendant cost, and then those costly expedients to which gentlemen are forced to have recourse who have lived beyond their income, and find it impossible so to reduce their establishments as to live much below it. thus when the hounds came to greshamsbury, mr gresham was already a poor man. lady arabella said much to oppose their coming; but lady arabella, though it could hardly be said of her that she was under her husband's rule, certainly was not entitled to boast that she had him under hers. she then made her first grand attack as to the furniture in portman square; and was then for the first time specially informed that the furniture there was not matter of much importance, as she would not in future be required to move her family to that residence during the london seasons. the sort of conversations which grew from such a commencement may be imagined. had lady arabella worried her lord less, he might perhaps have considered with more coolness the folly of encountering so prodigious an increase to the expense of his establishment; had he not spent so much money in a pursuit which his wife did not enjoy, she might perhaps have been more sparing in her rebukes as to his indifference to her london pleasures. as it was, the hounds came to greshamsbury, and lady arabella did go to london for some period in each year, and the family expenses were by no means lessened. the kennels, however, were now again empty. two years previous to the time at which our story begins, the hounds had been carried off to the seat of some richer sportsman. this was more felt by mr gresham than any other misfortune which he had yet incurred. he had been master of hounds for ten years, and that work he had at any rate done well. the popularity among his neighbours which he had lost as a politician he had regained as a sportsman, and he would fain have remained autocratic in the hunt, had it been possible. but he so remained much longer than he should have done, and at last they went away, not without signs and sounds of visible joy on the part of lady arabella. but we have kept the greshamsbury tenantry waiting under the oak-trees by far too long. yes; when young frank came of age there was still enough left at greshamsbury, still means enough at the squire's disposal, to light one bonfire, to roast, whole in its skin, one bullock. frank's virility came on him not quite unmarked, as that of the parson's son might do, or the son of the neighbouring attorney. it could still be reported in the barsetshire conservative _standard_ that "the beards wagged all" at greshamsbury, now as they had done for many centuries on similar festivals. yes; it was so reported. but this, like so many other such reports, had but a shadow of truth in it. "they poured the liquor in," certainly, those who were there; but the beards did not wag as they had been wont to wag in former years. beards won't wag for the telling. the squire was at his wits' end for money, and the tenants one and all had so heard. rents had been raised on them; timber had fallen fast; the lawyer on the estate was growing rich; tradesmen in barchester, nay, in greshamsbury itself, were beginning to mutter; and the squire himself would not be merry. under such circumstances the throats of a tenantry will still swallow, but their beards will not wag. "i minds well," said farmer oaklerath to his neighbour, "when the squoire hisself comed of age. lord love 'ee! there was fun going that day. there was more yale drank then than's been brewed at the big house these two years. t'old squoire was a one'er." "and i minds when squoire was borned; minds it well," said an old farmer sitting opposite. "them was the days! it an't that long ago neither. squoire a'nt come o' fifty yet; no, nor an't nigh it, though he looks it. things be altered at greemsbury"--such was the rural pronunciation--"altered sadly, neebor oaklerath. well, well; i'll soon be gone, i will, and so it an't no use talking; but arter paying one pound fifteen for them acres for more nor fifty year, i didn't think i'd ever be axed for forty shilling." such was the style of conversation which went on at the various tables. it had certainly been of a very different tone when the squire was born, when he came of age, and when, just two years subsequently, his son had been born. on each of these events similar rural fêtes had been given, and the squire himself had on these occasions been frequent among his guests. on the first, he had been carried round by his father, a whole train of ladies and nurses following. on the second, he had himself mixed in all the sports, the gayest of the gay, and each tenant had squeezed his way up to the lawn to get a sight of the lady arabella, who, as was already known, was to come from courcy castle to greshamsbury to be their mistress. it was little they any of them cared now for the lady arabella. on the third, he himself had borne his child in his arms as his father had before borne him; he was then in the zenith of his pride, and though the tenantry whispered that he was somewhat less familiar with them than of yore, that he had put on somewhat too much of the de courcy airs, still he was their squire, their master, the rich man in whose hand they lay. the old squire was then gone, and they were proud of the young member and his lady bride in spite of a little hauteur. none of them were proud of him now. he walked once round among the guests, and spoke a few words of welcome at each table; and as he did so the tenants got up and bowed and wished health to the old squire, happiness to the young one, and prosperity to greshamsbury; but, nevertheless, it was but a tame affair. there were also other visitors, of the gentle sort, to do honour to the occasion; but not such swarms, not such a crowd at the mansion itself and at the houses of the neighbouring gentry as had always been collected on these former gala doings. indeed, the party at greshamsbury was not a large one, and consisted chiefly of lady de courcy and her suite. lady arabella still kept up, as far as she was able, her close connexion with courcy castle. she was there as much as possible, to which mr gresham never objected; and she took her daughters there whenever she could, though, as regarded the two elder girls, she was interfered with by mr gresham, and not unfrequently by the girls themselves. lady arabella had a pride in her son, though he was by no means her favourite child. he was, however, the heir of greshamsbury, of which fact she was disposed to make the most, and he was also a fine gainly open-hearted young man, who could not but be dear to any mother. lady arabella did love him dearly, though she felt a sort of disappointment in regard to him, seeing that he was not so much like a de courcy as he should have been. she did love him dearly; and, therefore, when he came of age she got her sister-in-law and all the ladies amelia, rosina etc., to come to greshamsbury; and she also, with some difficulty, persuaded the honourable georges and the honourable johns to be equally condescending. lord de courcy himself was in attendance at the court--or said that he was--and lord porlock, the eldest son, simply told his aunt when he was invited that he never bored himself with those sort of things. then there were the bakers, and the batesons, and the jacksons, who all lived near and returned home at night; there was the reverend caleb oriel, the high-church rector, with his beautiful sister, patience oriel; there was mr yates umbleby, the attorney and agent; and there was dr thorne, and the doctor's modest, quiet-looking little niece, miss mary. chapter ii long, long ago as dr thorne is our hero--or i should rather say my hero, a privilege of selecting for themselves in this respect being left to all my readers--and as miss mary thorne is to be our heroine, a point on which no choice whatsoever is left to any one, it is necessary that they shall be introduced and explained and described in a proper, formal manner. i quite feel that an apology is due for beginning a novel with two long dull chapters full of description. i am perfectly aware of the danger of such a course. in so doing i sin against the golden rule which requires us all to put our best foot foremost, the wisdom of which is fully recognised by novelists, myself among the number. it can hardly be expected that any one will consent to go through with a fiction that offers so little of allurement in its first pages; but twist it as i will i cannot do otherwise. i find that i cannot make poor mr gresham hem and haw and turn himself uneasily in his arm-chair in a natural manner till i have said why he is uneasy. i cannot bring in my doctor speaking his mind freely among the bigwigs till i have explained that it is in accordance with his usual character to do so. this is unartistic on my part, and shows want of imagination as well as want of skill. whether or not i can atone for these faults by straightforward, simple, plain story-telling--that, indeed, is very doubtful. dr thorne belonged to a family in one sense as good, and at any rate as old, as that of mr gresham; and much older, he was apt to boast, than that of the de courcys. this trait in his character is mentioned first, as it was the weakness for which he was most conspicuous. he was second cousin to mr thorne of ullathorne, a barsetshire squire living in the neighbourhood of barchester, and who boasted that his estate had remained in his family, descending from thorne to thorne, longer than had been the case with any other estate or any other family in the county. but dr thorne was only a second cousin; and, therefore, though he was entitled to talk of the blood as belonging to some extent to himself, he had no right to lay claim to any position in the county other than such as he might win for himself if he chose to locate himself in it. this was a fact of which no one was more fully aware than our doctor himself. his father, who had been first cousin of a former squire thorne, had been a clerical dignitary in barchester, but had been dead now many years. he had had two sons; one he had educated as a medical man, but the other, and the younger, whom he had intended for the bar, had not betaken himself in any satisfactory way to any calling. this son had been first rusticated from oxford, and then expelled; and thence returning to barchester, had been the cause to his father and brother of much suffering. old dr thorne, the clergyman, died when the two brothers were yet young men, and left behind him nothing but some household and other property of the value of about two thousand pounds, which he bequeathed to thomas, the elder son, much more than that having been spent in liquidating debts contracted by the younger. up to that time there had been close harmony between the ullathorne family and that of the clergyman; but a month or two before the doctor's death--the period of which we are speaking was about two-and-twenty years before the commencement of our story--the then mr thorne of ullathorne had made it understood that he would no longer receive at his house his cousin henry, whom he regarded as a disgrace to the family. fathers are apt to be more lenient to their sons than uncles to their nephews, or cousins to each other. dr thorne still hoped to reclaim his black sheep, and thought that the head of his family showed an unnecessary harshness in putting an obstacle in his way of doing so. and if the father was warm in support of his profligate son, the young medical aspirant was warmer in support of his profligate brother. dr thorne, junior, was no roué himself, but perhaps, as a young man, he had not sufficient abhorrence of his brother's vices. at any rate, he stuck to him manfully; and when it was signified in the close that henry's company was not considered desirable at ullathorne, dr thomas thorne sent word to the squire that under such circumstances his visits there would also cease. this was not very prudent, as the young galen had elected to establish himself in barchester, very mainly in expectation of the help which his ullathorne connexion would give him. this, however, in his anger he failed to consider; he was never known, either in early or in middle life, to consider in his anger those points which were probably best worth his consideration. this, perhaps, was of the less moment as his anger was of an unenduring kind, evaporating frequently with more celerity than he could get the angry words out of his mouth. with the ullathorne people, however, he did establish a quarrel sufficiently permanent to be of vital injury to his medical prospects. and then the father died, and the two brothers were left living together with very little means between them. at this time there were living, in barchester, people of the name of scatcherd. of that family, as then existing, we have only to do with two, a brother and a sister. they were in a low rank of life, the one being a journeyman stone-mason, and the other an apprentice to a straw-bonnet maker; but they were, nevertheless, in some sort remarkable people. the sister was reputed in barchester to be a model of female beauty of the strong and robuster cast, and had also a better reputation as being a girl of good character and honest, womanly conduct. both of her beauty and of her reputation her brother was exceedingly proud, and he was the more so when he learnt that she had been asked in marriage by a decent master-tradesman in the city. roger scatcherd had also a reputation, but not for beauty or propriety of conduct. he was known for the best stone-mason in the four counties, and as the man who could, on occasion, drink the most alcohol in a given time in the same localities. as a workman, indeed, he had higher reputate even than this: he was not only a good and very quick stone-mason, but he had also a capacity for turning other men into good stone-masons: he had a gift of knowing what a man could and should do; and, by degrees, he taught himself what five, and ten, and twenty--latterly, what a thousand and two thousand men might accomplish among them: this, also, he did with very little aid from pen and paper, with which he was not, and never became, very conversant. he had also other gifts and other propensities. he could talk in a manner dangerous to himself and others; he could persuade without knowing that he did so; and being himself an extreme demagogue, in those noisy times just prior to the reform bill, he created a hubbub in barchester of which he himself had had no previous conception. henry thorne among his other bad qualities had one which his friends regarded as worse than all the others, and which perhaps justified the ullathorne people in their severity. he loved to consort with low people. he not only drank--that might have been forgiven--but he drank in tap-rooms with vulgar drinkers; so said his friends, and so said his enemies. he denied the charge as being made in the plural number, and declared that his only low co-reveller was roger scatcherd. with roger scatcherd, at any rate, he associated, and became as democratic as roger was himself. now the thornes of ullathorne were of the very highest order of tory excellence. whether or not mary scatcherd at once accepted the offer of the respectable tradesman, i cannot say. after the occurrence of certain events which must here shortly be told, she declared that she never had done so. her brother averred that she most positively had. the respectable tradesman himself refused to speak on the subject. it is certain, however, that scatcherd, who had hitherto been silent enough about his sister in those social hours which he passed with his gentleman friend, boasted of the engagement when it was, as he said, made; and then boasted also of the girl's beauty. scatcherd, in spite of his occasional intemperance, looked up in the world, and the coming marriage of his sister was, he thought, suitable to his own ambition for his family. henry thorne had already heard of, and already seen, mary scatcherd; but hitherto she had not fallen in the way of his wickedness. now, however, when he heard that she was to be decently married, the devil tempted him to tempt her. it boots not to tell all the tale. it came out clearly enough when all was told, that he made her most distinct promises of marriage; he even gave her such in writing; and having in this way obtained from her her company during some of her little holidays--her sundays or summer evenings--he seduced her. scatcherd accused him openly of having intoxicated her with drugs; and thomas thorne, who took up the case, ultimately believed the charge. it became known in barchester that she was with child, and that the seducer was henry thorne. roger scatcherd, when the news first reached him, filled himself with drink, and then swore that he would kill them both. with manly wrath, however, he set forth, first against the man, and that with manly weapons. he took nothing with him but his fists and a big stick as he went in search of henry thorne. the two brothers were then lodging together at a farm-house close abutting on the town. this was not an eligible abode for a medical practitioner; but the young doctor had not been able to settle himself eligibly since his father's death; and wishing to put what constraint he could upon his brother, had so located himself. to this farm-house came roger scatcherd one sultry summer evening, his anger gleaming from his bloodshot eyes, and his rage heightened to madness by the rapid pace at which he had run from the city, and by the ardent spirits which were fermenting within him. at the very gate of the farm-yard, standing placidly with his cigar in his mouth, he encountered henry thorne. he had thought of searching for him through the whole premises, of demanding his victim with loud exclamations, and making his way to him through all obstacles. in lieu of that, there stood the man before him. "well, roger, what's in the wind?" said henry thorne. they were the last words he ever spoke. he was answered by a blow from the blackthorn. a contest ensued, which ended in scatcherd keeping his word--at any rate, as regarded the worst offender. how the fatal blow on the temple was struck was never exactly determined: one medical man said it might have been done in a fight with a heavy-headed stick; another thought that a stone had been used; a third suggested a stone-mason's hammer. it seemed, however, to be proved subsequently that no hammer was taken out, and scatcherd himself persisted in declaring that he had taken in his hand no weapon but the stick. scatcherd, however, was drunk; and even though he intended to tell the truth, may have been mistaken. there were, however, the facts that thorne was dead; that scatcherd had sworn to kill him about an hour previously; and that he had without delay accomplished his threat. he was arrested and tried for murder; all the distressing circumstances of the case came out on the trial: he was found guilty of manslaughter, and sentenced to be imprisoned for six months. our readers will probably think that the punishment was too severe. thomas thorne and the farmer were on the spot soon after henry thorne had fallen. the brother was at first furious for vengeance against his brother's murderer; but, as the facts came out, as he learnt what had been the provocation given, what had been the feelings of scatcherd when he left the city, determined to punish him who had ruined his sister, his heart was changed. those were trying days for him. it behoved him to do what in him lay to cover his brother's memory from the obloquy which it deserved; it behoved him also to save, or to assist to save, from undue punishment the unfortunate man who had shed his brother's blood; and it behoved him also, at least so he thought, to look after that poor fallen one whose misfortunes were less merited than those either of his brother or of hers. and he was not the man to get through these things lightly, or with as much ease as he perhaps might conscientiously have done. he would pay for the defence of the prisoner; he would pay for the defence of his brother's memory; and he would pay for the poor girl's comforts. he would do this, and he would allow no one to help him. he stood alone in the world, and insisted on so standing. old mr thorne of ullathorne offered again to open his arms to him; but he had conceived a foolish idea that his cousin's severity had driven his brother on to his bad career, and he would consequently accept no kindness from ullathorne. miss thorne, the old squire's daughter--a cousin considerably older than himself, to whom he had at one time been much attached--sent him money; and he returned it to her under a blank cover. he had still enough for those unhappy purposes which he had in hand. as to what might happen afterwards, he was then mainly indifferent. the affair made much noise in the county, and was inquired into closely by many of the county magistrates; by none more closely than by john newbold gresham, who was then alive. mr gresham was greatly taken with the energy and justice shown by dr thorne on the occasion; and when the trial was over, he invited him to greshamsbury. the visit ended in the doctor establishing himself in that village. we must return for a moment to mary scatcherd. she was saved from the necessity of encountering her brother's wrath, for that brother was under arrest for murder before he could get at her. her immediate lot, however, was a cruel one. deep as was her cause for anger against the man who had so inhumanly used her, still it was natural that she should turn to him with love rather than with aversion. to whom else could she in such plight look for love? when, therefore, she heard that he was slain, her heart sank within her; she turned her face to the wall, and laid herself down to die: to die a double death, for herself and the fatherless babe that was now quick within her. but, in fact, life had still much to offer, both to her and to her child. for her it was still destined that she should, in a distant land, be the worthy wife of a good husband, and the happy mother of many children. for that embryo one it was destined--but that may not be so quickly told: to describe her destiny this volume has yet to be written. even in those bitterest days god tempered the wind to the shorn lamb. dr thorne was by her bedside soon after the bloody tidings had reached her, and did for her more than either her lover or her brother could have done. when the baby was born, scatcherd was still in prison, and had still three months' more confinement to undergo. the story of her great wrongs and cruel usage was much talked of, and men said that one who had been so injured should be regarded as having in nowise sinned at all. one man, at any rate, so thought. at twilight, one evening, thorne was surprised by a visit from a demure barchester hardware dealer, whom he did not remember ever to have addressed before. this was the former lover of poor mary scatcherd. he had a proposal to make, and it was this:--if mary would consent to leave the country at once, to leave it without notice from her brother, or talk or éclat on the matter, he would sell all that he had, marry her, and emigrate. there was but one condition; she must leave her baby behind her. the hardware-man could find it in his heart to be generous, to be generous and true to his love; but he could not be generous enough to father the seducer's child. "i could never abide it, sir, if i took it," said he; "and she,--why in course she would always love it the best." in praising his generosity, who can mingle any censure for such manifest prudence? he would still make her the wife of his bosom, defiled in the eyes of the world as she had been; but she must be to him the mother of his own children, not the mother of another's child. and now again our doctor had a hard task to win through. he saw at once that it was his duty to use his utmost authority to induce the poor girl to accept such an offer. she liked the man; and here was opened to her a course which would have been most desirable, even before her misfortune. but it is hard to persuade a mother to part with her first babe; harder, perhaps, when the babe had been so fathered and so born than when the world has shone brightly on its earliest hours. she at first refused stoutly: she sent a thousand loves, a thousand thanks, profusest acknowledgements for his generosity to the man who showed her that he loved her so well; but nature, she said, would not let her leave her child. "and what will you do for her here, mary?" said the doctor. poor mary replied to him with a deluge of tears. "she is my niece," said the doctor, taking up the tiny infant in his huge hands; "she is already the nearest thing, the only thing that i have in this world. i am her uncle, mary. if you will go with this man i will be father to her and mother to her. of what bread i eat, she shall eat; of what cup i drink, she shall drink. see, mary, here is the bible;" and he covered the book with his hand. "leave her to me, and by this word she shall be my child." the mother consented at last; left her baby with the doctor, married, and went to america. all this was consummated before roger scatcherd was liberated from jail. some conditions the doctor made. the first was, that scatcherd should not know his sister's child was thus disposed of. dr thorne, in undertaking to bring up the baby, did not choose to encounter any tie with persons who might hereafter claim to be the girl's relations on the other side. relations she would undoubtedly have had none had she been left to live or die as a workhouse bastard; but should the doctor succeed in life, should he ultimately be able to make this girl the darling of his own house, and then the darling of some other house, should she live and win the heart of some man whom the doctor might delight to call his friend and nephew; then relations might spring up whose ties would not be advantageous. no man plumed himself on good blood more than dr thorne; no man had greater pride in his genealogical tree, and his hundred and thirty clearly proved descents from macadam; no man had a stronger theory as to the advantage held by men who have grandfathers over those who have none, or have none worth talking about. let it not be thought that our doctor was a perfect character. no, indeed; most far from perfect. he had within him an inner, stubborn, self-admiring pride, which made him believe himself to be better and higher than those around him, and this from some unknown cause which he could hardly explain to himself. he had a pride in being a poor man of a high family; he had a pride in repudiating the very family of which he was proud; and he had a special pride in keeping his pride silently to himself. his father had been a thorne, and his mother a thorold. there was no better blood to be had in england. it was in the possession of such properties as these that he condescended to rejoice; this man, with a man's heart, a man's courage, and a man's humanity! other doctors round the county had ditch-water in their veins; he could boast of a pure ichor, to which that of the great omnium family was but a muddy puddle. it was thus that he loved to excel his brother practitioners, he who might have indulged in the pride of excelling them both in talent and in energy! we speak now of his early days; but even in his maturer life, the man, though mellowed, was the same. this was the man who now promised to take to his bosom as his own child a poor bastard whose father was already dead, and whose mother's family was such as the scatcherds! it was necessary that the child's history should be known to none. except to the mother's brother it was an object of interest to no one. the mother had for some short time been talked of; but now the nine-days' wonder was a wonder no longer. she went off to her far-away home; her husband's generosity was duly chronicled in the papers, and the babe was left untalked of and unknown. it was easy to explain to scatcherd that the child had not lived. there was a parting interview between the brother and sister in the jail, during which, with real tears and unaffected sorrow, the mother thus accounted for the offspring of her shame. then she started, fortunate in her coming fortunes; and the doctor took with him his charge to the new country in which they were both to live. there he found for her a fitting home till she should be old enough to sit at his table and live in his bachelor house; and no one but old mr gresham knew who she was, or whence she had come. then roger scatcherd, having completed his six months' confinement, came out of prison. roger scatcherd, though his hands were now red with blood, was to be pitied. a short time before the days of henry thorne's death he had married a young wife in his own class of life, and had made many resolves that henceforward his conduct should be such as might become a married man, and might not disgrace the respectable brother-in-law he was about to have given him. such was his condition when he first heard of his sister's plight. as has been said, he filled himself with drink and started off on the scent of blood. during his prison days his wife had to support herself as she might. the decent articles of furniture which they had put together were sold; she gave up their little house, and, bowed down by misery, she also was brought near to death. when he was liberated he at once got work; but those who have watched the lives of such people know how hard it is for them to recover lost ground. she became a mother immediately after his liberation, and when her child was born they were in direst want; for scatcherd was again drinking, and his resolves were blown to the wind. the doctor was then living at greshamsbury. he had gone over there before the day on which he undertook the charge of poor mary's baby, and soon found himself settled as the greshamsbury doctor. this occurred very soon after the birth of the young heir. his predecessor in this career had "bettered" himself, or endeavoured to do so, by seeking the practice of some large town, and lady arabella, at a very critical time, was absolutely left with no other advice than that of a stranger, picked up, as she declared to lady de courcy, somewhere about barchester jail, or barchester court-house, she did not know which. of course lady arabella could not suckle the young heir herself. ladies arabella never can. they are gifted with the powers of being mothers, but not nursing-mothers. nature gives them bosoms for show, but not for use. so lady arabella had a wet-nurse. at the end of six months the new doctor found master frank was not doing quite so well as he should do; and after a little trouble it was discovered that the very excellent young woman who had been sent express from courcy castle to greshamsbury--a supply being kept up on the lord's demesne for the family use--was fond of brandy. she was at once sent back to the castle, of course; and, as lady de courcy was too much in dudgeon to send another, dr thorne was allowed to procure one. he thought of the misery of roger scatcherd's wife, thought also of her health, and strength, and active habits; and thus mrs scatcherd became the foster-mother to young frank gresham. one other episode we must tell of past times. previous to his father's death, dr thorne was in love. nor had he altogether sighed and pleaded in vain; though it had not quite come to that, that the young lady's friends, or even the young lady herself, had actually accepted his suit. at that time his name stood well in barchester. his father was a prebendary; his cousins and his best friends were the thornes of ullathorne, and the lady, who shall be nameless, was not thought to be injudicious in listening to the young doctor. but when henry thorne went so far astray, when the old doctor died, when the young doctor quarrelled with ullathorne, when the brother was killed in a disgraceful quarrel, and it turned out that the physician had nothing but his profession and no settled locality in which to exercise it; then, indeed, the young lady's friends thought that she was injudicious, and the young lady herself had not spirit enough, or love enough, to be disobedient. in those stormy days of the trial she told dr thorne that perhaps it would be wise that they should not see each other any more. dr thorne, so counselled, at such a moment,--so informed then, when he most required comfort from his love, at once swore loudly that he agreed with her. he rushed forth with a bursting heart, and said to himself that the world was bad, all bad. he saw the lady no more; and, if i am rightly informed, never again made matrimonial overtures to any one. chapter iii dr thorne and thus dr thorne became settled for life in the little village of greshamsbury. as was then the wont with many country practitioners, and as should be the wont with them all if they consulted their own dignity a little less and the comforts of their customers somewhat more, he added the business of a dispensing apothecary to that of physician. in doing so, he was of course much reviled. many people around him declared that he could not truly be a doctor, or, at any rate, a doctor to be so called; and his brethren in the art living around him, though they knew that his diplomas, degrees, and certificates were all _en règle_, rather countenanced the report. there was much about this new-comer which did not endear him to his own profession. in the first place he was a new-comer, and, as such, was of course to be regarded by other doctors as being _de trop_. greshamsbury was only fifteen miles from barchester, where there was a regular dépôt of medical skill, and but eight from silverbridge, where a properly established physician had been in residence for the last forty years. dr thorne's predecessor at greshamsbury had been a humble-minded general practitioner, gifted with a due respect for the physicians of the county; and he, though he had been allowed to physic the servants, and sometimes the children of greshamsbury, had never had the presumption to put himself on a par with his betters. then, also, dr thorne, though a graduated physician, though entitled beyond all dispute to call himself a doctor, according to all the laws of all the colleges, made it known to the east barsetshire world, very soon after he had seated himself at greshamsbury, that his rate of pay was to be seven-and-sixpence a visit within a circuit of five miles, with a proportionally increased charge at proportionally increased distances. now there was something low, mean, unprofessional, and democratic in this; so, at least, said the children of Æsculapius gathered together in conclave at barchester. in the first place, it showed that this thorne was always thinking of his money, like an apothecary, as he was; whereas, it would have behoved him, as a physician, had he had the feelings of a physician under his hat, to have regarded his own pursuits in a purely philosophical spirit, and to have taken any gain which might have accrued as an accidental adjunct to his station in life. a physician should take his fee without letting his left hand know what his right hand was doing; it should be taken without a thought, without a look, without a move of the facial muscles; the true physician should hardly be aware that the last friendly grasp of the hand had been made more precious by the touch of gold. whereas, that fellow thorne would lug out half a crown from his breeches pocket and give it in change for a ten shilling piece. and then it was clear that this man had no appreciation of the dignity of a learned profession. he might constantly be seen compounding medicines in the shop, at the left hand of his front door; not making experiments philosophically in materia medica for the benefit of coming ages--which, if he did, he should have done in the seclusion of his study, far from profane eyes--but positively putting together common powders for rural bowels, or spreading vulgar ointments for agricultural ailments. a man of this sort was not fit society for dr fillgrave of barchester. that must be admitted. and yet he had been found to be fit society for the old squire of greshamsbury, whose shoe-ribbons dr fillgrave would not have objected to tie; so high did the old squire stand in the county just previous to his death. but the spirit of the lady arabella was known by the medical profession of barsetshire, and when that good man died it was felt that thorne's short tenure of greshamsbury favour was already over. the barsetshire regulars were, however, doomed to disappointment. our doctor had already contrived to endear himself to the heir; and though there was not even then much personal love between him and the lady arabella, he kept his place at the great house unmoved, not only in the nursery and in the bedrooms, but also at the squire's dining-table. now there was in this, it must be admitted, quite enough to make him unpopular with his brethren; and this feeling was soon shown in a marked and dignified manner. dr fillgrave, who had certainly the most respectable professional connexion in the county, who had a reputation to maintain, and who was accustomed to meet, on almost equal terms, the great medical baronets from the metropolis at the houses of the nobility--dr fillgrave declined to meet dr thorne in consultation. he exceedingly regretted, he said, most exceedingly, the necessity which he felt of doing so: he had never before had to perform so painful a duty; but, as a duty which he owed to his profession, he must perform it. with every feeling of respect for lady ----, a sick guest at greshamsbury--and for mr gresham, he must decline to attend in conjunction with dr thorne. if his services could be made available under any other circumstances, he would go to greshamsbury as fast as post-horses could carry him. then, indeed, there was war in barsetshire. if there was on dr thorne's cranium one bump more developed than another, it was that of combativeness. not that the doctor was a bully, or even pugnacious, in the usual sense of the word; he had no disposition to provoke a fight, no propense love of quarrelling; but there was that in him which would allow him to yield to no attack. neither in argument nor in contest would he ever allow himself to be wrong; never at least to any one but to himself; and on behalf of his special hobbies, he was ready to meet the world at large. it will therefore be understood, that when such a gauntlet was thus thrown in his very teeth by dr fillgrave, he was not slow to take it up. he addressed a letter to the barsetshire conservative _standard_, in which he attacked dr fillgrave with some considerable acerbity. dr fillgrave responded in four lines, saying that on mature consideration he had made up his mind not to notice any remarks that might be made on him by dr thorne in the public press. the greshamsbury doctor then wrote another letter, more witty and much more severe than the last; and as this was copied into the bristol, exeter, and gloucester papers, dr fillgrave found it very difficult to maintain the magnanimity of his reticence. it is sometimes becoming enough for a man to wrap himself in the dignified toga of silence, and proclaim himself indifferent to public attacks; but it is a sort of dignity which it is very difficult to maintain. as well might a man, when stung to madness by wasps, endeavour to sit in his chair without moving a muscle, as endure with patience and without reply the courtesies of a newspaper opponent. dr thorne wrote a third letter, which was too much for medical flesh and blood to bear. dr fillgrave answered it, not, indeed, in his own name, but in that of a brother doctor; and then the war raged merrily. it is hardly too much to say that dr fillgrave never knew another happy hour. had he dreamed of what materials was made that young compounder of doses at greshamsbury he would have met him in consultation, morning, noon, and night, without objection; but having begun the war, he was constrained to go on with it: his brethren would allow him no alternative. thus he was continually being brought up to the fight, as a prize-fighter may be seen to be, who is carried up round after round, without any hope on his own part, and who, in each round, drops to the ground before the very wind of his opponent's blows. but dr fillgrave, though thus weak himself, was backed in practice and in countenance by nearly all his brethren in the county. the guinea fee, the principle of _giving_ advice and of selling no medicine, the great resolve to keep a distinct barrier between the physician and the apothecary, and, above all, the hatred of the contamination of a bill, were strong in the medical mind of barsetshire. dr thorne had the provincial medical world against him, and so he appealed to the metropolis. the _lancet_ took the matter up in his favour, but the _journal of medical science_ was against him; the _weekly chirurgeon_, noted for its medical democracy, upheld him as a medical prophet, but the _scalping knife_, a monthly periodical got up in dead opposition to the _lancet_, showed him no mercy. so the war went on, and our doctor, to a certain extent, became a noted character. he had, moreover, other difficulties to encounter in his professional career. it was something in his favour that he understood his business; something that he was willing to labour at it with energy; and resolved to labour at it conscientiously. he had also other gifts, such as conversational brilliancy, an aptitude for true good fellowship, firmness in friendship, and general honesty of disposition, which stood him in stead as he advanced in life. but, at his first starting, much that belonged to himself personally was against him. let him enter what house he would, he entered it with a conviction, often expressed to himself, that he was equal as a man to the proprietor, equal as a human being to the proprietress. to age he would allow deference, and to special recognised talent--at least so he said; to rank also, he would pay that respect which was its clear and recognised prerogative; he would let a lord walk out of a room before him if he did not happen to forget it; in speaking to a duke he would address him as his grace; and he would in no way assume a familiarity with bigger men than himself, allowing to the bigger man the privilege of making the first advances. but beyond this he would admit that no man should walk the earth with his head higher than his own. he did not talk of these things much; he offended no rank by boasts of his own equality; he did not absolutely tell the earl de courcy in words, that the privilege of dining at courcy castle was to him no greater than the privilege of dining at courcy parsonage; but there was that in his manner that told it. the feeling in itself was perhaps good, and was certainly much justified by the manner in which he bore himself to those below him in rank; but there was folly in the resolution to run counter to the world's recognised rules on such matters; and much absurdity in his mode of doing so, seeing that at heart he was a thorough conservative. it is hardly too much to say that he naturally hated a lord at first sight; but, nevertheless, he would have expended his means, his blood, and spirit, in fighting for the upper house of parliament. such a disposition, until it was thoroughly understood, did not tend to ingratiate him with the wives of the country gentlemen among whom he had to look for practice. and then, also, there was not much in his individual manner to recommend him to the favour of ladies. he was brusque, authoritative, given to contradiction, rough though never dirty in his personal belongings, and inclined to indulge in a sort of quiet raillery, which sometimes was not thoroughly understood. people did not always know whether he was laughing at them or with them; and some people were, perhaps, inclined to think that a doctor should not laugh at all when called in to act doctorially. when he was known, indeed, when the core of the fruit had been reached, when the huge proportions of that loving trusting heart had been learned, and understood, and appreciated, when that honesty had been recognised, that manly, and almost womanly tenderness had been felt, then, indeed, the doctor was acknowledged to be adequate in his profession. to trifling ailments he was too often brusque. seeing that he accepted money for the cure of such, he should, we may say, have cured them without an offensive manner. so far he is without defence. but to real suffering no one found him brusque; no patient lying painfully on a bed of sickness ever thought him rough. another misfortune was, that he was a bachelor. ladies think, and i, for one, think that ladies are quite right in so thinking, that doctors should be married men. all the world feels that a man when married acquires some of the attributes of an old woman--he becomes, to a certain extent, a motherly sort of being; he acquires a conversance with women's ways and women's wants, and loses the wilder and offensive sparks of his virility. it must be easier to talk to such a one about matilda's stomach, and the growing pains in fanny's legs, than to a young bachelor. this impediment also stood much in dr thorne's way during his first years at greshamsbury. but his wants were not at first great; and though his ambition was perhaps high, it was not of an impatient nature. the world was his oyster; but, circumstanced as he was, he knew that it was not for him to open it with his lancet all at once. he had bread to earn, which he must earn wearily; he had a character to make, which must come slowly; it satisfied his soul that, in addition to his immortal hopes, he had a possible future in this world to which he could look forward with clear eyes, and advance with a heart that would know no fainting. on his first arrival at greshamsbury he had been put by the squire into a house, which he still occupied when that squire's grandson came of age. there were two decent, commodious, private houses in the village--always excepting the rectory, which stood grandly in its own grounds, and, therefore, was considered as ranking above the village residences--of these two dr thorne had the smaller. they stood exactly at the angle before described, on the outer side of it, and at right angles to each other. they both possessed good stables and ample gardens; and it may be as well to specify, that mr umbleby, the agent and lawyer to the estate, occupied the larger one. here dr thorne lived for eleven or twelve years, all alone; and then for ten or eleven more with his niece, mary thorne. mary was thirteen when she came to take up permanent abode as mistress of the establishment--or, at any rate, to act as the only mistress which the establishment possessed. this advent greatly changed the tenor of the doctor's ways. he had been before pure bachelor; not a room in his house had been comfortably furnished; he at first commenced in a makeshift sort of way, because he had not at his command the means of commencing otherwise; and he had gone on in the same fashion, because the exact time had never come at which it was imperative in him to set his house in order. he had had no fixed hour for his meals, no fixed place for his books, no fixed wardrobe for his clothes. he had a few bottles of good wine in his cellar, and occasionally asked a brother bachelor to take a chop with him; but beyond this he had touched very little on the cares of housekeeping. a slop-bowl full of strong tea, together with bread, and butter, and eggs, was produced for him in the morning, and he expected that at whatever hour he might arrive in the evening, some food should be presented to him wherewith to satisfy the cravings of nature; if, in addition to this, he had another slop-bowl of tea in the evening, he got all that he ever required, or all, at least, that he ever demanded. but when mary came, or rather, when she was about to come, things were altogether changed at the doctor's. people had hitherto wondered--and especially mrs umbleby--how a gentleman like dr thorne could continue to live in so slovenly a manner; and how people again wondered, and again especially mrs umbleby, how the doctor could possibly think it necessary to put such a lot of furniture into a house because a little chit of a girl of twelve years of age was coming to live with him. mrs umbleby had great scope for her wonder. the doctor made a thorough revolution in his household, and furnished his house from the ground to the roof completely. he painted--for the first time since the commencement of his tenancy--he papered, he carpeted, and curtained, and mirrored, and linened, and blanketed, as though a mrs thorne with a good fortune were coming home to-morrow; and all for a girl of twelve years old. "and how," said mrs umbleby, to her friend miss gushing, "how did he find out what to buy?" as though the doctor had been brought up like a wild beast, ignorant of the nature of tables and chairs, and with no more developed ideas of drawing-room drapery than an hippopotamus. to the utter amazement of mrs umbleby and miss gushing, the doctor did it all very well. he said nothing about it to any one--he never did say much about such things--but he furnished his house well and discreetly; and when mary thorne came home from her school at bath, to which she had been taken some six years previously, she found herself called upon to be the presiding genius of a perfect paradise. it has been said that the doctor had managed to endear himself to the new squire before the old squire's death, and that, therefore, the change at greshamsbury had had no professional ill effects upon him. such was the case at the time; but, nevertheless, all did not go smoothly in the greshamsbury medical department. there was six or seven years' difference in age between mr gresham and the doctor, and, moreover, mr gresham was young for his age, and the doctor old; but, nevertheless, there was a very close attachment between them early in life. this was never thoroughly sundered, and, backed by this, the doctor did maintain himself for some years before the fire of lady arabella's artillery. but drops falling, if they fall constantly, will bore through a stone. dr thorne's pretensions, mixed with his subversive professional democratic tendencies, his seven-and-sixpenny visits, added to his utter disregard of lady arabella's airs, were too much for her spirit. he brought frank through his first troubles, and that at first ingratiated her; he was equally successful with the early dietary of augusta and beatrice; but, as his success was obtained in direct opposition to the courcy castle nursery principles, this hardly did much in his favour. when the third daughter was born, he at once declared that she was a very weakly flower, and sternly forbade the mother to go to london. the mother, loving her babe, obeyed; but did not the less hate the doctor for the order, which she firmly believed was given at the instance and express dictation of mr gresham. then another little girl came into the world, and the doctor was more imperative than ever as to the nursery rules and the excellence of country air. quarrels were thus engendered, and lady arabella was taught to believe that this doctor of her husband's was after all no solomon. in her husband's absence she sent for dr fillgrave, giving very express intimation that he would not have to wound either his eyes or dignity by encountering his enemy; and she found dr fillgrave a great comfort to her. then dr thorne gave mr gresham to understand that, under such circumstances, he could not visit professionally at greshamsbury any longer. the poor squire saw there was no help for it, and though he still maintained his friendly connexion with his neighbour, the seven-and-sixpenny visits were at an end. dr fillgrave from barchester, and the gentleman at silverbridge, divided the responsibility between them, and the nursery principles of courcy castle were again in vogue at greshamsbury. so things went on for years, and those years were years of sorrow. we must not ascribe to our doctor's enemies the sufferings, and sickness, and deaths that occurred. the four frail little ones that died would probably have been taken had lady arabella been more tolerant of dr thorne. but the fact was, that they did die; and that the mother's heart then got the better of the woman's pride, and lady arabella humbled herself before dr thorne. she humbled herself, or would have done so, had the doctor permitted her. but he, with his eyes full of tears, stopped the utterance of her apology, took her two hands in his, pressed them warmly, and assured her that his joy in returning would be great, for the love that he bore to all that belonged to greshamsbury. and so the seven-and-sixpenny visits were recommenced; and the great triumph of dr fillgrave came to an end. great was the joy in the greshamsbury nursery when the second change took place. among the doctor's attributes, not hitherto mentioned, was an aptitude for the society of children. he delighted to talk to children, and to play with them. he would carry them on his back, three or four at a time, roll with them on the ground, race with them in the garden, invent games for them, contrive amusements in circumstances which seemed quite adverse to all manner of delight; and, above all, his physic was not nearly so nasty as that which came from silverbridge. he had a great theory as to the happiness of children; and though he was not disposed altogether to throw over the precepts of solomon--always bargaining that he should, under no circumstances, be himself the executioner--he argued that the principal duty which a parent owed to a child was to make him happy. not only was the man to be made happy--the future man, if that might be possible--but the existing boy was to be treated with equal favour; and his happiness, so said the doctor, was of much easier attainment. "why struggle after future advantage at the expense of present pain, seeing that the results were so very doubtful?" many an opponent of the doctor had thought to catch him on the hip when so singular a doctrine was broached; but they were not always successful. "what!" said his sensible enemies, "is johnny not to be taught to read because he does not like it?" "johnny must read by all means," would the doctor answer; "but is it necessary that he should not like it? if the preceptor have it in him, may not johnny learn, not only to read, but to like to learn to read?" "but," would say his enemies, "children must be controlled." "and so must men also," would say the doctor. "i must not steal your peaches, nor make love to your wife, nor libel your character. much as i might wish through my natural depravity to indulge in such vices, i am debarred from them without pain, and i may almost say without unhappiness." and so the argument went on, neither party convincing the other. but, in the meantime, the children of the neighbourhood became very fond of dr thorne. dr thorne and the squire were still fast friends, but circumstances had occurred, spreading themselves now over a period of many years, which almost made the poor squire uneasy in the doctor's company. mr gresham owed a large sum of money, and he had, moreover, already sold a portion of his property. unfortunately it had been the pride of the greshams that their acres had descended from one to another without an entail, so that each possessor of greshamsbury had had the full power to dispose of the property as he pleased. any doubt as to its going to the male heir had never hitherto been felt. it had occasionally been encumbered by charges for younger children; but these charges had been liquidated, and the property had come down without any burden to the present squire. now a portion of this had been sold, and it had been sold to a certain degree through the agency of dr thorne. this made the squire an unhappy man. no man loved his family name and honour, his old family blazon and standing more thoroughly than he did; he was every whit a gresham at heart; but his spirit had been weaker than that of his forefathers; and, in his days, for the first time, the greshams were to go to the wall! ten years before the beginning of our story it had been necessary to raise a large sum of money to meet and pay off pressing liabilities, and it was found that this could be done with more material advantage by selling a portion of the property than in any other way. a portion of it, about a third of the whole in value, was accordingly sold. boxall hill lay half-way between greshamsbury and barchester, and was known as having the best partridge shooting in the county; as having on it also a celebrated fox cover, boxall gorse, held in very high repute by barsetshire sportsmen. there was no residence on the immediate estate, and it was altogether divided from the remainder of the greshamsbury property. this, with many inward and outward groans, mr gresham permitted to be sold. it was sold, and sold well, by private contract to a native of barchester, who, having risen from the world's ranks, had made for himself great wealth. somewhat of this man's character must hereafter be told; it will suffice to say that he relied for advice in money matters upon dr thorne, and that at dr thorne's suggestion he had purchased boxall hill, partridge-shooting and gorse cover all included. he had not only bought boxall hill, but had subsequently lent the squire large sums of money on mortgage, in all which transactions the doctor had taken part. it had therefore come to pass that mr gresham was not unfrequently called upon to discuss his money affairs with dr thorne, and occasionally to submit to lectures and advice which might perhaps as well have been omitted. so much for dr thorne. a few words must still be said about miss mary before we rush into our story; the crust will then have been broken, and the pie will be open to the guests. little miss mary was kept at a farm-house till she was six; she was then sent to school at bath, and transplanted to the doctor's newly furnished house a little more than six years after that. it must not be supposed that he had lost sight of his charge during her earlier years. he was much too well aware of the nature of the promise which he had made to the departing mother to do that. he had constantly visited his little niece, and long before the first twelve years of her life were over had lost all consciousness of his promise, and of his duty to the mother, in the stronger ties of downright personal love for the only creature that belonged to him. when mary came home the doctor was like a child in his glee. he prepared surprises for her with as much forethought and trouble as though he were contriving mines to blow up an enemy. he took her first into the shop, and then into the kitchen, thence to the dining-rooms, after that to his and her bedrooms, and so on till he came to the full glory of the new drawing-room, enhancing the pleasure by little jokes, and telling her that he should never dare to come into the last paradise without her permission, and not then till he had taken off his boots. child as she was, she understood the joke, and carried it on like a little queen; and so they soon became the firmest of friends. but though mary was a queen, it was still necessary that she should be educated. those were the earlier days in which lady arabella had humbled herself, and to show her humility she invited mary to share the music-lessons of augusta and beatrice at the great house. a music-master from barchester came over three times a week, and remained for three hours, and if the doctor chose to send his girl over, she could pick up what was going on without doing any harm. so said the lady arabella. the doctor with many thanks and with no hesitation, accepted the offer, merely adding, that he had perhaps better settle separately with signor cantabili, the music-master. he was very much obliged to lady arabella for giving his little girl permission to join her lessons to those of the miss greshams. it need hardly be said that the lady arabella was on fire at once. settle with signor cantabili! no, indeed; she would do that; there must be no expense whatever incurred in such an arrangement on miss thorne's account! but here, as in most things, the doctor carried his point. it being the time of the lady's humility, she could not make as good a fight as she would otherwise have done; and thus she found, to her great disgust, that mary thorne was learning music in her schoolroom on equal terms, as regarded payment, with her own daughters. the arrangement having been made could not be broken, especially as the young lady in nowise made herself disagreeable; and more especially as the miss greshams themselves were very fond of her. and so mary thorne learnt music at greshamsbury, and with her music she learnt other things also; how to behave herself among girls of her own age; how to speak and talk as other young ladies do; how to dress herself, and how to move and walk. all which, she, being quick to learn, learnt without trouble at the great house. something also she learnt of french, seeing that the greshamsbury french governess was always in the room. and then, some few years later, there came a rector, and a rector's sister; and with the latter mary studied german, and french also. from the doctor himself she learnt much; the choice, namely, of english books for her own reading, and habits of thought somewhat akin to his own, though modified by the feminine softness of her individual mind. and so mary thorne grew up and was educated. of her personal appearance it certainly is my business as an author to say something. she is my heroine, and, as such, must necessarily be very beautiful; but, in truth, her mind and inner qualities are more clearly distinct to my brain than her outward form and features. i know that she was far from being tall, and far from being showy; that her feet and hands were small and delicate; that her eyes were bright when looked at, but not brilliant so as to make their brilliancy palpably visible to all around her; her hair was dark brown, and worn very plainly brushed from her forehead; her lips were thin, and her mouth, perhaps, in general inexpressive, but when she was eager in conversation it would show itself to be animated with curves of wondrous energy; and, quiet as she was in manner, sober and demure as was her usual settled appearance, she could talk, when the fit came on her, with an energy which in truth surprised those who did not know her; aye, and sometimes those who did. energy! nay, it was occasionally a concentration of passion, which left her for the moment perfectly unconscious of all other cares but solicitude for that subject which she might then be advocating. all her friends, including the doctor, had at times been made unhappy by this vehemence of character; but yet it was to that very vehemence that she owed it that all her friends so loved her. it had once nearly banished her in early years from the greshamsbury schoolroom; and yet it ended in making her claim to remain there so strong, that lady arabella could no longer oppose it, even when she had the wish to do so. a new french governess had lately come to greshamsbury, and was, or was to be, a great pet with lady arabella, having all the great gifts with which a governess can be endowed, and being also a protégée from the castle. the castle, in greshamsbury parlance, always meant that of courcy. soon after this a valued little locket belonging to augusta gresham was missing. the french governess had objected to its being worn in the schoolroom, and it had been sent up to the bedroom by a young servant-girl, the daughter of a small farmer on the estate. the locket was missing, and after a while, a considerable noise in the matter having been made, was found, by the diligence of the governess, somewhere among the belongings of the english servant. great was the anger of lady arabella, loud were the protestations of the girl, mute the woe of her father, piteous the tears of her mother, inexorable the judgment of the greshamsbury world. but something occurred, it matters now not what, to separate mary thorne in opinion from that world at large. out she then spoke, and to her face accused the governess of the robbery. for two days mary was in disgrace almost as deep as that of the farmer's daughter. but she was neither quiet nor dumb in her disgrace. when lady arabella would not hear her, she went to mr gresham. she forced her uncle to move in the matter. she gained over to her side, one by one, the potentates of the parish, and ended by bringing mam'selle larron down on her knees with a confession of the facts. from that time mary thorne was dear to the tenantry of greshamsbury; and specially dear at one small household, where a rough-spoken father of a family was often heard to declare, that for miss mary thorne he'd face man or magistrate, duke or devil. and so mary thorne grew up under the doctor's eye, and at the beginning of our tale she was one of the guests assembled at greshamsbury on the coming of age of the heir, she herself having then arrived at the same period of her life. chapter iv lessons from courcy castle it was the first of july, young frank gresham's birthday, and the london season was not yet over; nevertheless, lady de courcy had managed to get down into the country to grace the coming of age of the heir, bringing with her all the ladies amelia, rosina, margaretta, and alexandrina, together with such of the honourable johns and georges as could be collected for the occasion. the lady arabella had contrived this year to spend ten weeks in town, which, by a little stretching, she made to pass for the season; and had managed, moreover, at last to refurnish, not ingloriously, the portman square drawing-room. she had gone up to london under the pretext, imperatively urged, of augusta's teeth--young ladies' teeth are not unfrequently of value in this way;--and having received authority for a new carpet, which was really much wanted, had made such dexterous use of that sanction as to run up an upholsterer's bill of six or seven hundred pounds. she had of course had her carriage and horses; the girls of course had gone out; it had been positively necessary to have a few friends in portman square; and, altogether, the ten weeks had not been unpleasant, and not inexpensive. for a few confidential minutes before dinner, lady de courcy and her sister-in-law sat together in the latter's dressing-room, discussing the unreasonableness of the squire, who had expressed himself with more than ordinary bitterness as to the folly--he had probably used some stronger word--of these london proceedings. "heavens!" said the countess, with much eager animation; "what can the man expect? what does he wish you to do?" "he would like to sell the house in london, and bury us all here for ever. mind, i was there only for ten weeks." "barely time for the girls to get their teeth properly looked at! but arabella, what does he say?" lady de courcy was very anxious to learn the exact truth of the matter, and ascertain, if she could, whether mr gresham was really as poor as he pretended to be. "why, he said yesterday that he would have no more going to town at all; that he was barely able to pay the claims made on him, and keep up the house here, and that he would not--" "would not what?" asked the countess. "why, he said that he would not utterly ruin poor frank." "ruin frank!" "that's what he said." "but, surely, arabella, it is not so bad as that? what possible reason can there be for him to be in debt?" "he is always talking of those elections." "but, my dear, boxall hill paid all that off. of course frank will not have such an income as there was when you married into the family; we all know that. and whom will he have to thank but his father? but boxall hill paid all those debts, and why should there be any difficulty now?" "it was those nasty dogs, rosina," said the lady arabella, almost in tears. "well, i for one never approved of the hounds coming to greshamsbury. when a man has once involved his property he should not incur any expenses that are not absolutely necessary. that is a golden rule which mr gresham ought to have remembered. indeed, i put it to him nearly in those very words; but mr gresham never did, and never will receive with common civility anything that comes from me." "i know, rosina, he never did; and yet where would he have been but for the de courcys?" so exclaimed, in her gratitude, the lady arabella; to speak the truth, however, but for the de courcys, mr gresham might have been at this moment on the top of boxall hill, monarch of all he surveyed. "as i was saying," continued the countess, "i never approved of the hounds coming to greshamsbury; but yet, my dear, the hounds can't have eaten up everything. a man with ten thousand a year ought to be able to keep hounds; particularly as he had a subscription." "he says the subscription was little or nothing." "that's nonsense, my dear. now, arabella, what does he do with his money? that's the question. does he gamble?" "well," said lady arabella, very slowly, "i don't think he does." if the squire did gamble he must have done it very slyly, for he rarely went away from greshamsbury, and certainly very few men looking like gamblers were in the habit of coming thither as guests. "i don't think he does gamble." lady arabella put her emphasis on the word gamble, as though her husband, if he might perhaps be charitably acquitted of that vice, was certainly guilty of every other known in the civilised world. "i know he used," said lady de courcy, looking very wise, and rather suspicious. she certainly had sufficient domestic reasons for disliking the propensity; "i know he used; and when a man begins, he is hardly ever cured." "well, if he does, i don't know it," said the lady arabella. "the money, my dear, must go somewhere. what excuse does he give when you tell him you want this and that--all the common necessaries of life, that you have always been used to?" "he gives no excuse; sometimes he says the family is so large." "nonsense! girls cost nothing; there's only frank, and he can't have cost anything yet. can he be saving money to buy back boxall hill?" "oh no!" said the lady arabella, quickly. "he is not saving anything; he never did, and never will save, though he is so stingy to me. he _is_ hard pushed for money, i know that." "then where has it gone?" said the countess de courcy, with a look of stern decision. "heaven only knows! now, augusta is to be married. i must of course have a few hundred pounds. you should have heard how he groaned when i asked him for it. heaven only knows where the money goes!" and the injured wife wiped a piteous tear from her eye with her fine dress cambric handkerchief. "i have all the sufferings and privations of a poor man's wife, but i have none of the consolations. he has no confidence in me; he never tells me anything; he never talks to me about his affairs. if he talks to any one it is to that horrid doctor." "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 any one 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 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 greatness, 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. while this was going on downstairs, mary was sitting upstairs with beatrice gresham in the schoolroom. the old schoolroom, so called, was now a sitting-room, devoted to the use of the grown-up young ladies of the family, whereas one of the old nurseries was now the modern schoolroom. mary well knew her way to the sanctum, and, without asking any questions, walked up to it when her uncle went to the squire. on entering the room she found that augusta and the lady alexandrina were also there, and she hesitated for a moment at the door. "come in, mary," said beatrice, "you know my cousin alexandrina." mary came in, and having shaken hands with her two friends, was bowing to the lady, when the lady condescended, put out her noble hand, and touched miss thorne's fingers. beatrice was mary's friend, and many heart-burnings and much mental solicitude did that young lady give to her mother by indulging in such a friendship. but beatrice, with some faults, was true at heart, and she persisted in loving mary thorne in spite of the hints which her mother so frequently gave as to the impropriety of such an affection. nor had augusta any objection to the society of miss thorne. augusta was a strong-minded girl, with much of the de courcy arrogance, but quite as well inclined to show it in opposition to her mother as in any other form. to her alone in the house did lady arabella show much deference. she was now going to make a suitable match with a man of large fortune, who had been procured for her as an eligible _parti_ by her aunt, the countess. she did not pretend, had never pretended, that she loved mr moffat, but she knew, she said, that in the present state of her father's affairs such a match was expedient. mr moffat was a young man of very large fortune, in parliament, inclined to business, and in every way recommendable. he was not a man of birth, to be sure; that was to be lamented;--in confessing that mr moffat was not a man of birth, augusta did not go so far as to admit that he was the son of a tailor; such, however, was the rigid truth in this matter--he was not a man of birth, that was to be lamented; but in the present state of affairs at greshamsbury, she understood well that it was her duty to postpone her own feelings in some respect. mr moffat would bring fortune; she would bring blood and connexion. and as she so said, her bosom glowed with strong pride to think that she would be able to contribute so much more towards the proposed future partnership than her husband would do. 'twas thus that miss gresham spoke of her match to her dear friends, her cousins the de courcys for instance, to miss oriel, her sister beatrice, and even to mary thorne. she had no enthusiasm, she admitted, but she thought she had good judgment. she thought she had shown good judgment in accepting mr moffat's offer, though she did not pretend to any romance of affection. and, having so said, she went to work with considerable mental satisfaction, choosing furniture, carriages, and clothes, not extravagantly as her mother would have done, not in deference to sterner dictates of the latest fashion as her aunt would have done, with none of the girlish glee in new purchases which beatrice would have felt, but with sound judgment. she bought things that were rich, for her husband was to be rich, and she meant to avail herself of his wealth; she bought things that were fashionable, for she meant to live in the fashionable world; but she bought what was good, and strong, and lasting, and worth its money. augusta gresham had perceived early in life that she could not obtain success either as an heiress, or as a beauty, nor could she shine as a wit; she therefore fell back on such qualities as she had, and determined to win the world as a strong-minded, useful woman. that which she had of her own was blood; having that, she would in all ways do what in her lay to enhance its value. had she not possessed it, it would to her mind have been the vainest of pretences. when mary came in, the wedding preparations were being discussed. the number and names of the bridesmaids were being settled, the dresses were on the tapis, the invitations to be given were talked over. sensible as augusta was, she was not above such feminine cares; she was, indeed, rather anxious that the wedding should go off well. she was a little ashamed of her tailor's son, and therefore anxious that things should be as brilliant as possible. the bridesmaid's names had just been written on a card as mary entered the room. there were the ladies amelia, rosina, margaretta, and alexandrina of course at the head of it; then came beatrice and the twins; then miss oriel, who, though only a parson's sister, was a person of note, birth, and fortune. after this there had been here a great discussion whether or not there should be any more. if there were to be one more there must be two. now miss moffat had expressed a direct wish, and augusta, though she would much rather have done without her, hardly knew how to refuse. alexandrina--we hope we may be allowed to drop the "lady" for the sake of brevity, for the present scene only--was dead against such an unreasonable request. "we none of us know her, you know; and it would not be comfortable." beatrice strongly advocated the future sister-in-law's acceptance into the bevy; she had her own reasons; she was pained that mary thorne should not be among the number, and if miss moffat were accepted, perhaps mary might be brought in as her colleague. "if you have miss moffat," said alexandrina, "you must have dear pussy too; and i really think that pussy is too young; it will be troublesome." pussy was the youngest miss gresham, who was now only eight years old, and whose real name was nina. "augusta," said beatrice, speaking with some slight hesitation, some soupçon of doubt, before the high authority of her noble cousin, "if you do have miss moffat would you mind asking mary thorne to join her? i think mary would like it, because, you see, patience oriel is to be one; and we have known mary much longer than we have known patience." then out and spake the lady alexandrina. "beatrice, dear, if you think of what you are asking, i am sure you will see that it would not do; would not do at all. miss thorne is a very nice girl, i am sure; and, indeed, what little i have seen of her i highly approve. but, after all, who is she? mamma, i know, thinks that aunt arabella has been wrong to let her be here so much, but--" beatrice became rather red in the face, and, in spite of the dignity of her cousin, was preparing to defend her friend. "mind, i am not saying a word against miss thorne." "if i am married before her, she shall be one of my bridesmaids," said beatrice. "that will probably depend on circumstances," said the lady alexandrina; i find that i cannot bring my courteous pen to drop the title. "but augusta is very peculiarly situated. mr moffat is, you see, not of the very highest birth; and, therefore, she should take care that on her side every one about her is well born." "then you cannot have miss moffat," said beatrice. "no; i would not if i could help it," said the cousin. "but the thornes are as good a family as the greshams," said beatrice. she had not quite the courage to say, as good as the de courcys. "i dare say they are; and if this was miss thorne of ullathorne, augusta probably would not object to her. but can you tell me who miss mary thorne is?" "she is dr thorne's niece." "you mean that she is called so; but do you know who her father was, or who her mother was? i, for one, must own i do not. mamma, i believe, does, but--" at this moment the door opened gently and mary thorne entered the room. it may easily be conceived, that while mary was making her salutations the three other young ladies were a little cast aback. the lady alexandrina, however, quickly recovered herself, and, by her inimitable presence of mind and facile grace of manner, soon put the matter on a proper footing. "we were discussing miss gresham's marriage," said she; "i am sure i may mention to an acquaintance of so long standing as miss thorne, that the first of september has been now fixed for the wedding." miss gresham! acquaintance of so long standing! why, mary and augusta gresham had for years, we will hardly say now for how many, passed their mornings together in the same schoolroom; had quarrelled, and squabbled, and caressed and kissed, and been all but as sisters to each other. acquaintance indeed! beatrice felt that her ears were tingling, and even augusta was a little ashamed. mary, however, knew that the cold words had come from a de courcy, and not from a gresham, and did not, therefore, resent them. "so it's settled, augusta, is it?" said she; "the first of september. i wish you joy with all my heart," and, coming round, she put her arm over augusta's shoulder and kissed her. the lady alexandrina could not but think that the doctor's niece uttered her congratulations very much as though she were speaking to an equal; very much as though she had a father and mother of her own. "you will have delicious weather," continued mary. "september, and the beginning of october, is the nicest time of the year. if i were going honeymooning it is just the time of year i would choose." "i wish you were, mary," said beatrice. "so do not i, dear, till i have found some decent sort of a body to honeymoon along with me. i won't stir out of greshamsbury till i have sent you off before me, at any rate. and where will you go, augusta?" "we have not settled that," said augusta. "mr moffat talks of paris." "who ever heard of going to paris in september?" said the lady alexandrina. "or who ever heard of the gentleman having anything to say on the matter?" said the doctor's niece. "of course mr moffat will go wherever you are pleased to take him." the lady alexandrina was not pleased to find how completely the doctor's niece took upon herself to talk, and sit, and act at greshamsbury as though she was on a par with the young ladies of the family. that beatrice should have allowed this would not have surprised her; but it was to be expected that augusta would have shown better judgment. "these things require some tact in their management; some delicacy when high interests are at stake," said she; "i agree with miss thorne in thinking that, in ordinary circumstances, with ordinary people, perhaps, the lady should have her way. rank, however, has its drawbacks, miss thorne, as well as its privileges." "i should not object to the drawbacks," said the doctor's niece, "presuming them to be of some use; but i fear i might fail in getting on so well with the privileges." the lady alexandrina looked at her as though not fully aware whether she intended to be pert. in truth, the lady alexandrina was rather in the dark on the subject. it was almost impossible, it was incredible, that a fatherless, motherless, doctor's niece should be pert to an earl's daughter at greshamsbury, seeing that that earl's daughter was the cousin of the miss greshams. and yet the lady alexandrina hardly knew what other construction to put on the words she had just heard. it was at any rate clear to her that it was not becoming that she should just then stay any longer in that room. whether she intended to be pert or not, miss mary thorne was, to say the least, very free. the de courcy ladies knew what was due to them--no ladies better; and, therefore, the lady alexandrina made up her mind at once to go to her own bedroom. "augusta," she said, rising slowly from her chair with much stately composure, "it is nearly time to dress; will you come with me? we have a great deal to settle, you know." so she swam out of the room, and augusta, telling mary that she would see her again at dinner, swam--no, tried to swim--after her. miss gresham had had great advantages; but she had not been absolutely brought up at courcy castle, and could not as yet quite assume the courcy style of swimming. "there," said mary, as the door closed behind the rustling muslins of the ladies. "there, i have made an enemy for ever, perhaps two; that's satisfactory." "and why have you done it, mary? when i am fighting your battles behind your back, why do you come and upset it all by making the whole family of the de courcys dislike you? in such a matter as that, they'll all go together." "i am sure they will," said mary; "whether they would be equally unanimous in a case of love and charity, that, indeed, is another question." "but why should you try to make my cousin angry; you that ought to have so much sense? don't you remember what you were saying yourself the other day, of the absurdity of combatting pretences which the world sanctions?" "i do, trichy, i do; don't scold me now. it is so much easier to preach than to practise. i do so wish i was a clergyman." "but you have done so much harm, mary." "have i?" said mary, kneeling down on the ground at her friend's feet. "if i humble myself very low; if i kneel through the whole evening in a corner; if i put my neck down and let all your cousins trample on it, and then your aunt, would not that make atonement? i would not object to wearing sackcloth, either; and i'd eat a little ashes--or, at any rate, i'd try." "i know you're clever, mary; but still i think you're a fool. i do, indeed." "i am a fool, trichy, i do confess it; and am not a bit clever; but don't scold me; you see how humble i am; not only humble but umble, which i look upon to be the comparative, or, indeed, superlative degree. or perhaps there are four degrees; humble, umble, stumble, tumble; and then, when one is absolutely in the dirt at their feet, perhaps these big people won't wish one to stoop any further." "oh, mary!" "and, oh, trichy! you don't mean to say i mayn't speak out before you. there, perhaps you'd like to put your foot on my neck." and then she put her head down to the footstool and kissed beatrice's feet. "i'd like, if i dared, to put my hand on your cheek and give you a good slap for being such a goose." "do; do, trichy: you shall tread on me, or slap me, or kiss me; whichever you like." "i can't tell you how vexed i am," said beatrice; "i wanted to arrange something." "arrange something! what? arrange what? i love arranging. i fancy myself qualified to be an arranger-general in female matters. i mean pots and pans, and such like. of course i don't allude to extraordinary people and extraordinary circumstances that require tact, and delicacy, and drawbacks, and that sort of thing." "very well, mary." "but it's not very well; it's very bad if you look like that. well, my pet, there i won't. i won't allude to the noble blood of your noble relatives either in joke or in earnest. what is it you want to arrange, trichy?" "i want you to be one of augusta's bridesmaids." "good heavens, beatrice! are you mad? what! put me, even for a morning, into the same category of finery as the noble blood from courcy castle!" "patience is to be one." "but that is no reason why impatience should be another, and i should be very impatient under such honours. no, trichy; joking apart, do not think of it. even if augusta wished it i should refuse. i should be obliged to refuse. i, too, suffer from pride; a pride quite as unpardonable as that of others: i could not stand with your four lady-cousins behind your sister at the altar. in such a galaxy they would be the stars and i--" "why, mary, all the world knows that you are prettier than any of them!" "i am all the world's very humble servant. but, trichy, i should not object if i were as ugly as the veiled prophet and they all as beautiful as zuleika. the glory of that galaxy will be held to depend not on its beauty, but on its birth. you know how they would look at me; how they would scorn me; and there, in church, at the altar, with all that is solemn round us, i could not return their scorn as i might do elsewhere. in a room i'm not a bit afraid of them all." and mary was again allowing herself to be absorbed by that feeling of indomitable pride, of antagonism to the pride of others, which she herself in her cooler moments was the first to blame. "you often say, mary, that that sort of arrogance should be despised and passed over without notice." "so it should, trichy. i tell you that as a clergyman tells you to hate riches. but though the clergyman tells you so, he is not the less anxious to be rich himself." "i particularly wish you to be one of augusta's bridesmaids." "and i particularly wish to decline the honour; which honour has not been, and will not be, offered to me. no, trichy. i will not be augusta's bridesmaid, but--but--but--" "but what, dearest?" "but, trichy, when some one else is married, when the new wing has been built to a house that you know of--" "now, mary, hold your tongue, or you know you'll make me angry." "i do so like to see you angry. and when that time comes, when that wedding does take place, then i will be a bridesmaid, trichy. yes! even though i am not invited. yes! though all the de courcys in barsetshire should tread upon me and obliterate me. though i should be as dust among the stars, though i should creep up in calico among their satins and lace, i will nevertheless be there; close, close to the bride; to hold something for her, to touch her dress, to feel that i am near to her, to--to--to--" and she threw her arms round her companion, and kissed her over and over again. "no, trichy; i won't be augusta's bridesmaid; i'll bide my time for bridesmaiding." what protestations beatrice made against the probability of such an event as foreshadowed in her friend's promise we will not repeat. the afternoon was advancing, and the ladies also had to dress for dinner, to do honour to the young heir. chapter v frank gresham's first speech we have said, that over and above those assembled in the house, there came to the greshamsbury dinner on frank's birthday the jacksons of the grange, consisting of mr and mrs jackson; the batesons from annesgrove, viz., mr and mrs bateson, and miss bateson, their daughter--an unmarried lady of about fifty; the bakers of mill hill, father and son; and mr caleb oriel, the rector, with his beautiful sister, patience. dr thorne, and his niece mary, we count among those already assembled at greshamsbury. there was nothing very magnificent in the number of the guests thus brought together to do honour to young frank; but he, perhaps, was called on to take a more prominent part in the proceedings, to be made more of a hero than would have been the case had half the county been there. in that case the importance of the guests would have been so great that frank would have got off with a half-muttered speech or two; but now he had to make a separate oration to every one, and very weary work he found it. the batesons, bakers, and jacksons were very civil; no doubt the more so from an unconscious feeling on their part, that as the squire was known to be a little out at elbows as regards money, any deficiency on their part might be considered as owing to the present state of affairs at greshamsbury. fourteen thousand a year will receive honour; in that case there is no doubt, and the man absolutely possessing it is not apt to be suspicious as to the treatment he may receive; but the ghost of fourteen thousand a year is not always so self-assured. mr baker, with his moderate income, was a very much richer man than the squire; and, therefore, he was peculiarly forward in congratulating frank on the brilliancy of his prospects. poor frank had hardly anticipated what there would be to do, and before dinner was announced he was very tired of it. he had no warmer feeling for any of the grand cousins than a very ordinary cousinly love; and he had resolved, forgetful of birth and blood, and all those gigantic considerations which, now that manhood had come upon him, he was bound always to bear in mind,--he had resolved to sneak out to dinner comfortably with mary thorne if possible; and if not with mary, then with his other love, patience oriel. great, therefore, was his consternation at finding that, after being kept continually in the foreground for half an hour before dinner, he had to walk out to the dining-room with his aunt the countess, and take his father's place for the day at the bottom of the table. "it will now depend altogether upon yourself, frank, whether you maintain or lose that high position in the county which has been held by the greshams for so many years," said the countess, as she walked through the spacious hall, resolving to lose no time in teaching to her nephew that great lesson which it was so imperative that he should learn. frank took this as an ordinary lecture, meant to inculcate general good conduct, such as old bores of aunts are apt to inflict on youthful victims in the shape of nephews and nieces. "yes," said frank; "i suppose so; and i mean to go along all square, aunt, and no mistake. when i get back to cambridge, i'll read like bricks." his aunt did not care two straws about his reading. it was not by reading that the greshams of greshamsbury had held their heads up in the county, but by having high blood and plenty of money. the blood had come naturally to this young man; but it behoved him to look for the money in a great measure himself. she, lady de courcy, could doubtless help him; she might probably be able to fit him with a wife who would bring her money onto his birth. his reading was a matter in which she could in no way assist him; whether his taste might lead him to prefer books or pictures, or dogs and horses, or turnips in drills, or old italian plates and dishes, was a matter which did not much signify; with which it was not at all necessary that his noble aunt should trouble herself. "oh! you are going to cambridge again, are you? well, if your father wishes it;--though very little is ever gained now by a university connexion." "i am to take my degree in october, aunt; and i am determined, at any rate, that i won't be plucked." "plucked!" "no; i won't be plucked. baker was plucked last year, and all because he got into the wrong set at john's. he's an excellent fellow if you knew him. he got among a set of men who did nothing but smoke and drink beer. malthusians, we call them." "malthusians!" "'malt,' you know, aunt, and 'use;' meaning that they drink beer. so poor harry baker got plucked. i don't know that a fellow's any the worse; however, i won't get plucked." by this time the party had taken their place round the long board, mr gresham sitting at the top, in the place usually occupied by lady arabella. she, on the present occasion, sat next to her son on the one side, as the countess did on the other. if, therefore, frank now went astray, it would not be from want of proper leading. "aunt, will you have some beef?" said he, as soon as the soup and fish had been disposed of, anxious to perform the rites of hospitality now for the first time committed to his charge. "do not be in a hurry, frank," said his mother; "the servants will--" "oh! ah! i forgot; there are cutlets and those sort of things. my hand is not in yet for this work, aunt. well, as i was saying about cambridge--" "is frank to go back to cambridge, arabella?" said the countess to her sister-in-law, speaking across her nephew. "so his father seems to say." "is it not a waste of time?" asked the countess. "you know i never interfere," said the lady arabella; "i never liked the idea of cambridge myself at all. all the de courcys were christ church men; but the greshams, it seems, were always at cambridge." "would it not be better to send him abroad at once?" "much better, i would think," said the lady arabella; "but you know, i never interfere: perhaps you would speak to mr gresham." the countess smiled grimly, and shook her head with a decidedly negative shake. had she said out loud to the young man, "your father is such an obstinate, pig-headed, ignorant fool, that it is no use speaking to him; it would be wasting fragrance on the desert air," she could not have spoken more plainly. the effect on frank was this: that he said to himself, speaking quite as plainly as lady de courcy had spoken by her shake of the face, "my mother and aunt are always down on the governor, always; but the more they are down on him the more i'll stick to him. i certainly will take my degree: i will read like bricks; and i'll begin to-morrow." "now will you take some beef, aunt?" this was said out loud. the countess de courcy was very anxious to go on with her lesson without loss of time; but she could not, while surrounded by guests and servants, enunciate the great secret: "you must marry money, frank; that is your one great duty; that is the matter to be borne steadfastly in your mind." she could not now, with sufficient weight and impress of emphasis, pour this wisdom into his ears; the more especially as he was standing up to his work of carving, and was deep to his elbows in horse-radish, fat, and gravy. so the countess sat silent while the banquet proceeded. "beef, harry?" shouted the young heir to his friend baker. "oh! but i see it isn't your turn yet. i beg your pardon, miss bateson," and he sent to that lady a pound and a half of excellent meat, cut out with great energy in one slice, about half an inch thick. and so the banquet went on. before dinner frank had found himself obliged to make numerous small speeches in answer to the numerous individual congratulations of his friends; but these were as nothing to the one great accumulated onus of an oration which he had long known that he should have to sustain after the cloth was taken away. someone of course would propose his health, and then there would be a clatter of voices, ladies and gentlemen, men and girls; and when that was done he would find himself standing on his legs, with the room about him, going round and round and round. having had a previous hint of this, he had sought advice from his cousin, the honourable george, whom he regarded as a dab at speaking; at least, so he had heard the honourable george say of himself. "what the deuce is a fellow to say, george, when he stands up after the clatter is done?" "oh, it's the easiest thing in life," said the cousin. "only remember this: you mustn't get astray; that is what they call presence of mind, you know. i'll tell you what i do, and i'm often called up, you know; at our agriculturals i always propose the farmers' daughters: well, what i do is this--i keep my eye steadfastly fixed on one of the bottles, and never move it." "on one of the bottles!" said frank; "wouldn't it be better if i made a mark of some old covey's head? i don't like looking at the table." "the old covey'd move, and then you'd be done; besides there isn't the least use in the world in looking up. i've heard people say, who go to those sort of dinners every day of their lives, that whenever anything witty is said; the fellow who says it is sure to be looking at the mahogany." "oh, you know i shan't say anything witty; i'll be quite the other way." "but there's no reason you shouldn't learn the manner. that's the way i succeeded. fix your eye on one of the bottles; put your thumbs in your waist-coat pockets; stick out your elbows, bend your knees a little, and then go ahead." "oh, ah! go ahead; that's all very well; but you can't go ahead if you haven't got any steam." "a very little does it. there can be nothing so easy as your speech. when one has to say something new every year about the farmers' daughters, why one has to use one's brains a bit. let's see: how will you begin? of course, you'll say that you are not accustomed to this sort of thing; that the honour conferred upon you is too much for your feelings; that the bright array of beauty and talent around you quite overpowers your tongue, and all that sort of thing. then declare you're a gresham to the backbone." "oh, they know that." "well, tell them again. then of course you must say something about us; or you'll have the countess as black as old nick." "abut my aunt, george? what on earth can i say about her when she's there herself before me?" "before you! of course; that's just the reason. oh, say any lie you can think of; you must say something about us. you know we've come down from london on purpose." frank, in spite of the benefit he was receiving from his cousin's erudition, could not help wishing in his heart that they had all remained in london; but this he kept to himself. he thanked his cousin for his hints, and though he did not feel that the trouble of his mind was completely cured, he began to hope that he might go through the ordeal without disgracing himself. nevertheless, he felt rather sick at heart when mr baker got up to propose the toast as soon as the servants were gone. the servants, that is, were gone officially; but they were there in a body, men and women, nurses, cooks, and ladies' maids, coachmen, grooms, and footmen, standing in two doorways to hear what master frank would say. the old housekeeper headed the maids at one door, standing boldly inside the room; and the butler controlled the men at the other, marshalling them back with a drawn corkscrew. mr baker did not say much; but what he did say, he said well. they had all seen frank gresham grow up from a child; and were now required to welcome as a man amongst them one who was well qualified to carry on the honour of that loved and respected family. his young friend, frank, was every inch a gresham. mr baker omitted to make mention of the infusion of de courcy blood, and the countess, therefore, drew herself up on her chair and looked as though she were extremely bored. he then alluded tenderly to his own long friendship with the present squire, francis newbold gresham the elder; and sat down, begging them to drink health, prosperity, long life, and an excellent wife to their dear young friend, francis newbold gresham the younger. there was a great jingling of glasses, of course; made the merrier and the louder by the fact that the ladies were still there as well as the gentlemen. ladies don't drink toasts frequently; and, therefore, the occasion coming rarely was the more enjoyed. "god bless you, frank!" "your good health, frank!" "and especially a good wife, frank!" "two or three of them, frank!" "good health and prosperity to you, mr gresham!" "more power to you, frank, my boy!" "may god bless you and preserve you, my dear boy!" and then a merry, sweet, eager voice from the far end of the table, "frank! frank! do look at me, pray do frank; i am drinking your health in real wine; ain't i, papa?" such were the addresses which greeted mr francis newbold gresham the younger as he essayed to rise up on his feet for the first time since he had come to man's estate. when the clatter was at an end, and he was fairly on his legs, he cast a glance before him on the table, to look for a decanter. he had not much liked his cousin's theory of sticking to the bottle; nevertheless, in the difficulty of the moment, it was well to have any system to go by. but, as misfortune would have it, though the table was covered with bottles, his eye could not catch one. indeed, his eye first could catch nothing, for the things swam before him, and the guests all seemed to dance in their chairs. up he got, however, and commenced his speech. as he could not follow his preceptor's advice as touching the bottle, he adopted his own crude plan of "making a mark on some old covey's head," and therefore looked dead at the doctor. "upon my word, i am very much obliged to you, gentlemen and ladies, ladies and gentlemen, i should say, for drinking my health, and doing me so much honour, and all that sort of thing. upon my word i am. especially to mr baker. i don't mean you, harry, you're not mr baker." "as much as you're mr gresham, master frank." "but i am not mr gresham; and i don't mean to be for many a long year if i can help it; not at any rate till we have had another coming of age here." "bravo, frank; and whose will that be?" "that will be my son, and a very fine lad he will be; and i hope he'll make a better speech than his father. mr baker said i was every inch a gresham. well, i hope i am." here the countess began to look cold and angry. "i hope the day will never come when my father won't own me for one." "there's no fear, no fear," said the doctor, who was almost put out of countenance by the orator's intense gaze. the countess looked colder and more angry, and muttered something to herself about a bear-garden. "gardez gresham; eh? harry! mind that when you're sticking in a gap and i'm coming after you. well, i am sure i am very obliged to you for the honour you have all done me, especially the ladies, who don't do this sort of thing on ordinary occasions. i wish they did; don't you, doctor? and talking of the ladies, my aunt and cousins have come all the way from london to hear me make this speech, which certainly is not worth the trouble; but, all the same i am very much obliged to them." and he looked round and made a little bow at the countess. "and so i am to mr and mrs jackson, and mr and mrs and miss bateson, and mr baker--i'm not at all obliged to you, harry--and to mr oriel and miss oriel, and to mr umbleby, and to dr thorne, and to mary--i beg her pardon, i mean miss thorne." and then he sat down, amid the loud plaudits of the company, and a string of blessings which came from the servants behind him. after this the ladies rose and departed. as she went, lady arabella, kissed her son's forehead, and then his sisters kissed him, and one or two of his lady-cousins; and then miss bateson shook him by the hand. "oh, miss bateson," said he, "i thought the kissing was to go all round." so miss bateson laughed and went her way; and patience oriel nodded at him, but mary thorne, as she quietly left the room, almost hidden among the extensive draperies of the grander ladies, hardly allowed her eyes to meet his. he got up to hold the door for them as they passed; and as they went, he managed to take patience by the hand; he took her hand and pressed it for a moment, but dropped it quickly, in order that he might go through the same ceremony with mary, but mary was too quick for him. "frank," said mr gresham, as soon as the door was closed, "bring your glass here, my boy;" and the father made room for his son close beside himself. "the ceremony is now over, so you may have your place of dignity." frank sat himself down where he was told, and mr gresham put his hand on his son's shoulder and half caressed him, while the tears stood in his eyes. "i think the doctor is right, baker, i think he'll never make us ashamed of him." "i am sure he never will," said mr baker. "i don't think he ever will," said dr thorne. the tones of the men's voices were very different. mr baker did not care a straw about it; why should he? he had an heir of his own as well as the squire; one also who was the apple of _his_ eye. but the doctor,--he did care; he had a niece, to be sure, whom he loved, perhaps as well as these men loved their sons; but there was room in his heart also for young frank gresham. after this small exposé of feeling they sat silent for a moment or two. but silence was not dear to the heart of the honourable john, and so he took up the running. "that's a niceish nag you gave frank this morning," he said to his uncle. "i was looking at him before dinner. he is a monsoon, isn't he?" "well i can't say i know how he was bred," said the squire. "he shows a good deal of breeding." "he's a monsoon, i'm sure," said the honourable john. "they've all those ears, and that peculiar dip in the back. i suppose you gave a goodish figure for him?" "not so very much," said the squire. "he's a trained hunter, i suppose?" "if not, he soon will be," said the squire. "let frank alone for that," said harry baker. "he jumps beautifully, sir," said frank. "i haven't tried him myself, but peter made him go over the bar two or three times this morning." the honourable john was determined to give his cousin a helping hand, as he considered it. he thought that frank was very ill-used in being put off with so incomplete a stud, and thinking also that the son had not spirit enough to attack his father himself on the subject, the honourable john determined to do it for him. "he's the making of a very nice horse, i don't doubt. i wish you had a string like him, frank." frank felt the blood rush to his face. he would not for worlds have his father think that he was discontented, or otherwise than pleased with the present he had received that morning. he was heartily ashamed of himself in that he had listened with a certain degree of complacency to his cousin's tempting; but he had no idea that the subject would be repeated--and then repeated, too, before his father, in a manner to vex him on such a day as this, before such people as were assembled there. he was very angry with his cousin, and for a moment forgot all his hereditary respect for a de courcy. "i tell you what, john," said he, "do you choose your day, some day early in the season, and come out on the best thing you have, and i'll bring, not the black horse, but my old mare; and then do you try and keep near me. if i don't leave you at the back of godspeed before long, i'll give you the mare and the horse too." the honourable john was not known in barsetshire as one of the most forward of its riders. he was a man much addicted to hunting, as far as the get-up of the thing was concerned; he was great in boots and breeches; wondrously conversant with bits and bridles; he had quite a collection of saddles; and patronised every newest invention for carrying spare shoes, sandwiches, and flasks of sherry. he was prominent at the cover side;--some people, including the master of hounds, thought him perhaps a little too loudly prominent; he affected a familiarity with the dogs, and was on speaking acquaintance with every man's horse. but when the work was cut out, when the pace began to be sharp, when it behoved a man either to ride or visibly to decline to ride, then--so at least said they who had not the de courcy interest quite closely at heart--then, in those heart-stirring moments, the honourable john was too often found deficient. there was, therefore, a considerable laugh at his expense when frank, instigated to his innocent boast by a desire to save his father, challenged his cousin to a trial of prowess. the honourable john was not, perhaps, as much accustomed to the ready use of his tongue as was his honourable brother, seeing that it was not his annual business to depict the glories of the farmers' daughters; at any rate, on this occasion he seemed to be at some loss for words; he shut up, as the slang phrase goes, and made no further allusion to the necessity of supplying young gresham with a proper string of hunters. but the old squire had understood it all; had understood the meaning of his nephew's attack; had thoroughly understood also the meaning of his son's defence, and the feeling which actuated it. he also had thought of the stableful of horses which had belonged to himself when he came of age; and of the much more humble position which his son would have to fill than that which _his_ father had prepared for him. he thought of this, and was sad enough, though he had sufficient spirit to hide from his friends around him the fact, that the honourable john's arrow had not been discharged in vain. "he shall have champion," said the father to himself. "it is time for me to give it up." now champion was one of the two fine old hunters which the squire kept for his own use. and it might have been said of him now, at the period of which we are speaking, that the only really happy moments of his life were those which he spent in the field. so much as to its being time for him to give up. chapter vi frank gresham's early loves it was, we have said, the first of july, and such being the time of the year, the ladies, after sitting in the drawing-room for half an hour or so, began to think that they might as well go through the drawing-room windows on to the lawn. first one slipped out a little way, and then another; and then they got on to the lawn; and then they talked of their hats; till, by degrees, the younger ones of the party, and at last of the elder also, found themselves dressed for walking. the windows, both of the drawing-room and the dining-room, looked out on to the lawn; and it was only natural that the girls should walk from the former to the latter. it was only natural that they, being there, should tempt their swains to come to them by the sight of their broad-brimmed hats and evening dresses; and natural, also, that the temptation should not be resisted. the squire, therefore, and the elder male guests soon found themselves alone round their wine. "upon my word, we were enchanted by your eloquence, mr gresham, were we not?" said miss oriel, turning to one of the de courcy girls who was with her. miss oriel was a very pretty girl; a little older than frank gresham,--perhaps a year or so. she had dark hair, large round dark eyes, a nose a little too broad, a pretty mouth, a beautiful chin, and, as we have said before, a large fortune;--that is, moderately large--let us say twenty thousand pounds, there or thereabouts. she and her brother had been living at greshamsbury for the last two years, the living having been purchased for him--such were mr gresham's necessities--during the lifetime of the last old incumbent. miss oriel was in every respect a nice neighbour; she was good-humoured, lady-like, lively, neither too clever nor too stupid, belonging to a good family, sufficiently fond of this world's good things, as became a pretty young lady so endowed, and sufficiently fond, also, of the other world's good things, as became the mistress of a clergyman's house. "indeed, yes," said the lady margaretta. "frank is very eloquent. when he described our rapid journey from london, he nearly moved me to tears. but well as he talks, i think he carves better." "i wish you'd had to do it, margaretta; both the carving and talking." "thank you, frank; you're very civil." "but there's one comfort, miss oriel; it's over now, and done. a fellow can't be made to come of age twice." "but you'll take your degree, mr gresham; and then, of course, there'll be another speech; and then you'll get married, and there will be two or three more." "i'll speak at your wedding, miss oriel, long before i do at my own." "i shall not have the slightest objection. it will be so kind of you to patronise my husband." "but, by jove, will he patronise me? i know you'll marry some awful bigwig, or some terribly clever fellow; won't she, margaretta?" "miss oriel was saying so much in praise of you before you came out," said margaretta, "that i began to think that her mind was intent on remaining at greshamsbury all her life." frank blushed, and patience laughed. there was but a year's difference in their age; frank, however, was still a boy, though patience was fully a woman. "i am ambitious, lady margaretta," said she. "i own it; but i am moderate in my ambition. i do love greshamsbury, and if mr gresham had a younger brother, perhaps, you know--" "another just like myself, i suppose," said frank. "oh, yes. i could not possibly wish for any change." "just as eloquent as you are, frank," said the lady margaretta. "and as good a carver," said patience. "miss bateson has lost her heart to him for ever, because of his carving," said the lady margaretta. "but perfection never repeats itself," said patience. "well, you see, i have not got any brothers," said frank; "so all i can do is to sacrifice myself." "upon my word, mr gresham, i am under more than ordinary obligations to you; i am indeed," and miss oriel stood still in the path, and made a very graceful curtsy. "dear me! only think, lady margaretta, that i should be honoured with an offer from the heir the very moment he is legally entitled to make one." "and done with so much true gallantry, too," said the other; "expressing himself quite willing to postpone any views of his own or your advantage." "yes," said patience; "that's what i value so much: had he loved me now, there would have been no merit on his part; but a sacrifice, you know--" "yes, ladies are so fond of such sacrifices, frank, upon my word, i had no idea you were so very excellent at making speeches." "well," said frank, "i shouldn't have said sacrifice, that was a slip; what i meant was--" "oh, dear me," said patience, "wait a minute; now we are going to have a regular declaration. lady margaretta, you haven't got a scent-bottle, have you? and if i should faint, where's the garden-chair?" "oh, but i'm not going to make a declaration at all," said frank. "are you not? oh! now, lady margaretta, i appeal to you; did you not understand him to say something very particular?" "certainly, i thought nothing could be plainer," said the lady margaretta. "and so, mr gresham, i am to be told, that after all it means nothing," said patience, putting her handkerchief up to her eyes. "it means that you are an excellent hand at quizzing a fellow like me." "quizzing! no; but you are an excellent hand at deceiving a poor girl like me. well, remember i have got a witness; here is lady margaretta, who heard it all. what a pity it is that my brother is a clergyman. you calculated on that, i know; or you would never had served me so." she said so just as her brother joined them, or rather just as he had joined lady margaretta de courcy; for her ladyship and mr oriel walked on in advance by themselves. lady margaretta had found it rather dull work, making a third in miss oriel's flirtation with her cousin; the more so as she was quite accustomed to take a principal part herself in all such transactions. she therefore not unwillingly walked on with mr oriel. mr oriel, it must be conceived, was not a common, everyday parson, but had points about him which made him quite fit to associate with an earl's daughter. and as it was known that he was not a marrying man, having very exalted ideas on that point connected with his profession, the lady margaretta, of course, had the less objection to trust herself alone with him. but directly she was gone, miss oriel's tone of banter ceased. it was very well making a fool of a lad of twenty-one when others were by; but there might be danger in it when they were alone together. "i don't know any position on earth more enviable than yours, mr gresham," said she, quite soberly and earnestly; "how happy you ought to be." "what, in being laughed at by you, miss oriel, for pretending to be a man, when you choose to make out that i am only a boy? i can bear to be laughed at pretty well generally, but i can't say that your laughing at me makes me feel so happy as you say i ought to be." frank was evidently of an opinion totally different from that of miss oriel. miss oriel, when she found herself _tête-à-tête_ with him, thought it was time to give over flirting; frank, however, imagined that it was just the moment for him to begin. so he spoke and looked very languishing, and put on him quite the airs of an orlando. "oh, mr gresham, such good friends as you and i may laugh at each other, may we not?" "you may do what you like, miss oriel: beautiful women i believe always may; but you remember what the spider said to the fly, 'that which is sport to you, may be death to me.'" anyone looking at frank's face as he said this, might well have imagined that he was breaking his very heart for love of miss oriel. oh, master frank! master frank! if you act thus in the green leaf, what will you do in the dry? while frank gresham was thus misbehaving himself, and going on as though to him belonged the privilege of falling in love with pretty faces, as it does to ploughboys and other ordinary people, his great interests were not forgotten by those guardian saints who were so anxious to shower down on his head all manner of temporal blessings. another conversation had taken place in the greshamsbury gardens, in which nothing light had been allowed to present itself; nothing frivolous had been spoken. the countess, the lady arabella, and miss gresham had been talking over greshamsbury affairs, and they had latterly been assisted by the lady amelia, than whom no de courcy ever born was more wise, more solemn, more prudent, or more proud. the ponderosity of her qualifications for nobility was sometimes too much even for her mother, and her devotion to the peerage was such, that she would certainly have declined a seat in heaven if offered to her without the promise that it should be in the upper house. the subject first discussed had been augusta's prospects. mr moffat had been invited to courcy castle, and augusta had been taken thither to meet him, with the express intention on the part of the countess, that they should be man and wife. the countess had been careful to make it intelligible to her sister-in-law and niece, that though mr moffat would do excellently well for a daughter of greshamsbury, he could not be allowed to raise his eyes to a female scion of courcy castle. "not that we personally dislike him," said the lady amelia; "but rank has its drawbacks, augusta." as the lady amelia was now somewhat nearer forty than thirty, and was still allowed to walk, "in maiden meditation, fancy free," it may be presumed that in her case rank had been found to have serious drawbacks. to this augusta said nothing in objection. whether desirable by a de courcy or not, the match was to be hers, and there was no doubt whatever as to the wealth of the man whose name she was to take; the offer had been made, not to her, but to her aunt; the acceptance had been expressed, not by her, but by her aunt. had she thought of recapitulating in her memory all that had ever passed between mr moffat and herself, she would have found that it did not amount to more than the most ordinary conversation between chance partners in a ball-room. nevertheless, she was to be mrs moffat. all that mr gresham knew of him was, that when he met the young man for the first and only time in his life, he found him extremely hard to deal with in the matter of money. he had insisted on having ten thousand pounds with his wife, and at last refused to go on with the match unless he got six thousand pounds. this latter sum the poor squire had undertaken to pay him. mr moffat had been for a year or two m.p. for barchester; having been assisted in his views on that ancient city by all the de courcy interest. he was a whig, of course. not only had barchester, departing from the light of other days, returned a whig member of parliament, but it was declared, that at the next election, now near at hand, a radical would be sent up, a man pledged to the ballot, to economies of all sorts, one who would carry out barchester politics in all their abrupt, obnoxious, pestilent virulence. this was one scatcherd, a great railway contractor, a man who was a native of barchester, who had bought property in the neighbourhood, and who had achieved a sort of popularity there and elsewhere by the violence of his democratic opposition to the aristocracy. according to this man's political tenets, the conservatives should be laughed at as fools, but the whigs should be hated as knaves. mr moffat was now coming down to courcy castle to look after his electioneering interests, and miss gresham was to return with her aunt to meet him. the countess was very anxious that frank should also accompany them. her great doctrine, that he must marry money, had been laid down with authority, and received without doubt. she now pushed it further, and said that no time should be lost; that he should not only marry money, but do so very early in life; there was always danger in delay. the greshams--of course she alluded only to the males of the family--were foolishly soft-hearted; no one could say what might happen. there was that miss thorne always at greshamsbury. this was more than the lady arabella could stand. she protested that there was at least no ground for supposing that frank would absolutely disgrace his family. still the countess persisted: "perhaps not," she said; "but when young people of perfectly different ranks were allowed to associate together, there was no saying what danger might arise. they all knew that old mr bateson--the present mr bateson's father--had gone off with the governess; and young mr everbeery, near taunton, had only the other day married a cook-maid." "but mr everbeery was always drunk, aunt," said augusta, feeling called upon to say something for her brother. "never mind, my dear; these things do happen, and they are very dreadful." "horrible!" said the lady amelia; "diluting the best blood of the country, and paving the way for revolutions." this was very grand; but, nevertheless, augusta could not but feel that she perhaps might be about to dilute the blood of her coming children in marrying the tailor's son. she consoled herself by trusting that, at any rate, she paved the way for no revolutions. "when a thing is so necessary," said the countess, "it cannot be done too soon. now, arabella, i don't say that anything will come of it; but it may: miss dunstable is coming down to us next week. now, we all know that when old dunstable died last year, he left over two hundred thousand to his daughter." "it is a great deal of money, certainly," said lady arabella. "it would pay off everything, and a great deal more," said the countess. "it was ointment, was it not, aunt?" said augusta. "i believe so, my dear; something called the ointment of lebanon, or something of that sort: but there's no doubt about the money." "but how old is she, rosina?" asked the anxious mother. "about thirty, i suppose; but i don't think that much signifies." "thirty," said lady arabella, rather dolefully. "and what is she like? i think that frank already begins to like girls that are young and pretty." "but surely, aunt," said the lady amelia, "now that he has come to man's discretion, he will not refuse to consider all that he owes to his family. a mr gresham of greshamsbury has a position to support." the de courcy scion spoke these last words in the sort of tone that a parish clergyman would use, in warning some young farmer's son that he should not put himself on an equal footing with the ploughboys. it was at last decided that the countess should herself convey to frank a special invitation to courcy castle, and that when she got him there, she should do all that lay in her power to prevent his return to cambridge, and to further the dunstable marriage. "we did think of miss dunstable for porlock, once," she said, naïvely; "but when we found that it wasn't much over two hundred thousand, why, that idea fell to the ground." the terms on which the de courcy blood might be allowed to dilute itself were, it must be presumed, very high indeed. augusta was sent off to find her brother, and to send him to the countess in the small drawing-room. here the countess was to have her tea, apart from the outer common world, and here, without interruption, she was to teach her great lesson to her nephew. augusta did find her brother, and found him in the worst of bad society--so at least the stern de courcys would have thought. old mr bateson and the governess, mr everbeery and his cook's diluted blood, and ways paved for revolutions, all presented themselves to augusta's mind when she found her brother walking with no other company than mary thorne, and walking with her, too, in much too close proximity. how he had contrived to be off with the old love and so soon on with the new, or rather, to be off with the new love and again on with the old, we will not stop to inquire. had lady arabella, in truth, known all her son's doings in this way, could she have guessed how very nigh he had approached the iniquity of old mr bateson, and to the folly of young mr everbeery, she would in truth have been in a hurry to send him off to courcy castle and miss dunstable. some days before the commencement of our story, young frank had sworn in sober earnest--in what he intended for his most sober earnest, his most earnest sobriety--that he loved mary thorne with a love for which words could find no sufficient expression--with a love that could never die, never grow dim, never become less, which no opposition on the part of others could extinguish, which no opposition on her part could repel; that he might, could, would, and should have her for his wife, and that if she told him she didn't love him, he would-- "oh, oh! mary; do you love me? don't you love me? won't you love me? say you will. oh, mary, dearest mary, will you? won't you? do you? don't you? come now, you have a right to give a fellow an answer." with such eloquence had the heir of greshamsbury, when not yet twenty-one years of age, attempted to possess himself of the affections of the doctor's niece. and yet three days afterwards he was quite ready to flirt with miss oriel. if such things are done in the green wood, what will be done in the dry? and what had mary said when these fervent protestations of an undying love had been thrown at her feet? mary, it must be remembered, was very nearly of the same age as frank; but, as i and others have so often said before, "women grow on the sunny side of the wall." though frank was only a boy, it behoved mary to be something more than a girl. frank might be allowed, without laying himself open to much just reproach, to throw all of what he believed to be his heart into a protestation of what he believed to be love; but mary was in duty bound to be more thoughtful, more reticent, more aware of the facts of their position, more careful of her own feelings, and more careful also of his. and yet she could not put him down as another young lady might put down another young gentleman. it is very seldom that a young man, unless he be tipsy, assumes an unwelcome familiarity in his early acquaintance with any girl; but when acquaintance has been long and intimate, familiarity must follow as a matter of course. frank and mary had been so much together in his holidays, had so constantly consorted together as boys and girls, that, as regarded her, he had not that innate fear of a woman which represses a young man's tongue; and she was so used to his good-humour, his fun, and high jovial spirits, and was, withal, so fond of them and him, that it was very difficult for her to mark with accurate feeling, and stop with reserved brow, the shade of change from a boy's liking to a man's love. and beatrice, too, had done harm in this matter. with a spirit painfully unequal to that of her grand relatives, she had quizzed mary and frank about their early flirtations. this she had done; but had instinctively avoided doing so before her mother and sister, and had thus made a secret of it, as it were, between herself, mary, and her brother;--had given currency, as it were, to the idea that there might be something serious between the two. not that beatrice had ever wished to promote a marriage between them, or had even thought of such a thing. she was girlish, thoughtless, imprudent, inartistic, and very unlike a de courcy. very unlike a de courcy she was in all that; but, nevertheless, she had the de courcy veneration for blood, and, more than that, she had the gresham feeling joined to that of the de courcys. the lady amelia would not for worlds have had the de courcy blood defiled; but gold she thought could not defile. now beatrice was ashamed of her sister's marriage, and had often declared, within her own heart, that nothing could have made her marry a mr moffat. she had said so also to mary, and mary had told her that she was right. mary also was proud of blood, was proud of her uncle's blood, and the two girls talked together in all the warmth of girlish confidence, of the great glories of family traditions and family honours. beatrice had talked in utter ignorance as to her friend's birth; and mary, poor mary, she had talked, being as ignorant; but not without a strong suspicion that, at some future time, a day of sorrow would tell her some fearful truth. on one point mary's mind was strongly made up. no wealth, no mere worldly advantage could make any one her superior. if she were born a gentlewoman, then was she fit to match with any gentleman. let the most wealthy man in europe pour all his wealth at her feet, she could, if so inclined, give him back at any rate more than that. that offered at her feet she knew she would never tempt her to yield up the fortress of her heart, the guardianship of her soul, the possession of her mind; not that alone, nor that, even, as any possible slightest fraction of a make-weight. if she were born a gentlewoman! and then came to her mind those curious questions; what makes a gentleman? what makes a gentlewoman? what is the inner reality, the spiritualised quintessence of that privilege in the world which men call rank, which forces the thousands and hundreds of thousands to bow down before the few elect? what gives, or can give it, or should give it? and she answered the question. absolute, intrinsic, acknowledged, individual merit must give it to its possessor, let him be whom, and what, and whence he might. so far the spirit of democracy was strong with her. beyond this it could be had but by inheritance, received as it were second-hand, or twenty-second-hand. and so far the spirit of aristocracy was strong within her. all this she had, as may be imagined, learnt in early years from her uncle; and all this she was at great pains to teach beatrice gresham, the chosen of her heart. when frank declared that mary had a right to give him an answer, he meant that he had a right to expect one. mary acknowledged this right, and gave it to him. "mr gresham," she said. "oh, mary; mr gresham!" "yes, mr gresham. it must be mr gresham after that. and, moreover, it must be miss thorne as well." "i'll be shot if it shall, mary." "well; i can't say that i shall be shot if it be not so; but if it be not so, if you do not agree that it shall be so, i shall be turned out of greshamsbury." "what! you mean my mother?" said frank. "indeed, i mean no such thing," said mary, with a flash from her eye that made frank almost start. "i mean no such thing. i mean you, not your mother. i am not in the least afraid of lady arabella; but i am afraid of you." "afraid of me, mary!" "miss thorne; pray, pray, remember. it must be miss thorne. do not turn me out of greshamsbury. do not separate me from beatrice. it is you that will drive me out; no one else. i could stand my ground against your mother--i feel i could; but i cannot stand against you if you treat me otherwise than--than--" "otherwise than what? i want to treat you as the girl i have chosen from all the world as my wife." "i am sorry you should so soon have found it necessary to make a choice. but, mr gresham, we must not joke about this at present. i am sure you would not willingly injure me; but if you speak to me, or of me, again in that way, you will injure me, injure me so much that i shall be forced to leave greshamsbury in my own defence. i know you are too generous to drive me to that." and so the interview had ended. frank, of course, went upstairs to see if his new pocket-pistols were all ready, properly cleaned, loaded, and capped, should he find, after a few days' experience, that prolonged existence was unendurable. however, he managed to live through the subsequent period; doubtless with a view of preventing any disappointment to his father's guests. chapter vii the doctor's garden mary had contrived to quiet her lover with considerable propriety of demeanour. then came on her the somewhat harder task of quieting herself. young ladies, on the whole, are perhaps quite as susceptible of the softer feelings as young gentlemen are. now frank gresham was handsome, amiable, by no means a fool in intellect, excellent in heart; and he was, moreover, a gentleman, being the son of mr gresham of greshamsbury. mary had been, as it were, brought up to love him. had aught but good happened to him, she would have cried as for a brother. it must not therefore be supposed that when frank gresham told her that he loved her, she had heard it altogether unconcerned. he had not, perhaps, made his declaration with that propriety of language in which such scenes are generally described as being carried on. ladies may perhaps think that mary should have been deterred, by the very boyishness of his manner, from thinking at all seriously on the subject. his "will you, won't you--do you, don't you?" does not sound like the poetic raptures of a highly inspired lover. but, nevertheless, there had been warmth, and a reality in it not in itself repulsive; and mary's anger--anger? no, not anger--her objections to the declarations were probably not based on the absurdity of her lover's language. we are inclined to think that these matters are not always discussed by mortal lovers in the poetically passionate phraseology which is generally thought to be appropriate for their description. a man cannot well describe that which he has never seen nor heard; but the absolute words and acts of one such scene did once come to the author's knowledge. the couple were by no means plebeian, or below the proper standard of high bearing and high breeding; they were a handsome pair, living among educated people, sufficiently given to mental pursuits, and in every way what a pair of polite lovers ought to be. the all-important conversation passed in this wise. the site of the passionate scene was the sea-shore, on which they were walking, in autumn. gentleman. "well, miss ----, the long and short of it is this: here i am; you can take me or leave me." lady--scratching a gutter on the sand with her parasol, so as to allow a little salt water to run out of one hole into another. "of course, i know that's all nonsense." gentleman. "nonsense! by jove, it isn't nonsense at all: come, jane; here i am: come, at any rate you can say something." lady. "yes, i suppose i can say something." gentleman. "well, which is it to be; take me or leave me?" lady--very slowly, and with a voice perhaps hardly articulate, carrying on, at the same time, her engineering works on a wider scale. "well, i don't exactly want to leave you." and so the matter was settled: settled with much propriety and satisfaction; and both the lady and gentleman would have thought, had they ever thought about the matter at all, that this, the sweetest moment of their lives, had been graced by all the poetry by which such moments ought to be hallowed. when mary had, as she thought, properly subdued young frank, the offer of whose love she, at any rate, knew was, at such a period of his life, an utter absurdity, then she found it necessary to subdue herself. what happiness on earth could be greater than the possession of such a love, had the true possession been justly and honestly within her reach? what man could be more lovable than such a man as would grow from such a boy? and then, did she not love him,--love him already, without waiting for any change? did she not feel that there was that about him, about him and about herself, too, which might so well fit them for each other? it would be so sweet to be the sister of beatrice, the daughter of the squire, to belong to greshamsbury as a part and parcel of itself. but though she could not restrain these thoughts, it never for a moment occurred to her to take frank's offer in earnest. though she was a grown woman, he was still a boy. he would have to see the world before he settled in it, and would change his mind about woman half a score of times before he married. then, too, though she did not like the lady arabella, she felt that she owed something, if not to her kindness, at least to her forbearance; and she knew, felt inwardly certain, that she would be doing wrong, that the world would say she was doing wrong, that her uncle would think her wrong, if she endeavoured to take advantage of what had passed. she had not for an instant doubted; not for a moment had she contemplated it as possible that she should ever become mrs gresham because frank had offered to make her so; but, nevertheless, she could not help thinking of what had occurred--of thinking of it, most probably much more than frank did himself. a day or two afterwards, on the evening before frank's birthday, she was alone with her uncle, walking in the garden behind their house, and she then essayed to question him, with the object of learning if she were fitted by her birth to be the wife of such a one as frank gresham. they were in the habit of walking there together when he happened to be at home of a summer's evening. this was not often the case, for his hours of labour extended much beyond those usual to the upper working world, the hours, namely, between breakfast and dinner; but those minutes that they did thus pass together, the doctor regarded as perhaps the pleasantest of his life. "uncle," said she, after a while, "what do you think of this marriage of miss gresham's?" "well, minnie"--such was his name of endearment for her--"i can't say i have thought much about it, and i don't suppose anybody else has either." "she must think about it, of course; and so must he, i suppose." "i'm not so sure of that. some folks would never get married if they had to trouble themselves with thinking about it." "i suppose that's why you never got married, uncle?" "either that, or thinking of it too much. one is as bad as the other." mary had not contrived to get at all near her point as yet; so she had to draw off, and after a while begin again. "well, i have been thinking about it, at any rate, uncle." "that's very good of you; that will save me the trouble; and perhaps save miss gresham too. if you have thought it over thoroughly, that will do for all." "i believe mr moffat is a man of no family." "he'll mend in that point, no doubt, when he has got a wife." "uncle, you're a goose; and what is worse, a very provoking goose." "niece, you're a gander; and what is worse, a very silly gander. what is mr moffat's family to you and me? mr moffat has that which ranks above family honours. he is a very rich man." "yes," said mary, "i know he is rich; and a rich man i suppose can buy anything--except a woman that is worth having." "a rich man can buy anything," said the doctor; "not that i meant to say that mr moffat has bought miss gresham. i have no doubt that they will suit each other very well," he added with an air of decisive authority, as though he had finished the subject. but his niece was determined not to let him pass so. "now, uncle," said she, "you know you are pretending to a great deal of worldly wisdom, which, after all, is not wisdom at all in your eyes." "am i?" "you know you are: and as for the impropriety of discussing miss gresham's marriage--" "i did not say it was improper." "oh, yes, you did; of course such things must be discussed. how is one to have an opinion if one does not get it by looking at the things which happen around us?" "now i am going to be blown up," said dr thorne. "dear uncle, do be serious with me." "well, then, seriously, i hope miss gresham will be very happy as mrs moffat." "of course you do: so do i. i hope it as much as i can hope what i don't at all see ground for expecting." "people constantly hope without any such ground." "well, then, i'll hope in this case. but, uncle--" "well, my dear?" "i want your opinion, truly and really. if you were a girl--" "i am perfectly unable to give any opinion founded on so strange an hypothesis." "well; but if you were a marrying man." "the hypothesis is quite as much out of my way." "but, uncle, i am a girl, and perhaps i may marry;--or at any rate think of marrying some day." "the latter alternative is certainly possible enough." "therefore, in seeing a friend taking such a step, i cannot but speculate on the matter as though i were myself in her place. if i were miss gresham, should i be right?" "but, minnie, you are not miss gresham." "no, i am mary thorne; it is a very different thing, i know. i suppose _i_ might marry any one without degrading myself." it was almost ill-natured of her to say this; but she had not meant to say it in the sense which the sounds seemed to bear. she had failed in being able to bring her uncle to the point she wished by the road she had planned, and in seeking another road, she had abruptly fallen into unpleasant places. "i should be very sorry that my niece should think so," said he; "and am sorry, too, that she should say so. but, mary, to tell the truth, i hardly know at what you are driving. you are, i think, not so clear minded--certainly, not so clear worded--as is usual with you." "i will tell you, uncle;" and, instead of looking up into his face, she turned her eyes down on the green lawn beneath her feet. "well, minnie, what is it?" and he took both her hands in his. "i think that miss gresham should not marry mr moffat. i think so because her family is high and noble, and because he is low and ignoble. when one has an opinion on such matters, one cannot but apply it to things and people around one; and having applied my opinion to her, the next step naturally is to apply it to myself. were i miss gresham, i would not marry mr moffat though he rolled in gold. i know where to rank miss gresham. what i want to know is, where i ought to rank myself?" they had been standing when she commenced her last speech; but as she finished it, the doctor moved on again, and she moved with him. he walked on slowly without answering her; and she, out of her full mind, pursued aloud the tenor of her thoughts. "if a woman feels that she would not lower herself by marrying in a rank beneath herself, she ought also to feel that she would not lower a man that she might love by allowing him to marry into a rank beneath his own--that is, to marry her." "that does not follow," said the doctor quickly. "a man raises a woman to his own standard, but a woman must take that of the man she marries." again they were silent, and again they walked on, mary holding her uncle's arm with both her hands. she was determined, however, to come to the point, and after considering for a while how best she might do it, she ceased to beat any longer about the bush, and asked him a plain question. "the thornes are as good a family as the greshams, are they not?" "in absolute genealogy they are, my dear. that is, when i choose to be an old fool and talk of such matters in a sense different from that in which they are spoken of by the world at large, i may say that the thornes are as good, or perhaps better, than the greshams, but i should be sorry to say so seriously to any one. the greshams now stand much higher in the county than the thornes do." "but they are of the same class." "yes, yes; wilfred thorne of ullathorne, and our friend the squire here, are of the same class." "but, uncle, i and augusta gresham--are we of the same class?" "well, minnie, you would hardly have me boast that i am the same class with the squire--i, a poor country doctor?" "you are not answering me fairly, dear uncle; dearest uncle, do you not know that you are not answering me fairly? you know what i mean. have i a right to call the thornes of ullathorne my cousins?" "mary, mary, mary!" said he after a minute's pause, still allowing his arm to hang loose, that she might hold it with both her hands. "mary, mary, mary! i would that you had spared me this!" "i could not have spared it to you for ever, uncle." "i would that you could have done so; i would that you could!" "it is over now, uncle: it is told now. i will grieve you no more. dear, dear, dearest! i should love you more than ever now; i would, i would, i would if that were possible. what should i be but for you? what must i have been but for you?" and she threw herself on his breast, and clinging with her arms round his neck, kissed his forehead, cheeks, and lips. there was nothing more said then on the subject between them. mary asked no further question, nor did the doctor volunteer further information. she would have been most anxious to ask about her mother's history had she dared to do so; but she did not dare to ask; she could not bear to be told that her mother had been, perhaps was, a worthless woman. that she was truly a daughter of a brother of the doctor, that she did know. little as she had heard of her relatives in her early youth, few as had been the words which had fallen from her uncle in her hearing as to her parentage, she did know this, that she was the daughter of henry thorne, a brother of the doctor, and a son of the old prebendary. trifling little things that had occurred, accidents which could not be prevented, had told her this; but not a word had ever passed any one's lips as to her mother. the doctor, when speaking of his youth, had spoken of her father; but no one had spoken of her mother. she had long known that she was the child of a thorne; now she knew also that she was no cousin of the thornes of ullathorne; no cousin, at least, in the world's ordinary language, no niece indeed of her uncle, unless by his special permission that she should be so. when the interview was over, she went up alone to the drawing-room, and there she sat thinking. she had not been there long before her uncle came up to her. he did not sit down, or even take off the hat which he still wore; but coming close to her, and still standing, he spoke thus:-- "mary, after what has passed i should be very unjust and very cruel to you not to tell you one thing more than you have now learned. your mother was unfortunate in much, not in everything; but the world, which is very often stern in such matters, never judged her to have disgraced herself. i tell you this, my child, in order that you may respect her memory;" and so saying, he again left her without giving her time to speak a word. what he then told her he had told in mercy. he felt what must be her feelings when she reflected that she had to blush for her mother; that not only could she not speak of her mother, but that she might hardly think of her with innocence; and to mitigate such sorrow as this, and also to do justice to the woman whom his brother had so wronged, he had forced himself to reveal so much as is stated above. and then he walked slowly by himself, backwards and forwards through the garden, thinking of what he had done with reference to this girl, and doubting whether he had done wisely and well. he had resolved, when first the little infant was given over to his charge, that nothing should be known of her or by her as to her mother. he was willing to devote himself to this orphan child of his brother, this last seedling of his father's house; but he was not willing so to do this as to bring himself in any manner into familiar contact with the scatcherds. he had boasted to himself that he, at any rate, was a gentleman; and that she, if she were to live in his house, sit at his table, and share his hearth, must be a lady. he would tell no lie about her; he would not to any one make her out to be aught other or aught better than she was; people would talk about her of course, only let them not talk to him; he conceived of himself--and the conception was not without due ground--that should any do so, he had that within him which would silence them. he would never claim for this little creature--thus brought into the world without a legitimate position in which to stand--he would never claim for her any station that would not properly be her own. he would make for her a station as best he could. as he might sink or swim, so should she. so he had resolved; but things had arranged themselves, as they often do, rather than been arranged by him. during ten or twelve years no one had heard of mary thorne; the memory of henry thorne and his tragic death had passed away; the knowledge that an infant had been born whose birth was connected with that tragedy, a knowledge never widely spread, had faded down into utter ignorance. at the end of these twelve years, dr thorne had announced, that a young niece, a child of a brother long since dead, was coming to live with him. as he had contemplated, no one spoke to him; but some people did no doubt talk among themselves. whether or not the exact truth was surmised by any, it matters not to say; with absolute exactness, probably not; with great approach to it, probably yes. by one person, at any rate, no guess whatever was made; no thought relative to dr thorne's niece ever troubled him; no idea that mary scatcherd had left a child in england ever occurred to him; and that person was roger scatcherd, mary's brother. to one friend, and only one, did the doctor tell the whole truth, and that was to the old squire. "i have told you," said the doctor, "partly that you may know that the child has no right to mix with your children if you think much of such things. do you, however, see to this. i would rather that no one else should be told." no one else had been told; and the squire had "seen to it," by accustoming himself to look at mary thorne running about the house with his own children as though she were of the same brood. indeed, the squire had always been fond of mary, had personally noticed her, and, in the affair of mam'selle larron, had declared that he would have her placed at once on the bench of magistrates;--much to the disgust of the lady arabella. and so things had gone on and on, and had not been thought of with much downright thinking; till now, when she was one-and-twenty years of age, his niece came to him, asking as to her position, and inquiring in what rank of life she was to look for a husband. and so the doctor walked backwards and forwards through the garden, slowly, thinking now with some earnestness what if, after all, he had been wrong about his niece? what if by endeavouring to place her in the position of a lady, he had falsely so placed her, and robbed her of all legitimate position? what if there was no rank of life to which she could now properly attach herself? and then, how had it answered, that plan of his of keeping her all to himself? he, dr thorne, was still a poor man; the gift of saving money had not been his; he had ever had a comfortable house for her to live in, and, in spite of doctors fillgrave, century, rerechild, and others, had made from his profession an income sufficient for their joint wants; but he had not done as others do: he had no three or four thousand pounds in the three per cents. on which mary might live in some comfort when he should die. late in life he had insured his life for eight hundred pounds; and to that, and that only, had he to trust for mary's future maintenance. how had it answered, then, this plan of letting her be unknown to, and undreamed of by, those who were as near to her on her mother's side as he was on the father's? on that side, though there had been utter poverty, there was now absolute wealth. but when he took her to himself, had he not rescued her from the very depths of the lowest misery: from the degradation of the workhouse; from the scorn of honest-born charity-children; from the lowest of the world's low conditions? was she not now the apple of his eye, his one great sovereign comfort--his pride, his happiness, his glory? was he to make her over, to make any portion of her over to others, if, by doing so, she might be able to share the wealth, as well as the coarse manners and uncouth society of her at present unknown connexions? he, who had never worshipped wealth on his own behalf; he, who had scorned the idol of gold, and had ever been teaching her to scorn it; was he now to show that his philosophy had all been false as soon as the temptation to do so was put in his way? but yet, what man would marry this bastard child, without a sixpence, and bring not only poverty, but ill blood also on his own children? it might be very well for him, dr thorne; for him whose career was made, whose name, at any rate, was his own; for him who had a fixed standing-ground in the world; it might be well for him to indulge in large views of a philosophy antagonistic to the world's practice; but had he a right to do it for his niece? what man would marry a girl so placed? for those among whom she might have legitimately found a level, education had now utterly unfitted her. and then, he well knew that she would never put out her hand in token of love to any one without telling all she knew and all she surmised as to her own birth. and that question of this evening; had it not been instigated by some appeal to her heart? was there not already within her breast some cause for disquietude which had made her so pertinacious? why else had she told him then, for the first time, that she did not know where to rank herself? if such an appeal had been made to her, it must have come from young frank gresham. what, in such case, would it behove him to do? should he pack up his all, his lancet-cases, pestle and mortar, and seek anew fresh ground in a new world, leaving behind a huge triumph to those learned enemies of his, fillgrave, century, and rerechild? better that than remain at greshamsbury at the cost of his child's heart and pride. and so he walked slowly backwards and forwards through his garden, meditating these things painfully enough. chapter viii matrimonial prospects it will of course be remembered that mary's interview with the other girls at greshamsbury took place some two or three days subsequently to frank's generous offer of his hand and heart. mary had quite made up her mind that the whole thing was to be regarded as a folly, and that it was not to be spoken of to any one; but yet her heart was sore enough. she was full of pride, and yet she knew she must bow her neck to the pride of others. being, as she was herself, nameless, she could not but feel a stern, unflinching antagonism, the antagonism of a democrat, to the pretensions of others who were blessed with that of which she had been deprived. she had this feeling; and yet, of all the things that she coveted, she most coveted that, for glorying in which, she was determined to heap scorn on others. she said to herself, proudly, that god's handiwork was the inner man, the inner woman, the naked creature animated by a living soul; that all other adjuncts were but man's clothing for the creature; all others, whether stitched by tailors or contrived by kings. was it not within her capacity to do as nobly, to love as truly, to worship her god in heaven with as perfect a faith, and her god on earth with as leal a troth, as though blood had descended to her purely through scores of purely born progenitors? so to herself she spoke; and yet, as she said it, she knew that were she a man, such a man as the heir of greshamsbury should be, nothing would tempt her to sully her children's blood by mating herself with any one that was base born. she felt that were she an augusta gresham, no mr moffat, let his wealth be what it might, should win her hand unless he too could tell of family honours and a line of ancestors. and so, with a mind at war with itself, she came forth armed to do battle against the world's prejudices, those prejudices she herself loved so well. and was she to give up her old affections, her feminine loves, because she found that she was a cousin to nobody? was she no longer to pour out her heart to beatrice gresham with all the girlish volubility of an equal? was she to be severed from patience oriel, and banished--or rather was she to banish herself--from the free place she had maintained in the various youthful female conclaves held within that parish of greshamsbury? hitherto, what mary thorne would say, what miss thorne suggested in such or such a matter, was quite as frequently asked as any opinion from augusta gresham--quite as frequently, unless when it chanced that any of the de courcy girls were at the house. was this to be given up? these feelings had grown up among them since they were children, and had not hitherto been questioned among them. now they were questioned by mary thorne. was she in fact to find that her position had been a false one, and must be changed? such had been her feelings when she protested that she would not be augusta gresham's bridesmaid, and offered to put her neck beneath beatrice's foot; when she drove the lady margaretta out of the room, and gave her own opinion as to the proper grammatical construction of the word humble; such also had been her feelings when she kept her hand so rigidly to herself while frank held the dining-room door open for her to pass through. "patience oriel," said she to herself, "can talk to him of her father and mother: let patience take his hand; let her talk to him;" and then, not long afterwards, she saw that patience did talk to him; and seeing it, she walked along silent, among some of the old people, and with much effort did prevent a tear from falling down her cheek. but why was the tear in her eye? had she not proudly told frank that his love-making was nothing but a boy's silly rhapsody? had she not said so while she had yet reason to hope that her blood was as good as his own? had she not seen at a glance that his love tirade was worthy of ridicule, and of no other notice? and yet there was a tear now in her eye because this boy, whom she had scolded from her, whose hand, offered in pure friendship, she had just refused, because he, so rebuffed by her, had carried his fun and gallantry to one who would be less cross to him! she could hear as she was walking, that while lady margaretta was with them, their voices were loud and merry; and her sharp ear could also hear, when lady margaretta left them, that frank's voice became low and tender. so she walked on, saying nothing, looking straight before her, and by degrees separating herself from all the others. the greshamsbury grounds were on one side somewhat too closely hemmed in by the village. on this side was a path running the length of one of the streets of the village; and far down the path, near to the extremity of the gardens, and near also to a wicket-gate which led out into the village, and which could be opened from the inside, was a seat, under a big yew-tree, from which, through a breach in the houses, might be seen the parish church, standing in the park on the other side. hither mary walked alone, and here she seated herself, determined to get rid of her tears and their traces before she again showed herself to the world. "i shall never be happy here again," said she to herself; "never. i am no longer one of them, and i cannot live among them unless i am so." and then an idea came across her mind that she hated patience oriel; and then, instantly another idea followed it--quick as such thoughts are quick--that she did not hate patience oriel at all; that she liked her, nay, loved her; that patience oriel was a sweet girl; and that she hoped the time would come when she might see her the lady of greshamsbury. and then the tear, which had been no whit controlled, which indeed had now made itself master of her, came to a head, and, bursting through the floodgates of the eye, came rolling down, and in its fall, wetted her hand as it lay on her lap. "what a fool! what an idiot! what an empty-headed cowardly fool i am!" said she, springing up from the bench on her feet. as she did so, she heard voices close to her, at the little gate. they were those of her uncle and frank gresham. "god bless you, frank!" said the doctor, as he passed out of the grounds. "you will excuse a lecture, won't you, from so old a friend?--though you are a man now, and discreet, of course, by act of parliament." "indeed i will, doctor," said frank. "i will excuse a longer lecture than that from you." "at any rate it won't be to-night," said the doctor, as he disappeared. "and if you see mary, tell her that i am obliged to go; and that i will send janet down to fetch her." now janet was the doctor's ancient maid-servant. mary could not move on without being perceived; she therefore stood still till she heard the click of the door, and then began walking rapidly back to the house by the path which had brought her thither. the moment, however, that she did so, she found that she was followed; and in a very few moments frank was alongside of her. "oh, mary!" said he, calling to her, but not loudly, before he quite overtook her, "how odd that i should come across you just when i have a message for you! and why are you all alone?" mary's first impulse was to reiterate her command to him to call her no more by her christian name; but her second impulse told her that such an injunction at the present moment would not be prudent on her part. the traces of her tears were still there; and she well knew that a very little, the slightest show of tenderness on his part, the slightest effort on her own to appear indifferent, would bring down more than one other such intruder. it would, moreover, be better for her to drop all outward sign that she remembered what had taken place. so long, then, as he and she were at greshamsbury together, he should call her mary if he pleased. he would soon be gone; and while he remained, she would keep out of his way. "your uncle has been obliged to go away to see an old woman at silverbridge." "at silverbridge! why, he won't be back all night. why could not the old woman send for dr century?" "i suppose she thought two old women could not get on well together." mary could not help smiling. she did not like her uncle going off so late on such a journey; but it was always felt as a triumph when he was invited into the strongholds of his enemies. "and janet is to come over for you. however, i told him it was quite unnecessary to disturb another old woman, for that i should of course see you home." "oh, no, mr gresham; indeed you'll not do that." "indeed, and indeed, i shall." "what! on this great day, when every lady is looking for you, and talking of you. i suppose you want to set the countess against me for ever. think, too, how angry lady arabella will be if you are absent on such an errand as this." "to hear you talk, mary, one would think that you were going to silverbridge yourself." "perhaps i am." "if i did not go with you, some of the other fellows would. john, or george--" "good gracious, frank! fancy either of the mr de courcys walking home with me!" she had forgotten herself, and the strict propriety on which she had resolved, in the impossibility of forgoing her little joke against the de courcy grandeur; she had forgotten herself, and had called him frank in her old, former, eager, free tone of voice; and then, remembering she had done so, she drew herself up, bit her lips, and determined to be doubly on her guard in the future. "well, it shall be either one of them or i," said frank: "perhaps you would prefer my cousin george to me?" "i should prefer janet to either, seeing that with her i should not suffer the extreme nuisance of knowing that i was a bore." "a bore! mary, to me?" "yes, mr gresham, a bore to you. having to walk home through the mud with village young ladies is boring. all gentlemen feel it to be so." "there is no mud; if there were you would not be allowed to walk at all." "oh! village young ladies never care for such things, though fashionable gentlemen do." "i would carry you home, mary, if it would do you a service," said frank, with considerable pathos in his voice. "oh, dear me! pray do not, mr gresham. i should not like it at all," said she: "a wheelbarrow would be preferable to that." "of course. anything would be preferable to my arm, i know." "certainly; anything in the way of a conveyance. if i were to act baby; and you were to act nurse, it really would not be comfortable for either of us." frank gresham felt disconcerted, though he hardly knew why. he was striving to say something tender to his lady-love; but every word that he spoke she turned into joke. mary did not answer him coldly or unkindly; but, nevertheless, he was displeased. one does not like to have one's little offerings of sentimental service turned into burlesque when one is in love in earnest. mary's jokes had appeared so easy too; they seemed to come from a heart so little troubled. this, also, was cause of vexation to frank. if he could but have known all, he would, perhaps, have been better pleased. he determined not to be absolutely laughed out of his tenderness. when, three days ago, he had been repulsed, he had gone away owning to himself that he had been beaten; owning so much, but owning it with great sorrow and much shame. since that he had come of age; since that he had made speeches, and speeches had been made to him; since that he had gained courage by flirting with patience oriel. no faint heart ever won a fair lady, as he was well aware; he resolved, therefore, that his heart should not be faint, and that he would see whether the fair lady might not be won by becoming audacity. "mary," said he, stopping in the path--for they were now near the spot where it broke out upon the lawn, and they could already hear the voices of the guests--"mary, you are unkind to me." "i am not aware of it, mr gresham; but if i am, do not you retaliate. i am weaker than you, and in your power; do not you, therefore, be unkind to me." "you refused my hand just now," continued he. "of all the people here at greshamsbury, you are the only one that has not wished me joy; the only one--" "i do wish you joy; i will wish you joy; there is my hand," and she frankly put out her ungloved hand. "you are quite man enough to understand me: there is my hand; i trust you use it only as it is meant to be used." he took it in his and pressed it cordially, as he might have done that of any other friend in such a case; and then--did not drop it as he should have done. he was not a st anthony, and it was most imprudent in miss thorne to subject him to such a temptation. "mary," said he; "dear mary! dearest mary! if you did but know how i love you!" as he said this, holding miss thorne's hand, he stood on the pathway with his back towards the lawn and house, and, therefore, did not at first see his sister augusta, who had just at that moment come upon them. mary blushed up to her straw hat, and, with a quick jerk, recovered her hand. augusta saw the motion, and mary saw that augusta had seen it. from my tedious way of telling it, the reader will be led to imagine that the hand-squeezing had been protracted to a duration quite incompatible with any objection to such an arrangement on the part of the lady; but the fault is mine: in no part hers. were i possessed of a quick spasmodic style of narrative, i should have been able to include it all--frank's misbehaviour, mary's immediate anger, augusta's arrival, and keen, argus-eyed inspection, and then mary's subsequent misery--in five words and half a dozen dashes and inverted commas. the thing should have been so told; for, to do mary justice, she did not leave her hand in frank's a moment longer than she could help herself. frank, feeling the hand withdrawn, and hearing, when it was too late, the step on the gravel, turned sharply round. "oh, it's you, is it, augusta? well, what do you want?" augusta was not naturally very ill-natured, seeing that in her veins the high de courcy blood was somewhat tempered by an admixture of the gresham attributes; nor was she predisposed to make her brother her enemy by publishing to the world any of his little tender peccadilloes; but she could not but bethink herself of what her aunt had been saying as to the danger of any such encounters as that she just now had beheld; she could not but start at seeing her brother thus, on the very brink of the precipice of which the countess had specially forewarned her mother. she, augusta, was, as she well knew, doing her duty by her family by marrying a tailor's son for whom she did not care a chip, seeing the tailor's son was possessed of untold wealth. now when one member of a household is making a struggle for a family, it is painful to see the benefit of that struggle negatived by the folly of another member. the future mrs moffat did feel aggrieved by the fatuity of the young heir, and, consequently, took upon herself to look as much like her aunt de courcy as she could do. "well, what is it?" said frank, looking rather disgusted. "what makes you stick your chin up and look in that way?" frank had hitherto been rather a despot among his sisters, and forgot that the eldest of them was now passing altogether from under his sway to that of the tailor's son. "frank," said augusta, in a tone of voice which did honour to the great lessons she had lately received. "aunt de courcy wants to see you immediately in the small drawing-room;" and, as she said so, she resolved to say a few words of advice to miss thorne as soon as her brother should have left them. "in the small drawing-room, does she? well, mary, we may as well go together, for i suppose it is tea-time now." "you had better go at once, frank," said augusta; "the countess will be angry if you keep her waiting. she has been expecting you these twenty minutes. mary thorne and i can return together." there was something in the tone in which the words, "mary thorne," were uttered, which made mary at once draw herself up. "i hope," said she, "that mary thorne will never be any hindrance to either of you." frank's ear had also perceived that there was something in the tone of his sister's voice not boding comfort to mary; he perceived that the de courcy blood in augusta's veins was already rebelling against the doctor's niece on his part, though it had condescended to submit itself to the tailor's son on her own part. "well, i am going," said he; "but look here augusta, if you say one word of mary--" oh, frank! frank! you boy, you very boy! you goose, you silly goose! is that the way you make love, desiring one girl not to tell of another, as though you were three children, tearing your frocks and trousers in getting through the same hedge together? oh, frank! frank! you, the full-blown heir of greshamsbury? you, a man already endowed with a man's discretion? you, the forward rider, that did but now threaten young harry baker and the honourable john to eclipse them by prowess in the field? you, of age? why, thou canst not as yet have left thy mother's apron-string! "if you say one word of mary--" so far had he got in his injunction to his sister, but further than that, in such a case, was he never destined to proceed. mary's indignation flashed upon him, striking him dumb long before the sound of her voice reached his ears; and yet she spoke as quick as the words would come to her call, and somewhat loudly too. "say one word of mary, mr gresham! and why should she not say as many words of mary as she may please? i must tell you all now, augusta! and i must also beg you not to be silent for my sake. as far as i am concerned, tell it to whom you please. this was the second time your brother--" "mary, mary," said frank, deprecating her loquacity. "i beg your pardon, mr gresham; you have made it necessary that i should tell your sister all. he has now twice thought it well to amuse himself by saying to me words which it was ill-natured in him to speak, and--" "ill-natured, mary!" "ill-natured in him to speak," continued mary, "and to which it would be absurd for me to listen. he probably does the same to others," she added, being unable in heart to forget that sharpest of her wounds, that flirtation of his with patience oriel; "but to me it is almost cruel. another girl might laugh at him, or listen to him, as she would choose; but i can do neither. i shall now keep away from greshamsbury, at any rate till he has left it; and, augusta, i can only beg you to understand, that, as far as i am concerned, there is nothing which may not be told to all the world." and, so saying, she walked on a little in advance of them, as proud as a queen. had lady de courcy herself met her at this moment, she would almost have felt herself forced to shrink out of the pathway. "not say a word of me!" she repeated to herself, but still out loud. "no word need be left unsaid on my account; none, none." augusta followed her, dumfounded at her indignation; and frank also followed, but not in silence. when his first surprise at mary's great anger was over, he felt himself called upon to say some word that might tend to exonerate his lady-love; and some word also of protestation as to his own purpose. "there is nothing to be told, nothing, at least of mary," he said, speaking to his sister; "but of me, you may tell this, if you choose to disoblige your brother--that i love mary thorne with all my heart; and that i will never love any one else." by this time they had reached the lawn, and mary was able to turn away from the path which led up to the house. as she left them she said in a voice, now low enough, "i cannot prevent him from talking nonsense, augusta; but you will bear me witness, that i do not willingly hear it." and, so saying, she started off almost in a run towards the distant part of the gardens, in which she saw beatrice. frank, as he walked up to the house with his sister, endeavoured to induce her to give him a promise that she would tell no tales as to what she had heard and seen. "of course, frank, it must be all nonsense," she had said; "and you shouldn't amuse yourself in such a way." "well, but, guss, come, we have always been friends; don't let us quarrel just when you are going to be married." but augusta would make no promise. frank, when he reached the house, found the countess waiting for him, sitting in the little drawing-room by herself,--somewhat impatiently. as he entered he became aware that there was some peculiar gravity attached to the coming interview. three persons, his mother, one of his younger sisters, and the lady amelia, each stopped him to let him know that the countess was waiting; and he perceived that a sort of guard was kept upon the door to save her ladyship from any undesirable intrusion. the countess frowned at the moment of his entrance, but soon smoothed her brow, and invited him to take a chair ready prepared for him opposite to the elbow of the sofa on which she was leaning. she had a small table before her, on which was her teacup, so that she was able to preach at him nearly as well as though she had been ensconced in a pulpit. "my dear frank," said she, in a voice thoroughly suitable to the importance of the communication, "you have to-day come of age." frank remarked that he understood that such was the case, and added that "that was the reason for all the fuss." "yes; you have to-day come of age. perhaps i should have been glad to see such an occasion noticed at greshamsbury with some more suitable signs of rejoicing." "oh, aunt! i think we did it all very well." "greshamsbury, frank, is, or at any rate ought to be, the seat of the first commoner in barsetshire. "well; so it is. i am quite sure there isn't a better fellow than father anywhere in the county." the countess sighed. her opinion of the poor squire was very different from frank's. "it is no use now," said she, "looking back to that which cannot be cured. the first commoner in barsetshire should hold a position--i will not of course say equal to that of a peer." "oh dear no; of course not," said frank; and a bystander might have thought that there was a touch of satire in his tone. "no, not equal to that of a peer; but still of very paramount importance. of course my first ambition is bound up in porlock." "of course," said frank, thinking how very weak was the staff on which his aunt's ambition rested; for lord porlock's youthful career had not been such as to give unmitigated satisfaction to his parents. "is bound up in porlock:" and then the countess plumed herself; but the mother sighed. "and next to porlock, frank, my anxiety is about you." "upon my honour, aunt, i am very much obliged. i shall be all right, you'll see." "greshamsbury, my dear boy, is not now what it used to be." "isn't it?" asked frank. "no, frank; by no means. i do not wish to say a word against your father. it may, perhaps have been his misfortune, rather than his fault--" "she is always down on the governor; always," said frank to himself; resolving to stick bravely to the side of the house to which he had elected to belong. "but there is the fact, frank, too plain to us all; greshamsbury is not what it was. it is your duty to restore it to its former importance." "my duty!" said frank, rather puzzled. "yes, frank, your duty. it all depends on you now. of course you know that your father owes a great deal of money." frank muttered something. tidings had in some shape reached his ear that his father was not comfortably circumstances as regarded money. "and then, he has sold boxall hill. it cannot be expected that boxall hill shall be repurchased, as some horrid man, a railway-maker, i believe--" "yes; that's scatcherd." "well, he has built a house there, i'm told; so i presume that it cannot be bought back: but it will be your duty, frank, to pay all the debts that there are on the property, and to purchase what, at any rate, will be equal to boxall hill." frank opened his eyes wide and stared at his aunt, as though doubting much whether or no she were in her right mind. he pay off the family debts! he buy up property of four thousand pounds a year! he remained, however, quite quiet, waiting the elucidation of the mystery. "frank, of course you understand me." frank was obliged to declare, that just at the present moment he did not find his aunt so clear as usual. "you have but one line of conduct left you, frank: your position, as heir to greshamsbury, is a good one; but your father has unfortunately so hampered you with regard to money, that unless you set the matter right yourself, you can never enjoy that position. of course you must marry money." "marry money!" said he, considering for the first time that in all probability mary thorne's fortune would not be extensive. "marry money!" "yes, frank. i know no man whose position so imperatively demands it; and luckily for you, no man can have more facility for doing so. in the first place you are very handsome." frank blushed like a girl of sixteen. "and then, as the matter is made plain to you at so early an age, you are not of course hampered by any indiscreet tie; by any absurd engagement." frank blushed again; and then saying to himself, "how much the old girl knows about it!" felt a little proud of his passion for mary thorne, and of the declaration he had made to her. "and your connexion with courcy castle," continued the countess, now carrying up the list of frank's advantages to its great climax, "will make the matter so easy for you, that really, you will hardly have any difficulty." frank could not but say how much obliged he felt to courcy castle and its inmates. "of course i would not wish to interfere with you in any underhand way, frank; but i will tell you what has occurred to me. you have heard, probably, of miss dunstable?" "the daughter of the ointment of lebanon man?" "and of course you know that her fortune is immense," continued the countess, not deigning to notice her nephew's allusion to the ointment. "quite immense when compared with the wants and position of any commoner. now she is coming to courcy castle, and i wish you to come and meet her." "but, aunt, just at this moment i have to read for my degree like anything. i go up, you know, in october." "degree!" said the countess. "why, frank, i am talking to you of your prospects in life, of your future position, of that on which everything hangs, and you tell me of your degree!" frank, however, obstinately persisted that he must take his degree, and that he should commence reading hard at six a.m. to-morrow morning. "you can read just as well at courcy castle. miss dunstable will not interfere with that," said his aunt, who knew the expediency of yielding occasionally; "but i must beg you will come over and meet her. you will find her a most charming young woman, remarkably well educated i am told, and--" "how old is she?" asked frank. "i really cannot say exactly," said the countess; "but it is not, i imagine, matter of much moment." "is she thirty?" asked frank, who looked upon an unmarried woman of that age as quite an old maid. "i dare say she may be about that age," said the countess, who regarded the subject from a very different point of view. "thirty!" said frank out loud, but speaking, nevertheless, as though to himself. "it is a matter of no moment," said his aunt, almost angrily. "when the subject itself is of such vital importance, objections of no real weight should not be brought into view. if you wish to hold up your head in the country; if you wish to represent your county in parliament, as has been done by your father, your grandfather, and your great-grandfathers; if you wish to keep a house over your head, and to leave greshamsbury to your son after you, you must marry money. what does it signify whether miss dunstable be twenty-eight or thirty? she has got money; and if you marry her, you may then consider that your position in life is made." frank was astonished at his aunt's eloquence; but, in spite of that eloquence, he made up his mind that he would not marry miss dunstable. how could he, indeed, seeing that his troth was already plighted to mary thorne in the presence of his sister? this circumstance, however, he did not choose to plead to his aunt, so he recapitulated any other objections that presented themselves to his mind. in the first place, he was so anxious about his degree that he could not think of marrying at present; then he suggested that it might be better to postpone the question till the season's hunting should be over; he declared that he could not visit courcy castle till he got a new suit of clothes home from the tailor; and ultimately remembered that he had a particular engagement to go fly-fishing with mr oriel on that day week. none, however, of these valid reasons were sufficiently potent to turn the countess from her point. "nonsense, frank," said she, "i wonder that you can talk of fly-fishing when the property of greshamsbury is at stake. you will go with augusta and myself to courcy castle to-morrow." "to-morrow, aunt!" he said, in the tone in which a condemned criminal might make his ejaculation on hearing that a very near day had been named for his execution. "to-morrow!" "yes, we return to-morrow, and shall be happy to have your company. my friends, including miss dunstable, come on thursday. i am quite sure you will like miss dunstable. i have settled all that with your mother, so we need say nothing further about it. and now, good-night, frank." frank, finding that there was nothing more to be said, took his departure, and went out to look for mary. but mary had gone home with janet half an hour since, so he betook himself to his sister beatrice. "beatrice," said he, "i am to go to courcy castle to-morrow." "so i heard mamma say." "well; i only came of age to-day, and i will not begin by running counter to them. but i tell you what, i won't stay above a week at courcy castle for all the de courcys in barsetshire. tell me, beatrice, did you ever hear of a miss dunstable?" chapter ix sir roger scatcherd enough has been said in this narrative to explain to the reader that roger scatcherd, who was whilom a drunken stone-mason in barchester, and who had been so prompt to avenge the injury done to his sister, had become a great man in the world. he had become a contractor, first for little things, such as half a mile or so of a railway embankment, or three or four canal bridges, and then a contractor for great things, such as government hospitals, locks, docks, and quays, and had latterly had in his hands the making of whole lines of railway. he had been occasionally in partnership with one man for one thing, and then with another for another; but had, on the whole, kept his interests to himself, and now at the time of our story, he was a very rich man. and he had acquired more than wealth. there had been a time when the government wanted the immediate performance of some extraordinary piece of work, and roger scatcherd had been the man to do it. there had been some extremely necessary bit of a railway to be made in half the time that such work would properly demand, some speculation to be incurred requiring great means and courage as well, and roger scatcherd had been found to be the man for the time. he was then elevated for the moment to the dizzy pinnacle of a newspaper hero, and became one of those "whom the king delighteth to honour." he went up one day to kiss her majesty's hand, and come down to his new grand house at boxall hill, sir roger scatcherd, bart. "and now, my lady," said he, when he explained to his wife the high state to which she had been called by his exertions and the queen's prerogative, "let's have a bit of dinner, and a drop of som'at hot." now the drop of som'at hot signified a dose of alcohol sufficient to send three ordinary men very drunk to bed. while conquering the world roger scatcherd had not conquered his old bad habits. indeed, he was the same man at all points that he had been when formerly seen about the streets of barchester with his stone-mason's apron tucked up round his waist. the apron he had abandoned, but not the heavy prominent thoughtful brow, with the wildly flashing eye beneath it. he was still the same good companion, and still also the same hard-working hero. in this only had he changed, that now he would work, and some said equally well, whether he were drunk or sober. those who were mostly inclined to make a miracle of him--and there was a school of worshippers ready to adore him as their idea of a divine, superhuman, miracle-moving, inspired prophet--declared that his wondrous work was best done, his calculations most quickly and most truly made, that he saw with most accurate eye into the far-distant balance of profit and loss, when he was under the influence of the rosy god. to these worshippers his breakings-out, as his periods of intemperance were called in his own set, were his moments of peculiar inspiration--his divine frenzies, in which he communicated most closely with those deities who preside over trade transactions; his eleusinian mysteries, to approach him in which was permitted only to a few of the most favoured. "scatcherd has been drunk this week past," they would say one to another, when the moment came at which it was to be decided whose offer should be accepted for constructing a harbour to hold all the commerce of lancashire, or to make a railway from bombay to canton. "scatcherd has been drunk this week past; i am told that he has taken over three gallons of brandy." and then they felt sure that none but scatcherd would be called upon to construct the dock or make the railway. but be this as it may, be it true or false that sir roger was most efficacious when in his cups, there can be no doubt that he could not wallow for a week in brandy, six or seven times every year, without in a great measure injuring, and permanently injuring, the outward man. whatever immediate effect such symposiums might have on the inner mind--symposiums indeed they were not; posiums i will call them, if i may be allowed; for in latter life, when he drank heavily, he drank alone--however little for evil, or however much for good the working of his brain might be affected, his body suffered greatly. it was not that he became feeble or emaciated, old-looking or inactive, that his hand shook, or that his eye was watery; but that in the moments of his intemperance his life was often not worth a day's purchase. the frame which god had given to him was powerful beyond the power of ordinary men; powerful to act in spite of these violent perturbations; powerful to repress and conquer the qualms and headaches and inward sicknesses to which the votaries of bacchus are ordinarily subject; but this power was not without its limit. if encroached on too far, it would break and fall and come asunder, and then the strong man would at once become a corpse. scatcherd had but one friend in the world. and, indeed, this friend was no friend in the ordinary acceptance of the word. he neither ate with him nor drank with him, nor even frequently talked with him. their pursuits in life were wide asunder. their tastes were all different. the society in which each moved very seldom came together. scatcherd had nothing in unison with this solitary friend; but he trusted him, and he trusted no other living creature on god's earth. he trusted this man; but even him he did not trust thoroughly; not at least as one friend should trust another. he believed that this man would not rob him; would probably not lie to him; would not endeavour to make money of him; would not count him up or speculate on him, and make out a balance of profit and loss; and, therefore, he determined to use him. but he put no trust whatever in his friend's counsel, in his modes of thought; none in his theory, and none in his practice. he disliked his friend's counsel, and, in fact, disliked his society, for his friend was somewhat apt to speak to him in a manner approaching to severity. now roger scatcherd had done many things in the world, and made much money; whereas his friend had done but few things, and made no money. it was not to be endured that the practical, efficient man should be taken to task by the man who proved himself to be neither practical nor efficient; not to be endured, certainly, by roger scatcherd, who looked on men of his own class as the men of the day, and on himself as by no means the least among them. the friend was our friend dr thorne. the doctor's first acquaintance with scatcherd has been already explained. he was necessarily thrown into communication with the man at the time of the trial, and scatcherd then had not only sufficient sense, but sufficient feeling also to know that the doctor behaved very well. this communication had in different ways been kept up between them. soon after the trial scatcherd had begun to rise, and his first savings had been entrusted to the doctor's care. this had been the beginning of a pecuniary connexion which had never wholly ceased, and which had led to the purchase of boxall hill, and to the loan of large sums of money to the squire. in another way also there had been a close alliance between them, and one not always of a very pleasant description. the doctor was, and long had been, sir roger's medical attendant, and, in his unceasing attempts to rescue the drunkard from the fate which was so much to be dreaded, he not unfrequently was driven into a quarrel with his patient. one thing further must be told of sir roger. in politics he was as violent a radical as ever, and was very anxious to obtain a position in which he could bring his violence to bear. with this view he was about to contest his native borough of barchester, in the hope of being returned in opposition to the de courcy candidate; and with this object he had now come down to boxall hill. nor were his claims to sit for barchester such as could be despised. if money were to be of avail, he had plenty of it, and was prepared to spend it; whereas, rumour said that mr moffat was equally determined to do nothing so foolish. then again, sir roger had a sort of rough eloquence, and was able to address the men of barchester in language that would come home to their hearts, in words that would endear him to one party while they made him offensively odious to the other; but mr moffat could make neither friends nor enemies by his eloquence. the barchester roughs called him a dumb dog that could not bark, and sometimes sarcastically added that neither could he bite. the de courcy interest, however, was at his back, and he had also the advantage of possession. sir roger, therefore, knew that the battle was not to be won without a struggle. dr thorne got safely back from silverbridge that evening, and found mary waiting to give him his tea. he had been called there to a consultation with dr century, that amiable old gentleman having so far fallen away from the high fillgrave tenets as to consent to the occasional endurance of such degradation. the next morning he breakfasted early, and, having mounted his strong iron-grey cob, started for boxall hill. not only had he there to negotiate the squire's further loan, but also to exercise his medical skill. sir roger having been declared contractor for cutting a canal from sea to sea, through the isthmus of panama, had been making a week of it; and the result was that lady scatcherd had written rather peremptorily to her husband's medical friend. the doctor consequently trotted off to boxall hill on his iron-grey cob. among his other merits was that of being a good horseman, and he did much of his work on horseback. the fact that he occasionally took a day with the east barsetshires, and that when he did so he thoroughly enjoyed it, had probably not failed to add something to the strength of the squire's friendship. "well, my lady, how is he? not much the matter, i hope?" said the doctor, as he shook hands with the titled mistress of boxall hill in a small breakfast-parlour in the rear of the house. the show-rooms of boxall hill were furnished most magnificently, but they were set apart for company; and as the company never came--seeing that they were never invited--the grand rooms and the grand furniture were not of much material use to lady scatcherd. "indeed then, doctor, he's just bad enough," said her ladyship, not in a very happy tone of voice; "just bad enough. there's been some'at at the back of his head, rapping, and rapping, and rapping; and if you don't do something, i'm thinking it will rap him too hard yet." "is he in bed?" "why, yes, he is in bed; for when he was first took he couldn't very well help hisself, so we put him to bed. and then, he don't seem to be quite right yet about the legs, so he hasn't got up; but he's got that winterbones with him to write for him, and when winterbones is there, scatcherd might as well be up for any good that bed'll do him." mr winterbones was confidential clerk to sir roger. that is to say, he was a writing-machine of which sir roger made use to do certain work which could not well be adjusted without some contrivance. he was a little, withered, dissipated, broken-down man, whom gin and poverty had nearly burnt to a cinder, and dried to an ash. mind he had none left, nor care for earthly things, except the smallest modicum of substantial food, and the largest allowance of liquid sustenance. all that he had ever known he had forgotten, except how to count up figures and to write: the results of his counting and his writing never stayed with him from one hour to another; nay, not from one folio to another. let him, however, be adequately screwed up with gin, and adequately screwed down by the presence of his master, and then no amount of counting and writing would be too much for him. this was mr winterbones, confidential clerk to the great sir roger scatcherd. "we must send winterbones away, i take it," said the doctor. "indeed, doctor, i wish you would. i wish you'd send him to bath, or anywhere else out of the way. there is scatcherd, he takes brandy; and there is winterbones, he takes gin; and it'd puzzle a woman to say which is worst, master or man." it will seem from this, that lady scatcherd and the doctor were on very familiar terms as regarded her little domestic inconveniences. "tell sir roger i am here, will you?" said the doctor. "you'll take a drop of sherry before you go up?" said the lady. "not a drop, thank you," said the doctor. "or, perhaps, a little cordial?" "not a drop of anything, thank you; i never do, you know." "just a thimbleful of this?" said the lady, producing from some recess under a sideboard a bottle of brandy; "just a thimbleful? it's what he takes himself." when lady scatcherd found that even this argument failed, she led the way to the great man's bedroom. "well, doctor! well, doctor! well, doctor!" was the greeting with which our son of galen was saluted some time before he entered the sick-room. his approaching step was heard, and thus the ci-devant barchester stone-mason saluted his coming friend. the voice was loud and powerful, but not clear and sonorous. what voice that is nurtured on brandy can ever be clear? it had about it a peculiar huskiness, a dissipated guttural tone, which thorne immediately recognised, and recognised as being more marked, more guttural, and more husky than heretofore. "so you've smelt me out, have you, and come for your fee? ha! ha! ha! well, i have had a sharpish bout of it, as her ladyship there no doubt has told you. let her alone to make the worst of it. but, you see, you're too late, man. i've bilked the old gentleman again without troubling you." "anyway, i'm glad you're something better, scatcherd." "something! i don't know what you call something. i never was better in my life. ask winterbones there." "indeed, now, scatcherd, you ain't; you're bad enough if you only knew it. and as for winterbones, he has no business here up in your bedroom, which stinks of gin so, it does. don't you believe him, doctor; he ain't well, nor yet nigh well." winterbones, when the above ill-natured allusion was made to the aroma coming from his libations, might be seen to deposit surreptitiously beneath the little table at which he sat, the cup with which he had performed them. the doctor, in the meantime, had taken sir roger's hand on the pretext of feeling his pulse, but was drawing quite as much information from the touch of the sick man's skin, and the look of the sick man's eye. "i think mr winterbones had better go back to the london office," said he. "lady scatcherd will be your best clerk for some time, sir roger." "then i'll be d---- if mr winterbones does anything of the kind," said he; "so there's an end of that." "very well," said the doctor. "a man can die but once. it is my duty to suggest measures for putting off the ceremony as long as possible. perhaps, however, you may wish to hasten it." "well, i am not very anxious about it, one way or the other," said scatcherd. and as he spoke there came a fierce gleam from his eye, which seemed to say--"if that's the bugbear with which you wish to frighten me, you will find that you are mistaken." "now, doctor, don't let him talk that way, don't," said lady scatcherd, with her handkerchief to her eyes. "now, my lady, do you cut it; cut at once," said sir roger, turning hastily round to his better-half; and his better-half, knowing that the province of a woman is to obey, did cut it. but as she went she gave the doctor a pull by the coat's sleeve, so that thereby his healing faculties might be sharpened to the very utmost. "the best woman in the world, doctor; the very best," said he, as the door closed behind the wife of his bosom. "i'm sure of it," said the doctor. "yes, till you find a better one," said scatcherd. "ha! ha! ha! but good or bad, there are some things which a woman can't understand, and some things which she ought not to be let to understand." "it's natural she should be anxious about your health, you know." "i don't know that," said the contractor. "she'll be very well off. all that whining won't keep a man alive, at any rate." there was a pause, during which the doctor continued his medical examination. to this the patient submitted with a bad grace; but still he did submit. "we must turn over a new leaf, sir roger; indeed we must." "bother," said sir roger. "well, scatcherd; i must do my duty to you, whether you like it or not." "that is to say, i am to pay you for trying to frighten me." "no human nature can stand such shocks as these much longer." "winterbones," said the contractor, turning to his clerk, "go down, go down, i say; but don't be out of the way. if you go to the public-house, by g----, you may stay there for me. when i take a drop,--that is if i ever do, it does not stand in the way of work." so mr winterbones, picking up his cup again, and concealing it in some way beneath his coat flap, retreated out of the room, and the two friends were alone. "scatcherd," said the doctor, "you have been as near your god, as any man ever was who afterwards ate and drank in this world." "have i, now?" said the railway hero, apparently somewhat startled. "indeed you have; indeed you have." "and now i'm all right again?" "all right! how can you be all right, when you know that your limbs refuse to carry you? all right! why the blood is still beating round your brain with a violence that would destroy any other brain but yours." "ha! ha! ha!" laughed scatcherd. he was very proud of thinking himself to be differently organised from other men. "ha! ha! ha! well, and what am i to do now?" the whole of the doctor's prescription we will not give at length. to some of his ordinances sir roger promised obedience; to others he objected violently, and to one or two he flatly refused to listen. the great stumbling-block was this, that total abstinence from business for two weeks was enjoined; and that it was impossible, so sir roger said, that he should abstain for two days. "if you work," said the doctor, "in your present state, you will certainly have recourse to the stimulus of drink; and if you drink, most assuredly you will die." "stimulus! why do you think i can't work without dutch courage?" "scatcherd, i know that there is brandy in the room at this moment, and that you have been taking it within these two hours." "you smell that fellow's gin," said scatcherd. "i feel the alcohol working within your veins," said the doctor, who still had his hand on his patient's arm. sir roger turned himself roughly in the bed so as to get away from his mentor, and then he began to threaten in his turn. "i'll tell you what it is, doctor; i've made up my mind, and i'll do it. i'll send for fillgrave." "very well," said he of greshamsbury, "send for fillgrave. your case is one in which even he can hardly go wrong." "you think you can hector me, and do as you like because you had me under your thumb in other days. you're a very good fellow, thorne, but i ain't sure that you are the best doctor in all england." "you may be sure i am not; you may take me for the worst if you will. but while i am here as your medical adviser, i can only tell you the truth to the best of my thinking. now the truth is this, that another bout of drinking will in all probability kill you; and any recourse to stimulus in your present condition may do so." "i'll send for fillgrave--" "well, send for fillgrave, only do it at once. believe me at any rate in this, that whatever you do, you should do at once. oblige me in this; let lady scatcherd take away that brandy bottle till dr fillgrave comes." "i'm d---- if i do. do you think i can't have a bottle of brandy in my room without swigging?" "i think you'll be less likely to swig it if you can't get at it." sir roger made another angry turn in his bed as well as his half-paralysed limbs would let him; and then, after a few moments' peace, renewed his threats with increased violence. "yes; i'll have fillgrave over here. if a man be ill, really ill, he should have the best advice he can get. i'll have fillgrave, and i'll have that other fellow from silverbridge to meet him. what's his name?--century." the doctor turned his head away; for though the occasion was serious, he could not help smiling at the malicious vengeance with which his friend proposed to gratify himself. "i will; and rerechild too. what's the expense? i suppose five or six pound apiece will do it; eh, thorne?" "oh, yes; that will be liberal i should say. but, sir roger, will you allow me to suggest what you ought to do? i don't know how far you may be joking--" "joking!" shouted the baronet; "you tell a man he's dying and joking in the same breath. you'll find i'm not joking." "well i dare say not. but if you have not full confidence in me--" "i have no confidence in you at all." "then why not send to london? expense is no object to you." "it is an object; a great object." "nonsense! send to london for sir omicron pie: send for some man whom you will really trust when you see him. "there's not one of the lot i'd trust as soon as fillgrave. i've known fillgrave all my life, and i trust him. i'll send for fillgrave and put my case in his hands. if any one can do anything for me, fillgrave is the man." "then in god's name send for fillgrave," said the doctor. "and now, good-bye, scatcherd; and as you do send for him, give him a fair chance. do not destroy yourself by more brandy before he comes." "that's my affair, and his; not yours," said the patient. "so be it; give me your hand, at any rate, before i go. i wish you well through it, and when you are well, i'll come and see you." "good-bye--good-bye; and look here, thorne, you'll be talking to lady scatcherd downstairs i know; now, no nonsense. you understand me, eh? no nonsense, you know." chapter x sir roger's will dr thorne left the room and went downstairs, being fully aware that he could not leave the house without having some communication with lady scatcherd. he was not sooner within the passage than he heard the sick man's bell ring violently; and then the servant, passing him on the staircase, received orders to send a mounted messenger immediately to barchester. dr fillgrave was to be summoned to come as quickly as possible to the sick man's room, and mr winterbones was to be sent up to write the note. sir roger was quite right in supposing that there would be some words between the doctor and her ladyship. how, indeed, was the doctor to get out of the house without such, let him wish it ever so much? there were words; and these were protracted, while the doctor's cob was being ordered round, till very many were uttered which the contractor would probably have regarded as nonsense. lady scatcherd was no fit associate for the wives of english baronets;--was no doubt by education and manners much better fitted to sit in their servants' halls; but not on that account was she a bad wife or a bad woman. she was painfully, fearfully, anxious for that husband of hers, whom she honoured and worshipped, as it behoved her to do, above all other men. she was fearfully anxious as to his life, and faithfully believed, that if any man could prolong it, it was that old and faithful friend whom she had known to be true to her lord since their early married troubles. when, therefore, she found that he had been dismissed, and that a stranger was to be sent for in his place, her heart sank low within her. "but, doctor," she said, with her apron up to her eyes, "you ain't going to leave him, are you?" dr thorne did not find it easy to explain to her ladyship that medical etiquette would not permit him to remain in attendance on her husband after he had been dismissed and another physician called in his place. "etiquette!" said she, crying. "what's etiquette to do with it when a man is a-killing hisself with brandy?" "fillgrave will forbid that quite as strongly as i can do." "fillgrave!" said she. "fiddlesticks! fillgrave, indeed!" dr thorne could almost have embraced her for the strong feeling of thorough confidence on the one side, and thorough distrust on the other, which she contrived to throw into those few words. "i'll tell you what, doctor; i won't let the messenger go. i'll bear the brunt of it. he can't do much now he ain't up, you know. i'll stop the boy; we won't have no fillgraves here." this, however, was a step to which dr thorne would not assent. he endeavoured to explain to the anxious wife, that after what had passed he could not tender his medical services till they were again asked for. "but you can slip in as a friend, you know; and then by degrees you can come round him, eh? can't you now, doctor? and as to the payment--" all that dr thorne said on the subject may easily be imagined. and in this way, and in partaking of the lunch which was forced upon him, an hour had nearly passed between his leaving sir roger's bedroom and putting his foot in the stirrup. but no sooner had the cob begun to move on the gravel-sweep before the house, than one of the upper windows opened, and the doctor was summoned to another conference with the sick man. "he says you are to come back, whether or no," said mr winterbones, screeching out of the window, and putting all his emphasis on the last words. "thorne! thorne! thorne!" shouted the sick man from his sick-bed, so loudly that the doctor heard him, seated as he was on horseback out before the house. "you're to come back, whether or no," repeated winterbones, with more emphasis, evidently conceiving that there was a strength of injunction in that "whether or no" which would be found quite invincible. whether actuated by these magic words, or by some internal process of thought, we will not say; but the doctor did slowly, and as though unwillingly, dismount again from his steed, and slowly retrace his steps into the house. "it is no use," he said to himself, "for that messenger has already gone to barchester." "i have sent for dr fillgrave," were the first words which the contractor said to him when he again found himself by the bedside. "did you call me back to tell me that?" said thorne, who now realy felt angry at the impertinent petulance of the man before him: "you should consider, scatcherd, that my time may be of value to others, if not to you." "now don't be angry, old fellow," said scatcherd, turning to him, and looking at him with a countenance quite different from any that he had shown that day; a countenance in which there was a show of manhood,--some show also of affection. "you ain't angry now because i've sent for fillgrave?" "not in the least," said the doctor very complacently. "not in the least. fillgrave will do as much good as i can do you." "and that's none at all, i suppose; eh, thorne?" "that depends on yourself. he will do you good if you will tell him the truth, and will then be guided by him. your wife, your servant, any one can be as good a doctor to you as either he or i; as good, that is, in the main point. but you have sent for fillgrave now; and of course you must see him. i have much to do, and you must let me go." scatcherd, however, would not let him go, but held his hand fast. "thorne," said he, "if you like it, i'll make them put fillgrave under the pump directly he comes here. i will indeed, and pay all the damage myself." this was another proposition to which the doctor could not consent; but he was utterly unable to refrain from laughing. there was an earnest look of entreaty about sir roger's face as he made the suggestion; and, joined to this, there was a gleam of comic satisfaction in his eye which seemed to promise, that if he received the least encouragement he would put his threat into execution. now our doctor was not inclined to taking any steps towards subjecting his learned brother to pump discipline; but he could not but admit to himself that the idea was not a bad one. "i'll have it done, i will, by heavens! if you'll only say the word," protested sir roger. but the doctor did not say the word, and so the idea was passed off. "you shouldn't be so testy with a man when he is ill," said scatcherd, still holding the doctor's hand, of which he had again got possession; "specially not an old friend; and specially again when you're been a-blowing of him up." it was not worth the doctor's while to aver that the testiness had all been on the other side, and that he had never lost his good-humour; so he merely smiled, and asked sir roger if he could do anything further for him. "indeed you can, doctor; and that's why i sent for you,--why i sent for you yesterday. get out of the room, winterbones," he then said, gruffly, as though he were dismissing from his chamber a dirty dog. winterbones, not a whit offended, again hid his cup under his coat-tail and vanished. "sit down, thorne, sit down," said the contractor, speaking quite in a different manner from any that he had yet assumed. "i know you're in a hurry, but you must give me half an hour. i may be dead before you can give me another; who knows?" the doctor of course declared that he hoped to have many a half-hour's chat with him for many a year to come. "well, that's as may be. you must stop now, at any rate. you can make the cob pay for it, you know." the doctor took a chair and sat down. thus entreated to stop, he had hardly any alternative but to do so. "it wasn't because i'm ill that i sent for you, or rather let her ladyship send for you. lord bless you, thorne; do you think i don't know what it is that makes me like this? when i see that poor wretch, winterbones, killing himself with gin, do you think i don't know what's coming to myself as well as him? "why do you take it then? why do you do it? your life is not like his. oh, scatcherd! scatcherd!" and the doctor prepared to pour out the flood of his eloquence in beseeching this singular man to abstain from his well-known poison. "is that all you know of human nature, doctor? abstain. can you abstain from breathing, and live like a fish does under water?" "but nature has not ordered you to drink, scatcherd." "habit is second nature, man; and a stronger nature than the first. and why should i not drink? what else has the world given me for all that i have done for it? what other resource have i? what other gratification?" "oh, my god! have you not unbounded wealth? can you not do anything you wish? be anything you choose?" "no," and the sick man shrieked with an energy that made him audible all through the house. "i can do nothing that i would choose to do; be nothing that i would wish to be! what can i do? what can i be? what gratification can i have except the brandy bottle? if i go among gentlemen, can i talk to them? if they have anything to say about a railway, they will ask me a question: if they speak to me beyond that, i must be dumb. if i go among my workmen, can they talk to me? no; i am their master, and a stern master. they bob their heads and shake in their shoes when they see me. where are my friends? here!" said he, and he dragged a bottle from under his very pillow. "where are my amusements? here!" and he brandished the bottle almost in the doctor's face. "where is my one resource, my one gratification, my only comfort after all my toils. here, doctor; here, here, here!" and, so saying, he replaced his treasure beneath his pillow. there was something so horrifying in this, that dr thorne shrank back amazed, and was for a moment unable to speak. "but, scatcherd," he said at last; "surely you would not die for such a passion as that?" "die for it? aye, would i. live for it while i can live; and die for it when i can live no longer. die for it! what is that for a man to do? do not men die for a shilling a day? what is a man the worse for dying? what can i be the worse for dying? a man can die but once, you said just now. i'd die ten times for this." "you are speaking now either in madness, or else in folly, to startle me." "folly enough, perhaps, and madness enough, also. such a life as mine makes a man a fool, and makes him mad too. what have i about me that i should be afraid to die? i'm worth three hundred thousand pounds; and i'd give it all to be able to go to work to-morrow with a hod and mortar, and have a fellow clap his hand upon my shoulder, and say: 'well, roger, shall us have that 'ere other half-pint this morning?' i'll tell you what, thorne, when a man has made three hundred thousand pounds, there's nothing left for him but to die. it's all he's good for then. when money's been made, the next thing is to spend it. now the man who makes it has not the heart to do that." the doctor, of course, in hearing all this, said something of a tendency to comfort and console the mind of his patient. not that anything he could say would comfort or console the man; but that it was impossible to sit there and hear such fearful truths--for as regarded scatcherd they were truths--without making some answer. "this is as good as a play, isn't, doctor?" said the baronet. "you didn't know how i could come out like one of those actor fellows. well, now, come; at last i'll tell you why i have sent for you. before that last burst of mine i made my will." "you had a will made before that." "yes, i had. that will is destroyed. i burnt it with my own hand, so that there should be no mistake about it. in that will i had named two executors, you and jackson. i was then partner with jackson in the york and yeovil grand central. i thought a deal of jackson then. he's not worth a shilling now." "well, i'm exactly in the same category." "no, you're not. jackson is nothing without money; but money'll never make you." "no, nor i shan't make money," said the doctor. "no, you never will. nevertheless, there's my other will, there, under that desk there; and i've put you in as sole executor." "you must alter that, scatcherd; you must indeed; with three hundred thousand pounds to be disposed of, the trust is far too much for any one man: besides you must name a younger man; you and i are of the same age, and i may die the first." "now, doctor, doctor, no humbug; let's have no humbug from you. remember this; if you're not true, you're nothing." "well, but, scatcherd--" "well, but doctor, there's the will, it's already made. i don't want to consult you about that. you are named as executor, and if you have the heart to refuse to act when i'm dead, why, of course, you can do so." the doctor was no lawyer, and hardly knew whether he had any means of extricating himself from this position in which his friend was determined to place him. "you'll have to see that will carried out, thorne. now i'll tell you what i have done." "you're not going to tell me how you have disposed of your property?" "not exactly; at least not all of it. one hundred thousand i've left in legacies, including, you know, what lady scatcherd will have." "have you not left the house to lady scatcherd?" "no; what the devil would she do with a house like this? she doesn't know how to live in it now she has got it. i have provided for her; it matters not how. the house and the estate, and the remainder of my money, i have left to louis philippe." "what! two hundred thousand pounds?" said the doctor. "and why shouldn't i leave two hundred thousand pounds to my son, even to my eldest son if i had more than one? does not mr gresham leave all his property to his heir? why should not i make an eldest son as well as lord de courcy or the duke of omnium? i suppose a railway contractor ought not to be allowed an eldest son by act of parliament! won't my son have a title to keep up? and that's more than the greshams have among them." the doctor explained away what he said as well as he could. he could not explain that what he had really meant was this, that sir roger scatcherd's son was not a man fit to be trusted with the entire control of an enormous fortune. sir roger scatcherd had but one child; that child which had been born in the days of his early troubles, and had been dismissed from his mother's breast in order that the mother's milk might nourish the young heir of greshamsbury. the boy had grown up, but had become strong neither in mind nor body. his father had determined to make a gentleman of him, and had sent to eton and to cambridge. but even this receipt, generally as it is recognised, will not make a gentleman. it is hard, indeed, to define what receipt will do so, though people do have in their own minds some certain undefined, but yet tolerably correct ideas on the subject. be that as it may, two years at eton, and three terms at cambridge, did not make a gentleman of louis philippe scatcherd. yes; he was christened louis philippe, after the king of the french. if one wishes to look out in the world for royal nomenclature, to find children who have been christened after kings and queens, or the uncles and aunts of kings and queens, the search should be made in the families of democrats. none have so servile a deference for the very nail-parings of royalty; none feel so wondering an awe at the exaltation of a crowned head; none are so anxious to secure themselves some shred or fragment that has been consecrated by the royal touch. it is the distance which they feel to exist between themselves and the throne which makes them covet the crumbs of majesty, the odds and ends and chance splinters of royalty. there was nothing royal about louis philippe scatcherd but his name. he had now come to man's estate, and his father, finding the cambridge receipt to be inefficacious, had sent him abroad to travel with a tutor. the doctor had from time to time heard tidings of this youth; he knew that he had already shown symptoms of his father's vices, but no symptoms of his father's talents; he knew that he had begun life by being dissipated, without being generous; and that at the age of twenty-one he had already suffered from delirium tremens. it was on this account that he had expressed disapprobation, rather than surprise, when he heard that his father intended to bequeath the bulk of his large fortune to the uncontrolled will of this unfortunate boy. "i have toiled for my money hard, and i have a right to do as i like with it. what other satisfaction can it give me?" the doctor assured him that he did not at all mean to dispute this. "louis philippe will do well enough, you'll find," continued the baronet, understanding what was passing within his companion's breast. "let a young fellow sow his wild oats while he is young, and he'll be steady enough when he grows old." "but what if he never lives to get through the sowing?" thought the doctor to himself. "what if the wild-oats operation is carried on in so violent a manner as to leave no strength in the soil for the product of a more valuable crop?" it was of no use saying this, however, so he allowed scatcherd to continue. "if i'd had a free fling when i was a youngster, i shouldn't have been so fond of the brandy bottle now. but any way, my son shall be my heir. i've had the gumption to make the money, but i haven't the gumption to spend it. my son, however, shall be able to ruffle it with the best of them. i'll go bail he shall hold his head higher than ever young gresham will be able to hold his. they are much of the same age, as well i have cause to remember;--and so has her ladyship there." now the fact was, that sir roger scatcherd felt in his heart no special love for young gresham; but with her ladyship it might almost be a question whether she did not love the youth whom she had nursed almost as well as that other one who was her own proper offspring. "and will you not put any check on thoughtless expenditure? if you live ten or twenty years, as we hope you may, it will become unnecessary; but in making a will, a man should always remember he may go off suddenly." "especially if he goes to bed with a brandy bottle under his head; eh, doctor? but, mind, that's a medical secret, you know; not a word of that out of the bedroom." dr thorne could but sigh. what could he say on such a subject to such a man as this? "yes, i have put a check on his expenditure. i will not let his daily bread depend on any man; i have therefore left him five hundred a year at his own disposal, from the day of my death. let him make what ducks and drakes of that he can." "five hundred a year certainly is not much," said the doctor. "no; nor do i want to keep him to that. let him have whatever he wants if he sets about spending it properly. but the bulk of the property--this estate of boxall hill, and the greshamsbury mortgage, and those other mortgages--i have tied up in this way: they shall be all his at twenty-five; and up to that age it shall be in your power to give him what he wants. if he shall die without children before he shall be twenty-five years of age, they are all to go to mary's eldest child." now mary was sir roger's sister, the mother, therefore, of miss thorne, and, consequently, the wife of the respectable ironmonger who went to america, and the mother of a family there. "mary's eldest child!" said the doctor, feeling that the perspiration had nearly broken out on his forehead, and that he could hardly control his feelings. "mary's eldest child! scatcherd, you should be more particular in your description, or you will leave your best legacy to the lawyers." "i don't know, and never heard the name of one of them." "but do you mean a boy or a girl?" "they may be all girls for what i know, or all boys; besides, i don't care which it is. a girl would probably do best with it. only you'd have to see that she married some decent fellow; you'd be her guardian." "pooh, nonsense," said the doctor. "louis will be five-and-twenty in a year or two." "in about four years." "and for all that's come and gone yet, scatcherd, you are not going to leave us yourself quite so soon as all that." "not if i can help it, doctor; but that's as may be." "the chances are ten to one that such a clause in your will will never come to bear." "quite so, quite so. if i die, louis philippe won't; but i thought it right to put in something to prevent his squandering it all before he comes to his senses." "oh! quite right, quite right. i think i would have named a later age than twenty-five." "so would not i. louis philippe will be all right by that time. that's my lookout. and now, doctor, you know my will; and if i die to-morrow, you will know what i want you to do for me." "you have merely said the eldest child, scatcherd?" "that's all; give it here, and i'll read it to you." "no, no; never mind. the eldest child! you should be more particular, scatcherd; you should, indeed. consider what an enormous interest may have to depend on those words." "why, what the devil could i say? i don't know their names; never even heard them. but the eldest is the eldest, all the world over. perhaps i ought to say the youngest, seeing that i am only a railway contractor." scatcherd began to think that the doctor might now as well go away and leave him to the society of winterbones and the brandy; but, much as our friend had before expressed himself in a hurry, he now seemed inclined to move very leisurely. he sat there by the bedside, resting his hands on his knees and gazing unconsciously at the counterpane. at last he gave a deep sigh, and then he said, "scatcherd, you must be more particular in this. if i am to have anything to do with it, you must, indeed, be more explicit." "why, how the deuce can i be more explicit? isn't her eldest living child plain enough, whether he be jack, or she be gill?" "what did your lawyer say to this, scatcherd?" "lawyer! you don't suppose i let my lawyer know what i was putting. no; i got the form and the paper, and all that from him, and had him here, in one room, while winterbones and i did it in another. it's all right enough. though winterbones wrote it, he did it in such a way he did not know what he was writing." the doctor sat a while longer, still looking at the counterpane, and then got up to depart. "i'll see you again soon," said he; "to-morrow, probably." "to-morrow!" said sir roger, not at all understanding why dr thorne should talk of returning so soon. "to-morrow! why i ain't so bad as that, man, am i? if you come so often as that you'll ruin me." "oh, not as a medical man; not as that; but about this will, scatcherd. i must think if over; i must, indeed." "you need not give yourself the least trouble in the world about my will till i'm dead; not the least. and who knows--maybe, i may be settling your affairs yet; eh, doctor? looking after your niece when you're dead and gone, and getting a husband for her, eh? ha! ha! ha!" and then, without further speech, the doctor went his way. chapter xi the doctor drinks his tea the doctor got on his cob and went his way, returning duly to greshamsbury. but, in truth, as he went he hardly knew whither he was going, or what he was doing. sir roger had hinted that the cob would be compelled to make up for lost time by extra exertion on the road; but the cob had never been permitted to have his own way as to pace more satisfactorily than on the present occasion. the doctor, indeed, hardly knew that he was on horseback, so completely was he enveloped in the cloud of his own thoughts. in the first place, that alternative which it had become him to put before the baronet as one unlikely to occur--that of the speedy death of both father and son--was one which he felt in his heart of hearts might very probably come to pass. "the chances are ten to one that such a clause will never be brought to bear." this he had said partly to himself, so as to ease the thoughts which came crowding on his brain; partly, also, in pity for the patient and the father. but now that he thought the matter over, he felt that there were no such odds. were not the odds the other way? was it not almost probable that both these men might be gathered to their long account within the next four years? one, the elder, was a strong man, indeed; one who might yet live for years to come if he would but give himself fair play. but then, he himself protested, and protested with a truth too surely grounded, that fair play to himself was beyond his own power to give. the other, the younger, had everything against him. not only was he a poor, puny creature, without physical strength, one of whose life a friend could never feel sure under any circumstances, but he also was already addicted to his father's vices; he also was already killing himself with alcohol. and then, if these two men did die within the prescribed period, if this clause in sir roger's will were brought to bear, if it should become his, dr thorne's, duty to see that clause carried out, how would he be bound to act? that woman's eldest child was his own niece, his adopted bairn, his darling, the pride of his heart, the cynosure of his eye, his child also, his own mary. of all his duties on this earth, next to that one great duty to his god and conscience, was his duty to her. what, under these circumstances, did his duty to her require of him? but then, that one great duty, that duty which she would be the first to expect from him; what did that demand of him? had scatcherd made his will without saying what its clauses were, it seemed to thorne that mary must have been the heiress, should that clause become necessarily operative. whether she were so or not would at any rate be for lawyers to decide. but now the case was very different. this rich man had confided in him, and would it not be a breach of confidence, an act of absolute dishonesty--an act of dishonesty both to scatcherd and to that far-distant american family, to that father, who, in former days, had behaved so nobly, and to that eldest child of his, would it not be gross dishonesty to them all if he allowed this man to leave a will by which his property might go to a person never intended to be his heir? long before he had arrived at greshamsbury his mind on this point had been made up. indeed, it had been made up while sitting there by scatcherd's bedside. it had not been difficult to make up his mind to so much; but then, his way out of this dishonesty was not so easy for him to find. how should he set this matter right so as to inflict no injury on his niece, and no sorrow to himself--if that indeed could be avoided? and then other thoughts crowded on his brain. he had always professed--professed at any rate to himself and to her--that of all the vile objects of a man's ambition, wealth, wealth merely for its own sake, was the vilest. they, in their joint school of inherent philosophy, had progressed to ideas which they might find it not easy to carry out, should they be called on by events to do so. and if this would have been difficult to either when acting on behalf of self alone, how much more difficult when one might have to act for the other! this difficulty had now come to the uncle. should he, in this emergency, take upon himself to fling away the golden chance which might accrue to his niece if scatcherd should be encouraged to make her partly his heir? "he'd want her to go and live there--to live with him and his wife. all the money in the bank of england would not pay her for such misery," said the doctor to himself, as he slowly rode into his own yard. on one point, and one only, had he definitely made up his mind. on the following day he would go over again to boxall hill, and would tell scatcherd the whole truth. come what might, the truth must be the best. and so, with some gleam of comfort, he went into the house, and found his niece in the drawing-room with patience oriel. "mary and i have been quarrelling," said patience. "she says the doctor is the greatest man in a village; and i say the parson is, of course." "i only say that the doctor is the most looked after," said mary. "there's another horrid message for you to go to silverbridge, uncle. why can't that dr century manage his own people?" "she says," continued miss oriel, "that if a parson was away for a month, no one would miss him; but that a doctor is so precious that his very minutes are counted." "i am sure uncle's are. they begrudge him his meals. mr oriel never gets called away to silverbridge." "no; we in the church manage our parish arrangements better than you do. we don't let strange practitioners in among our flocks because the sheep may chance to fancy them. our sheep have to put up with our spiritual doses whether they like them or not. in that respect we are much the best off. i advise you, mary, to marry a clergyman, by all means." "i will when you marry a doctor," said she. "i am sure nothing on earth would give me greater pleasure," said miss oriel, getting up and curtseying very low to dr thorne; "but i am not quite prepared for the agitation of an offer this morning, so i'll run away." and so she went; and the doctor, getting on his other horse, started again for silverbridge, wearily enough. "she's happy now where she is," said he to himself, as he rode along. "they all treat her there as an equal at greshamsbury. what though she be no cousin to the thornes of ullathorne. she has found her place there among them all, and keeps it on equal terms with the best of them. there is miss oriel; her family is high; she is rich, fashionable, a beauty, courted by every one; but yet she does not look down on mary. they are equal friends together. but how would it be if she were taken to boxall hill, even as a recognised niece of the rich man there? would patience oriel and beatrice gresham go there after her? could she be happy there as she is in my house here, poor though it be? it would kill her to pass a month with lady scatcherd and put up with that man's humours, to see his mode of life, to be dependent on him, to belong to him." and then the doctor, hurrying on to silverbridge, again met dr century at the old lady's bedside, and having made his endeavours to stave off the inexorable coming of the grim visitor, again returned to his own niece and his own drawing-room. "you must be dead, uncle," said mary, as she poured out his tea for him, and prepared the comforts of that most comfortable meal--tea, dinner, and supper, all in one. "i wish silverbridge was fifty miles off." "that would only make the journey worse; but i am not dead yet, and, what is more to the purpose, neither is my patient." and as he spoke he contrived to swallow a jorum of scalding tea, containing in measure somewhat near a pint. mary, not a whit amazed at this feat, merely refilled the jorum without any observation; and the doctor went on stirring the mixture with his spoon, evidently oblivious that any ceremony had been performed by either of them since the first supply had been administered to him. when the clatter of knives and forks was over, the doctor turned himself to the hearthrug, and putting one leg over the other, he began to nurse it as he looked with complacency at his third cup of tea, which stood untasted beside him. the fragments of the solid banquet had been removed, but no sacrilegious hand had been laid on the teapot and the cream-jug. "mary," said he, "suppose you were to find out to-morrow morning that, by some accident, you had become a great heiress, would you be able to suppress your exultation?" "the first thing i'd do, would be to pronounce a positive edict that you should never go to silverbridge again; at least without a day's notice." "well, and what next? what would you do next?" "the next thing--the next thing would be to send to paris for a french bonnet exactly like the one patience oriel had on. did you see it?" "well i can't say i did; bonnets are invisible now; besides i never remark anybody's clothes, except yours." "oh! do look at miss oriel's bonnet the next time you see her. i cannot understand why it should be so, but i am sure of this--no english fingers could put together such a bonnet as that; and i am nearly sure that no french fingers could do it in england." "but you don't care so much about bonnets, mary!" this the doctor said as an assertion; but there was, nevertheless, somewhat of a question involved in it. "don't i, though?" said she. "i do care very much about bonnets; especially since i saw patience this morning. i asked how much it cost--guess." "oh! i don't know--a pound?" "a pound, uncle!" "what! a great deal more? ten pounds?" "oh, uncle." "what! more than ten pounds? then i don't think even patience oriel ought to give it." "no, of course she would not; but, uncle, it really cost a hundred francs!" "oh! a hundred francs; that's four pounds, isn't it? well, and how much did your last new bonnet cost?" "mine! oh, nothing--five and ninepence, perhaps; i trimmed it myself. if i were left a great fortune, i'd send to paris to-morrow; no, i'd go myself to paris to buy a bonnet, and i'd take you with me to choose it." the doctor sat silent for a while meditating about this, during which he unconsciously absorbed the tea beside him; and mary again replenished his cup. "come, mary," said he at last, "i'm in a generous mood; and as i am rather more rich than usual, we'll send to paris for a french bonnet. the going for it must wait a while longer i am afraid." "you're joking." "no, indeed. if you know the way to send--that i must confess would puzzle me; but if you'll manage the sending, i'll manage the paying; and you shall have a french bonnet." "uncle!" said she, looking up at him. "oh, i'm not joking; i owe you a present, and i'll give you that." "and if you do, i'll tell you what i'll do with it. i'll cut it into fragments, and burn them before your face. why, uncle, what do you take me for? you're not a bit nice to-night to make such an offer as that to me; not a bit, not a bit." and then she came over from her seat at the tea-tray and sat down on a foot-stool close at his knee. "because i'd have a french bonnet if i had a large fortune, is that a reason why i should like one now? if you were to pay four pounds for a bonnet for me, it would scorch my head every time i put it on." "i don't see that: four pounds would not ruin me. however, i don't think you'd look a bit better if you had it; and, certainly, i should not like to scorch these locks," and putting his hand upon her shoulders, he played with her hair. "patience has a pony-phaeton, and i'd have one if i were rich; and i'd have all my books bound as she does; and, perhaps, i'd give fifty guineas for a dressing-case." "fifty guineas!" "patience did not tell me; but so beatrice says. patience showed it to me once, and it is a darling. i think i'd have the dressing-case before the bonnet. but, uncle--" "well?" "you don't suppose i want such things?" "not improperly. i am sure you do not." "not properly, or improperly; not much, or little. i covet many things; but nothing of that sort. you know, or should know, that i do not. why did you talk of buying a french bonnet for me?" dr thorne did not answer this question, but went on nursing his leg. "after all," said he, "money is a fine thing." "very fine, when it is well come by," she answered; "that is, without detriment to the heart or soul." "i should be a happier man if you were provided for as is miss oriel. suppose, now, i could give you up to a rich man who would be able to insure you against all wants?" "insure me against all wants! oh, that would be a man. that would be selling me, wouldn't it, uncle? yes, selling me; and the price you would receive would be freedom from future apprehensions as regards me. it would be a cowardly sale for you to make; and then, as to me--me the victim. no, uncle; you must bear the misery of having to provide for me--bonnets and all. we are in the same boat, and you shan't turn me overboard." "but if i were to die, what would you do then?" "and if i were to die, what would you do? people must be bound together. they must depend on each other. of course, misfortunes may come; but it is cowardly to be afraid of them beforehand. you and i are bound together, uncle; and though you say these things to tease me, i know you do not wish to get rid of me." "well, well; we shall win through, doubtless; if not in one way, then in another." "win through! of course we shall; who doubts our winning? but, uncle--" "but, mary." "well?" "you haven't got another cup of tea, have you?" "oh, uncle! you have had five." "no, my dear! not five; only four--only four, i assure you; i have been very particular to count. i had one while i was--" "five uncle; indeed and indeed." "well, then, as i hate the prejudice which attaches luck to an odd number, i'll have a sixth to show that i am not superstitious." while mary was preparing the sixth jorum, there came a knock at the door. those late summonses were hateful to mary's ear, for they were usually the forerunners of a midnight ride through the dark lanes to some farmer's house. the doctor had been in the saddle all day, and, as janet brought the note into the room, mary stood up as though to defend her uncle from any further invasion on his rest. "a note from the house, miss," said janet: now "the house," in greshamsbury parlance, always meant the squire's mansion. "no one ill at the house, i hope," said the doctor, taking the note from mary's hand. "oh--ah--yes; it's from the squire--there's nobody ill: wait a minute, janet, and i'll write a line. mary, lend me your desk." the squire, anxious as usual for money, had written to ask what success the doctor had had in negotiating the new loan with sir roger. the fact, however, was, that in his visit at boxall hill, the doctor had been altogether unable to bring on the carpet the matter of this loan. subjects had crowded themselves in too quickly during that interview--those two interviews at sir roger's bedside; and he had been obliged to leave without even alluding to the question. "i must at any rate go back now," said he to himself. so he wrote to the squire, saying that he was to be at boxall hill again on the following day, and that he would call at the house on his return. "that's settled, at any rate," said he. "what's settled?" said mary. "why, i must go to boxall hill again to-morrow. i must go early, too, so we'd better both be off to bed. tell janet i must breakfast at half-past seven." "you couldn't take me, could you? i should so like to see that sir roger." "to see sir roger! why, he's ill in bed." "that's an objection, certainly; but some day, when he's well, could not you take me over? i have the greatest desire to see a man like that; a man who began with nothing and now has more than enough to buy the whole parish of greshamsbury." "i don't think you'd like him at all." "why not? i am sure i should; i am sure i should like him, and lady scatcherd, too. i've heard you say that she is an excellent woman." "yes, in her way; and he, too, is good in his way; but they are neither of them in your way: they are extremely vulgar--" "oh! i don't mind that; that would make them more amusing; one doesn't go to those sort of people for polished manners." "i don't think you'd find the scatcherds pleasant acquaintances at all," said the doctor, taking his bed-candle, and kissing his niece's forehead as he left the room. chapter xii when greek meets greek, then comes the tug of war the doctor, that is our doctor, had thought nothing more of the message which had been sent to that other doctor, dr fillgrave; nor in truth did the baronet. lady scatcherd had thought of it, but her husband during the rest of the day was not in a humour which allowed her to remind him that he would soon have a new physician on his hands; so she left the difficulty to arrange itself, waiting in some little trepidation till dr fillgrave should show himself. it was well that sir roger was not dying for want of his assistance, for when the message reached barchester, dr fillgrave was some five or six miles out of town, at plumstead; and as he did not get back till late in the evening, he felt himself necessitated to put off his visit to boxall hill till next morning. had he chanced to have been made acquainted with that little conversation about the pump, he would probably have postponed it even yet a while longer. he was, however, by no means sorry to be summoned to the bedside of sir roger scatcherd. it was well known at barchester, and very well known to dr fillgrave, that sir roger and dr thorne were old friends. it was very well known to him also, that sir roger, in all his bodily ailments, had hitherto been contented to entrust his safety to the skill of his old friend. sir roger was in his way a great man, and much talked of in barchester, and rumour had already reached the ears of the barchester galen, that the great railway contractor was ill. when, therefore, he received a peremptory summons to go over to boxall hill, he could not but think that some pure light had broken in upon sir roger's darkness, and taught him at last where to look for true medical accomplishment. and then, also, sir roger was the richest man in the county, and to county practitioners a new patient with large means is a godsend; how much greater a godsend when he be not only acquired, but taken also from some rival practitioner, need hardly be explained. dr fillgrave, therefore, was somewhat elated when, after a very early breakfast, he stepped into the post-chaise which was to carry him to boxall hill. dr fillgrave's professional advancement had been sufficient to justify the establishment of a brougham, in which he paid his ordinary visits round barchester; but this was a special occasion, requiring special speed, and about to produce no doubt a special guerdon, and therefore a pair of post-horses were put into request. it was hardly yet nine when the post-boy somewhat loudly rang the bell at sir roger's door; and then dr fillgrave, for the first time, found himself in the new grand hall of boxall hill house. "i'll tell my lady," said the servant, showing him into the grand dining-room; and there for some fifteen minutes or twenty minutes dr fillgrave walked up and down the length of the turkey carpet all alone. dr fillgrave was not a tall man, and was perhaps rather more inclined to corpulence than became his height. in his stocking-feet, according to the usually received style of measurement, he was five feet five; and he had a little round abdominal protuberance, which an inch and a half added to the heels of his boots hardly enabled him to carry off as well as he himself would have wished. of this he was apparently conscious, and it gave to him an air of not being entirely at his ease. there was, however, a personal dignity in his demeanour, a propriety in his gait, and an air of authority in his gestures which should prohibit one from stigmatizing those efforts at altitude as a failure. no doubt he did achieve much; but, nevertheless, the effort would occasionally betray itself, and the story of the frog and the ox would irresistibly force itself into one's mind at those moments when it most behoved dr fillgrave to be magnificent. but if the bulgy roundness of his person and the shortness of his legs in any way detracted from his personal importance, these trifling defects were, he was well aware, more than atoned for by the peculiar dignity of his countenance. if his legs were short, his face was not; if there was any undue preponderance below the waistcoat, all was in due symmetry above the necktie. his hair was grey, not grizzled nor white, but properly grey; and stood up straight from off his temples on each side with an unbending determination of purpose. his whiskers, which were of an admirable shape, coming down and turning gracefully at the angle of his jaw, were grey also, but somewhat darker than his hair. his enemies in barchester declared that their perfect shade was produced by a leaden comb. his eyes were not brilliant, but were very effective, and well under command. he was rather short-sighted, and a pair of eye-glasses was always on his nose, or in his hand. his nose was long, and well pronounced, and his chin, also, was sufficiently prominent; but the great feature of his face was his mouth. the amount of secret medical knowledge of which he could give assurance by the pressure of those lips was truly wonderful. by his lips, also, he could be most exquisitely courteous, or most sternly forbidding. and not only could he be either the one or the other; but he could at his will assume any shade of difference between the two, and produce any mixture of sentiment. when dr fillgrave was first shown into sir roger's dining-room, he walked up and down the room for a while with easy, jaunty step, with his hands joined together behind his back, calculating the price of the furniture, and counting the heads which might be adequately entertained in a room of such noble proportions; but in seven or eight minutes an air of impatience might have been seen to suffuse his face. why could he not be shown into the sick man's room? what necessity could there be for keeping him there, as though he were some apothecary with a box of leeches in his pocket? he then rang the bell, perhaps a little violently. "does sir roger know that i am here?" he said to the servant. "i'll tell my lady," said the man, again vanishing. for five minutes more he walked up and down, calculating no longer the value of the furniture, but rather that of his own importance. he was not wont to be kept waiting in this way; and though sir roger scatcherd was at present a great and rich man, dr fillgrave had remembered him a very small and a very poor man. he now began to think of sir roger as the stone-mason, and to chafe somewhat more violently at being so kept by such a man. when one is impatient, five minutes is as the duration of all time, and a quarter of an hour is eternity. at the end of twenty minutes the step of dr fillgrave up and down the room had become very quick, and he had just made up his mind that he would not stay there all day to the serious detriment, perhaps fatal injury, of his other expectant patients. his hand was again on the bell, and was about to be used with vigour, when the door opened and lady scatcherd entered. the door opened and lady scatcherd entered; but she did so very slowly, as though she were afraid to come into her own dining-room. we must go back a little and see how she had been employed during those twenty minutes. "oh, laws!" such had been her first exclamation on hearing that the doctor was in the dining-room. she was standing at the time with her housekeeper in a small room in which she kept her linen and jam, and in which, in company with the same housekeeper, she spent the happiest moments of her life. "oh laws! now, hannah, what shall we do?" "send 'un up at once to master, my lady! let john take 'un up." "there'll be such a row in the house, hannah; i know there will." "but sure-ly didn't he send for 'un? let the master have the row himself, then; that's what i'd do, my lady," added hannah, seeing that her ladyship still stood trembling in doubt, biting her thumb-nail. "you couldn't go up to the master yourself, could you now, hannah?" said lady scatcherd in her most persuasive tone. "why no," said hannah, after a little deliberation; "no, i'm afeard i couldn't." "then i must just face it myself." and up went the wife to tell her lord that the physician for whom he had sent had come to attend his bidding. in the interview which then took place the baronet had not indeed been violent, but he had been very determined. nothing on earth, he said, should induce him to see dr fillgrave and offend his dear old friend dr thorne. "but roger," said her ladyship, half crying, or rather pretending to cry in her vexation, "what shall i do with the man? how shall i get him out of the house?" "put him under the pump," said the baronet; and he laughed his peculiar low guttural laugh, which told so plainly of the havoc which brandy had made in his throat. "that's nonsense, roger; you know i can't put him under the pump. now you are ill, and you'd better see him just for five minutes. i'll make it all right with dr thorne." "i'll be d---- if i do, my lady." all the people about boxall hill called poor lady scatcherd "my lady" as if there was some excellent joke in it; and, so, indeed, there was. "you know you needn't mind nothing he says, nor yet take nothing he sends: and i'll tell him not to come no more. now do 'ee see him, roger." but there was no coaxing roger over now, or indeed ever: he was a wilful, headstrong, masterful man; a tyrant always though never a cruel one; and accustomed to rule his wife and household as despotically as he did his gangs of workmen. such men it is not easy to coax over. "you go down and tell him i don't want him, and won't see him, and that's an end of it. if he chose to earn his money, why didn't he come yesterday when he was sent for? i'm well now, and don't want him; and what's more, i won't have him. winterbones, lock the door." so winterbones, who during this interview had been at work at his little table, got up to lock the door, and lady scatcherd had no alternative but to pass through it before the last edict was obeyed. lady scatcherd, with slow step, went downstairs and again sought counsel with hannah, and the two, putting their heads together, agreed that the only cure for the present evil was to be found in a good fee. so lady scatcherd, with a five-pound note in her hand, and trembling in every limb, went forth to encounter the august presence of dr fillgrave. as the door opened, dr fillgrave dropped the bell-rope which was in his hand, and bowed low to the lady. those who knew the doctor well, would have known from his bow that he was not well pleased; it was as much as though he said, "lady scatcherd, i am your most obedient humble servant; at any rate it appears that it is your pleasure to treat me as such." lady scatcherd did not understand all this; but she perceived at once that the man was angry. "i hope sir roger does not find himself worse," said the doctor. "the morning is getting on; shall i step up and see him?" "hem! ha! oh! why, you see, dr fillgrave, sir roger finds hisself vastly better this morning, vastly so." "i'm very glad to hear it; but as the morning is getting on, shall i step up to see sir roger?" "why, dr fillgrave, sir, you see, he finds hisself so much hisself this morning, that he a'most thinks it would be a shame to trouble you." "a shame to trouble me!" this was the sort of shame which dr fillgrave did not at all comprehend. "a shame to trouble me! why lady scatcherd--" lady scatcherd saw that she had nothing for it but to make the whole matter intelligible. moreover, seeing that she appreciated more thoroughly the smallness of dr fillgrave's person than she did the peculiar greatness of his demeanour, she began to be a shade less afraid of him than she had thought she should have been. "yes, dr fillgrave; you see, when a man like he gets well, he can't abide the idea of doctors: now, yesterday, he was all for sending for you; but to-day he comes to hisself, and don't seem to want no doctor at all." then did dr fillgrave seem to grow out of his boots, so suddenly did he take upon himself sundry modes of expansive attitude;--to grow out of his boots and to swell upwards, till his angry eyes almost looked down on lady scatcherd, and each erect hair bristled up towards the heavens. "this is very singular, very singular, lady scatcherd; very singular, indeed; very singular; quite unusual. i have come here from barchester, at some considerable inconvenience, at some very considerable inconvenience, i may say, to my regular patients; and--and--and--i don't know that anything so very singular ever occurred to me before." and then dr fillgrave, with a compression of his lips which almost made the poor woman sink into the ground, moved towards the door. then lady scatcherd bethought her of her great panacea. "it isn't about the money, you know, doctor," said she; "of course sir roger don't expect you to come here with post-horses for nothing." in this, by the by, lady scatcherd did not stick quite close to veracity, for sir roger, had he known it, would by no means have assented to any payment; and the note which her ladyship held in her hand was taken from her own private purse. "it ain't at all about the money, doctor;" and then she tendered the bank-note, which she thought would immediately make all things smooth. now dr fillgrave dearly loved a five-pound fee. what physician is so unnatural as not to love it? he dearly loved a five-pound fee; but he loved his dignity better. he was angry also; and like all angry men, he loved his grievance. he felt that he had been badly treated; but if he took the money he would throw away his right to indulge in any such feeling. at that moment his outraged dignity and his cherished anger were worth more than a five-pound note. he looked at it with wishful but still averted eyes, and then sternly refused the tender. "no, madam," said he; "no, no;" and with his right hand raised with his eye-glasses in it, he motioned away the tempting paper. "no; i should have been happy to have given sir roger the benefit of any medical skill i may have, seeing that i was specially called in--" "but, doctor; if the man's well, you know--" "oh, of course; if he's well, and does not choose to see me, there's an end of it. should he have any relapse, as my time is valuable, he will perhaps oblige me by sending elsewhere. madam, good morning. i will, if you will allow me, ring for my carriage--that is, post-chaise." "but, doctor, you'll take the money; you must take the money; indeed you'll take the money," said lady scatcherd, who had now become really unhappy at the idea that her husband's unpardonable whim had brought this man with post-horses all the way from barchester, and that he was to be paid nothing for his time nor costs. "no, madam, no. i could not think of it. sir roger, i have no doubt, will know better another time. it is not a question of money; not at all." "but it is a question of money, doctor; and you really shall, you must." and poor lady scatcherd, in her anxiety to acquit herself at any rate of any pecuniary debt to the doctor, came to personal close quarters with him, with the view of forcing the note into his hands. "quite impossible, quite impossible," said the doctor, still cherishing his grievance, and valiantly rejecting the root of all evil. "i shall not do anything of the kind, lady scatcherd." "now doctor, do 'ee; to oblige me." "quite out of the question." and so, with his hands and hat behind his back, in token of his utter refusal to accept any pecuniary accommodation of his injury, he made his way backwards to the door, her ladyship perseveringly pressing him in front. so eager had been the attack on him, that he had not waited to give his order about the post-chaise, but made his way at once towards the hall. "now, do 'ee take it, do 'ee," pressed lady scatcherd. "utterly out of the question," said dr fillgrave, with great deliberation, as he backed his way into the hall. as he did so, of course he turned round,--and he found himself almost in the arms of dr thorne. as burley must have glared at bothwell when they rushed together in the dread encounter on the mountain side; as achilles may have glared at hector when at last they met, each resolved to test in fatal conflict the prowess of the other, so did dr fillgrave glare at his foe from greshamsbury, when, on turning round on his exalted heel, he found his nose on a level with the top button of dr thorne's waistcoat. and here, if it be not too tedious, let us pause a while to recapitulate and add up the undoubted grievances of the barchester practitioner. he had made no effort to ingratiate himself into the sheepfold of that other shepherd-dog; it was not by his seeking that he was now at boxall hill; much as he hated dr thorne, full sure as he felt of that man's utter ignorance, of his incapacity to administer properly even a black dose, of his murdering propensities and his low, mean, unprofessional style of practice; nevertheless, he had done nothing to undermine him with these scatcherds. dr thorne might have sent every mother's son at boxall hill to his long account, and dr fillgrave would not have interfered;--would not have interfered unless specially and duly called upon to do so. but he had been specially and duly called on. before such a step was taken some words must undoubtedly have passed on the subject between thorne and the scatcherds. thorne must have known what was to be done. having been so called, dr fillgrave had come--had come all the way in a post-chaise--had been refused admittance to the sick man's room, on the plea that the sick man was no longer sick; and just as he was about to retire fee-less--for the want of the fee was not the less a grievance from the fact of its having been tendered and refused--fee-less, dishonoured, and in dudgeon, he encountered this other doctor--this very rival whom he had been sent to supplant; he encountered him in the very act of going to the sick man's room. what mad fanatic burley, what god-succoured insolent achilles, ever had such cause to swell with wrath as at that moment had dr fillgrave? had i the pen of moliere, i could fitly tell of such medical anger, but with no other pen can it be fitly told. he did swell, and when the huge bulk of his wrath was added to his natural proportions, he loomed gigantic before the eyes of the surrounding followers of sir roger. dr thorne stepped back three steps and took his hat from his head, having, in the passage from the hall-door to the dining-room, hitherto omitted to do so. it must be borne in mind that he had no conception whatever that sir roger had declined to see the physician for whom he had sent; none whatever that the physician was now about to return, fee-less, to barchester. dr thorne and dr fillgrave were doubtless well-known enemies. all the world of barchester, and all that portion of the world of london which is concerned with the lancet and the scalping-knife, were well aware of this: they were continually writing against each other; continually speaking against each other; but yet they had never hitherto come to that positive personal collision which is held to justify a cut direct. they very rarely saw each other; and when they did meet, it was in some casual way in the streets of barchester or elsewhere, and on such occasions their habit had been to bow with very cold propriety. on the present occasion, dr thorne of course felt that dr fillgrave had the whip-hand of him; and, with a sort of manly feeling on such a point, he conceived it to be most compatible with his own dignity to show, under such circumstances, more than his usual courtesy--something, perhaps, amounting almost to cordiality. he had been supplanted, _quoad_ doctor, in the house of this rich, eccentric, railway baronet, and he would show that he bore no malice on that account. so he smiled blandly as he took off his hat, and in a civil speech he expressed a hope that dr fillgrave had not found his patient to be in any very unfavourable state. here was an aggravation to the already lacerated feelings of the injured man. he had been brought thither to be scoffed at and scorned at, that he might be a laughing-stock to his enemies, and food for mirth to the vile-minded. he swelled with noble anger till he would have burst, had it not been for the opportune padding of his frock-coat. "sir," said he; "sir:" and he could hardly get his lips open to give vent to the tumult of his heart. perhaps he was not wrong; for it may be that his lips were more eloquent than would have been his words. "what's the matter?" said dr thorne, opening his eyes wide, and addressing lady scatcherd over the head and across the hairs of the irritated man below him. "what on earth is the matter? is anything wrong with sir roger?" "oh, laws, doctor!" said her ladyship. "oh, laws; i'm sure it ain't my fault. here's dr fillgrave in a taking, and i'm quite ready to pay him,--quite. if a man gets paid, what more can he want?" and she again held out the five-pound note over dr fillgrave's head. what more, indeed, lady scatcherd, can any of us want, if only we could keep our tempers and feelings a little in abeyance? dr fillgrave, however, could not so keep his; and, therefore, he did want something more, though at the present moment he could have hardly said what. lady scatcherd's courage was somewhat resuscitated by the presence of her ancient trusty ally; and, moreover, she began to conceive that the little man before her was unreasonable beyond all conscience in his anger, seeing that that for which he was ready to work had been offered to him without any work at all. "madam," said he, again turning round at lady scatcherd, "i was never before treated in such a way in any house in barchester-- never--never." "good heavens, dr fillgrave!" said he of greshamsbury, "what is the matter?" "i'll let you know what is the matter, sir," said he, turning round again as quickly as before. "i'll let you know what is the matter. i'll publish this, sir, to the medical world;" and as he shrieked out the words of the threat, he stood on tiptoes and brandished his eye-glasses up almost into his enemy's face. "don't be angry with dr thorne," said lady scatcherd. "any ways, you needn't be angry with him. if you must be angry with anybody--" "i shall be angry with him, madam," ejaculated dr fillgrave, making another sudden demi-pirouette. "i am angry with him--or, rather, i despise him;" and completing the circle, dr fillgrave again brought himself round in full front of his foe. dr thorne raised his eyebrows and looked inquiringly at lady scatcherd; but there was a quiet sarcastic motion round his mouth which by no means had the effect of throwing oil on the troubled waters. "i'll publish the whole of this transaction to the medical world, dr thorne--the whole of it; and if that has not the effect of rescuing the people of greshamsbury out of your hands, then--then--then, i don't know what will. is my carriage--that is, post-chaise there?" and dr fillgrave, speaking very loudly, turned majestically to one of the servants. "what have i done to you, dr fillgrave," said dr thorne, now absolutely laughing, "that you should determine to take my bread out of my mouth? i am not interfering with your patient. i have come here simply with reference to money matters appertaining to sir roger." "money matters! very well--very well; money matters. that is your idea of medical practice! very well--very well. is my post-chaise at the door? i'll publish it all to the medical world--every word--every word of it, every word of it." "publish what, you unreasonable man?" "man! sir; whom do you call a man? i'll let you know whether i'm a man--post-chaise there!" "don't 'ee call him names now, doctor; don't 'ee, pray don't 'ee," said lady scatcherd. by this time they had all got somewhere nearer the hall-door; but the scatcherd retainers were too fond of the row to absent themselves willingly at dr fillgrave's bidding, and it did not appear that any one went in search of the post-chaise. "man! sir; i'll let you know what it is to speak to me in that style. i think, sir, you hardly know who i am." "all that i know of you at present is, that you are my friend sir roger's physician, and i cannot conceive what has occurred to make you so angry." and as he spoke, dr thorne looked carefully at him to see whether that pump-discipline had in truth been applied. there were no signs whatever that cold water had been thrown upon dr fillgrave. "my post-chaise--is my post-chaise there? the medical world shall know all; you may be sure, sir, the medical world shall know it all;" and thus, ordering his post-chaise, and threatening dr thorne with the medical world, dr fillgrave made his way to the door. but the moment he put on his hat he returned. "no, madam," said he. "no; it is quite out of the question: such an affair is not to be arranged by such means. i'll publish it all to the medical world--post-chaise there!" and then, using all his force, he flung as far as he could into the hall a light bit of paper. it fell at dr thorne's feet, who, raising it, found that it was a five-pound note. "i put it into his hat just while he was in his tantrum," said lady scatcherd. "and i thought that perhaps he would not find it till he got to barchester. well i wish he'd been paid, certainly, although sir roger wouldn't see him;" and in this manner dr thorne got some glimpse of understanding into the cause of the great offence. "i wonder whether sir roger will see _me_," said he, laughing. chapter xiii the two uncles "ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!" laughed sir roger, lustily, as dr thorne entered the room. "well, if that ain't rich, i don't know what is. ha! ha! ha! but why did they not put him under the pump, doctor?" the doctor, however, had too much tact, and too many things of importance to say, to allow of his giving up much time to the discussion of dr fillgrave's wrath. he had come determined to open the baronet's eyes as to what would be the real effect of his will, and he had also to negotiate a loan for mr gresham, if that might be possible. dr thorne therefore began about the loan, that being the easier subject, and found that sir roger was quite clear-headed as to his money concerns, in spite of his illness. sir roger was willing enough to lend mr gresham more money--six, eight, ten, twenty thousand; but then, in doing so, he should insist on obtaining possession of the title-deeds. "what! the title-deeds of greshamsbury for a few thousand pounds?" said the doctor. "i don't know whether you call ninety thousand pounds a few thousands; but the debt will about amount to that." "ah! that's the old debt." "old and new together, of course; every shilling i lend more weakens my security for what i have lent before." "but you have the first claim, sir roger." "it ought to be first and last to cover such a debt as that. if he wants further accommodation, he must part with his deeds, doctor." the point was argued backwards and forwards for some time without avail, and the doctor then thought it well to introduce the other subject. "well, sir roger, you're a hard man." "no i ain't," said sir roger; "not a bit hard; that is, not a bit too hard. money is always hard. i know i found it hard to come by; and there is no reason why squire gresham should expect to find me so very soft." "very well; there is an end of that. i thought you would have done as much to oblige me, that is all." "what! take bad security to oblige you?" "well, there's an end of that." "i'll tell you what; i'll do as much to oblige a friend as any one. i'll lend you five thousand pounds, you yourself, without security at all, if you want it." "but you know i don't want it; or, at any rate, shan't take it." "but to ask me to go on lending money to a third party, and he over head and ears in debt, by way of obliging you, why, it's a little too much." "well, there's an end of it. now i've something to say to you about that will of yours." "oh! that's settled." "no, scatcherd; it isn't settled. it must be a great deal more settled before we have done with it, as you'll find when you hear what i have to tell you." "what you have to tell me!" said sir roger, sitting up in bed; "and what have you to tell me?" "your will says your sister's eldest child." "yes; but that's only in the event of louis philippe dying before he is twenty-five." "exactly; and now i know something about your sister's eldest child, and, therefore, i have come to tell you." "you know something about mary's eldest child?" "i do, scatcherd; it is a strange story, and maybe it will make you angry. i cannot help it if it does so. i should not tell you this if i could avoid it; but as i do tell you, for your sake, as you will see, and not for my own, i must implore you not to tell my secret to others." sir roger now looked at him with an altered countenance. there was something in his voice of the authoritative tone of other days, something in the doctor's look which had on the baronet the same effect which in former days it had sometimes had on the stone-mason. "can you give me a promise, scatcherd, that what i am about to tell you shall not be repeated?" "a promise! well, i don't know what it's about, you know. i don't like promises in the dark." "then i must leave it to your honour; for what i have to say must be said. you remember my brother, scatcherd?" remember his brother! thought the rich man to himself. the name of the doctor's brother had not been alluded to between them since the days of that trial; but still it was impossible but that scatcherd should well remember him. "yes, yes; certainly. i remember your brother," said he. "i remember him well; there's no doubt about that." "well, scatcherd," and, as he spoke, the doctor laid his hand with kindness on the other's arm. "mary's eldest child was my brother's child as well. "but there is no such child living," said sir roger; and, in his violence, as he spoke he threw from off him the bedclothes, and tried to stand upon the floor. he found, however, that he had no strength for such an effort, and was obliged to remain leaning on the bed and resting on the doctor's arm. "there was no such child ever lived," said he. "what do you mean by this?" dr thorne would say nothing further till he had got the man into bed again. this he at last effected, and then he went on with the story in his own way. "yes, scatcherd, that child is alive; and for fear that you should unintentionally make her your heir, i have thought it right to tell you this." "a girl, is it?" "yes, a girl." "and why should you want to spite her? if she is mary's child, she is your brother's child also. if she is my niece, she must be your niece too. why should you want to spite her? why should you try to do her such a terrible injury?" "i do not want to spite her." "where is she? who is she? what is she called? where does she live?" the doctor did not at once answer all these questions. he had made up his mind that he would tell sir roger that this child was living, but he had not as yet resolved to make known all the circumstances of her history. he was not even yet quite aware whether it would be necessary to say that this foundling orphan was the cherished darling of his own house. "such a child, is, at any rate, living," said he; "of that i give you my assurance; and under your will, as now worded, it might come to pass that that child should be your heir. i do not want to spite her, but i should be wrong to let you make your will without such knowledge, seeing that i am possessed of it myself." "but where is the girl?" "i do not know that that signifies." "signifies! yes; it does signify a great deal. but, thorne, thorne, now that i remember it, now that i can think of things, it was--was it not you yourself who told me that the baby did not live?" "very possibly." "and was it a lie that you told me?" "if so, yes. but it is no lie that i tell you now." "i believed you then, thorne; then, when i was a poor, broken-down day-labourer, lying in jail, rotting there; but i tell you fairly, i do not believe you now. you have some scheme in this." "whatever scheme i may have, you can frustrate by making another will. what can i gain by telling you this? i only do so to induce you to be more explicit in naming your heir." they both remained silent for a while, during which the baronet poured out from his hidden resource a glass of brandy and swallowed it. "when a man is taken aback suddenly by such tidings as these, he must take a drop of something, eh, doctor?" dr thorne did not see the necessity; but the present, he felt, was no time for arguing the point. "come, thorne, where is the girl? you must tell me that. she is my niece, and i have a right to know. she shall come here, and i will do something for her. by the lord! i would as soon she had the money as any one else, if she is anything of a good 'un;--some of it, that is. is she a good 'un?" "good!" said the doctor, turning away his face. "yes; she is good enough." "she must be grown up by now. none of your light skirts, eh?" "she is a good girl," said the doctor somewhat loudly and sternly. he could hardly trust himself to say much on this point. "mary was a good girl, a very good girl, till"--and sir roger raised himself up in his bed with his fist clenched, as though he were again about to strike that fatal blow at the farm-yard gate. "but come, it's no good thinking of that; you behaved well and manly, always. and so poor mary's child is alive; at least, you say so." "i say so, and you may believe it. why should i deceive you?" "no, no; i don't see why. but then why did you deceive me before?" to this the doctor chose to make no answer, and again there was silence for a while. "what do you call her, doctor?" "her name is mary." "the prettiest women's name going; there's no name like it," said the contractor, with an unusual tenderness in his voice. "mary--yes; but mary what? what other name does she go by?" here the doctor hesitated. "mary scatcherd--eh?" "no. not mary scatcherd." "not mary scatcherd! mary what, then? you, with your d---- pride, wouldn't let her be called mary thorne, i know." this was too much for the doctor. he felt that there were tears in his eyes, so he walked away to the window to dry them, unseen. had he had fifty names, each more sacred than the other, the most sacred of them all would hardly have been good enough for her. "mary what, doctor? come, if the girl is to belong to me, if i am to provide for her, i must know what to call her, and where to look for her." "who talked of your providing for her?" said the doctor, turning round at the rival uncle. "who said that she was to belong to you? she will be no burden to you; you are only told of this that you may not leave your money to her without knowing it. she is provided for--that is, she wants nothing; she will do well enough; you need not trouble yourself about her." "but if she's mary's child, mary's child in real truth, i will trouble myself about her. who else should do so? for the matter of that, i'd as soon say her as any of those others in america. what do i care about blood? i shan't mind her being a bastard. that is to say, of course, if she's decently good. did she ever get any kind of teaching; book-learning, or anything of that sort?" dr thorne at this moment hated his friend the baronet with almost a deadly hatred; that he, rough brute as he was--for he was a rough brute--that he should speak in such language of the angel who gave to that home in greshamsbury so many of the joys of paradise--that he should speak of her as in some degree his own, that he should inquire doubtingly as to her attributes and her virtues. and then the doctor thought of her italian and french readings, of her music, of her nice books, and sweet lady ways, of her happy companionship with patience oriel, and her dear, bosom friendship with beatrice gresham. he thought of her grace, and winning manners, and soft, polished feminine beauty; and, as he did so, he hated sir roger scatcherd, and regarded him with loathing, as he might have regarded a wallowing hog. at last a light seemed to break in upon sir roger's mind. dr thorne, he perceived, did not answer his last question. he perceived, also, that the doctor was affected with some more than ordinary emotion. why should it be that this subject of mary scatcherd's child moved him so deeply? sir roger had never been at the doctor's house at greshamsbury, had never seen mary thorne, but he had heard that there lived with the doctor some young female relative; and thus a glimmering light seemed to come in upon sir roger's bed. he had twitted the doctor with his pride; had said that it was impossible that the girl should be called mary thorne. what if she were so called? what if she were now warming herself at the doctor's hearth? "well, come, thorne, what is it you call her? tell it out, man. and, look you, if it's your name she bears, i shall think more of you, a deal more than ever i did yet. come, thorne, i'm her uncle too. i have a right to know. she is mary thorne, isn't she?" the doctor had not the hardihood nor the resolution to deny it. "yes," said he, "that is her name; she lives with me." "yes, and lives with all those grand folks at greshamsbury too. i have heard of that." "she lives with me, and belongs to me, and is as my daughter." "she shall come over here. lady scatcherd shall have her to stay with her. she shall come to us. and as for my will, i'll make another. i'll--" "yes, make another will--or else alter that one. but as to miss thorne coming here--" "what! mary--" "well, mary. as to mary thorne coming here, that i fear will not be possible. she cannot have two homes. she has cast her lot with one of her uncles, and she must remain with him now." "do you mean to say that she must never have any relation but one?" "but one such as i am. she would not be happy over here. she does not like new faces. you have enough depending on you; i have but her." "enough! why, i have only louis philippe. i could provide for a dozen girls." "well, well, well, we will not talk about that." "ah! but, thorne, you have told me of this girl now, and i cannot but talk of her. if you wished to keep the matter dark, you should have said nothing about it. she is my niece as much as yours. and, thorne, i loved my sister mary quite as well as you loved your brother; quite as well." any one who might now have heard and seen the contractor would have hardly thought him to be the same man who, a few hours before, was urging that the barchester physician should be put under the pump. "you have your son, scatcherd. i have no one but that girl." "i don't want to take her from you. i don't want to take her; but surely there can be no harm in her coming here to see us? i can provide for her, thorne, remember that. i can provide for her without reference to louis philippe. what are ten or fifteen thousand pounds to me? remember that, thorne." dr thorne did remember it. in that interview he remembered many things, and much passed through his mind on which he felt himself compelled to resolve somewhat too suddenly. would he be justified in rejecting, on behalf of mary, the offer of pecuniary provision which this rich relative seemed so well inclined to make? or, if he accepted it, would he in truth be studying her interests? scatcherd was a self-willed, obstinate man--now indeed touched by unwonted tenderness; but he was one to whose lasting tenderness dr thorne would be very unwilling to trust his darling. he did resolve, that on the whole he should best discharge his duty, even to her, by keeping her to himself, and rejecting, on her behalf, any participation in the baronet's wealth. as mary herself had said, "some people must be bound together;" and their destiny, that of himself and his niece, seemed to have so bound them. she had found her place at greshamsbury, her place in the world; and it would be better for her now to keep it, than to go forth and seek another that would be richer, but at the same time less suited to her. "no, scatcherd," he said at last, "she cannot come here; she would not be happy here, and, to tell the truth, i do not wish her to know that she has other relatives." "ah! she would be ashamed of her mother, you mean, and of her mother's brother too, eh? she's too fine a lady, i suppose, to take me by the hand and give me a kiss, and call me her uncle? i and lady scatcherd would not be grand enough for her, eh?" "you may say what you please, scatcherd: i of course cannot stop you." "but i don't know how you'll reconcile what you are doing to your conscience. what right can you have to throw away the girl's chance, now that she has a chance? what fortune can you give her?" "i have done what little i could," said thorne, proudly. "well, well, well, well, i never heard such a thing in my life; never. mary's child, my own mary's child, and i'm not to see her! but, thorne, i tell you what; i will see her. i'll go over to her, i'll go to greshamsbury, and tell her who i am, and what i can do for her. i tell you fairly i will. you shall not keep her away from those who belong to her, and can do her a good turn. mary's daughter; another mary scatcherd! i almost wish she were called mary scatcherd. is she like her, thorne? come, tell me that, is she like her mother." "i do not remember her mother; at least not in health." "not remember her! ah, well. she was the handsomest girl in barchester, anyhow. that was given up to her. well, i didn't think to be talking of her again. thorne, you cannot but expect that i shall go over and see mary's child?" "now, scatcherd, look here," and the doctor, coming away from the window, where he had been standing, sat himself down by the bedside, "you must not come over to greshamsbury." "oh! but i shall." "listen to me, scatcherd. i do not want to praise myself in any way; but when that girl was an infant, six months old, she was like to be a thorough obstacle to her mother's fortune in life. tomlinson was willing to marry your sister, but he would not marry the child too. then i took the baby, and i promised her mother that i would be to her as a father. i have kept my word as fairly as i have been able. she has sat at my hearth, and drunk of my cup, and been to me as my own child. after that, i have a right to judge what is best for her. her life is not like your life, and her ways are not as your ways--" "ah, that is just it; we are too vulgar for her." "you may take it as you will," said the doctor, who was too much in earnest to be in the least afraid of offending his companion. "i have not said so; but i do say that you and she are unlike in your way of living." "she wouldn't like an uncle with a brandy bottle under his head, eh?" "you could not see her without letting her know what is the connexion between you; of that i wish to keep her in ignorance." "i never knew any one yet who was ashamed of a rich connexion. how do you mean to get a husband for her, eh?" "i have told you of her existence," continued the doctor, not appearing to notice what the baronet had last said, "because i found it necessary that you should know the fact of your sister having left this child behind her; you would otherwise have made a will different from that intended, and there might have been a lawsuit, and mischief and misery when we are gone. you must perceive that i have done this in honesty to you; and you yourself are too honest to repay me by taking advantage of this knowledge to make me unhappy." "oh, very well, doctor. at any rate, you are a brick, i will say that. but i'll think of all this, i'll think of it; but it does startle me to find that poor mary has a child living so near to me." "and now, scatcherd, i will say good-bye. we part as friends, don't we?" "oh, but doctor, you ain't going to leave me so. what am i to do? what doses shall i take? how much brandy may i drink? may i have a grill for dinner? d---- me, doctor, you have turned fillgrave out of the house. you mustn't go and desert me." dr thorne laughed, and then, sitting himself down to write medically, gave such prescriptions and ordinances as he found to be necessary. they amounted but to this: that the man was to drink, if possible, no brandy; and if that were not possible, then as little as might be. this having been done, the doctor again proceeded to take his leave; but when he got to the door he was called back. "thorne! thorne! about that money for mr gresham; do what you like, do just what you like. ten thousand, is it? well, he shall have it. i'll make winterbones write about it at once. five per cent., isn't it? no, four and a half. well, he shall have ten thousand more." "thank you, scatcherd, thank you, i am really very much obliged to you, i am indeed. i wouldn't ask it if i was not sure your money is safe. good-bye, old fellow, and get rid of that bedfellow of yours," and again he was at the door. "thorne," said sir roger once more. "thorne, just come back for a minute. you wouldn't let me send a present would you,--fifty pounds or so,--just to buy a few flounces?" the doctor contrived to escape without giving a definite answer to this question; and then, having paid his compliments to lady scatcherd, remounted his cob and rode back to greshamsbury. chapter xiv sentence of exile dr thorne did not at once go home to his own house. when he reached the greshamsbury gates, he sent his horse to its own stable by one of the people at the lodge, and then walked on to the mansion. he had to see the squire on the subject of the forthcoming loan, and he had also to see lady arabella. the lady arabella, though she was not personally attached to the doctor with quite so much warmth as some others of her family, still had reasons of her own for not dispensing with his visits to the house. she was one of his patients, and a patient fearful of the disease with which she was threatened. though she thought the doctor to be arrogant, deficient as to properly submissive demeanour towards herself, an instigator to marital parsimony in her lord, one altogether opposed to herself and her interest in greshamsbury politics, nevertheless, she did feel trust in him as a medical man. she had no wish to be rescued out of his hands by any dr fillgrave, as regarded that complaint of hers, much as she may have desired, and did desire, to sever him from all greshamsbury councils in all matters not touching the healing art. now the complaint of which the lady arabella was afraid, was cancer: and her only present confidant in this matter was dr thorne. the first of the greshamsbury circle whom he saw was beatrice, and he met her in the garden. "oh, doctor," said she, "where has mary been this age? she has not been up here since frank's birthday." "well, that was only three days ago. why don't you go down and ferret her out in the village?" "so i have done. i was there just now, and found her out. she was out with patience oriel. patience is all and all with her now. patience is all very well, but if they throw me over--" "my dear miss gresham, patience is and always was a virtue." "a poor, beggarly, sneaking virtue after all, doctor. they should have come up, seeing how deserted i am here. there's absolutely nobody left." "has lady de courcy gone?" "oh, yes! all the de courcys have gone. i think, between ourselves, mary stays away because she does not love them too well. they have all gone, and taken augusta and frank with them." "has frank gone to courcy castle?" "oh, yes; did you not hear? there was rather a fight about it. master frank wanted to get off, and was as hard to catch as an eel, and then the countess was offended; and papa said he didn't see why frank was to go if he didn't like it. papa is very anxious about his degree, you know." the doctor understood it all as well as though it had been described to him at full length. the countess had claimed her prey, in order that she might carry him off to miss dunstable's golden embrace. the prey, not yet old enough and wise enough to connect the worship of plutus with that of venus, had made sundry futile feints and dodges in the vain hope of escape. then the anxious mother had enforced the de courcy behests with all a mother's authority. but the father, whose ideas on the subject of miss dunstable's wealth had probably not been consulted, had, as a matter of course, taken exactly the other side of the question. the doctor did not require to be told all this in order to know how the battle had raged. he had not yet heard of the great dunstable scheme; but he was sufficiently acquainted with greshamsbury tactics to understand that the war had been carried on somewhat after this fashion. as a rule, when the squire took a point warmly to heart, he was wont to carry his way against the de courcy interest. he could be obstinate enough when it so pleased him, and had before now gone so far as to tell his wife, that her thrice-noble sister-in-law might remain at home at courcy castle--or, at any rate, not come to greshamsbury--if she could not do so without striving to rule him and every one else when she got here. this had of course been repeated to the countess, who had merely replied to it by a sisterly whisper, in which she sorrowfully intimated that some men were born brutes, and always would remain so. "i think they all are," the lady arabella had replied; wishing, perhaps, to remind her sister-in-law that the breed of brutes was as rampant in west barsetshire as in the eastern division of the county. the squire, however, had not fought on this occasion with all his vigour. there had, of course, been some passages between him and his son, and it had been agreed that frank should go for a fortnight to courcy castle. "we mustn't quarrel with them, you know, if we can help it," said the father; "and, therefore, you must go sooner or later." "well, i suppose so; but you don't know how dull it is, governor." "don't i!" said gresham. "there's a miss dunstable to be there; did you ever hear of her, sir?" "no, never." "she's a girl whose father used to make ointment, or something of that sort." "oh, yes, to be sure; the ointment of lebanon. he used to cover all the walls in london. i haven't heard of him this year past." "no; that's because he's dead. well, she carries on the ointment now, i believe; at any rate, she has got all the money. i wonder what she's like." "you'd better go and see," said the father, who now began to have some inkling of an idea why the two ladies were so anxious to carry his son off to courcy castle at this exact time. and so frank had packed up his best clothes, given a last fond look at the new black horse, repeated his last special injunctions to peter, and had then made one of the stately _cortège_ which proceeded through the county from greshamsbury to courcy castle. "i am very glad of that, very," said the squire, when he heard that the money was to be forthcoming. "i shall get it on easier terms from him than elsewhere; and it kills me to have continual bother about such things." and mr gresham, feeling that that difficulty was tided over for a time, and that the immediate pressure of little debts would be abated, stretched himself on his easy chair as though he were quite comfortable;--one may say almost elated. how frequent it is that men on their road to ruin feel elation such as this! a man signs away a moiety of his substance; nay, that were nothing; but a moiety of the substance of his children; he puts his pen to the paper that ruins him and them; but in doing so he frees himself from a score of immediate little pestering, stinging troubles: and, therefore, feels as though fortune has been almost kind to him. the doctor felt angry with himself for what he had done when he saw how easily the squire adapted himself to this new loan. "it will make scatcherd's claim upon you very heavy," said he. mr gresham at once read all that was passing through the doctor's mind. "well, what else can i do?" said he. "you wouldn't have me allow my daughter to lose this match for the sake of a few thousand pounds? it will be well at any rate to have one of them settled. look at that letter from moffat." the doctor took the letter and read it. it was a long, wordy, ill-written rigmarole, in which that amorous gentleman spoke with much rapture of his love and devotion for miss gresham; but at the same time declared, and most positively swore, that the adverse cruelty of his circumstances was such, that it would not allow him to stand up like a man at the hymeneal altar until six thousand pounds hard cash had been paid down at his banker's. "it may be all right," said the squire; "but in my time gentlemen were not used to write such letters as that to each other." the doctor shrugged his shoulders. he did not know how far he would be justified in saying much, even to his friend the squire, in dispraise of his future son-in-law. "i told him that he should have the money; and one would have thought that that would have been enough for him. well: i suppose augusta likes him. i suppose she wishes the match; otherwise, i would give him such an answer to that letter as would startle him a little." "what settlement is he to make?" said thorne. "oh, that's satisfactory enough; couldn't be more so; a thousand a year and the house at wimbledon for her; that's all very well. but such a lie, you know, thorne. he's rolling in money, and yet he talks of this beggarly sum as though he couldn't possibly stir without it." "if i might venture to speak my mind," said thorne. "well?" said the squire, looking at him earnestly. "i should be inclined to say that mr moffat wants to cry off, himself." "oh, impossible; quite impossible. in the first place, he was so very anxious for the match. in the next place, it is such a great thing for him. and then, he would never dare; you see, he is dependent on the de courcys for his seat." "but suppose he loses his seat?" "but there is not much fear of that, i think. scatcherd may be a very fine fellow, but i think they'll hardly return him at barchester." "i don't understand much about it," said thorne; "but such things do happen." "and you believe that this man absolutely wants to get off the match; absolutely thinks of playing such a trick as that on my daughter;--on me?" "i don't say he intends to do it; but it looks to me as though he were making a door for himself, or trying to make a door: if so, your having the money will stop him there." "but, thorne, don't you think he loves the girl? if i thought not--" the doctor stood silent for a moment, and then he said, "i am not a love-making man myself, but i think that if i were much in love with a young lady i should not write such a letter as that to her father." "by heavens! if i thought so," said the squire--"but, thorne, we can't judge of those fellows as one does of gentlemen; they are so used to making money, and seeing money made, that they have an eye to business in everything." "perhaps so, perhaps so," muttered the doctor, showing evidently that he still doubted the warmth of mr moffat's affection. "the match was none of my making, and i cannot interfere now to break it off: it will give her a good position in the world; for, after all, money goes a great way, and it is something to be in parliament. i can only hope she likes him. i do truly hope she likes him;" and the squire also showed by the tone of his voice that, though he might hope that his daughter was in love with her intended husband, he hardly conceived it to be possible that she should be so. and what was the truth of the matter? miss gresham was no more in love with mr moffat than you are--oh, sweet, young, blooming beauty! not a whit more; not, at least, in your sense of the word, nor in mine. she had by no means resolved within her heart that of all the men whom she had ever seen, or ever could see, he was far away the nicest and best. that is what you will do when you are in love, if you be good for anything. she had no longing to sit near to him--the nearer the better; she had no thought of his taste and his choice when she bought her ribbons and bonnets; she had no indescribable desire that all her female friends should be ever talking to her about him. when she wrote to him, she did not copy her letters again and again, so that she might be, as it were, ever speaking to him; she took no special pride in herself because he had chosen her to be his life's partner. in point of fact, she did not care one straw about him. and yet she thought she loved him; was, indeed, quite confident that she did so; told her mother that she was sure gustavus would wish this, she knew gustavus would like that, and so on; but as for gustavus himself, she did not care a chip for him. she was in love with her match just as farmers are in love with wheat at eighty shillings a quarter; or shareholders--innocent gudgeons--with seven and half per cent. interest on their paid-up capital. eighty shillings a quarter, and seven and half per cent. interest, such were the returns which she had been taught to look for in exchange for her young heart; and, having obtained them, or being thus about to obtain them, why should not her young heart be satisfied? had she not sat herself down obediently at the feet of her lady gamaliel, and should she not be rewarded? yes, indeed, she shall be rewarded. and then the doctor went to the lady. on their medical secrets we will not intrude; but there were other matters bearing on the course of our narrative, as to which lady arabella found it necessary to say a word or so to the doctor; and it is essential that we should know what was the tenor of those few words so spoken. how the aspirations, and instincts, and feelings of a household become changed as the young birds begin to flutter with feathered wings, and have half-formed thoughts of leaving the parental nest! a few months back, frank had reigned almost autocratic over the lesser subjects of the kingdom of greshamsbury. the servants, for instance, always obeyed him, and his sisters never dreamed of telling anything which he directed should not be told. all his mischief, all his troubles, and all his loves were confided to them, with the sure conviction that they would never be made to stand in evidence against him. trusting to this well-ascertained state of things, he had not hesitated to declare his love for miss thorne before his sister augusta. but his sister augusta had now, as it were, been received into the upper house; having duly received, and duly profited by the lessons of her great instructress, she was now admitted to sit in conclave with the higher powers: her sympathies, of course, became changed, and her confidence was removed from the young and giddy and given to the ancient and discreet. she was as a schoolboy, who, having finished his schooling, and being fairly forced by necessity into the stern bread-earning world, undertakes the new duties of tutoring. yesterday he was taught, and fought, of course, against the schoolmaster; to-day he teaches, and fights as keenly for him. so it was with augusta gresham, when, with careful brow, she whispered to her mother that there was something wrong between frank and mary thorne. "stop it at once, arabella: stop it at once," the countess had said; "that, indeed, will be ruin. if he does not marry money, he is lost. good heavens! the doctor's niece! a girl that nobody knows where she comes from!" "he's going with you to-morrow, you know," said the anxious mother. "yes; and that is so far well: if he will be led by me, the evil may be remedied before he returns; but it is very, very hard to lead young men. arabella, you must forbid that girl to come to greshamsbury again on any pretext whatever. the evil must be stopped at once." "but she is here so much as a matter of course." "then she must be here as a matter of course no more: there has been folly, very great folly, in having her here. of course she would turn out to be a designing creature with such temptation before her; with such a prize within her reach, how could she help it?" "i must say, aunt, she answered him very properly," said augusta. "nonsense," said the countess; "before you, of course she did. arabella, the matter must not be left to the girl's propriety. i never knew the propriety of a girl of that sort to be fit to be depended upon yet. if you wish to save the whole family from ruin, you must take steps to keep her away from greshamsbury now at once. now is the time; now that frank is to be away. where so much, so very much depends on a young man's marrying money, not one day ought to be lost." instigated in this manner, lady arabella resolved to open her mind to the doctor, and to make it intelligible to him that, under present circumstances, mary's visits at greshamsbury had better be discontinued. she would have given much, however, to have escaped this business. she had in her time tried one or two falls with the doctor, and she was conscious that she had never yet got the better of him: and then she was in a slight degree afraid of mary herself. she had a presentiment that it would not be so easy to banish mary from greshamsbury: she was not sure that that young lady would not boldly assert her right to her place in the school-room; appeal loudly to the squire, and perhaps, declare her determination of marrying the heir, out before them all. the squire would be sure to uphold her in that, or in anything else. and then, too, there would be the greatest difficulty in wording her request to the doctor; and lady arabella was sufficiently conscious of her own weakness to know that she was not always very good at words. but the doctor, when hard pressed, was never at fault: he could say the bitterest things in the quietest tone, and lady arabella had a great dread of these bitter things. what, also, if he should desert her himself; withdraw from her his skill and knowledge of her bodily wants and ailments now that he was so necessary to her? she had once before taken that measure of sending to barchester for dr fillgrave, but it had answered with her hardly better than with sir roger and lady scatcherd. when, therefore, lady arabella found herself alone with the doctor, and called upon to say out her say in what best language she could select for the occasion, she did not feel to be very much at her ease. there was that about the man before her which cowed her, in spite of her being the wife of the squire, the sister of an earl, a person quite acknowledged to be of the great world, and the mother of the very important young man whose affections were now about to be called in question. nevertheless, there was the task to be done, and with a mother's courage she essayed it. "dr thorne," said she, as soon as their medical conference was at an end, "i am very glad you came over to-day, for i had something special which i wanted to say to you:" so far she got, and then stopped; but, as the doctor did not seem inclined to give her any assistance, she was forced to flounder on as best she could. "something very particular indeed. you know what a respect and esteem, and i may say affection, we all have for you,"--here the doctor made a low bow--"and i may say for mary also;" here the doctor bowed himself again. "we have done what little we could to be pleasant neighbours, and i think you'll believe me when i say that i am a true friend to you and dear mary--" the doctor knew that something very unpleasant was coming, but he could not at all guess what might be its nature. he felt, however, that he must say something; so he expressed a hope that he was duly sensible of all the acts of kindness he had ever received from the squire and the family at large. "i hope, therefore, my dear doctor, you won't take amiss what i am going to say." "well, lady arabella, i'll endeavour not to do so." "i am sure i would not give any pain if i could help it, much less to you. but there are occasions, doctor, in which duty must be paramount; paramount to all other considerations, you know, and, certainly, this occasion is one of them." "but what is the occasion, lady arabella?" "i'll tell you, doctor. you know what frank's position is?" "frank's position! as regards what?" "why, his position in life; an only son, you know." "oh, yes; i know his position in that respect; an only son, and his father's heir; and a very fine fellow, he is. you have but one son, lady arabella, and you may well be proud of him." lady arabella sighed. she did not wish at the present moment to express herself as being in any way proud of frank. she was desirous rather, on the other hand, of showing that she was a good deal ashamed of him; only not quite so much ashamed of him as it behoved the doctor to be of his niece. "well, perhaps so; yes," said lady arabella, "he is, i believe, a very good young man, with an excellent disposition; but, doctor, his position is very precarious; and he is just at that time of life when every caution is necessary." to the doctor's ears, lady arabella was now talking of her son as a mother might of her infant when whooping-cough was abroad or croup imminent. "there is nothing on earth the matter with him, i should say," said the doctor. "he has every possible sign of perfect health." "oh yes; his health! yes, thank god, his health is good; that is a great blessing." and lady arabella thought of her four flowerets that had already faded. "i am sure i am most thankful to see him growing up so strong. but it is not that i mean, doctor." "then what is it, lady arabella?" "why, doctor, you know the squire's position with regard to money matters?" now the doctor undoubtedly did know the squire's position with regard to money matters,--knew it much better than did lady arabella; but he was by no means inclined to talk on that subject to her ladyship. he remained quite silent, therefore, although lady arabella's last speech had taken the form of a question. lady arabella was a little offended at this want of freedom on his part, and become somewhat sterner in her tone--a thought less condescending in her manner. "the squire has unfortunately embarrassed the property, and frank must look forward to inherit it with very heavy encumbrances; i fear very heavy indeed, though of what exact nature i am kept in ignorance." looking at the doctor's face, she perceived that there was no probability whatever that her ignorance would be enlightened by him. "and, therefore, it is highly necessary that frank should be very careful." "as to his private expenditure, you mean?" said the doctor. "no; not exactly that: though of course he must be careful as to that, too; that's of course. but that is not what i mean, doctor; his only hope of retrieving his circumstances is by marrying money." "with every other conjugal blessing that a man can have, i hope he may have that also." so the doctor replied with imperturbable face; but not the less did he begin to have a shade of suspicion of what might be the coming subject of the conference. it would be untrue to say that he had ever thought it probable that the young heir should fall in love with his niece; that he had ever looked forward to such a chance, either with complacency or with fear; nevertheless, the idea had of late passed through his mind. some word had fallen from mary, some closely watched expression of her eye, or some quiver in her lip when frank's name was mentioned, had of late made him involuntarily think that such might not be impossible; and then, when the chance of mary becoming the heiress to so large a fortune had been forced upon his consideration, he had been unable to prevent himself from building happy castles in the air, as he rode slowly home from boxall hill. but not a whit the more on that account was he prepared to be untrue to the squire's interest or to encourage a feeling which must be distasteful to all the squire's friends. "yes, doctor; he must marry money." "and worth, lady arabella; and a pure feminine heart; and youth and beauty. i hope he will marry them all." could it be possible, that in speaking of a pure feminine heart, and youth and beauty, and such like gewgaws, the doctor was thinking of his niece? could it be that he had absolutely made up his mind to foster and encourage this odious match? the bare idea made lady arabella wrathful, and her wrath gave her courage. "he must marry money, or he will be a ruined man. now, doctor, i am informed that things--words that is--have passed between him and mary which never ought to have been allowed." and now also the doctor was wrathful. "what things? what words?" said he, appearing to lady arabella as though he rose in his anger nearly a foot in altitude before her eyes. "what has passed between them? and who says so?" "doctor, there have been love-makings, you may take my word for it; love-makings of a very, very, very advanced description." this, the doctor could not stand. no, not for greshamsbury and its heir; not for the squire and all his misfortunes; not for lady arabella and the blood of all the de courcys could he stand quiet and hear mary thus accused. he sprang up another foot in height, and expanded equally in width as he flung back the insinuation. "who says so? whoever says so, whoever speaks of miss thorne in such language, says what is not true. i will pledge my word--" "my dear doctor, my dear doctor, what took place was quite clearly heard; there was no mistake about it, indeed." "what took place? what was heard?" "well, then, i don't want, you know, to make more of it than can be helped. the thing must be stopped, that is all." "what thing? speak out, lady arabella. i will not have mary's conduct impugned by innuendoes. what is it that eavesdroppers have heard?" "dr thorne, there have been no eavesdroppers." "and no talebearers either? will your ladyship oblige me by letting me know what is the accusation which you bring against my niece?" "there has been most positively an offer made, dr thorne." "and who made it?" "oh, of course i am not going to say but what frank must have been very imprudent. of course he has been to blame. there has been fault on both sides, no doubt." "i utterly deny it. i positively deny it. i know nothing of the circumstances; have heard nothing about it--" "then of course you can't say," said lady arabella. "i know nothing of the circumstance; have heard nothing about it," continued dr thorne; "but i do know my niece, and am ready to assert that there has not been fault on both sides. whether there has been any fault on any side, that i do not yet know." "i can assure you, dr thorne, that an offer was made by frank; such an offer cannot be without its allurements to a young lady circumstanced like your niece." "allurements!" almost shouted the doctor, and, as he did so, lady arabella stepped back a pace or two, retreating from the fire which shot out of his eyes. "but the truth is, lady arabella, you do not know my niece. if you will have the goodness to let me understand what it is that you desire i will tell you whether i can comply with your wishes." "of course it will be very inexpedient that the young people should be thrown together again;--for the present, i mean." "well!" "frank has now gone to courcy castle; and he talks of going from thence to cambridge. but he will doubtless be here, backwards and forwards; and perhaps it will be better for all parties--safer, that is, doctor--if miss thorne were to discontinue her visits to greshamsbury for a while." "very well!" thundered out the doctor. "her visits to greshamsbury shall be discontinued." "of course, doctor, this won't change the intercourse between us; between you and the family." "not change it!" said he. "do you think that i will break bread in a house from whence she has been ignominiously banished? do you think that i can sit down in friendship with those who have spoken of her as you have now spoken? you have many daughters; what would you say if i accused one of them as you have accused her?" "accused, doctor! no, i don't accuse her. but prudence, you know, does sometimes require us--" "very well; prudence requires you to look after those who belong to you; and prudence requires me to look after my one lamb. good morning, lady arabella." "but, doctor, you are not going to quarrel with us? you will come when we want you; eh! won't you?" quarrel! quarrel with greshamsbury! angry as he was, the doctor felt that he could ill bear to quarrel with greshamsbury. a man past fifty cannot easily throw over the ties that have taken twenty years to form, and wrench himself away from the various close ligatures with which, in such a period, he has become bound. he could not quarrel with the squire; he could ill bear to quarrel with frank; though he now began to conceive that frank had used him badly, he could not do so; he could not quarrel with the children, who had almost been born into his arms; nor even with the very walls, and trees, and grassy knolls with which he was so dearly intimate. he could not proclaim himself an enemy to greshamsbury; and yet he felt that fealty to mary required of him that, for the present, he should put on an enemy's guise. "if you want me, lady arabella, and send for me, i will come to you; otherwise i will, if you please, share the sentence which has been passed on mary. i will now wish you good morning." and then bowing low to her, he left the room and the house, and sauntered slowly away to his own home. what was he to say to mary? he walked very slowly down the greshamsbury avenue, with his hands clasped behind his back, thinking over the whole matter; thinking of it, or rather trying to think of it. when a man's heart is warmly concerned in any matter, it is almost useless for him to endeavour to think of it. instead of thinking, he gives play to his feelings, and feeds his passion by indulging it. "allurements!" he said to himself, repeating lady arabella's words. "a girl circumstanced like my niece! how utterly incapable is such a woman as that to understand the mind, and heart, and soul of such a one as mary thorne!" and then his thoughts recurred to frank. "it has been ill done of him; ill done of him: young as he is, he should have had feeling enough to have spared me this. a thoughtless word has been spoken which will now make her miserable!" and then, as he walked on, he could not divest his mind of the remembrance of what had passed between him and sir roger. what, if after all, mary should become the heiress to all that money? what, if she should become, in fact, the owner of greshamsbury? for, indeed it seemed too possible that sir roger's heir would be the owner of greshamsbury. the idea was one which he disliked to entertain, but it would recur to him again and again. it might be, that a marriage between his niece and the nominal heir to the estate might be of all the matches the best for young gresham to make. how sweet would be the revenge, how glorious the retaliation on lady arabella, if, after what had now been said, it should come to pass that all the difficulties of greshamsbury should be made smooth by mary's love, and mary's hand! it was a dangerous subject on which to ponder; and, as he sauntered down the road, the doctor did his best to banish it from his mind,--not altogether successfully. but as he went he again encountered beatrice. "tell mary i went to her to-day," said she, "and that i expect her up here to-morrow. if she does not come, i shall be savage." "do not be savage," said he, putting out his hand, "even though she should not come." beatrice immediately saw that his manner with her was not playful, and that his face was serious. "i was only in joke," said she; "of course i was only joking. but is anything the matter? is mary ill?" "oh, no; not ill at all; but she will not be here to-morrow, nor probably for some time. but, miss gresham, you must not be savage with her." beatrice tried to interrogate him, but he would not wait to answer her questions. while she was speaking he bowed to her in his usual old-fashioned courteous way, and passed on out of hearing. "she will not come up for some time," said beatrice to herself. "then mamma must have quarrelled with her." and at once in her heart she acquitted her friend of all blame in the matter, whatever it might be, and condemned her mother unheard. the doctor, when he arrived at his own house, had in nowise made up his mind as to the manner in which he would break the matter to mary; but by the time that he had reached the drawing-room, he had made up his mind to this, that he would put off the evil hour till the morrow. he would sleep on the matter--lie awake on it, more probably--and then at breakfast, as best he could, tell her what had been said of her. mary that evening was more than usually inclined to be playful. she had not been quite certain till the morning, whether frank had absolutely left greshamsbury, and had, therefore, preferred the company of miss oriel to going up to the house. there was a peculiar cheerfulness about her friend patience, a feeling of satisfaction with the world and those in it, which mary always shared with her; and now she had brought home to the doctor's fireside, in spite of her young troubles, a smiling face, if not a heart altogether happy. "uncle," she said at last, "what makes you so sombre? shall i read to you?" "no; not to-night, dearest." "why, uncle; what is the matter?" "nothing, nothing." "ah, but it is something, and you shall tell me;" getting up, she came over to his arm-chair, and leant over his shoulder. he looked at her for a minute in silence, and then, getting up from his chair, passed his arm round her waist, and pressed her closely to his heart. "my darling!" he said, almost convulsively. "my best own, truest darling!" and mary, looking up into his face, saw that big tears were running down his cheeks. but still he told her nothing that night. chapter xv courcy when frank gresham expressed to his father an opinion that courcy castle was dull, the squire, as may be remembered, did not pretend to differ from him. to men such as the squire, and such as the squire's son, courcy castle was dull. to what class of men it would not be dull the author is not prepared to say; but it may be presumed that the de courcys found it to their liking, or they would have made it other than it was. the castle itself was a huge brick pile, built in the days of william iii, which, though they were grand for days of the construction of the constitution, were not very grand for architecture of a more material description. it had, no doubt, a perfect right to be called a castle, as it was entered by a castle-gate which led into a court, the porter's lodge for which was built as it were into the wall; there were attached to it also two round, stumpy adjuncts, which were, perhaps properly, called towers, though they did not do much in the way of towering; and, moreover, along one side of the house, over what would otherwise have been the cornice, there ran a castellated parapet, through the assistance of which, the imagination no doubt was intended to supply the muzzles of defiant artillery. but any artillery which would have so presented its muzzle must have been very small, and it may be doubted whether even a bowman could have obtained shelter there. the grounds about the castle were not very inviting, nor, as grounds, very extensive; though, no doubt, the entire domain was such as suited the importance of so puissant a nobleman as earl de courcy. what, indeed, should have been the park was divided out into various large paddocks. the surface was flat and unbroken; and though there were magnificent elm-trees standing in straight lines, like hedgerows, the timber had not that beautiful, wild, scattered look which generally gives the great charm to english scenery. the town of courcy--for the place claimed to rank as a town--was in many particulars like the castle. it was built of dingy-red brick--almost more brown than red--and was solid, dull-looking, ugly and comfortable. it consisted of four streets, which were formed by two roads crossing each other, making at the point of junction a centre for the town. here stood the red lion; had it been called the brown lion, the nomenclature would have been more strictly correct; and here, in the old days of coaching, some life had been wont to stir itself at those hours in the day and night when the freetraders, tallyhoes, and royal mails changed their horses. but now there was a railway station a mile and a half distant, and the moving life of the town of courcy was confined to the red lion omnibus, which seemed to pass its entire time in going up and down between the town and the station, quite unembarrassed by any great weight of passengers. there were, so said the courcyites when away from courcy, excellent shops in the place; but they were not the less accustomed, when at home among themselves, to complain to each other of the vile extortion with which they were treated by their neighbours. the ironmonger, therefore, though he loudly asserted that he could beat bristol in the quality of his wares in one direction, and undersell gloucester in another, bought his tea and sugar on the sly in one of those larger towns; and the grocer, on the other hand, equally distrusted the pots and pans of home production. trade, therefore, at courcy, had not thriven since the railway had opened: and, indeed, had any patient inquirer stood at the cross through one entire day, counting customers who entered the neighbouring shops, he might well have wondered that any shops in courcy could be kept open. and how changed has been the bustle of that once noisy inn to the present death-like silence of its green courtyard! there, a lame ostler crawls about with his hands thrust into the capacious pockets of his jacket, feeding on memory. that weary pair of omnibus jades, and three sorry posters, are all that now grace those stables where horses used to be stalled in close contiguity by the dozen; where twenty grains apiece, abstracted from every feed of oats consumed during the day, would have afforded a daily quart to the lucky pilferer. come, my friend, and discourse with me. let us know what are thy ideas of the inestimable benefits which science has conferred on us in these, our latter days. how dost thou, among others, appreciate railways and the power of steam, telegraphs, telegrams, and our new expresses? but indifferently, you say. "time was i've zeed vifteen pair o' 'osses go out of this 'ere yard in vour-and-twenty hour; and now there be'ant vifteen, no, not ten, in vour-and-twenty days! there was the duik--not this 'un; he be'ant no gude; but this 'un's vather--why, when he'd come down the road, the cattle did be a-going, vour days an eend. here'd be the tooter and the young gen'lmen, and the governess and the young leddies, and then the servants--they'd be al'ays the grandest folk of all--and then the duik and the doochess--lord love 'ee, zur; the money did fly in them days! but now--" and the feeling of scorn and contempt which the lame ostler was enabled by his native talent to throw into the word "now," was quite as eloquent against the power of steam as anything that has been spoken at dinners, or written in pamphlets by the keenest admirers of latter-day lights. "why, luke at this 'ere town," continued he of the sieve, "the grass be a-growing in the very streets;--that can't be no gude. why, luke 'ee here, zur; i do be a-standing at this 'ere gateway, just this way, hour arter hour, and my heyes is hopen mostly;--i zees who's a-coming and who's a-going. nobody's a-coming and nobody's a-going; that can't be no gude. luke at that there homnibus; why, darn me--" and now, in his eloquence at this peculiar point, my friend became more loud and powerful than ever--"why, darn me, if maister harns enough with that there bus to put hiron on them 'osses' feet, i'll--be--blowed!" and as he uttered this hypothetical denunciation on himself he spoke very slowly, bringing out every word as it were separately, and lowering himself at his knees at every sound, moving at the same time his right hand up and down. when he had finished, he fixed his eyes upon the ground, pointing downwards, as if there was to be the site of his doom if the curse that he had called down upon himself should ever come to pass; and then, waiting no further converse, he hobbled away, melancholy, to his deserted stables. oh, my friend! my poor lame friend! it will avail nothing to tell thee of liverpool and manchester; of the glories of glasgow, with her flourishing banks; of london, with its third millions of inhabitants; of the great things which commerce is doing for this nation of thine! what is commerce to thee, unless it be commerce in posting on that worn-out, all but useless great western turnpike-road? there is nothing left for thee but to be carted away as rubbish--for thee and for many of us in these now prosperous days; oh, my melancholy, care-ridden friend! courcy castle was certainly a dull place to look at, and frank, in his former visits, had found that the appearance did not belie the reality. he had been but little there when the earl had been at courcy; and as he had always felt from his childhood a peculiar distaste to the governance of his aunt the countess, this perhaps may have added to his feeling of dislike. now, however, the castle was to be fuller than he had ever before known it; the earl was to be at home; there was some talk of the duke of omnium coming for a day or two, though that seemed doubtful; there was some faint doubt of lord porlock; mr moffat, intent on the coming election--and also, let us hope, on his coming bliss--was to be one of the guests; and there was also to be the great miss dunstable. frank, however, found that those grandees were not expected quite immediately. "i might go back to greshamsbury for three or four days as she is not to be here," he said naïvely to his aunt, expressing, with tolerable perspicuity, his feeling, that he regarded his visit to courcy castle quite as a matter of business. but the countess would hear of no such arrangement. now that she had got him, she was not going to let him fall back into the perils of miss thorne's intrigues, or even of miss thorne's propriety. "it is quite essential," she said, "that you should be here a few days before her, so that she may see that you are at home." frank did not understand the reasoning; but he felt himself unable to rebel, and he therefore, remained there, comforting himself, as best he might, with the eloquence of the honourable george, and the sporting humours of the honourable john. mr moffat's was the earliest arrival of any importance. frank had not hitherto made the acquaintance of his future brother-in-law, and there was, therefore, some little interest in the first interview. mr moffat was shown into the drawing-room before the ladies had gone up to dress, and it so happened that frank was there also. as no one else was in the room but his sister and two of his cousins, he had expected to see the lovers rush into each other's arms. but mr moffat restrained his ardour, and miss gresham seemed contented that he should do so. he was a nice, dapper man, rather above the middle height, and good-looking enough had he had a little more expression in his face. he had dark hair, very nicely brushed, small black whiskers, and a small black moustache. his boots were excellently well made, and his hands were very white. he simpered gently as he took hold of augusta's fingers, and expressed a hope that she had been quite well since last he had the pleasure of seeing her. then he touched the hands of the lady rosina and the lady margaretta. "mr moffat, allow me to introduce you to my brother?" "most happy, i'm sure," said mr moffat, again putting out his hand, and allowing it to slip through frank's grasp, as he spoke in a pretty, mincing voice: "lady arabella quite well?--and your father, and sisters? very warm isn't it?--quite hot in town, i do assure you." "i hope augusta likes him," said frank to himself, arguing on the subject exactly as his father had done; "but for an engaged lover he seems to me to have a very queer way with him." frank, poor fellow! who was of a coarser mould, would, under such circumstances, have been all for kissing--sometimes, indeed, even under other circumstances. mr moffat did not do much towards improving the conviviality of the castle. he was, of course, a good deal intent upon his coming election, and spent much of his time with mr nearthewinde, the celebrated parliamentary agent. it behoved him to be a good deal at barchester, canvassing the electors and undermining, by mr nearthewinde's aid, the mines for blowing him out of his seat, which were daily being contrived by mr closerstil, on behalf of sir roger. the battle was to be fought on the internecine principle, no quarter being given or taken on either side; and of course this gave mr moffat as much as he knew how to do. mr closerstil was well known to be the sharpest man at his business in all england, unless the palm should be given to his great rival mr nearthewinde; and in this instance he was to be assisted in the battle by a very clever young barrister, mr romer, who was an admirer of sir roger's career in life. some people in barchester, when they saw sir roger, closerstil and mr romer saunter down the high street, arm in arm, declared that it was all up with poor moffat; but others, in whose head the bump of veneration was strongly pronounced, whispered to each other that great shibboleth--the name of the duke of omnium--and mildly asserted it to be impossible that the duke's nominee should be thrown out. our poor friend the squire did not take much interest in the matter, except in so far that he liked his son-in-law to be in parliament. both the candidates were in his eye equally wrong in their opinions. he had long since recanted those errors of his early youth, which had cost him his seat for the county, and had abjured the de courcy politics. he was staunch enough as a tory now that his being so would no longer be of the slightest use to him; but the duke of omnium, and lord de courcy, and mr moffat were all whigs; whigs, however, differing altogether in politics from sir roger, who belonged to the manchester school, and whose pretensions, through some of those inscrutable twists in modern politics which are quite unintelligible to the minds of ordinary men outside the circle, were on this occasion secretly favoured by the high conservative party. how mr moffat, who had been brought into the political world by lord de courcy, obtained all the weight of the duke's interest i never could exactly learn. for the duke and the earl did not generally act as twin-brothers on such occasions. there is a great difference in whigs. lord de courcy was a court whig, following the fortunes, and enjoying, when he could get it, the sunshine of the throne. he was a sojourner at windsor, and a visitor at balmoral. he delighted in gold sticks, and was never so happy as when holding some cap of maintenance or spur of precedence with due dignity and acknowledged grace in the presence of all the court. his means had been somewhat embarrassed by early extravagance; and, therefore, as it was to his taste to shine, it suited him to shine at the cost of the court rather than at his own. the duke of omnium was a whig of a very different calibre. he rarely went near the presence of majesty, and when he did do so, he did it merely as a disagreeable duty incident to his position. he was very willing that the queen should be queen so long as he was allowed to be duke of omnium. nor had he begrudged prince albert any of his honours till he was called prince consort. then, indeed, he had, to his own intimate friends, made some remark in three words, not flattering to the discretion of the prime minister. the queen might be queen so long as he was duke of omnium. their revenues were about the same, with the exception, that the duke's were his own, and he could do what he liked with them. this remembrance did not unfrequently present itself to the duke's mind. in person, he was a plain, thin man, tall, but undistinguished in appearance, except that there was a gleam of pride in his eye which seemed every moment to be saying, "i am the duke of omnium." he was unmarried, and, if report said true, a great debauchee; but if so he had always kept his debaucheries decently away from the eyes of the world, and was not, therefore, open to that loud condemnation which should fall like a hailstorm round the ears of some more open sinners. why these two mighty nobles put their heads together in order that the tailor's son should represent barchester in parliament, i cannot explain. mr moffat, was, as has been said, lord de courcy's friend; and it may be that lord de courcy was able to repay the duke for his kindness, as touching barchester, with some little assistance in the county representation. the next arrival was that of the bishop of barchester; a meek, good, worthy man, much attached to his wife, and somewhat addicted to his ease. she, apparently, was made in a different mould, and by her energy and diligence atoned for any want in those qualities which might be observed in the bishop himself. when asked his opinion, his lordship would generally reply by saying--"mrs proudie and i think so and so." but before that opinion was given, mrs proudie would take up the tale, and she, in her more concise manner, was not wont to quote the bishop as having at all assisted in the consideration of the subject. it was well known in barsetshire that no married pair consorted more closely or more tenderly together; and the example of such conjugal affection among persons in the upper classes is worth mentioning, as it is believed by those below them, and too often with truth, that the sweet bliss of connubial reciprocity is not so common as it should be among the magnates of the earth. but the arrival even of the bishop and his wife did not make the place cheerful to frank gresham, and he began to long for miss dunstable, in order that he might have something to do. he could not get on at all with mr moffat. he had expected that the man would at once have called him frank, and that he would have called the man gustavus; but they did not even get beyond mr moffat and mr gresham. "very hot in barchester to-day, very," was the nearest approach to conversation which frank could attain with him; and as far as he, frank, could see, augusta never got much beyond it. there might be _tête-à-tête_ meetings between them, but, if so, frank could not detect when they took place; and so, opening his heart at last to the honourable george, for the want of a better confidant, he expressed his opinion that his future brother-in-law was a muff. "a muff--i believe you too. what do you think now? i have been with him and nearthewinde in barchester these three days past, looking up the electors' wives and daughters, and that kind of thing." "i say, if there is any fun in it you might as well take me with you." "oh, there is not much fun; they are mostly so slobbered and dirty. a sharp fellow in nearthewinde, and knows what he is about well." "does he look up the wives and daughters too?" "oh, he goes on every tack, just as it's wanted. but there was moffat, yesterday, in a room behind the milliner's shop near cuthbert's gate; i was with him. the woman's husband is one of the choristers and an elector, you know, and moffat went to look for his vote. now, there was no one there when we got there but the three young women, the wife, that is, and her two girls--very pretty women they are too." "i say, george, i'll go and get the chorister's vote for moffat; i ought to do it as he's to be my brother-in-law." "but what do you think moffat said to the women?" "can't guess--he didn't kiss any of them, did he?" "kiss any of them? no; but he begged to give them his positive assurance as a gentleman, that if he was returned to parliament he would vote for an extension of the franchise, and the admission of the jews into parliament." "well, he is a muff!" said frank. chapter xvi miss dunstable at last the great miss dunstable came. frank, when he heard that the heiress had arrived, felt some slight palpitation at his heart. he had not the remotest idea in the world of marrying her; indeed, during the last week past, absence had so heightened his love for mary thorne that he was more than ever resolved that he would never marry any one but her. he knew that he had made her a formal offer for her hand, and that it behoved him to keep to it, let the charms of miss dunstable be what they might; but, nevertheless, he was prepared to go through a certain amount of courtship, in obedience to his aunt's behests, and he felt a little nervous at being brought up in that way, face to face, to do battle with two hundred thousand pounds. "miss dunstable has arrived," said his aunt to him, with great complacency, on his return from an electioneering visit to the beauties of barchester which he made with his cousin george on the day after the conversation which was repeated at the end of the last chapter. "she has arrived, and is looking remarkably well; she has quite a _distingué_ air, and will grace any circle to which she may be introduced. i will introduce you before dinner, and you can take her out." "i couldn't propose to her to-night, i suppose?" said frank, maliciously. "don't talk nonsense, frank," said the countess, angrily. "i am doing what i can for you, and taking on an infinity of trouble to endeavour to place you in an independent position; and now you talk nonsense to me." frank muttered some sort of apology, and then went to prepare himself for the encounter. miss dunstable, though she had come by train, had brought with her her own carriage, her own horses, her own coachman and footman, and her own maid, of course. she had also brought with her half a score of trunks, full of wearing apparel; some of them nearly as rich as that wonderful box which was stolen a short time since from the top of a cab. but she brought all these things, not in the least because she wanted them herself, but because she had been instructed to do so. frank was a little more than ordinarily careful in dressing. he spoilt a couple of white neckties before he was satisfied, and was rather fastidious as the set of his hair. there was not much of the dandy about him in the ordinary meaning of the word; but he felt that it was incumbent on him to look his best, seeing what it was expected that he should now do. he certainly did not mean to marry miss dunstable; but as he was to have a flirtation with her, it was well that he should do so under the best possible auspices. when he entered the drawing-room he perceived at once that the lady was there. she was seated between the countess and mrs proudie; and mammon, in her person, was receiving worship from the temporalities and spiritualities of the land. he tried to look unconcerned, and remained in the farther part of the room, talking with some of his cousins; but he could not keep his eye off the future possible mrs frank gresham; and it seemed as though she was as much constrained to scrutinise him as he felt to scrutinise her. lady de courcy had declared that she was looking extremely well, and had particularly alluded to her _distingué_ appearance. frank at once felt that he could not altogether go along with his aunt in this opinion. miss dunstable might be very well; but her style of beauty was one which did not quite meet with his warmest admiration. in age she was about thirty; but frank, who was no great judge in these matters, and who was accustomed to have very young girls round him, at once put her down as being ten years older. she had a very high colour, very red cheeks, a large mouth, big white teeth, a broad nose, and bright, small, black eyes. her hair also was black and bright, but very crisp, and strong, and was combed close round her face in small crisp black ringlets. since she had been brought out into the fashionable world some one of her instructors in fashion had given her to understand that curls were not the thing. "they'll always pass muster," miss dunstable had replied, "when they are done up with bank-notes." it may therefore be presumed that miss dunstable had a will of her own. "frank," said the countess, in the most natural and unpremeditated way, as soon as she caught her nephew's eye, "come here. i want to introduce you to miss dunstable." the introduction was then made. "mrs proudie, would you excuse me? i must positively go and say a few words to mrs barlow, or the poor woman will feel herself huffed;" and, so saying, she moved off, leaving the coast clear for master frank. he of course slipped into his aunt's place, and expressed a hope that miss dunstable was not fatigued by her journey. "fatigued!" said she, in a voice rather loud, but very good-humoured, and not altogether unpleasing; "i am not to be fatigued by such a thing as that. why, in may we came through all the way from rome to paris without sleeping--that is, without sleeping in a bed--and we were upset three times out of the sledges coming over the simplon. it was such fun! why, i wasn't to say tired even then." "all the way from rome to paris!" said mrs proudie--in a tone of astonishment, meant to flatter the heiress--"and what made you in such a hurry?" "something about money matters," said miss dunstable, speaking rather louder than usual. "something to do with the ointment. i was selling the business just then." mrs proudie bowed, and immediately changed the conversation. "idolatry is, i believe, more rampant than ever in rome," said she; "and i fear there is no such thing at all as sabbath observance." "oh, not in the least," said miss dunstable, with rather a joyous air; "sundays and week-days are all the same there." "how very frightful!" said mrs proudie. "but it's a delicious place. i do like rome, i must say. and as for the pope, if he wasn't quite so fat he would be the nicest old fellow in the world. have you been in rome, mrs proudie?" mrs proudie sighed as she replied in the negative, and declared her belief that danger was to be apprehended from such visits. "oh!--ah!--the malaria--of course--yes; if you go at the wrong time; but nobody is such a fool as that now." "i was thinking of the soul, miss dunstable," said the lady-bishop, in her peculiar, grave tone. "a place where there are no sabbath observances--" "and have you been in rome, mr gresham?" said the young lady, turning almost abruptly round to frank, and giving a somewhat uncivilly cold shoulder to mrs proudie's exhortation. she, poor lady, was forced to finish her speech to the honourable george, who was standing near to her. he having an idea that bishops and all their belongings, like other things appertaining to religion, should, if possible, be avoided; but if that were not possible, should be treated with much assumed gravity, immediately put on a long face, and remarked that--"it was a deuced shame: for his part he always liked to see people go quiet on sundays. the parsons had only one day out of seven, and he thought they were fully entitled to that." satisfied with which, or not satisfied, mrs proudie had to remain silent till dinner-time. "no," said frank; "i never was in rome. i was in paris once, and that's all." and then, feeling a not unnatural anxiety as to the present state of miss dunstable's worldly concerns, he took an opportunity of falling back on that part of the conversation which mrs proudie had exercised so much tact in avoiding. "and was it sold?" said he. "sold! what sold?" "you were saying about the business--that you came back without going to bed because of selling the business." "oh!--the ointment. no; it was not sold. after all, the affair did not come off, and i might have remained and had another roll in the snow. wasn't it a pity?" "so," said frank to himself, "if i should do it, i should be owner of the ointment of lebanon: how odd!" and then he gave her his arm and handed her down to dinner. he certainly found that the dinner was less dull than any other he had sat down to at courcy castle. he did not fancy that he should ever fall in love with miss dunstable; but she certainly was an agreeable companion. she told him of her tour, and the fun she had in her journeys; how she took a physician with her for the benefit of her health, whom she generally was forced to nurse; of the trouble it was to her to look after and wait upon her numerous servants; of the tricks she played to bamboozle people who came to stare at her; and, lastly, she told him of a lover who followed her from country to country, and was now in hot pursuit of her, having arrived in london the evening before she left. "a lover?" said frank, somewhat startled by the suddenness of the confidence. "a lover--yes--mr gresham; why should i not have a lover?" "oh!--no--of course not. i dare say you have a good many." "only three or four, upon my word; that is, only three or four that i favour. one is not bound to reckon the others, you know." "no, they'd be too numerous. and so you have three whom you favour, miss dunstable;" and frank sighed, as though he intended to say that the number was too many for his peace of mind. "is not that quite enough? but of course i change them sometimes;" and she smiled on him very good-naturedly. "it would be very dull if i were always to keep the same." "very dull indeed," said frank, who did not quite know what to say. "do you think the countess would mind my having one or two of them here if i were to ask her?" "i am quite sure she would," said frank, very briskly. "she would not approve of it at all; nor should i." "you--why, what have you to do with it?" "a great deal--so much so that i positively forbid it; but, miss dunstable--" "well, mr gresham?" "we will contrive to make up for the deficiency as well as possible, if you will permit us to do so. now for myself--" "well, for yourself?" at this moment the countess gleamed her accomplished eye round the table, and miss dunstable rose from her chair as frank was preparing his attack, and accompanied the other ladies into the drawing-room. his aunt, as she passed him, touched his arm lightly with her fan, so lightly that the action was perceived by no one else. but frank well understood the meaning of the touch, and appreciated the approbation which it conveyed. he merely blushed, however, at his own dissimulation; for he felt more certain that ever that he would never marry miss dunstable, and he felt nearly equally sure that miss dunstable would never marry him. lord de courcy was now at home; but his presence did not add much hilarity to the claret-cup. the young men, however, were very keen about the election, and mr nearthewinde, who was one of the party, was full of the most sanguine hopes. "i have done one good at any rate," said frank; "i have secured the chorister's vote." "what! bagley?" said nearthewinde. "the fellow kept out of my way, and i couldn't see him." "i haven't exactly seen him," said frank; "but i've got his vote all the same." "what! by a letter?" said mr moffat. "no, not by letter," said frank, speaking rather low as he looked at the bishop and the earl; "i got a promise from his wife: i think he's a little in the henpecked line." "ha--ha--ha!" laughed the good bishop, who, in spite of frank's modulation of voice, had overheard what had passed. "is that the way you manage electioneering matters in our cathedral city? ha--ha--ha!" the idea of one of his choristers being in the henpecked line was very amusing to the bishop. "oh, i got a distinct promise," said frank, in his pride; and then added incautiously, "but i had to order bonnets for the whole family." "hush-h-h-h-h!" said mr nearthewinde, absolutely flabbergasted by such imprudence on the part of one of his client's friends. "i am quite sure that your order had no effect, and was intended to have no effect on mr bagley's vote." "is that wrong?" said frank; "upon my word i thought that it was quite legitimate." "one should never admit anything in electioneering matters, should one?" said george, turning to mr nearthewinde. "very little, mr de courcy; very little indeed--the less the better. it's hard to say in these days what is wrong and what is not. now, there's reddypalm, the publican, the man who has the brown bear. well, i was there, of course: he's a voter, and if any man in barchester ought to feel himself bound to vote for a friend of the duke's, he ought. now, i was so thirsty when i was in that man's house that i was dying for a glass of beer; but for the life of me i didn't dare order one." "why not?" said frank, whose mind was only just beginning to be enlightened by the great doctrine of purity of election as practised in english provincial towns. "oh, closerstil had some fellow looking at me; why, i can't walk down that town without having my very steps counted. i like sharp fighting myself, but i never go so sharp as that." "nevertheless i got bagley's vote," said frank, persisting in praise of his own electioneering prowess; "and you may be sure of this, mr nearthewinde, none of closerstil's men were looking at me when i got it." "who'll pay for the bonnets, frank?" said george. "oh, i'll pay for them if moffat won't. i think i shall keep an account there; they seem to have good gloves and those sort of things." "very good, i have no doubt," said george. "i suppose your lordship will be in town soon after the meeting of parliament?" said the bishop, questioning the earl. "oh! yes; i suppose i must be there. i am never allowed to remain very long in quiet. it is a great nuisance; but it is too late to think of that now." "men in high places, my lord, never were, and never will be, allowed to consider themselves. they burn their torches not in their own behalf," said the bishop, thinking, perhaps, as much of himself as he did of his noble friend. "rest and quiet are the comforts of those who have been content to remain in obscurity." "perhaps so," said the earl, finishing his glass of claret with an air of virtuous resignation. "perhaps so." his own martyrdom, however, had not been severe, for the rest and quiet of home had never been peculiarly satisfactory to his tastes. soon after this they all went to the ladies. it was some little time before frank could find an opportunity of recommencing his allotted task with miss dunstable. she got into conversation with the bishop and some other people, and, except that he took her teacup and nearly managed to squeeze one of her fingers as he did so, he made very little further progress till towards the close of the evening. at last he found her so nearly alone as to admit of his speaking to her in his low confidential voice. "have you managed that matter with my aunt?" "what matter?" said miss dunstable; and her voice was not low, nor particularly confidential. "about those three or four gentlemen whom you wish to invite here?" "oh! my attendant knights! no, indeed; you gave me such very slight hope of success; besides, you said something about my not wanting them." "yes i did; i really think they'd be quite unnecessary. if you should want any one to defend you--" "at these coming elections, for instance." "then, or at any other time, there are plenty here who will be ready to stand up for you." "plenty! i don't want plenty: one good lance in the olden days was always worth more than a score of ordinary men-at-arms." "but you talked about three or four." "yes; but then you see, mr gresham, i have never yet found the one good lance--at least, not good enough to suit my ideas of true prowess." what could frank do but declare that he was ready to lay his own in rest, now and always in her behalf? his aunt had been quite angry with him, and had thought that he turned her into ridicule, when he spoke of making an offer to her guest that very evening; and yet here he was so placed that he had hardly an alternative. let his inward resolution to abjure the heiress be ever so strong, he was now in a position which allowed him no choice in the matter. even mary thorne could hardly have blamed him for saying, that so far as his own prowess went, it was quite at miss dunstable's service. had mary been looking on, she, perhaps, might have thought that he could have done so with less of that look of devotion which he threw into his eyes. "well, mr gresham, that's very civil--very civil indeed," said miss dunstable. "upon my word, if a lady wanted a true knight she might do worse than trust to you. only i fear that your courage is of so exalted a nature that you would be ever ready to do battle for any beauty who might be in distress--or, indeed, who might not. you could never confine your valour to the protection of one maiden." "oh, yes! but i would though if i liked her," said frank. "there isn't a more constant fellow in the world than i am in that way--you try me, miss dunstable." "when young ladies make such trials as that, they sometimes find it too late to go back if the trial doesn't succeed, mr gresham." "oh, of course there's always some risk. it's like hunting; there would be no fun if there was no danger." "but if you get a tumble one day you can retrieve your honour the next; but a poor girl, if she once trusts a man who says that he loves her, has no such chance. for myself, i would never listen to a man unless i'd known him for seven years at least." "seven years!" said frank, who could not help thinking that in seven years' time miss dunstable would be almost an old woman. "seven days is enough to know any person." "or perhaps seven hours; eh, mr gresham?" "seven hours--well, perhaps seven hours, if they happen to be a good deal together during the time." "there's nothing after all like love at first sight, is there, mr gresham?" frank knew well enough that she was quizzing him, and could not resist the temptation he felt to be revenged on her. "i am sure it's very pleasant," said he; "but as for myself, i have never experienced it." "ha, ha, ha!" laughed miss dunstable. "upon my word, mr gresham, i like you amazingly. i didn't expect to meet anybody down here that i should like half so much. you must come and see me in london, and i'll introduce you to my three knights," and so saying, she moved away and fell into conversation with some of the higher powers. frank felt himself to be rather snubbed, in spite of the strong expression which miss dunstable had made in his favour. it was not quite clear to him that she did not take him for a boy. he was, to be sure, avenged on her for that by taking her for a middle-aged woman; but, nevertheless, he was hardly satisfied with himself; "i might give her a heartache yet," said he to himself, "and she might find afterwards that she was left in the lurch with all her money." and so he retired, solitary, into a far part of the room, and began to think of mary thorne. as he did so, and as his eyes fell upon miss dunstable's stiff curls, he almost shuddered. and then the ladies retired. his aunt, with a good-natured smile on her face, come to him as she was leaving the room, the last of the bevy, and putting her hand on his arm, led him out into a small unoccupied chamber which opened from the grand saloon. "upon my word, master frank," said she, "you seem to be losing no time with the heiress. you have quite made an impression already." "i don't know much about that, aunt," said he, looking rather sheepish. "oh, i declare you have; but, frank, my dear boy, you should not precipitate these sort of things too much. it is well to take a little more time: it is more valued; and perhaps, you know, on the whole--" perhaps frank might know; but it was clear that lady de courcy did not: at any rate, she did not know how to express herself. had she said out her mind plainly, she would probably have spoken thus: "i want you to make love to miss dunstable, certainly; or at any rate to make an offer to her; but you need not make a show of yourself and of her, too, by doing it so openly as all that." the countess, however, did not want to reprimand her obedient nephew, and therefore did not speak out her thoughts. "well?" said frank, looking up into her face. "take a _leetle_ more time--that is all, my dear boy; slow and sure, you know;" so the countess again patted his arm and went away to bed. "old fool!" muttered frank to himself, as he returned to the room where the men were still standing. he was right in this: she was an old fool, or she would have seen that there was no chance whatever that her nephew and miss dunstable should become man and wife. "well frank," said the honourable john; "so you're after the heiress already." "he won't give any of us a chance," said the honourable george. "if he goes on in that way she'll be mrs gresham before a month is over. but, frank, what will she say of your manner of looking for barchester votes?" "mr gresham is certainly an excellent hand at canvassing," said mr nearthewinde; "only a little too open in his manner of proceeding." "i got that chorister for you at any rate," said frank. "and you would never have had him without me." "i don't think half so much of the chorister's vote as that of miss dunstable," said the honourable george: "that's the interest that is really worth looking after." "but, surely," said mr moffat, "miss dunstable has no property in barchester?" poor man! his heart was so intent on his election that he had not a moment to devote to the claims of love. chapter xvii the election and now the important day of the election had arrived, and some men's hearts beat quickly enough. to be or not to be a member of the british parliament is a question of very considerable moment in a man's mind. much is often said of the great penalties which the ambitious pay for enjoying this honour; of the tremendous expenses of elections; of the long, tedious hours of unpaid labour: of the weary days passed in the house; but, nevertheless, the prize is one very well worth the price paid for it--well worth any price that can be paid for it short of wading through dirt and dishonour. no other great european nation has anything like it to offer to the ambition of its citizens; for in no other great country of europe, not even in those which are free, has the popular constitution obtained, as with us, true sovereignty and power of rule. here it is so; and when a man lays himself out to be a member of parliament, he plays the highest game and for the highest stakes which the country affords. to some men, born silver-spooned, a seat in parliament comes as a matter of course. from the time of their early manhood they hardly know what it is not to sit there; and the honour is hardly appreciated, being too much a matter of course. as a rule, they never know how great a thing it is to be in parliament; though, when reverse comes, as reverses occasionally will come, they fully feel how dreadful it is to be left out. but to men aspiring to be members, or to those who having been once fortunate have again to fight the battle without assurance of success, the coming election must be matter of dread concern. oh, how delightful to hear that the long-talked-of rival has declined the contest, and that the course is clear! or to find by a short canvass that one's majority is safe, and the pleasures of crowing over an unlucky, friendless foe quite secured! no such gratification as this filled the bosom of mr moffat on the morning of the barchester election. to him had been brought no positive assurance of success by his indefatigable agent, mr nearthewinde. it was admitted on all sides that the contest would be a very close one; and mr nearthewinde would not do more than assert that they ought to win unless things went very wrong with them. mr nearthewinde had other elections to attend to, and had not been remaining at courcy castle ever since the coming of miss dunstable: but he had been there, and at barchester, as often as possible, and mr moffat was made greatly uneasy by reflecting how very high the bill would be. the two parties had outdone each other in the loudness of their assertions, that each would on his side conduct the election in strict conformity to law. there was to be no bribery. bribery! who, indeed, in these days would dare to bribe; to give absolute money for an absolute vote, and pay for such an article in downright palpable sovereigns? no. purity was much too rampant for that, and the means of detection too well understood. but purity was to be carried much further than this. there should be no treating; no hiring of two hundred voters to act as messengers at twenty shillings a day in looking up some four hundred other voters; no bands were to be paid for; no carriages furnished; no ribbons supplied. british voters were to vote, if vote they would, for the love and respect they bore to their chosen candidate. if so actuated, they would not vote, they might stay away; no other inducement would be offered. so much was said loudly--very loudly--by each party; but, nevertheless, mr moffat, early in these election days, began to have some misgivings about the bill. the proclaimed arrangement had been one exactly suitable to his taste; for mr moffat loved his money. he was a man in whose breast the ambition of being great in the world, and of joining himself to aristocratic people was continually at war with the great cost which such tastes occasioned. his last election had not been a cheap triumph. in one way or another money had been dragged from him for purposes which had been to his mind unintelligible; and when, about the middle of his first session, he had, with much grumbling, settled all demands, he had questioned with himself whether his whistle was worth its cost. he was therefore a great stickler for purity of election; although, had he considered the matter, he should have known that with him money was his only passport into that elysium in which he had now lived for two years. he probably did not consider it; for when, in those canvassing days immediately preceding the election, he had seen that all the beer-houses were open, and half the population was drunk, he had asked mr nearthewinde whether this violation of the treaty was taking place only on the part of his opponent, and whether, in such case, it would not be duly noticed with a view to a possible future petition. mr nearthewinde assured him triumphantly that half at least of the wallowing swine were his own especial friends; and that somewhat more than half of the publicans of the town were eagerly engaged in fighting his, mr moffat's battle. mr moffat groaned, and would have expostulated had mr nearthewinde been willing to hear him. but that gentleman's services had been put into requisition by lord de courcy rather than by the candidate. for the candidate he cared but little. to pay the bill would be enough for him. he, mr nearthewinde, was doing his business as he well knew how to do it; and it was not likely that he should submit to be lectured by such as mr moffat on a trumpery score of expense. it certainly did appear on the morning of the election as though some great change had been made in that resolution of the candidates to be very pure. from an early hour rough bands of music were to be heard in every part of the usually quiet town; carts and gigs, omnibuses and flys, all the old carriages from all the inn-yards, and every vehicle of any description which could be pressed into the service were in motion; if the horses and post-boys were not to be paid for by the candidates, the voters themselves were certainly very liberal in their mode of bringing themselves to the poll. the election district of the city of barchester extended for some miles on each side of the city, so that the omnibuses and flys had enough to do. beer was to be had at the public-houses, almost without question, by all who chose to ask for it; and rum and brandy were dispensed to select circles within the bars with equal profusion. as for ribbons, the mercers' shops must have been emptied of that article, as far as scarlet and yellow were concerned. scarlet was sir roger's colour, while the friends of mr moffat were decked with yellow. seeing what he did see, mr moffat might well ask whether there had not been a violation of the treaty of purity! at the time of this election there was some question whether england should go to war with all her energy; or whether it would not be better for her to save her breath to cool her porridge, and not meddle more than could be helped with foreign quarrels. the last view of the matter was advocated by sir roger, and his motto of course proclaimed the merits of domestic peace and quiet. "peace abroad and a big loaf at home," was consequently displayed on four or five huge scarlet banners, and carried waving over the heads of the people. but mr moffat was a staunch supporter of the government, who were already inclined to be belligerent, and "england's honour" was therefore the legend under which he selected to do battle. it may, however, be doubted whether there was in all barchester one inhabitant--let alone one elector--so fatuous as to suppose that england's honour was in any special manner dear to mr moffat; or that he would be a whit more sure of a big loaf than he was now, should sir roger happily become a member of the legislature. and then the fine arts were resorted to, seeing that language fell short in telling all that was found necessary to be told. poor sir roger's failing as regards the bottle was too well known; and it was also known that, in acquiring his title, he had not quite laid aside the rough mode of speech which he had used in his early years. there was, consequently, a great daub painted up on sundry walls, on which a navvy, with a pimply, bloated face, was to be seen standing on a railway bank, leaning on a spade holding a bottle in one hand, while he invited a comrade to drink. "come, jack, shall us have a drop of some'at short?" were the words coming out of the navvy's mouth; and under this was painted in huge letters, "the last new baronet." but mr moffat hardly escaped on easier terms. the trade by which his father had made his money was as well known as that of the railway contractor; and every possible symbol of tailordom was displayed in graphic portraiture on the walls and hoardings of the city. he was drawn with his goose, with his scissors, with his needle, with his tapes; he might be seen measuring, cutting, stitching, pressing, carrying home his bundle, and presenting his little bill; and under each of these representations was repeated his own motto: "england's honour." such were the pleasant little amenities with which the people of barchester greeted the two candidates who were desirous of the honour of serving them in parliament. the polling went on briskly and merrily. there were somewhat above nine hundred registered voters, of whom the greater portion recorded their votes early in the day. at two o'clock, according to sir roger's committee, the numbers were as follows:-- scatcherd moffat whereas, by the light afforded by mr moffat's people, they stood in a slightly different ratio to each other, being written thus:-- moffat scatcherd this naturally heightened the excitement, and gave additional delight to the proceedings. at half-past two it was agreed by both sides that mr moffat was ahead; the moffatites claiming a majority of twelve, and the scatcherdites allowing a majority of one. but by three o'clock sundry good men and true, belonging to the railway interest, had made their way to the booth in spite of the efforts of a band of roughs from courcy, and sir roger was again leading, by ten or a dozen, according to his own showing. one little transaction which took place in the earlier part of the day deserves to be recorded. there was in barchester an honest publican--honest as the world of publicans goes--who not only was possessed of a vote, but possessed also of a son who was a voter. he was one reddypalm, and in former days, before he had learned to appreciate the full value of an englishman's franchise, he had been a declared liberal and an early friend of roger scatcherd's. in latter days he had governed his political feelings with more decorum, and had not allowed himself to be carried away by such foolish fervour as he had evinced in his youth. on this special occasion, however, his line of conduct was so mysterious as for a while to baffle even those who knew him best. his house was apparently open in sir roger's interest. beer, at any rate, was flowing there as elsewhere; and scarlet ribbons going in--not, perhaps, in a state of perfect steadiness--came out more unsteady than before. still had mr reddypalm been deaf to the voice of that charmer, closerstil, though he had charmed with all his wisdom. mr reddypalm had stated, first his unwillingness to vote at all:--he had, he said, given over politics, and was not inclined to trouble his mind again with the subject; then he had spoken of his great devotion to the duke of omnium, under whose grandfathers his grandfather had been bred: mr nearthewinde had, as he said, been with him, and proved to him beyond a shadow of a doubt that it would show the deepest ingratitude on his part to vote against the duke's candidate. mr closerstil thought he understood all this, and sent more, and still more men to drink beer. he even caused--taking infinite trouble to secure secrecy in the matter--three gallons of british brandy to be ordered and paid for as the best french. but, nevertheless, mr reddypalm made no sign to show that he considered that the right thing had been done. on the evening before the election, he told one of mr closerstil's confidential men, that he had thought a good deal about it, and that he believed he should be constrained by his conscience to vote for mr moffat. we have said that mr closerstil was accompanied by a learned friend of his, one mr romer, a barrister, who was greatly interested in sir roger, and who, being a strong liberal, was assisting in the canvass with much energy. he, hearing how matters were likely to go with this conscientious publican, and feeling himself peculiarly capable of dealing with such delicate scruples, undertook to look into the case in hand. early, therefore, on the morning of the election, he sauntered down the cross street in which hung out the sign of the brown bear, and, as he expected, found mr reddypalm near his own door. now it was quite an understood thing that there was to be no bribery. this was understood by no one better than by mr romer, who had, in truth, drawn up many of the published assurances to that effect. and, to give him his due, he was fully minded to act in accordance with these assurances. the object of all the parties was to make it worth the voters' while to give their votes; but to do so without bribery. mr romer had repeatedly declared that he would have nothing to do with any illegal practising; but he had also declared that, as long as all was done according to law, he was ready to lend his best efforts to assist sir roger. how he assisted sir roger, and adhered to the law, will now be seen. oh, mr romer! mr romer! is it not the case with thee that thou "wouldst not play false, and yet wouldst wrongly win?" not in electioneering, mr romer, any more than in other pursuits, can a man touch pitch and not be defiled; as thou, innocent as thou art, wilt soon learn to thy terrible cost. "well, reddypalm," said mr romer, shaking hands with him. mr romer had not been equally cautious as nearthewinde, and had already drunk sundry glasses of ale at the brown bear, in the hope of softening the stern bear-warden. "how is it to be to-day? which is to be the man?" "if any one knows that, mr romer, you must be the man. a poor numbskull like me knows nothing of them matters. how should i? all i looks to, mr romer, is selling a trifle of drink now and then--selling it, and getting paid for it, you know, mr romer." "yes, that's important, no doubt. but come, reddypalm, such an old friend of sir roger as you are, a man he speaks of as one of his intimate friends, i wonder how you can hesitate about it? now with another man, i should think that he wanted to be paid for voting--" "oh, mr romer!--fie--fie--fie!" "i know it's not the case with you. it would be an insult to offer you money, even if money were going. i should not mention this, only as money is not going, neither on our side nor on the other, no harm can be done." "mr romer, if you speak of such a thing, you'll hurt me. i know the value of an englishman's franchise too well to wish to sell it. i would not demean myself so low; no, not though five-and-twenty pound a vote was going, as there was in the good old times--and that's not so long ago neither." "i am sure you wouldn't, reddypalm; i'm sure you wouldn't. but an honest man like you should stick to old friends. now, tell me," and putting his arm through reddypalm's, he walked with him into the passage of his own house; "now, tell me--is there anything wrong? it's between friends, you know. is there anything wrong?" "i wouldn't sell my vote for untold gold," said reddypalm, who was perhaps aware that untold gold would hardly be offered to him for it. "i am sure you would not," said mr romer. "but," said reddypalm, "a man likes to be paid his little bill." "surely, surely," said the barrister. "and i did say two years since, when your friend mr closerstil brought a friend of his down to stand here--it wasn't sir roger then--but when he brought a friend of his down, and when i drew two or three hogsheads of ale on their side, and when my bill was questioned and only half-settled, i did say that i wouldn't interfere with no election no more. and no more i will, mr romer--unless it be to give a quiet vote for the nobleman under whom i and mine always lived respectable." "oh!" said mr romer. "a man do like to have his bill paid, you know, mr romer." mr romer could not but acknowledge that this was a natural feeling on the part of an ordinary mortal publican. "it goes agin the grain with a man not to have his little bill paid, and specially at election time," again urged mr reddypalm. mr romer had not much time to think about it; but he knew well that matters were so nearly balanced, that the votes of mr reddypalm and his son were of inestimable value. "if it's only about your bill," said mr romer, "i'll see to have that settled. i'll speak to closerstil about that." "all right!" said reddypalm, seizing the young barrister's hand, and shaking it warmly; "all right!" and late in the afternoon when a vote or two became matter of intense interest, mr reddypalm and his son came up to the hustings and boldly tendered theirs for their old friend, sir roger. there was a great deal of eloquence heard in barchester on that day. sir roger had by this time so far recovered as to be able to go through the dreadfully hard work of canvassing and addressing the electors from eight in the morning till near sunset. a very perfect recovery, most men will say. yes; a perfect recovery as regarded the temporary use of his faculties, both physical and mental; though it may be doubted whether there can be any permanent recovery from such disease as his. what amount of brandy he consumed to enable him to perform this election work, and what lurking evil effect the excitement might have on him--of these matters no record was kept in the history of those proceedings. sir roger's eloquence was of a rough kind; but not perhaps the less operative on those for whom it was intended. the aristocracy of barchester consisted chiefly of clerical dignitaries, bishops, deans, prebendaries, and such like: on them and theirs it was not probable that anything said by sir roger would have much effect. those men would either abstain from voting, or vote for the railway hero, with the view of keeping out the de courcy candidate. then came the shopkeepers, who might also be regarded as a stiff-necked generation, impervious to electioneering eloquence. they would, generally, support mr moffat. but there was an inferior class of voters, ten-pound freeholders, and such like, who, at this period, were somewhat given to have an opinion of their own, and over them it was supposed that sir roger did obtain some power by his gift of talking. "now, gentlemen, will you tell me this," said he, bawling at the top of his voice from off the portico which graced the door of the dragon of wantley, at which celebrated inn sir roger's committee sat:--"who is mr moffat, and what has he done for us? there have been some picture-makers about the town this week past. the lord knows who they are; i don't. these clever fellows do tell you who i am, and what i've done. i ain't very proud of the way they've painted me, though there's something about it i ain't ashamed of either. see here," and he held up on one side of him one of the great daubs of himself--"just hold it there till i can explain it," and he handed the paper to one of his friends. "that's me," said sir roger, putting up his stick, and pointing to the pimply-nosed representation of himself. "hurrah! hur-r-rah! more power to you--we all know who you are, roger. you're the boy! when did you get drunk last?" such-like greetings, together with a dead cat which was flung at him from the crowd, and which he dexterously parried with his stick, were the answers which he received to this exordium. "yes," said he, quite undismayed by this little missile which had so nearly reached him: "that's me. and look here; this brown, dirty-looking broad streak here is intended for a railway; and that thing in my hand--not the right hand; i'll come to that presently--" "how about the brandy, roger?" "i'll come to that presently. i'll tell you about the brandy in good time. but that thing in my left hand is a spade. now, i never handled a spade, and never could; but, boys, i handled a chisel and mallet; and many a hundred block of stone has come out smooth from under that hand;" and sir roger lifted up his great broad palm wide open. "so you did, roger, and well we minds it." "the meaning, however, of that spade is to show that i made the railway. now i'm very much obliged to those gentlemen over at the white horse for putting up this picture of me. it's a true picture, and it tells you who i am. i did make that railway. i have made thousands of miles of railway; i am making thousands of miles of railways--some in europe, some in asia, some in america. it's a true picture," and he poked his stick through it and held it up to the crowd. "a true picture: but for that spade and that railway, i shouldn't be now here asking your votes; and, when next february comes, i shouldn't be sitting in westminster to represent you, as, by god's grace, i certainly will do. that tells you who i am. but now, will you tell me who mr moffat is?" "how about the brandy, roger?" "oh, yes, the brandy! i was forgetting that and the little speech that is coming out of my mouth--a deal shorter speech, and a better one than what i am making now. here, in the right hand you see a brandy bottle. well, boys, i'm not a bit ashamed of that; as long as a man does his work--and the spade shows that--it's only fair he should have something to comfort him. i'm always able to work, and few men work much harder. i'm always able to work, and no man has a right to expect more of me. i never expect more than that from those who work for me." "no more you don't, roger: a little drop's very good, ain't it, roger? keeps the cold from the stomach, eh, roger?" "then as to this speech, 'come, jack, let's have a drop of some'at short.' why, that's a good speech too. when i do drink i like to share with a friend; and i don't care how humble that friend is." "hurrah! more power. that's true too, roger; may you never be without a drop to wet your whistle." "they say i'm the last new baronet. well, i ain't ashamed of that; not a bit. when will mr moffat get himself made a baronet? no man can truly say i'm too proud of it. i have never stuck myself up; no, nor stuck my wife up either: but i don't see much to be ashamed of because the bigwigs chose to make a baronet of me." "nor, no more thee h'ant, roger. we'd all be barrownites if so be we knew the way." "but now, having polished off this bit of picture, let me ask you who mr moffat is? there are pictures enough about him, too; though heaven knows where they all come from. i think sir edwin landseer must have done this one of the goose; it is so deadly natural. look at it; there he is. upon my word, whoever did that ought to make his fortune at some of these exhibitions. here he is again, with a big pair of scissors. he calls himself 'england's honour;' what the deuce england's honour has to do with tailoring, i can't tell you: perhaps mr moffat can. but mind you, my friends, i don't say anything against tailoring: some of you are tailors, i dare say." "yes, we be," said a little squeaking voice from out of the crowd. "and a good trade it is. when i first knew barchester there were tailors here could lick any stone-mason in the trade; i say nothing against tailors. but it isn't enough for a man to be a tailor unless he's something else along with it. you're not so fond of tailors that you'll send one up to parliament merely because he is a tailor." "we won't have no tailors. no; nor yet no cabbaging. take a go of brandy, roger; you're blown." "no, i'm not blown yet. i've a deal more to say about mr moffat before i shall be blown. what has he done to entitle him to come here before you and ask you to send him to parliament? why; he isn't even a tailor. i wish he were. there's always some good in a fellow who knows how to earn his own bread. but he isn't a tailor; he can't even put a stitch in towards mending england's honour. his father was a tailor; not a barchester tailor, mind you, so as to give him any claim on your affections; but a london tailor. now the question is, do you want to send the son of a london tailor up to parliament to represent you?" "no, we don't; nor yet we won't either." "i rather think not. you've had him once, and what has he done for you? has he said much for you in the house of commons? why, he's so dumb a dog that he can't bark even for a bone. i'm told it's quite painful to hear him fumbling and mumbling and trying to get up a speech there over at the white horse. he doesn't belong to the city; he hasn't done anything for the city; and he hasn't the power to do anything for the city. then, why on earth does he come here? i'll tell you. the earl de courcy brings him. he's going to marry the earl de courcy's niece; for they say he's very rich--this tailor's son--only they do say also that he doesn't much like to spend his money. he's going to marry lord de courcy's niece, and lord de courcy wishes that his nephew should be in parliament. there, that's the claim which mr moffat has here on the people of barchester. he's lord de courcy's nominee, and those who feel themselves bound hand and foot, heart and soul, to lord de courcy, had better vote for him. such men have my leave. if there are enough of such at barchester to send him to parliament, the city in which i was born must be very much altered since i was a young man." and so finishing his speech, sir roger retired within, and recruited himself in the usual manner. such was the flood of eloquence at the dragon of wantly. at the white horse, meanwhile, the friends of the de courcy interest were treated perhaps to sounder political views; though not expressed in periods so intelligibly fluent as those of sir roger. mr moffat was a young man, and there was no knowing to what proficiency in the parliamentary gift of public talking he might yet attain; but hitherto his proficiency was not great. he had, however, endeavoured to make up by study for any want of readiness of speech, and had come to barchester daily, for the last four days, fortified with a very pretty harangue, which he had prepared for himself in the solitude of his chamber. on the three previous days matters had been allowed to progress with tolerable smoothness, and he had been permitted to deliver himself of his elaborate eloquence with few other interruptions than those occasioned by his own want of practice. but on this, the day of days, the barchesterian roughs were not so complaisant. it appeared to mr moffat, when he essayed to speak, that he was surrounded by enemies rather than friends; and in his heart he gave great blame to mr nearthewinde for not managing matters better for him. "men of barchester," he began, in a voice which was every now and then preternaturally loud, but which, at each fourth or fifth word, gave way from want of power, and descended to its natural weak tone. "men of barchester--electors and non-electors--" "we is hall electors; hall on us, my young kiddy." "electors and non-electors, i now ask your suffrages, not for the first time--" "oh! we've tried you. we know what you're made on. go on, snip; don't you let 'em put you down." "i've had the honour of representing you in parliament for the last two years and--" "and a deuced deal you did for us, didn't you?" "what could you expect from the ninth part of a man? never mind, snip--go on; don't you be put out by any of them. stick to your wax and thread like a man--like the ninth part of a man--go on a little faster, snip." "for the last two years--and--and--" here mr moffat looked round to his friends for some little support, and the honourable george, who stood close behind him, suggested that he had gone through it like a brick. "and--and i went through it like a brick," said mr moffat, with the gravest possible face, taking up in his utter confusion the words that were put into his mouth. "hurray!--so you did--you're the real brick. well done, snip; go it again with the wax and thread!" "i am a thorough-paced reformer," continued mr moffat, somewhat reassured by the effect of the opportune words which his friend had whispered into his ear. "a thorough-paced reformer--a thorough-paced reformer--" "go on, snip. we all know what that means." "a thorough-paced reformer--" "never mind your paces, man; but get on. tell us something new. we're all reformers, we are." poor mr moffat was a little thrown back. it wasn't so easy to tell these gentlemen anything new, harnessed as he was at this moment; so he looked back at his honourable supporter for some further hint. "say something about their daughters," whispered george, whose own flights of oratory were always on that subject. had he counselled mr moffat to say a word or two about the tides, his advice would not have been less to the purpose. "gentlemen," he began again--"you all know that i am a thorough-paced reformer--" "oh, drat your reform. he's a dumb dog. go back to your goose, snippy; you never were made for this work. go to courcy castle and reform that." mr moffat, grieved in his soul, was becoming inextricably bewildered by such facetiæ as these, when an egg,--and it may be feared not a fresh egg,--flung with unerring precision, struck him on the open part of his well-plaited shirt, and reduced him to speechless despair. an egg is a means of delightful support when properly administered; but it is not calculated to add much spirit to a man's eloquence, or to ensure his powers of endurance, when supplied in the manner above described. men there are, doubtless, whose tongues would not be stopped even by such an argument as this; but mr moffat was not one of them. as the insidious fluid trickled down beneath his waistcoat, he felt that all further powers of coaxing the electors out of their votes, by words flowing from his tongue sweeter than honey, was for that occasion denied to him. he could not be self-confident, energetic, witty, and good-humoured with a rotten egg drying through his clothes. he was forced, therefore, to give way, and with sadly disconcerted air retired from the open window at which he had been standing. it was in vain that the honourable george, mr nearthewinde, and frank endeavoured again to bring him to the charge. he was like a beaten prize-fighter, whose pluck has been cowed out of him, and who, if he stands up, only stands up to fall. mr moffat got sulky also, and when he was pressed, said that barchester and the people in it might be d----. "with all my heart," said mr nearthewinde. "that wouldn't have any effect on their votes." but, in truth, it mattered very little whether mr moffat spoke, or whether he didn't speak. four o'clock was the hour for closing the poll, and that was now fast coming. tremendous exertions had been made about half-past three, by a safe emissary sent from nearthewinde, to prove to mr reddypalm that all manner of contingent advantages would accrue to the brown bear if it should turn out that mr moffat should take his seat for barchester. no bribe was, of course, offered or even hinted at. the purity of barchester was not contaminated during the day by one such curse as this. but a man, and a publican, would be required to do some great deed in the public line; to open some colossal tap; to draw beer for the million; and no one would be so fit as mr reddypalm--if only it might turn out that mr moffat should, in the coming february, take his seat as member for barchester. but mr reddypalm was a man of humble desires, whose ambitions soared no higher than this--that his little bills should be duly settled. it is wonderful what love an innkeeper has for his bill in its entirety. an account, with a respectable total of five or six pounds, is brought to you, and you complain but of one article; that fire in the bedroom was never lighted; or that second glass of brandy and water was never called for. you desire to have the shilling expunged, and all your host's pleasure in the whole transaction is destroyed. oh! my friends, pay for the brandy and water, though you never drank it; suffer the fire to pass, though it never warmed you. why make a good man miserable for such a trifle? it became notified to reddypalm with sufficient clearness that his bill for the past election should be paid without further question; and, therefore, at five o'clock the mayor of barchester proclaimed the results of the contest in the following figures:-- scatcherd moffat mr reddypalm's two votes had decided the question. mr nearthewinde immediately went up to town; and the dinner party at courcy castle that evening was not a particularly pleasant meal. this much, however, had been absolutely decided before the yellow committee concluded their labour at the white horse: there should be a petition. mr nearthewinde had not been asleep, and already knew something of the manner in which mr reddypalm's mind had been quieted. chapter xviii the rivals the intimacy between frank and miss dunstable grew and prospered. that is to say, it prospered as an intimacy, though perhaps hardly as a love affair. there was a continued succession of jokes between them, which no one else in the castle understood; but the very fact of there being such a good understanding between them rather stood in the way of, than assisted, that consummation which the countess desired. people, when they are in love with each other, or even when they pretend to be, do not generally show it by loud laughter. nor is it frequently the case that a wife with two hundred thousand pounds can be won without some little preliminary despair. now there was no despair at all about frank gresham. lady de courcy, who thoroughly understood that portion of the world in which she herself lived, saw that things were not going quite as they should do, and gave much and repeated advice to frank on the subject. she was the more eager in doing this, because she imagined frank had done what he could to obey her first precepts. he had not turned up his nose at miss dunstable's curls, nor found fault with her loud voice: he had not objected to her as ugly, nor even shown any dislike to her age. a young man who had been so amenable to reason was worthy of further assistance; and so lady de courcy did what she could to assist him. "frank, my dear boy," she would say, "you are a little too noisy, i think. i don't mean for myself, you know; i don't mind it. but miss dunstable would like it better if you were a little more quiet with her." "would she, aunt?" said frank, looking demurely up into the countess's face. "i rather think she likes fun and noise, and that sort of thing. you know she's not very quiet herself." "ah!--but frank, there are times, you know, when that sort of thing should be laid aside. fun, as you call it, is all very well in its place. indeed, no one likes it better than i do. but that's not the way to show admiration. young ladies like to be admired; and if you'll be a little more soft-mannered with miss dunstable, i'm sure you'll find it will answer better." and so the old bird taught the young bird how to fly--very needlessly--for in this matter of flying, nature gives her own lessons thoroughly; and the ducklings will take the water, even though the maternal hen warn them against the perfidious element never so loudly. soon after this, lady de courcy began to be not very well pleased in the matter. she took it into her head that miss dunstable was sometimes almost inclined to laugh at her; and on one or two occasions it almost seemed as though frank was joining miss dunstable in doing so. the fact indeed was, that miss dunstable was fond of fun; and, endowed as she was with all the privileges which two hundred thousand pounds may be supposed to give to a young lady, did not very much care at whom she laughed. she was able to make a tolerably correct guess at lady de courcy's plan towards herself; but she did not for a moment think that frank had any intention of furthering his aunt's views. she was, therefore, not at all ill-inclined to have her revenge on the countess. "how very fond your aunt is of you!" she said to him one wet morning, as he was sauntering through the house; now laughing, and almost romping with her--then teasing his sister about mr moffat--and then bothering his lady-cousins out of all their propriety. "oh, very!" said frank: "she is a dear, good woman, is my aunt de courcy." "i declare she takes more notice of you and your doings than of any of your cousins. i wonder they ain't jealous." "oh! they're such good people. bless me, they'd never be jealous." "you are so much younger than they are, that i suppose she thinks you want more of her care." "yes; that's it. you see she's fond of having a baby to nurse." "tell me, mr gresham, what was it she was saying to you last night? i know we had been misbehaving ourselves dreadfully. it was all your fault; you would make me laugh so." "that's just what i said to her." "she was talking about me, then?" "how on earth should she talk of any one else as long as you are here? don't you know that all the world is talking about you?" "is it?--dear me, how kind! but i don't care a straw about any world just at present but lady de courcy's world. what did she say?" "she said you were very beautiful--" "did she?--how good of her!" "no; i forgot. it--it was i that said that; and she said--what was it she said? she said, that after all, beauty was but skin deep--and that she valued you for your virtues and prudence rather than your good looks." "virtues and prudence! she said i was prudent and virtuous?" "yes." "and you talked of my beauty? that was so kind of you. you didn't either of you say anything about other matters?" "what other matters?" "oh! i don't know. only some people are sometimes valued rather for what they've got than for any good qualities belonging to themselves intrinsically." "that can never be the case with miss dunstable; especially not at courcy castle," said frank, bowing easily from the corner of the sofa over which he was leaning. "of course not," said miss dunstable; and frank at once perceived that she spoke in a tone of voice differing much from that half-bantering, half-good-humoured manner that was customary with her. "of course not: any such idea would be quite out of the question with lady de courcy." she paused for a moment, and then added in a tone different again, and unlike any that he had yet heard from her:--"it is, at any rate, out of the question with mr frank gresham--of that i am quite sure." frank ought to have understood her, and have appreciated the good opinion which she intended to convey; but he did not entirely do so. he was hardly honest himself towards her; and he could not at first perceive that she intended to say that she thought him so. he knew very well that she was alluding to her own huge fortune, and was alluding also to the fact that people of fashion sought her because of it; but he did not know that she intended to express a true acquittal as regarded him of any such baseness. and did he deserve to be acquitted? yes, upon the whole he did;--to be acquitted of that special sin. his desire to make miss dunstable temporarily subject to his sway arose, not from a hankering after her fortune, but from an ambition to get the better of a contest in which other men around him seemed to be failing. for it must not be imagined that, with such a prize to be struggled for, all others stood aloof and allowed him to have his own way with the heiress, undisputed. the chance of a wife with two hundred thousand pounds is a godsend which comes in a man's life too seldom to be neglected, let that chance be never so remote. frank was the heir to a large embarrassed property; and, therefore, the heads of families, putting their wisdoms together, had thought it most meet that this daughter of plutus should, if possible, fall to his lot. but not so thought the honourable george; and not so thought another gentleman who was at that time an inmate of courcy castle. these suitors perhaps somewhat despised their young rival's efforts. it may be that they had sufficient worldly wisdom to know that so important a crisis of life is not settled among quips and jokes, and that frank was too much in jest to be in earnest. but be that as it may, his love-making did not stand in the way of their love-making; nor his hopes, if he had any, in the way of their hopes. the honourable george had discussed the matter with the honourable john in a properly fraternal manner. it may be that john had also an eye to the heiress; but, if so, he had ceded his views to his brother's superior claims; for it came about that they understood each other very well, and john favoured george with salutary advice on the occasion. "if it is to be done at all, it should be done very sharp," said john. "as sharp as you like," said george. "i'm not the fellow to be studying three months in what attitude i'll fall at a girl's feet." "no: and when you are there you mustn't take three months more to study how you'll get up again. if you do it at all, you must do it sharp," repeated john, putting great stress on his advice. "i have said a few soft words to her already, and she didn't seem to take them badly," said george. "she's no chicken, you know," remarked john; "and with a woman like that, beating about the bush never does any good. the chances are she won't have you--that's of course; plums like that don't fall into a man's mouth merely for shaking the tree. but it's possible she may; and if she will, she's as likely to take you to-day as this day six months. if i were you i'd write her a letter." "write her a letter--eh?" said george, who did not altogether dislike the advice, for it seemed to take from his shoulders the burden of preparing a spoken address. though he was so glib in speaking about the farmers' daughters, he felt that he should have some little difficulty in making known his passion to miss dunstable by word of mouth. "yes; write a letter. if she'll take you at all, she'll take you that way; half the matches going are made up by writing letters. write her a letter and get it put on her dressing-table." george said that he would, and so he did. george spoke quite truly when he hinted that he had said a few soft things to miss dunstable. miss dunstable, however, was accustomed to hear soft things. she had been carried much about in society among fashionable people since, on the settlement of her father's will, she had been pronounced heiress to all the ointment of lebanon; and many men had made calculations respecting her similar to those which were now animating the brain of the honourable george de courcy. she was already quite accustomed to being the target at which spendthrifts and the needy rich might shoot their arrows: accustomed to being shot at, and tolerably accustomed to protect herself without making scenes in the world, or rejecting the advantageous establishments offered to her with any loud expressions of disdain. the honourable george, therefore, had been permitted to say soft things very much as a matter of course. and very little more outward fracas arose from the correspondence which followed than had arisen from the soft things so said. george wrote the letter, and had it duly conveyed to miss dunstable's bed-chamber. miss dunstable duly received it, and had her answer conveyed back discreetly to george's hands. the correspondence ran as follows:-- courcy castle, aug. --, --. my dearest miss dunstable, i cannot but flatter myself that you must have perceived from my manner that you are not indifferent to me. indeed, indeed, you are not. i may truly say, and swear [these last strong words had been put in by the special counsel of the honourable john], that if ever a man loved a woman truly, i truly love you. you may think it very odd that i should say this in a letter instead of speaking it out before your face; but your powers of raillery are so great ["touch her up about her wit" had been the advice of the honourable john] that i am all but afraid to encounter them. dearest, dearest martha--oh do not blame me for so addressing you!--if you will trust your happiness to me you shall never find that you have been deceived. my ambition shall be to make you shine in that circle which you are so well qualified to adorn, and to see you firmly fixed in that sphere of fashion for which all your tastes adapt you. i may safely assert--and i do assert it with my hand on my heart--that i am actuated by no mercenary motives. far be it from me to marry any woman--no, not a princess--on account of her money. no marriage can be happy without mutual affection; and i do fully trust--no, not trust, but hope--that there may be such between you and me, dearest miss dunstable. whatever settlements you might propose, i should accede to. it is you, your sweet person, that i love, not your money. for myself, i need not remind you that i am the second son of my father; and that, as such, i hold no inconsiderable station in the world. my intention is to get into parliament, and to make a name for myself, if i can, among those who shine in the house of commons. my elder brother, lord porlock, is, you are aware, unmarried; and we all fear that the family honours are not likely to be perpetuated by him, as he has all manner of troublesome liaisons which will probably prevent his settling in life. there is nothing at all of that kind in my way. it will indeed be a delight to place a coronet on the head of my lovely martha: a coronet which can give no fresh grace to her, but which will be so much adorned by her wearing it. dearest miss dunstable, i shall wait with the utmost impatience for your answer; and now, burning with hope that it may not be altogether unfavourable to my love, i beg permission to sign myself-- your own most devoted, george de courcy. the ardent lover had not to wait long for an answer from his mistress. she found this letter on her toilet-table one night as she went to bed. the next morning she came down to breakfast and met her swain with the most unconcerned air in the world; so much so that he began to think, as he munched his toast with rather a shamefaced look, that the letter on which so much was to depend had not yet come safely to hand. but his suspense was not of a prolonged duration. after breakfast, as was his wont, he went out to the stables with his brother and frank gresham; and while there, miss dunstable's man, coming up to him, touched his hat, and put a letter into his hand. frank, who knew the man, glanced at the letter and looked at his cousin; but he said nothing. he was, however, a little jealous, and felt that an injury was done to him by any correspondence between miss dunstable and his cousin george. miss dunstable's reply was as follows; and it may be remarked that it was written in a very clear and well-penned hand, and one which certainly did not betray much emotion of the heart:-- my dear mr de courcy, i am sorry to say that i had not perceived from your manner that you entertained any peculiar feelings towards me; as, had i done so, i should at once have endeavoured to put an end to them. i am much flattered by the way in which you speak of me; but i am in too humble a position to return your affection; and can, therefore, only express a hope that you may be soon able to eradicate it from your bosom. a letter is a very good way of making an offer, and as such i do not think it at all odd; but i certainly did not expect such an honour last night. as to my raillery, i trust it has never yet hurt you. i can assure you it never shall. i hope you will soon have a worthier ambition than that to which you allude; for i am well aware that no attempt will ever make me shine anywhere. i am quite sure you have had no mercenary motives: such motives in marriage are very base, and quite below your name and lineage. any little fortune that i may have must be a matter of indifference to one who looks forward, as you do, to put a coronet on his wife's brow. nevertheless, for the sake of the family, i trust that lord porlock, in spite of his obstacles, may live to do the same for a wife of his own some of these days. i am glad to hear that there is nothing to interfere with your own prospects of domestic felicity. sincerely hoping that you may be perfectly successful in your proud ambition to shine in parliament, and regretting extremely that i cannot share that ambition with you, i beg to subscribe myself, with very great respect,-- your sincere well-wisher, martha dunstable. the honourable george, with that modesty which so well became him, accepted miss dunstable's reply as a final answer to his little proposition, and troubled her with no further courtship. as he said to his brother john, no harm had been done, and he might have better luck next time. but there was an inmate of courcy castle who was somewhat more pertinacious in his search after love and wealth. this was no other than mr moffat: a gentleman whose ambition was not satisfied by the cares of his barchester contest, or the possession of one affianced bride. mr moffat was, as we have said, a man of wealth; but we all know, from the lessons of early youth, how the love of money increases and gains strength by its own success. nor was he a man of so mean a spirit as to be satisfied with mere wealth. he desired also place and station, and gracious countenance among the great ones of the earth. hence had come his adherence to the de courcys; hence his seat in parliament; and hence, also, his perhaps ill-considered match with miss gresham. there is no doubt but that the privilege of matrimony offers opportunities to money-loving young men which ought not to be lightly abused. too many young men marry without giving any consideration to the matter whatever. it is not that they are indifferent to money, but that they recklessly miscalculate their own value, and omit to look around and see how much is done by those who are more careful. a man can be young but once, and, except in cases of a special interposition of providence, can marry but once. the chance once thrown away may be said to be irrevocable! how, in after-life, do men toil and turmoil through long years to attain some prospect of doubtful advancement! half that trouble, half that care, a tithe of that circumspection would, in early youth, have probably secured to them the enduring comfort of a wife's wealth. you will see men labouring night and day to become bank directors; and even a bank direction may only be the road to ruin. others will spend years in degrading subserviency to obtain a niche in a will; and the niche, when at last obtained and enjoyed, is but a sorry payment for all that has been endured. others, again, struggle harder still, and go through even deeper waters: they make wills for themselves, forge stock-shares, and fight with unremitting, painful labour to appear to be the thing that they are not. now, in many of these cases, all this might have been spared had the men made adequate use of those opportunities which youth and youthful charms afford once--and once only. there is no road to wealth so easy and respectable as that of matrimony; that, is of course, provided that the aspirant declines the slow course of honest work. but then, we can so seldom put old heads on young shoulders! in the case of mr moffat, we may perhaps say that a specimen was produced of this bird, so rare in the land. his shoulders were certainly young, seeing that he was not yet six-and-twenty; but his head had ever been old. from the moment when he was first put forth to go alone--at the age of twenty-one--his life had been one calculation how he could make the most of himself. he had allowed himself to be betrayed into no folly by an unguarded heart; no youthful indiscretion had marred his prospects. he had made the most of himself. without wit, or depth, or any mental gift--without honesty of purpose or industry for good work--he had been for two years sitting member for barchester; was the guest of lord de courcy; was engaged to the eldest daughter of one of the best commoners' families in england; and was, when he first began to think of miss dunstable, sanguine that his re-election to parliament was secure. when, however, at this period he began to calculate what his position in the world really was, it occurred to him that he was doing an ill-judged thing in marrying miss gresham. why marry a penniless girl--for augusta's trifle of a fortune was not a penny in his estimation--while there was miss dunstable in the world to be won? his own six or seven thousand a year, quite unembarrassed as it was, was certainly a great thing; but what might he not do if to that he could add the almost fabulous wealth of the great heiress? was she not here, put absolutely in his path? would it not be a wilful throwing away of a chance not to avail himself of it? he must, to be sure, lose the de courcy friendship; but if he should then have secured his barchester seat for the usual term of parliamentary session, he might be able to spare that. he would also, perhaps, encounter some gresham enmity: this was a point on which he did think more than once: but what will not a man encounter for the sake of two hundred thousand pounds? it was thus that mr moffat argued with himself, with much prudence, and brought himself to resolve that he would at any rate become a candidate for the great prize. he also, therefore, began to say soft things; and it must be admitted that he said them with more considerate propriety than had the honourable george. mr moffat had an idea that miss dunstable was not a fool, and that in order to catch her he must do more than endeavour to lay salt on her tail, in the guise of flattery. it was evident to him that she was a bird of some cunning, not to be caught by an ordinary gin, such as those commonly in use with the honourable georges of society. it seemed to mr moffat, that though miss dunstable was so sprightly, so full of fun, and so ready to chatter on all subjects, she well knew the value of her own money, and of her position as dependent on it: he perceived that she never flattered the countess, and seemed to be no whit absorbed by the titled grandeur of her host's family. he gave her credit, therefore, for an independent spirit: and an independent spirit in his estimation was one that placed its sole dependence on a respectable balance at its banker's. working on these ideas, mr moffat commenced operations in such manner that his overtures to the heiress should not, if unsuccessful, interfere with the greshamsbury engagement. he began by making common cause with miss dunstable: their positions in the world, he said to her, were closely similar. they had both risen from the lower class by the strength of honest industry: they were both now wealthy, and had both hitherto made such use of their wealth as to induce the highest aristocracy of england to admit them into their circles. "yes, mr moffat," had miss dunstable remarked; "and if all that i hear be true, to admit you into their very families." at this mr moffat slightly demurred. he would not affect, he said, to misunderstand what miss dunstable meant. there had been something said on the probability of such an event; but he begged miss dunstable not to believe all that she heard on such subjects. "i do not believe much," said she; "but i certainly did think that that might be credited." mr moffat then went on to show how it behoved them both, in holding out their hands half-way to meet the aristocratic overtures that were made to them, not to allow themselves to be made use of. the aristocracy, according to mr moffat, were people of a very nice sort; the best acquaintance in the world; a portion of mankind to be noticed by whom should be one of the first objects in the life of the dunstables and the moffats. but the dunstables and moffats should be very careful to give little or nothing in return. much, very much in return, would be looked for. the aristocracy, said mr moffat, were not a people to allow the light of their countenance to shine forth without looking for a _quid pro quo_, for some compensating value. in all their intercourse with the dunstables and moffats, they would expect a payment. it was for the dunstables and moffats to see that, at any rate, they did not pay more for the article they got than its market value. the way in which she, miss dunstable, and he, mr moffat, would be required to pay would be by taking each of them some poor scion of the aristocracy in marriage; and thus expending their hard-earned wealth in procuring high-priced pleasures for some well-born pauper. against this, peculiar caution was to be used. of course, the further induction to be shown was this: that people so circumstanced should marry among themselves; the dunstables and the moffats each with the other, and not tumble into the pitfalls prepared for them. whether these great lessons had any lasting effect on miss dunstable's mind may be doubted. perhaps she had already made up her mind on the subject which mr moffat so well discussed. she was older than mr moffat, and, in spite of his two years of parliamentary experience, had perhaps more knowledge of the world with which she had to deal. but she listened to what he said with complacency; understood his object as well as she had that of his aristocratic rival; was no whit offended; but groaned in her spirit as she thought of the wrongs of augusta gresham. but all this good advice, however, would not win the money for mr moffat without some more decided step; and that step he soon decided on taking, feeling assured that what he had said would have its due weight with the heiress. the party at courcy castle was now soon about to be broken up. the male de courcys were going down to a scotch mountain. the female de courcys were to be shipped off to an irish castle. mr moffat was to go up to town to prepare his petition. miss dunstable was again about to start on a foreign tour in behalf of her physician and attendants; and frank gresham was at last to be allowed to go to cambridge; that is to say, unless his success with miss dunstable should render such a step on his part quite preposterous. "i think you may speak now, frank," said the countess. "i really think you may: you have known her now for a considerable time; and, as far as i can judge, she is very fond of you." "nonsense, aunt," said frank; "she doesn't care a button for me." "i think differently; and lookers-on, you know, always understand the game best. i suppose you are not afraid to ask her." "afraid!" said frank, in a tone of considerable scorn. he almost made up his mind that he would ask her to show that he was not afraid. his only obstacle to doing so was, that he had not the slightest intention of marrying her. there was to be but one other great event before the party broke up, and that was a dinner at the duke of omnium's. the duke had already declined to come to courcy; but he had in a measure atoned for this by asking some of the guests to join a great dinner which he was about to give to his neighbours. mr moffat was to leave courcy castle the day after the dinner-party, and he therefore determined to make his great attempt on the morning of that day. it was with some difficulty that he brought about an opportunity; but at last he did so, and found himself alone with miss dunstable in the walks of courcy park. "it is a strange thing, is it not," said he, recurring to his old view of the same subject, "that i should be going to dine with the duke of omnium--the richest man, they say, among the whole english aristocracy?" "men of that kind entertain everybody, i believe, now and then," said miss dunstable, not very civilly. "i believe they do; but i am not going as one of the everybodies. i am going from lord de courcy's house with some of his own family. i have no pride in that--not the least; i have more pride in my father's honest industry. but it shows what money does in this country of ours." "yes, indeed; money does a great deal many queer things." in saying this miss dunstable could not but think that money had done a very queer thing in inducing miss gresham to fall in love with mr moffat. "yes; wealth is very powerful: here we are, miss dunstable, the most honoured guests in the house." "oh! i don't know about that; you may be, for you are a member of parliament, and all that--" "no; not a member now, miss dunstable." "well, you will be, and that's all the same; but i have no such title to honour, thank god." they walked on in silence for a little while, for mr moffat hardly knew how to manage the business he had in hand. "it is quite delightful to watch these people," he said at last; "now they accuse us of being tuft-hunters." "do they?" said miss dunstable. "upon my word i didn't know that anybody ever so accused me." "i didn't mean you and me personally." "oh! i'm glad of that." "but that is what the world says of persons of our class. now it seems to me that the toadying is all on the other side. the countess here does toady you, and so do the young ladies." "do they? if so, upon my word i didn't know it. but, to tell the truth, i don't think much of such things. i live mostly to myself, mr moffat." "i see that you do, and i admire you for it; but, miss dunstable, you cannot always live so," and mr moffat looked at her in a manner which gave her the first intimation of his coming burst of tenderness. "that's as may be, mr moffat," said she. he went on beating about the bush for some time--giving her to understand how necessary it was that persons situated as they were should live either for themselves or for each other, and that, above all things, they should beware of falling into the mouths of voracious aristocratic lions who go about looking for prey--till they came to a turn in the grounds; at which miss dunstable declared her determination of going in. she had walked enough, she said. as by this time mr moffat's immediate intentions were becoming visible she thought it prudent to retire. "don't let me take you in, mr moffat; but my boots are a little damp, and dr easyman will never forgive me if i do not hurry in as fast as i can." "your feet damp?--i hope not: i do hope not," said he, with a look of the greatest solicitude. "oh! it's nothing to signify; but it's well to be prudent, you know. good morning, mr moffat." "miss dunstable!" "eh--yes!" and miss dunstable stopped in the grand path. "i won't let you return with me, mr moffat, because i know you were not coming in so soon." "miss dunstable; i shall be leaving this to-morrow." "yes; and i go myself the day after." "i know it. i am going to town and you are going abroad. it may be long--very long--before we meet again." "about easter," said miss dunstable; "that is, if the doctor doesn't knock up on the road." "and i had, had wished to say something before we part for so long a time. miss dunstable--" "stop!--mr moffat. let me ask you one question. i'll hear anything that you have got to say, but on one condition: that is, that miss augusta gresham shall be by while you say it. will you consent to that?" "miss augusta gresham," said he, "has no right to listen to my private conversation." "has she not, mr moffat? then i think she should have. i, at any rate, will not so far interfere with what i look on as her undoubted privileges as to be a party to any secret in which she may not participate." "but, miss dunstable--" "and to tell you fairly, mr moffat, any secret that you do tell me, i shall most undoubtedly repeat to her before dinner. good morning, mr moffat; my feet are certainly a little damp, and if i stay a moment longer, dr easyman will put off my foreign trip for at least a week." and so she left him standing alone in the middle of the gravel-walk. for a moment or two, mr moffat consoled himself in his misfortune by thinking how he might best avenge himself on miss dunstable. soon, however, such futile ideas left his brain. why should he give over the chase because the rich galleon had escaped him on this, his first cruise in pursuit of her? such prizes were not to be won so easily. her present objection clearly consisted in his engagement to miss gresham, and in that only. let that engagement be at an end, notoriously and publicly broken off, and this objection would fall to the ground. yes; ships so richly freighted were not to be run down in one summer morning's plain sailing. instead of looking for his revenge on miss dunstable, it would be more prudent in him--more in keeping with his character--to pursue his object, and overcome such difficulties as he might find in his way. chapter xix the duke of omnium the duke of omnium was, as we have said, a bachelor. not the less on that account did he on certain rare gala days entertain the beauty of the county at his magnificent rural seat, or the female fashion of london in belgrave square; but on this occasion the dinner at gatherum castle--for such was the name of his mansion--was to be confined to the lords of the creation. it was to be one of those days on which he collected round his board all the notables of the county, in order that his popularity might not wane, or the established glory of his hospitable house become dim. on such an occasion it was not probable that lord de courcy would be one of the guests. the party, indeed, who went from courcy castle was not large, and consisted of the honourable george, mr moffat, and frank gresham. they went in a tax-cart, with a tandem horse, driven very knowingly by george de courcy; and the fourth seat on the back of the vehicle was occupied by a servant, who was to look after the horses at gatherum. the honourable george drove either well or luckily, for he reached the duke's house in safety; but he drove very fast. poor miss dunstable! what would have been her lot had anything but good happened to that vehicle, so richly freighted with her three lovers! they did not quarrel as to the prize, and all reached gatherum castle in good humour with each other. the castle was a new building of white stone, lately erected at an enormous cost by one of the first architects of the day. it was an immense pile, and seemed to cover ground enough for a moderate-sized town. but, nevertheless, report said that when it was completed, the noble owner found that he had no rooms to live in; and that, on this account, when disposed to study his own comfort, he resided in a house of perhaps one-tenth the size, built by his grandfather in another county. gatherum castle would probably be called italian in its style of architecture; though it may, i think, be doubted whether any such edifice, or anything like it, was ever seen in any part of italy. it was a vast edifice; irregular in height--or it appeared to be so--having long wings on each side too high to be passed over by the eye as mere adjuncts to the mansion, and a portico so large as to make the house behind it look like another building of a greater altitude. this portico was supported by ionic columns, and was in itself doubtless a beautiful structure. it was approached by a flight of steps, very broad and very grand; but, as an approach by a flight of steps hardly suits an englishman's house, to the immediate entrance of which it is necessary that his carriage should drive, there was another front door in one of the wings which was commonly used. a carriage, however, could on very stupendously grand occasions--the visits, for instance, of queens and kings, and royal dukes--be brought up under the portico; as the steps had been so constructed as to admit of a road, with a rather stiff ascent, being made close in front of the wing up into the very porch. opening from the porch was the grand hall, which extended up to the top of the house. it was magnificent, indeed; being decorated with many-coloured marbles, and hung round with various trophies of the house of omnium; banners were there, and armour; the sculptured busts of many noble progenitors; full-length figures in marble of those who had been especially prominent; and every monument of glory that wealth, long years, and great achievements could bring together. if only a man could but live in his hall and be for ever happy there! but the duke of omnium could not live happily in his hall; and the fact was, that the architect, in contriving this magnificent entrance for his own honour and fame, had destroyed the duke's house as regards most of the ordinary purposes of residence. nevertheless, gatherum castle is a very noble pile; and, standing as it does on an eminence, has a very fine effect when seen from many a distant knoll and verdant-wooded hill. at seven o'clock mr de courcy and his friends got down from their drag at the smaller door--for this was no day on which to mount up under the portico; nor was that any suitable vehicle to have been entitled to such honour. frank felt some excitement a little stronger than that usual to him at such moments, for he had never yet been in company with the duke of omnium; and he rather puzzled himself to think on what points he would talk to the man who was the largest landowner in that county in which he himself had so great an interest. he, however, made up his mind that he would allow the duke to choose his own subjects; merely reserving to himself the right of pointing out how deficient in gorse covers was west barsetshire--that being the duke's division. they were soon divested of their coats and hats, and, without entering on the magnificence of the great hall, were conducted through rather a narrow passage into rather a small drawing-room--small, that is, in proportion to the number of gentlemen there assembled. there might be about thirty, and frank was inclined to think that they were almost crowded. a man came forward to greet them when their names were announced; but our hero at once knew that he was not the duke; for this man was fat and short, whereas the duke was thin and tall. there was a great hubbub going on; for everybody seemed to be talking to his neighbour; or, in default of a neighbour, to himself. it was clear that the exalted rank of their host had put very little constraint on his guests' tongues, for they chatted away with as much freedom as farmers at an ordinary. "which is the duke?" at last frank contrived to whisper to his cousin. "oh;--he's not here," said george; "i suppose he'll be in presently. i believe he never shows till just before dinner." frank, of course, had nothing further to say; but he already began to feel himself a little snubbed: he thought that the duke, duke though he was, when he asked people to dinner should be there to tell them that he was glad to see them. more people flashed into the room, and frank found himself rather closely wedged in with a stout clergyman of his acquaintance. he was not badly off, for mr athill was a friend of his own, who had held a living near greshamsbury. lately, however, at the lamented decease of dr stanhope--who had died of apoplexy at his villa in italy--mr athill had been presented with the better preferment of eiderdown, and had, therefore, removed to another part of the county. he was somewhat of a bon-vivant, and a man who thoroughly understood dinner-parties; and with much good nature he took frank under his special protection. "you stick to me, mr gresham," he said, "when we go into the dining-room. i'm an old hand at the duke's dinners, and know how to make a friend comfortable as well as myself." "but why doesn't the duke come in?" demanded frank. "he'll be here as soon as dinner is ready," said mr athill. "or, rather, the dinner will be ready as soon as he is here. i don't care, therefore, how soon he comes." frank did not understand this, but he had nothing to do but to wait and see how things went. he was beginning to be impatient, for the room was now nearly full, and it seemed evident that no other guests were coming; when suddenly a bell rang, and a gong was sounded, and at the same instant a door that had not yet been used flew open, and a very plainly dressed, plain, tall man entered the room. frank at once knew that he was at last in the presence of the duke of omnium. but his grace, late as he was in commencing the duties as host, seemed in no hurry to make up for lost time. he quietly stood on the rug, with his back to the empty grate, and spoke one or two words in a very low voice to one or two gentlemen who stood nearest to him. the crowd, in the meanwhile, became suddenly silent. frank, when he found that the duke did not come and speak to him, felt that he ought to go and speak to the duke; but no one else did so, and when he whispered his surprise to mr athill, that gentleman told him that this was the duke's practice on all such occasions. "fothergill," said the duke--and it was the only word he had yet spoken out loud--"i believe we are ready for dinner." now mr fothergill was the duke's land-agent, and he it was who had greeted frank and his friends at their entrance. immediately the gong was again sounded, and another door leading out of the drawing-room into the dining-room was opened. the duke led the way, and then the guests followed. "stick close to me, mr gresham," said athill, "we'll get about the middle of the table, where we shall be cosy--and on the other side of the room, out of this dreadful draught--i know the place well, mr gresham; stick to me." mr athill, who was a pleasant, chatty companion, had hardly seated himself, and was talking to frank as quickly as he could, when mr fothergill, who sat at the bottom of the table, asked him to say grace. it seemed to be quite out of the question that the duke should take any trouble with his guests whatever. mr athill consequently dropped the word he was speaking, and uttered a prayer--if it was a prayer--that they might all have grateful hearts for that which god was about to give them. if it was a prayer! as far as my own experience goes, such utterances are seldom prayers, seldom can be prayers. and if not prayers, what then? to me it is unintelligible that the full tide of glibbest chatter can be stopped at a moment in the midst of profuse good living, and the giver thanked becomingly in words of heartfelt praise. setting aside for the moment what one daily hears and sees, may not one declare that a change so sudden is not within the compass of the human mind? but then, to such reasoning one cannot but add what one does hear and see; one cannot but judge of the ceremony by the manner in which one sees it performed--uttered, that is--and listened to. clergymen there are--one meets them now and then--who endeavour to give to the dinner-table grace some of the solemnity of a church ritual, and what is the effect? much the same as though one were to be interrupted for a minute in the midst of one of our church liturgies to hear a drinking-song. and it will be argued, that a man need be less thankful because, at the moment of receiving, he utters no thanksgiving? or will it be thought that a man is made thankful because what is called a grace is uttered after dinner? it can hardly be imagined that any one will so argue, or so think. dinner-graces are, probably, the last remaining relic of certain daily services [ ] which the church in olden days enjoined: nones, complines, and vespers were others. of the nones and complines we have happily got quit; and it might be well if we could get rid of the dinner-graces also. let any man ask himself whether, on his own part, they are acts of prayer and thanksgiving--and if not that, what then? [footnote : it is, i know, alleged that graces are said before dinner, because our saviour uttered a blessing before his last supper. i cannot say that the idea of such analogy is pleasing to me.] when the large party entered the dining-room one or two gentlemen might be seen to come in from some other door and set themselves at the table near to the duke's chair. these were guests of his own, who were staying in the house, his particular friends, the men with whom he lived: the others were strangers whom he fed, perhaps once a year, in order that his name might be known in the land as that of one who distributed food and wine hospitably through the county. the food and wine, the attendance also, and the view of the vast repository of plate he vouchsafed willingly to his county neighbours;--but it was beyond his good nature to talk to them. to judge by the present appearance of most of them, they were quite as well satisfied to be left alone. frank was altogether a stranger there, but mr athill knew every one at the table. "that's apjohn," said he: "don't you know, mr apjohn, the attorney from barchester? he's always here; he does some of fothergill's law business, and makes himself useful. if any fellow knows the value of a good dinner, he does. you'll see that the duke's hospitality will not be thrown away on him." "it's very much thrown away upon me, i know," said frank, who could not at all put up with the idea of sitting down to dinner without having been spoken to by his host. "oh, nonsense!" said his clerical friend; "you'll enjoy yourself amazingly by and by. there is not such champagne in any other house in barsetshire; and then the claret--" and mr athill pressed his lips together, and gently shook his head, meaning to signify by the motion that the claret of gatherum castle was sufficient atonement for any penance which a man might have to go through in his mode of obtaining it. "who's that funny little man sitting there, next but one to mr de courcy? i never saw such a queer fellow in my life." "don't you know old bolus? well, i thought every one in barsetshire knew bolus; you especially should do so, as he is such a dear friend of dr thorne." "a dear friend of dr thorne?" "yes; he was apothecary at scarington in the old days, before dr fillgrave came into vogue. i remember when bolus was thought to be a very good sort of doctor." "is he--is he--" whispered frank, "is he by way of a gentleman?" "ha! ha! ha! well, i suppose we must be charitable, and say that he is quite as good, at any rate, as many others there are here--" and mr athill, as he spoke, whispered into frank's ear, "you see there's finnie here, another barchester attorney. now, i really think where finnie goes bolus may go too." "the more the merrier, i suppose," said frank. "well, something a little like that. i wonder why thorne is not here? i'm sure he was asked." "perhaps he did not particularly wish to meet finnie and bolus. do you know, mr athill, i think he was quite right not to come. as for myself, i wish i was anywhere else." "ha! ha! ha! you don't know the duke's ways yet; and what's more, you're young, you happy fellow! but thorne should have more sense; he ought to show himself here." the gormandizing was now going on at a tremendous rate. though the volubility of their tongues had been for a while stopped by the first shock of the duke's presence, the guests seemed to feel no such constraint upon their teeth. they fed, one may almost say, rabidly, and gave their orders to the servants in an eager manner; much more impressive than that usual at smaller parties. mr apjohn, who sat immediately opposite to frank, had, by some well-planned manoeuvre, contrived to get before him the jowl of a salmon; but, unfortunately, he was not for a while equally successful in the article of sauce. a very limited portion--so at least thought mr apjohn--had been put on his plate; and a servant, with a huge sauce tureen, absolutely passed behind his back inattentive to his audible requests. poor mr apjohn in his despair turned round to arrest the man by his coat-tails; but he was a moment too late, and all but fell backwards on the floor. as he righted himself he muttered an anathema, and looked with a face of anguish at his plate. "anything the matter, apjohn?" said mr fothergill, kindly, seeing the utter despair written on the poor man's countenance; "can i get anything for you?" "the sauce!" said mr apjohn, in a voice that would have melted a hermit; and as he looked at mr fothergill, he pointed at the now distant sinner, who was dispensing his melted ambrosia at least ten heads upwards, away from the unfortunate supplicant. mr fothergill, however, knew where to look for balm for such wounds, and in a minute or two, mr apjohn was employed quite to his heart's content. "well," said frank to his neighbour, "it may be very well once in a way; but i think that on the whole dr thorne is right." "my dear mr gresham, see the world on all sides," said mr athill, who had also been somewhat intent on the gratification of his own appetite, though with an energy less evident than that of the gentleman opposite. "see the world on all sides if you have an opportunity; and, believe me, a good dinner now and then is a very good thing." "yes; but i don't like eating it with hogs." "whish-h! softly, softly, mr gresham, or you'll disturb mr apjohn's digestion. upon my word, he'll want it all before he has done. now, i like this kind of thing once in a way." "do you?" said frank, in a tone that was almost savage. "yes; indeed i do. one sees so much character. and after all, what harm does it do?" "my idea is that people should live with those whose society is pleasant to them." "live--yes, mr gresham--i agree with you there. it wouldn't do for me to live with the duke of omnium; i shouldn't understand, or probably approve, his ways. nor should i, perhaps, much like the constant presence of mr apjohn. but now and then--once in a year or so--i do own i like to see them both. here's the cup; now, whatever you do, mr gresham, don't pass the cup without tasting it." and so the dinner passed on, slowly enough as frank thought, but all too quickly for mr apjohn. it passed away, and the wine came circulating freely. the tongues again were loosed, the teeth being released from their labours, and under the influence of the claret the duke's presence was forgotten. but very speedily the coffee was brought. "this will soon be over now," said frank, to himself, thankfully; for, though he be no means despised good claret, he had lost his temper too completely to enjoy it at the present moment. but he was much mistaken; the farce as yet was only at its commencement. the duke took his cup of coffee, and so did the few friends who sat close to him; but the beverage did not seem to be in great request with the majority of the guests. when the duke had taken his modicum, he rose up and silently retired, saying no word and making no sign. and then the farce commenced. "now, gentlemen," said mr fothergill, cheerily, "we are all right. apjohn, is there claret there? mr bolus, i know you stick to the madeira; you are quite right, for there isn't much of it left, and my belief is there'll never be more like it." and so the duke's hospitality went on, and the duke's guests drank merrily for the next two hours. "shan't we see any more of him?" asked frank. "any more of whom?" said mr athill. "of the duke?" "oh, no; you'll see no more of him. he always goes when the coffee comes. it's brought in as an excuse. we've had enough of the light of his countenance to last till next year. the duke and i are excellent friends; and have been so these fifteen years; but i never see more of him than that." "i shall go away," said frank. "nonsense. mr de courcy and your other friend won't stir for this hour yet." "i don't care. i shall walk on, and they may catch me. i may be wrong; but it seems to me that a man insults me when he asks me to dine with him and never speaks to me. i don't care if he be ten times duke of omnium; he can't be more than a gentleman, and as such i am his equal." and then, having thus given vent to his feelings in somewhat high-flown language, he walked forth and trudged away along the road towards courcy. frank gresham had been born and bred a conservative, whereas the duke of omnium was well known as a consistent whig. there is no one so devoutly resolved to admit of no superior as your conservative, born and bred, no one so inclined to high domestic despotism as your thoroughgoing consistent old whig. when he had proceeded about six miles, frank was picked up by his friends; but even then his anger had hardly cooled. "was the duke as civil as ever when you took your leave of him?" said he to his cousin george, as he took his seat on the drag. "the juke was jeuced jude wine--lem me tell you that, old fella," hiccupped out the honourable george, as he touched up the leader under the flank. chapter xx the proposal and now the departures from courcy castle came rapidly one after another, and there remained but one more evening before miss dunstable's carriage was to be packed. the countess, in the early moments of frank's courtship, had controlled his ardour and checked the rapidity of his amorous professions; but as days, and at last weeks, wore away, she found that it was necessary to stir the fire which she had before endeavoured to slacken. "there will be nobody here to-night but our own circle," said she to him, "and i really think you should tell miss dunstable what your intentions are. she will have fair ground to complain of you if you do not." frank began to feel that he was in a dilemma. he had commenced making love to miss dunstable partly because he liked the amusement, and partly from a satirical propensity to quiz his aunt by appearing to fall into her scheme. but he had overshot the mark, and did not know what answer to give when he was thus called upon to make a downright proposal. and then, although he did not care two rushes about miss dunstable in the way of love, he nevertheless experienced a sort of jealousy when he found that she appeared to be indifferent to him, and that she corresponded the meanwhile with his cousin george. though all their flirtations had been carried on on both sides palpably by way of fun, though frank had told himself ten times a day that his heart was true to mary thorne, yet he had an undefined feeling that it behoved miss dunstable to be a little in love with him. he was not quite at ease in that she was not a little melancholy now that his departure was so nigh; and, above all, he was anxious to know what were the real facts about that letter. he had in his own breast threatened miss dunstable with a heartache; and now, when the time for their separation came, he found that his own heart was the more likely to ache of the two. "i suppose i must say something to her, or my aunt will never be satisfied," said he to himself as he sauntered into the little drawing-room on that last evening. but at the very time he was ashamed of himself, for he knew he was going to ask badly. his sister and one of his cousins were in the room, but his aunt, who was quite on the alert, soon got them out of it, and frank and miss dunstable were alone. "so all our fun and all our laughter is come to an end," said she, beginning the conversation. "i don't know how you feel, but for myself i really am a little melancholy at the idea of parting;" and she looked up at him with her laughing black eyes, as though she never had, and never could have a care in the world. "melancholy! oh, yes; you look so," said frank, who really did feel somewhat lackadaisically sentimental. "but how thoroughly glad the countess must be that we are both going," continued she. "i declare we have treated her most infamously. ever since we've been here we've had all the amusement to ourselves. i've sometimes thought she would turn me out of the house." "i wish with all my heart she had." "oh, you cruel barbarian! why on earth should you wish that?" "that i might have joined you in your exile. i hate courcy castle, and should have rejoiced to leave--and--and--" "and what?" "and i love miss dunstable, and should have doubly, trebly rejoiced to leave it with her." frank's voice quivered a little as he made this gallant profession; but still miss dunstable only laughed the louder. "upon my word, of all my knights you are by far the best behaved," said she, "and say much the prettiest things." frank became rather red in the face, and felt that he did so. miss dunstable was treating him like a boy. while she pretended to be so fond of him she was only laughing at him, and corresponding the while with his cousin george. now frank gresham already entertained a sort of contempt for his cousin, which increased the bitterness of his feelings. could it really be possible that george had succeeded while he had utterly failed; that his stupid cousin had touched the heart of the heiress while she was playing with him as with a boy? "of all your knights! is that the way you talk to me when we are going to part? when was it, miss dunstable, that george de courcy became one of them?" miss dunstable for a while looked serious enough. "what makes you ask that?" said she. "what makes you inquire about mr de courcy?" "oh, i have eyes, you know, and can't help seeing. not that i see, or have seen anything that i could possibly help." "and what have you seen, mr gresham?" "why, i know you have been writing to him." "did he tell you so?" "no; he did not tell me; but i know it." for a moment she sat silent, and then her face again resumed its usual happy smile. "come, mr gresham, you are not going to quarrel with me, i hope, even if i did write a letter to your cousin. why should i not write to him? i correspond with all manner of people. i'll write to you some of these days if you'll let me, and will promise to answer my letters." frank threw himself back on the sofa on which he was sitting, and, in doing so, brought himself somewhat nearer to his companion than he had been; he then drew his hand slowly across his forehead, pushing back his thick hair, and as he did so he sighed somewhat plaintively. "i do not care," said he, "for the privilege of correspondence on such terms. if my cousin george is to be a correspondent of yours also, i will give up my claim." and then he sighed again, so that it was piteous to hear him. he was certainly an arrant puppy, and an egregious ass into the bargain; but then, it must be remembered in his favour that he was only twenty-one, and that much had been done to spoil him. miss dunstable did remember this, and therefore abstained from laughing at him. "why, mr gresham, what on earth do you mean? in all human probability i shall never write another line to mr de courcy; but, if i did, what possible harm could it do you?" "oh, miss dunstable! you do not in the least understand what my feelings are." "don't i? then i hope i never shall. i thought i did. i thought they were the feelings of a good, true-hearted friend; feelings that i could sometimes look back upon with pleasure as being honest when so much that one meets is false. i have become very fond of you, mr gresham, and i should be sorry to think that i did not understand your feelings." this was almost worse and worse. young ladies like miss dunstable--for she was still to be numbered in the category of young ladies--do not usually tell young gentlemen that they are very fond of them. to boys and girls they may make such a declaration. now frank gresham regarded himself as one who had already fought his battles, and fought them not without glory; he could not therefore endure to be thus openly told by miss dunstable that she was very fond of him. "fond of me, miss dunstable! i wish you were." "so i am--very." "you little know how fond i am of you, miss dunstable," and he put out his hand to take hold of hers. she then lifted up her own, and slapped him lightly on the knuckles. "and what can you have to say to miss dunstable that can make it necessary that you should pinch her hand? i tell you fairly, mr gresham, if you make a fool of yourself, i shall come to a conclusion that you are all fools, and that it is hopeless to look out for any one worth caring for." such advice as this, so kindly given, so wisely meant, so clearly intelligible, he should have taken and understood, young as he was. but even yet he did not do so. "a fool of myself! yes; i suppose i must be a fool if i have so much regard for miss dunstable as to make it painful for me to know that i am to see her no more: a fool: yes, of course i am a fool--a man is always a fool when he loves." miss dunstable could not pretend to doubt his meaning any longer; and was determined to stop him, let it cost what it would. she now put out her hand, not over white, and, as frank soon perceived, gifted with a very fair allowance of strength. "now, mr gresham," said she, "before you go any further you shall listen to me. will you listen to me for a moment without interrupting me?" frank was of course obliged to promise that he would do so. "you are going--or rather you were going, for i shall stop you--to make a profession of love." "a profession!" said frank making a slight unsuccessful effort to get his hand free. "yes; a profession--a false profession, mr gresham,--a false profession--a false profession. look into your heart--into your heart of hearts. i know you at any rate have a heart; look into it closely. mr gresham, you know you do not love me; not as a man should love the woman whom he swears to love." frank was taken aback. so appealed to he found that he could not any longer say that he did love her. he could only look into her face with all his eyes, and sit there listening to her. "how is it possible that you should love me? i am heaven knows how 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 th 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 th 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 st. 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 the alcohol had made. there was a fire too about his eyes which contrasted with his sunken cheeks: his hanging jaw, unshorn beard, and haggard face were terrible to look at. his hands and arms were hot and clammy, but so thin and wasted! of his lower limbs the lost use had not returned to him, so that in all his efforts at vehemence he was controlled by his own want of vitality. when he supported himself, half-sitting against the pillows, he was in a continual tremor; and yet, as he boasted, he could still lift his glass steadily to his mouth. such now was the hero of whom that ready compiler of memoirs had just finished his correct and succinct account. after he had had his brandy, he sat glaring a while at vacancy, as though he was dead to all around him, and was thinking--thinking-- thinking of things in the infinite distance of the past. "shall i go now," said the doctor, "and send lady scatcherd to you?" "wait a while, doctor; just one minute longer. so you will do nothing for louis, then?" "i will do everything for him that i can do." "ah, yes! everything but the one thing that will save him. well, i will not ask you again. but remember, thorne, i shall alter my will to-morrow." "do so by all means; you may well alter it for the better. if i may advise you, you will have down your own business attorney from london. if you will let me send he will be here before to-morrow night." "thank you for nothing, thorne: i can manage that matter myself. now leave me; but remember, you have ruined that girl's fortune." the doctor did leave him, and went not altogether happy to his room. he could not but confess to himself that he had, despite himself as it were, fed himself with hope that mary's future might be made more secure, aye, and brighter too, by some small unheeded fraction broken off from the huge mass of her uncle's wealth. such hope, if it had amounted to hope, was now all gone. but this was not all, nor was this the worst of it. that he had done right in utterly repudiating all idea of a marriage between mary and her cousin--of that he was certain enough; that no earthly consideration would have induced mary to plight her troth to such a man--that, with him, was as certain as doom. but how far had he done right in keeping her from the sight of her uncle? how could he justify it to himself if he had thus robbed her of her inheritance, seeing that he had done so from a selfish fear lest she, who was now all his own, should be known to the world as belonging to others rather than to him? he had taken upon him on her behalf to reject wealth as valueless; and yet he had no sooner done so than he began to consume his hours with reflecting how great to her would be the value of wealth. and thus, when sir roger told him, as he left the room, that he had ruined mary's fortune, he was hardly able to bear the taunt with equanimity. on the next morning, after paying his professional visit to his patient, and satisfying himself that the end was now drawing near with steps terribly quickened, he went down to greshamsbury. "how long is this to last, uncle?" said his niece, with sad voice, as he again prepared to return to boxall hill. "not long, mary; do not begrudge him a few more hours of life." "no, i do not, uncle. i will say nothing more about it. is his son with him?" and then, perversely enough, she persisted in asking numerous questions about louis scatcherd. "is he likely to marry, uncle?" "i hope so, my dear." "will he be so very rich?" "yes; ultimately he will be very rich." "he will be a baronet, will he not?" "yes, my dear." "what is he like, uncle?" "like--i never know what a young man is like. he is like a man with red hair." "uncle, you are the worst hand in describing i ever knew. if i'd seen him for five minutes, i'd be bound to make a portrait of him; and you, if you were describing a dog, you'd only say what colour his hair was." "well, he's a little man." "exactly, just as i should say that mrs umbleby had a red-haired little dog. i wish i had known these scatcherds, uncle. i do so admire people that can push themselves in the world. i wish i had known sir roger." "you will never know him now, mary." "i suppose not. i am so sorry for him. is lady scatcherd nice?" "she is an excellent woman." "i hope i may know her some day. you are so much there now, uncle; i wonder whether you ever mention me to them. if you do, tell her from me how much i grieve for her." that same night dr thorne again found himself alone with sir roger. the sick man was much more tranquil, and apparently more at ease than he had been on the preceding night. he said nothing about his will, and not a word about mary thorne; but the doctor knew that winterbones and a notary's clerk from barchester had been in the bedroom a great part of the day; and, as he knew also that the great man of business was accustomed to do his most important work by the hands of such tools as these, he did not doubt but that the will had been altered and remodelled. indeed, he thought it more than probable, that when it was opened it would be found to be wholly different in its provisions from that which sir roger had already described. "louis is clever enough," he said, "sharp enough, i mean. he won't squander the property." "he has good natural abilities," said the doctor. "excellent, excellent," said the father. "he may do well, very well, if he can only be kept from this;" and sir roger held up the empty wine-glass which stood by his bedside. "what a life he may have before him!--and to throw it away for this!" and as he spoke he took the glass and tossed it across the room. "oh, doctor! would that it were all to begin again!" "we all wish that, i dare say, scatcherd." "no, you don't wish it. you ain't worth a shilling, and yet you regret nothing. i am worth half a million in one way or the other, and i regret everything--everything--everything!" "you should not think in that way, scatcherd; you need not think so. yesterday you told mr clarke that you were comfortable in your mind." mr clarke was the clergyman who had visited him. "of course i did. what else could i say when he asked me? it wouldn't have been civil to have told him that his time and words were all thrown away. but, thorne, believe me, when a man's heart is sad--sad--sad to the core, a few words from a parson at the last moment will never make it all right." "may he have mercy on you, my friend!--if you will think of him, and look to him, he will have mercy on you." "well--i will try, doctor; but would that it were all to do again. you'll see to the old woman for my sake, won't you?" "what, lady scatcherd?" "lady devil! if anything angers me now it is that 'ladyship'--her to be my lady! why, when i came out of jail that time, the poor creature had hardly a shoe to her foot. but it wasn't her fault, thorne; it was none of her doing. she never asked for such nonsense." "she has been an excellent wife, scatcherd; and what is more, she is an excellent woman. she is, and ever will be, one of my dearest friends." "thank'ee, doctor, thank'ee. yes; she has been a good wife--better for a poor man than a rich one; but then, that was what she was born to. you won't let her be knocked about by them, will you, thorne?" dr thorne again assured him, that as long as he lived lady scatcherd should never want one true friend; in making this promise, however, he managed to drop all allusion to the obnoxious title. "you'll be with him as much as possible, won't you?" again asked the baronet, after lying quite silent for a quarter of an hour. "with whom?" said the doctor, who was then all but asleep. "with my poor boy; with louis." "if he will let me, i will," said the doctor. "and, doctor, when you see a glass at his mouth, dash it down; thrust it down, though you thrust out the teeth with it. when you see that, thorne, tell him of his father--tell him what his father might have been but for that; tell him how his father died like a beast, because he could not keep himself from drink." these, reader, were the last words spoken by sir roger scatcherd. as he uttered them he rose up in bed with the same vehemence which he had shown on the former evening. but in the very act of doing so he was again struck by paralysis, and before nine on the following morning all was over. "oh, my man--my own, own man!" exclaimed the widow, remembering in the paroxysm of her grief nothing but the loves of their early days; "the best, the brightest, the cleverest of them all!" some weeks after this sir roger was buried, with much pomp and ceremony, within the precincts of barchester cathedral; and a monument was put up to him soon after, in which he was portrayed as smoothing a block of granite with a mallet and chisel; while his eagle eye, disdaining such humble work, was fixed upon some intricate mathematical instrument above him. could sir roger have seen it himself, he would probably have declared, that no workman was ever worth his salt who looked one way while he rowed another. immediately after the funeral the will was opened, and dr thorne discovered that the clauses of it were exactly identical with those which his friend had described to him some months back. nothing had been altered; nor had the document been unfolded since that strange codicil was added, in which it was declared that dr thorne knew--and only dr thorne--who was the eldest child of the testator's only sister. at the same time, however, a joint executor with dr thorne had been named--one mr stock, a man of railway fame--and dr thorne himself was made a legatee to the humble extent of a thousand pounds. a life income of a thousand pounds a year was left to lady scatcherd. chapter xxvi war we need not follow sir roger to his grave, nor partake of the baked meats which were furnished for his funeral banquet. such men as sir roger scatcherd are always well buried, and we have already seen that his glories were duly told to posterity in the graphic diction of his sepulchral monument. in a few days the doctor had returned to his quiet home, and sir louis found himself reigning at boxall hill in his father's stead--with, however, a much diminished sway, and, as he thought it, but a poor exchequer. we must soon return to him and say something of his career as a baronet; but for the present, we may go back to our more pleasant friends at greshamsbury. but our friends at greshamsbury had not been making themselves pleasant--not so pleasant to each other as circumstances would have admitted. in those days which the doctor had felt himself bound to pass, if not altogether at boxall hill, yet altogether away from his own home, so as to admit of his being as much as possible with his patient, mary had been thrown more than ever with patience oriel, and, also, almost more than ever with beatrice gresham. as regarded mary, she would doubtless have preferred the companionship of patience, though she loved beatrice far the best; but she had no choice. when she went to the parsonage beatrice came there also, and when patience came to the doctor's house beatrice either accompanied or followed her. mary could hardly have rejected their society, even had she felt it wise to do so. she would in such case have been all alone, and her severance from the greshamsbury house and household, from the big family in which she had for so many years been almost at home, would have made such solitude almost unendurable. and then these two girls both knew--not her secret: she had no secret--but the little history of her ill-treatment. they knew that though she had been blameless in this matter, yet she had been the one to bear the punishment; and, as girls and bosom friends, they could not but sympathise with her, and endow her with heroic attributes; make her, in fact, as we are doing, their little heroine for the nonce. this was, perhaps, not serviceable for mary; but it was far from being disagreeable. the tendency to finding matter for hero-worship in mary's endurance was much stronger with beatrice than with miss oriel. miss oriel was the elder, and naturally less afflicted with the sentimentation of romance. she had thrown herself into mary's arms because she had seen that it was essentially necessary for mary's comfort that she should do so. she was anxious to make her friend smile, and to smile with her. beatrice was quite as true in her sympathy; but she rather wished that she and mary might weep in unison, shed mutual tears, and break their hearts together. patience had spoken of frank's love as a misfortune, of his conduct as erroneous, and to be excused only by his youth, and had never appeared to surmise that mary also might be in love as well as he. but to beatrice the affair was a tragic difficulty, admitting of no solution; a gordian knot, not to be cut; a misery now and for ever. she would always talk about frank when she and mary were alone; and, to speak the truth, mary did not stop her as she perhaps should have done. as for a marriage between them, that was impossible; beatrice was well sure of that: it was frank's unfortunate destiny that he must marry money--money, and, as beatrice sometimes thoughtlessly added, cutting mary to the quick,--money and family also. under such circumstances a marriage between them was quite impossible; but not the less did beatrice declare, that she would have loved mary as her sister-in-law had it been possible; and how worthy frank was of a girl's love, had such love been permissible. "it is so cruel," beatrice would say; "so very, very, cruel. you would have suited him in every way." "nonsense, trichy; i should have suited him in no possible way at all; nor he me." "oh, but you would--exactly. papa loves you so well." "and mamma; that would have been so nice." "yes; and mamma, too--that is, had you had a fortune," said the daughter, naïvely. "she always liked you personally, always." "did she?" "always. and we all love you so." "especially lady alexandrina." "that would not have signified, for frank cannot endure the de courcys himself." "my dear, it does not matter one straw whom your brother can endure or not endure just at present. his character is to be formed, and his tastes, and his heart also." "oh, mary!--his heart." "yes, his heart; not the fact of his having a heart. i think he has a heart; but he himself does not yet understand it." "oh, mary! you do not know him." such conversations were not without danger to poor mary's comfort. it came soon to be the case that she looked rather for this sort of sympathy from beatrice, than for miss oriel's pleasant but less piquant gaiety. so the days of the doctor's absence were passed, and so also the first week after his return. during this week it was almost daily necessary that the squire should be with him. the doctor was now the legal holder of sir roger's property, and, as such, the holder also of all the mortgages on mr gresham's property; and it was natural that they should be much together. the doctor would not, however, go up to greshamsbury on any other than medical business; and it therefore became necessary that the squire should be a good deal at the doctor's house. then the lady arabella became unhappy in her mind. frank, it was true, was away at cambridge, and had been successfully kept out of mary's way since the suspicion of danger had fallen upon lady arabella's mind. frank was away, and mary was systematically banished, with due acknowledgement from all the powers in greshamsbury. but this was not enough for lady arabella as long as her daughter still habitually consorted with the female culprit, and as long as her husband consorted with the male culprit. it seemed to lady arabella at this moment as though, in banishing mary from the house, she had in effect banished herself from the most intimate of the greshamsbury social circles. she magnified in her own mind the importance of the conferences between the girls, and was not without some fear that the doctor might be talking the squire over into very dangerous compliance. she resolved, therefore, on another duel with the doctor. in the first she had been pre-eminently and unexpectedly successful. no young sucking dove could have been more mild than that terrible enemy whom she had for years regarded as being too puissant for attack. in ten minutes she had vanquished him, and succeeded in banishing both him and his niece from the house without losing the value of his services. as is always the case with us, she had begun to despise the enemy she had conquered, and to think that the foe, once beaten, could never rally. her object was to break off all confidential intercourse between beatrice and mary, and to interrupt, as far as she could do it, that between the doctor and the squire. this, it may be said, could be more easily done by skilful management within her own household. she had, however, tried that and failed. she had said much to beatrice as to the imprudence of her friendship with mary, and she had done this purposely before the squire; injudiciously however,--for the squire had immediately taken mary's part, and had declared that he had no wish to see a quarrel between his family and that of the doctor; that mary thorne was in every way a good girl, and an eligible friend for his own child; and had ended by declaring, that he would not have mary persecuted for frank's fault. this had not been the end, nor nearly the end of what had been said on the matter at greshamsbury; but the end, when it came, came in this wise, that lady arabella determined to say a few words to the doctor as to the expediency of forbidding familiar intercourse between mary and any of the greshamsbury people. with this view lady arabella absolutely bearded the lion in his den, the doctor in his shop. she had heard that both mary and beatrice were to pass a certain afternoon at the parsonage, and took that opportunity of calling at the doctor's house. a period of many years had passed since she had last so honoured that abode. mary, indeed, had been so much one of her own family that the ceremony of calling on her had never been thought necessary; and thus, unless mary had been absolutely ill, there would have been nothing to bring her ladyship to the house. all this she knew would add to the importance of the occasion, and she judged it prudent to make the occasion as important as it might well be. she was so far successful that she soon found herself _tête-à-tête_ with the doctor in his own study. she was no whit dismayed by the pair of human thigh-bones which lay close to his hand, and which, when he was talking in that den of his own, he was in the constant habit of handling with much energy; nor was she frightened out of her propriety even by the little child's skull which grinned at her from off the chimney-piece. "doctor," she said, as soon as the first complimentary greetings were over, speaking in her kindest and most would-be-confidential tone, "doctor, i am still uneasy about that boy of mine, and i have thought it best to come and see you at once, and tell you freely what i think." the doctor bowed, and said that he was very sorry that she should have any cause for uneasiness about his young friend frank. "indeed, i am very uneasy, doctor; and having, as i do have, such reliance on your prudence, and such perfect confidence in your friendship, i have thought it best to come and speak to you openly:" thereupon the lady arabella paused, and the doctor bowed again. "nobody knows so well as you do the dreadful state of the squire's affairs." "not so very dreadful; not so very dreadful," said the doctor, mildly: "that is, as far as i know." "yes they are, doctor; very dreadful; very dreadful indeed. you know how much he owes to this young man: i do not, for the squire never tells anything to me; but i know that it is a very large sum of money; enough to swamp the estate and ruin frank. now i call that very dreadful." "no, no, not ruin him, lady arabella; not ruin him, i hope." "however, i did not come to talk to you about that. as i said before, i know nothing of the squire's affairs, and, as a matter of course, i do not ask you to tell me. but i am sure you will agree with me in this, that, as a mother, i cannot but be interested about my only son," and lady arabella put her cambric handkerchief to her eyes. "of course you are; of course you are," said the doctor; "and, lady arabella, my opinion of frank is such, that i feel sure that he will do well;" and, in his energy, dr thorne brandished one of the thigh-bones almost in the lady's face. "i hope he will; i am sure i hope he will. but, doctor, he has such dangers to contend with; he is so warm and impulsive that i fear his heart will bring him into trouble. now, you know, unless frank marries money he is lost." the doctor made no answer to this last appeal, but as he sat and listened a slight frown came across his brow. "he must marry money, doctor. now we have, you see, with your assistance, contrived to separate him from dear mary--" "with my assistance, lady arabella! i have given no assistance, nor have i meddled in the matter; nor will i." "well, doctor, perhaps not meddled; but you agreed with me, you know, that the two young people had been imprudent." "i agreed to no such thing, lady arabella; never, never. i not only never agreed that mary had been imprudent, but i will not agree to it now, and will not allow any one to assert it in my presence without contradicting it:" and then the doctor worked away at the thigh-bones in a manner that did rather alarm her ladyship. "at any rate, you thought that the young people had better be kept apart." "no; neither did i think that: my niece, i felt sure, was safe from danger. i knew that she would do nothing that would bring either her or me to shame." "not to shame," said the lady, apologetically, as it were, using the word perhaps not exactly in the doctor's sense. "i felt no alarm for her," continued the doctor, "and desired no change. frank is your son, and it is for you to look to him. you thought proper to do so by desiring mary to absent herself from greshamsbury." "oh, no, no, no!" said lady arabella. "but you did, lady arabella; and as greshamsbury is your home, neither i nor my niece had any ground of complaint. we acquiesced, not without much suffering, but we did acquiesce; and you, i think, can have no ground of complaint against us." lady arabella had hardly expected that the doctor would reply to her mild and conciliatory exordium with so much sternness. he had yielded so easily to her on the former occasion. she did not comprehend that when she uttered her sentence of exile against mary, she had given an order which she had the power of enforcing; but that obedience to that order had now placed mary altogether beyond her jurisdiction. she was, therefore, a little surprised, and for a few moments overawed by the doctor's manner; but she soon recovered herself, remembering, doubtless, that fortune favours none but the brave. "i make no complaint, dr thorne," she said, after assuming a tone more befitting a de courcy than that hitherto used, "i make no complaint either as regards you or mary." "you are very kind, lady arabella." "but i think that it is my duty to put a stop, a peremptory stop to anything like a love affair between my son and your niece." "i have not the least objection in life. if there is such a love affair, put a stop to it--that is, if you have the power." here the doctor was doubtless imprudent. but he had begun to think that he had yielded sufficiently to the lady; and he had begun to resolve, also, that though it would not become him to encourage even the idea of such a marriage, he would make lady arabella understand that he thought his niece quite good enough for her son, and that the match, if regarded as imprudent, was to be regarded as equally imprudent on both sides. he would not suffer that mary and her heart and feelings and interest should be altogether postponed to those of the young heir; and, perhaps, he was unconsciously encouraged in this determination by the reflection that mary herself might perhaps become a young heiress. "it is my duty," said lady arabella, repeating her words with even a stronger de courcy intonation; "and your duty also, dr thorne." "my duty!" said he, rising from his chair and leaning on the table with the two thigh-bones. "lady arabella, pray understand at once, that i repudiate any such duty, and will have nothing whatever to do with it." "but you do not mean to say that you will encourage this unfortunate boy to marry your niece?" "the unfortunate boy, lady arabella--whom, by the by, i regard as a very fortunate young man--is your son, not mine. i shall take no steps about his marriage, either one way or the other." "you think it right, then, that your niece should throw herself in his way?" "throw herself in his way! what would you say if i came up to greshamsbury, and spoke to you of your daughters in such language? what would my dear friend mr gresham say, if some neighbour's wife should come and so speak to him? i will tell you what he would say: he would quietly beg her to go back to her own home and meddle only with her own matters." this was dreadful to lady arabella. even dr thorne had never before dared thus to lower her to the level of common humanity, and liken her to any other wife in the country-side. moreover, she was not quite sure whether he, the parish doctor, was not desiring her, the earl's daughter, to go home and mind her own business. on this first point, however, there seemed to be no room for doubt, of which she gave herself the benefit. "it would not become me to argue with you, dr thorne," she said. "not at least on this subject," said he. "i can only repeat that i mean nothing offensive to our dear mary; for whom, i think i may say, i have always shown almost a mother's care." "neither am i, nor is mary, ungrateful for the kindness she has received at greshamsbury." "but i must do my duty: my own children must be my first consideration." "of course they must, lady arabella; that's of course." "and, therefore, i have called on you to say that i think it is imprudent that beatrice and mary should be so much together." the doctor had been standing during the latter part of this conversation, but now he began to walk about, still holding the two bones like a pair of dumb-bells. "god bless my soul!" he said; "god bless my soul! why, lady arabella, do you suspect your own daughter as well as your own son? do you think that beatrice is assisting mary in preparing this wicked clandestine marriage? i tell you fairly, lady arabella, the present tone of your mind is such that i cannot understand it." "i suspect nobody, dr thorne; but young people will be young." "and old people must be old, i suppose; the more's the pity. lady arabella, mary is the same to me as my own daughter, and owes me the obedience of a child; but as i do not disapprove of your daughter beatrice as an acquaintance for her, but rather, on the other hand, regard with pleasure their friendship, you cannot expect that i should take any steps to put an end to it." "but suppose it should lead to renewed intercourse between frank and mary?" "i have no objection. frank is a very nice young fellow, gentleman-like in his manners, and neighbourly in his disposition." "dr thorne--" "lady arabella--" "i cannot believe that you really intend to express a wish--" "you are quite right. i have not intended to express any wish; nor do i intend to do so. mary is at liberty, within certain bounds--which i am sure she will not pass--to choose her own friends. i think she has not chosen badly as regards miss beatrice gresham; and should she even add frank gresham to the number--" "friends! why they were more than friends; they were declared lovers." "i doubt that, lady arabella, because i have not heard of it from mary. but even if it were so, i do not see why i should object." "not object!" "as i said before, frank is, to my thinking, an excellent young man. why should i object?" "dr thorne!" said her ladyship, now also rising from her chair in a state of too evident perturbation. "why should _i_ object? it is for you, lady arabella, to look after your lambs; for me to see that, if possible, no harm shall come to mine. if you think that mary is an improper acquaintance for your children, it is for you to guide them; for you and their father. say what you think fit to your own daughter; but pray understand, once for all, that i will allow no one to interfere with my niece." "interfere!" said lady arabella, now absolutely confused by the severity of the doctor's manner. "i will allow no one to interfere with her; no one, lady arabella. she has suffered very greatly from imputations which you have most unjustly thrown on her. it was, however, your undoubted right to turn her out of your house if you thought fit;--though, as a woman who had known her for so many years, you might, i think, have treated her with more forbearance. that, however, was your right, and you exercised it. there your privilege stops; yes, and must stop, lady arabella. you shall not persecute her here, on the only spot of ground she can call her own." "persecute her, dr thorne! you do not mean to say that i have persecuted her?" "ah! but i do mean to say so. you do persecute her, and would continue to do so did i not defend her. it is not sufficient that she is forbidden to enter your domain--and so forbidden with the knowledge of all the country round--but you must come here also with the hope of interrupting all the innocent pleasures of her life. fearing lest she should be allowed even to speak to your son, to hear a word of him through his own sister, you would put her in prison, tie her up, keep her from the light of day--" "dr thorne! how can you--" but the doctor was not to be interrupted. "it never occurs to you to tie him up, to put him in prison. no; he is the heir of greshamsbury; he is your son, an earl's grandson. it is only natural, after all, that he should throw a few foolish words at the doctor's niece. but she! it is an offence not to be forgiven on her part that she should, however, unwillingly, have been forced to listen to them! now understand me, lady arabella; if any of your family come to my house i shall be delighted to welcome them: if mary should meet any of them elsewhere i shall be delighted to hear of it. should she tell me to-morrow that she was engaged to marry frank, i should talk the matter over with her, quite coolly, solely with a view to her interest, as would be my duty; feeling, at the same time, that frank would be lucky in having such a wife. now you know my mind, lady arabella. it is so i should do my duty;--you can do yours as you may think fit." lady arabella had by this time perceived that she was not destined on this occasion to gain any great victory. she, however, was angry as well as the doctor. it was not the man's vehemence that provoked her so much as his evident determination to break down the prestige of her rank, and place her on a footing in no respect superior to his own. he had never before been so audaciously arrogant; and, as she moved towards the door, she determined in her wrath that she would never again have confidential intercourse with him in any relation of life whatsoever. "dr thorne," said she. "i think you have forgotten yourself. you must excuse me if i say that after what has passed i--i--i--" "certainly," said he, fully understanding what she meant; and bowing low as he opened first the study-door, then the front-door, then the garden-gate. and then lady arabella stalked off, not without full observation from mrs yates umbleby and her friend miss gushing, who lived close by. chapter xxvii miss thorne goes on a visit and now began the unpleasant things at greshamsbury of which we have here told. when lady arabella walked away from the doctor's house she resolved that, let it cost what it might, there should be war to the knife between her and him. she had been insulted by him--so at least she said to herself, and so she was prepared to say to others also--and it was not to be borne that a de courcy should allow her parish doctor to insult her with impunity. she would tell her husband with all the dignity that she could assume, that it had now become absolutely necessary that he should protect his wife by breaking entirely with his unmannered neighbour; and, as regarded the young members of her family, she would use the authority of a mother, and absolutely forbid them to hold any intercourse with mary thorne. so resolving, she walked quickly back to her own house. the doctor, when left alone, was not quite satisfied with the part he had taken in the interview. he had spoken from impulse rather than from judgement, and, as is generally the case with men who do so speak, he had afterwards to acknowledge to himself that he had been imprudent. he accused himself probably of more violence than he had really used, and was therefore unhappy; but, nevertheless, his indignation was not at rest. he was angry with himself; but not on that account the less angry with lady arabella. she was cruel, overbearing, and unreasonable; cruel in the most cruel of manners, so he thought; but not on that account was he justified in forgetting the forbearance due from a gentleman to a lady. mary, moreover, had owed much to the kindness of this woman, and, therefore, dr thorne felt that he should have forgiven much. thus the doctor walked about his room, much disturbed; now accusing himself for having been so angry with lady arabella, and then feeding his own anger by thinking of her misconduct. the only immediate conclusion at which he resolved was this, that it was unnecessary that he should say anything to mary on the subject of her ladyship's visit. there was, no doubt, sorrow enough in store for his darling; why should he aggravate it? lady arabella would doubtless not stop now in her course; but why should he accelerate the evil which she would doubtless be able to effect? lady arabella, when she returned to the house, allowed no grass to grow under her feet. as she entered the house she desired that miss beatrice should be sent to her directly she returned; and she desired also, that as soon as the squire should be in his room a message to that effect might be immediately brought to her. "beatrice," she said, as soon as the young lady appeared before her, and in speaking she assumed her firmest tone of authority, "beatrice, i am sorry, my dear, to say anything that is unpleasant to you, but i must make it a positive request that you will for the future drop all intercourse with dr thorne's family." beatrice, who had received lady arabella's message immediately on entering the house, and had run upstairs imagining that some instant haste was required, now stood before her mother rather out of breath, holding her bonnet by the strings. "oh, mamma!" she exclaimed, "what on earth has happened?" "my dear," said the mother, "i cannot really explain to you what has happened; but i must ask you to give me your positive assurance that you will comply with my request." "you don't mean that i am not to see mary any more?" "yes, i do, my dear; at any rate, for the present. when i tell you that your brother's interest imperatively demands it, i am sure that you will not refuse me." beatrice did not refuse, but she did not appear too willing to comply. she stood silent, leaning against the end of a sofa and twisting her bonnet-strings in her hand. "well, beatrice--" "but, mamma, i don't understand." lady arabella had said that she could not exactly explain: but she found it necessary to attempt to do so. "dr thorne has openly declared to me that a marriage between poor frank and mary is all he could desire for his niece. after such unparalleled audacity as that, even your father will see the necessity of breaking with him." "dr thorne! oh, mamma, you must have misunderstood him." "my dear, i am not apt to misunderstand people; especially when i am so much in earnest as i was in talking to dr thorne." "but, mamma, i know so well what mary herself thinks about it." "and i know what dr thorne thinks about it; he, at any rate, has been candid in what he said; there can be no doubt on earth that he has spoken his true thoughts; there can be no reason to doubt him: of course such a match would be all that he could wish." "mamma, i feel sure that there is some mistake." "very well, my dear. i know that you are infatuated about these people, and that you are always inclined to contradict what i say to you; but, remember, i expect that you will obey me when i tell you not to go to dr thorne's house any more." "but, mamma--" "i expect you to obey me, beatrice. though you are so prone to contradict, you have never disobeyed me; and i fully trust that you will not do so now." lady arabella had begun by exacting, or trying to exact a promise, but as she found that this was not forthcoming, she thought it better to give up the point without a dispute. it might be that beatrice would absolutely refuse to pay this respect to her mother's authority, and then where would she have been? at this moment a servant came up to say that the squire was in his room, and lady arabella was opportunely saved the necessity of discussing the matter further with her daughter. "i am now," she said, "going to see your father on the same subject; you may be quite sure, beatrice, that i should not willingly speak to him on any matter relating to dr thorne did i not find it absolutely necessary to do so." this beatrice knew was true, and she did therefore feel convinced that something terrible must have happened. while lady arabella opened her budget the squire sat quite silent, listening to her with apparent respect. she found it necessary that her description to him should be much more elaborate than that which she had vouchsafed to her daughter, and, in telling her grievance, she insisted most especially on the personal insult which had been offered to herself. "after what has now happened," said she, not quite able to repress a tone of triumph as she spoke, "i do expect, mr gresham, that you will--will--" "will what, my dear?" "will at least protect me from the repetition of such treatment." "you are not afraid that dr thorne will come here to attack you? as far as i can understand, he never comes near the place, unless when you send for him." "no; i do not think that he will come to greshamsbury any more. i believe i have put a stop to that." "then what is it, my dear, that you want me to do?" lady arabella paused a minute before she replied. the game which she now had to play was not very easy; she knew, or thought she knew, that her husband, in his heart of hearts, much preferred his friend to the wife of his bosom, and that he would, if he could, shuffle out of noticing the doctor's iniquities. it behoved her, therefore, to put them forward in such a way that they must be noticed. "i suppose, mr gresham, you do not wish that frank should marry the girl?" "i do not think there is the slightest chance of such a thing; and i am quite sure that dr thorne would not encourage it." "but i tell you, mr gresham, that he says he will encourage it." "oh, you have misunderstood him." "of course; i always misunderstand everything. i know that. i misunderstood it when i told you how you would distress yourself if you took those nasty hounds." "i have had other troubles more expensive than the hounds," said the poor squire, sighing. "oh, yes; i know what you mean; a wife and family are expensive, of course. it is a little too late now to complain of that." "my dear, it is always too late to complain of any troubles when they are no longer to be avoided. we need not, therefore, talk any more about the hounds at present." "i do not wish to speak of them, mr gresham." "nor i." "but i hope you will not think me unreasonable if i am anxious to know what you intend to do about dr thorne." "to do?" "yes; i suppose you will do something: you do not wish to see your son marry such a girl as mary thorne." "as far as the girl herself is concerned," said the squire, turning rather red, "i am not sure that he could do much better. i know nothing whatever against mary. frank, however, cannot afford to make such a match. it would be his ruin." "of course it would; utter ruin; he never could hold up his head again. therefore it is i ask, what do you intend to do?" the squire was bothered. he had no intention whatever of doing anything, and no belief in his wife's assertion as to dr thorne's iniquity. but he did not know how to get her out of the room. she asked him the same question over and over again, and on each occasion urged on him the heinousness of the insult to which she personally had been subjected; so that at last he was driven to ask her what it was she wished him to do. "well, then, mr gresham, if you ask me, i must say, that i think you should abstain from any intercourse with dr thorne whatever." "break off all intercourse with him?" "yes." "what do you mean? he has been turned out of this house, and i'm not to go to see him at his own." "i certainly think that you ought to discontinue your visits to dr thorne altogether." "nonsense, my dear; absolute nonsense." "nonsense! mr gresham; it is no nonsense. as you speak in that way, i must let you know plainly what i feel. i am endeavouring to do my duty by my son. as you justly observe, such a marriage as this would be utter ruin to him. when i found that the young people were actually talking of being in love with each other, making vows and all that sort of thing, i did think it time to interfere. i did not, however, turn them out of greshamsbury as you accuse me of doing. in the kindest possible manner--" "well--well--well; i know all that. there, they are gone, and that's enough. i don't complain; surely that ought to be enough." "enough! mr gresham. no; it is not enough. i find that, in spite of what has occurred, the closest intimacy exists between the two families; that poor beatrice, who is so very young, and not so prudent as she should be, is made to act as a go-between; and when i speak to the doctor, hoping that he will assist me in preventing this, he not only tells me that he means to encourage mary in her plans, but positively insults me to my face, laughs at me for being an earl's daughter, and tells me--yes, he absolutely told me--to get out of his house." let it be told with some shame as to the squire's conduct, that his first feeling on hearing this was one of envy--of envy and regret that he could not make the same uncivil request. not that he wished to turn his wife absolutely out of his house; but he would have been very glad to have had the power of dismissing her summarily from his own room. this, however, was at present impossible; so he was obliged to make some mild reply. "you must have mistaken him, my dear. he could not have intended to say that." "oh! of course, mr gresham. it is all a mistake, of course. it will be a mistake, only a mistake when you find your son married to mary thorne." "well, my dear, i cannot undertake to quarrel with dr thorne." this was true; for the squire could hardly have quarrelled with dr thorne, even had he wished it. "then i think it right to tell you that i shall. and, mr gresham, i did not expect much co-operation from you; but i did think that you would have shown some little anger when you heard that i had been so ill-treated. i shall, however, know how to take care of myself; and i shall continue to do the best i can to protect frank from these wicked intrigues." so saying, her ladyship arose and left the room, having succeeded in destroying the comfort of all our greshamsbury friends. it was very well for the squire to declare that he would not quarrel with dr thorne, and of course he did not do so. but he, himself, had no wish whatever that his son should marry mary thorne; and as a falling drop will hollow a stone, so did the continual harping of his wife on the subject give rise to some amount of suspicion in his own mind. then as to beatrice, though she had made no promise that she would not again visit mary, she was by no means prepared to set her mother's authority altogether at defiance; and she also was sufficiently uncomfortable. dr thorne said nothing of the matter to his niece, and she, therefore, would have been absolutely bewildered by beatrice's absence, had she not received some tidings of what had taken place at greshamsbury through patience oriel. beatrice and patience discussed the matter fully, and it was agreed between them that it would be better that mary should know what sterner orders respecting her had gone forth from the tyrant at greshamsbury, and that she might understand that beatrice's absence was compulsory. patience was thus placed in this position, that on one day she walked and talked with beatrice, and on the next with mary; and so matters went on for a while at greshamsbury--not very pleasantly. very unpleasantly and very uncomfortably did the months of may and june pass away. beatrice and mary occasionally met, drinking tea together at the parsonage, or in some other of the ordinary meetings of country society; but there were no more confidentially distressing confidential discourses, no more whispering of frank's name, no more sweet allusions to the inexpediency of a passion, which, according to beatrice's views, would have been so delightful had it been expedient. the squire and the doctor also met constantly; there were unfortunately many subjects on which they were obliged to meet. louis philippe--or sir louis as we must call him--though he had no power over his own property, was wide awake to all the coming privileges of ownership, and he would constantly point out to his guardian the manner in which, according to his ideas, the most should be made of it. the young baronet's ideas of good taste were not of the most refined description, and he did not hesitate to tell dr thorne that his, the doctor's, friendship with mr gresham must be no bar to his, the baronet's, interest. sir louis also had his own lawyer, who gave dr thorne to understand that, according to his ideas, the sum due on mr gresham's property was too large to be left on its present footing; the title-deeds, he said, should be surrendered or the mortgage foreclosed. all this added to the sadness which now seemed to envelop the village of greshamsbury. early in july, frank was to come home. the manner in which the comings and goings of "poor frank" were allowed to disturb the arrangements of all the ladies, and some of the gentlemen, of greshamsbury was most abominable. and yet it can hardly be said to have been his fault. he would have been only too well pleased had things been allowed to go on after their old fashion. things were not allowed so to go on. at christmas miss oriel had submitted to be exiled, in order that she might carry mary away from the presence of the young bashaw, an arrangement by which all the winter festivities of the poor doctor had been thoroughly sacrificed; and now it began to be said that some similar plan for the summer must be suggested. it must not be supposed that any direction to this effect was conveyed either to mary or to the doctor. the suggestion came from them, and was mentioned only to patience. but patience, as a matter of course, told beatrice, and beatrice told her mother, somewhat triumphantly, hoping thereby to convince the she-dragon of mary's innocence. alas! she-dragons are not easily convinced of the innocence of any one. lady arabella quite coincided in the propriety of mary's being sent off,--whither she never inquired,--in order that the coast might be clear for "poor frank;" but she did not a whit the more abstain from talking of the wicked intrigues of those thornes. as it turned out, mary's absence caused her to talk all the more. the boxall hill property, including the house and furniture, had been left to the contractor's son; it being understood that the property would not be at present in his own hands, but that he might inhabit the house if he chose to do so. it would thus be necessary for lady scatcherd to find a home for herself, unless she could remain at boxall hill by her son's permission. in this position of affairs the doctor had been obliged to make a bargain between them. sir louis did wish to have the comfort, or perhaps the honour, of a country house; but he did not wish to have the expense of keeping it up. he was also willing to let his mother live at the house; but not without a consideration. after a prolonged degree of haggling, terms were agreed upon; and a few weeks after her husband's death, lady scatcherd found herself alone at boxall hill--alone as regards society in the ordinary sense, but not quite alone as concerned her ladyship, for the faithful hannah was still with her. the doctor was of course often at boxall hill, and never left it without an urgent request from lady scatcherd that he would bring his niece over to see her. now lady scatcherd was no fit companion for mary thorne, and though mary had often asked to be taken to boxall hill, certain considerations had hitherto induced the doctor to refuse the request; but there was that about lady scatcherd,--a kind of homely honesty of purpose, an absence of all conceit as to her own position, and a strength of womanly confidence in the doctor as her friend, which by degrees won upon his heart. when, therefore, both he and mary felt that it would be better for her again to absent herself for a while from greshamsbury, it was, after much deliberation, agreed that she should go on a visit to boxall hill. to boxall hill, accordingly, she went, and was received almost as a princess. mary had all her life been accustomed to women of rank, and had never habituated herself to feel much trepidation in the presence of titled grandees; but she had prepared herself to be more than ordinarily submissive to lady scatcherd. her hostess was a widow, was not a woman of high birth, was a woman of whom her uncle spoke well; and, for all these reasons, mary was determined to respect her, and pay to her every consideration. but when she settled down in the house she found it almost impossible to do so. lady scatcherd treated her as a farmer's wife might have treated some convalescent young lady who had been sent to her charge for a few weeks, in order that she might benefit by the country air. her ladyship could hardly bring herself to sit still and eat her dinner tranquilly in her guest's presence. and then nothing was good enough for mary. lady scatcherd besought her, almost with tears, to say what she liked best to eat and drink; and was in despair when mary declared she didn't care, that she liked anything, and that she was in nowise particular in such matters. "a roast fowl, miss thorne?" "very nice, lady scatcherd." "and bread sauce?" "bread sauce--yes; oh, yes--i like bread sauce,"--and poor mary tried hard to show a little interest. "and just a few sausages. we make them all in the house, miss thorne; we know what they are. and mashed potatoes--do you like them best mashed or baked?" mary finding herself obliged to vote, voted for mashed potatoes. "very well. but, miss thorne, if you like boiled fowl better, with a little bit of ham, you know, i do hope you'll say so. and there's lamb in the house, quite beautiful; now do 'ee say something; do 'ee, miss thorne." so invoked, mary felt herself obliged to say something, and declared for the roast fowl and sausages; but she found it very difficult to pay much outward respect to a person who would pay so much outward respect to her. a day or two after her arrival it was decided that she should ride about the place on a donkey; she was accustomed to riding, the doctor having generally taken care that one of his own horses should, when required, consent to carry a lady; but there was no steed at boxall hill that she could mount; and when lady scatcherd had offered to get a pony for her, she had willingly compromised matters by expressing the delight she would have in making a campaign on a donkey. upon this, lady scatcherd had herself set off in quest of the desired animal, much to mary's horror; and did not return till the necessary purchase had been effected. then she came back with the donkey close at her heels, almost holding its collar, and stood there at the hall-door till mary came to approve. "i hope she'll do. i don't think she'll kick," said lady scatcherd, patting the head of her purchase quite triumphantly. "oh, you are so kind, lady scatcherd. i'm sure she'll do quite nicely; she seems very quiet," said mary. "please, my lady, it's a he," said the boy who held the halter. "oh! a he, is it?" said her ladyship; "but the he-donkeys are quite as quiet as the shes, ain't they?" "oh, yes, my lady; a deal quieter, all the world over, and twice as useful." "i'm so glad of that, miss thorne," said lady scatcherd, her eyes bright with joy. and so mary was established with her donkey, who did all that could be expected from an animal in his position. "but, dear lady scatcherd," said mary, as they sat together at the open drawing-room window the same evening, "you must not go on calling me miss thorne; my name is mary, you know. won't you call me mary?" and she came and knelt at lady scatcherd's feet, and took hold of her, looking up into her face. lady scatcherd's cheeks became rather red, as though she was somewhat ashamed of her position. "you are so very kind to me," continued mary, "and it seems so cold to hear you call me miss thorne." "well, miss thorne, i'm sure i'd call you anything to please you. only i didn't know whether you'd like it from me. else i do think mary is the prettiest name in all the language." "i should like it very much." "my dear roger always loved that name better than any other; ten times better. i used to wish sometimes that i'd been called mary." "did he! why?" "he once had a sister called mary; such a beautiful creature! i declare i sometimes think you are like her." "oh, dear! then she must have been beautiful indeed!" said mary, laughing. "she was very beautiful. i just remember her--oh, so beautiful! she was quite a poor girl, you know; and so was i then. isn't it odd that i should have to be called 'my lady' now? do you know miss thorne--" "mary! mary!" said her guest. "ah, yes; but somehow, i hardly like to make so free; but, as i was saying, i do so dislike being called 'my lady:' i always think the people are laughing at me; and so they are." "oh, nonsense." "yes, they are though: poor dear roger, he used to call me 'my lady' just to make fun of me; i didn't mind it so much from him. but, miss thorne--" "mary, mary, mary." "ah, well! i shall do it in time. but, miss--mary, ha! ha! ha! never mind, let me alone. but what i want to say is this: do you think i could drop it? hannah says, that if i go the right way about it she is sure i can." "oh! but, lady scatcherd, you shouldn't think of such a thing." "shouldn't i now?" "oh, no; for your husband's sake you should be proud of it. he gained great honour, you know." "ah, well," said she, sighing after a short pause; "if you think it will do him any good, of course i'll put up with it. and then i know louis would be mad if i talked of such a thing. but, miss thorne, dear, a woman like me don't like to have to be made a fool of all the days of her life if she can help it." "but, lady scatcherd," said mary, when this question of the title had been duly settled, and her ladyship made to understand that she must bear the burden for the rest of her life, "but, lady scatcherd, you were speaking of sir roger's sister; what became of her?" "oh, she did very well at last, as sir roger did himself; but in early life she was very unfortunate--just at the time of my marriage with dear roger--," and then, just as she was about to commence so much as she knew of the history of mary scatcherd, she remembered that the author of her sister-in-law's misery had been a thorne, a brother of the doctor; and, therefore, as she presumed, a relative of her guest; and suddenly she became mute. "well," said mary; "just as you were married, lady scatcherd?" poor lady scatcherd had very little worldly knowledge, and did not in the least know how to turn the conversation or escape from the trouble into which she had fallen. all manner of reflections began to crowd upon her. in her early days she had known very little of the thornes, nor had she thought much of them since, except as regarded her friend the doctor; but at this moment she began for the first time to remember that she had never heard of more than two brothers in the family. who then could have been mary's father? she felt at once that it would be improper for to say anything as to henry thorne's terrible faults and sudden fate;--improper also, to say more about mary scatcherd; but she was quite unable to drop the matter otherwise than abruptly, and with a start. "she was very unfortunate, you say, lady scatcherd?" "yes, miss thorne; mary, i mean--never mind me--i shall do it in time. yes, she was; but now i think of it, i had better say nothing more about it. there are reasons, and i ought not to have spoken of it. you won't be provoked with me, will you?" mary assured her that she would not be provoked, and of course asked no more questions about mary scatcherd; nor did she think much more about it. it was not so however with her ladyship, who could not keep herself from reflecting that the old clergyman in the close at barchester certainly had but two sons, one of whom was now the doctor at greshamsbury, and the other of whom had perished so wretchedly at the gate of that farmyard. who then was the father of mary thorne? the days passed very quietly at boxall hill. every morning mary went out on her donkey, who justified by his demeanour all that had been said in his praise; then she would read or draw, then walk with lady scatcherd, then dine, then walk again; and so the days passed quietly away. once or twice a week the doctor would come over and drink his tea there, riding home in the cool of the evening. mary also received one visit from her friend patience. so the days passed quietly away till the tranquillity of the house was suddenly broken by tidings from london. lady scatcherd received a letter from her son, contained in three lines, in which he intimated that on the following day he meant to honour her with a visit. he had intended, he said, to have gone to brighton with some friends; but as he felt himself a little out of sorts, he would postpone his marine trip and do his mother the grace of spending a few days with her. this news was not very pleasant to mary, by whom it had been understood, as it had also by her uncle, that lady scatcherd would have had the house to herself; but as there were no means of preventing the evil, mary could only inform the doctor, and prepare herself to meet sir louis scatcherd. chapter xxviii the doctor hears something to his advantage sir louis scatcherd had told his mother that he was rather out of sorts, and when he reached boxall hill it certainly did not appear that he had given any exaggerated statement of his own maladies. he certainly was a good deal out of sorts. he had had more than one attack of delirium tremens since his father's death, and had almost been at death's door. nothing had been said about this by dr thorne at boxall hill; but he was by no means ignorant of his ward's state. twice he had gone up to london to visit him; twice he had begged him to go down into the country and place himself under his mother's care. on the last occasion, the doctor had threatened him with all manner of pains and penalties: with pains, as to his speedy departure from this world and all its joys; and with penalties, in the shape of poverty if that departure should by any chance be retarded. but these threats had at the moment been in vain, and the doctor had compromised matters by inducing sir louis to promise that he would go to brighton. the baronet, however, who was at length frightened by some renewed attack, gave up his brighton scheme, and, without any notice to the doctor, hurried down to boxall hill. mary did not see him on the first day of his coming, but the doctor did. he received such intimation of the visit as enabled him to be at the house soon after the young man's arrival; and, knowing that his assistance might be necessary, he rode over to boxall hill. it was a dreadful task to him, this of making the same fruitless endeavour for the son that he had made for the father, and in the same house. but he was bound by every consideration to perform the task. he had promised the father that he would do for the son all that was in his power; and he had, moreover, the consciousness, that should sir louis succeed in destroying himself, the next heir to all the property was his own niece, mary thorne. he found sir louis in a low, wretched, miserable state. though he was a drunkard as his father was, he was not at all such a drunkard as was his father. the physical capacities of the men were very different. the daily amount of alcohol which the father had consumed would have burnt up the son in a week; whereas, though the son was continually tipsy, what he swallowed would hardly have had an injurious effect upon the father. "you are all wrong, quite wrong," said sir louis, petulantly; "it isn't that at all. i have taken nothing this week past--literally nothing. i think it's the liver." dr thorne wanted no one to tell him what was the matter with his ward. it was his liver; his liver, and his head, and his stomach, and his heart. every organ in his body had been destroyed, or was in the course of destruction. his father had killed himself with brandy; the son, more elevated in his tastes, was doing the same thing with curaçoa, maraschino, and cherry-bounce. "sir louis," said the doctor--he was obliged to be much more punctilious with him than he had been with the contractor--"the matter is in your own hands entirely: if you cannot keep your lips from that accursed poison, you have nothing in this world to look forward to; nothing, nothing!" mary proposed to return with her uncle to greshamsbury, and he was at first well inclined that she should do so. but this idea was overruled, partly in compliance with lady scatcherd's entreaties, and partly because it would have seemed as though they had both thought the presence of its owner had made the house an unfit habitation for decent people. the doctor therefore returned, leaving mary there; and lady scatcherd busied herself between her two guests. on the next day sir louis was able to come down to a late dinner, and mary was introduced to him. he had dressed himself in his best array; and as he had--at any rate for the present moment--been frightened out of his libations, he was prepared to make himself as agreeable as possible. his mother waited on him almost as a slave might have done; but she seemed to do so with the fear of a slave rather than the love of a mother. she was fidgety in her attentions, and worried him by endeavouring to make her evening sitting-room agreeable. but sir louis, though he was not very sweetly behaved under these manipulations from his mother's hands, was quite complaisant to miss thorne; nay, after the expiration of a week he was almost more than complaisant. he piqued himself on his gallantry, and now found that, in the otherwise dull seclusion of boxall hill, he had a good opportunity of exercising it. to do him justice it must be admitted that he would not have been incapable of a decent career had he stumbled upon some girl who could have loved him before he stumbled upon his maraschino bottle. such might have been the case with many a lost rake. the things that are bad are accepted because the things that are good do not come easily in his way. how many a miserable father reviles with bitterness of spirit the low tastes of his son, who has done nothing to provide his child with higher pleasures! sir louis--partly in the hopes of mary's smiles, and partly frightened by the doctor's threats--did, for a while, keep himself within decent bounds. he did not usually appear before mary's eyes till three or four in the afternoon; but when he did come forth, he came forth sober and resolute to please. his mother was delighted, and was not slow to sing his praises; and even the doctor, who now visited boxall hill more frequently than ever, began to have some hopes. one constant subject, i must not say of conversation, on the part of lady scatcherd, but rather of declamation, had hitherto been the beauty and manly attributes of frank gresham. she had hardly ceased to talk to mary of the infinite good qualities of the young squire, and especially of his prowess in the matter of mr moffat. mary had listened to all this eloquence, not perhaps with inattention, but without much reply. she had not been exactly sorry to hear frank talked about; indeed, had she been so minded, she could herself have said something on the same subject; but she did not wish to take lady scatcherd altogether into her confidence, and she had been unable to say much about frank gresham without doing so. lady scatcherd had, therefore, gradually conceived the idea that her darling was not a favourite with her guest. now, therefore, she changed the subject; and, as her own son was behaving with such unexampled propriety, she dropped frank and confined her eulogies to louis. he had been a little wild, she admitted; young men so often were so; but she hoped that it was now over. "he does still take a little drop of those french drinks in the morning," said lady scatcherd, in her confidence; for she was too honest to be false, even in her own cause. "he does do that, i know: but that's nothing, my dear, to swilling all day; and everything can't be done at once, can it, miss thorne?" on this subject mary found her tongue loosened. she could not talk about frank gresham, but she could speak with hope to the mother of her only son. she could say that sir louis was still very young; that there was reason to trust that he might now reform; that his present conduct was apparently good; and that he appeared capable of better things. so much she did say; and the mother took her sympathy for more than it was worth. on this matter, and on this matter perhaps alone, sir louis and lady scatcherd were in accord. there was much to recommend mary to the baronet; not only did he see her to be beautiful, and perceive her to be attractive and ladylike; but she was also the niece of the man who, for the present, held the purse-strings of his wealth. mary, it is true, had no fortune. but sir louis knew that she was acknowledged to be a lady; and he was ambitious that his "lady" should be a lady. there was also much to recommend mary to the mother, to any mother; and thus it came to pass, that miss thorne had no obstacle between her and the dignity of being lady scatcherd the second;--no obstacle whatever, if only she could bring herself to wish it. it was some time--two or three weeks, perhaps--before mary's mind was first opened to this new brilliancy in her prospects. sir louis at first was rather afraid of her, and did not declare his admiration in any very determined terms. he certainly paid her many compliments which, from any one else, she would have regarded as abominable. but she did not expect great things from the baronet's taste: she concluded that he was only doing what he thought a gentleman should do; and she was willing to forgive much for lady scatcherd's sake. his first attempts were, perhaps, more ludicrous than passionate. he was still too much an invalid to take walks, and mary was therefore saved from his company in her rambles; but he had a horse of his own at boxall hill, and had been advised to ride by the doctor. mary also rode--on a donkey only, it is true--but sir louis found himself bound in gallantry to accompany her. mary's steed had answered every expectation, and proved himself very quiet; so quiet, that without the admonition of a cudgel behind him, he could hardly be persuaded into the demurest trot. now, as sir louis's horse was of a very different mettle, he found it rather difficult not to step faster than his inamorata; and, let him struggle as he would, was generally so far ahead as to be debarred the delights of conversation. when for the second time he proposed to accompany her, mary did what she could to hinder it. she saw that he had been rather ashamed of the manner in which his companion was mounted, and she herself would have enjoyed her ride much more without him. he was an invalid, however; it was necessary to make much of him, and mary did not absolutely refuse his offer. "lady scatcherd," said he, as they were standing at the door previous to mounting--he always called his mother lady scatcherd--"why don't you have a horse for miss thorne? this donkey is--is--really is, so very--very--can't go at all, you know?" lady scatcherd began to declare that she would willingly have got a pony if mary would have let her do so. "oh, no, lady scatcherd; not on any account. i do like the donkey so much--i do indeed." "but he won't go," said sir louis. "and for a person who rides like you, miss thorne--such a horsewoman you know--why, you know, lady scatcherd, it's positively ridiculous; d---- absurd, you know." and then, with an angry look at his mother, he mounted his horse, and was soon leading the way down the avenue. "miss thorne," said he, pulling himself up at the gate, "if i had known that i was to be so extremely happy as to have found you here, i would have brought you down the most beautiful creature, an arab. she belongs to my friend jenkins; but i wouldn't have stood at any price in getting her for you. by jove! if you were on that mare, i'd back you, for style and appearance, against anything in hyde park." the offer of this sporting wager, which naturally would have been very gratifying to mary, was lost upon her, for sir louis had again unwittingly got on in advance, but he stopped himself in time to hear mary again declare her passion was a donkey. "if you could only see jenkins's little mare, miss thorne! only say one word, and she shall be down here before the week's end. price shall be no obstacle--none whatever. by jove, what a pair you would be!" this generous offer was repeated four or five times; but on each occasion mary only half heard what was said, and on each occasion the baronet was far too much in advance to hear mary's reply. at last he recollected that he wanted to call on one of the tenants, and begged his companion to allow him to ride on. "if you at all dislike being left alone, you know--" "oh dear no, not at all, sir louis. i am quite used to it." "because i don't care about it, you know; only i can't make this horse walk the same pace as that brute." "you mustn't abuse my pet, sir louis." "it's a d---- shame on my mother's part;" said sir louis, who, even when in his best behaviour, could not quite give up his ordinary mode of conversation. "when she was fortunate enough to get such a girl as you to come and stay with her, she ought to have had something proper for her to ride upon; but i'll look to it as soon as i am a little stronger, you see if i don't;" and, so saying, sir louis trotted off, leaving mary in peace with her donkey. sir louis had now been living cleanly and forswearing sack for what was to him a very long period, and his health felt the good effects of it. no one rejoiced at this more cordially than did the doctor. to rejoice at it was with him a point of conscience. he could not help telling himself now and again that, circumstanced as he was, he was most specially bound to take joy in any sign of reformation which the baronet might show. not to do so would be almost tantamount to wishing that he might die in order that mary might inherit his wealth; and, therefore, the doctor did with all his energy devote himself to the difficult task of hoping and striving that sir louis might yet live to enjoy what was his own. but the task was altogether a difficult one, for as sir louis became stronger in health, so also did he become more exorbitant in his demands on the doctor's patience, and more repugnant to the doctor's tastes. in his worst fits of disreputable living he was ashamed to apply to his guardian for money; and in his worst fits of illness he was, through fear, somewhat patient under his doctor's hands; but just at present he had nothing of which to be ashamed, and was not at all patient. "doctor,"--said he, one day, at boxall hill--"how about those greshamsbury title-deeds?" "oh, that will all be properly settled between my lawyer and your own." "oh--ah--yes; no doubt the lawyers will settle it: settle it with a fine bill of costs, of course. but, as finnie says,"--finnie was sir louis's legal adviser--"i have got a tremendously large interest at stake in this matter; eighty thousand pounds is no joke. it ain't everybody that can shell out eighty thousand pounds when they're wanted; and i should like to know how the thing's going on. i've a right to ask, you know; eh, doctor?" "the title-deeds of a large portion of the greshamsbury estate will be placed with the mortgage-deeds before the end of next month." "oh, that's all right. i choose to know about these things; for though my father did make such a con-found-ed will, that's no reason i shouldn't know how things are going." "you shall know everything that i know, sir louis." "and now, doctor, what are we to do about money?" "about money?" "yes; money, rhino, ready! 'put money in your purse and cut a dash;' eh, doctor? not that i want to cut a dash. no, i'm going on the quiet line altogether now: i've done with all that sort of thing." "i'm heartily glad of it; heartily," said the doctor. "yes, i'm not going to make way for my far-away cousin yet; not if i know it, at least. i shall soon be all right now, doctor; shan't i?" "'all right' is a long word, sir louis. but i do hope you will be all right in time, if you will live with decent prudence. you shouldn't take that filth in the morning though." "filth in the morning! that's my mother, i suppose! that's her ladyship! she's been talking, has she? don't you believe her, doctor. there's not a young man in barsetshire is going more regular, all right within the posts, than i am." the doctor was obliged to acknowledge that there did seem to be some improvement. "and now, doctor, how about money? eh?" doctor thorne, like other guardians similarly circumstanced, began to explain that sir louis had already had a good deal of money, and had begun also to promise that more should be forthcoming in the event of good behaviour, when he was somewhat suddenly interrupted by sir louis. "well, now; i'll tell you what, doctor; i've got a bit of news for you; something that i think will astonish you." the doctor opened his eyes, and tried to look as though ready to be surprised. "something that will really make you look about; and something, too, that will be very much to the hearer's advantage,--as the newspaper advertisements say." "something to my advantage?" said the doctor. "well, i hope you'll think so. doctor, what would you think now of my getting married?" "i should be delighted to hear of it--more delighted than i can express; that is, of course, if you were to marry well. it was your father's most eager wish that you should marry early." "that's partly my reason," said the young hypocrite. "but then, if i marry i must have an income fit to live on; eh, doctor?" the doctor had some fear that his interesting protégée was desirous of a wife for the sake of the income, instead of desiring the income for the sake of the wife. but let the cause be what it would, marriage would probably be good for him; and he had no hesitation, therefore, in telling him, that if he married well, he should be put in possession of sufficient income to maintain the new lady scatcherd in a manner becoming her dignity. "as to marrying well," said sir louis, "you, i take it, will be the last man, doctor, to quarrel with my choice." "shall i?" said the doctor, smiling. "well, you won't disapprove, i guess, as the yankee says. what would you think of miss mary thorne?" it must be said in sir louis's favour that he had probably no idea whatever of the estimation in which such young ladies as mary thorne are held by those who are nearest and dearest to them. he had no sort of conception that she was regarded by her uncle as an inestimable treasure, almost too precious to be rendered up to the arms of any man; and infinitely beyond any price in silver and gold, baronets' incomes of eight or ten thousand a year, and such coins usually current in the world's markets. he was a rich man and a baronet, and mary was an unmarried girl without a portion. in sir louis's estimation he was offering everything, and asking for nothing. he certainly had some idea that girls were apt to be coy, and required a little wooing in the shape of presents, civil speeches--perhaps kisses also. the civil speeches he had, he thought, done, and imagined that they had been well received. the other things were to follow; an arab pony, for instance,--and the kisses probably with it; and then all these difficulties would be smoothed. but he did not for a moment conceive that there would be any difficulty with the uncle. how should there be? was he not a baronet with ten thousand a year coming to him? had he not everything which fathers want for portionless daughters, and uncles for dependant nieces? might he not well inform the doctor that he had something to tell him for his advantage? and yet, to tell the truth, the doctor did not seem to be overjoyed when the announcement was first made to him. he was by no means overjoyed. on the contrary, even sir louis could perceive his guardian's surprise was altogether unmixed with delight. what a question was this that was asked him! what would he think of a marriage between mary thorne--his mary and sir louis scatcherd? between the alpha of the whole alphabet, and him whom he could not but regard as the omega! think of it! why he would think of it as though a lamb and a wolf were to stand at the altar together. had sir louis been a hottentot, or an esquimaux, the proposal could not have astonished him more. the two persons were so totally of a different class, that the idea of the one falling in love with the other had never occurred to him. "what would you think of miss mary thorne?" sir louis had asked; and the doctor, instead of answering him with ready and pleased alacrity, stood silent, thunderstruck with amazement. "well, wouldn't she be a good wife?" said sir louis, rather in a tone of disgust at the evident disapproval shown at his choice. "i thought you'd have been so delighted." "mary thorne!" ejaculated the doctor at last. "have you spoken to my niece about this, sir louis?" "well, i have and yet i haven't; i haven't, and yet in a manner i have." "i don't understand you," said the doctor. "why, you see, i haven't exactly popped to her yet; but i have been doing the civil; and if she's up to snuff, as i take her to be, she knows very well what i'm after by this time." up to snuff! mary thorne, his mary thorne, up to snuff! to snuff too of such a very disagreeable description! "i think, sir louis, that you are in mistake about this. i think you will find that mary will not be disposed to avail herself of the great advantages--for great they undoubtedly are--which you are able to offer to your intended wife. if you will take my advice, you will give up thinking of mary. she would not suit you." "not suit me! oh, but i think she just would. she's got no money, you mean?" "no, i did not mean that. it will not signify to you whether your wife has money or not. you need not look for money. but you should think of some one more nearly of your own temperament. i am quite sure that my niece would refuse you." these last words the doctor uttered with much emphasis. his intention was to make the baronet understand that the matter was quite hopeless, and to induce him if possible to drop it on the spot. but he did not know sir louis; he ranked him too low in the scale of human beings, and gave him no credit for any strength of character. sir louis in his way did love mary thorne; and could not bring himself to believe that mary did not, or at any rate, would not soon return his passion. he was, moreover, sufficiently obstinate, firm we ought perhaps to say,--for his pursuit in this case was certainly not an evil one,--and he at once made up his mind to succeed in spite of the uncle. "if she consents, however, you will do so too?" asked he. "it is impossible she should consent," said the doctor. "impossible! i don't see anything at all impossible. but if she does?" "but she won't." "very well,--that's to be seen. but just tell me this, if she does, will you consent?" "the stars would fall first. it's all nonsense. give it up, my dear friend; believe me you are only preparing unhappiness for yourself;" and the doctor put his hand kindly on the young man's arm. "she will not, cannot accept such an offer." "will not! cannot!" said the baronet, thinking over all the reasons which in his estimation could possibly be inducing the doctor to be so hostile to his views, and shaking the hand off his arm. "will not! cannot! but come, doctor, answer my question fairly. if she'll have me for better or worse, you won't say aught against it; will you?" "but she won't have you; why should you give her and yourself the pain of a refusal?" "oh, as for that, i must stand my chances like another. and as for her, why d----, doctor, you wouldn't have me believe that any young lady thinks it so very dreadful to have a baronet with ten thousand pounds a year at her feet, specially when that same baronet ain't very old, nor yet particularly ugly. i ain't so green as that, doctor." "i suppose she must go through it, then," said the doctor, musing. "but, dr thorne, i did look for a kinder answer from you, considering all that you so often say about your great friendship with my father. i did think you'd at any rate answer me when i asked you a question." but the doctor did not want to answer that special question. could it be possible that mary should wish to marry this odious man, could such a state of things be imagined to be the case, he would not refuse his consent, infinitely as he would be disgusted by her choice. but he would not give sir louis any excuse for telling mary that her uncle approved of so odious a match. "i cannot say that in any case i should approve of such a marriage, sir louis. i cannot bring myself to say so; for i know it would make you both miserable. but on that matter my niece will choose wholly for herself." "and about the money, doctor?" "if you marry a decent woman you shall not want the means of supporting her decently," and so saying the doctor walked away, leaving sir louis to his meditations. chapter xxix the donkey ride sir louis, when left to himself, was slightly dismayed and somewhat discouraged; but he was not induced to give up his object. the first effort of his mind was made in conjecturing what private motive dr thorne could possibly have in wishing to debar his niece from marrying a rich young baronet. that the objection was personal to himself, sir louis did not for a moment imagine. could it be that the doctor did not wish that his niece should be richer, and grander, and altogether bigger than himself? or was it possible that his guardian was anxious to prevent him from marrying from some view of the reversion of the large fortune? that there was some such reason, sir louis was well sure; but let it be what it might, he would get the better of the doctor. "he knew," so he said to himself, "what stuff girls were made of. baronets did not grow like blackberries." and so, assuring himself with such philosophy, he determined to make his offer. the time he selected for doing this was the hour before dinner; but on the day on which his conversation with the doctor had taken place, he was deterred by the presence of a strange visitor. to account for this strange visit it will be necessary that we should return to greshamsbury for a few minutes. frank, when he returned home for his summer vacation, found that mary had again flown; and the very fact of her absence added fuel to the fire of his love, more perhaps than even her presence might have done. for the flight of the quarry ever adds eagerness to the pursuit of the huntsman. lady arabella, moreover, had a bitter enemy; a foe, utterly opposed to her side in the contest, where she had once fondly looked for her staunchest ally. frank was now in the habit of corresponding with miss dunstable, and received from her most energetic admonitions to be true to the love which he had sworn. true to it he resolved to be; and therefore, when he found that mary was flown, he resolved to fly after her. he did not, however, do this till he had been in a measure provoked to it by it by the sharp-tongued cautions and blunted irony of his mother. it was not enough for her that she had banished mary out of the parish, and made dr thorne's life miserable; not enough that she harassed her husband with harangues on the constant subject of frank's marrying money, and dismayed beatrice with invectives against the iniquity of her friend. the snake was so but scotched; to kill it outright she must induce frank utterly to renounce miss thorne. this task she essayed, but not exactly with success. "well, mother," said frank, at last turning very red, partly with shame, and partly with indignation, as he made the frank avowal, "since you press me about it, i tell you fairly that my mind is made up to marry mary sooner or later, if--" "oh, frank! good heavens! you wicked boy; you are saying this purposely to drive me distracted." "if," continued frank, not attending to his mother's interjections, "if she will consent." "consent!" said lady arabella. "oh, heavens!" and falling into the corner of the sofa, she buried her face in her handkerchief. "yes, mother, if she will consent. and now that i have told you so much, it is only just that i should tell you this also; that as far as i can see at present i have no reason to hope that she will do so." "oh, frank, the girl is doing all she can to catch you," said lady arabella,--not prudently. "no, mother; there you wrong her altogether; wrong her most cruelly." "you ungracious, wicked boy! you call me cruel!" "i don't call you cruel; but you wrong her cruelly, most cruelly. when i have spoken to her about this--for i have spoken to her--she has behaved exactly as you would have wanted her to do; but not at all as i wished her. she has given me no encouragement. you have turned her out among you"--frank was beginning to be very bitter now--"but she has done nothing to deserve it. if there has been any fault it has been mine. but it is well that we should all understand each other. my intention is to marry mary if i can." and, so speaking, certainly without due filial respect, he turned towards the door. "frank," said his mother, raising herself up with energy to make one last appeal. "frank, do you wish to see me die of a broken heart?" "you know, mother, i would wish to make you happy, if i could." "if you wish to see me ever happy again, if you do not wish to see me sink broken-hearted to my grave, you must give up this mad idea, frank,"--and now all lady arabella's energy came out. "frank there is but one course left open to you. you must _marry money_." and then lady arabella stood up before her son as lady macbeth might have stood, had lady macbeth lived to have a son of frank's years. "miss dunstable, i suppose," said frank, scornfully. "no, mother; i made an ass, and worse than an ass of myself once in that way, and i won't do it again. i hate money." "oh, frank!" "i hate money." "but, frank, the estate?" "i hate the estate--at least i shall hate it if i am expected to buy it at such a price as that. the estate is my father's." "oh, no, frank; it is not." "it is in the sense i mean. he may do with it as he pleases; he will never have a word of complaint from me. i am ready to go into a profession to-morrow. i'll be a lawyer, or a doctor, or an engineer; i don't care what." frank, in his enthusiasm, probably overlooked some of the preliminary difficulties. "or i'll take a farm under him, and earn my bread that way; but, mother, don't talk to me any more about marrying money." and, so saying, frank left the room. frank, it will be remembered, was twenty-one when he was first introduced to the reader; he is now twenty-two. it may be said that there was a great difference between his character then and now. a year at that period will make a great difference; but the change has been, not in his character, but in his feelings. frank went out from his mother and immediately ordered his black horse to be got ready for him. he would at once go over to boxall hill. he went himself to the stables to give his orders; and as he returned to get his gloves and whip he met beatrice in the corridor. "beatrice," said he, "step in here," and she followed him into his room. "i'm not going to bear this any longer; i'm going to boxall hill." "oh, frank! how can you be so imprudent?" "you, at any rate, have some decent feeling for mary. i believe you have some regard for her; and therefore i tell you. will you send her any message?" "oh, yes; my best, best love; that is if you will see her; but, frank, you are very foolish, very; and she will be infinitely distressed." "do not mention this, that is, not at present; not that i mean to make any secret of it. i shall tell my father everything. i'm off now!" and then, paying no attention to her remonstrance, he turned down the stairs and was soon on horseback. he took the road to boxall hill, but he did not ride very fast: he did not go jauntily as a jolly, thriving wooer; but musingly, and often with diffidence, meditating every now and then whether it would not be better for him to turn back: to turn back--but not from fear of his mother; not from prudential motives; not because that often-repeated lesson as to marrying money was beginning to take effect; not from such causes as these; but because he doubted how he might be received by mary. he did, it is true, think something about his worldly prospects. he had talked rather grandiloquently to his mother as to his hating money, and hating the estate. his mother's never-ceasing worldly cares on such subjects perhaps demanded that a little grandiloquence should be opposed to them. but frank did not hate the estate; nor did he at all hate the position of an english country gentleman. miss dunstable's eloquence, however, rang in his ears. for miss dunstable had an eloquence of her own, even in her letters. "never let them talk you out of your own true, honest, hearty feelings," she had said. "greshamsbury is a very nice place, i am sure; and i hope i shall see it some day; but all its green knolls are not half so nice, should not be half so precious, as the pulses of your own heart. that is your own estate, your own, your very own--your own and another's; whatever may go to the money-lenders, don't send that there. don't mortgage that, mr gresham." "no," said frank, pluckily, as he put his horse into a faster trot, "i won't mortgage that. they may do what they like with the estate; but my heart's my own," and so speaking to himself, almost aloud, he turned a corner of the road rapidly and came at once upon the doctor. "hallo, doctor! is that you?" said frank, rather disgusted. "what! frank! i hardly expected to meet you here," said dr thorne, not much better pleased. they were now not above a mile from boxall hill, and the doctor, therefore, could not but surmise whither frank was going. they had repeatedly met since frank's return from cambridge, both in the village and in the doctor's house; but not a word had been said between them about mary beyond what the merest courtesy had required. not that each did not love the other sufficiently to make a full confidence between them desirable to both; but neither had had the courage to speak out. nor had either of them the courage to do so now. "yes," said frank, blushing, "i am going to lady scatcherd's. shall i find the ladies at home?" "yes; lady scatcherd is there; but sir louis is there also--an invalid: perhaps you would not wish to meet him." "oh! i don't mind," said frank, trying to laugh; "he won't bite, i suppose?" the doctor longed in his heart to pray to frank to return with him; not to go and make further mischief; not to do that which might cause a more bitter estrangement between himself and the squire. but he had not the courage to do it. he could not bring himself to accuse frank of being in love with his niece. so after a few more senseless words on either side, words which each knew to be senseless as he uttered them, they both rode on their own ways. and then the doctor silently, and almost unconsciously, made such a comparison between louis scatcherd and frank gresham as hamlet made between the dead and live king. it was hyperion to a satyr. was it not as impossible that mary should not love the one, as that she should love the other? frank's offer of his affections had at first probably been but a boyish ebullition of feeling; but if it should now be, that this had grown into a manly and disinterested love, how could mary remain unmoved? what could her heart want more, better, more beautiful, more rich than such a love as his? was he not personally all that a girl could like? were not his disposition, mind, character, acquirements, all such as women most delight to love? was it not impossible that mary should be indifferent to him? so meditated the doctor as he rode along, with only too true a knowledge of human nature. ah! it was impossible, it was quite impossible that mary should be indifferent. she had never been indifferent since frank had uttered his first half-joking word of love. such things are more important to women than they are to men, to girls than they are to boys. when frank had first told her that he loved her; aye, months before that, when he merely looked his love, her heart had received the whisper, had acknowledged the glance, unconscious as she was herself, and resolved as she was to rebuke his advances. when, in her hearing, he had said soft nothings to patience oriel, a hated, irrepressible tear had gathered in her eye. when he had pressed in his warm, loving grasp the hand which she had offered him as a token of mere friendship, her heart had forgiven him the treachery, nay, almost thanked him for it, before her eyes or her words had been ready to rebuke him. when the rumour of his liaison with miss dunstable reached her ears, when she heard of miss dunstable's fortune, she had wept, wept outright, in her chamber--wept, as she said to herself, to think that he should be so mercenary; but she had wept, as she should have said to herself, at finding that he was so faithless. then, when she knew at last that this rumour was false, when she found that she was banished from greshamsbury for his sake, when she was forced to retreat with her friend patience, how could she but love him, in that he was not mercenary? how could she not love him in that he was so faithful? it was impossible that she should not love him. was he not the brightest and the best of men that she had ever seen, or was like to see?--that she could possibly ever see, she would have said to herself, could she have brought herself to own the truth? and then, when she heard how true he was, how he persisted against father, mother, and sisters, how could it be that that should not be a merit in her eyes which was so great a fault in theirs? when beatrice, with would-be solemn face, but with eyes beaming with feminine affection, would gravely talk of frank's tender love as a terrible misfortune, as a misfortune to them all, to mary herself as well as others, how could mary do other than love him? "beatrice is his sister," she would say within her own mind, "otherwise she would never talk like this; were she not his sister, she could not but know the value of such love as this." ah! yes; mary did love him; love him with all the strength of her heart; and the strength of her heart was very great. and now by degrees, in those lonely donkey-rides at boxall hill, in those solitary walks, she was beginning to own to herself the truth. and now that she did own it, what should be her course? what should she do, how should she act if this loved one persevered in his love? and, ah! what should she do, how should she act if he did not persevere? could it be that there should be happiness in store for her? was it not too clear that, let the matter go how it would, there was no happiness in store for her? much as she might love frank gresham, she could never consent to be his wife unless the squire would smile on her as his daughter-in-law. the squire had been all that was kind, all that was affectionate. and then, too, lady arabella! as she thought of the lady arabella a sterner form of thought came across her brow. why should lady arabella rob her of her heart's joy? what was lady arabella that she, mary thorne, need quail before her? had lady arabella stood only in her way, lady arabella, flanked by the de courcy legion, mary felt that she could have demanded frank's hand as her own before them all without a blush of shame or a moment's hesitation. thus, when her heart was all but ready to collapse within her, would she gain some little strength by thinking of the lady arabella. "please, my lady, here be young squoire gresham," said one of the untutored servants at boxall hill, opening lady scatcherd's little parlour door as her ladyship was amusing herself by pulling down and turning, and re-folding, and putting up again, a heap of household linen which was kept in a huge press for the express purpose of supplying her with occupation. lady scatcherd, holding a vast counterpane in her arms, looked back over her shoulders and perceived that frank was in the room. down went the counterpane on the ground, and frank soon found himself in the very position which that useful article had so lately filled. "oh! master frank! oh, master frank!" said her ladyship, almost in an hysterical fit of joy; and then she hugged and kissed him as she had never kissed and hugged her own son since that son had first left the parent nest. frank bore it patiently and with a merry laugh. "but, lady scatcherd," said he, "what will they all say? you forget i am a man now," and he stooped his head as she again pressed her lips upon his forehead. "i don't care what none of 'em say," said her ladyship, quite going back to her old days; "i will kiss my own boy; so i will. eh, but master frank, this is good of you. a sight of you is good for sore eyes; and my eyes have been sore enough too since i saw you;" and she put her apron up to wipe away a tear. "yes," said frank, gently trying to disengage himself, but not successfully; "yes, you have had a great loss, lady scatcherd. i was so sorry when i heard of your grief." "you always had a soft, kind heart, master frank; so you had. god's blessing on you! what a fine man you have grown! deary me! well, it seems as though it were only just t'other day like." and she pushed him a little off from her, so that she might look the better into his face. "well. is it all right? i suppose you would hardly know me again now i've got a pair of whiskers?" "know you! i should know you well if i saw but the heel of your foot. why, what a head of hair you have got, and so dark too! but it doesn't curl as it used once." and she stroked his hair, and looked into his eyes, and put her hand to his cheeks. "you'll think me an old fool, master frank: i know that; but you may think what you like. if i live for the next twenty years you'll always be my own boy; so you will." by degrees, slow degrees, frank managed to change the conversation, and to induce lady scatcherd to speak on some other topic than his own infantine perfections. he affected an indifference as he spoke of her guest, which would have deceived no one but lady scatcherd; but her it did deceive; and then he asked where mary was. "she's just gone out on her donkey--somewhere about the place. she rides on a donkey mostly every day. but you'll stop and take a bit of dinner with us? eh, now do 'ee, master frank." but master frank excused himself. he did not choose to pledge himself to sit down to dinner with mary. he did not know in what mood they might return with regard to each other at dinner-time. he said, therefore, that he would walk out and, if possible, find miss thorne; and that he would return to the house again before he went. lady scatcherd then began making apologies for sir louis. he was an invalid; the doctor had been with him all the morning, and he was not yet out of his room. these apologies frank willingly accepted, and then made his way as he could on to the lawn. a gardener, of whom he inquired, offered to go with him in pursuit of miss thorne. this assistance, however, he declined, and set forth in quest of her, having learnt what were her most usual haunts. nor was he directed wrongly; for after walking about twenty minutes, he saw through the trees the legs of a donkey moving on the green-sward, at about two hundred yards from him. on that donkey doubtless sat mary thorne. the donkey was coming towards him; not exactly in a straight line, but so much so as to make it impossible that mary should not see him if he stood still. he did stand still, and soon emerging from the trees, mary saw him all but close to her. her heart gave a leap within her, but she was so far mistress of herself as to repress any visible sign of outward emotion. she did not fall from her donkey, or scream, or burst into tears. she merely uttered the words, "mr gresham!" in a tone of not unnatural surprise. "yes," said he, trying to laugh, but less successful than she had been in suppressing a show of feeling. "mr gresham! i have come over at last to pay my respects to you. you must have thought me very uncourteous not to do so before." this she denied. "she had not," she said, "thought him at all uncivil. she had come to boxall hill to be out of the way; and, of course, had not expected any such formalities." as she uttered this she almost blushed at the abrupt truth of what she was saying. but she was taken so much unawares that she did not know how to make the truth other than abrupt. "to be out of the way!" said frank. "and why should you want to be out of the way?" "oh! there were reasons," said she, laughing. "perhaps i have quarrelled dreadfully with my uncle." frank at the present moment had not about him a scrap of badinage. he had not a single easy word at his command. he could not answer her with anything in guise of a joke; so he walked on, not answering at all. "i hope all my friends at greshamsbury are well," said mary. "is beatrice quite well?" "quite well," said he. "and patience?" "what, miss oriel; yes, i believe so. i haven't seen her this day or two." how was it that mary felt a little flush of joy, as frank spoke in this indifferent way about miss oriel's health? "i thought she was always a particular friend of yours," said she. "what! who? miss oriel? so she is! i like her amazingly; so does beatrice." and then he walked about six steps in silence, plucking up courage for the great attempt. he did pluck up his courage and then rushed at once to the attack. "mary!" said he, and as he spoke he put his hand on the donkey's neck, and looked tenderly into her face. he looked tenderly, and, as mary's ear at once told her, his voice sounded more soft than it had ever sounded before. "mary, do you remember the last time that we were together?" mary did remember it well. it was on that occasion when he had treacherously held her hand; on that day when, according to law, he had become a man; when he had outraged all the propriety of the de courcy interest by offering his love to mary in augusta's hearing. mary did remember it well; but how was she to speak of it? "it was your birthday, i think," said she. "yes, it was my birthday. i wonder whether you remember what i said to you then?" "i remember that you were very foolish, mr gresham." "mary, i have come to repeat my folly;--that is, if it be folly. i told you then that i loved you, and i dare say that i did so awkwardly, like a boy. perhaps i may be just as awkward now; but you ought at any rate to believe me when you find that a year has not altered me." mary did not think him at all awkward, and she did believe him. but how was she to answer him? she had not yet taught herself what answer she ought to make if he persisted in his suit. she had hitherto been content to run away from him; but she had done so because she would not submit to be accused of the indelicacy of putting herself in his way. she had rebuked him when he first spoke of his love; but she had done so because she looked on what he said as a boy's nonsense. she had schooled herself in obedience to the greshamsbury doctrines. was there any real reason, any reason founded on truth and honesty, why she should not be a fitting wife to frank gresham,--francis newbold gresham, of greshamsbury, though he was, or was to be? he was well born--as well born as any gentleman in england. she was basely born--as basely born as any lady could be. was this sufficient bar against such a match? mary felt in her heart that some twelvemonth since, before she knew what little she did now know of her own story, she would have said it was so. and would she indulge her own love by inveigling him she loved into a base marriage? but then reason spoke again. what, after all, was this blood of which she had taught herself to think so much? would she have been more honest, more fit to grace an honest man's hearthstone, had she been the legitimate descendant of a score of legitimate duchesses? was it not her first duty to think of him--of what would make him happy? then of her uncle--what he would approve? then of herself--what would best become her modesty; her sense of honour? could it be well that she should sacrifice the happiness of two persons to a theoretic love of pure blood? so she had argued within herself; not now, sitting on the donkey, with frank's hand before her on the tame brute's neck; but on other former occasions as she had ridden along demurely among those trees. so she had argued; but she had never brought her arguments to a decision. all manner of thoughts crowded on her to prevent her doing so. she would think of the squire, and resolve to reject frank; and would then remember lady arabella, and resolve to accept him. her resolutions, however, were most irresolute; and so, when frank appeared in person before her, carrying his heart in his hand, she did not know what answer to make to him. thus it was with her as with so many other maidens similarly circumstanced; at last she left it all to chance. "you ought, at any rate, to believe me," said frank, "when you find that a year has not altered me." "a year should have taught you to be wiser," said she. "you should have learnt by this time, mr gresham, that your lot and mine are not cast in the same mould; that our stations in life are different. would your father or mother approve of your even coming here to see me?" mary, as she spoke these sensible words, felt that they were "flat, stale, and unprofitable." she felt, also, that they were not true in sense; that they did not come from her heart; that they were not such as frank deserved at her hands, and she was ashamed of herself. "my father i hope will approve of it," said he. "that my mother should disapprove of it is a misfortune which i cannot help; but on this point i will take no answer from my father or mother; the question is one too personal to myself. mary, if you say that you will not, or cannot return my love, i will go away;--not from here only, but from greshamsbury. my presence shall not banish you from all that you hold dear. if you can honestly say that i am nothing to you, can be nothing to you, i will then tell my mother that she may be at ease, and i will go away somewhere and get over it as i may." the poor fellow got so far, looking apparently at the donkey's ears, with hardly a gasp of hope in his voice, and he so far carried mary with him that she also had hardly a gasp of hope in her heart. there he paused for a moment, and then looking up into her face, he spoke but one word more. "but," said he--and there he stopped. it was clearly told in that "but." thus would he do if mary would declare that she did not care for him. if, however, she could not bring herself so to declare, then was he ready to throw his father and mother to the winds; then would he stand his ground; then would he look all other difficulties in the face, sure that they might finally be overcome. poor mary! the whole onus of settling the matter was thus thrown upon her. she had only to say that he was indifferent to her;--that was all. if "all the blood of the howards" had depended upon it, she could not have brought herself to utter such a falsehood. indifferent to her, as he walked there by her donkey's side, talking thus earnestly of his love for her! was he not to her like some god come from the heavens to make her blessed? did not the sun shine upon him with a halo, so that he was bright as an angel? indifferent to her! could the open unadulterated truth have been practicable for her, she would have declared her indifference in terms that would truly have astonished him. as it was, she found it easier to say nothing. she bit her lips to keep herself from sobbing. she struggled hard, but in vain, to prevent her hands and feet from trembling. she seemed to swing upon her donkey as though like to fall, and would have given much to be upon her own feet upon the sward. "_si la jeunesse savait . . ._" there is so much in that wicked old french proverb! had frank known more about a woman's mind--had he, that is, been forty-two instead of twenty-two--he would at once have been sure of his game, and have felt that mary's silence told him all he wished to know. but then, had he been forty-two instead of twenty-two, he would not have been so ready to risk the acres of greshamsbury for the smiles of mary thorne. "if you can't say one word to comfort me, i will go," said he, disconsolately. "i made up my mind to tell you this, and so i came over. i told lady scatcherd i should not stay,--not even for dinner." "i did not know you were so hurried," said she, almost in a whisper. on a sudden he stood still, and pulling the donkey's rein, caused him to stand still also. the beast required very little persuasion to be so guided, and obligingly remained meekly passive. "mary, mary!" said frank, throwing his arms round her knees as she sat upon her steed, and pressing his face against her body. "mary, you were always honest; be honest now. i love you with all my heart. will you be my wife?" but still mary said not a word. she no longer bit her lips; she was beyond that, and was now using all her efforts to prevent her tears from falling absolutely on her lover's face. she said nothing. she could no more rebuke him now and send him from her than she could encourage him. she could only sit there shaking and crying and wishing she was on the ground. frank, on the whole, rather liked the donkey. it enabled him to approach somewhat nearer to an embrace than he might have found practicable had they both been on their feet. the donkey himself was quite at his ease, and looked as though he was approvingly conscious of what was going on behind his ears. "i have a right to a word, mary; say 'go,' and i will leave you at once." but mary did not say "go." perhaps she would have done so had she been able; but just at present she could say nothing. this came from her having failed to make up her mind in due time as to what course it would best become her to follow. "one word, mary; one little word. there, if you will not speak, here is my hand. if you will have it, let it lie in yours;--if not, push it away." so saying, he managed to get the end of his fingers on to her palm, and there it remained unrepulsed. "la jeunesse" was beginning to get a lesson; experience when duly sought after sometimes comes early in life. in truth mary had not strength to push the fingers away. "my love, my own, my own!" said frank, presuming on this very negative sign of acquiescence. "my life, my own one, my own mary!" and then the hand was caught hold of and was at his lips before an effort could be made to save it from such treatment. "mary, look at me; say one word to me." there was a deep sigh, and then came the one word--"oh, frank!" "mr gresham, i hope i have the honour of seeing you quite well," said a voice close to his ear. "i beg to say that you are welcome to boxall hill." frank turned round and instantly found himself shaking hands with sir louis scatcherd. how mary got over her confusion frank never saw, for he had enough to do to get over his own. he involuntarily deserted mary and began talking very fast to sir louis. sir louis did not once look at miss thorne, but walked back towards the house with mr gresham, sulky enough in temper, but still making some effort to do the fine gentleman. mary, glad to be left alone, merely occupied herself with sitting on the donkey; and the donkey, when he found that the two gentlemen went towards the house, for company's sake and for his stable's sake, followed after them. frank stayed but three minutes in the house; gave another kiss to lady scatcherd, getting three in return, and thereby infinitely disgusting sir louis, shook hands, anything but warmly, with the young baronet, and just felt the warmth of mary's hand within his own. he felt also the warmth of her eyes' last glance, and rode home a happy man. chapter xxx post prandial frank rode home a happy man, cheering himself, as successful lovers do cheer themselves, with the brilliancy of his late exploit: nor was it till he had turned the corner into the greshamsbury stables that he began to reflect what he would do next. it was all very well to have induced mary to allow his three fingers to lie half a minute in her soft hand; the having done so might certainly be sufficient evidence that he had overcome one of the lions in his path; but it could hardly be said that all his difficulties were now smoothed. how was he to make further progress? to mary, also, the same ideas no doubt occurred--with many others. but, then, it was not for mary to make any progress in the matter. to her at least belonged this passive comfort, that at present no act hostile to the de courcy interest would be expected from her. all that she could do would be to tell her uncle so much as it was fitting that he should know. the doing this would doubtless be in some degree difficult; but it was not probable that there would be much difference, much of anything but loving anxiety for each other, between her and dr thorne. one other thing, indeed, she must do; frank must be made to understand what her birth had been. "this," she said to herself, "will give him an opportunity of retracting what he has done should he choose to avail himself of it. it is well he should have such opportunity." but frank had more than this to do. he had told beatrice that he would make no secret of his love, and he fully resolved to be as good as his word. to his father he owed an unreserved confidence; and he was fully minded to give it. it was, he knew, altogether out of the question that he should at once marry a portionless girl without his father's consent; probably out of the question that he should do so even with it. but he would, at any rate, tell his father, and then decide as to what should be done next. so resolving, he put his black horse into the stable and went in to dinner. after dinner he and his father would be alone. yes; after dinner he and his father would be alone. he dressed himself hurriedly, for the dinner-bell was almost on the stroke as he entered the house. he said this to himself once and again; but when the meats and the puddings, and then the cheese, were borne away, as the decanters were placed before his father, and lady arabella sipped her one glass of claret, and his sisters ate their portion of strawberries, his pressing anxiety for the coming interview began to wax somewhat dull. his mother and sisters, however, rendered him no assistance by prolonging their stay. with unwonted assiduity he pressed a second glass of claret on his mother. but lady arabella was not only temperate in her habits, but also at the present moment very angry with her son. she thought that he had been to boxall hill, and was only waiting a proper moment to cross-question him sternly on the subject. now she departed, taking her train of daughters with her. "give me one big gooseberry," said nina, as she squeezed herself in under her brother's arm, prior to making her retreat. frank would willingly have given her a dozen of the biggest, had she wanted them; but having got the one, she squeezed herself out again and scampered off. the squire was very cheery this evening; from what cause cannot now be said. perhaps he had succeeded in negotiating a further loan, thus temporarily sprinkling a drop of water over the ever-rising dust of his difficulties. "well, frank, what have you been after to-day? peter told me you had the black horse out," said he, pushing the decanter to his son. "take my advice, my boy, and don't give him too much summer road-work. legs won't stand it, let them be ever so good." "why, sir, i was obliged to go out to-day, and therefore, it had to be either the old mare or the young horse." "why didn't you take ramble?" now ramble was the squire's own saddle hack, used for farm surveying, and occasionally for going to cover. "i shouldn't think of doing that, sir." "my dear boy, he is quite at your service; for goodness' sake do let me have a little wine, frank--quite at your service; any riding i have now is after the haymakers, and that's all on the grass." "thank'ee, sir. well, perhaps i will take a turn out of ramble should i want it." "do, and pray, pray take care of that black horse's legs. he's turning out more of a horse than i took him to be, and i should be sorry to see him injured. where have you been to-day?" "well, father, i have something to tell you." "something to tell me!" and then the squire's happy and gay look, which had been only rendered more happy and more gay by his assumed anxiety about the black horse, gave place to that heaviness of visage which acrimony and misfortune had made so habitual to him. "something to tell me!" any grave words like these always presaged some money difficulty to the squire's ears. he loved frank with the tenderest love. he would have done so under almost any circumstances; but, doubtless, that love had been made more palpable to himself by the fact that frank had been a good son as regards money--not exigeant as was lady arabella, or selfishly reckless as was his nephew lord porlock. but now frank must be in difficulty about money. this was his first idea. "what is it, frank; you have seldom had anything to say that has not been pleasant for me to hear?" and then the heaviness of visage again gave way for a moment as his eye fell upon his son. "i have been to boxall hill, sir." the tenor of his father's thoughts was changed in an instant; and the dread of immediate temporary annoyance gave place to true anxiety for his son. he, the squire, had been no party to mary's exile from his own domain; and he had seen with pain that she had now a second time been driven from her home: but he had never hitherto questioned the expediency of separating his son from mary thorne. alas! it became too necessary--too necessary through his own default--that frank should marry money! "at boxall hill, frank! has that been prudent? or, indeed, has it been generous to miss thorne, who has been driven there, as it were, by your imprudence?" "father, it is well that we should understand each other about this--" "fill your glass, frank;" frank mechanically did as he was told, and passed the bottle. "i should never forgive myself were i to deceive you, or keep anything from you." "i believe it is not in your nature to deceive me, frank." "the fact is, sir, that i have made up my mind that mary thorne shall be my wife--sooner or later that is, unless, of course, she should utterly refuse. hitherto, she has utterly refused me. i believe i may now say that she has accepted me." the squire sipped his claret, but at the moment said nothing. there was a quiet, manly, but yet modest determination about his son that he had hardly noticed before. frank had become legally of age, legally a man, when he was twenty-one. nature, it seems, had postponed the ceremony till he was twenty-two. nature often does postpone the ceremony even to a much later age;--sometimes, altogether forgets to accomplish it. the squire continued to sip his claret; he had to think over the matter a while before he could answer a statement so deliberately made by his son. "i think i may say so," continued frank, with perhaps unnecessary modesty. "she is so honest that, had she not intended it, she would have said so honestly. am i right, father, in thinking that, as regards mary, personally, you would not reject her as a daughter-in-law?" "personally!" said the squire, glad to have the subject presented to him in a view that enabled him to speak out. "oh, no; personally, i should not object to her, for i love her dearly. she is a good girl. i do believe she is a good girl in every respect. i have always liked her; liked to see her about the house. but--" "i know what you would say, father." this was rather more than the squire knew himself. "such a marriage is imprudent." "it is more than that, frank; i fear it is impossible." "impossible! no, father; it is not impossible." "it is impossible, frank, in the usual sense. what are you to live upon? what would you do with your children? you would not wish to see your wife distressed and comfortless." "no, i should not like to see that." "you would not wish to begin life as an embarrassed man and end it as a ruined man. if you were now to marry miss thorne such would, i fear, doubtless be your lot." frank caught at the word "now." "i don't expect to marry immediately. i know that would be imprudent. but i am pledged, father, and i certainly cannot go back. and now that i have told you all this, what is your advice to me?" the father again sat silent, still sipping his wine. there was nothing in his son that he could be ashamed of, nothing that he could meet with anger, nothing that he could not love; but how should he answer him? the fact was, that the son had more in him than the father; this his mind and spirit were of a calibre not to be opposed successfully by the mind and spirit of the squire. "do you know mary's history?" said mr gresham, at last; "the history of her birth?" "not a word of it," said frank. "i did not know she had a history." "nor does she know it; at least, i presume not. but you should know it now. and, frank, i will tell it you; not to turn you from her--not with that object, though i think that, to a certain extent, it should have that effect. mary's birth was not such as would become your wife and be beneficial to your children." "if so, father, i should have known that sooner. why was she brought in here among us?" "true, frank. the fault is mine; mine and your mother's. circumstances brought it about years ago, when it never occurred to us that all this would arise. but i will tell you her history. and, frank, remember this, though i tell it you as a secret, a secret to be kept from all the world but one, you are quite at liberty to let the doctor know that i have told you. indeed, i shall be careful to let him know myself should it ever be necessary that he and i should speak together as to this engagement." the squire then told his son the whole story of mary's birth, as it is known to the reader. frank sat silent, looking very blank; he also had, as had every gresham, a great love for his pure blood. he had said to his mother that he hated money, that he hated the estate; but he would have been very slow to say, even in his warmest opposition to her, that he hated the roll of the family pedigree. he loved it dearly, though he seldom spoke of it;--as men of good family seldom do speak of it. it is one of those possessions which to have is sufficient. a man having it need not boast of what he has, or show it off before the world. but on that account he values it more. he had regarded mary as a cutting duly taken from the ullathorne tree; not, indeed, as a grafting branch, full of flower, just separated from the parent stalk, but as being not a whit the less truly endowed with the pure sap of that venerable trunk. when, therefore, he heard her true history he sat awhile dismayed. "it is a sad story," said the father. "yes, sad enough," said frank, rising from his chair and standing with it before him, leaning on the back of it. "poor mary, poor mary! she will have to learn it some day." "i fear so, frank;" and then there was again a few moments' silence. "to me, father, it is told too late. it can now have no effect on me. indeed," said he, sighing as he spoke, but still relieving himself by the very sigh, "it could have had no effect had i learned it ever so soon." "i should have told you before," said the father; "certainly i ought to have done so." "it would have been no good," said frank. "ah, sir, tell me this: who were miss dunstable's parents? what was that fellow moffat's family?" this was perhaps cruel of frank. the squire, however, made no answer to the question. "i have thought it right to tell you," said he. "i leave all commentary to yourself. i need not tell you what your mother will think." "what did she think of miss dunstable's birth?" said he, again more bitterly than before. "no, sir," he continued, after a further pause. "all that can make no change; none at any rate now. it can't make my love less, even if it could have prevented it. nor, even, could it do so--which it can't the least, not in the least--but could it do so, it could not break my engagement. i am now engaged to mary thorne." and then he again repeated his question, asking for his father's advice under the present circumstances. the conversation was a very long one, as long as to disarrange all lady arabella's plans. she had determined to take her son most stringently to task that very evening; and with this object had ensconced herself in the small drawing-room which had formerly been used for a similar purpose by the august countess herself. here she now sat, having desired augusta and beatrice, as well as the twins, to beg frank to go to her as soon as he should come out of the dining-room. poor lady! there she waited till ten o'clock,--tealess. there was not much of the bluebeard about the squire; but he had succeeded in making it understood through the household that he was not to be interrupted by messages from his wife during the post-prandial hour, which, though no toper, he loved so well. as a period of twelve months will now have to be passed over, the upshot of this long conversation must be told in as few words as possible. the father found it impracticable to talk his son out of his intended marriage; indeed, he hardly attempted to do so by any direct persuasion. he explained to him that it was impossible that he should marry at once, and suggested that he, frank, was very young. "you married, sir, before you were one-and-twenty," said frank. yes, and repented before i was two-and-twenty. so did not say the squire. he suggested that mary should have time to ascertain what would be her uncle's wishes, and ended by inducing frank to promise, that after taking his degree in october he would go abroad for some months, and that he would not indeed return to greshamsbury till he was three-and-twenty. "he may perhaps forget her," said the father to himself, as this agreement was made between them. "he thinks that i shall forget her," said frank to himself at the same time; "but he does not know me." when lady arabella at last got hold of her son she found that the time for her preaching was utterly gone by. he told her, almost with _sang-froid_, what his plans were; and when she came to understand them, and to understand also what had taken place at boxall hill, she could not blame the squire for what he had done. she also said to herself, more confidently than the squire had done, that frank would quite forget mary before the year was out. "lord buckish," said she to herself, rejoicingly, "is now with the ambassador at paris"--lord buckish was her nephew--"and with him frank will meet women that are really beautiful--women of fashion. when with lord buckish he will soon forget mary thorne." but not on this account did she change her resolve to follow up to the furthest point her hostility to the thornes. she was fully enabled now to do so, for dr fillgrave was already reinstalled at greshamsbury as her medical adviser. one other short visit did frank pay to boxall hill, and one interview had he with dr thorne. mary told him all she knew of her own sad history, and was answered only by a kiss,--a kiss absolutely not in any way by her to be avoided; the first, the only one, that had ever yet reached her lips from his. and then he went away. the doctor told him all the story. "yes," said frank, "i knew it all before. dear mary, dearest mary! don't you, doctor, teach yourself to believe that i shall forget her." and then also he went his way from him--went his way also from greshamsbury, and was absent for the full period of his allotted banishment--twelve months, namely, and a day. chapter xxxi the small end of the wedge frank gresham was absent from greshamsbury twelve months and a day: a day is always added to the period of such absences, as shown in the history of lord bateman and other noble heroes. we need not detail all the circumstances of his banishment, all the details of the compact that was made. one detail of course was this, that there should be no corresponding; a point to which the squire found some difficulty in bringing his son to assent. it must not be supposed that mary thorne or the doctor were in any way parties to, or privy to these agreements. by no means. the agreements were drawn out, and made, and signed, and sealed at greshamsbury, and were known of nowhere else. the reader must not imagine that lady arabella was prepared to give up her son, if only his love could remain constant for one year. neither did lady arabella consent to any such arrangement, nor did the squire. it was settled rather in this wise: that frank should be subjected to no torturing process, pestered to give no promises, should in no way be bullied about mary--that is, not at present--if he would go away for a year. then, at the end of the year, the matter should again be discussed. agreeing to this, frank took his departure, and was absent as per agreement. what were mary's fortunes immediately after his departure must be shortly told, and then we will again join some of our greshamsbury friends at a period about a month before frank's return. when sir louis saw frank gresham standing by mary's donkey, with his arms round mary's knees, he began to fear that there must be something in it. he had intended that very day to throw himself at mary's feet, and now it appeared to his inexperienced eyes as though somebody else had been at the same work before him. this not unnaturally made him cross; so, after having sullenly wished the visitor good-bye, he betook himself to his room, and there drank curaçoa alone, instead of coming down to dinner. this he did for two or three days, and then, taking heart of grace, he remembered that, after all, he had very many advantages over young gresham. in the first place, he was a baronet, and could make his wife a "lady." in the next place, frank's father was alive and like to live, whereas his own was dead. he possessed boxall hill in his own right, but his rival had neither house nor land of his own. after all, might it not be possible for him also to put his arm round mary's knees;--her knees, or her waist, or, perhaps, even her neck? faint heart never won fair lady. at any rate, he would try. and he did try. with what result, as regards mary, need hardly be told. he certainly did not get nearly so far as putting his hand even upon her knee before he was made to understand that it "was no go," as he graphically described it to his mother. he tried once and again. on the first time mary was very civil, though very determined. on the second, she was more determined, though less civil; and then she told him, that if he pressed her further he would drive her from his mother's house. there was something then about mary's eye, a fixed composure round her mouth, and an authority in her face, which went far to quell him; and he did not press her again. he immediately left boxall hill, and, returning to london, had more violent recourse to the curaçoa. it was not long before the doctor heard of him, and was obliged to follow him, and then again occurred those frightful scenes in which the poor wretch had to expiate, either in terrible delirium or more terrible prostration of spirits, the vile sin which his father had so early taught him. then mary returned to her uncle's home. frank was gone, and she therefore could resume her place at greshamsbury. yes, she came back to greshamsbury; but greshamsbury was by no means the same place that it was formerly. almost all intercourse was now over between the doctor and the greshamsbury people. he rarely ever saw the squire, and then only on business. not that the squire had purposely quarrelled with him; but dr thorne himself had chosen that it should be so, since frank had openly proposed for his niece. frank was now gone, and lady arabella was in arms against him. it should not be said that he kept up any intimacy for the sake of aiding the lovers in their love. no one should rightfully accuse him of inveigling the heir to marry his niece. mary, therefore, found herself utterly separated from beatrice. she was not even able to learn what beatrice would think, or did think, of the engagement as it now stood. she could not even explain to her friend that love had been too strong for her, and endeavour to get some comfort from that friend's absolution from her sin. this estrangement was now carried so far that she and beatrice did not even meet on neutral ground. lady arabella made it known to miss oriel that her daughter could not meet mary thorne, even as strangers meet; and it was made known to others also. mrs yates umbleby, and her dear friend miss gushing, to whose charming tea-parties none of the greshamsbury ladies went above once in a twelvemonth, talked through the parish of this distressing difficulty. they would have been so happy to have asked dear mary thorne, only the greshamsbury ladies did not approve. mary was thus tabooed from all society in the place in which a twelvemonth since she had been, of all its denizens, perhaps the most courted. in those days, no bevy of greshamsbury young ladies had fairly represented the greshamsbury young ladyhood if mary thorne was not there. now she was excluded from all such bevies. patience did not quarrel with her, certainly;--came to see her frequently;--invited her to walk;--invited her frequently to the parsonage. but mary was shy of acceding to such invitations, and at last frankly told her friend patience, that she would not again break bread in greshamsbury in any house in which she was not thought fit to meet the other guests who habitually resorted there. in truth, both the doctor and his niece were very sore, but they were of that temperament that keeps all its soreness to itself. mary walked out by herself boldly, looking at least as though she were indifferent to all the world. she was, indeed, hardly treated. young ladies' engagements are generally matters of profoundest secrecy, and are hardly known of by their near friends till marriage is a thing settled. but all the world knew of mary's engagement within a month of that day on which she had neglected to expel frank's finger from her hand; it had been told openly through the country-side that she had confessed her love for the young squire. now it is disagreeable for a young lady to walk about under such circumstances, especially so when she has no female friend to keep her in countenance, more especially so when the gentleman is of such importance in the neighbourhood as frank was in that locality. it was a matter of moment to every farmer, and every farmer's wife, which bride frank should marry of those bespoken for him; mary, namely, or money. every yokel about the place had been made to understand that, by some feminine sleight of hand, the doctor's niece had managed to trap master frank, and that master frank had been sent out of the way so that he might, if yet possible, break through the trapping. all this made life rather unpleasant for her. one day, walking solitary in the lanes, she met that sturdy farmer to whose daughter she had in former days been so serviceable. "god bless 'ee, miss mary," said he--he always did bid god bless her when he saw her. "and, miss mary, to say my mind out freely, thee be quite gude enough for un, quite gude enough; so thee be'st tho'f he were ten squoires." there may, perhaps, have been something pleasant in the heartiness of this; but it was not pleasant to have this heart affair of hers thus publicly scanned and talked over: to have it known to every one that she had set her heart on marrying frank gresham, and that all the greshams had set their hearts on preventing it. and yet she could in nowise help it. no girl could have been more staid and demure, less demonstrative and boastful about her love. she had never yet spoken freely, out of her full heart, to one human being. "oh, frank!" all her spoken sin had been contained in that. but lady arabella had been very active. it suited her better that it should be known, far and wide, that a nameless pauper--lady arabella only surmised that her foe was nameless; but she did not scruple to declare it--was intriguing to catch the heir of greshamsbury. none of the greshams must meet mary thorne; that was the edict sent about the country; and the edict was well understood. those, therefore, were bad days for miss thorne. she had never yet spoken on the matter freely, out of her full heart to one human being. not to one? not to him? not to her uncle? no, not even to him, fully and freely. she had told him that that had passed between frank and her which amounted, at any rate on his part, to a proposal. "well, dearest, and what was your answer?" said her uncle, drawing her close to him, and speaking in his kindest voice. "i hardly made any answer, uncle." "you did not reject him, mary?" "no, uncle," and then she paused;--he had never known her tremble as she now trembled. "but if you say that i ought, i will," she added, drawing every word from herself with difficulty. "i say you ought, mary! nay; but this question you must answer yourself." "must i?" said she, plaintively. and then she sat for the next half hour with her head against his shoulder; but nothing more was said about it. they both acquiesced in the sentence that had been pronounced against them, and went on together more lovingly than before. the doctor was quite as weak as his niece; nay, weaker. she hesitated fearfully as to what she ought to do: whether she should obey her heart or the dictates of greshamsbury. but he had other doubts than hers, which nearly set him wild when he strove to bring his mind to a decision. he himself was now in possession--of course as a trustee only--of the title-deeds of the estate; more of the estate, much more, belonged to the heirs under sir roger scatcherd's will than to the squire. it was now more than probable that that heir must be mary thorne. his conviction became stronger and stronger that no human efforts would keep sir louis in the land of the living till he was twenty-five. could he, therefore, wisely or honestly, in true friendship to the squire, to frank, or to his niece, take any steps to separate two persons who loved each other, and whose marriage would in all human probability be so suitable? and yet he could not bring himself to encourage it then. the idea of "looking after dead men's shoes" was abhorrent to his mind, especially when the man whose death he contemplated had been so trusted to him as had been sir louis scatcherd. he could not speak of the event, even to the squire, as being possible. so he kept his peace from day to day, and gave no counsel to mary in the matter. and then he had his own individual annoyances, and very aggravating annoyances they were. the carriage--or rather post-chaise--of dr fillgrave was now frequent in greshamsbury, passing him constantly in the street, among the lanes, and on the high roads. it seemed as though dr fillgrave could never get to his patients at the big house without showing himself to his beaten rival, either on his way thither or on his return. this alone would, perhaps, not have hurt the doctor much; but it did hurt him to know that dr fillgrave was attending the squire for a little incipient gout, and that dear nina was in measles under those unloving hands. and then, also, the old-fashioned phaeton, of old-fashioned old dr century was seen to rumble up to the big house, and it became known that lady arabella was not very well. "not very well," when pronounced in a low, grave voice about lady arabella, always meant something serious. and, in this case, something serious was meant. lady arabella was not only ill, but frightened. it appeared, even to her, that dr fillgrave himself hardly knew what he was about, that he was not so sure in his opinion, so confident in himself, as dr thorne used to be. how should he be, seeing that dr thorne had medically had lady arabella in his hands for the last ten years? if sitting with dignity in his hired carriage, and stepping with authority up the big front steps, would have done anything, dr fillgrave might have done much. lady arabella was greatly taken with his looks when he first came to her, and it was only when she by degrees perceived that the symptoms, which she knew so well, did not yield to him that she began to doubt those looks. after a while dr fillgrave himself suggested dr century. "not that i fear anything, lady arabella," said he,--lying hugely, for he did fear; fear both for himself and for her. "but dr century has great experience, and in such a matter, when the interests are so important, one cannot be too safe." so dr century came and toddled slowly into her ladyship's room. he did not say much; he left the talking to his learned brother, who certainly was able to do that part of the business. but dr century, though he said very little, looked very grave, and by no means quieted lady arabella's mind. she, as she saw the two putting their heads together, already had misgivings that she had done wrong. she knew that she could not be safe without dr thorne at her bedside, and she already felt that she had exercised a most injudicious courage in driving him away. "well, doctor?" said she, as soon as dr century had toddled downstairs to see the squire. "oh! we shall be all right, lady arabella; all right, very soon. but we must be careful, very careful; i am glad i've had century here, very; but there's nothing to alter; little or nothing." there were but few words spoken between dr century and the squire; but few as they were, they frightened mr gresham. when dr fillgrave came down the grand stairs, a servant waited at the bottom to ask him also to go to the squire. now there never had been much cordiality between the squire and dr fillgrave, though mr gresham had consented to take a preventative pill from his hands, and the little man therefore swelled himself out somewhat more than ordinarily as he followed the servant. "dr fillgrave," said the squire, at once beginning the conversation, "lady arabella, is, i fear, in danger?" "well, no; i hope not in danger, mr gresham. i certainly believe i may be justified in expressing a hope that she is not in danger. her state is, no doubt, rather serious--rather serious--as dr century has probably told you;" and dr fillgrave made a bow to the old man, who sat quiet in one of the dining-room arm-chairs. "well, doctor," said the squire, "i have not any grounds on which to doubt your judgement." dr fillgrave bowed, but with the stiffest, slightest inclination which a head could possibly make. he rather thought that mr gresham had no ground for doubting his judgement. "nor do i." the doctor bowed, and a little, a very little less stiffly. "but, doctor, i think that something ought to be done." the doctor this time did his bowing merely with his eyes and mouth. the former he closed for a moment, the latter he pressed; and then decorously rubbed his hands one over the other. "i am afraid, dr fillgrave, that you and my friend thorne are not the best friends in the world." "no, mr gresham, no; i may go so far as to say we are not." "well, i am sorry for it--" "perhaps, mr gresham, we need hardly discuss it; but there have been circumstances--" "i am not going to discuss anything, dr fillgrave; i say i am sorry for it, because i believe that prudence will imperatively require lady arabella to have doctor thorne back again. now, if you would not object to meet him--" "mr gresham, i beg pardon; i beg pardon, indeed; but you must really excuse me. doctor thorne has, in my estimation--" "but, doctor fillgrave--" "mr gresham, you really must excuse me; you really must, indeed. anything else that i could do for lady arabella, i should be most happy to do; but after what has passed, i cannot meet doctor thorne; i really cannot. you must not ask me to do so; mr gresham. and, mr gresham," continued the doctor, "i did understand from lady arabella that his--that is, dr thorne's--conduct to her ladyship had been such--so very outrageous, i may say, that--that--that--of course, mr gresham, you know best; but i did think that lady arabella herself was quite unwilling to see doctor thorne again;" and dr fillgrave looked very big, and very dignified, and very exclusive. the squire did not ask again. he had no warrant for supposing that lady arabella would receive dr thorne if he did come; and he saw that it was useless to attempt to overcome the rancour of a man so pig-headed as the little galen now before him. other propositions were then broached, and it was at last decided that assistance should be sought for from london, in the person of the great sir omicron pie. sir omicron came, and drs fillgrave and century were there to meet him. when they all assembled in lady arabella's room, the poor woman's heart almost sank within her,--as well it might, at such a sight. if she could only reconcile it with her honour, her consistency, with her high de courcy principles, to send once more for dr thorne. oh, frank! frank! to what misery your disobedience brought your mother! sir omicron and the lesser provincial lights had their consultation, and the lesser lights went their way to barchester and silverbridge, leaving sir omicron to enjoy the hospitality of greshamsbury. "you should have thorne back here, mr gresham," said sir omicron, almost in a whisper, when they were quite alone. "doctor fillgrave is a very good man, and so is dr century; very good, i am sure. but thorne has known her ladyship so long." and then, on the following morning, sir omicron also went his way. and then there was a scene between the squire and her ladyship. lady arabella had given herself credit for great good generalship when she found that the squire had been induced to take that pill. we have all heard of the little end of the wedge, and we have most of us an idea that the little end is the difficulty. that pill had been the little end of lady arabella's wedge. up to that period she had been struggling in vain to make a severance between her husband and her enemy. that pill should do the business. she well knew how to make the most of it; to have it published in greshamsbury that the squire had put his gouty toe into dr fillgrave's hands; how to let it be known--especially at that humble house in the corner of the street--that fillgrave's prescriptions now ran current through the whole establishment. dr thorne did hear of it, and did suffer. he had been a true friend to the squire, and he thought the squire should have stood to him more staunchly. "after all," said he himself, "perhaps it's as well--perhaps it will be best that i should leave this place altogether." and then he thought of sir roger and his will, and of mary and her lover. and then of mary's birth, and of his own theoretical doctrines as to pure blood. and so his troubles multiplied, and he saw no present daylight through them. such had been the way in which lady arabella had got in the little end of the wedge. and she would have triumphed joyfully had not her increased doubts and fears as to herself then come in to check her triumph and destroy her joy. she had not yet confessed to any one her secret regret for the friend she had driven away. she hardly yet acknowledged to herself that she did regret him; but she was uneasy, frightened, and in low spirits. "my dear," said the squire, sitting down by her bedside, "i want to tell you what sir omicron said as he went away." "well?" said her ladyship, sitting up and looking frightened. "i don't know how you may take it, bell; but i think it very good news:" the squire never called his wife bell, except when he wanted her to be on particularly good terms with him. "well?" said she again. she was not over-anxious to be gracious, and did not reciprocate his familiarity. "sir omicron says that you should have thorne back again, and upon my honour, i cannot but agree with him. now, thorne is a clever man, a very clever man; nobody denies that; and then, you know--" "why did not sir omicron say that to me?" said her ladyship, sharply, all her disposition in dr thorne's favour becoming wonderfully damped by her husband's advocacy. "i suppose he thought it better to say it to me," said the squire, rather curtly. "he should have spoken to myself," said lady arabella, who, though she did not absolutely doubt her husband's word, gave him credit for having induced and led on sir omicron to the uttering of this opinion. "doctor thorne has behaved to me in so gross, so indecent a manner! and then, as i understand, he is absolutely encouraging that girl--" "now, bell, you are quite wrong--" "of course i am; i always am quite wrong." "quite wrong in mixing up two things; doctor thorne as an acquaintance, and dr thorne as a doctor." "it is dreadful to have him here, even standing in the room with me. how can one talk to one's doctor openly and confidentially when one looks upon him as one's worst enemy?" and lady arabella, softening, almost melted into tears. "my dear, you cannot wonder that i should be anxious for you." lady arabella gave a little snuffle, which might be taken as a not very eloquent expression of thanks for the squire's solicitude, or as an ironical jeer at his want of sincerity. "and, therefore, i have not lost a moment in telling you what sir omicron said. 'you should have thorne back here;' those were his very words. you can think it over, my dear. and remember this, bell; if he is to do any good no time should be lost." and then the squire left the room, and lady arabella remained alone, perplexed by many doubts. chapter xxxii mr oriel i must now, shortly--as shortly as it is in my power to do it--introduce a new character to my reader. mention has been made of the rectory of greshamsbury; but, hitherto, no opportunity has offered itself for the rev caleb oriel to come upon the boards. mr oriel was a man of family and fortune, who, having gone to oxford with the usual views of such men, had become inoculated there with very high-church principles, and had gone into orders influenced by a feeling of enthusiastic love for the priesthood. he was by no means an ascetic--such men, indeed, seldom are--nor was he a devotee. he was a man well able, and certainly willing, to do the work of a parish clergyman; and when he became one, he was efficacious in his profession. but it may perhaps be said of him, without speaking slanderously, that his original calling, as a young man, was rather to the outward and visible signs of religion than to its inward and spiritual graces. he delighted in lecterns and credence-tables, in services at dark hours of winter mornings when no one would attend, in high waistcoats and narrow white neckties, in chanted services and intoned prayers, and in all the paraphernalia of anglican formalities which have given such offence to those of our brethren who live in daily fear of the scarlet lady. many of his friends declared that mr oriel would sooner or later deliver himself over body and soul to that lady; but there was no need to fear for him: for though sufficiently enthusiastic to get out of bed at five a.m. on winter mornings--he did so, at least, all through his first winter at greshamsbury--he was not made of that stuff which is necessary for a staunch, burning, self-denying convert. it was not in him to change his very sleek black coat for a capuchin's filthy cassock, nor his pleasant parsonage for some dirty hole in rome. and it was better so both for him and others. there are but few, very few, to whom it is given to be a huss, a wickliffe, or a luther; and a man gains but little by being a false huss, or a false luther,--and his neighbours gain less. but certain lengths in self-privation mr oriel did go; at any rate, for some time. he eschewed matrimony, imagining that it became him as a priest to do so. he fasted rigorously on fridays; and the neighbours declared that he scourged himself. mr oriel was, as it has been said, a man of fortune; that is to say, when he came of age he was master of thirty thousand pounds. when he took it into his head to go into the church, his friends bought for him the next presentation to the living at greshamsbury; and, a year after his ordination, the living falling in, mr oriel brought himself and his sister to the rectory. mr oriel soon became popular. he was a dark-haired, good-looking man, of polished manners, agreeable in society, not given to monkish austerities--except in the matter of fridays--nor yet to the low-church severity of demeanour. he was thoroughly a gentleman, good-humoured, inoffensive, and sociable. but he had one fault: he was not a marrying man. on this ground there was a feeling against him so strong as almost at one time to throw him into serious danger. it was not only that he should be sworn against matrimony in his individual self--he whom fate had made so able to sustain the weight of a wife and family; but what an example he was setting! if other clergymen all around should declare against wives and families, what was to become of the country? what was to be done in the rural districts? the religious observances, as regards women, of a brigham young were hardly so bad as this! there were around greshamsbury very many unmarried ladies--i believe there generally are so round most such villages. from the great house he did not receive much annoyance. beatrice was then only just on the verge of being brought out, and was not perhaps inclined to think very much of a young clergyman; and augusta certainly intended to fly at higher game. but there were the miss athelings, the daughters of a neighbouring clergyman, who were ready to go all lengths with him in high-church matters, except as that one tremendously papal step of celibacy; and the two miss hesterwells, of hesterwell park, the younger of whom boldly declared her purpose of civilising the savage; and mrs opie green, a very pretty widow, with a very pretty jointure, who lived in a very pretty house about a mile from greshamsbury, and who declared her opinion that mr oriel was quite right in his view of a clergyman's position. how could a woman, situated as she was, have the comfort of a clergyman's attention if he were to be regarded just as any other man? she could now know in what light to regard mr oriel, and would be able without scruple to avail herself of his zeal. so she did avail herself of his zeal,--and that without any scruple. and then there was miss gushing,--a young thing. miss gushing had a great advantage over the other competitors for the civilisation of mr oriel, namely, in this--that she was able to attend his morning services. if mr oriel was to be reached in any way, it was probable that he might be reached in this way. if anything could civilise him, this would do it. therefore, the young thing, through all one long, tedious winter, tore herself from her warm bed, and was to be seen--no, not seen, but heard--entering mr oriel's church at six o'clock. with indefatigable assiduity the responses were made, uttered from under a close bonnet, and out of a dark corner, in an enthusiastically feminine voice, through the whole winter. nor did miss gushing altogether fail in her object. when a clergyman's daily audience consists of but one person, and that person is a young lady, it is hardly possible that he should not become personally intimate with her; hardly possible that he should not be in some measure grateful. miss gushing's responses came from her with such fervour, and she begged for ghostly advice with such eager longing to have her scruples satisfied, that mr oriel had nothing for it but to give way to a certain amount of civilisation. by degrees it came to pass that miss gushing could never get her final prayer said, her shawl and boa adjusted, and stow away her nice new prayer-book with the red letters inside, and the cross on the back, till mr oriel had been into his vestry and got rid of his surplice. and then they met at the church-porch, and naturally walked together till mr oriel's cruel gateway separated them. the young thing did sometimes think that, as the parson's civilisation progressed, he might have taken the trouble to walk with her as far as mr yates umbleby's hall door; but she had hope to sustain her, and a firm resolve to merit success, even though she might not attain it. "is it not ten thousand pities," she once said to him, "that none here should avail themselves of the inestimable privilege which your coming has conferred upon us? oh, mr oriel, i do so wonder at it! to me it is so delightful! the morning service in the dark church is so beautiful, so touching!" "i suppose they think it is a bore getting up so early," said mr oriel. "ah, a bore!" said miss gushing, in an enthusiastic tone of depreciation. "how insensate they must be! to me it gives a new charm to life. it quiets one for the day; makes one so much fitter for one's daily trials and daily troubles. does it not, mr oriel?" "i look upon morning prayer as an imperative duty, certainly." "oh, certainly, a most imperative duty; but so delicious at the same time. i spoke to mrs umbleby about it, but she said she could not leave the children." "no: i dare say not," said mr oriel. "and mr umbleby said his business kept him up so late at night." "very probably. i hardly expect the attendance of men of business." "but the servants might come, mightn't they, mr oriel?" "i fear that servants seldom can have time for daily prayers in church." "oh, ah, no; perhaps not." and then miss gushing began to bethink herself of whom should be composed the congregation which it must be presumed that mr oriel wished to see around him. but on this matter he did not enlighten her. then miss gushing took to fasting on fridays, and made some futile attempts to induce her priest to give her the comfort of confessional absolution. but, unfortunately, the zeal of the master waxed cool as that of the pupil waxed hot; and, at last, when the young thing returned to greshamsbury from an autumn excursion which she had made with mrs umbleby to weston-super-mare, she found that the delicious morning services had died a natural death. miss gushing did not on that account give up the game, but she was bound to fight with no particular advantage in her favour. miss oriel, though a good churchwoman, was by no means a convert to her brother's extremist views, and perhaps gave but scanty credit to the gushings, athelings, and opie greens for the sincerity of their religion. but, nevertheless, she and her brother were staunch friends; and she still hoped to see the day when he might be induced to think that an english parson might get through his parish work with the assistance of a wife better than he could do without such feminine encumbrance. the girl whom she selected for his bride was not the young thing, but beatrice gresham. and at last it seemed probable to mr oriel's nearest friends that he was in a fair way to be overcome. not that he had begun to make love to beatrice, or committed himself by the utterance of any opinion as to the propriety of clerical marriages; but he daily became looser about his peculiar tenets, raved less immoderately than heretofore as to the atrocity of the greshamsbury church pews, and was observed to take some opportunities of conversing alone with beatrice. beatrice had always denied the imputation--this had usually been made by mary in their happy days--with vehement asseverations of anger; and miss gushing had tittered, and expressed herself as supposing that great people's daughters might be as barefaced as they pleased. all this had happened previous to the great greshamsbury feud. mr oriel gradually got himself into a way of sauntering up to the great house, sauntering into the drawing-room for the purpose, as i am sure he thought, of talking to lady arabella, and then of sauntering home again, having usually found an opportunity for saying a few words to beatrice during the visit. this went on all through the feud up to the period of lady arabella's illness; and then one morning, about a month before the date fixed for frank's return, mr oriel found himself engaged to miss beatrice gresham. from the day that miss gushing heard of it--which was not however for some considerable time after this--she became an independent methodist. she could no longer, she said at first, have any faith in any religion; and for an hour or so she was almost tempted to swear that she could no longer have any faith in any man. she had nearly completed a worked cover for a credence-table when the news reached her, as to which, in the young enthusiasm of her heart, she had not been able to remain silent; it had already been promised to mr oriel; that promise she swore should not be kept. he was an apostate, she said, from his principles; an utter pervert; a false, designing man, with whom she would never have trusted herself alone on dark mornings had she known that he had such grovelling, worldly inclinations. so miss gushing became an independent methodist; the credence-table covering was cut up into slippers for the preacher's feet; and the young thing herself, more happy in this direction than she had been in the other, became the arbiter of that preacher's domestic happiness. but this little history of miss gushing's future life is premature. mr oriel became engaged demurely, nay, almost silently, to beatrice, and no one out of their own immediate families was at the time informed of the matter. it was arranged very differently from those two other matches--embryo, or not embryo, those, namely, of augusta with mr moffat, and frank with mary thorne. all barsetshire had heard of them; but that of beatrice and mr oriel was managed in a much more private manner. "i do think you are a happy girl," said patience to her one morning. "indeed i am." "he is so good. you don't know how good he is as yet; he never thinks of himself, and thinks so much of those he loves." beatrice took her friend's hand in her own and kissed it. she was full of joy. when a girl is about to be married, when she may lawfully talk of her love, there is no music in her ears so sweet as the praises of her lover. "i made up my mind from the first that he should marry you." "nonsense, patience." "i did, indeed. i made up my mind that he should marry; and there were only two to choose from." "me and miss gushing," said beatrice, laughing. "no; not exactly miss gushing. i had not many fears for caleb there." "i declare she's very pretty," said beatrice, who could afford to be good-natured. now miss gushing certainly was pretty; and would have been very pretty had her nose not turned up so much, and could she have parted her hair in the centre. "well, i am very glad you chose me;--if it was you who chose," said beatrice, modestly; having, however, in her own mind a strong opinion that mr oriel had chosen for himself, and had never had any doubt in the matter. "and who was the other?" "can't you guess?" "i won't guess any more; perhaps mrs green." "oh, no; certainly not a widow. i don't like widows marrying. but of course you could guess if you would; of course it was mary thorne. but i soon saw mary would not do, for two reasons; caleb would never have liked her well enough nor would she ever have liked him." "not like him! oh i hope she will; i do so love mary thorne." "so do i, dearly; and so does caleb; but he could never have loved her as he loves you." "but, patience, have you told mary?" "no, i have told no one, and shall not without your leave." "ah, you must tell her. tell it her with my best, and kindest, warmest love. tell her how happy i am, and how i long to talk to her. tell that i will have her for my bridesmaid. oh! i do hope that before that all this horrid quarrel will be settled." patience undertook the commission, and did tell mary; did give her also the message which beatrice had sent. and mary was rejoiced to hear it; for though, as patience had said of her, she had never herself felt any inclination to fall in love with mr oriel, she believed him to be one in whose hands her friend's happiness would be secure. then, by degrees, the conversation changed from the loves of mr oriel and beatrice to the troubles of frank gresham and herself. "she says, that let what will happen you shall be one of her bridesmaids." "ah, yes, dear trichy! that was settled between us in auld lang syne; but those settlements are all unsettled now, must all be broken. no, i cannot be her bridesmaid; but i shall yet hope to see her once before her marriage." "and why not be her bridesmaid? lady arabella will hardly object to that." "lady arabella!" said mary, curling her lip with deep scorn. "i do not care that for lady arabella," and she let her silver thimble fall from her fingers on to the table. "if beatrice invited me to her wedding, she might manage as to that; i should ask no question as to lady arabella." "then why not come to it?" she remained silent for a while, and then boldly answered. "though i do not care for lady arabella, i do care for mr gresham:--and i do care for his son." "but the squire always loved you." "yes, and therefore i will not be there to vex his sight. i will tell you the truth, patience. i can never be in that house again till frank gresham is a married man, or till i am about to be a married woman. i do not think they have treated me well, but i will not treat them ill." "i am sure you will not do that," said miss oriel. "i will endeavour not to do so; and, therefore, will go to none of their fêtes! no, patience." and then she turned her head to the arm of the sofa, and silently, without audible sobs, hiding her face, she endeavoured to get rid of her tears unseen. for one moment she had all but resolved to pour out the whole truth of her love into her friend's ears; but suddenly she changed her mind. why should she talk of her own unhappiness? why should she speak of her own love when she was fully determined not to speak of frank's promises. "mary, dear mary." "anything but pity, patience; anything but that," said she, convulsively, swallowing down her sobs, and rubbing away her tears. "i cannot bear that. tell beatrice from me, that i wish her every happiness; and, with such a husband, i am sure she will be happy. i wish her every joy; give her my kindest love; but tell her i cannot be at her marriage. oh, i should so like to see her; not there, you know, but here, in my own room, where i still have liberty to speak." "but why should you decide now? she is not to be married yet, you know." "now, or this day twelvemonth, can make no difference. i will not go into that house again, unless--but never mind; i will not go into it all; never, never again. if i could forgive her for myself, i could not forgive her for my uncle. but tell me, patience, might not beatrice now come here? it is so dreadful to see her every sunday in church and never to speak to her, never to kiss her. she seems to look away from me as though she too had chosen to quarrel with me." miss oriel promised to do her best. she could not imagine, she said, that such a visit could be objected to on such an occasion. she would not advise beatrice to come without telling her mother; but she could not think that lady arabella would be so cruel as to make any objection, knowing, as she could not but know, that her daughter, when married, would be at liberty to choose her own friends. "good-bye, mary," said patience. "i wish i knew how to say more to comfort you." "oh, comfort! i don't want comfort. i want to be let alone." "that's just it: you are so ferocious in your scorn, so unbending, so determined to take all the punishment that comes in your way." "what i do take, i'll take without complaint," said mary; and then they kissed each other and parted. chapter xxxiii a morning visit it must be remembered that mary, among her miseries, had to suffer this: that since frank's departure, now nearly twelve months ago, she had not heard a word about him; or rather, she had only heard that he was very much in love with some lady in london. this news reached her in a manner so circuitous, and from such a doubtful source; it seemed to her to savour so strongly of lady arabella's precautions, that she attributed it at once to malice, and blew it to the winds. it might not improbably be the case that frank was untrue to her; but she would not take it for granted because she was now told so. it was more than probable that he should amuse himself with some one; flirting was his prevailing sin; and if he did flirt, the most would of course be made of it. but she found it to be very desolate to be thus left alone without a word of comfort or a word of love; without being able to speak to any one of what filled her heart; doubting, nay, more than doubting, being all but sure that her passion must terminate in misery. why had she not obeyed her conscience and her better instinct in that moment when the necessity for deciding had come upon her? why had she allowed him to understand that he was master of her heart? did she not know that there was everything against such a marriage as that which he proposed? had she not done wrong, very wrong, even to think of it? had she not sinned deeply, against mr gresham, who had ever been so kind to her? could she hope, was it possible, that a boy like frank should be true to his first love? and, if he were true, if he were ready to go to the altar with her to-morrow, ought she to allow him to degrade himself by such a marriage? there was, alas! some truth about the london lady. frank had taken his degree, as arranged, and had then gone abroad for the winter, doing the fashionable things, going up the nile, crossing over to mount sinai, thence over the long desert to jerusalem, and home by damascus, beyrout, and constantinople, bringing back a long beard, a red cap, and a chibook, just as our fathers used to go through italy and switzerland, and our grandfathers to spend a season in paris. he had then remained for a couple of months in london, going through all the society which the de courcys were able to open to him. and it was true that a certain belle of the season, of that season and some others, had been captivated--for the tenth time--by the silken sheen of his long beard. frank had probably been more demonstrative, perhaps even more susceptible, than he should have been; and hence the rumour, which had all too willingly been forwarded to greshamsbury. but young gresham had also met another lady in london, namely miss dunstable. mary would indeed have been grateful to miss dunstable, could she have known all that lady did for her. frank's love was never allowed to flag. when he spoke of the difficulties in his way, she twitted him by being overcome by straws; and told him that no one was worth having who was afraid of every lion that he met in his path. when he spoke of money, she bade him earn it; and always ended by offering to smooth for him any real difficulty which want of means might put in his way. "no," frank used to say to himself, when these offers were made, "i never intended to take her and her money together; and, therefore, i certainly will never take the money alone." a day or two after miss oriel's visit, mary received the following note from beatrice. dearest, dearest mary, i shall be so happy to see you, and will come to-morrow at twelve. i have asked mamma, and she says that, for once, she has no objection. you know it is not my fault that i have never been with you; don't you? frank comes home on the th. mr oriel wants the wedding to be on the st of september; but that seems to be so very, very soon; doesn't it? however, mamma and papa are all on his side. i won't write about this, though, for we shall have such a delicious talk. oh, mary! i have been so unhappy without you. ever your own affectionate, trichy monday. though mary was delighted at the idea of once more having her friend in her arms, there was, nevertheless, something in this letter which oppressed her. she could not put up with the idea that beatrice should have permission given to come to her--just for once. she hardly wished to be seen by permission. nevertheless, she did not refuse the proffered visit, and the first sight of beatrice's face, the first touch of the first embrace, dissipated for the moment all her anger. and then beatrice fully enjoyed the delicious talk which she had promised herself. mary let her have her way, and for two hours all the delights and all the duties, all the comforts and all the responsibilities of a parson's wife were discussed with almost equal ardour on both sides. the duties and responsibilities were not exactly those which too often fall to the lot of the mistress of an english vicarage. beatrice was not doomed to make her husband comfortable, to educate her children, dress herself like a lady, and exercise open-handed charity on an income of two hundred pounds a year. her duties and responsibilities would have to spread themselves over seven or eight times that amount of worldly burden. living also close to greshamsbury, and not far from courcy castle, she would have the full advantages and all the privileges of county society. in fact, it was all _couleur de rose_, and so she chatted deliciously with her friend. but it was impossible that they should separate without something having been said as to mary's own lot. it would, perhaps, have been better that they should do so; but this was hardly within the compass of human nature. "and mary, you know, i shall be able to see you as often as i like;--you and dr thorne, too, when i have a house of my own." mary said nothing, but essayed to smile. it was but a ghastly attempt. "you know how happy that will make me," continued beatrice. "of course mamma won't expect me to be led by her then: if he likes it, there can be no objection; and he will like it, you may be sure of that." "you are very kind, trichy," said mary; but she spoke in a tone very different from that she would have used eighteen months ago. "why, what is the matter, mary? shan't you be glad to come to see us?" "i do not know, dearest; that must depend on circumstances. to see you, you yourself, your own dear, sweet, loving face must always be pleasant to me." "and shan't you be glad to see him?" "yes, certainly, if he loves you." "of course he loves me." "all that alone would be pleasant enough, trichy. but what if there should be circumstances which should still make us enemies; should make your friends and my friends--friend, i should say, for i have only one--should make them opposed to each other?" "circumstances! what circumstances?" "you are going to be married, trichy, to the man you love; are you not?" "indeed, i am!" "and it is not pleasant? is it not a happy feeling?" "pleasant! happy! yes, very pleasant; very happy. but, mary, i am not at all in such a hurry as he is," said beatrice, naturally thinking of her own little affairs. "and, suppose i should wish to be married to the man that i love?" mary said this slowly and gravely, and as she spoke she looked her friend full in the face. beatrice was somewhat astonished, and for the moment hardly understood. "i am sure i hope you will, some day." "no, trichy; no, you hope the other way. i love your brother; i love frank gresham; i love him quite as well, quite as warmly, as you love caleb oriel." "do you?" said beatrice, staring with all her eyes, and giving one long sigh, as this new subject for sorrow was so distinctly put before her. "it that so odd?" said mary. "you love mr oriel, though you have been intimate with him hardly more than two years. is it so odd that i should love your brother, whom i have known almost all my life?" "but, mary, i thought it was always understood between us that--that--i mean that you were not to care about him; not in the way of loving him, you know--i thought you always said so--i have always told mamma so as if it came from yourself." "beatrice, do not tell anything to lady arabella as though it came from me; i do not want anything to be told to her, either of me or from me. say what you like to me yourself; whatever you say will not anger me. indeed, i know what you would say--and yet i love you. oh, i love you, trichy--trichy, i do love you so much! don't turn away from me!" there was such a mixture in mary's manner of tenderness and almost ferocity, that poor beatrice could hardly follow her. "turn away from you, mary! no never; but this does make me unhappy." "it is better that you should know it all, and then you will not be led into fighting my battles again. you cannot fight them so that i should win; i do love your brother; love him truly, fondly, tenderly. i would wish to have him for my husband as you wish to have mr oriel." "but, mary, you cannot marry him!" "why not?" said she, in a loud voice. "why can i not marry him? if the priest says a blessing over us, shall we not be married as well as you and your husband?" "but you know he cannot marry unless his wife shall have money." "money--money; and he is to sell himself for money? oh, trichy! do not you talk about money. it is horrible. but, trichy, i will grant it--i cannot marry him; but still, i love him. he has a name, a place in the world, and fortune, family, high blood, position, everything. he has all this, and i have nothing. of course i cannot marry him. but yet i do love him." "are you engaged to him, mary?" "he is not engaged to me; but i am to him." "oh, mary, that is impossible!" "it is not impossible: it is the case--i am pledged to him; but he is not pledged to me." "but, mary, don't look at me in that way. i do not quite understand you. what is the good of your being engaged if you cannot marry him?" "good! there is no good. but can i help it, if i love him? can i make myself not love him by just wishing it? oh, i would do it if i could. but now you will understand why i shake my head when you talk of my coming to your house. your ways and my ways must be different." beatrice was startled, and, for a time, silenced. what mary said of the difference of their ways was quite true. beatrice had dearly loved her friend, and had thought of her with affection through all this long period in which they had been separated; but she had given her love and her thoughts on the understanding, as it were, that they were in unison as to the impropriety of frank's conduct. she had always spoken, with a grave face, of frank and his love as of a great misfortune, even to mary herself; and her pity for mary had been founded on the conviction of her innocence. now all those ideas had to be altered. mary owned her fault, confessed herself to be guilty of all that lady arabella so frequently laid to her charge, and confessed herself anxious to commit every crime as to which beatrice had been ever so ready to defend her. had beatrice up to this dreamed that mary was in love with frank, she would doubtless have sympathised with her more or less, sooner or later. as it was, it was beyond all doubt that she would soon sympathise with her. but, at the moment, the suddenness of the declaration seemed to harden her heart, and she forgot, as it were, to speak tenderly to her friend. she was silent, therefore, and dismayed; and looked as though she thought that her ways and mary's ways must be different. mary saw all that was passing in the other's mind: no, not all; all the hostility, the disappointment, the disapproval, the unhappiness, she did see; but not the under-current of love, which was strong enough to well up and drown all these, if only time could be allowed for it to do so. "i am glad i have told you," said mary, curbing herself, "for deceit and hypocrisy are detestable." "it was a misunderstanding, not deceit," said beatrice. "well, now we understand each other; now you know that i have a heart within me, which like those of some others has not always been under my own control. lady arabella believes that i am intriguing to be the mistress of greshamsbury. you, at any rate, will not think that of me. if it could be discovered to-morrow that frank were not the heir, i might have some chance of happiness." "but, mary--" "well?" "you say you love him." "yes; i do say so." "but if he does not love you, will you cease to do so?" "if i have a fever, i will get rid of it if i can; in such case i must do so, or die." "i fear," continued beatrice, "you hardly know, perhaps do not think, what is frank's real character. he is not made to settle down early in life; even now, i believe he is attached to some lady in london, whom, of course, he cannot marry." beatrice said this in perfect trueness of heart. she had heard of frank's new love-affair, and believing what she had heard, thought it best to tell the truth. but the information was not of a kind to quiet mary's spirit. "very well," said she, "let it be so. i have nothing to say against it." "but are you not preparing wretchedness and unhappiness for yourself?" "very likely." "oh, mary, do not be so cold with me! you know how delighted i should be to have you for a sister-in-law, if only it were possible." "yes, trichy; but it is impossible, is it not? impossible that francis gresham of greshamsbury should disgrace himself by marrying such a poor creature as i am. of course, i know it; of course, i am prepared for unhappiness and misery. he can amuse himself as he likes with me or others--with anybody. it is his privilege. it is quite enough to say that he is not made for settling down. i know my own position;--and yet i love him." "but, mary, has he asked you to be his wife? if so--" "you ask home-questions, beatrice. let me ask you one; has he ever told you that he has done so?" at this moment beatrice was not disposed to repeat all that frank had said. a year ago, before he went away, he had told his sister a score of times that he meant to marry mary thorne if she would have him; but beatrice now looked on all that as idle, boyish vapouring. the pity was, that mary should have looked on it differently. "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 th," she said, blushing. "what! frank?" "yes. beatrice said he was to be here on the th." "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 the 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 will be here on the th?" "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 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 interest 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. mr greyson's first letter was followed by a second; and the second was followed by the baronet in person. he also required to be received _en grand seigneur_, perhaps more imperatively than mr mortimer gazebee himself. he came with four posters from the barchester station, and had himself rattled up to the doctor's door in a way that took the breath away from all greshamsbury. why! the squire himself for a many long year had been contented to come home with a pair of horses; and four were never seen in the place, except when the de courcys came to greshamsbury, or lady arabella with all her daughters returned from her hard-fought metropolitan campaigns. sir louis, however, came with four, and very arrogant he looked, leaning back in the barouche belonging to the george and dragon, and wrapped up in fur, although it was now midsummer. and up in the dicky behind was a servant, more arrogant, if possible, than his master--the baronet's own man, who was the object of dr thorne's special detestation and disgust. he was a little fellow, chosen originally on account of his light weight on horseback; but if that may be considered a merit, it was the only one he had. his out-door show dress was a little tight frock-coat, round which a polished strap was always buckled tightly, a stiff white choker, leather breeches, top-boots, and a hat, with a cockade, stuck on one side of his head. his name was jonah, which his master and his master's friends shortened into joe; none, however, but those who were very intimate with his master were allowed to do so with impunity. this joe was dr thorne's special aversion. in his anxiety to take every possible step to keep sir louis from poisoning himself, he had at first attempted to enlist the baronet's "own man" in the cause. joe had promised fairly, but had betrayed the doctor at once, and had become the worst instrument of his master's dissipation. when, therefore, his hat and the cockade were seen, as the carriage dashed up to the door, the doctor's contentment was by no means increased. sir louis was now twenty-three years old, and was a great deal too knowing to allow himself to be kept under the doctor's thumb. it had, indeed, become his plan to rebel against his guardian in almost everything. he had at first been decently submissive, with the view of obtaining increased supplies of ready money; but he had been sharp enough to perceive that, let his conduct be what it would, the doctor would keep him out of debt; but that the doing so took so large a sum that he could not hope for any further advances. in this respect sir louis was perhaps more keen-witted than dr thorne. mary, when she saw the carriage, at once ran up to her own bedroom. the doctor, who had been with her in the drawing-room, went down to meet his ward, but as soon as he saw the cockade he darted almost involuntarily into his shop and shut the door. this protection, however, lasted only for a moment; he felt that decency required him to meet his guest, and so he went forth and faced the enemy. "i say," said joe, speaking to janet, who stood curtsying at the gate, with bridget, the other maid, behind her, "i say, are there any chaps about the place to take these things--eh? come, look sharp here." it so happened that the doctor's groom was not on the spot, and "other chaps" the doctor had none. "take those things, bridget," he said, coming forward and offering his hand to the baronet. sir louis, when he saw his host, roused himself slowly from the back of his carriage. "how do, doctor?" said he. "what terrible bad roads you have here! and, upon my word, it's as cold as winter:" and, so saying, he slowly proceeded to descend. sir louis was a year older than when we last saw him, and, in his generation, a year wiser. he had then been somewhat humble before the doctor; but now he was determined to let his guardian see that he knew how to act the baronet; that he had acquired the manners of a great man; and that he was not to be put upon. he had learnt some lessons from jenkins, in london, and other friends of the same sort, and he was about to profit by them. the doctor showed him to his room, and then proceeded to ask after his health. "oh, i'm right enough," said sir louis. "you mustn't believe all that fellow greyson tells you: he wants me to take salts and senna, opodeldoc, and all that sort of stuff; looks after his bill, you know--eh? like all the rest of you. but i won't have it;--not at any price; and then he writes to you." "i'm glad to see you able to travel," said dr thorne, who could not force himself to tell his guest that he was glad to see him at greshamsbury. "oh, travel; yes, i can travel well enough. but i wish you had some better sort of trap down in these country parts. i'm shaken to bits. and, doctor, would you tell your people to send that fellow of mine up here with hot water." so dismissed, the doctor went his way, and met joe swaggering in one of the passages, while janet and her colleague dragged along between them a heavy article of baggage. "janet," said he, "go downstairs and get sir louis some hot water, and joe, do you take hold of your master's portmanteau." joe sulkily did as he was bid. "seems to me," said he, turning to the girl, and speaking before the doctor was out of hearing, "seems to me, my dear, you be rather short-handed here; lots of work and nothing to get; that's about the ticket, ain't it?" bridget was too demurely modest to make any answer upon so short an acquaintance; so, putting her end of the burden down at the strange gentleman's door, she retreated into the kitchen. sir louis, in answer to the doctor's inquiries, had declared himself to be all right; but his appearance was anything but all right. twelve months since, a life of dissipation, or rather, perhaps, a life of drinking, had not had upon him so strong an effect but that some of the salt of youth was still left; some of the freshness of young years might still be seen in his face. but this was now all gone; his eyes were sunken and watery, his cheeks were hollow and wan, his mouth was drawn and his lips dry; his back was even bent, and his legs were unsteady under him, so that he had been forced to step down from his carriage as an old man would do. alas, alas! he had no further chance now of ever being all right again. mary had secluded herself in her bedroom as soon as the carriage had driven up to the door, and there she remained till dinner-time. but she could not shut herself up altogether. it would be necessary that she should appear at dinner; and, therefore, a few minutes before the hour, she crept out into the drawing-room. as she opened the door, she looked in timidly, expecting sir louis to be there; but when she saw that her uncle was the only occupant of the room, her brow cleared, and she entered with a quick step. "he'll come down to dinner; won't he, uncle?" "oh, i suppose so." "what's he doing now?" "dressing, i suppose; he's been at it this hour." "but, uncle--" "well?" "will he come up after dinner, do you think?" mary spoke of him as though he were some wild beast, whom her uncle insisted on having in his house. "goodness knows what he will do! come up? yes. he will not stay in the dining-room all night." "but, dear uncle, do be serious." "serious!" "yes; serious. don't you think that i might go to bed, instead of waiting?" the doctor was saved the trouble of answering by the entrance of the baronet. he was dressed in what he considered the most fashionable style of the day. he had on a new dress-coat lined with satin, new dress-trousers, a silk waistcoat covered with chains, a white cravat, polished pumps, and silk stockings, and he carried a scented handkerchief in his hand; he had rings on his fingers, and carbuncle studs in his shirt, and he smelt as sweet as patchouli could make him. but he could hardly do more than shuffle into the room, and seemed almost to drag one of his legs behind him. mary, in spite of her aversion, was shocked and distressed when she saw him. he, however, seemed to think himself perfect, and was no whit abashed by the unfavourable reception which twelve months since had been paid to his suit. mary came up and shook hands with him, and he received her with a compliment which no doubt he thought must be acceptable. "upon my word, miss thorne, every place seems to agree with you; one better than another. you were looking charming at boxall hill; but, upon my word, charming isn't half strong enough now." mary sat down quietly, and the doctor assumed a face of unutterable disgust. this was the creature for whom all his sympathies had been demanded, all his best energies put in requisition; on whose behalf he was to quarrel with his oldest friends, lose his peace and quietness of life, and exercise all the functions of a loving friend! this was his self-invited guest, whom he was bound to foster, and whom he could not turn from his door. then dinner came, and mary had to put her hand upon his arm. she certainly did not lean upon him, and once or twice felt inclined to give him some support. they reached the dining-room, however, the doctor following them, and then sat down, janet waiting in the room, as was usual. "i say, doctor," said the baronet, "hadn't my man better come in and help? he's got nothing to do, you know. we should be more cosy, shouldn't we?" "janet will manage pretty well," said the doctor. "oh, you'd better have joe; there's nothing like a good servant at table. i say, janet, just send that fellow in, will you?" "we shall do very well without him," said the doctor, becoming rather red about the cheek-bones, and with a slight gleam of determination about the eye. janet, who saw how matters stood, made no attempt to obey the baronet's order. "oh, nonsense, doctor; you think he's an uppish sort of fellow, i know, and you don't like to trouble him; but when i'm near him, he's all right; just send him in, will you?" "sir louis," said the doctor, "i'm accustomed to none but my own old woman here in my own house, and if you will allow me, i'll keep my old ways. i shall be sorry if you are not comfortable." the baronet said nothing more, and the dinner passed off slowly and wearily enough. when mary had eaten her fruit and escaped, the doctor got into one arm-chair and the baronet into another, and the latter began the only work of existence of which he knew anything. "that's good port," said he; "very fair port." the doctor loved his port wine, and thawed a little in his manner. he loved it not as a toper, but as a collector loves his pet pictures. he liked to talk about it, and think about it; to praise it, and hear it praised; to look at it turned towards the light, and to count over the years it had lain in his cellar. "yes," said he, "it's pretty fair wine. it was, at least, when i got it, twenty years ago, and i don't suppose time has hurt it;" and he held the glass up to the window, and looked at the evening light through the ruby tint of the liquid. "ah, dear, there's not much of it left; more's the pity." "a good thing won't last for ever. i'll tell you what now; i wish i'd brought down a dozen or two of claret. i've some prime stuff in london; got it from muzzle & drug, at ninety-six shillings; it was a great favour, though. i'll tell you what now, i'll send up for a couple of dozen to-morrow. i mustn't drink you out of house, high and dry; must i, doctor?" the doctor froze immediately. "i don't think i need trouble you," said he; "i never drink claret, at least not here; and there's enough of the old bin left to last some little time longer yet." sir louis drank two or three glasses of wine very quickly after each other, and they immediately began to tell upon his weak stomach. but before he was tipsy, he became more impudent and more disagreeable. "doctor," said he, "when are we to see any of this greshamsbury money? that's what i want to know." "your money is quite safe, sir louis; and the interest is paid to the day." "interest, yes; but how do i know how long it will be paid? i should like to see the principal. a hundred thousand pounds, or something like it, is a precious large stake to have in one man's hands, and he preciously hard up himself. i'll tell you what, doctor--i shall look the squire up myself." "look him up?" "yes; look him up; ferret him out; tell him a bit of my mind. i'll thank you to pass the bottle. d---- me doctor; i mean to know how things are going on." "your money is quite safe," repeated the doctor, "and, to my mind, could not be better invested." "that's all very well; d---- well, i dare say, for you and squire gresham--" "what do you mean, sir louis?" "mean! why i mean that i'll sell the squire up; that's what i mean--hallo--beg pardon. i'm blessed if i haven't broken the water-jug. that comes of having water on the table. oh, d---- me, it's all over me." and then, getting up, to avoid the flood he himself had caused, he nearly fell into the doctor's arms. "you're tired with your journey, sir louis; perhaps you'd better go to bed." "well, i am a bit seedy or so. those cursed roads of yours shake a fellow so." the doctor rang the bell, and, on this occasion, did request that joe might be sent for. joe came in, and, though he was much steadier than his master, looked as though he also had found some bin of which he had approved. "sir louis wishes to go to bed," said the doctor; "you had better give him your arm." "oh, yes; in course i will," said joe, standing immoveable about half-way between the door and the table. "i'll just take one more glass of the old port--eh, doctor?" said sir louis, putting out his hand and clutching the decanter. it is very hard for any man to deny his guest in his own house, and the doctor, at the moment, did not know how to do it; so sir louis got his wine, after pouring half of it over the table. "come in, sir, and give sir louis your arm," said the doctor, angrily. "so i will in course, if my master tells me; but, if you please, dr thorne,"--and joe put his hand up to his hair in a manner that had a great deal more of impudence than reverence in it--"i just want to ax one question: where be i to sleep?" now this was a question which the doctor was not prepared to answer on the spur of the moment, however well janet or mary might have been able to do so. "sleep," said he, "i don't know where you are to sleep, and don't care; ask janet." "that's all very well, master--" "hold your tongue, sirrah!" said sir louis. "what the devil do you want of sleep?--come here," and then, with his servant's help, he made his way up to his bedroom, and was no more heard of that night. "did he get tipsy," asked mary, almost in a whisper, when her uncle joined her in the drawing-room. "don't talk of it," said he. "poor wretch! poor wretch! let's have some tea now, molly, and pray don't talk any more about him to-night." then mary did make the tea, and did not talk any more about sir louis that night. what on earth were they to do with him? he had come there self-invited; but his connexion with the doctor was such, that it was impossible he should be told to go away, either he himself, or that servant of his. there was no reason to disbelieve him when he declared that he had come down to ferret out the squire. such was, doubtless, his intention. he would ferret out the squire. perhaps he might ferret out lady arabella also. frank would be home in a few days; and he, too, might be ferreted out. but the matter took a very singular turn, and one quite unexpected on the doctor's part. on the morning following the little dinner of which we have spoken, one of the greshamsbury grooms rode up to the doctor's door with two notes. one was addressed to the doctor in the squire's well-known large handwriting, and the other was for sir louis. each contained an invitation to dinner for the following day; and that to the doctor was in this wise:-- dear doctor, do come and dine here to-morrow, and bring sir louis scatcherd with you. if you're the man i take you to be, you won't refuse me. lady arabella sends a note for sir louis. there will be nobody here but oriel, and mr gazebee, who is staying in the house. yours ever, f. n. gresham. greshamsbury, july, --. p.s.--i make a positive request that you'll come, and i think you will hardly refuse me. the doctor read it twice before he could believe it, and then ordered janet to take the other note up to sir louis. as these invitations were rather in opposition to the then existing greshamsbury tactics, the cause of lady arabella's special civility must be explained. mr mortimer gazebee was now at the house, and therefore, it must be presumed, that things were not allowed to go on after their old fashion. mr gazebee was an acute as well as a fashionable man; one who knew what he was about, and who, moreover, had determined to give his very best efforts on behalf of the greshamsbury property. his energy, in this respect, will explain itself hereafter. it was not probable that the arrival in the village of such a person as sir louis scatcherd should escape attention. he had heard of it before dinner, and, before the evening was over, had discussed it with lady arabella. her ladyship was not at first inclined to make much of sir louis, and expressed herself as but little inclined to agree with mr gazebee when that gentleman suggested that he should be treated with civility at greshamsbury. but she was at last talked over. she found it pleasant enough to have more to do with the secret management of the estate than mr gresham himself; and when mr gazebee proved to her, by sundry nods and winks, and subtle allusions to her own infinite good sense, that it was necessary to catch this obscene bird which had come to prey upon the estate, by throwing a little salt upon his tail, she also nodded and winked, and directed augusta to prepare the salt according to order. "but won't it be odd, mr gazebee, asking him out of dr thorne's house?" "oh, we must have the doctor, too, lady arabella; by all means ask the doctor also." lady arabella's brow grew dark. "mr gazebee," she said, "you can hardly believe how that man has behaved to me." "he is altogether beneath your anger," said mr gazebee, with a bow. "i don't know: in one way he may be, but not in another. i really do not think i can sit down to table with doctor thorne." but, nevertheless, mr gazebee gained his point. it was now about a week since sir omicron pie had been at greshamsbury, and the squire had, almost daily, spoken to his wife as to that learned man's advice. lady arabella always answered in the same tone: "you can hardly know, mr gresham, how that man has insulted me." but, nevertheless, the physician's advice had not been disbelieved: it tallied too well with her own inward convictions. she was anxious enough to have doctor thorne back at her bedside, if she could only get him there without damage to her pride. her husband, she thought, might probably send the doctor there without absolute permission from herself; in which case she would have been able to scold, and show that she was offended; and, at the same time, profit by what had been done. but mr gresham never thought of taking so violent a step as this, and, therefore, dr fillgrave still came, and her ladyship's _finesse_ was wasted in vain. but mr gazebee's proposition opened a door by which her point might be gained. "well," said she, at last, with infinite self-denial, "if you think it is for mr gresham's advantage, and if he chooses to ask dr thorne, i will not refuse to receive him." mr gazebee's next task was to discuss the matter with the squire. nor was this easy, for mr gazebee was no favourite with mr gresham. but the task was at last performed successfully. mr gresham was so glad at heart to find himself able, once more, to ask his old friend to his own house; and, though it would have pleased him better that this sign of relenting on his wife's part should have reached him by other means, he did not refuse to take advantage of it; and so he wrote the above letter to dr thorne. the doctor, as we have said, read it twice; and he at once resolved stoutly that he would not go. "oh, do, do go!" said mary. she well knew how wretched this feud had made her uncle. "pray, pray go!" "indeed, i will not," said he. "there are some things a man should bear, and some he should not." "you must go," said mary, who had taken the note from her uncle's hand, and read it. "you cannot refuse him when he asks you like that." "it will greatly grieve me; but i must refuse him." "i also am angry, uncle; very angry with lady arabella; but for him, for the squire, i would go to him on my knees if he asked me in that way." "yes; and had he asked you, i also would have gone." "oh! now i shall be so wretched. it is his invitation, not hers: mr gresham could not ask me. as for her, do not think of her; but do, do go when he asks you like that. you will make me so miserable if you do not. and then sir louis cannot go without you,"--and mary pointed upstairs--"and you may be sure that he will go." "yes; and make a beast of himself." this colloquy was cut short by a message praying the doctor to go up to sir louis's room. the young man was sitting in his dressing-gown, drinking a cup of coffee at his toilet-table, while joe was preparing his razor and hot water. the doctor's nose immediately told him that there was more in the coffee-cup than had come out of his own kitchen, and he would not let the offence pass unnoticed. "are you taking brandy this morning, sir louis?" "just a little _chasse-café_," said he, not exactly understanding the word he used. "it's all the go now; and a capital thing for the stomach." "it's not a capital thing for your stomach;--about the least capital thing you can take; that is, if you wish to live." "never mind about that now, doctor, but look here. this is what we call the civil thing--eh?" and he showed the greshamsbury note. "not but what they have an object, of course. i understand all that. lots of girls there--eh?" the doctor took the note and read it. "it is civil," said he; "very civil." "well; i shall go, of course. i don't bear malice because he can't pay me the money he owes me. i'll eat his dinner, and look at the girls. have you an invite too, doctor?" "yes; i have." "and you'll go?" "i think not; but that need not deter you. but, sir louis--" "well! eh! what is it?" "step downstairs a moment," said the doctor, turning to the servant, "and wait till you are called for. i wish to speak to your master." joe, for a moment, looked up at the baronet's face, as though he wanted but the slightest encouragement to disobey the doctor's orders; but not seeing it, he slowly retired, and placed himself, of course, at the keyhole. and then, the doctor began a long and very useless lecture. the first object of it was to induce his ward not to get drunk at greshamsbury; but having got so far, he went on, and did succeed in frightening his unhappy guest. sir louis did not possess the iron nerves of his father--nerves which even brandy had not been able to subdue. the doctor spoke strongly, very strongly; spoke of quick, almost immediate death in case of further excesses; spoke to him of the certainty there would be that he could not live to dispose of his own property if he could not refrain. and thus he did frighten sir louis. the father he had never been able to frighten. but there are men who, though they fear death hugely, fear present suffering more; who, indeed, will not bear a moment of pain if there be any mode of escape. sir louis was such: he had no strength of nerve, no courage, no ability to make a resolution and keep it. he promised the doctor that he would refrain; and, as he did so, he swallowed down his cup of coffee and brandy, in which the two articles bore about equal proportions. the doctor did, at last, make up his mind to go. whichever way he determined, he found that he was not contented with himself. he did not like to trust sir louis by himself, and he did not like to show that he was angry. still less did he like the idea of breaking bread in lady arabella's house till some amends had been made to mary. but his heart would not allow him to refuse the petition contained in the squire's postscript, and the matter ended in his accepting the invitation. this visit of his ward's was, in every way, pernicious to the doctor. he could not go about his business, fearing to leave such a man alone with mary. on the afternoon of the second day, she escaped to the parsonage for an hour or so, and then walked away among the lanes, calling on some of her old friends among the farmers' wives. but even then, the doctor was afraid to leave sir louis. what could such a man do, left alone in a village like greshamsbury? so he stayed at home, and the two together went over their accounts. the baronet was particular about his accounts, and said a good deal as to having finnie over to greshamsbury. to this, however, dr thorne positively refused his consent. the evening passed off better than the preceding one; at least the early part of it. sir louis did not get tipsy; he came up to tea, and mary, who did not feel so keenly on the subject as her uncle, almost wished that he had done so. at ten o'clock he went to bed. but after that new troubles came on. the doctor had gone downstairs into his study to make up some of the time which he had lost, and had just seated himself at his desk, when janet, without announcing herself, burst into the room; and bridget, dissolved in hysterical tears, with her apron to her eyes, appeared behind the senior domestic. "please, sir," said janet, driven by excitement much beyond her usual pace of speaking, and becoming unintentionally a little less respectful than usual, "please sir, that 'ere young man must go out of this here house; or else no respectable young 'ooman can't stop here; no, indeed, sir; and we be sorry to trouble you, dr thorne; so we be." "what young man? sir louis?" asked the doctor. "oh, no! he abides mostly in bed, and don't do nothing amiss; least way not to us. 'tan't him, sir; but his man." "man!" sobbed bridget from behind. "he an't no man, nor nothing like a man. if tummas had been here, he wouldn't have dared; so he wouldn't." thomas was the groom, and, if all greshamsbury reports were true, it was probable, that on some happy, future day, thomas and bridget would become one flesh and one bone. "please sir," continued janet, "there'll be bad work here if that 'ere young man doesn't quit this here house this very night, and i'm sorry to trouble you, doctor; and so i am. but tom, he be given to fight a'most for nothin'. he's hout now; but if that there young man be's here when tom comes home, tom will be punching his head; i know he will." "he wouldn't stand by and see a poor girl put upon; no more he wouldn't," said bridget, through her tears. after many futile inquiries, the doctor ascertained that mr jonah had expressed some admiration for bridget's youthful charms, and had, in the absence of janet, thrown himself at the lady's feet in a manner which had not been altogether pleasing to her. she had defended herself stoutly and loudly, and in the middle of the row janet had come down. "and where is he now?" said the doctor. "why, sir," said janet, "the poor girl was so put about that she did give him one touch across the face with the rolling-pin, and he be all bloody now, in the back kitchen." at hearing this achievement of hers thus spoken of, bridget sobbed more hysterically than ever; but the doctor, looking at her arm as she held her apron to her face, thought in his heart that joe must have had so much the worst of it, that there could be no possible need for the interference of thomas the groom. and such turned out to be the case. the bridge of joe's nose was broken; and the doctor had to set it for him in a little bedroom at the village public-house, bridget having positively refused to go to bed in the same house with so dreadful a character. "quiet now, or i'll be serving thee the same way; thee see i've found the trick of it." the doctor could not but hear so much as he made his way into his own house by the back door, after finishing his surgical operation. bridget was recounting to her champion the fracas that had occurred; and he, as was so natural, was expressing his admiration at her valour. chapter xxxv sir louis goes out to dinner the next day joe did not make his appearance, and sir louis, with many execrations, was driven to the terrible necessity of dressing himself. then came an unexpected difficulty: how were they to get up to the house? walking out to dinner, though it was merely through the village and up the avenue, seemed to sir louis to be a thing impossible. indeed, he was not well able to walk at all, and positively declared that he should never be able to make his way over the gravel in pumps. his mother would not have thought half as much of walking from boxall hill to greshamsbury and back again. at last, the one village fly was sent for, and the matter was arranged. when they reached the house, it was easy to see that there was some unwonted bustle. in the drawing-room there was no one but mr mortimer gazebee, who introduced himself to them both. sir louis, who knew that he was only an attorney, did not take much notice of him, but the doctor entered into conversation. "have you heard that mr gresham has come home?" said mr gazebee. "mr gresham! i did not know that he had been away." "mr gresham, junior, i mean." no, indeed; the doctor had not heard. frank had returned unexpectedly just before dinner, and he was now undergoing his father's smiles, his mother's embraces, and his sisters' questions. "quite unexpectedly," said mr gazebee. "i don't know what has brought him back before his time. i suppose he found london too hot." "deuced hot," said the baronet. "i found it so, at least. i don't know what keeps men in london when it's so hot; except those fellows who have business to do: they're paid for it." mr mortimer gazebee looked at him. he was managing an estate which owed sir louis an enormous sum of money, and, therefore, he could not afford to despise the baronet; but he thought to himself, what a very abject fellow the man would be if he were not a baronet, and had not a large fortune! and then the squire came in. his broad, honest face was covered with a smile when he saw the doctor. "thorne," he said, almost in a whisper, "you're the best fellow breathing; i have hardly deserved this." the doctor, as he took his old friend's hand, could not but be glad that he had followed mary's counsel. "so frank has come home?" "oh, yes; quite unexpectedly. he was to have stayed a week longer in london. you would hardly know him if you met him. sir louis, i beg your pardon." and the squire went up to his other guest, who had remained somewhat sullenly standing in one corner of the room. he was the man of highest rank present, or to be present, and he expected to be treated as such. "i am happy to have the pleasure of making your acquaintance, mr gresham," said the baronet, intending to be very courteous. "though we have not met before, i very often see your name in my accounts--ha! ha! ha!" and sir louis laughed as though he had said something very good. the meeting between lady arabella and the doctor was rather distressing to the former; but she managed to get over it. she shook hands with him graciously, and said that it was a fine day. the doctor said that it was fine, only perhaps a little rainy. and then they went into different parts of the room. when frank came in, the doctor hardly did know him. his hair was darker than it had been, and so was his complexion; but his chief disguise was in a long silken beard, which hung down over his cravat. the doctor had hitherto not been much in favour of long beards, but he could not deny that frank looked very well with the appendage. "oh, doctor, i am so delighted to find you here," said he, coming up to him; "so very, very glad:" and, taking the doctor's arm, he led him away into a window, where they were alone. "and how is mary?" said he, almost in a whisper. "oh, i wish she were here! but, doctor, it shall all come in time. but tell me, doctor, there is no news about her, is there?" "news--what news?" "oh, well; no news is good news: you will give her my love, won't you?" the doctor said that he would. what else could he say? it appeared quite clear to him that some of mary's fears were groundless. frank was again very much altered. it has been said, that though he was a boy at twenty-one, he was a man at twenty-two. but now, at twenty-three, he appeared to be almost a man of the world. his manners were easy, his voice under his control, and words were at his command: he was no longer either shy or noisy; but, perhaps, was open to the charge of seeming, at least, to be too conscious of his own merits. he was, indeed, very handsome; tall, manly, and powerfully built, his form was such as women's eyes have ever loved to look upon. "ah, if he would but marry money!" said lady arabella to herself, taken up by a mother's natural admiration for her son. his sisters clung round him before dinner, all talking to him at once. how proud a family of girls are of one, big, tall, burly brother! "you don't mean to tell me, frank, that you are going to eat soup with that beard?" said the squire, when they were seated round the table. he had not ceased to rally his son as to this patriarchal adornment; but, nevertheless, any one could have seen, with half an eye, that he was as proud of it as were the others. "don't i, sir? all i require is a relay of napkins for every course:" and he went to work, covering it with every spoonful, as men with beards always do. "well, if you like it!" said the squire, shrugging his shoulders. "but i do like it," said frank. "oh, papa, you wouldn't have him cut it off," said one of the twins. "it is so handsome." "i should like to work it into a chair-back instead of floss-silk," said the other twin. "thank'ee, sophy; i'll remember you for that." "doesn't it look nice, and grand, and patriarchal?" said beatrice, turning to her neighbour. "patriarchal, certainly," said mr oriel. "i should grow one myself if i had not the fear of the archbishop before my eyes." what was next said to him was in a whisper, audible only to himself. "doctor, did you know wildman of the th? he was left as surgeon at scutari for two years. why, my beard to his is only a little down." "a little way down, you mean," said mr gazebee. "yes," said frank, resolutely set against laughing at mr gazebee's pun. "why, his beard descends to his ankles, and he is obliged to tie it in a bag at night, because his feet get entangled in it when he is asleep!" "oh, frank!" said one of the girls. this was all very well for the squire, and lady arabella, and the girls. they were all delighted to praise frank, and talk about him. neither did it come amiss to mr oriel and the doctor, who had both a personal interest in the young hero. but sir louis did not like it at all. he was the only baronet in the room, and yet nobody took any notice of him. he was seated in the post of honour, next to lady arabella; but even lady arabella seemed to think more of her own son than of him. seeing how he was ill-used, he meditated revenge; but not the less did it behove him to make some effort to attract attention. "was your ladyship long in london, this season?" said he. lady arabella had not been in london at all this year, and it was a sore subject with her. "no," said she, very graciously; "circumstances have kept us at home." sir louis only understood one description of "circumstances." circumstances, in his idea, meant the want of money, and he immediately took lady arabella's speech as a confession of poverty. "ah, indeed! i am very sorry for that; that must be very distressing to a person like your ladyship. but things are mending, perhaps?" lady arabella did not in the least understand him. "mending!" she said, in her peculiar tone of aristocratic indifference; and then turned to mr gazebee, who was on the other side of her. 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 here," 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 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." 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 surrounded 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. "not one word, mary? then after all my dreams, after all my patience, you do not love me at last?" oh, frank! notwithstanding what has been said in thy praise, what a fool thou art! was any word necessary for thee? had not her heart beat against thine? had she not borne thy caresses? had there been one touch of anger when she warded off thy threatened kisses? bridget, in the kitchen, when jonah became amorous, smashed his nose with the rolling-pin. but when thomas sinned, perhaps as deeply, she only talked of doing so. miss thorne, in the drawing-room, had she needed self-protection, could doubtless have found the means, though the process would probably have been less violent. at last mary succeeded in her efforts at enfranchisement, and she and frank stood at some little distance from each other. she could not but marvel at him. that long, soft beard, which just now had been so close to her face, was all new; his whole look was altered; his mien, and gait, and very voice were not the same. was this, indeed, the very frank who had chattered of his boyish love, two years since, in the gardens at greshamsbury? "not one word of welcome, mary?" "indeed, mr gresham, you are welcome home." "mr gresham! tell me, mary--tell me, at once--has anything happened? i could not ask up there." "frank," she said, and then stopped; not being able at the moment to get any further. "speak to me honestly, mary; honestly and bravely. i offered you my hand once before; there it is again. will you take it?" she looked wistfully up in his eyes; she would fain have taken it. but though a girl may be honest in such a case, it is so hard for her to be brave. he still held out his hand. "mary," said he, "if you can value it, it shall be yours through good fortune or ill fortune. there may be difficulties; but if you can love me, we will get over them. i am a free man; free to do as i please with myself, except so far as i am bound to you. there is my hand. will you have it?" and then he, too, looked into her eyes, and waited composedly, as though determined to have an answer. she slowly raised her hand, and, as she did so, her eyes fell to the ground. it then drooped again, and was again raised; and, at last, her light tapering fingers rested on his broad open palm. they were soon clutched, and the whole hand brought absolutely within his grasp. "there, now you are my own!" he said, "and none of them shall part us; my own mary, my own wife." "oh, frank, is not this imprudent? is it not wrong?" "imprudent! i am sick of prudence. i hate prudence. and as for wrong--no. i say it is not wrong; certainly not wrong if we love each other. and you do love me, mary--eh? you do! don't you?" he would not excuse her, or allow her to escape from saying it in so many words; and when the words did come at last, they came freely. "yes, frank, i do love you; if that were all you would have no cause for fear." "and i will have no cause for fear." "ah; but your father, frank, and my uncle. i can never bring myself to do anything that shall bring either of them to sorrow." frank, of course, ran through all his arguments. he would go into a profession, or take a farm and live in it. he would wait; that is, for a few months. "a few months, frank!" said mary. "well, perhaps six." "oh, frank!" but frank would not be stopped. he would do anything that his father might ask him. anything but the one thing. he would not give up the wife he had chosen. it would not be reasonable, or proper, or righteous that he should be asked to do so; and here he mounted a somewhat high horse. mary had no arguments which she could bring from her heart to offer in opposition to all this. she could only leave her hand in his, and feel that she was happier than she had been at any time since the day of that donkey-ride at boxall hill. "but, mary," continued he, becoming very grave and serious. "we must be true to each other, and firm in this. nothing that any of them can say shall drive me from my purpose; will you say as much?" her hand was still in his, and so she stood, thinking for a moment before she answered him. but she could not do less for him than he was willing to do for her. "yes," said she--said in a very low voice, and with a manner perfectly quiet--"i will be firm. nothing that they can say shall shake me. but, frank, it cannot be soon." nothing further occurred in this interview which needs recording. frank had been three times told by mary that he had better go before he did go; and, at last, she was obliged to take the matter into her own hands, and lead him to the door. "you are in a great hurry to get rid of me," said he. "you have been here two hours, and you must go now; what will they all think?" "who cares what they think? let them think the truth: that after a year's absence, i have much to say to you." however, at last, he did go, and mary was left alone. frank, although he had been so slow to move, had a thousand other things to do, and went about them at once. he was very much in love, no doubt; but that did not interfere with his interest in other pursuits. in the first place, he had to see harry baker, and harry baker's stud. harry had been specially charged to look after the black horse during frank's absence, and the holiday doings of that valuable animal had to be inquired into. then the kennel of the hounds had to be visited, and--as a matter of second-rate importance--the master. this could not be done on the same day; but a plan for doing so must be concocted with harry--and then there were two young pointer pups. frank, when he left his betrothed, went about these things quite as vehemently as though he were not in love at all; quite as vehemently as though he had said nothing as to going into some profession which must necessarily separate him from horses and dogs. but mary sat there at her window, thinking of her love, and thinking of nothing else. it was all in all to her now. she had pledged herself not to be shaken from her troth by anything, by any person; and it would behove her to be true to this pledge. true to it, though all the greshams but one should oppose her with all their power; true to it, even though her own uncle should oppose her. and how could she have done any other than so pledge herself, invoked to it as she had been? how could she do less for him than he was so anxious to do for her? they would talk to her of maiden delicacy, and tell her that she had put a stain on that snow-white coat of proof, in confessing her love for one whose friends were unwilling to receive her. let them so talk. honour, honesty, and truth, out-spoken truth, self-denying truth, and fealty from man to man, are worth more than maiden delicacy; more, at any rate, than the talk of it. it was not for herself that this pledge had been made. she knew her position, and the difficulties of it; she knew also the value of it. he had much to offer, much to give; she had nothing but herself. he had name, and old repute, family, honour, and what eventually would at least be wealth to her. she was nameless, fameless, portionless. he had come there with all his ardour, with the impulse of his character, and asked for her love. it was already his own. he had then demanded her troth, and she acknowledged that he had a right to demand it. she would be his if ever it should be in his power to take her. but there let the bargain end. she would always remember, that though it was in her power to keep her pledge, it might too probably not be in his power to keep his. that doctrine, laid down so imperatively by the great authorities of greshamsbury, that edict, which demanded that frank should marry money, had come home also to her with a certain force. it would be sad that the fame of greshamsbury should perish, and that the glory should depart from the old house. it might be, that frank also should perceive that he must marry money. it would be a pity that he had not seen it sooner; but she, at any rate, would not complain. and so she stood, leaning on the open window, with her book unnoticed lying beside her. the sun had been in the mid-sky when frank had left her, but its rays were beginning to stream into the room from the west before she moved from her position. her first thought in the morning had been this: would he come to see her? her last now was more soothing to her, less full of absolute fear: would it be right that he should come again? the first sounds she heard were the footsteps of her uncle, as he came up to the drawing-room, three steps at a time. his step was always heavy; but when he was disturbed in spirit, it was slow; when merely fatigued in body by ordinary work, it was quick. "what a broiling day!" he said, and he threw himself into a chair. "for mercy's sake give me something to drink." now the doctor was a great man for summer-drinks. in his house, lemonade, currant-juice, orange-mixtures, and raspberry-vinegar were used by the quart. he frequently disapproved of these things for his patients, as being apt to disarrange the digestion; but he consumed enough himself to throw a large family into such difficulties. "ha--a!" he ejaculated, after a draught; "i'm better now. well, what's the news?" "you've been out, uncle; you ought to have the news. how's mrs green?" "really as bad as ennui and solitude can make her." "and mrs oaklerath?" "she's getting better, because she has ten children to look after, and twins to suckle. what has he been doing?" and the doctor pointed towards the room occupied by sir louis. mary's conscience struck her that she had not even asked. she had hardly remembered, during the whole day, that the baronet was in the house. "i do not think he has been doing much," she said. "janet has been with him all day." "has he been drinking?" "upon my word, i don't know, uncle. i think not, for janet has been with him. but, uncle--" "well, dear--but just give me a little more of that tipple." mary prepared the tumbler, and, as she handed it to him, she said, "frank gresham has been here to-day." the doctor swallowed his draught, and put down the glass before he made any reply, and even then he said but little. "oh! frank gresham." "yes, uncle." "you thought him looking pretty well?" "yes, uncle; he was very well, i believe." dr thorne had nothing more to say, so he got up and went to his patient in the next room. "if he disapproves of it, why does he not say so?" said mary to herself. "why does he not advise me?" but it was not so easy to give advice while sir louis scatcherd was lying there in that state. chapter xxxvii sir louis leaves greshamsbury janet had been sedulous in her attentions to sir louis, and had not troubled her mistress; but she had not had an easy time of it. her orders had been, that either she or thomas should remain in the room the whole day, and those orders had been obeyed. immediately after breakfast, the baronet had inquired after his own servant. "his confounded nose must be right by this time, i suppose?" "it was very bad, sir louis," said the old woman, who imagined that it might be difficult to induce jonah to come into the house again. "a man in such a place as his has no business to be laid up," said the master, with a whine. "i'll see and get a man who won't break his nose." thomas was sent to the inn three or four times, but in vain. the man was sitting up, well enough, in the tap-room; but the middle of his face was covered with streaks of plaster, and he could not bring himself to expose his wounds before his conqueror. sir louis began by ordering the woman to bring him _chasse-café_. she offered him coffee, as much as he would; but no _chasse_. "a glass of port wine," she said, "at twelve o'clock, and another at three had been ordered for him." "i don't care a ---- for the orders," said sir louis; "send me my own man." the man was again sent for; but would not come. "there's a bottle of that stuff that i take, in that portmanteau, in the left-hand corner--just hand it to me." but janet was not to be done. she would give him no stuff, except what the doctor had ordered, till the doctor came back. the doctor would then, no doubt, give him anything that was proper. sir louis swore a good deal, and stormed as much as he could. he drank, however, his two glasses of wine, and he got no more. once or twice he essayed to get out of bed and dress; but, at every effort, he found that he could not do it without joe: and there he was, still under the clothes when the doctor returned. "i'll tell you what it is," said he, as soon as his guardian entered the room, "i'm not going to be made a prisoner of here." "a prisoner! no, surely not." "it seems very much like it at present. your servant here--that old woman--takes it upon her to say she'll do nothing without your orders." "well; she's right there." "right! i don't know what you call right; but i won't stand it. you are not going to make a child of me, dr thorne; so you need not think it." and then there was a long quarrel between them, and but an indifferent reconciliation. the baronet said that he would go to boxall hill, and was vehement in his intention to do so because the doctor opposed it. he had not, however, as yet ferreted out the squire, or given a bit of his mind to mr gazebee, and it behoved him to do this before he took himself off to his own country mansion. he ended, therefore, by deciding to go on the next day but one. "let it be so, if you are well enough," said the doctor. "well enough!" said the other, with a sneer. "there's nothing to make me ill that i know of. it certainly won't be drinking too much here." on the next day, sir louis was in a different mood, and in one more distressing for the doctor to bear. his compelled abstinence from intemperate drinking had, no doubt, been good for him; but his mind had so much sunk under the pain of the privation, that his state was piteous to behold. he had cried for his servant, as a child cries for its nurse, till at last the doctor, moved to pity, had himself gone out and brought the man in from the public-house. but when he did come, joe was of but little service to his master, as he was altogether prevented from bringing him either wine or spirits; and when he searched for the liqueur-case, he found that even that had been carried away. "i believe you want me to die," he said, as the doctor, sitting by his bedside, was trying, for the hundredth time, to make him understand that he had but one chance of living. the doctor was not the least irritated. it would have been as wise to be irritated by the want of reason in a dog. "i am doing what i can to save your life," he said calmly; "but, as you said just now, i have no power over you. as long as you are able to move and remain in my house, you certainly shall not have the means of destroying yourself. you will be very wise to stay here for a week or ten days: a week or ten days of healthy living might, perhaps, bring you round." sir louis again declared that the doctor wished him to die, and spoke of sending for his attorney, finnie, to come to greshamsbury to look after him. "send for him if you choose," said the doctor. "his coming will cost you three or four pounds, but can do no other harm." "and i will send for fillgrave," threatened the baronet. "i'm not going to die here like a dog." it was certainly hard upon dr thorne that he should be obliged to entertain such a guest in the house;--to entertain him, and foster him, and care for him, almost as though he were a son. but he had no alternative; he had accepted the charge from sir roger, and he must go through with it. his conscience, moreover, allowed him no rest in this matter: it harassed him day and night, driving him on sometimes to great wretchedness. he could not love this incubus that was on his shoulders; he could not do other than be very far from loving him. of what use or value was he to any one? what could the world make of him that would be good, or he of the world? was not an early death his certain fate? the earlier it might be, would it not be the better? were he to linger on yet for two years longer--and such a space of life was possible for him--how great would be the mischief that he might do; nay, certainly would do! farewell then to all hopes for greshamsbury, as far as mary was concerned. farewell then to that dear scheme which lay deep in the doctor's heart, that hope that he might, in his niece's name, give back to the son the lost property of the father. and might not one year--six months be as fatal. frank, they all said, must marry money; and even he--he the doctor himself, much as he despised the idea for money's sake--even he could not but confess that frank, as the heir to an old, but grievously embarrassed property, had no right to marry, at his early age, a girl without a shilling. mary, his niece, his own child, would probably be the heiress of this immense wealth; but he could not tell this to frank; no, nor to frank's father while sir louis was yet alive. what, if by so doing he should achieve this marriage for his niece, and that then sir louis should live to dispose of his own? how then would he face the anger of lady arabella? "i will never hanker after a dead man's shoes, neither for myself nor for another," he had said to himself a hundred times; and as often did he accuse himself of doing so. one path, however, was plainly open before him. he would keep his peace as to the will; and would use such efforts as he might use for a son of his own loins to preserve the life that was so valueless. his wishes, his hopes, his thoughts, he could not control; but his conduct was at his own disposal. "i say, doctor, you don't really think that i'm going to die?" sir louis said, when dr thorne again visited him. "i don't think at all; i am sure you will kill yourself if you continue to live as you have lately done." "but suppose i go all right for a while, and live--live just as you tell me, you know?" "all of us are in god's hands, sir louis. by so doing you will, at any rate, give yourself the best chance." "best chance? why, d----n, doctor! there are fellows have done ten times worse than i; and they are not going to kick. come, now, i know you are trying to frighten me; ain't you, now?" "i am trying to do the best i can for you." "it's very hard on a fellow like me; i have nobody to say a kind word to me; no, not one." and sir louis, in his wretchedness, began to weep. "come, doctor; if you'll put me once more on my legs, i'll let you draw on the estate for five hundred pounds; by g----, i will." the doctor went away to his dinner, and the baronet also had his in bed. he could not eat much, but he was allowed two glasses of wine, and also a little brandy in his coffee. this somewhat invigorated him, and when dr thorne again went to him, in the evening, he did not find him so utterly prostrated in spirit. he had, indeed, made up his mind to a great resolve; and thus unfolded his final scheme for his own reformation:-- "doctor," he began again, "i believe you are an honest fellow; i do indeed." dr thorne could not but thank him for his good opinion. "you ain't annoyed at what i said this morning, are you?" the doctor had forgotten the particular annoyance to which sir louis alluded; and informed him that his mind might be at rest on any such matter. "i do believe you'd be glad to see me well; wouldn't you, now?" the doctor assured him that such was in very truth the case. "well, now, i'll tell you what: i've been thinking about it a great deal to-day; indeed, i have, and i want to do what's right. mightn't i have a little drop more of that stuff, just in a cup of coffee?" the doctor poured him out a cup of coffee, and put about a teaspoonful of brandy in it. sir louis took it with a disconsolate face, not having been accustomed to such measures in the use of his favourite beverage. "i do wish to do what's right--i do, indeed; only, you see, i'm so lonely. as to those fellows up in london, i don't think that one of them cares a straw about me." dr thorne was of the same way of thinking, and he said so. he could not but feel some sympathy with the unfortunate man as he thus spoke of his own lot. it was true that he had been thrown on the world without any one to take care of him. "my dear friend, i will do the best i can in every way; i will, indeed. i do believe that your companions in town have been too ready to lead you astray. drop them, and you may yet do well." "may i though, doctor? well, i will drop them. there's jenkins; he's the best of them; but even he is always wanting to make money of me. not but what i'm up to the best of them in that way." "you had better leave london, sir louis, and change your old mode of life. go to boxall hill for a while; for two or three years or so; live with your mother there and take to farming." "what! farming?" "yes; that's what all country gentlemen do: take the land there into your own hand, and occupy your mind upon it." "well, doctor, i will--upon one condition." dr thorne sat still and listened. he had no idea what the condition might be, but he was not prepared to promise acquiescence till he heard it. "you know what i told you once before," said the baronet. "i don't remember at this moment." "about my getting married, you know." the doctor's brow grew black, and promised no help to the poor wretch. bad in every way, wretched, selfish, sensual, unfeeling, purse-proud, ignorant as sir louis scatcherd was, still, there was left to him the power of feeling something like sincere love. it may be presumed that he did love mary thorne, and that he was at the time earnest in declaring, that if she could be given to him, he would endeavour to live according to her uncle's counsel. it was only a trifle he asked; but, alas! that trifle could not be vouchsafed. "i should much approve of your getting married, but i do not know how i can help you." "of course, i mean to miss mary: i do love her; i really do, dr thorne." "it is quite impossible, sir louis; quite. you do my niece much honour; but i am able to answer for her, positively, that such a proposition is quite out of the question." "look here now, dr thorne; anything in the way of settlements--" "i will not hear a word on the subject: you are very welcome to the use of my house as long as it may suit you to remain here; but i must insist that my niece shall not be troubled on this matter." "do you mean to say she's in love with that young gresham?" this was too much for the doctor's patience. "sir louis," said he, "i can forgive you much for your father's sake. i can also forgive something on the score of your own ill health. but you ought to know, you ought by this time to have learnt, that there are some things which a man cannot forgive. i will not talk to you about my niece; and remember this, also, i will not have her troubled by you:" and, so saying, the doctor left him. on the next day the baronet was sufficiently recovered to be able to resume his braggadocio airs. he swore at janet; insisted on being served by his own man; demanded in a loud voice, but in vain, that his liqueur-case should be restored to him; and desired that post-horses might be ready for him on the morrow. on that day he got up and ate his dinner in his bedroom. on the next morning he countermanded the horses, informing the doctor that he did so because he had a little bit of business to transact with squire gresham before he left the place! with some difficulty, the doctor made him understand that the squire would not see him on business; and it was at last decided, that mr gazebee should be invited to call on him at the doctor's house; and this mr gazebee agreed to do, in order to prevent the annoyance of having the baronet up at greshamsbury. on this day, the evening before mr gazebee's visit, sir louis condescended to come down to dinner. he dined, however, _tête-à-tête_ with the doctor. mary was not there, nor was anything said as to her absence. sir louis scatcherd never set eyes upon her again. he bore himself very arrogantly on that evening, having resumed the airs and would-be dignity which he thought belonged to him as a man of rank and property. in his periods of low spirits, he was abject and humble enough; abject, and fearful of the lamentable destiny which at these moments he believed to be in store for him. but it was one of the peculiar symptoms of his state, that as he partially recovered his bodily health, the tone of his mind recovered itself also, and his fears for the time were relieved. there was very little said between him and the doctor that evening. the doctor sat guarding the wine, and thinking when he should have his house to himself again. sir louis sat moody, every now and then uttering some impertinence as to the greshams and the greshamsbury property, and, at an early hour, allowed joe to put him to bed. the horses were ordered on the next day for three, and, at two, mr gazebee came to the house. he had never been there before, nor had he ever met dr thorne except at the squire's dinner. on this occasion he asked only for the baronet. "ah! ah! i'm glad you're come, mr gazebee; very glad," said sir louis; acting the part of the rich, great man with all the power he had. "i want to ask you a few questions so as to make it all clear sailing between us." "as you have asked to see me, i have come, sir louis," said the other, putting on much dignity as he spoke. "but would it not be better that any business there may be should be done among the lawyers?" "the lawyers are very well, i dare say; but when a man has so large a stake at interest as i have in this greshamsbury property, why, you see, mr gazebee, he feels a little inclined to look after it himself. now, do you know, mr gazebee, how much it is that mr gresham owes me?" mr gazebee, of course, did know very well; but he was not going to discuss the subject with sir louis, if he could help it. "whatever claim your father's estate may have on that of mr gresham is, as far as i understand, vested in dr thorne's hands as trustee. i am inclined to believe that you have not yourself at present any claim on greshamsbury. the interest, as it becomes due, is paid to dr thorne; and if i may be allowed to make a suggestion, i would say that it will not be expedient to make any change in that arrangement till the property shall come into your own hands." "i differ from you entirely, mr gazebee; _in toto_, as we used to say at eton. what you mean to say is--i can't go to law with mr gresham; i'm not so sure of that; but perhaps not. but i can compel dr thorne to look after my interests. i can force him to foreclose. and to tell you the truth, gazebee, unless some arrangement is proposed to me which i shall think advantageous, i shall do so at once. there is near a hundred thousand pounds owing to me; yes to me. thorne is only a name in the matter. the money is my money; and, by ----, i mean to look after it." "have you any doubt, sir louis, as to the money being secure?" "yes, i have. it isn't so easy to have a hundred thousand pounds secured. the squire is a poor man, and i don't choose to allow a poor man to owe me such a sum as that. besides, i mean to invest it in land. i tell you fairly, therefore, i shall foreclose." mr gazebee, using all the perspicuity which his professional education had left to him, tried to make sir louis understand that he had no power to do anything of the kind. "no power! mr gresham shall see whether i have no power. when a man has a hundred thousand pounds owing to him he ought to have some power; and, as i take it, he has. but we will see. perhaps you know finnie, do you?" mr gazebee, with a good deal of scorn in his face, said that he had not that pleasure. mr finnie was not in his line. "well, you will know him then, and you'll find he's sharp enough; that is, unless i have some offer made to me that i may choose to accept." mr gazebee declared that he was not instructed to make any offer, and so he took his leave. on that afternoon, sir louis went off to boxall hill, transferring the miserable task of superintending his self-destruction from the shoulders of the doctor to those of his mother. of lady scatcherd, the baronet took no account in his proposed sojourn in the country, nor did he take much of the doctor in leaving greshamsbury. he again wrapped himself in his furs, and, with tottering steps, climbed up into the barouche which was to carry him away. "is my man up behind?" he said to janet, while the doctor was standing at the little front garden-gate, making his adieux. "no, sir, he's not up yet," said janet, respectfully. "then send him out, will you? i can't lose my time waiting here all day." "i shall come over to boxall hill and see you," said the doctor, whose heart softened towards the man, in spite of his brutality, as the hour of his departure came. "i shall be happy to see you if you like to come, of course; that is, in the way of visiting, and that sort of thing. as for doctoring, if i want any i shall send for fillgrave." such were his last words as the carriage, with a rush, went off from the door. the doctor, as he re-entered the house, could not avoid smiling, for he thought of dr fillgrave's last patient at boxall hill. "it's a question to me," said he to himself, "whether dr fillgrave will ever be induced to make another visit to that house, even with the object of rescuing a baronet out of my hands." "he's gone; isn't he, uncle?" said mary, coming out of her room. "yes, my dear; he's gone, poor fellow." "he may be a poor fellow, uncle; but he's a very disagreeable inmate in a house. i have not had any dinner these two days." "and i haven't had what can be called a cup of tea since he's been in the house. but i'll make up for that to-night." chapter xxxviii de courcy precepts and de courcy practice there is a mode of novel-writing which used to be much in vogue, but which has now gone out of fashion. it is, nevertheless, one which is very expressive when in good hands, and which enables the author to tell his story, or some portion of his story, with more natural trust than any other, i mean that of familiar letters. i trust i shall be excused if i attempt it as regards this one chapter; though, it may be, that i shall break down and fall into the commonplace narrative, even before the one chapter be completed. the correspondents are the lady amelia de courcy and miss gresham. i, of course, give precedence to the higher rank, but the first epistle originated with the latter-named young lady. let me hope that they will explain themselves. miss gresham to lady amelia de courcy greshamsbury house, june, --. my dearest amelia, i wish to consult you on a subject which, as you will perceive, is of a most momentous nature. you know how much reliance i place in your judgement and knowledge of what is proper, and, therefore, i write to you before speaking to any other living person on the subject: not even to mamma; for, although her judgement is good too, she has so many cares and troubles, that it is natural that it should be a little warped when the interests of her children are concerned. now that it is all over, i feel that it may possibly have been so in the case of mr moffat. you are aware that mr mortimer gazebee is now staying here, and that he has been here for nearly two months. he is engaged in managing poor papa's affairs, and mamma, who likes him very much, says that he is a most excellent man of business. of course, you know that he is the junior partner in the very old firm of gumption, gazebee, & gazebee, who, i understand, do not undertake any business at all, except what comes to them from peers, or commoners of the very highest class. i soon perceived, dearest amelia, that mr gazebee paid me more than ordinary attention, and i immediately became very guarded in my manner. i certainly liked mr gazebee from the first. his manners are quite excellent, his conduct to mamma is charming, and, as regards myself, i must say that there has been nothing in his behaviour of which even _you_ could complain. he has never attempted the slightest familiarity, and i will do him the justice to say, that, though he has been very attentive, he has also been very respectful. i must confess that, for the last three weeks, i have thought that he meant something. i might, perhaps, have done more to repel him; or i might have consulted you earlier as to the propriety of keeping altogether out of his way. but you know, amelia, how often these things lead to nothing, and though i thought all along that mr gazebee was in earnest, i hardly liked to say anything about it even to you till i was quite certain. if you had advised me, you know, to accept his offer, and if, after that, he had never made it, i should have felt so foolish. but now he has made it. he came to me yesterday just before dinner, in the little drawing-room, and told me, in the most delicate manner, in words that even you could not have but approved, that his highest ambition was to be thought worthy of my regard, and that he felt for me the warmest love, and the most profound admiration, and the deepest respect. you may say, amelia, that he is only an attorney, and i believe that he is an attorney; but i am sure you would have esteemed him had you heard the very delicate way in which he expressed his sentiments. something had given me a presentiment of what he was going to do when i saw him come into the room, so that i was on my guard. i tried very hard to show no emotion; but i suppose i was a little flurried, as i once detected myself calling him mr mortimer: his name, you know, is mortimer gazebee. i ought not to have done so, certainly; but it was not so bad as if i had called him mortimer without the mr, was it? i don't think there could possibly be a prettier christian name than mortimer. well, amelia, i allowed him to express himself without interruption. he once attempted to take my hand; but even this was done without any assumption of familiarity; and when he saw that i would not permit it, he drew back, and fixed his eyes on the ground as though he were ashamed even of that. of course, i had to give him an answer; and though i had expected that something of this sort would take place, i had not made up my mind on the subject. i would not, certainly, under any circumstances, accept him without consulting you. if i really disliked him, of course there would be no doubt; but i can't say, dearest amelia, that i do absolutely dislike him; and i really think that we would make each other very happy, if the marriage were suitable as regarded both our positions. i collected myself as well as i could, and i really do think that you would have said that i did not behave badly, though the position was rather trying. i told him that, of course, i was flattered by his sentiments, though much surprised at hearing them; that since i knew him, i had esteemed and valued him as an acquaintance, but that, looking on him as a man of business, i had never expected anything more. i then endeavoured to explain to him, that i was not perhaps privileged, as some other girls might be, to indulge my own feelings altogether: perhaps that was saying too much, and might make him think that i was in love with him; but, from the way i said it, i don't think he would, for i was very much guarded in my manner, and very collected; and then i told him, that in any proposal of marriage that might be made to me, it would be my duty to consult my family as much, if not more than myself. he said, of course; and asked whether he might speak to papa. i tried to make him understand, that in talking of my family, i did not exactly mean papa, or even mamma. of course i was thinking of what was due to the name of gresham. i know very well what papa would say. he would give his consent in half a minute; he is so broken-hearted by these debts. and, to tell you the truth, amelia, i think mamma would too. he did not seem quite to comprehend what i meant; but he did say that he knew it was a high ambition to marry into the family of the greshams. i am sure you would confess that he has the most proper feelings; and as for expressing them no man could do it better. he owned that it was ambition to ally himself with a family above his own rank in life, and that he looked to doing so as a means of advancing himself. now this was at any rate honest. that was one of his motives, he said; though, of course, not his first: and then he declared how truly attached he was to me. in answer to this, i remarked, that he had known me only a very short time. this, perhaps, was giving him too much encouragement; but, at that moment, i hardly knew what to say, for i did not wish to hurt his feelings. he then spoke of his income. he has fifteen hundred a year from the business, and that will be greatly increased when his father leaves it; and his father is much older than mr gumption, though he is only the second partner. mortimer gazebee will be the senior partner himself before very long; and perhaps that does alter his position a little. he has a very nice place down somewhere in surrey; i have heard mamma say it is quite a gentleman's place. it is let now; but he will live there when he is married. and he has property of his own besides which he can settle. so, you see, he is quite as well off as mr oriel; better, indeed; and if a man is in a profession, i believe it is considered that it does not much matter what. of course, a clergyman can be a bishop; but then, i think i have heard that one attorney did once become lord chancellor. i should have my carriage, you know; i remember his saying that, especially, though i cannot recollect how he brought it in. i told him, at last, that i was so much taken by surprise that i could not give him an answer then. he was going up to london, he said, on the next day, and might he be permitted to address me on the same subject when he returned? i could not refuse him, you know; and so now i have taken the opportunity of his absence to write to you for your advice. you understand the world so very well, and know so exactly what one ought to do in such a strange position! i hope i have made it intelligible, at least, as to what i have written about. i have said nothing as to my own feelings, because i wish you to think on the matter without consulting them. if it would be derogatory to accept mr gazebee, i certainly would not do so because i happen to like him. if we were to act in that way, what would the world come to, amelia? perhaps my ideas may be overstrained; if so, you will tell me. when mr oriel proposed for beatrice, nobody seemed to make any objection. it all seemed to go as a matter of course. she says that his family is excellent; but as far as i can learn, his grandfather was a general in india, and came home very rich. mr gazebee's grandfather was a member of the firm, and so, i believe, was his great-grandfather. don't you think this ought to count for something? besides, they have no business except with the most aristocratic persons, such as uncle de courcy, and the marquis of kensington gore, and that sort. i mention the marquis, because mr mortimer gazebee is there now. and i know that one of the gumptions was once in parliament; and i don't think that any of the oriels ever were. the name of attorney is certainly very bad, is it not, amelia? but they certainly do not seem to be all the same, and i do think that this ought to make a difference. to hear mr mortimer gazebee talk of some attorney at barchester, you would say that there is quite as much difference between them as between a bishop and a curate. and so i think there is. i don't wish at all to speak of my own feelings; but if he were not an attorney, he is, i think, the sort of man i should like. he is very nice in every way, and if you were not told, i don't think you'd know he was an attorney. but, dear amelia, i will be guided by you altogether. he is certainly much nicer than mr moffat, and has a great deal more to say for himself. of course, mr moffat having been in parliament, and having been taken up by uncle de courcy, was in a different sphere; but i really felt almost relieved when he behaved in that way. with mortimer gazebee, i think it would be different. i shall wait so impatiently for your answer, so do pray write at once. i hear some people say that these sort of things are not so much thought of now as they were once, and that all manner of marriages are considered to be _comme il faut_. i do not want, you know, to make myself foolish by being too particular. perhaps all these changes are bad, and i rather think they are; but if the world changes, one must change too; one can't go against the world. so do write and tell me what you think. do not suppose that i dislike the man, for i really cannot say that i do. but i would not for anything make an alliance for which any one bearing the name of de courcy would have to blush. always, dearest amelia, your most affectionate cousin, augusta gresham. p.s.--i fear frank is going to be very foolish with mary thorne. you know it is absolutely important that frank should marry money. it strikes me as quite possible that mortimer gazebee may be in parliament some of these days. he is just the man for it. poor augusta prayed very hard for her husband; but she prayed to a bosom that on this subject was as hard as a flint, and she prayed in vain. augusta gresham was twenty-two, lady amelia de courcy was thirty-four; was it likely that lady amelia would permit augusta to marry, the issue having thus been left in her hands? why should augusta derogate from her position by marrying beneath herself, seeing that lady amelia had spent so many more years in the world without having found it necessary to do so? augusta's letter was written on two sheets of note-paper, crossed all over; and lady amelia's answer was almost equally formidable. lady amelia de courcy to miss augusta gresham courcy castle, june, --. my dear augusta, i received your letter yesterday morning, but i have put off answering it till this evening, as i have wished to give it very mature consideration. the question is one which concerns, not only your character, but happiness for life, and nothing less than very mature consideration would justify me in giving a decided opinion on the subject. in the first place, i may tell you, that i have not a word to say against mr mortimer gazebee. [when augusta had read as far as this, her heart sank within her; the rest was all leather and prunella; she saw at once that the fiat had gone against her, and that her wish to become mrs mortimer gazebee was not to be indulged.] i have known him for a long time, and i believe him to be a very respectable person, and i have no doubt a good man of business. the firm of messrs gumption & gazebee stands probably quite among the first attorneys in london, and i know that papa has a very high opinion of them. all of these would be excellent arguments to use in favour of mr gazebee as a suitor, had his proposals been made to any one in his own rank of life. but you, in considering the matter, should, i think, look on it in a very different light. the very fact that you pronounce him to be so much superior to other attorneys, shows in how very low esteem you hold the profession in general. it shows also, dear augusta, how well aware you are that they are a class of people among whom you should not seek a partner for life. my opinion is, that you should make mr gazebee understand--very courteously, of course--that you cannot accept his hand. you observe that he himself confesses, that in marrying you he would seek a wife in a rank above his own. is it not, therefore, clear, that in marrying him, you would descend to a rank below your own? i shall be very sorry if this grieves you; but still it will be better that you should bear the grief of overcoming a temporary fancy, than take a step which may so probably make you unhappy; and which some of your friends would certainly regard as disgraceful. it is not permitted to us, my dear augusta, to think of ourselves in such matters. as you truly say, if we were to act in that way, what would the world come to? it has been god's pleasure that we should be born with high blood in our veins. this is a great boon which we both value, but the boon has its responsibilities as well as its privileges. it is established by law, that the royal family shall not intermarry with subjects. in our case there is no law, but the necessity is not the less felt; we should not intermarry with those who are probably of a lower rank. mr mortimer gazebee is, after all, only an attorney; and, although you speak of his great-grandfather, he is a man of no blood whatsoever. you must acknowledge that such an admixture should be looked on by a de courcy, or even by a gresham, as a pollution. [here augusta got very red, and she felt almost inclined to be angry with her cousin.] beatrice's marriage with mr oriel is different; though, remember, i am by no means defending that; it may be good or bad, and i have had no opportunity of inquiring respecting mr oriel's family. beatrice, moreover, has never appeared to me to feel what was due to herself in such matters; but, as i said, her marriage with mr oriel is very different. clergymen--particularly the rectors and vicars of country parishes--do become privileged above other professional men. i could explain why, but it would be too long in a letter. your feelings on the subject altogether do you great credit. i have no doubt that mr gresham, if asked, would accede to the match; but that is just the reason why he should not be asked. it would not be right that i should say anything against your father to you; but it is impossible for any of us not to see that all through life he has thrown away every advantage, and sacrificed his family. why is he now in debt, as you say? why is he not holding the family seat in parliament? even though you are his daughter, you cannot but feel that you would not do right to consult him on such a subject. as to dear aunt, i feel sure, that were she in good health, and left to exercise her own judgement, she would not wish to see you married to the agent for the family estate. for, dear augusta, that is the real truth. mr gazebee often comes here in the way of business; and though papa always receives him as a gentleman--that is, he dines at table and all that--he is not on the same footing in the house as the ordinary guests and friends of the family. how would you like to be received at courcy castle in the same way? you will say, perhaps, that you would still be papa's niece; so you would. but you know how strict in such matters papa is, and you must remember, that the wife always follows the rank of the husband. papa is accustomed to the strict etiquette of a court, and i am sure that no consideration would induce him to receive the estate-agent in the light of a nephew. indeed, were you to marry mr gazebee, the house to which he belongs would, i imagine, have to give up the management of this property. even were mr gazebee in parliament--and i do not see how it is probable that he should get there--it would not make any difference. you must remember, dearest, that i never was an advocate for the moffat match. i acquiesced in it, because mamma did so. if i could have had my own way, i would adhere to all our old prescriptive principles. neither money nor position can atone to me for low birth. but the world, alas! is retrograding; and, according to the new-fangled doctrines of the day, a lady of blood is not disgraced by allying herself to a man of wealth, and what may be called quasi-aristocratic position. i wish it were otherwise; but so it is. and, therefore, the match with mr moffat was not disgraceful, though it could not be regarded as altogether satisfactory. but with mr gazebee the matter would be altogether different. he is a man earning his bread; honestly, i dare say, but in a humble position. you say he is very respectable: i do not doubt it; and so is mr scraggs, the butcher at courcy. you see, augusta, to what such arguments reduce you. i dare say he may be nicer than mr moffat, in one way. that is, he may have more small-talk at his command, and be more clever in all those little pursuits and amusements which are valued by ordinary young ladies. but my opinion is, that neither i nor you would be justified in sacrificing ourselves for such amusements. we have high duties before us. it may be that the performance of those duties will prohibit us from taking a part in the ordinary arena of the feminine world. it is natural that girls should wish to marry; and, therefore, those who are weak, take the first that come. those who have more judgement, make some sort of selection. but the strongest-minded are, perhaps, those who are able to forgo themselves and their own fancies, and to refrain from any alliance that does not tend to the maintenance of high principles. of course, i speak of those who have blood in their veins. you and i need not dilate as to the conduct of others. i hope what i have said will convince you. indeed, i know that it only requires that you and i should have a little cousinly talk on this matter to be quite in accord. you must now remain at greshamsbury till mr gazebee shall return. immediately that he does so, seek an interview with him; do not wait till he asks for it; then tell him, that when he addressed you, the matter had taken you so much by surprise, that you were not at the moment able to answer him with that decision that the subject demanded. tell him, that you are flattered--in saying this, however, you must keep a collected countenance, and be very cold in your manner--but that family reasons would forbid you to avail yourself of his offer, even did no other cause prevent it. and then, dear augusta, come to us here. i know you will be a little down-hearted after going through this struggle; but i will endeavour to inspirit you. when we are both together, you will feel more sensibly the value of that high position which you will preserve by rejecting mr gazebee, and will regret less acutely whatever you may lose. your very affectionate cousin, amelia de courcy. p.s.--i am greatly grieved about frank; but i have long feared that he would do some very silly thing. i have heard lately that miss mary thorne is not even the legitimate niece of your dr thorne, but is the daughter of some poor creature who was seduced by the doctor, in barchester. i do not know how true this may be, but i think your brother should be put on his guard: it might do good. poor augusta! she was in truth to be pitied, for her efforts were made with the intention of doing right according to her lights. for mr moffat she had never cared a straw; and when, therefore, she lost the piece of gilding for which she had been instructed by her mother to sell herself, it was impossible to pity her. but mr gazebee she would have loved with that sort of love which it was in her power to bestow. with him she would have been happy, respectable, and contented. she had written her letter with great care. when the offer was made to her, she could not bring herself to throw lady amelia to the winds and marry the man, as it were, out of her own head. lady amelia had been the tyrant of her life, and so she strove hard to obtain her tyrant's permission. she used all her little cunning in showing that, after all, mr gazebee was not so very plebeian. all her little cunning was utterly worthless. lady amelia's mind was too strong to be caught with such chaff. augusta could not serve god and mammon. she must either be true to the god of her cousin's idolatry, and remain single, or serve the mammon of her own inclinations, and marry mr gazebee. when refolding her cousin's letter, after the first perusal, she did for a moment think of rebellion. could she not be happy at the nice place in surrey, having, as she would have, a carriage, even though all the de courcys should drop her? it had been put to her that she would not like to be received at courcy castle with the scant civility which would be considered due to a mrs mortimer gazebee; but what if she could put up without being received at courcy castle at all? such ideas did float through her mind, dimly. but her courage failed her. it is so hard to throw off a tyrant; so much easier to yield, when we have been in the habit of yielding. this third letter, therefore, was written; and it is the end of the correspondence. miss augusta gresham to lady amelia de courcy greshamsbury house, july, --. my dearest amelia, i did not answer your letter before, because i thought it better to delay doing so till mr gazebee had been here. he came the day before yesterday, and yesterday i did, as nearly as possible, what you advised. perhaps, on the whole, it will be better. as you say, rank has its responsibilities as well as its privileges. i don't quite understand what you mean about clergymen, but we can talk that over when we meet. indeed, it seems to me that if one is to be particular about family--and i am sure i think we ought--one ought to be so without exception. if mr oriel be a _parvenu_, beatrice's children won't be well born merely because their father was a clergyman, even though he is a rector. since my former letter, i have heard that mr gazebee's great-great-great-grandfather established the firm; and there are many people who were nobodies then who are thought to have good blood in their veins now. but i do not say this because i differ from you. i agree with you so fully, that i at once made up my mind to reject the man; and, consequently, i have done so. when i told him i could not accept him from family considerations, he asked me whether i had spoken to papa. i told him, no; and that it would be no good, as i had made up my own mind. i don't think he quite understood me; but it did not perhaps much matter. you told me to be very cold, and i think that perhaps he thought me less gracious than before. indeed, i fear that when he first spoke, i may seem to have given him too much encouragement. however, it is all over now; quite over! [as augusta wrote this, she barely managed to save the paper beneath her hand from being moistened with the tear which escaped from her eye.] i do not mind confessing now, [she continued] at any rate to you, that i did like mr gazebee a little. i think his temper and disposition would have suited me. but i am quite satisfied that i have done right. he tried very hard to make me change my mind. that is, he said a great many things as to whether i would not put off my decision. but i was quite firm. i must say that he behaved very well, and that i really do think he liked me honestly and truly; but, of course, i could not sacrifice family considerations on that account. yes, rank has its responsibilities as well as its privileges. i will remember that. it is necessary to do so, as otherwise one would be without consolation for what one has to suffer. for i find that one has to suffer, amelia. i know papa would have advised me to marry this man; and so, i dare say, mamma would, and frank, and beatrice, if they knew that i liked him. it would not be so bad if we all thought alike about it; but it is hard to have the responsibilities all on one's own shoulder; is it not? but i will go over to you, and you will comfort me. i always feel stronger on this subject at courcy than at greshamsbury. we will have a long talk about it, and then i shall be happy again. i purpose going on next friday, if that will suit you and dear aunt. i have told mamma that you all wanted me, and she made no objection. do write at once, dearest amelia, for to hear from you now will be my only comfort. yours, ever most affectionately and obliged, augusta gresham. p.s.--i told mamma what you said about mary thorne, and she said, "yes; i suppose all the world knows it now; and if all the world did know it, it makes no difference to frank." she seemed very angry; so you see it was true. though, by so doing, we shall somewhat anticipate the end of our story, it may be desirable that the full tale of mr gazebee's loves should be told here. when mary is breaking her heart on her death-bed in the last chapter, or otherwise accomplishing her destiny, we shall hardly find a fit opportunity of saying much about mr gazebee and his aristocratic bride. for he did succeed at last in obtaining a bride in whose veins ran the noble ichor of de courcy blood, in spite of the high doctrine preached so eloquently by the lady amelia. as augusta had truly said, he had failed to understand her. he was led to think, by her manner of receiving his first proposal--and justly so, enough--that she liked him, and would accept him; and he was, therefore, rather perplexed by his second interview. he tried again and again, and begged permission to mention the matter to mr gresham; but augusta was very firm, and he at last retired in disgust. augusta went to courcy castle, and received from her cousin that consolation and re-strengthening which she so much required. four years afterwards--long after the fate of mary thorne had fallen, like a thunderbolt, on the inhabitants of greshamsbury; when beatrice was preparing for her second baby, and each of the twins had her accepted lover--mr mortimer gazebee went down to courcy castle; of course, on matters of business. no doubt he dined at the table, and all that. we have the word of lady amelia, that the earl, with his usual good-nature, allowed him such privileges. let us hope that he never encroached on them. but on this occasion, mr gazebee stayed a long time at the castle, and singular rumours as to the cause of his prolonged visit became current in the little town. no female scion of the present family of courcy had, as yet, found a mate. we may imagine that eagles find it difficult to pair when they become scarce in their localities; and we all know how hard it has sometimes been to get _comme il faut_ husbands when there has been any number of protestant princesses on hand. some such difficulty had, doubtless, brought it about that the countess was still surrounded by her full bevy of maidens. rank has its responsibilities as well as its privileges, and these young ladies' responsibilities seemed to have consisted in rejecting any suitor who may have hitherto kneeled to them. but now it was told through courcy, that one suitor had kneeled, and not in vain; from courcy the rumour flew to barchester, and thence came down to greshamsbury, startling the inhabitants, and making one poor heart throb with a violence that would have been piteous had it been known. the suitor, so named, was mr mortimer gazebee. yes; mr mortimer gazebee had now awarded to him many other privileges than those of dining at the table, and all that. he rode with the young ladies in the park, and they all talked to him very familiarly before company; all except the lady amelia. the countess even called him mortimer, and treated him quite as one of the family. at last came a letter from the countess to her dear sister arabella. it should be given at length, but that i fear to introduce another epistle. it is such an easy mode of writing, and facility is always dangerous. in this letter it was announced with much preliminary ambiguity, that mortimer gazebee--who had been found to be a treasure in every way; quite a paragon of men--was about to be taken into the de courcy bosom as a child of that house. on that day fortnight, he was destined to lead to the altar--the lady amelia. the countess then went on to say, that dear amelia did not write herself, being so much engaged by her coming duties--the responsibilities of which she doubtless fully realised, as well as the privileges; but she had begged her mother to request that the twins should come and act as bridesmaids on the occasion. dear augusta, she knew, was too much occupied in the coming event in mr oriel's family to be able to attend. mr mortimer gazebee was taken into the de courcy family, and did lead the lady amelia to the altar; and the gresham twins did go there and act as bridesmaids. and, which is much more to say for human nature, augusta did forgive her cousin, and, after a certain interval, went on a visit to that nice place in surrey which she had once hoped would be her own home. it would have been a very nice place, augusta thought, had not lady amelia gazebee been so very economical. we must presume that there was some explanation between them. if so, augusta yielded to it, and confessed it to be satisfactory. she had always yielded to her cousin, and loved her with that sort of love which is begotten between fear and respect. anything was better than quarrelling with her cousin amelia. and mr mortimer gazebee did not altogether make a bad bargain. he never received a shilling of dowry, but that he had not expected. nor did he want it. his troubles arose from the overstrained economy of his noble wife. she would have it, that as she had married a poor man--mr gazebee, however, was not a poor man--it behoved her to manage her house with great care. such a match as that she had made--this she told in confidence to augusta--had its responsibilities as well as its privileges. but, on the whole, mr gazebee did not repent his bargain; when he asked his friends to dine, he could tell them that lady amelia would be very glad to see them; his marriage gave him some éclat at his club, and some additional weight in the firm to which he belonged; he gets his share of the courcy shooting, and is asked about to greshamsbury and other barsetshire houses, not only "to dine at table and all that," but to take his part in whatever delights country society there has to offer. he lives with the great hope that his noble father-in-law may some day be able to bring him into parliament. chapter xxxix what the world says about blood "beatrice," said frank, rushing suddenly into his sister's room, "i want you to do me one especial favour." this was three or four days after frank had seen mary thorne. since that time he had spoken to none of his family on the subject; but he was only postponing from day to day the task of telling his father. he had now completed his round of visits to the kennel, master huntsman, and stables of the county hunt, and was at liberty to attend to his own affairs. so he had decided on speaking to the squire that very day; but he first made his request to his sister. "i want you to do me one especial favour." the day for beatrice's marriage had now been fixed, and it was not to be very distant. mr oriel had urged that their honeymoon trip would lose half its delights if they did not take advantage of the fine weather; and beatrice had nothing to allege in answer. the day had just been fixed, and when frank ran into her room with his special request, she was not in a humour to refuse him anything. "if you wish me to be at your wedding, you must do it," said he. "wish you to be there! you must be there, of course. oh, frank! what do you mean? i'll do anything you ask; if it is not to go to the moon, or anything of that sort." frank was too much in earnest to joke. "you must have mary for one of your bridesmaids," he said. "now, mind; there may be some difficulty, but you must insist on it. i know what has been going on; but it is not to be borne that she should be excluded on such a day as that. you that have been like sisters all your lives till a year ago!" "but, frank--" "now, beatrice, don't have any buts; say that you will do it, and it will be done: i am sure oriel will approve, and so will my father." "but, frank, you won't hear me." "not if you make objections; i have set my heart on your doing it." "but i had set my heart on the same thing." "well?" "and i went to mary on purpose; and told her just as you tell me now, that she must come. i meant to make mamma understand that i could not be happy unless it were so; but mary positively refused." "refused! what did she say?" "i could not tell you what she said; indeed, it would not be right if i could; but she positively declined. she seemed to feel, that after all that had happened, she never could come to greshamsbury again." "fiddlestick!" "but, frank, those are her feelings; and, to tell the truth, i could not combat them. i know she is not happy; but time will cure that. and, to tell you the truth, frank--" "it was before i came back that you asked her, was it not?" "yes; just the day before you came, i think." "well, it's all altered now. i have seen her since that." "have you frank?" "what do you take me for? of course, i have. the very first day i went to her. and now, beatrice, you may believe me or not, as you like; but if i ever marry, i shall marry mary thorne; and if ever she marries, i think i may say, she will marry me. at any rate, i have her promise. and now, you cannot be surprised that i should wish her to be at your wedding; or that i should declare, that if she is absent, i will be absent. i don't want any secrets, and you may tell my mother if you like it--and all the de courcys too, for anything i care." frank had ever been used to command his sisters: and they, especially beatrice, had ever been used to obey. on this occasion, she was well inclined to do so, if she only knew how. she again remembered how mary had once sworn to be at her wedding, to be near her, and to touch her--even though all the blood of the de courcys should be crowded before the altar railings. "i should be so happy that she should be there; but what am i to do, frank, if she refuses? i have asked her, and she has refused." "go to her again; you need not have any scruples with her. do not i tell you she will be your sister? not come here again to greshamsbury! why, i tell you that she will be living here while you are living there at the parsonage, for years and years to come." beatrice promised that she would go to mary again, and that she would endeavour to talk her mother over if mary would consent to come. but she could not yet make herself believe that mary thorne would ever be mistress of greshamsbury. it was so indispensably necessary that frank should marry money! besides, what were those horrid rumours which were now becoming rife as to mary's birth; rumours more horrid than any which had yet been heard? augusta had said hardly more than the truth when she spoke of her father being broken-hearted by his debts. his troubles were becoming almost too many for him; and mr gazebee, though no doubt he was an excellent man of business, did not seem to lessen them. mr gazebee, indeed, was continually pointing out how much he owed, and in what a quagmire of difficulties he had entangled himself. now, to do mr yates umbleby justice, he had never made himself disagreeable in this manner. mr gazebee had been doubtless right, when he declared that sir louis scatcherd had not himself the power to take any steps hostile to the squire; but sir louis had also been right, when he boasted that, in spite of his father's will, he could cause others to move in the matter. others did move, and were moving, and it began to be understood that a moiety, at least, of the remaining greshamsbury property must be sold. even this, however, would by no means leave the squire in undisturbed possession of the other moiety. and thus, mr gresham was nearly broken-hearted. frank had now been at home a week, and his father had not as yet spoken to him about the family troubles; nor had a word as yet been said between them as to mary thorne. it had been agreed that frank should go away for twelve months, in order that he might forget her. he had been away the twelvemonth, and had now returned, not having forgotten her. it generally happens, that in every household, one subject of importance occupies it at a time. the subject of importance now mostly thought of in the greshamsbury household, was the marriage of beatrice. lady arabella had to supply the trousseau for her daughter; the squire had to supply the money for the trousseau; mr gazebee had the task of obtaining the money for the squire. while this was going on, mr gresham was not anxious to talk to his son, either about his own debts or his son's love. there would be time for these things when the marriage-feast should be over. so thought the father, but the matter was precipitated by frank. he also had put off the declaration which he had to make, partly from a wish to spare the squire, but partly also with a view to spare himself. we have all some of that cowardice which induces us to postpone an inevitably evil day. at this time the discussions as to beatrice's wedding were frequent in the house, and at one of them frank had heard his mother repeat the names of the proposed bridesmaids. mary's name was not among them, and hence had arisen his attack on his sister. lady arabella had had her reason for naming the list before her son; but she overshot her mark. she wished to show him how totally mary was forgotten at greshamsbury; but she only inspired him with a resolve that she should not be forgotten. he accordingly went to his sister; and then, the subject being full on his mind, he resolved at once to discuss it with his father. "sir, are you at leisure for five minutes?" he said, entering the room in which the squire was accustomed to sit majestically, to receive his tenants, scold his dependants, and in which, in former happy days, he had always arranged the meets of the barsetshire hunt. mr gresham was quite at leisure: when was he not so? but had he been immersed in the deepest business of which he was capable, he would gladly have put it aside at his son's instance. "i don't like to have any secret from you, sir," said frank; "nor, for the matter of that, from anybody else"--the anybody else was intended to have reference to his mother--"and, therefore, i would rather tell you at once what i have made up my mind to do." frank's address was very abrupt, and he felt it was so. he was rather red in the face, and his manner was fluttered. he had quite made up his mind to break the whole affair to his father; but he had hardly made up his mind as to the best mode of doing so. "good heavens, frank! what do you mean? you are not going to do anything rash? what is it you mean, frank?" "i don't think it is rash," said frank. "sit down, my boy; sit down. what is it that you say you are going to do?" "nothing immediately, sir," said he, rather abashed; "but as i have made up my mind about mary thorne,--quite made up my mind, i think it right to tell you." "oh, about mary," said the squire, almost relieved. and then frank, in voluble language, which he hardly, however, had quite under his command, told his father all that had passed between him and mary. "you see, sir," said he, "that it is fixed now, and cannot be altered. nor must it be altered. you asked me to go away for twelve months, and i have done so. it has made no difference, you see. as to our means of living, i am quite willing to do anything that may be best and most prudent. i was thinking, sir, of taking a farm somewhere near here, and living on that." the squire sat quite silent for some moments after this communication had been made to him. frank's conduct, as a son, had been such that he could not find fault with it; and, in this special matter of his love, how was it possible for him to find fault? he himself was almost as fond of mary as of a daughter; and, though he too would have been desirous that his son should relieve the estate from its embarrassments by a rich marriage, he did not at all share lady arabella's feelings on the subject. no countess de courcy had ever engraved it on the tablets of his mind that the world would come to ruin if frank did not marry money. ruin there was, and would be, but it had been brought about by no sin of frank's. "do you remember about her birth, frank?" he said, at last. "yes, sir; everything. she told me all she knew; and dr thorne finished the story." "and what do you think of it?" "it is a pity, and a misfortune. it might, perhaps, have been a reason why you or my mother should not have had mary in the house many years ago; but it cannot make any difference now." frank had not meant to lean so heavily on his father; but he did do so. the story had never been told to lady arabella; was not even known to her now, positively, and on good authority. but mr gresham had always known it. if mary's birth was so great a stain upon her, why had he brought her into his house among his children? "it is a misfortune, frank; a very great misfortune. it will not do for you and me to ignore birth; too much of the value of one's position depends upon it." "but what was mr moffat's birth?" said frank, almost with scorn; "or what miss dunstable's?" he would have added, had it not been that his father had not been concerned in that sin of wedding him to the oil of lebanon. "true, frank. but yet, what you would mean to say is not true. we must take the world as we find it. were you to marry a rich heiress, were her birth even as low as that of poor mary--" "don't call her poor mary, father; she is not poor. my wife will have a right to take rank in the world, however she was born." "well,--poor in that way. but were she an heiress, the world would forgive her birth on account of her wealth." "the world is very complaisant, sir." "you must take it as you find it, frank. i only say that such is the fact. if porlock were to marry the daughter of a shoeblack, without a farthing, he would make a _mésalliance_; but if the daughter of the shoeblack had half a million of money, nobody would dream of saying so. i am stating no opinion of my own: i am only giving you the world's opinion." "i don't give a straw for the world." "that is a mistake, my boy; you do care for it, and would be very foolish if you did not. what you mean is, that, on this particular point, you value your love more than the world's opinion." "well, yes, that is what i mean." but the squire, though he had been very lucid in his definition, had got no nearer to his object; had not even yet ascertained what his own object was. this marriage would be ruinous to greshamsbury; and yet, what was he to say against it, seeing that the ruin had been his fault, and not his son's? "you could let me have a farm; could you not, sir? i was thinking of about six or seven hundred acres. i suppose it could be managed somehow?" "a farm?" said the father, abstractedly. "yes, sir. i must do something for my living. i should make less of a mess of that than of anything else. besides, it would take such a time to be an attorney, or a doctor, or anything of that sort." do something for his living! and was the heir of greshamsbury come to this--the heir and only son? whereas, he, the squire, had succeeded at an earlier age than frank's to an unembarrassed income of fourteen thousand pounds a year! the reflection was very hard to bear. "yes: i dare say you could have a farm:" and then he threw himself back in his chair, closing his eyes. then, after a while, rose again, and walked hurriedly about the room. "frank," he said, at last, standing opposite to his son, "i wonder what you think of me?" "think of you, sir?" ejaculated frank. "yes; what do you think of me, for having thus ruined you. i wonder whether you hate me?" frank, jumping up from his chair, threw his arms round his father's neck. "hate you, sir? how can you speak so cruelly? you know well that i love you. and, father, do not trouble yourself about the estate for my sake. i do not care for it; i can be just as happy without it. let the girls have what is left, and i will make my own way in the world, somehow. i will go to australia; yes, sir, that will be best. i and mary will both go. nobody will care about her birth there. but, father, never say, never think, that i do not love you!" the squire was too much moved to speak at once, so he sat down again, and covered his face with his hands. frank went on pacing the room, till, gradually, his first idea recovered possession of his mind, and the remembrance of his father's grief faded away. "may i tell mary," he said at last, "that you consent to our marriage? it will make her so happy." but the squire was not prepared to say this. he was pledged to his wife to do all that he could to oppose it; and he himself thought, that if anything could consummate the family ruin, it would be this marriage. "i cannot say that, frank; i cannot say that. what would you both live on? it would be madness." "we would go to australia," answered he, bitterly. "i have just said so." "oh, no, my boy; you cannot do that. you must not throw the old place up altogether. there is no other one but you, frank; and we have lived here now for so many, many years." "but if we cannot live here any longer, father?" "but for this scheme of yours, we might do so. i will give up everything to you, the management of the estate, the park, all the land we have in hand, if you will give up this fatal scheme. for, frank, it is fatal. you are only twenty-three; why should you be in such a hurry to marry?" "you married at twenty-one, sir." frank was again severe on his father, but unwittingly. "yes, i did," said mr gresham; "and see what has come of it! had i waited ten years longer, how different would everything have been! no, frank, i cannot consent to such a marriage; nor will your mother." "it is your consent i ask, sir; and i am asking for nothing but your consent." "it would be sheer madness; madness for you both. my own frank, my dear, dear boy, do not drive me to distraction! give it up for four years." "four years!" "yes; for four years. i ask it as a personal favour; as an obligation to myself, in order that we may be saved from ruin; you, your mother, and sisters, your family name, and the old house. i do not talk about myself; but were such a marriage to take place, i should be driven to despair." frank found it very hard to resist his father, who now had hold of his hand and arm, and was thus half retaining him, and half embracing him. "frank, say that you will forget this for four years--say for three years." but frank would not say so. to postpone his marriage for four years, or for three, seemed to him to be tantamount to giving up mary altogether; and he would not acknowledge that any one had the right to demand of him to do that. "my word is pledged, sir," he said. "pledged! pledged to whom?" "to miss thorne." "but i will see her, frank;--and her uncle. she was always reasonable. i am sure she will not wish to bring ruin on her old friends at greshamsbury." "her old friends at greshamsbury have done but little lately to deserve her consideration. she has been treated shamefully. i know it has not been by you, sir; but i must say so. she has already been treated shamefully; but i will not treat her falsely." "well, frank, i can say no more to you. i have destroyed the estate which should have been yours, and i have no right to expect you should regard what i say." frank was greatly distressed. he had not any feeling of animosity against his father with reference to the property, and would have done anything to make the squire understand this, short of giving up his engagement to mary. his feeling rather was, that, as each had a case against the other, they should cry quits; that he should forgive his father for his bad management, on condition that he himself was to be forgiven with regard to his determined marriage. not that he put it exactly in that shape, even to himself; but could he have unravelled his own thoughts, he would have found that such was the web on which they were based. "father, i do regard what you say; but you would not have me be false. had you doubled the property instead of lessening it, i could not regard what you say any more." "i should be able to speak in a very different tone; i feel that, frank." "do not feel it any more, sir; say what you wish, as you would have said it under any other circumstances; and pray believe this, the idea never occurs to me, that i have ground of complaint as regards the property; never. whatever troubles we may have, do not let that trouble you." soon after this frank left him. what more was there that could be said between them? they could not be of one accord; but even yet it might not be necessary that they should quarrel. he went out, and roamed by himself through the grounds, rather more in meditation than was his wont. if he did marry, how was he to live? he talked of a profession; but had he meant to do as others do, who make their way in professions, he should have thought of that a year or two ago!--or, rather, have done more than think of it. he spoke also of a farm, but even that could not be had in a moment; nor, if it could, would it produce a living. where was his capital? where his skill? and he might have asked also, where the industry so necessary for such a trade? he might set his father at defiance, and if mary were equally headstrong with himself, he might marry her. but, what then? as he walked slowly about, cutting off the daisies with his stick, he met mr oriel, going up to the house, as was now his custom, to dine there and spend the evening, close to beatrice. "how i envy you, oriel!" he said. "what would i not give to have such a position in the world as yours!" "thou shalt not covet a man's house, nor his wife," said mr oriel; "perhaps it ought to have been added, nor his position." "it wouldn't have made much difference. when a man is tempted, the commandments, i believe, do not go for much." "do they not, frank? that's a dangerous doctrine; and one which, if you had my position, you would hardly admit. but what makes you so much out of sorts? your own position is generally considered about the best which the world has to give." "is it? then let me tell you that the world has very little to give. what can i do? where can i turn? oriel, if there be an empty, lying humbug in the world, it is the theory of high birth and pure blood which some of us endeavour to maintain. blood, indeed! if my father had been a baker, i should know by this time where to look for my livelihood. as it is, i am told of nothing but my blood. will my blood ever get me half a crown?" and then the young democrat walked on again in solitude, leaving mr oriel in doubt as to the exact line of argument which he had meant to inculcate. chapter xl the two doctors change patients dr fillgrave still continued his visits to greshamsbury, for lady arabella had not yet mustered the courage necessary for swallowing her pride and sending once more for dr thorne. nothing pleased dr fillgrave more than those visits. he habitually attended grander families, and richer people; but then, he had attended them habitually. greshamsbury was a prize taken from the enemy; it was his rock of gibraltar, of which he thought much more than of any ordinary hampshire or wiltshire which had always been within his own kingdom. he was just starting one morning with his post-horses for greshamsbury, when an impudent-looking groom, with a crooked nose, trotted up to his door. for joe still had a crooked nose, all the doctor's care having been inefficacious to remedy the evil effects of bridget's little tap with the rolling-pin. joe had no written credentials, for his master was hardly equal to writing, and lady scatcherd had declined to put herself into further personal communication with dr fillgrave; but he had effrontery enough to deliver any message. "be you dr fillgrave?" said joe, with one finger just raised to his cocked hat. "yes," said dr fillgrave, with one foot on the step of the carriage, but pausing at the sight of so well-turned-out a servant. "yes; i am dr fillgrave." "then you be to go to boxall hill immediately; before anywhere else." "boxall hill!" said the doctor, with a very angry frown. "yes; boxall hill: my master's place--my master is sir louis scatcherd, baronet. you've heard of him, i suppose?" dr fillgrave had not his mind quite ready for such an occasion. so he withdrew his foot from the carriage step, and rubbing his hands one over another, looked at his own hall door for inspiration. a single glance at his face was sufficient to show that no ordinary thoughts were being turned over within his breast. "well!" said joe, thinking that his master's name had not altogether produced the magic effect which he had expected; remembering, also, how submissive greyson had always been, who, being a london doctor, must be supposed to be a bigger man than this provincial fellow. "do you know as how my master is dying, very like, while you stand there?" "what is your master's disease?" said the doctor, facing joe, slowly, and still rubbing his hands. "what ails him? what is the matter with him?" "oh; the matter with him? well, to say it out at once then, he do take a drop too much at times, and then he has the horrors--what is it they call it? delicious beam-ends, or something of that sort." "oh, ah, yes; i know; and tell me, my man, who is attending him?" "attending him? why, i do, and his mother, that is, her ladyship." "yes; but what medical attendant: what doctor?" "why, there was greyson, in london, and--" "greyson!" and the doctor looked as though a name so medicinally humble had never before struck the tympanum of his ear. "yes; greyson. and then, down at what's the name of the place, there was thorne." "greshamsbury?" "yes; greshamsbury. but he and thorne didn't hit it off; and so since that he has had no one but myself." "i will be at boxall hill in the course of the morning," said dr fillgrave; "or, rather, you may say, that i will be there at once: i will take it in my way." and having thus resolved, he gave his orders that the post-horses should make such a detour as would enable him to visit boxall hill on his road. "it is impossible," said he to himself, "that i should be twice treated in such a manner in the same house." he was not, however, altogether in a comfortable frame of mind as he was driven up to the hall door. he could not but remember the smile of triumph with which his enemy had regarded him in that hall; he could not but think how he had returned fee-less to barchester, and how little he had gained in the medical world by rejecting lady scatcherd's bank-note. however, he also had had his triumphs since that. he had smiled scornfully at dr thorne when he had seen him in the greshamsbury street; and had been able to tell, at twenty houses through the county, how lady arabella had at last been obliged to place herself in his hands. and he triumphed again when he found himself really standing by sir louis scatcherd's bedside. as for lady scatcherd, she did not even show herself. she kept in her own little room, sending out hannah to ask him up the stairs; and she only just got a peep at him through the door as she heard the medical creak of his shoes as he again descended. we need say but little of his visit to sir louis. it mattered nothing now, whether it was thorne, or greyson, or fillgrave. and dr fillgrave knew that it mattered nothing: he had skill at least for that--and heart enough also to feel that he would fain have been relieved from this task; would fain have left this patient in the hands even of dr thorne. the name which joe had given to his master's illness was certainly not a false one. he did find sir louis "in the horrors." if any father have a son whose besetting sin is a passion for alcohol, let him take his child to the room of a drunkard when possessed by "the horrors." nothing will cure him if not that. i will not disgust my reader by attempting to describe the poor wretch in his misery: the sunken, but yet glaring eyes; the emaciated cheeks; the fallen mouth; the parched, sore lips; the face, now dry and hot, and then suddenly clammy with drops of perspiration; the shaking hand, and all but palsied limbs; and worse than this, the fearful mental efforts, and the struggles for drink; struggles to which it is often necessary to give way. dr fillgrave soon knew what was to be the man's fate; but he did what he might to relieve it. there, in one big, best bedroom, looking out to the north, lay sir louis scatcherd, dying wretchedly. there, in the other big, best bedroom, looking out to the south, had died the other baronet about a twelvemonth since, and each a victim to the same sin. to this had come the prosperity of the house of scatcherd! and then dr fillgrave went on to greshamsbury. it was a long day's work, both for himself and the horses; but then, the triumph of being dragged up that avenue compensated for both the expense and the labour. he always put on his sweetest smile as he came near the hall door, and rubbed his hands in the most complaisant manner of which he knew. it was seldom that he saw any of the family but lady arabella; but then he desired to see none other, and when he left her in a good humour, was quite content to take his glass of sherry and eat his lunch by himself. on this occasion, however, the servant at once asked him to go into the dining-room, and there he found himself in the presence of frank gresham. the fact was, that lady arabella, having at last decided, had sent for dr thorne; and it had become necessary that some one should be entrusted with the duty of informing dr fillgrave. that some one must be the squire, or frank. lady arabella would doubtless have preferred a messenger more absolutely friendly to her own side of the house; but such messenger there was none: she could not send mr gazebee to see her doctor, and so, of the two evils, she chose the least. "dr fillgrave," said frank, shaking hands with him very cordially as he came up, "my mother is so much obliged to you for all your care and anxiety on her behalf! and, so indeed, are we all." the doctor shook hands with him very warmly. this little expression of a family feeling on his behalf was the more gratifying, as he had always thought that the males of the greshamsbury family were still wedded to that pseudo-doctor, that half-apothecary who lived in the village. "it has been awfully troublesome to you, coming over all this way, i am sure. indeed, money could not pay for it; my mother feels that. it must cut up your time so much." "not at all, mr gresham; not at all," said the barchester doctor, rising up on his toes proudly as he spoke. "a person of your mother's importance, you know! i should be happy to go any distance to see her." "ah! but, dr fillgrave, we cannot allow that." "mr gresham, don't mention it." "oh, yes; but i must," said frank, who thought that he had done enough for civility, and was now anxious to come to the point. "the fact is, doctor, that we are very much obliged for what you have done; but, for the future, my mother thinks she can trust to such assistance as she can get here in the village." frank had been particularly instructed to be very careful how he mentioned dr thorne's name, and, therefore, cleverly avoided it. get what assistance she wanted in the village! what words were those that he heard? "mr gresham, eh--hem--perhaps i do not completely--" yes, alas! he had completely understood what frank had meant that he should understand. frank desired to be civil, but he had no idea of beating unnecessarily about the bush on such an occasion as this. "it's by sir omicron's advice, dr fillgrave. you see, this man here"--and he nodded his head towards the doctor's house, being still anxious not to pronounce the hideous name--"has known my mother's constitution for so many years." "oh, mr gresham; of course, if it is wished." "yes, dr fillgrave, it is wished. lunch is coming directly:" and frank rang the bell. "nothing, i thank you, mr gresham." "do take a glass of sherry." "nothing at all, i am very much obliged to you." "won't you let the horses get some oats?" "i will return at once, if you please, mr gresham." and the doctor did return, taking with him, on this occasion, the fee that was offered to him. his experience had at any rate taught him so much. but though frank could do this for lady arabella, he could not receive dr thorne on her behalf. the bitterness of that interview had to be borne by herself. a messenger had been sent for him, and he was upstairs with her ladyship while his rival was receiving his _congé_ downstairs. she had two objects to accomplish, if it might be possible: she had found that high words with the doctor were of no avail; but it might be possible that frank could be saved by humiliation on her part. if she humbled herself before this man, would he consent to acknowledge that his niece was not the fit bride for the heir of greshamsbury? the doctor entered the room where she was lying on her sofa, and walking up to her with a gentle, but yet not constrained step, took the seat beside her little table, just as he had always been accustomed to do, and as though there had been no break in their intercourse. "well, doctor, you see that i have come back to you," she said, with a faint smile. "or, rather i have come back to you. and, believe me, lady arabella, i am very happy to do so. there need be no excuses. you were, doubtless, right to try what other skill could do; and i hope it has not been tried in vain." she had meant to have been so condescending; but now all that was put quite beyond her power. it was not easy to be condescending to the doctor: she had been trying all her life, and had never succeeded. "i have had sir omicron pie," she said. "so i was glad to hear. sir omicron is a clever man, and has a good name. i always recommend sir omicron myself." "and sir omicron returns the compliment," said she, smiling gracefully, "for he recommends you. he told mr gresham that i was very foolish to quarrel with my best friend. so now we are friends again, are we not? you see how selfish i am." and she put out her hand to him. the doctor took her hand cordially, and assured her that he bore her no ill-will; that he fully understood her conduct--and that he had never accused her of selfishness. this was all very well and very gracious; but, nevertheless, lady arabella felt that the doctor kept the upper hand in those sweet forgivenesses. whereas, she had intended to keep the upper hand, at least for a while, so that her humiliation might be more effective when it did come. and then the doctor used his surgical lore, as he well knew how to use it. there was an assured confidence about him, an air which seemed to declare that he really knew what he was doing. these were very comfortable to his patients, but they were wanting in dr fillgrave. when he had completed his examinations and questions, and she had completed her little details and made her answer, she certainly was more at ease than she had been since the doctor had last left her. "don't go yet for a moment," she said. "i have one word to say to you." he declared that he was not the least in a hurry. he desired nothing better, he said, than to sit there and talk to her. "and i owe you a most sincere apology, lady arabella." "a sincere apology!" said she, becoming a little red. was he going to say anything about mary? was he going to own that he, and mary, and frank had all been wrong? "yes, indeed. i ought not to have brought sir louis scatcherd here: i ought to have known that he would have disgraced himself." "oh! it does not signify," said her ladyship in a tone almost of disappointment. "i had forgotten it. mr gresham and you had more inconvenience than we had." "he is an unfortunate, wretched man--most unfortunate; with an immense fortune which he can never live to possess." "and who will the money go to, doctor?" this was a question for which dr thorne was hardly prepared. "go to?" he repeated. "oh, some member of the family, i believe. there are plenty of nephews and nieces." "yes; but will it be divided, or all go to one?" "probably to one, i think. sir roger had a strong idea of leaving it all in one hand." if it should happen to be a girl, thought lady arabella, what an excellent opportunity would that be for frank to marry money! "and now, doctor, i want to say one word to you; considering the very long time that we have known each other, it is better that i should be open with you. this estrangement between us and dear mary has given us all so much pain. cannot we do anything to put an end to it?" "well, what can i say, lady arabella? that depends so wholly on yourself." "if it depends on me, it shall be done at once." the doctor bowed. and though he could hardly be said to do so stiffly, he did it coldly. his bow seemed to say, "certainly; if you choose to make a proper _amende_ it can be done. but i think it is very unlikely that you will do so." "beatrice is just going to be married, you know that, doctor." the doctor said that he did know it. "and it will be so pleasant that mary should make one of us. poor beatrice; you don't know what she has suffered." "yes," said the doctor, "there has been suffering, i am sure; suffering on both sides." "you cannot wonder that we should be so anxious about frank, dr thorne; an only son, and the heir to an estate that has been so very long in the family:" and lady arabella put her handkerchief to her eyes, as though these facts were in themselves melancholy, and not to be thought of by a mother without some soft tears. "now i wish you could tell me what your views are, in a friendly manner, between ourselves. you won't find me unreasonable." "my views, lady arabella?" "yes, doctor; about your niece, you know: you must have views of some sort; that's of course. it occurs to me, that perhaps we are all in the dark together. if so, a little candid speaking between you and me may set it all right." lady arabella's career had not hitherto been conspicuous for candour, as far as dr thorne had been able to judge of it; but that was no reason why he should not respond to so very becoming an invitation on her part. he had no objection to a little candid speaking; at least, so he declared. as to his views with regard to mary, they were merely these: that he would make her as happy and comfortable as he could while she remained with him; and that he would give her his blessing--for he had nothing else to give her--when she left him;--if ever she should do so. now, it will be said that the doctor was not very candid in this; not more so, perhaps, than was lady arabella herself. but when one is specially invited to be candid, one is naturally set upon one's guard. those who by disposition are most open, are apt to become crafty when so admonished. when a man says to you, "let us be candid with each other," you feel instinctively that he desires to squeeze you without giving a drop of water himself. "yes; but about frank," said lady arabella. "about frank!" said the doctor, with an innocent look, which her ladyship could hardly interpret. "what i mean is this: can you give me your word that these young people do not intend to do anything rash? one word like that from you will set my mind quite at rest. and then we could be so happy together again." "ah! who is to answer for what rash things a young man will do?" said the doctor, smiling. lady arabella got up from the sofa, and pushed away the little table. the man was false, hypocritical, and cunning. nothing could be made of him. they were all in a conspiracy together to rob her of her son; to make him marry without money! what should she do? where should she turn for advice or counsel? she had nothing more to say to the doctor; and he, perceiving that this was the case, took his leave. this little attempt to achieve candour had not succeeded. dr thorne had answered lady arabella as had seemed best to him on the spur of the moment; but he was by no means satisfied with himself. as he walked away through the gardens, he bethought himself whether it would be better for all parties if he could bring himself to be really candid. would it not be better for him at once to tell the squire what were the future prospects of his niece, and let the father agree to the marriage, or not agree to it, as he might think fit. but then, if so, if he did do this, would he not in fact say, "there is my niece, there is this girl of whom you have been talking for the last twelvemonth, indifferent to what agony of mind you may have occasioned to her; there she is, a probable heiress! it may be worth your son's while to wait a little time, and not cast her off till he shall know whether she be an heiress or no. if it shall turn out that she is rich, let him take her; if not, why, he can desert her then as well as now." he could not bring himself to put his niece into such a position as this. he was anxious enough that she should be frank gresham's wife, for he loved frank gresham; he was anxious enough, also, that she should give to her husband the means of saving the property of his family. but frank, though he might find her rich, was bound to take her while she was poor. then, also, he doubted whether he would be justified in speaking of this will at all. he almost hated the will for the trouble and vexation it had given him, and the constant stress it had laid on his conscience. he had spoken of it as yet to no one, and he thought that he was resolved not to do so while sir louis should yet be in the land of the living. on reaching home, he found a note from lady scatcherd, informing him that dr fillgrave had once more been at boxall hill, and that, on this occasion, he had left the house without anger. "i don't know what he has said about louis," she added, "for, to tell the truth, doctor, i was afraid to see him. but he comes again to-morrow, and then i shall be braver. but i fear that my poor boy is in a bad way." chapter xli doctor thorne won't interfere at this period there was, as it were, a truce to the ordinary little skirmishes which had been so customary between lady arabella and the squire. things had so fallen out, that they neither of them had much spirit for a contest; and, moreover, on that point which at the present moment was most thought of by both of them, they were strangely in unison. for each of them was anxious to prevent the threatened marriage of their only son. it must, moreover, be remembered, that lady arabella had carried a great point in ousting mr yates umbleby and putting the management of the estate into the hands of her own partisan. but then the squire had not done less in getting rid of fillgrave and reinstating dr thorne in possession of the family invalids. the losses, therefore, had been equal; the victories equal; and there was a mutual object. and it must be confessed, also, that lady arabella's taste for grandeur was on the decline. misfortune was coming too near to her to leave her much anxiety for the gaieties of a london season. things were not faring well with her. when her eldest daughter was going to marry a man of fortune, and a member of parliament, she had thought nothing of demanding a thousand pounds or so for the extraordinary expenses incident to such an occasion. but now, beatrice was to become the wife of a parish parson, and even that was thought to be a fortunate event; she had, therefore, no heart for splendour. "the quieter we can do it the better," she wrote to her countess-sister. "her father wanted to give him at least a thousand pounds; but mr gazebee has told me confidentially that it literally cannot be done at the present moment! ah, my dear rosina! how things have been managed! if one or two of the girls will come over, we shall all take it as a favour. beatrice would think it very kind of them. but i don't think of asking you or amelia." amelia was always the grandest of the de courcy family, being almost on an equality with--nay, in some respect superior to--the countess herself. but this, of course, was before the days of the nice place in surrey. such, and so humble being the present temper of the lady of greshamsbury, it will not be thought surprising that she and mr gresham should at last come together in their efforts to reclaim their son. at first lady arabella urged upon the squire the duty of being very peremptory and very angry. "do as other fathers do in such cases. make him understand that he will have no allowance to live on." "he understands that well enough," said mr gresham. "threaten to cut him off with a shilling," said her ladyship, with spirit. "i haven't a shilling to cut him off with," answered the squire, bitterly. but lady arabella herself soon perceived, that this line would not do. as mr gresham himself confessed, his own sins against his son had been too great to allow of his taking a high hand with him. besides, mr gresham was not a man who could ever be severe with a son whose individual conduct had been so good as frank's. this marriage was, in his view, a misfortune to be averted if possible,--to be averted by any possible means; but, as far as frank was concerned, it was to be regarded rather as a monomania than a crime. "i did feel so certain that he would have succeeded with miss dunstable," said the mother, almost crying. "i thought it impossible but that at his age a twelvemonth's knocking about the world would cure him," said the father. "i never heard of a boy being so obstinate about a girl," said the mother. "i'm sure he didn't get it from the de courcys:" and then, again, they talked it over in all its bearings. "but what are they to live upon?" said lady arabella, appealing, as it were, to some impersonation of reason. "that's what i want him to tell me. what are they to live upon?" "i wonder whether de courcy could get him into some embassy?" said the father. "he does talk of a profession." "what! with the girl and all?" asked lady arabella with horror, alarmed at the idea of such an appeal being made to her noble brother. "no; but before he marries. he might be broken of it that way." "nothing will break him," said the wretched mother; "nothing--nothing. for my part, i think that he is possessed. why was she brought here? oh, dear! oh, dear! why was she ever brought into this house?" this last question mr gresham did not think it necessary to answer. that evil had been done, and it would be useless to dispute it. "i'll tell you what i'll do," said he. "i'll speak to the doctor himself." "it's not the slightest use," said lady arabella. "he will not assist us. indeed, i firmly believe it's all his own doing." "oh, nonsense! that really is nonsense, my love." "very well, mr gresham. what i say is always nonsense, i know; you have always told me so. but yet, see how things have turned out. i knew how it would be when she was first brought into the house." this assertion was rather a stretch on the part of lady arabella. "well, it is nonsense to say that frank is in love with the girl at the doctor's bidding." "i think you know, mr gresham, that i don't mean that. what i say is this, that dr thorne, finding what an easy fool frank is--" "i don't think he's at all easy, my love; and certainly is not a fool." "very well, have it your own way. i'll not say a word more. i'm struggling to do my best, and i'm browbeaten on every side. god knows i am not in a state of health to bear it!" and lady arabella bowed her head into her pocket-handkerchief. "i think, my dear, if you were to see mary herself it might do some good," said the squire, when the violence of his wife's grief had somewhat subsided. "what! go and call upon this girl?" "yes; you can send beatrice to give her notice, you know. she never was unreasonable, and i do not think that you would find her so. you should tell her, you know--" "oh, i should know very well what to tell her, mr gresham." "yes, my love; i'm sure you would; nobody better. but what i mean is, that if you are to do any good, you should be kind in your manner. mary thorne has a spirit that you cannot break. you may perhaps lead, but nobody can drive her." as this scheme originated with her husband, lady arabella could not, of course, confess that there was much in it. but, nevertheless, she determined to attempt it, thinking that if anything could be efficacious for good in their present misfortunes, it would be her own diplomatic powers. it was, therefore, at last settled between them, that he should endeavour to talk over the doctor, and that she would do the same with mary. "and then i will speak to frank," said lady arabella. "as yet he has never had the audacity to open his mouth to me about mary thorne, though i believe he declares his love openly to every one else in the house." "and i will get oriel to speak to him," said the squire. "i think patience might do more good. i did once think he was getting fond of patience, and i was quite unhappy about it then. ah, dear! i should be almost pleased at that now." and thus it was arranged that all the artillery of greshamsbury was to be brought to bear at once on frank's love, so as to crush it, as it were, by the very weight of metal. it may be imagined that the squire would have less scruple in addressing the doctor on this matter than his wife would feel; and that his part of their present joint undertaking was less difficult than hers. for he and the doctor had ever been friends at heart. but, nevertheless, he did feel much scruple, as, with his stick in hand, he walked down to the little gate which opened out near the doctor's house. this feeling was so strong, that he walked on beyond this door to the entrance, thinking of what he was going to do, and then back again. it seemed to be his fate to be depending always on the clemency or consideration of dr thorne. at this moment the doctor was imposing the only obstacle which was offered to the sale of a great part of his estate. sir louis, through his lawyer, was pressing the doctor to sell, and the lawyer was loudly accusing the doctor of delaying to do so. "he has the management of your property," said mr finnie; "but he manages it in the interest of his own friend. it is quite clear, and we will expose it." "by all means," said sir louis. "it is a d----d shame, and it shall be exposed." of all this the squire was aware. when he reached the doctor's house, he was shown into the drawing-room, and found mary there alone. it had always been his habit to kiss her forehead when he chanced to meet her about the house at greshamsbury. she had been younger and more childish then; but even now she was but a child to him, so he kissed her as he had been wont to do. she blushed slightly as she looked up into his face, and said: "oh, mr gresham, i am so glad to see you here again." as he looked at her he could not but acknowledge that it was natural that frank should love her. he had never before seen that she was attractive;--had never had an opinion about it. she had grown up as a child under his eye; and as she had not had the name of being especially a pretty child, he had never thought on the subject. now he saw before him a woman whose every feature was full of spirit and animation; whose eye sparkled with more than mere brilliancy; whose face was full of intelligence; whose very smile was eloquent. was it to be wondered at that frank should have learned to love her? miss thorne wanted but one attribute which many consider essential to feminine beauty. she had no brilliancy of complexion, no pearly whiteness, no vivid carnation; nor, indeed, did she possess the dark brilliance of a brunette. but there was a speaking earnestness in her face; an expression of mental faculty which the squire now for the first time perceived to be charming. and then he knew how good she was. he knew well what was her nature; how generous, how open, how affectionate, and yet how proud! her pride was her fault; but even that was not a fault in his eyes. out of his own family there was no one whom he had loved, and could love, as he loved her. he felt, and acknowledged that no man could have a better wife. and yet he was there with the express object of rescuing his son from such a marriage! "you are looking very well, mary," he said, almost involuntarily. "am i?" she answered, smiling. "it's very nice at any rate to be complimented. uncle never pays me any compliments of that sort." in truth, she was looking well. she would say to herself over and over again, from morning to night, that frank's love for her would be, must be, unfortunate; could not lead to happiness. but, nevertheless, it did make her happy. she had before his return made up her mind to be forgotten, and it was so sweet to find that he had been so far from forgetting her. a girl may scold a man in words for rashness in his love, but her heart never scolds him for such an offence as that. she had not been slighted, and her heart, therefore, still rose buoyant within her breast. the doctor entered the room. as the squire's visit had been expected by him, he had of course not been out of the house. "and now i suppose i must go," said mary; "for i know you are going to talk about business. but, uncle, mr gresham says i'm looking very well. why have you not been able to find that out?" "she's a dear, good girl," said the squire, as the door shut behind her; "a dear good girl;" and the doctor could not fail to see that his eyes were filled with tears. "i think she is," said he, quietly. and then they both sat silent, as though each was waiting to hear whether the other had anything more to say on that subject. the doctor, at any rate, had nothing more to say. "i have come here specially to speak to you about her," said the squire. "about mary?" "yes, doctor; about her and frank: something must be done, some arrangement made: if not for our sakes, at least for theirs." "what arrangement, squire?" "ah! that is the question. i take it for granted that either frank or mary has told you that they have engaged themselves to each other." "frank told me so twelve months since." "and has not mary told you?" "not exactly that. but, never mind; she has, i believe, no secret from me. though i have said but little to her, i think i know it all." "well, what then?" the doctor shook his head and put up his hands. he had nothing to say; no proposition to make; no arrangement to suggest. the thing was so, and he seemed to say that, as far as he was concerned, there was an end of it. the squire sat looking at him, hardly knowing how to proceed. it seemed to him, that the fact of a young man and a young lady being in love with each other was not a thing to be left to arrange itself, particularly, seeing the rank of life in which they were placed. but the doctor seemed to be of a different opinion. "but, dr thorne, there is no man on god's earth who knows my affairs as well as you do; and in knowing mine, you know frank's. do you think it possible that they should marry each other?" "possible; yes, it is possible. you mean, will it be prudent?" "well, take it in that way; would it not be most imprudent?" "at present, it certainly would be. i have never spoken to either of them on the subject; but i presume they do not think of such a thing for the present." "but, doctor--" the squire was certainly taken aback by the coolness of the doctor's manner. after all, he, the squire, was mr gresham of greshamsbury, generally acknowledged to be the first commoner in barsetshire; after all, frank was his heir, and, in process of time, he would be mr gresham of greshamsbury. crippled as the estate was, there would be something left, and the rank at any rate remained. but as to mary, she was not even the doctor's daughter. she was not only penniless, but nameless, fatherless, worse than motherless! it was incredible that dr thorne, with his generally exalted ideas as to family, should speak in this cold way as to a projected marriage between the heir of greshamsbury and his brother's bastard child! "but, doctor," repeated the squire. the doctor put one leg over the other, and began to rub his calf. "squire," said he. "i think i know all that you would say, all that you mean. and you don't like to say it, because you would not wish to pain me by alluding to mary's birth." "but, independently of that, what would they live on?" said the squire, energetically. "birth is a great thing, a very great thing. you and i think exactly alike about that, so we need have no dispute. you are quite as proud of ullathorne as i am of greshamsbury." "i might be if it belonged to me." "but you are. it is no use arguing. but, putting that aside altogether, what would they live on? if they were to marry, what would they do? where would they go? you know what lady arabella thinks of such things; would it be possible that they should live up at the house with her? besides, what a life would that be for both of them! could they live here? would that be well for them?" the squire looked at the doctor for an answer; but he still went on rubbing his calf. mr gresham, therefore, was constrained to continue his expostulation. "when i am dead there will still, i hope, be something;--something left for the poor fellow. lady arabella and the girls would be better off, perhaps, than now, and i sometimes wish, for frank's sake, that the time had come." the doctor could not now go on rubbing his leg. he was moved to speak, and declared that, of all events, that was the one which would be furthest from frank's heart. "i know no son," said he, "who loves his father more dearly than he does." "i do believe it," said the squire; "i do believe it. but yet, i cannot but feel that i am in his way." "no, squire, no; you are in no one's way. you will find yourself happy with your son yet, and proud of him. and proud of his wife, too. i hope so, and i think so: i do, indeed, or i should not say so, squire; we will have many a happy day yet together, when we shall talk of all these things over the dining-room fire at greshamsbury." the squire felt it kind in the doctor that he should thus endeavour to comfort him; but he could not understand, and did not inquire, on what basis these golden hopes was founded. it was necessary, however, to return to the subject which he had come to discuss. would the doctor assist him in preventing this marriage? that was now the one thing necessary to be kept in view. "but, doctor, about the young people; of course they cannot marry, you are aware of that." "i don't know that exactly." "well, doctor, i must say i thought you would feel it." "feel what, squire?" "that, situated as they are, they ought not to marry." "that is quite another question. i have said nothing about that either to you or to anybody else. the truth is, squire, i have never interfered in this matter one way or the other; and i have no wish to do so now." "but should you not interfere? is not mary the same to you as your own child?" dr thorne hardly knew how to answer this. he was aware that his argument about not interfering was in fact absurd. mary could not marry without his interference; and had it been the case that she was in danger of making an improper marriage, of course he would interfere. his meaning was, that he would not at the present moment express any opinion; he would not declare against a match which might turn out to be in every way desirable; nor, if he spoke in favour of it, could he give his reasons for doing so. under these circumstances, he would have wished to say nothing, could that only have been possible. but as it was not possible, and as he must say something, he answered the squire's last question by asking another. "what is your objection, squire?" "objection! why, what on earth would they live on?" "then i understand, that if that difficulty were over, you would not refuse your consent merely because of mary's birth?" this was a manner in which the squire had by no means expected to have the affair presented to him. it seemed so impossible that any sound-minded man should take any but his view of the case, that he had not prepared himself for argument. there was every objection to his son marrying miss thorne; but the fact of their having no income between them, did certainly justify him in alleging that first. "but that difficulty can't be got over, doctor. you know, however, that it would be cause of grief to us all to see frank marry much beneath his station; that is, i mean, in family. you should not press me to say this, for you know that i love mary dearly." "but, my dear friend, it is necessary. wounds sometimes must be opened in order that they may be healed. what i mean is this;--and, squire, i'm sure i need not say to you that i hope for an honest answer,--were mary thorne an heiress; had she, for instance, such wealth as that miss dunstable that we hear of; in that case would you object to the match?" when the doctor declared that he expected an honest answer the squire listened with all his ears; but the question, when finished, seemed to have no bearing on the present case. "come, squire, speak your mind faithfully. there was some talk once of frank's marrying miss dunstable; did you mean to object to that match?" "miss dunstable was legitimate; at least, i presume so." "oh, mr gresham! has it come to that? miss dunstable, then, would have satisfied your ideas of high birth?" mr gresham was rather posed, and regretted, at the moment, his allusion to miss dunstable's presumed legitimacy. but he soon recovered himself. "no," said he, "it would not. and i am willing to admit, as i have admitted before, that the undoubted advantages arising from wealth are taken by the world as atoning for what otherwise would be a _mésalliance_. but--" "you admit that, do you? you acknowledge that as your conviction on the subject?" "yes. but--" the squire was going on to explain the propriety of this opinion, but the doctor uncivilly would not hear him. "then squire, i will not interfere in this matter one way or the other." "how on earth can such an opinion--" "pray excuse me, mr gresham; but my mind is now quite made up. it was very nearly so before. i will do nothing to encourage frank, nor will i say anything to discourage mary." "that is the most singular resolution that a man of sense like you ever came to." "i can't help it, squire; it is my resolution." "but what has miss dunstable's fortune to do with it?" "i cannot say that it has anything; but, in this matter, i will not interfere." the squire went on for some time, but it was all to no purpose; and at last he left the house, considerably in dudgeon. the only conclusion to which he could come was, that dr thorne had thought the chance on his niece's behalf too good to be thrown away, and had, therefore, resolved to act in this very singular way. "i would not have believed it of him, though all barsetshire had told me," he said to himself as he entered the great gates; and he went on repeating the same words till he found himself in his own room. "no, not if all barsetshire had told me!" he did not, however, communicate the ill result of his visit to the lady arabella. chapter xlii what can you give in return? in spite of the family troubles, these were happy days for beatrice. it so seldom happens that young ladies on the eve of their marriage have their future husbands living near them. this happiness was hers, and mr oriel made the most of it. she was constantly being coaxed down to the parsonage by patience, in order that she might give her opinion, in private, as to some domestic arrangement, some piece of furniture, or some new carpet; but this privacy was always invaded. what mr oriel's parishioners did in these halcyon days, i will not ask. his morning services, however, had been altogether given up, and he had provided himself with a very excellent curate. but one grief did weigh heavily on beatrice. she continually heard her mother say things which made her feel that it would be more than ever impossible that mary should be at her wedding; and yet she had promised her brother to ask her. frank had also repeated his threat, that if mary were not present, he would absent himself. beatrice did what most girls do in such a case; what all would do who are worth anything; she asked her lover's advice. "oh! but frank can't be in earnest," said the lover. "of course he'll be at our wedding." "you don't know him, caleb. he is so changed that no one hardly would know him. you can't conceive how much in earnest he is, how determined and resolute. and then, i should like to have mary so much if mamma would let her come." "ask lady arabella," said caleb. "well, i suppose i must do that; but i know what she'll say, and frank will never believe that i have done my best." mr oriel comforted her with such little whispered consolations as he was able to afford, and then she went away on her errand to her mother. she was indeed surprised at the manner in which her prayer was received. she could hardly falter forth her petition; but when she had done so, lady arabella answered in this wise:-- "well my dear, i have no objection, none the least; that is, of course, if mary is disposed to behave herself properly." "oh, mamma! of course she will," said beatrice; "she always did and always does." "i hope she will, my love. but, beatrice, when i say that i shall be glad to see her, of course i mean under certain conditions. i never disliked mary thorne, and if she would only let frank understand that she will not listen to his mad proposals, i should be delighted to see her at greshamsbury just as she used to be." beatrice could say nothing in answer to this; but she felt very sure that mary, let her intention be what it might, would not undertake to make frank understand anything at anybody's bidding. "i will tell you what i will do, my dear," continued lady arabella; "i will call on mary myself." "what! at dr thorne's house?" "yes; why not? i have been at dr thorne's house before now." and lady arabella could not but think of her last visit thither, and the strong feeling she had, as she came out, that she would never again enter those doors. she was, however, prepared to do anything on behalf of her rebellious son. "oh, yes! i know that, mamma." "i will call upon her, and if i can possibly manage it, i will ask her myself to make one of your party. if so, you can go to her afterwards and make your own arrangements. just write her a note, my dear, and say that i will call to-morrow at twelve. it might fluster her if i were to go in without notice." beatrice did as she was bid, but with a presentiment that no good would come of it. the note was certainly unnecessary for the purpose assigned by lady arabella, as mary was not given to be flustered by such occurrences; but, perhaps, it was as well that it was written, as it enabled her to make up her mind steadily as to what information should be given, and what should not be given to her coming visitor. on the next morning, at the appointed hour, lady arabella walked down to the doctor's house. she never walked about the village without making some little disturbance among the inhabitants. with the squire, himself, they were quite familiar, and he could appear and reappear without creating any sensation; but her ladyship had not made herself equally common in men's sight. therefore, when she went in at the doctor's little gate, the fact was known through all greshamsbury in ten minutes, and before she had left the house, mrs umbleby and miss gushing had quite settled between them what was the exact cause of the very singular event. the doctor, when he had heard what was going to happen, carefully kept out of the way: mary, therefore, had the pleasure of receiving lady arabella alone. nothing could exceed her ladyship's affability. mary thought that it perhaps might have savoured less of condescension; but then, on this subject, mary was probably prejudiced. lady arabella smiled and simpered, and asked after the doctor, and the cat, and janet, and said everything that could have been desired by any one less unreasonable than mary thorne. "and now, mary, i'll tell you why i have called." mary bowed her head slightly, as much to say, that she would be glad to receive any information that lady arabella could give her on that subject. "of course you know that beatrice is going to be married very shortly." mary acknowledged that she had heard so much. "yes: we think it will be in september--early in september--and that is coming very soon now. the poor girl is anxious that you should be at her wedding." mary turned slightly red; but she merely said, and that somewhat too coldly, that she was much indebted to beatrice for her kindness. "i can assure you, mary, that she is very fond of you, as much so as ever; and so, indeed, am i, and all of us are so. you know that mr gresham was always your friend." "yes, he always was, and i am grateful to mr gresham," answered mary. it was well for lady arabella that she had her temper under command, for had she spoken her mind out there would have been very little chance left for reconciliation between her and mary. "yes, indeed he was; and i think we all did what little we could to make you welcome at greshamsbury, mary, till those unpleasant occurrences took place." "what occurrences, lady arabella?" "and beatrice is so very anxious on this point," said her ladyship, ignoring for the moment mary's question. "you two have been so much together, that she feels she cannot be quite happy if you are not near her when she is being married." "dear beatrice!" said mary, warmed for the moment to an expression of genuine feeling. "she came to me yesterday, begging that i would waive any objection i might have to your being there. i have made her no answer yet. what answer do you think i ought to make her?" mary was astounded at this question, and hesitated in her reply. "what answer ought you to make her?" she said. "yes, mary. what answer do you think i ought to give? i wish to ask you the question, as you are the person the most concerned." mary considered for a while, and then did give her opinion on the matter in a firm voice. "i think you should tell beatrice, that as you cannot at present receive me cordially in your house, it will be better that you should not be called on to receive me at all." this was certainly not the sort of answer that lady arabella expected, and she was now somewhat astounded in her turn. "but, mary," she said, "i should be delighted to receive you cordially if i could do so." "but it seems you cannot, lady arabella; and so there must be an end of it." "oh, but i do not know that:" and she smiled her sweetest smile. "i do not know that. i want to put an end to all this ill-feeling if i can. it all depends upon one thing, you know." "does it, lady arabella?" "yes, upon one thing. you won't be angry if i ask you another question--eh, mary?" "no; at least i don't think i will." "is there any truth in what we hear about your being engaged to frank?" mary made no immediate answer to this, but sat quite silent, looking lady arabella in the face; not but that she had made up her mind as to what answer she would give, but the exact words failed her at the moment. "of course you must have heard of such a rumour," continued lady arabella. "oh, yes, i have heard of it." "yes, and you have noticed it, and i must say very properly. when you went to boxall hill, and before that with miss oriel's to her aunt's, i thought you behaved extremely well." mary felt herself glow with indignation, and began to prepare words that should be sharp and decisive. "but, nevertheless, people talk; and frank, who is still quite a boy" (mary's indignation was not softened by this allusion to frank's folly), "seems to have got some nonsense in his head. i grieve to say it, but i feel myself in justice bound to do so, that in this matter he has not acted as well as you have done. now, therefore, i merely ask you whether there is any truth in the report. if you tell me that there is none, i shall be quite contented." "but it is altogether true, lady arabella; i am engaged to frank gresham." "engaged to be married to him?" "yes; engaged to be married to him." what was to say or do now? nothing could be more plain, more decided, or less embarrassed with doubt than mary's declaration. and as she made it she looked her visitor full in the face, blushing indeed, for her cheeks were now suffused as well as her forehead; but boldly, and, as it were, with defiance. "and you tell me so to my face, miss thorne?" "and why not? did you not ask me the question; and would you have me answer you with a falsehood? i am engaged to him. as you would put the question to me, what other answer could i make? the truth is, that i am engaged to him." the decisive abruptness with which mary declared her own iniquity almost took away her ladyship's breath. she had certainly believed that they were engaged, and had hardly hoped that mary would deny it; but she had not expected that the crime would be acknowledged, or, at any rate, if acknowledged, that the confession would be made without some show of shame. on this lady arabella could have worked; but there was no such expression, nor was there the slightest hesitation. "i am engaged to frank gresham," and having so said, mary looked her visitor full in the face. "then it is indeed impossible that you should be received at greshamsbury." "at present, quite so, no doubt: in saying so, lady arabella, you only repeat the answer i made to your first question. i can now go to greshamsbury only in one light: that of mr gresham's accepted daughter-in-law." "and that is perfectly out of the question; altogether out of the question, now and for ever." "i will not dispute with you about that; but, as i said before, my being at beatrice's wedding is not to be thought of." lady arabella sat for a while silent, that she might meditate, if possible, calmly as to what line of argument she had now better take. it would be foolish in her, she thought, to return home, having merely expressed her anger. she had now an opportunity of talking to mary which might not again occur: the difficulty was in deciding in what special way she should use the opportunity. should she threaten, or should she entreat? to do her justice, it should be stated, that she did actually believe that the marriage was all but impossible; she did not think that it could take place. but the engagement might be the ruin of her son's prospects, seeing how he had before him one imperative, one immediate duty--that of marrying money. having considered all this as well as her hurry would allow her, she determined first to reason, then to entreat, and lastly, if necessary, to threaten. "i am astonished! you cannot be surprised at that, miss thorne: i am astonished at hearing so singular a confession made." "do you think my confession singular, or is it the fact of my being engaged to your son?" "we will pass over that for the present. but do let me ask you, do you think it possible, i say possible, that you and frank should be married?" "oh, certainly; quite possible." "of course you know that he has not a shilling in the world." "nor have i, lady arabella." "nor will he have were he to do anything so utterly hostile to his father's wishes. the property, you are aware, is altogether at mr gresham's disposal." "i am aware of nothing about the property, and can say nothing about it except this, that it has not been, and will not be inquired after by me in this matter. if i marry frank gresham, it will not be for the property. i am sorry to make such an apparent boast, but you force me to do it." "on what then are you to live? you are too old for love in a cottage, i suppose?" "not at all too old; frank, you know is 'still quite a boy.'" impudent hussy! forward, ill-conditioned saucy minx! such were the epithets which rose to lady arabella's mind; but she politely suppressed them. "miss thorne, this subject is of course to me very serious; very ill-adapted for jesting. i look upon such a marriage as absolutely impossible." "i do not know what you mean by impossible, lady arabella." "i mean, in the first place, that you two could not get yourselves married." "oh, yes; mr oriel would manage that for us. we are his parishioners, and he would be bound to do it." "i beg your pardon; i believe that under all the circumstances it would be illegal." mary smiled; but she said nothing. "you may laugh, miss thorne, but i think you will find that i am right. there are still laws to prevent such fearful distress as would be brought about by such a marriage." "i hope that nothing i shall do will bring distress on the family." "ah, but it would; don't you know that it would? think of it, miss thorne. think of frank's state, and of his father's state. you know enough of that, i am sure, to be well aware that frank is not in a condition to marry without money. think of the position which mr gresham's only son should hold in the county; think of the old name, and the pride we have in it; you have lived among us enough to understand all this; think of these things, and then say whether it is possible such a marriage should take place without family distress of the deepest kind. think of mr gresham; if you truly love my son, you could not wish to bring on him all this misery and ruin." mary now was touched, for there was truth in what lady arabella said. but she had no power of going back; her troth was plighted, and nothing that any human being could say should shake her from it. if he, indeed, chose to repent, that would be another thing. "lady arabella," she said, "i have nothing to say in favour of this engagement, except that he wishes it." "and is that a reason, mary?" "to me it is; not only a reason, but a law. i have given him my promise." "and you will keep your promise even to his own ruin?" "i hope not. our engagement, unless he shall choose to break it off, must necessarily be a long one; but the time will come--" "what! when mr gresham is dead?" "before that, i hope." "there is no probability of it. and because he is headstrong, you, who have always had credit for so much sense, will hold him to this mad engagement?" "no, lady arabella; i will not hold him to anything to which he does not wish to be held. nothing that you can say shall move me: nothing that anybody can say shall induce me to break my promise to him. but a word from himself will do it. one look will be sufficient. let him give me to understand, in any way, that his love for me is injurious to him--that he has learnt to think so--and then i will renounce my part in this engagement as quickly as you could wish it." there was much in this promise, but still not so much as lady arabella wished to get. mary, she knew, was obstinate, but yet reasonable; frank, she thought, was both obstinate and unreasonable. it might be possible to work on mary's reason, but quite impossible to touch frank's irrationality. so she persevered--foolishly. "miss thorne--that, is, mary, for i still wish to be thought your friend--" "i will tell you the truth, lady arabella: for some considerable time past i have not thought you so." "then you have wronged me. but i will go on with what i was saying. you quite acknowledge that this is a foolish affair?" "i acknowledge no such thing." "something very much like it. you have not a word in its defence." "not to you: i do not choose to be put on my defence by you." "i don't know who has more right; however, you promise that if frank wishes it, you will release him from his engagement." "release him! it is for him to release me, that is, if he wishes it." "very well; at any rate, you give him permission to do so. but will it not be more honourable for you to begin?" "no; i think not." "ah, but it would. if he, in his position, should be the first to speak, the first to suggest that this affair between you is a foolish one, what would people say?" "they would say the truth." "and what would you yourself say?" "nothing." "what would he think of himself?" "ah, that i do not know. it is according as that may be, that he will or will not act at your bidding." "exactly; and because you know him to be high-minded, because you think that he, having so much to give, will not break his word to you--to you who have nothing to give in return--it is, therefore, that you say that the first step must be taken by him. is that noble?" then mary rose from her seat, for it was no longer possible for her to speak what it was in her to say, sitting there leisurely on her sofa. lady arabella's worship of money had not hitherto been so brought forward in the conversation as to give her unpardonable offence; but now she felt that she could no longer restrain her indignation. "to you who have nothing to give in return!" had she not given all that she possessed? had she not emptied his store into his lap? that heart of hers, beating with such genuine life, capable of such perfect love, throbbing with so grand a pride; had she not given that? and was it not that, between him and her, more than twenty greshamsburys, nobler than any pedigree? "to you who have nothing to give," indeed! this to her who was so ready to give everything! "lady arabella," she said, "i think that you do not understand me, and that it is not likely that you should. if so, our further talking will be worse than useless. i have taken no account of what will be given between your son and me in your sense of the word giving. but he has professed to--to love me"--as she spoke, she still looked on the lady's face, but her eyelashes for a moment screened her eyes, and her colour was a little heightened--"and i have acknowledged that i also love him, and so we are engaged. to me my promise is sacred. i will not be threatened into breaking it. if, however, he shall wish to change his mind, he can do so. i will not upbraid him; will not, if i can help it, think harshly of him. so much you may tell him if it suits you; but i will not listen to your calculations as to how much or how little each of us may have to give to the other." she was still standing when she finished speaking, and so she continued to stand. her eyes were fixed on lady arabella, and her position seemed to say that sufficient words had been spoken, and that it was time that her ladyship should go; and so lady arabella felt it. gradually she also rose; slowly, but tacitly, she acknowledged that she was in the presence of a spirit superior to her own; and so she took her leave. "very well," she said, in a tone that was intended to be grandiloquent, but which failed grievously; "i will tell him that he has your permission to think a second time on this matter. i do not doubt but that he will do so." mary would not condescend to answer, but curtsied low as her visitor left the room. and so the interview was over. the interview was over, and mary was alone. she remained standing as long as she heard the footsteps of frank's mother on the stairs; not immediately thinking of what had passed, but still buoying herself up with her hot indignation, as though her work with lady arabella was not yet finished; but when the footfall was no longer heard, and the sound of the closing door told her that she was in truth alone, she sank back in her seat, and, covering her face with her hands, burst into bitter tears. all that doctrine about money was horrible to her; that insolent pretence, that she had caught at frank because of his worldly position, made her all but ferocious; but lady arabella had not the less spoken much that was true. she did think of the position which the heir of greshamsbury should hold in the county, and of the fact that a marriage would mar that position so vitally; she did think of the old name, and the old gresham pride; she did think of the squire and his deep distress: it was true that she had lived among them long enough to understand these things, and to know that it was not possible that this marriage should take place without deep family sorrow. and then she asked herself whether, in consenting to accept frank's hand, she had adequately considered this; and she was forced to acknowledge that she had not considered it. she had ridiculed lady arabella for saying that frank was still a boy; but was it not true that his offer had been made with a boy's energy, rather than a man's forethought? if so, if she had been wrong to accede to that offer when made, would she not be doubly wrong to hold him to it now that she saw their error? it was doubtless true that frank himself could not be the first to draw back. what would people say of him? she could now calmly ask herself the question that had so angered her when asked by lady arabella. if he could not do it, and if, nevertheless, it behoved them to break off this match, by whom was it to be done if not by her? was not lady arabella right throughout, right in her conclusions, though so foully wrong in her manner of drawing them? and then she did think for one moment of herself. "you who have nothing to give in return!" such had been lady arabella's main accusation against her. was it in fact true that she had nothing to give? her maiden love, her feminine pride, her very life, and spirit, and being--were these things nothing? were they to be weighed against pounds sterling per annum? and, when so weighed, were they ever to kick the beam like feathers? all these things had been nothing to her when, without reflection, governed wholly by the impulse of the moment, she had first allowed his daring hand to lie for an instant in her own. she had thought nothing of these things when that other suitor came, richer far than frank, to love whom it was as impossible to her as it was not to love him. her love had been pure from all such thoughts; she was conscious that it ever would be pure from them. lady arabella was unable to comprehend this, and, therefore, was lady arabella so utterly distasteful to her. frank had once held her close to his warm breast; and her very soul had thrilled with joy to feel that he so loved her,--with a joy which she had hardly dared to acknowledge. at that moment, her maidenly efforts had been made to push him off, but her heart had grown to his. she had acknowledged him to be master of her spirit; her bosom's lord; the man whom she had been born to worship; the human being to whom it was for her to link her destiny. frank's acres had been of no account; nor had his want of acres. god had brought them two together that they should love each other; that conviction had satisfied her, and she had made it a duty to herself that she would love him with her very soul. and now she was called upon to wrench herself asunder from him because she had nothing to give in return! well, she would wrench herself asunder, as far as such wrenching might be done compatibly with her solemn promise. it might be right that frank should have an opportunity offered him, so that he might escape from his position without disgrace. she would endeavour to give him this opportunity. so, with one deep sigh, she arose, took herself pen, ink, and paper, and sat herself down again so that the wrenching might begin. and then, for a moment, she thought of her uncle. why had he not spoken to her of all this? why had he not warned her? he who had ever been so good to her, why had he now failed her so grievously? she had told him everything, had had no secret from him; but he had never answered her a word. "he also must have known," she said to herself, piteously, "he also must have known that i could give nothing in return." such accusation, however, availed her not at all, so she sat down and slowly wrote her letter. "dearest frank," she began. she had at first written "dear mr gresham;" but her heart revolted against such useless coldness. she was not going to pretend she did not love him. dearest frank, your mother has been here talking to me about our engagement. i do not generally agree with her about such matters; but she has said some things to-day which i cannot but acknowledge to be true. she says, that our marriage would be distressing to your father, injurious to all your family, and ruinous to yourself. if this be so, how can i, who love you, wish for such a marriage? i remember my promise, and have kept it. i would not yield to your mother when she desired me to disclaim our engagement. but i do think it will be more prudent if you will consent to forget all that has passed between us--not, perhaps, to forget it; that may not be possible for us--but to let it pass by as though it had never been. if so, if you think so, dear frank, do not have any scruples on my account. what will be best for you, must be best for me. think what a reflection it would ever be to me, to have been the ruin of one that i love so well. let me have but one word to say that i am released from my promise, and i will tell my uncle that the matter between us is over. it will be painful for us at first; those occasional meetings which must take place will distress us, but that will wear off. we shall always think well of each other, and why should we not be friends? this, doubtless, cannot be done without inward wounds; but such wounds are in god's hands, and he can cure them. i know what your first feelings will be on reading this letter; but do not answer it in obedience to first feelings. think over it, think of your father, and all you owe him, of your old name, your old family, and of what the world expects from you. [mary was forced to put her hand to her eyes, to save her paper from her falling tears, as she found herself thus repeating, nearly word for word, the arguments that had been used by lady arabella.] think of these things, coolly, if you can, but, at any rate, without passion: and then let me have one word in answer. one word will suffice. i have but to add this: do not allow yourself to think that my heart will ever reproach you. it cannot reproach you for doing that which i myself suggest. [mary's logic in this was very false; but she was not herself aware of it.] i will never reproach you either in word or thought; and as for all others, it seems to me that the world agrees that we have hitherto been wrong. the world, i hope, will be satisfied when we have obeyed it. god bless you, dearest frank! i shall never call you so again; but it would be a pretence were i to write otherwise in this letter. think of this, and then let me have one line. your affectionate friend, mary thorne. p.s.--of course i cannot be at dear beatrice's marriage; but when they come back to the parsonage, i shall see her. i am sure they will both be happy, because they are so good. i need hardly say that i shall think of them on their wedding day. when she had finished her letter, she addressed it plainly, in her own somewhat bold handwriting, to francis n. gresham, jun., esq., and then took it herself to the little village post-office. there should be nothing underhand about her correspondence: all the greshamsbury world should know of it--that world of which she had spoken in her letter--if that world so pleased. having put her penny label on it, she handed it, with an open brow and an unembarrassed face, to the baker's wife, who was her majesty's postmistress at greshamsbury; and, having so finished her work, she returned to see the table prepared for her uncle's dinner. "i will say nothing to him," said she to herself, "till i get the answer. he will not talk to me about it, so why should i trouble him?" chapter xliii the race of scatcherd becomes extinct it will not be imagined, at any rate by feminine readers, that mary's letter was written off at once, without alterations and changes, or the necessity for a fair copy. letters from one young lady to another are doubtless written in this manner, and even with them it might sometimes be better if more patience had been taken; but with mary's first letter to her lover--her first love-letter, if love-letter it can be called--much more care was used. it was copied and re-copied, and when she returned from posting it, it was read and re-read. "it is very cold," she said to herself; "he will think i have no heart, that i have never loved him!" and then she all but resolved to run down to the baker's wife, and get back her letter, that she might alter it. "but it will be better so," she said again. "if i touched his feelings now, he would never bring himself to leave me. it is right that i should be cold to him. i should be false to myself if i tried to move his love--i, who have nothing to give him in return for it." and so she made no further visit to the post-office, and the letter went on its way. we will now follow its fortunes for a short while, and explain how it was that mary received no answer for a week; a week, it may well be imagined, of terrible suspense to her. when she took it to the post-office, she doubtless thought that the baker's wife had nothing to do but to send it up to the house at greshamsbury, and that frank would receive it that evening, or, at latest, early on the following morning. but this was by no means so. the epistle was posted on a friday afternoon, and it behoved the baker's wife to send it into silverbridge--silverbridge being the post-town--so that all due formalities, as ordered by the queen's government, might there be perfected. now, unfortunately, the post-boy had taken his departure before mary reached the shop, and it was not, therefore, dispatched till saturday. sunday was always a _dies non_ with the greshamsbury mercury, and, consequently, frank's letter was not delivered at the house till monday morning; at which time mary had for two long days been waiting with weary heart for the expected answer. now frank had on that morning gone up to london by the early train, with his future brother-in-law, mr oriel. in order to accomplish this, they had left greshamsbury for barchester exactly as the postboy was leaving silverbridge for greshamsbury. "i should like to wait for my letters," mr oriel had said, when the journey was being discussed. "nonsense," frank had answered. "who ever got a letter that was worth waiting for?" and so mary was doomed to a week of misery. when the post-bag arrived at the house on monday morning, it was opened as usual by the squire himself at the breakfast-table. "here is a letter for frank," said he, "posted in the village. you had better send it to him:" and he threw the letter across the table to beatrice. "it's from mary," said beatrice, out loud, taking the letter up and examining the address. and having said so, she repented what she had done, as she looked first at her father and then at her mother. a cloud came over the squire's brow as for a minute he went on turning over the letters and newspapers. "oh, from mary thorne, is it?" he said. "well, you had better send it to him." "frank said that if any letters came they were to be kept," said his sister sophy. "he told me so particularly. i don't think he likes having letters sent after him." "you had better send that one," said the squire. "mr oriel is to have all his letters addressed to long's hotel, bond street, and this one can very well be sent with them," said beatrice, who knew all about it, and intended herself to make a free use of the address. "yes, you had better send it," said the squire; and then nothing further was said at the table. but lady arabella, though she said nothing, had not failed to mark what had passed. had she asked for the letter before the squire, he would probably have taken possession of it himself; but as soon as she was alone with beatrice, she did demand it. "i shall be writing to frank myself," she said, "and will send it to him." and so, beatrice, with a heavy heart, gave it up. the letter lay before lady arabella's eyes all that day, and many a wistful glance was cast at it. she turned it over and over, and much she desired to know its contents; but she did not dare to break the seal of her son's letter. all that day it lay upon her desk, and all the next, for she could hardly bring herself to part with it; but on the wednesday it was sent--sent with these lines from herself:-- "dearest, dearest frank, i send you a letter which has come by the post from mary thorne. i do not know what it may contain; but before you correspond with her, pray, pray think of what i said to you. for my sake, for your father's, for your own, pray think of it." that was all, but it was enough to make her word to beatrice true. she did send it to frank enclosed in a letter from herself. we must reserve to the next chapter what had taken place between frank and his mother; but, for the present, we will return to the doctor's house. mary said not a word to him about the letter; but, keeping silent on the subject, she felt wretchedly estranged from him. "is anything the matter, mary?" he said to her on the sunday afternoon. "no, uncle," she answered, turning away her head to hide her tears. "ah, but there is something; what is it, dearest?" "nothing--that is, nothing that one can talk about." "what mary! be unhappy and not to talk about it to me? that's something new, is it not?" "one has presentiments sometimes, and is unhappy without knowing why. besides, you know--" "i know! what do i know? do i know anything that will make my pet happier?" and he took her in his arms as they sat together on the sofa. her tears were now falling fast, and she no longer made an effort to hide them. "speak to me, mary; this is more than a presentiment. what is it?" "oh, uncle--" "come, love, speak to me; tell me why you are grieving." "oh, uncle, why have you not spoken to me? why have you not told me what to do? why have you not advised me? why are you always so silent?" "silent about what?" "you know, uncle, you know; silent about him; silent about frank." why, indeed? what was he to say to this? it was true that he had never counselled her; never shown her what course she should take; had never even spoken to her about her lover. and it was equally true that he was not now prepared to do so, even in answer to such an appeal as this. he had a hope, a strong hope, more than a hope, that mary's love would yet be happy; but he could not express or explain his hope; nor could he even acknowledge to himself a wish that would seem to be based on the death of him whose life he was bound, if possible, to preserve. "my love," he said, "it is a matter in which you must judge for yourself. did i doubt your conduct, i should interfere; but i do not." "conduct! is conduct everything? one may conduct oneself excellently, and yet break one's heart." this was too much for the doctor; his sternness and firmness instantly deserted him. "mary," he said, "i will do anything that you would have me. if you wish it, i will make arrangements for leaving this place at once." "oh, no," she said, plaintively. "when you tell me of a broken heart, you almost break my own. come to me, darling; do not leave me so. i will say all that i can say. i have thought, do still think, that circumstances will admit of your marriage with frank if you both love each other, and can both be patient." "you think so," said she, unconsciously sliding her hand into his, as though to thank him by its pressure for the comfort he was giving her. "i do think so now more than ever. but i only think so; i have been unable to assure you. there, darling, i must not say more; only that i cannot bear to see you grieving, i would not have said this:" and then he left her, and nothing more was spoken on the subject. if you can be patient! why, a patience of ten years would be as nothing to her. could she but live with the knowledge that she was first in his estimation, dearest in his heart; could it be also granted to her to feel that she was regarded as his equal, she could be patient for ever. what more did she want than to know and feel this? patient, indeed! but what could these circumstances be to which her uncle had alluded? "i do think that circumstances will admit of your marriage." such was his opinion, and she had never known him to be wrong. circumstances! what circumstances? did he perhaps mean that mr gresham's affairs were not so bad as they had been thought to be? if so, that alone would hardly alter the matter, for what could she give in return? "i would give him the world for one word of love," she said to herself, "and never think that he was my debtor. ah! how beggarly the heart must be that speculates on such gifts as those!" but there was her uncle's opinion: he still thought that they might be married. oh, why had she sent her letter? and why had she made it so cold? with such a letter as that before him, frank could not do other than consent to her proposal. and then, why did he not at least answer it? on the sunday afternoon there arrived at greshamsbury a man and a horse from boxall hill, bearing a letter from lady scatcherd to dr thorne, earnestly requesting the doctor's immediate attendance. "i fear everything is over with poor louis," wrote the unhappy mother. "it has been very dreadful. do come to me; i have no other friend, and i am nearly worn through with it. the man from the city"--she meant dr fillgrave--"comes every day, and i dare say he is all very well, but he has never done much good. he has not had spirit enough to keep the bottle from him; and it was that, and that only, that most behoved to be done. i doubt you won't find him in this world when you arrive here." dr thorne started immediately. even though he might have to meet dr fillgrave, he could not hesitate, for he went not as a doctor to the dying man, but as the trustee under sir roger's will. moreover, as lady scatcherd had said, he was her only friend, and he could not desert her at such a moment for an army of fillgraves. he told mary he should not return that night; and taking with him a small saddle-bag, he started at once for boxall hill. as he rode up to the hall door, dr fillgrave was getting into his carriage. they had never met so as to speak to each other since that memorable day, when they had their famous passage of arms in the hall of that very house before which they both now stood. but, at the present moment, neither of them was disposed to renew the fight. "what news of your patient, dr fillgrave?" said our doctor, still seated on his sweating horse, and putting his hand lightly to his hat. dr fillgrave could not refrain from one moment of supercilious disdain: he gave one little chuck to his head, one little twist to his neck, one little squeeze to his lips, and then the man within him overcame the doctor. "sir louis is no more," he said. "god's will be done!" said dr thorne. "his death is a release; for his last days have been very frightful. your coming, dr thorne, will be a comfort to lady scatcherd." and then dr fillgrave, thinking that even the present circumstances required no further condescension, ensconced himself in the carriage. "his last days have been very dreadful! ah, me, poor fellow! dr fillgrave, before you go, allow me to say this: i am quite aware that when he fell into your hands, no medical skill in the world could save him." dr fillgrave bowed low from the carriage, and after this unwonted exchange of courtesies, the two doctors parted, not to meet again--at any rate, in the pages of this novel. of dr fillgrave, let it now be said, that he grows in dignity as he grows in years, and that he is universally regarded as one of the celebrities of the city of barchester. lady scatcherd was found sitting alone in her little room on the ground-floor. even hannah was not with her, for hannah was now occupied upstairs. when the doctor entered the room, which he did unannounced, he found her seated on a chair, with her back against one of the presses, her hands clasped together over her knees, gazing into vacancy. she did not ever hear him or see him as he approached, and his hand had slightly touched her shoulder before she knew that she was not alone. then, she looked up at him with a face so full of sorrow, so worn with suffering, that his own heart was racked to see her. "it is all over, my friend," said he. "it is better so; much better so." she seemed at first hardly to understand him, but still regarding him with that wan face, shook her head slowly and sadly. one might have thought that she was twenty years older than when dr thorne last saw her. he drew a chair to her side, and sitting by her, took her hand in his. "it is better so, lady scatcherd; better so," he repeated. "the poor lad's doom had been spoken, and it is well for him, and for you, that it should be over." "they are both gone now," said she, speaking very low; "both gone now. oh, doctor! to be left alone here, all alone!" he said some few words trying to comfort her; but who can comfort a widow bereaved of her child? who can console a heart that has lost all that it possessed? sir roger had not been to her a tender husband; but still he had been the husband of her love. sir louis had not been to her an affectionate son; but still he had been her child, her only child. now they were both gone. who can wonder that the world should be a blank to her? still the doctor spoke soothing words, and still he held her hand. he knew that his words could not console her; but the sounds of his kindness at such desolate moments are, to such minds as hers, some alleviation of grief. she hardly answered him, but sat there staring out before her, leaving her hand passively to him, and swaying her head backwards and forwards as though her grief were too heavy to be borne. at last, her eye rested on an article which stood upon the table, and she started up impetuously from her chair. she did this so suddenly, that the doctor's hand fell beside him before he knew that she had risen. the table was covered with all those implements which become so frequent about a house when severe illness is an inhabitant there. there were little boxes and apothecaries' bottles, cups and saucers standing separate, and bowls, in which messes have been prepared with the hope of suiting a sick man's failing appetite. there was a small saucepan standing on a plate, a curiously shaped glass utensil left by the doctor, and sundry pieces of flannel, which had been used in rubbing the sufferer's limbs. but in the middle of the débris stood one black bottle, with head erect, unsuited to the companionship in which it was found. "there," she said, rising up, and seizing this in a manner that would have been ridiculous had it not been so truly tragic. "there, that has robbed me of everything--of all that i ever possessed; of husband and child; of the father and son; that has swallowed them both--murdered them both! oh, doctor! that such a thing as that should cause such bitter sorrow! i have hated it always, but now--oh, woe is me! weary me!" and then she let the bottle drop from her hand as though it were too heavy for her. "this comes of their barro-niting," she continued. "if they had let him alone, he would have been here now, and so would the other one. why did they do it? why did they do it? ah, doctor! people such as us should never meddle with them above us. see what has come of it; see what has come of it!" the doctor could not remain with her long, as it was necessary that he should take upon himself the direction of the household, and give orders for the funeral. first of all, he had to undergo the sad duty of seeing the corpse of the deceased baronet. this, at any rate, may be spared to my readers. it was found to be necessary that the interment should be made very quickly, as the body was already nearly destroyed by alcohol. having done all this, and sent back his horse to greshamsbury, with directions that clothes for a journey might be sent to him, and a notice that he should not be home for some days, he again returned to lady scatcherd. of course he could not but think much of the immense property which was now, for a short time, altogether in his own hands. his resolution was soon made to go at once to london and consult the best lawyer he could find--or the best dozen lawyers should such be necessary--as to the validity of mary's claims. this must be done before he said a word to her or to any of the gresham family; but it must be done instantly, so that all suspense might be at an end as soon as possible. he must, of course, remain with lady scatcherd till the funeral should be over; but when that office should be complete, he would start instantly for london. in resolving to tell no one as to mary's fortune till after he had fortified himself with legal warranty, he made one exception. he thought it rational that he should explain to lady scatcherd who was now the heir under her husband's will; and he was the more inclined to do so, from feeling that the news would probably be gratifying to her. with this view, he had once or twice endeavoured to induce her to talk about the property, but she had been unwilling to do so. she seemed to dislike all allusions to it, and it was not till she had incidentally mentioned the fact that she would have to look for a home, that he was able to fix her to the subject. this was on the evening before the funeral; on the afternoon of which day he intended to proceed to london. "it may probably be arranged that you may continue to live here," said the doctor. "i don't wish it at all," said she, rather sharply. "i don't wish to have any arrangements made. i would not be indebted to any of them for anything. oh, dear! if money could make it all right, i should have enough of that." "indebted to whom, lady scatcherd? who do you think will be the owner of boxall hill?" "indeed, then, dr thorne, i don't much care: unless it be yourself, it won't be any friend of mine, or any one i shall care to make a friend of. it isn't so easy for an old woman like me to make new friends." "well, it certainly won't belong to me." "i wish it did, with all my heart. but even then, i would not live here. i have had too many troubles here to wish to see more." "that shall be just as you like, lady scatcherd; but you will be surprised to hear that the place will--at least i think it will--belong to a friend of yours: to one to whom you have been very kind." "and who is he, doctor? won't it go to some of those americans? i am sure i never did anything kind to them; though, indeed, i did love poor mary scatcherd. but that's years upon years ago, and she is dead and gone now. well, i begrudge nothing to mary's children. as i have none of my own, it is right they should have the money. it has not made me happy; i hope it may do so to them." "the property will, i think, go to mary scatcherd's eldest child. it is she whom you have known as mary thorne." "doctor!" and then lady scatcherd, as she made the exclamation, put both her hands down to hold her chair, as though she feared the weight of her surprise would topple her off her seat. "yes; mary thorne--my mary--to whom you have been so good, who loves you so well; she, i believe, will be sir roger's heiress. and it was so that sir roger intended on his deathbed, in the event of poor louis's life being cut short. if this be so, will you be ashamed to stay here as the guest of mary thorne? she has not been ashamed to be your guest." but lady scatcherd was now too much interested in the general tenor of the news which she had heard to care much about the house which she was to inhabit in future. mary thorne, the heiress of boxall hill! mary thorne, the still living child of that poor creature who had so nearly died when they were all afflicted with their early grief! well; there was consolation, there was comfort in this. there were but three people left in the world that she could love: her foster-child, frank gresham--mary thorne, and the doctor. if the money went to mary, it would of course go to frank, for she now knew that they loved each other; and if it went to them, would not the doctor have his share also; such share as he might want? could she have governed the matter, she would have given it all to frank; and now it would be as well bestowed. yes; there was consolation in this. they both sat up more than half the night talking over it, and giving and receiving explanations. if only the council of lawyers would not be adverse! that was now the point of suspense. the doctor, before he left her, bade her hold her peace, and say nothing of mary's fortune to any one till her rights had been absolutely acknowledged. "it will be nothing not to have it," said the doctor; "but it would be very bad to hear it was hers, and then to lose it." on the next morning, dr thorne deposited the remains of sir louis in the vault prepared for the family in the parish church. he laid the son where a few months ago he had laid the father,--and so the title of scatcherd became extinct. their race of honour had not been long. after the funeral, the doctor hurried up to london, and there we will leave him. chapter xliv saturday evening and sunday morning we must now go back a little and describe how frank had been sent off on special business to london. the household at greshamsbury was at this time in but a doleful state. it seemed to be pervaded, from the squire down to the scullery-maid, with a feeling that things were not going well; and men and women, in spite of beatrice's coming marriage, were grim-visaged, and dolorous. mr mortimer gazebee, rejected though he had been, still went and came, talking much to the squire, much also to her ladyship, as to the ill-doings which were in the course of projection by sir louis; and frank went about the house with clouded brow, as though finally resolved to neglect his one great duty. poor beatrice was robbed of half her joy: over and over again her brother asked her whether she had yet seen mary, and she was obliged as often to answer that she had not. indeed, she did not dare to visit her friend, for it was hardly possible that they should sympathise with each other. mary was, to say the least, stubborn in her pride; and beatrice, though she could forgive her friend for loving her brother, could not forgive the obstinacy with which mary persisted in a course which, as beatrice thought, she herself knew to be wrong. and then mr gazebee came down from town, with an intimation that it behoved the squire himself to go up that he might see certain learned pundits, and be badgered in his own person at various dingy, dismal chambers in lincoln's inn fields, the temple, and gray's inn lane. it was an invitation exactly of that sort which a good many years ago was given to a certain duck. "will you, will you--will you, will you--come and be killed?" although mr gazebee urged the matter with such eloquence, the squire remained steady to his objection, and swam obstinately about his greshamsbury pond in any direction save that which seemed to lead towards london. this occurred on the very evening of that friday which had witnessed the lady arabella's last visit to dr thorne's house. the question of the squire's necessary journey to the great fountains of justice was, of course, discussed between lady arabella and mr gazebee; and it occurred to the former, full as she was of frank's iniquity and of mary's obstinacy, that if frank were sent up in lieu of his father, it would separate them at least for a while. if she could only get frank away without seeing his love, she might yet so work upon him, by means of the message which mary had sent, as to postpone, if not break off, this hateful match. it was inconceivable that a youth of twenty-three, and such a youth as frank, should be obstinately constant to a girl possessed of no great beauty--so argued lady arabella to herself--and who had neither wealth, birth, nor fashion to recommend her. and thus it was at last settled--the squire being a willing party to the agreement--that frank should go up and be badgered in lieu of his father. at his age it was possible to make it appear a thing desirable, if not necessary--on account of the importance conveyed--to sit day after day in the chambers of messrs slow & bideawhile, and hear musty law talk, and finger dusty law parchments. the squire had made many visits to messrs slow & bideawhile, and he knew better. frank had not hitherto been there on his own bottom, and thus he fell easily into the trap. mr oriel was also going to london, and this was another reason for sending frank. mr oriel had business of great importance, which it was quite necessary that he should execute before his marriage. how much of this business consisted in going to his tailor, buying a wedding-ring, and purchasing some other more costly present for beatrice, we need not here inquire. but mr oriel was quite on lady arabella's side with reference to this mad engagement, and as frank and he were now fast friends, some good might be done in that way. "if we all caution him against it, he can hardly withstand us all!" said lady arabella to herself. the matter was broached to frank on the saturday evening, and settled between them all the same night. nothing, of course, was at that moment said about mary; but lady arabella was too full of the subject to let him go to london without telling him that mary was ready to recede if only he would allow her to do so. about eleven o'clock, frank was sitting in his own room, conning over the difficulties of the situation--thinking of his father's troubles, and his own position--when he was roused from his reverie by a slight tap at the door. "come in," said he, somewhat loudly. he thought it was one of his sisters, who were apt to visit him at all hours and for all manner of reasons; and he, though he was usually gentle to them, was not at present exactly in a humour to be disturbed. the door gently opened, and he saw his mother standing hesitating in the passage. "can i come in, frank?" said she. "oh, yes, mother; by all means:" and then, with some surprise marked in his countenance, he prepared a seat for her. such a visit as this from lady arabella was very unusual; so much so, that he had probably not seen her in his own room since the day when he first left school. he had nothing, however, to be ashamed of; nothing to conceal, unless it were an open letter from miss dunstable which he had in his hand when she entered, and which he somewhat hurriedly thrust into his pocket. "i wanted to say a few words to you, frank, before you start for london about this business." frank signified by a gesture, that he was quite ready to listen to her. "i am so glad to see your father putting the matter into your hands. you are younger than he is; and then--i don't know why, but somehow your father has never been a good man of business--everything has gone wrong with him." "oh, mother! do not say anything against him." "no, frank, i will not; i do not wish it. things have been unfortunate, certainly. ah me! i little thought when i married--but i don't mean to complain--i have excellent children, and i ought to be thankful for that." frank began to fear that no good could be coming when his mother spoke in that strain. "i will do the best i can," said he, "up in town. i can't help thinking myself that mr gazebee might have done as well, but--" "oh, dear no; by no means. in such cases the principal must show himself. besides, it is right you should know how matters stand. who is so much interested in it as you are? poor frank! i so often feel for you when i think how the property has dwindled." "pray do not mind me, mother. why should you talk of it as my matter while my father is not yet forty-five? his life, so to speak, is as good as mine. i can do very well without it; all i want is to be allowed to settle to something." "you mean a profession." "yes; something of that sort." "they are so slow, dear frank. you, who speak french so well--i should think my brother might get you in as attaché to some embassy." "that wouldn't suit me at all," said frank. "well, we'll talk about that some other time. but i came about something else, and i do hope you will hear me." frank's brow again grew black, for he knew that his mother was about to say something which it would be disagreeable for him to hear. "i was with mary, yesterday." "well, mother?" "don't be angry with me, frank; you can't but know that the fate of an only son must be a subject of anxiety to a mother." ah! how singularly altered was lady arabella's tone since first she had taken upon herself to discuss the marriage prospects of her son! then how autocratic had she been as she sent him away, bidding him, with full command, to throw himself into the golden embraces of miss dunstable! but now, how humble, as she came suppliantly to his room, craving that she might have leave to whisper into his ears a mother's anxious fears! frank had laughed at her stern behests, though he had half obeyed them; but he was touched to the heart by her humility. he drew his chair nearer to her, and took her by the hand. but she, disengaging hers, parted the hair from off his forehead, and kissed his brow. "oh, frank," she said, "i have been so proud of you, am still so proud of you. it will send me to my grave if i see you sink below your proper position. not that it will be your fault. i am sure it will not be your fault. only circumstanced as you are, you should be doubly, trebly, careful. if your father had not--" "do not speak against my father." "no, frank; i will not--no, i will not; not another word. and now, frank--" before we go on we must say one word further as to lady arabella's character. it will probably be said that she was a consummate hypocrite; but at the present moment she was not hypocritical. she did love her son; was anxious--very, very anxious for him; was proud of him, and almost admired the very obstinacy which so vexed her to her inmost soul. no grief would be to her so great as that of seeing him sink below what she conceived to be his position. she was as genuinely motherly, in wishing that he should marry money, as another woman might be in wishing to see her son a bishop; or as the spartan matron, who preferred that her offspring should return on his shield, to hearing that he had come back whole in limb but tainted in honour. when frank spoke of a profession, she instantly thought of what lord de courcy might do for him. if he would not marry money, he might, at any rate, be an attaché at an embassy. a profession--hard work, as a doctor, or as an engineer--would, according to her ideas, degrade him; cause him to sink below his proper position; but to dangle at a foreign court, to make small talk at the evening parties of a lady ambassadress, and occasionally, perhaps, to write demi-official notes containing demi-official tittle-tattle; this would be in proper accordance with the high honour of a gresham of greshamsbury. we may not admire the direction taken by lady arabella's energy on behalf of her son, but that energy was not hypocritical. "and now, frank--" she looked wistfully into his face as she addressed him, as though half afraid to go on, and begging that he would receive with complaisance whatever she found herself forced to say. "well, mother?" "i was with mary, yesterday." "yes, yes; what then? i know what your feelings are with regard to her." "no, frank; you wrong me. i have no feelings against her--none, indeed; none but this: that she is not fit to be your wife." "i think her fit." "ah, yes; but how fit? think of your position, frank, and what means you have of keeping her. think what you are. your father's only son; the heir to greshamsbury. if greshamsbury be ever again more than a name, it is you that must redeem it. of all men living you are the least able to marry a girl like mary thorne." "mother, i will not sell myself for what you call my position." "who asks you? i do not ask you; nobody asks you. i do not want you to marry any one. i did think once--but let that pass. you are now twenty-three. in ten years' time you will still be a young man. i only ask you to wait. if you marry now, that is, marry such a girl as mary thorne--" "such a girl! where shall i find such another?" "i mean as regards money, frank; you know i mean that; how are you to live? where are you to go? and then, her birth. oh, frank, frank!" "birth! i hate such pretence. what was--but i won't talk about it. mother, i tell you my word is pledged, and on no account will i be induced to break it." "ah, that's just it; that's just the point. now, frank, listen to me. pray listen to me patiently for one minute. i do not ask much of you." frank promised that he would listen patiently; but he looked anything but patient as he said so. "i have seen mary, as it was certainly my duty to do. you cannot be angry with me for that." "who said that i was angry, mother?" "well, i have seen her, and i must own, that though she was not disposed to be courteous to me, personally, she said much that marked her excellent good sense. but the gist of it was this; that as she had made you a promise, nothing should turn her from that promise but your permission." "and do you think--" "wait a moment, frank, and listen to me. she confessed that this marriage was one which would necessarily bring distress on all your family; that it was one which would probably be ruinous to yourself; that it was a match which could not be approved of: she did, indeed; she confessed all that. 'i have nothing', she said--those were her own words--'i have nothing to say in favour of this engagement, except that he wishes it.' that is what she thinks of it herself. 'his wishes are not a reason; but a law,' she said--" "and, mother, would you have me desert such a girl as that?" "it is not deserting, frank: it would not be deserting: you would be doing that which she herself approves of. she feels the impropriety of going on; but she cannot draw back because of her promise to you. she thinks that she cannot do it, even though she wishes it." "wishes it! oh, mother!" "i do believe she does, because she has sense to feel the truth of all that your friends say. oh, frank, i will go on my knees to you if you will listen to me." "oh, mother! mother! mother!" "you should think twice, frank, before you refuse the only request your mother ever made you. and why do i ask you? why do i come to you thus? is it for my own sake? oh, my boy! my darling boy! will you lose everything in life, because you love the child with whom you have played as a child?" "whose fault is it that we were together as children? she is now more than a child. i look on her already as my wife." "but she is not your wife, frank; and she knows that she ought not to be. it is only because you hold her to it that she consents to be so." "do you mean to say that she does not love me?" lady arabella would probably have said this, also, had she dared; but she felt, that in doing so, she would be going too far. it was useless for her to say anything that would be utterly contradicted by an appeal to mary herself. "no, frank; i do not mean to say that you do not love her. what i do mean is this: that it is not becoming in you to give up everything--not only yourself, but all your family--for such a love as this; and that she, mary herself, acknowledges this. every one is of the same opinion. ask your father: i need not say that he would agree with you about everything if he could. i will not say the de courcys." "oh, the de courcys!" "yes, they are my relations; i know that." lady arabella could not quite drop the tone of bitterness which was natural to her in saying this. "but ask your sisters; ask mr oriel, whom you esteem so much; ask your friend harry baker." frank sat silent for a moment or two while his mother, with a look almost of agony, gazed into his face. "i will ask no one," at last he said. "oh, my boy! my boy!" "no one but myself can know my own heart." "and you will sacrifice all to such a love as that, all; her, also, whom you say that you so love? what happiness can you give her as your wife? oh, frank! is that the only answer you will make your mother on her knees? "oh, mother! mother!" "no, frank, i will not let you ruin yourself; i will not let you destroy yourself. promise this, at least, that you will think of what i have said." "think of it! i do think of it." "ah, but think of it in earnest. you will be absent now in london; you will have the business of the estate to manage; you will have heavy cares upon your hands. think of it as a man, and not as a boy." "i will see her to-morrow before i go." "no, frank, no; grant me that trifle, at any rate. think upon this without seeing her. do not proclaim yourself so weak that you cannot trust yourself to think over what your mother says to you without asking her leave. though you be in love, do not be childish with it. what i have told you as coming from her is true, word for word; if it were not, you would soon learn so. think now of what i have said, and of what she says, and when you come back from london, then you can decide." to so much frank consented after some further parley; namely, that he would proceed to london on the following monday morning without again seeing mary. and in the meantime, she was waiting with sore heart for his answer to that letter that was lying, and was still to lie for so many hours, in the safe protection of the silverbridge postmistress. it may seem strange; but, in truth, his mother's eloquence had more effect on frank than that of his father: and yet, with his father he had always sympathised. but his mother had been energetic; whereas, his father, if not lukewarm, had, at any rate, been timid. "i will ask no one," frank had said in the strong determination of his heart; and yet the words were hardly out of his mouth before he bethought himself that he would talk the thing over with harry baker. "not," said he to himself, "that i have any doubt; i have no doubt; but i hate to have all the world against me. my mother wishes me to ask harry baker. harry is a good fellow, and i will ask him." and with this resolve he betook himself to bed. the following day was sunday. after breakfast frank went with the family to church, as was usual; and there, as usual, he saw mary in dr thorne's pew. she, as she looked at him, could not but wonder why he had not answered the letter which was still at silverbridge; and he endeavoured to read in her face whether it was true, as his mother had told him, that she was quite ready to give him up. the prayers of both of them were disturbed, as is so often the case with the prayers of other anxious people. there was a separate door opening from the greshamsbury pew out into the greshamsbury grounds, so that the family were not forced into unseemly community with the village multitude in going to and from their prayers; for the front door of the church led out into a road which had no connexion with the private path. it was not unusual with frank and his father to go round, after the service, to the chief entrance, so that they might speak to their neighbours, and get rid of some of the exclusiveness which was intended for them. on this morning the squire did so; but frank walked home with his mother and sisters, so that mary saw no more of him. i have said that he walked home with his mother and his sisters; but he rather followed in their path. he was not inclined to talk much, at least, not to them; and he continued asking himself the question--whether it could be possible that he was wrong in remaining true to his promise? could it be that he owed more to his father and his mother, and what they chose to call his position, than he did to mary? after church, mr gazebee tried to get hold of him, for there was much still to be said, and many hints to be given, as to how frank should speak, and, more especially, as to how he should hold his tongue among the learned pundits in and about chancery lane. "you must be very wide awake with messrs slow & bideawhile," said mr gazebee. but frank would not hearken to him just at that moment. he was going to ride over to harry baker, so he put mr gazebee off till the half-hour before dinner,--or else the half-hour after tea. on the previous day he had received a letter from miss dunstable, which he had hitherto read but once. his mother had interrupted him as he was about to refer to it; and now, as his father's nag was being saddled--he was still prudent in saving the black horse--he again took it out. miss dunstable had written in an excellent humour. she was in great distress about the oil of lebanon, she said. "i have been trying to get a purchaser for the last two years; but my lawyer won't let me sell it, because the would-be purchasers offer a thousand pounds or so less than the value. i would give ten to be rid of the bore; but i am as little able to act myself as sancho was in his government. the oil of lebanon! did you hear anything of it when you were in those parts? i thought of changing the name to 'london particular;' but my lawyer says the brewers would bring an action against me. "i was going down to your neighbourhood--to your friend the duke's, at least. but i am prevented by my poor doctor, who is so weak that i must take him to malvern. it is a great bore; but i have the satisfaction that i do my duty by him! "your cousin george is to be married at last. so i hear, at least. he loves wisely, if not well; for his widow has the name of being prudent and fairly well to do in the world. she has got over the caprices of her youth. dear aunt de courcy will be so delighted. i might perhaps have met her at gatherum castle. i do so regret it. "mr moffat has turned up again. we all thought you had finally extinguished him. he left a card the other day, and i have told the servant always to say that i am at home, and that you are with me. he is going to stand for some borough in the west of ireland. he's used to shillelaghs by this time. "by the by, i have a _cadeau_ for a friend of yours. i won't tell you what it is, nor permit you to communicate the fact. but when you tell me that in sending it i may fairly congratulate her on having so devoted a slave as you, it shall be sent. "if you have nothing better to do at present, do come and see my invalid at malvern. perhaps you might have a mind to treat for the oil of lebanon. i'll give you all the assistance i can in cheating my lawyers." there was not much about mary in this; but still, the little that was said made him again declare that neither father nor mother should move him from his resolution. "i will write to her and say that she may send her present when she pleases. or i will run down to malvern for a day. it will do me good to see her." and so resolved, he rode away to mill hill, thinking, as he went, how he would put the matter to harry baker. harry was at home; but we need not describe the whole interview. had frank been asked beforehand, he would have declared, that on no possible subject could he have had the slightest hesitation in asking harry any question, or communicating to him any tidings. but when the time came, he found that he did hesitate much. he did not want to ask his friend if he should be wise to marry mary thorne. wise or not, he was determined to do that. but he wished to be quite sure that his mother was wrong in saying that all the world would dissuade him from it. miss dunstable, at any rate, did not do so. at last, seated on a stile at the back of the mill hill stables, while harry stood close before him with both his hands in his pockets, he did get his story told. it was by no means the first time that harry baker had heard about mary thorne, and he was not, therefore, so surprised as he might have been, had the affair been new to him. and thus, standing there in the position we have described, did mr baker, junior, give utterance to such wisdom as was in him on this subject. "you see, frank, there are two sides to every question; and, as i take it, fellows are so apt to go wrong because they are so fond of one side, they won't look at the other. there's no doubt about it, lady arabella is a very clever woman, and knows what's what; and there's no doubt about this either, that you have a very ticklish hand of cards to play." "i'll play it straightforward; that's my game" said frank. "well and good, my dear fellow. that's the best game always. but what is straightforward? between you and me, i fear there's no doubt that your father's property has got into a deuce of a mess." "i don't see that that has anything to do with it." "yes, but it has. if the estate was all right, and your father could give you a thousand a year to live on without feeling it, and if your eldest child would be cock-sure of greshamsbury, it might be very well that you should please yourself as to marrying at once. but that's not the case; and yet greshamsbury is too good a card to be flung away." "i could fling it away to-morrow," said frank. "ah! you think so," said harry the wise. "but if you were to hear to-morrow that sir louis scatcherd were master of the whole place, and be d---- to him, you would feel very uncomfortable." had harry known how near sir louis was to his last struggle, he would not have spoken of him in this manner. "that's all very fine talk, but it won't bear wear and tear. you do care for greshamsbury if you are the fellow i take you to be: care for it very much; and you care too for your father being gresham of greshamsbury." "this won't affect my father at all." "ah, but it will affect him very much. if you were to marry miss thorne to-morrow, there would at once be an end to any hope of your saving the property." "and do you mean to say i'm to be a liar to her for such reasons as that? why, harry, i should be as bad as moffat. only it would be ten times more cowardly, as she has no brother." "i must differ from you there altogether; but mind, i don't mean to say anything. tell me that you have made up your mind to marry her, and i'll stick to you through thick and thin. but if you ask my advice, why, i must give it. it is quite a different affair to that of moffat's. he had lots of tin, everything he could want, and there could be no reason why he should not marry,--except that he was a snob, of whom your sister was well quit. but this is very different. if i, as your friend, were to put it to miss thorne, what do you think she would say herself?" "she would say whatever she thought best for me." "exactly: because she is a trump. and i say the same. there can be no doubt about it, frank, my boy: such a marriage would be very foolish for you both; very foolish. nobody can admire miss thorne more than i do; but you oughtn't to be a marrying man for the next ten years, unless you get a fortune. if you tell her the truth, and if she's the girl i take her to be, she'll not accuse you of being false. she'll peak for a while; and so will you, old chap. but others have had to do that before you. they have got over it, and so will you." such was the spoken wisdom of harry baker, and who can say that he was wrong? frank sat a while on his rustle seat, paring his nails with his penknife, and then looking up, he thus thanked his friend:-- "i'm sure you mean well, harry; and i'm much obliged to you. i dare say you're right too. but, somehow, it doesn't come home to me. and what is more, after what has passed, i could not tell her that i wish to part from her. i could not do it. and besides, i have that sort of feeling, that if i heard she was to marry any one else, i am sure i should blow his brains out. either his or my own." "well, frank, you may count on me for anything, except the last proposition:" and so they shook hands, and frank rode back to greshamsbury. chapter xlv law business in london on the monday morning at six o'clock, mr oriel and frank started together; but early as it was, beatrice was up to give them a cup of coffee, mr oriel having slept that night in the house. whether frank would have received his coffee from his sister's fair hands had not mr oriel been there, may be doubted. he, however, loudly asserted that he should not have done so, when she laid claim to great merit for rising in his behalf. mr oriel had been specially instigated by lady arabella to use the opportunity of their joint journey, for pointing out to frank the iniquity as well as madness of the course he was pursuing; and he had promised to obey her ladyship's behests. but mr oriel was perhaps not an enterprising man, and was certainly not a presumptuous one. he did intend to do as he was bid; but when he began, with the object of leading up to the subject of frank's engagement, he always softened down into some much easier enthusiasm in the matter of his own engagement with beatrice. he had not that perspicuous, but not over-sensitive strength of mind which had enabled harry baker to express his opinion out at once; and boldly as he did it, yet to do so without offence. four times before the train arrived in london, he made some little attempt; but four times he failed. as the subject was matrimony, it was his easiest course to begin about himself; but he never could get any further. "no man was ever more fortunate in a wife than i shall be," he said, with a soft, euphuistic self-complacency, which would have been silly had it been adopted to any other person than the bride's brother. his intention, however, was very good, for he meant to show, that in his case marriage was prudent and wise, because his case differed so widely from that of frank. "yes," said frank. "she is an excellent good girl:" he had said it three times before, and was not very energetic. "yes, and so exactly suited to me; indeed, all that i could have dreamed of. how very well she looked this morning! some girls only look well at night. i should not like that at all." "you mustn't expect her to look like that always at six o'clock a.m.," said frank, laughing. "young ladies only take that trouble on very particular occasions. she wouldn't have come down like that if my father or i had been going alone. no, and she won't do so for you in a couple of years' time." "oh, but she's always nice. i have seen her at home as much almost as you could do; and then she's so sincerely religious." "oh, yes, of course; that is, i am sure she is," said frank, looking solemn as became him. "she's made to be a clergyman's wife." "well, so it seems," said frank. "a married life is, i'm sure, the happiest in the world--if people are only in a position to marry," said mr oriel, gradually drawing near to the accomplishment of his design. "yes; quite so. do you know, oriel, i never was so sleepy in my life. what with all that fuss of gazebee's, and one thing and another, i could not get to bed till one o'clock; and then i couldn't sleep. i'll take a snooze now, if you won't think it uncivil." and then, putting his feet upon the opposite seat, he settled himself comfortably to his rest. and so mr oriel's last attempt for lecturing frank in the railway-carriage faded away and was annihilated. by twelve o'clock frank was with messrs slow & bideawhile. mr bideawhile was engaged at the moment, but he found the managing chancery clerk to be a very chatty gentleman. judging from what he saw, he would have said that the work to be done at messrs slow & bideawhile's was not very heavy. "a singular man that sir louis," said the chancery clerk. "yes; very singular," said frank. "excellent security, excellent; no better; and yet he will foreclose; but you see he has no power himself. but the question is, can the trustee refuse? then, again, trustees are so circumscribed nowadays that they are afraid to do anything. there has been so much said lately, mr gresham, that a man doesn't know where he is, or what he is doing. nobody trusts anybody. there have been such terrible things that we can't wonder at it. only think of the case of those hills! how can any one expect that any one else will ever trust a lawyer again after that? but that's mr bideawhile's bell. how can any one expect it? he will see you now, i dare say, mr gresham." so it turned out, and frank was ushered into the presence of mr bideawhile. he had got his lesson by heart, and was going to rush into the middle of his subject; such a course, however, was not in accordance with mr bideawhile's usual practice. mr bideawhile got up from his large wooden-seated windsor chair, and, with a soft smile, in which, however, was mingled some slight dash of the attorney's acuteness, put out his hand to his young client; not, indeed, as though he were going to shake hands with him, but as though the hand were some ripe fruit all but falling, which his visitor might take and pluck if he thought proper. frank took hold of the hand, which returned him no pressure, and then let it go again, not making any attempt to gather the fruit. "i have come up to town, mr bideawhile, about this mortgage," commenced frank. "mortgage--ah, sit down, mr gresham; sit down. i hope your father is quite well?" "quite well, thank you." "i have a great regard for your father. so i had for your grandfather; a very good man indeed. you, perhaps, don't remember him, mr gresham?" "he died when i was only a year old." "oh, yes; no, you of course, can't remember him; but i do, well: he used to be very fond of some port wine i had. i think it was ' ;' and if i don't mistake, i have a bottle or two of it yet; but it is not worth drinking now. port wine, you know, won't keep beyond a certain time. that was very good wine. i don't exactly remember what it stood me a dozen then; but such wine can't be had now. as for the madeira, you know there's an end of that. do you drink madeira, mr gresham?" "no," said frank, "not very often." "i'm sorry for that, for it's a fine wine; but then there's none of it left, you know. i have a few dozen, i'm told they're growing pumpkins where the vineyards were. i wonder what they do with all the pumpkins they grow in switzerland! you've been in switzerland, mr gresham?" frank said he had been in switzerland. "it's a beautiful country; my girls made me go there last year. they said it would do me good; but then you know, they wanted to see it themselves; ha! ha! ha! however, i believe i shall go again this autumn. that is to aix, or some of those places; just for three weeks. i can't spare any more time, mr gresham. do you like that dining at the _tables d'hôte_?" "pretty well, sometimes." "one would get tired of it--eh! but they gave us capital dinners at zurich. i don't think much of their soup. but they had fish, and about seven kinds of meats and poultry, and three or four puddings, and things of that sort. upon my word, i thought we did very well, and so did my girls, too. you see a great many ladies travelling now." "yes," said frank; "a great many." "upon my word, i think they are right; that is, if they can afford time. i can't afford time. i'm here every day till five, mr gresham; then i go out and dine in fleet street, and then back to work till nine." "dear me! that's very hard." "well, yes it is hard work. my boys don't like it; but i manage it somehow. i get down to my little place in the country on saturday. i shall be most happy to see you there next saturday." frank, thinking it would be outrageous on his part to take up much of the time of the gentleman who was constrained to work so unreasonably hard, began again to talk about his mortgages, and, in so doing, had to mention the name of mr yates umbleby. "ah, poor umbleby!" said mr bideawhile; "what is he doing now? i am quite sure your father was right, or he wouldn't have done it; but i used to think that umbleby was a decent sort of man enough. not so grand, you know, as your gazebees and gumptions--eh, mr gresham? they do say young gazebee is thinking of getting into parliament. let me see: umbleby married--who was it he married? that was the way your father got hold of him; not your father, but your grandfather. i used to know all about it. well, i was sorry for umbleby. he has got something, i suppose--eh?" frank said that he believed mr yates umbleby had something wherewith to keep the wolf from the door. "so you have got gazebee down there now? gumption, gazebee & gazebee: very good people, i'm sure; only, perhaps, they have a little too much on hand to do your father justice." "but about sir louis, mr bideawhile." "well, about sir louis; a very bad sort of fellow, isn't he? drinks--eh? i knew his father a little. he was a rough diamond, too. i was once down in northamptonshire, about some railway business; let me see; i almost forget whether i was with him, or against him. but i know he made sixty thousand pounds by one hour's work; sixty thousand pounds! and then he got so mad with drinking that we all thought--" and so mr bideawhile went on for two hours, and frank found no opportunity of saying one word about the business which had brought him up to town. what wonder that such a man as this should be obliged to stay at his office every night till nine o'clock? during these two hours, a clerk had come in three or four times, whispering something to the lawyer, who, on the last of such occasions, turned to frank, saying, "well, perhaps that will do for to-day. if you'll manage to call to-morrow, say about two, i will have the whole thing looked up; or, perhaps wednesday or thursday would suit you better." frank, declaring that the morrow would suit him very well, took his departure, wondering much at the manner in which business was done at the house of messrs slow & bideawhile. when he called the next day, the office seemed to be rather disturbed, and he was shown quickly into mr bideawhile's room. "have you heard this?" said that gentleman, putting a telegram into his hands. it contained tidings of the death of sir louis scatcherd. frank immediately knew that these tidings must be of importance to his father; but he had no idea how vitally they concerned his own more immediate interests. "dr thorne will be up in town on thursday evening after the funeral," said the talkative clerk. "and nothing of course can be done till he comes," said mr bideawhile. and so frank, pondering on the mutability of human affairs, again took his departure. he could do nothing now but wait for dr thorne's arrival, and so he amused himself in the interval by running down to malvern, and treating with miss dunstable in person for the oil of lebanon. he went down on the wednesday, and thus, failed to receive, on the thursday morning, mary's letter, which reached london on that day. he returned, however, on the friday, and then got it; and perhaps it was well for mary's happiness that he had seen miss dunstable in the interval. "i don't care what your mother says," said she, with emphasis. "i don't care for any harry, whether it be harry baker, or old harry himself. you made her a promise, and you are bound to keep it; if not on one day, then on another. what! because you cannot draw back yourself, get out of it by inducing her to do so! aunt de courcy herself could not improve upon that." fortified in this manner, he returned to town on the friday morning, and then got mary's letter. frank also got a note from dr thorne, stating that he had taken up his temporary domicile at the gray's inn coffee-house, so as to be near the lawyers. it has been suggested that the modern english writers of fiction should among them keep a barrister, in order that they may be set right on such legal points as will arise in their little narratives, and thus avoid that exposure of their own ignorance of the laws, which, now, alas! they too often make. the idea is worthy of consideration, and i can only say, that if such an arrangement can be made, and if a counsellor adequately skilful can be found to accept the office, i shall be happy to subscribe my quota; it would be but a modest tribute towards the cost. but as the suggestion has not yet been carried out, and as there is at present no learned gentleman whose duty would induce him to set me right, i can only plead for mercy if i be wrong allotting all sir roger's vast possessions in perpetuity to miss thorne, alleging also, in excuse, that the course of my narrative absolutely demands that she shall be ultimately recognised as sir roger's undoubted heiress. such, after a not immoderate delay, was the opinion expressed to dr thorne by his law advisers; and such, in fact, turned out to be the case. i will leave the matter so, hoping that my very absence of defence may serve to protect me from severe attack. if under such a will as that described as having been made by sir roger, mary would not have been the heiress, that will must have been described wrongly. but it was not quite at once that those tidings made themselves absolutely certain to dr thorne's mind; nor was he able to express any such opinion when he first met frank in london. at that time mary's letter was in frank's pocket; and frank, though his real business appertained much more to the fact of sir louis's death, and the effect that would immediately have on his father's affairs, was much more full of what so much more nearly concerned himself. "i will show it dr thorne himself," said he, "and ask him what he thinks." dr thorne was stretched fast asleep on the comfortless horse-hair sofa in the dingy sitting-room at the gray's inn coffee-house when frank found him. the funeral, and his journey to london, and the lawyers had together conquered his energies, and he lay and snored, with nose upright, while heavy london summer flies settled on his head and face, and robbed his slumbers of half their charms. "i beg your pardon," said he, jumping up as though he had been detected in some disgraceful act. "upon my word, frank, i beg your pardon; but--well, my dear fellow, all well at greshamsbury--eh?" and as he shook himself, he made a lunge at one uncommonly disagreeable fly that had been at him for the last ten minutes. it is hardly necessary to say that he missed his enemy. "i should have been with you before, doctor, but i was down at malvern." "at malvern, eh? ah! so oriel told me. the death of poor sir louis was very sudden--was it not?" "very." "poor fellow--poor fellow! his fate has for some time been past hope. it is a madness, frank; the worst of madness. only think of it--father and son! and such a career as the father had--such a career as the son might have had!" "it has been very quickly run," said frank. "may it be all forgiven him! i sometimes cannot but believe in a special providence. that poor fellow was not able, never would have been able, to make proper use of the means which fortune had given him. i hope they may fall into better hands. there is no use in denying it, his death will be an immense relief to me, and a relief also to your father. all this law business will now, of course, be stopped. as for me, i hope i may never be a trustee again." frank had put his hand four or five times into his breast-pocket, and had as often taken out and put back again mary's letter before he could find himself able to bring dr thorne to the subject. at last there was a lull in the purely legal discussion, caused by the doctor intimating that he supposed frank would now soon return to greshamsbury. "yes; i shall go to-morrow morning." "what! so soon as that? i counted on having you one day in london with me." "no, i shall go to-morrow. i'm not fit for company for any one. nor am i fit for anything. read that, doctor. it's no use putting it off any longer. i must get you to talk this over with me. just read that, and tell me what you think about it. it was written a week ago, when i was there, but somehow i have only got it to-day." and putting the letter into the doctor's hands, he turned away to the window, and looked out among the holborn omnibuses. dr thorne took the letter and read it. mary, after she had written it, had bewailed to herself that the letter was cold; but it had not seemed cold to her lover, nor did it appear so to her uncle. when frank turned round from the window, the doctor's handkerchief was up to his eyes; who, in order to hide the tears that were there, was obliged to go through a rather violent process of blowing his nose. "well," he said, as he gave back the letter to frank. well! what did well mean? was it well? or would it be well were he, frank, to comply with the suggestion made to him by mary? "it is impossible," he said, "that matters should go on like that. think what her sufferings must have been before she wrote that. i am sure she loves me." "i think she does," said the doctor. "and it is out of the question that she should be sacrificed; nor will i consent to sacrifice my own happiness. i am quite willing to work for my bread, and i am sure that i am able. i will not submit to-- doctor, what answer do you think i ought to give to that letter? there can be no person so anxious for her happiness as you are--except myself." and as he asked the question, he again put into the doctor's hand, almost unconsciously, the letter which he had still been holding in his own. the doctor turned it over and over, and then opened it again. "what answer ought i to make to it?" demanded frank, with energy. "you see, frank, i have never interfered in this matter, otherwise than to tell you the whole truth about mary's birth." "oh, but you must interfere: you should say what you think." "circumstanced as you are now--that is, just at the present moment--you could hardly marry immediately." "why not let me take a farm? my father could, at any rate, manage a couple of thousand pounds or so for me to stock it. that would not be asking much. if he could not give it me, i would not scruple to borrow so much elsewhere." and frank bethought him of all miss dunstable's offers. "oh, yes; that could be managed." "then why not marry immediately; say in six months or so? i am not unreasonable; though, heaven knows, i have been kept in suspense long enough. as for her, i am sure she must be suffering frightfully. you know her best, and, therefore, i ask you what answer i ought to make: as for myself, i have made up my own mind; i am not a child, nor will i let them treat me as such." frank, as he spoke, was walking rapidly about the room; and he brought out his different positions, one after the other, with a little pause, while waiting for the doctor's answer. the doctor was sitting, with the letter still in his hands, on the head of the sofa, turning over in his mind the apparent absurdity of frank's desire to borrow two thousand pounds for a farm, when, in all human probability, he might in a few months be in possession of almost any sum he should choose to name. and yet he would not tell him of sir roger's will. "if it should turn out to be all wrong?" said he to himself. "do you wish me to give her up?" said frank, at last. "no. how can i wish it? how can i expect a better match for her? besides, frank, i love no man in the world so well as i do you." "then you will help me?" "what! against your father?" "against! no, not against anybody. but will you tell mary that she has your consent?" "i think she knows that." "but you have never said anything to her." "look here, frank; you ask me for my advice, and i will give it you: go home; though, indeed, i would rather you went anywhere else." "no, i must go home; and i must see her." "very well, go home: as for seeing mary, i think you had better put it off for a fortnight." "quite impossible." "well, that's my advice. but, at any rate, make up your mind to nothing for a fortnight. wait for one fortnight, and i then will tell you plainly--you and her too--what i think you ought to do. at the end of a fortnight come to me, and tell the squire that i will take it as a great kindness if he will come with you. she has suffered, terribly, terribly; and it is necessary that something should be settled. but a fortnight more can make no great difference." "and the letter?" "oh! there's the letter." "but what shall i say? of course i shall write to-night." "tell her to wait a fortnight. and, frank, mind you bring your father with you." frank could draw nothing further from his friend save constant repetitions of this charge to him to wait a fortnight,--just one other fortnight. "well, i will come to you at any rate," said frank; "and, if possible, i will bring my father. but i shall write to mary to-night." on the saturday morning, mary, who was then nearly broken-hearted at her lover's silence, received a short note:-- my own mary, i shall be home to-morrow. i will by no means release you from your promise. of course you will perceive that i only got your letter to-day. your own dearest, frank. p.s.--you will have to call me so hundreds and hundreds of times yet. short as it was, this sufficed mary. it is one thing for a young lady to make prudent, heart-breaking suggestions, but quite another to have them accepted. she did call him dearest frank, even on that one day, almost as often as he had desired her. chapter xlvi our pet fox finds a tail frank returned home, and his immediate business was of course with his father, and with mr gazebee, who was still at greshamsbury. "but who is the heir?" asked mr gazebee, when frank had explained that the death of sir louis rendered unnecessary any immediate legal steps. "upon my word i don't know," said frank. "you saw dr thorne," said the squire. "he must have known." "i never thought of asking him," said frank, naïvely. mr gazebee looked rather solemn. "i wonder at that," said he; "for everything now depends on the hands the property will go into. let me see; i think sir roger had a married sister. was not that so, mr gresham?" and then it occurred for the first time, both to the squire and to his son, that mary thorne was the eldest child of this sister. but it never occurred to either of them that mary could be the baronet's heir. dr thorne came down for a couple of days before the fortnight was over to see his patients, and then returned again to london. but during this short visit he was utterly dumb on the subject of the heir. he called at greshamsbury to see lady arabella, and was even questioned by the squire on the subject. but he obstinately refused to say more than that nothing certain could be known for yet a few days. immediately after his return, frank saw mary, and told her all that had happened. "i cannot understand my uncle," said she, almost trembling as she stood close to him in her own drawing-room. "he usually hates mysteries, and yet now he is so mysterious. he told me, frank--that was after i had written that unfortunate letter--" "unfortunate, indeed! i wonder what you really thought of me when you were writing it?" "if you had heard what your mother said, you would not be surprised. but, after that, uncle said--" "said what?" "he seemed to think--i don't remember what it was he said. but he said, he hoped that things might yet turn out well; and then i was almost sorry that i had written the letter." "of course you were sorry, and so you ought to have been. to say that you would never call me frank again!" "i didn't exactly say that." "i have told him i will wait a fortnight, and so i will. after that, i shall take the matter into my own hands." it may be well supposed that lady arabella was not well pleased to learn that frank and mary had been again together; and, in the agony of her spirit, she did say some ill-natured things before augusta, who had now returned from courcy castle, as to the gross impropriety of mary's conduct. but to frank she said nothing. nor was there much said between frank and beatrice. if everything could really be settled at the end of that fortnight which was to witness the disclosure of the doctor's mystery, there would still be time to arrange that mary should be at the wedding. "it shall be settled then," he said to himself; "and if it be settled, my mother will hardly venture to exclude my affianced bride from the house." it was now the beginning of august, and it wanted yet a month to the oriel wedding. but though he said nothing to his mother or to beatrice, he did say much to his father. in the first place, he showed him mary's letter. "if your heart be not made of stone it will be softened by that," he said. mr gresham's heart was not of stone, and he did acknowledge that the letter was a very sweet letter. but we know how the drop of water hollows stone. it was not by the violence of his appeal that frank succeeded in obtaining from his father a sort of half-consent that he would no longer oppose the match; but by the assiduity with which the appeal was repeated. frank, as we have said, had more stubbornness of will than his father; and so, before the fortnight was over, the squire had been talked over, and promised to attend at the doctor's bidding. "i suppose you had better take the hazlehurst farm," said he to his son, with a sigh. "it joins the park and the home-fields, and i will give you up them also. god knows, i don't care about farming any more--or about anything else either." "don't say that, father." "well, well! but, frank, where will you live? the old house is big enough for us all. but how would mary get on with your mother?" at the end of his fortnight, true to his time, the doctor returned to the village. he was a bad correspondent; and though he had written some short notes to mary, he had said no word to her about his business. it was late in the evening when he got home, and it was understood by frank and the squire that they were to be with him on the following morning. not a word had been said to lady arabella on the subject. it was late in the evening when he got home, and mary waited for him with a heart almost sick with expectation. as soon as the fly had stopped at the little gate she heard his voice, and heard at once that it was quick, joyful, and telling much of inward satisfaction. he had a good-natured word for janet, and called thomas an old blunder-head in a manner that made bridget laugh outright. "he'll have his nose put out of joint some day; won't he?" said the doctor. bridget blushed and laughed again, and made a sign to thomas that he had better look to his face. mary was in his arms before he was yet within the door. "my darling," said he, tenderly kissing her. "you are my own darling yet awhile." "of course i am. am i not always to be so?" "well, well; let me have some tea, at any rate, for i'm in a fever of thirst. they may call that tea at the junction if they will; but if china were sunk under the sea it would make no difference to them." dr thorne always was in a fever of thirst when he got home from the railway, and always made complaint as to the tea at the junction. mary went about her usual work with almost more than her usual alacrity, and so they were soon seated in the drawing-room together. she soon found that his manner was more than ordinarily kind to her; and there was moreover something about him which seemed to make him sparkle with contentment, but he said no word about frank, nor did he make any allusion to the business which had taken him up to town. "have you got through all your work?" she said to him once. "yes, yes; i think all." "and thoroughly?" "yes; thoroughly, i think. but i am very tired, and so are you too, darling, with waiting for me." "oh, no, i am not," said she, as she went on continually filling his cup; "but i am so happy to have you home again. you have been away so much lately." "ah, yes; well i suppose i shall not go away any more now. it will be somebody else's turn now." "uncle, i think you're going to take up writing mystery romances, like mrs radcliffe's." "yes; and i'll begin to-morrow, certainly with-- but, mary, i will not say another word to-night. give me a kiss, dearest, and i'll go." mary did kiss him, and he did go. but as she was still lingering in the room, putting away a book, or a reel of thread, and then sitting down to think what the morrow would bring forth, the doctor again came into the room in his dressing-gown, and with the slippers on. "what, not gone yet?" said he. "no, not yet; i'm going now." "you and i, mary, have always affected a good deal of indifference as to money, and all that sort of thing." "i won't acknowledge that it has been an affectation at all," she answered. "perhaps not; but we have often expressed it, have we not?" "i suppose, uncle, you think that we are like the fox that lost his tail, or rather some unfortunate fox that might be born without one." "i wonder how we should either of us bear it if we found ourselves suddenly rich. it would be a great temptation--a sore temptation. i fear, mary, that when poor people talk disdainfully of money, they often are like your fox, born without a tail. if nature suddenly should give that beast a tail, would he not be prouder of it than all the other foxes in the wood?" "well, i suppose he would. that's the very meaning of the story. but how moral you've become all of a sudden at twelve o'clock at night! instead of being mrs radcliffe, i shall think you're mr Æsop." he took up the article which he had come to seek, and kissing her again on the forehead, went away to his bed-room without further speech. "what can he mean by all this about money?" said mary to herself. "it cannot be that by sir louis's death he will get any of all this property;" and then she began to bethink herself whether, after all, she would wish him to be a rich man. "if he were very rich, he might do something to assist frank; and then--" there never was a fox yet without a tail who would not be delighted to find himself suddenly possessed of that appendage. never; let the untailed fox have been ever so sincere in his advice to his friends! we are all of us, the good and the bad, looking for tails--for one tail, or for more than one; we do so too often by ways that are mean enough: but perhaps there is no tail-seeker more mean, more sneakingly mean than he who looks out to adorn his bare back with a tail by marriage. the doctor was up very early the next morning, long before mary was ready with her teacups. he was up, and in his own study behind the shop, arranging dingy papers, pulling about tin boxes which he had brought down with him from london, and piling on his writing-table one set of documents in one place, and one in another. "i think i understand it all," said he; "but yet i know i shall be bothered. well, i never will be anybody's trustee again. let me see!" and then he sat down, and with bewildered look recapitulated to himself sundry heavy items. "what those shares are really worth i cannot understand, and nobody seems able to tell one. they must make it out among them as best they can. let me see; that's boxall hill, and this is greshamsbury. i'll put a newspaper over greshamsbury, or the squire will know it!" and then, having made his arrangements, he went to his breakfast. i know i am wrong, my much and truly honoured critic, about these title-deeds and documents. but when we've got that barrister in hand, then if i go wrong after that, let the blame be on my own shoulders--or on his. the doctor ate his breakfast quickly; and did not talk much to his niece. but what he did say was of a nature to make her feel strangely happy. she could not analyse her own feelings, or give a reason for her own confidence; but she certainly did feel, and even trust, that something was going to happen after breakfast which would make her more happy than she had been for many months. "janet," said he, looking at his watch, "if mr gresham and mr frank call, show them into my study. what are you going to do with yourself, my dear?" "i don't know, uncle; you are so mysterious, and i am in such a twitter, that i don't know what to do. why is mr gresham coming here--that is, the squire?" "because i have business with him about the scatcherd property. you know that he owed sir louis money. but don't go out, mary. i want you to be in the way if i should have to call for you. you can stay in the drawing-room, can't you?" "oh, yes, uncle; or here." "no, dearest; go into the drawing-room." mary obediently did as she was bid; and there she sat, for the next three hours, wondering, wondering, wondering. during the greater part of that time, however, she well knew that mr gresham, senior, and mr gresham, junior, were both with her uncle, below. at eleven o'clock the doctor's visitors came. he had expected them somewhat earlier, and was beginning to become fidgety. he had so much on his hands that he could not sit still for a moment till he had, at any rate, commenced it. the expected footsteps were at last heard on the gravel-path, and a moment or two afterwards janet ushered the father and son into the room. the squire did not look very well. he was worn and sorrowful, and rather pale. the death of his young creditor might be supposed to have given him some relief from his more pressing cares, but the necessity of yielding to frank's wishes had almost more than balanced this. when a man has daily to reflect that he is poorer than he was the day before, he soon becomes worn and sorrowful. but frank was well; both in health and spirits. he also felt as mary did, that the day was to bring forth something which should end his present troubles; and he could not but be happy to think that he could now tell dr thorne that his father's consent to his marriage had been given. the doctor shook hands with them both, and then they sat down. they were all rather constrained in their manner; and at first it seemed that nothing but little speeches of compliment were to be made. at last, the squire remarked that frank had been talking to him about miss thorne. "about mary?" said the doctor. "yes; about mary," said the squire, correcting himself. it was quite unnecessary that he should use so cold a name as the other, now that he had agreed to the match. "well!" said dr thorne. "i suppose it must be so, doctor. he has set his heart upon it, and god knows, i have nothing to say against her--against her personally. no one could say a word against her. she is a sweet, good girl, excellently brought up; and, as for myself, i have always loved her." frank drew near to his father, and pressed his hand against the squire's arm, by way of giving him, in some sort, a filial embrace for his kindness. "thank you, squire, thank you," said the doctor. "it is very good of you to say that. she is a good girl, and if frank chooses to take her, he will, in my estimation, have made a good choice." "chooses!" said frank, with all the enthusiasm of a lover. the squire felt himself perhaps a little ruffled at the way in which the doctor received his gracious intimation; but he did now show it as he went on. "they cannot, you know, doctor, look to be rich people--" "ah! well, well," interrupted the doctor. "i have told frank so, and i think that you should tell mary. frank means to take some land into his hand, and he must farm it as a farmer. i will endeavour to give him three, or perhaps four hundred a year. but you know better--" "stop, squire; stop a minute. we will talk about that presently. this death of poor sir louis will make a difference." "not permanently," said the squire mournfully. "and now, frank," said the doctor, not attending to the squire's last words, "what do you say?" "what do i say? i say what i said to you in london the other day. i believe mary loves me; indeed, i won't be affected--i know she does. i have loved her--i was going to say always; and, indeed, i almost might say so. my father knows that this is no light fancy of mine. as to what he says about our being poor, why--" the doctor was very arbitrary, and would hear neither of them on this subject. "mr gresham," said he, interrupting frank, "of course i am well aware how very little suited mary is by birth to marry your only son." "it is too late to think about it now," said the squire. "it is not too late for me to justify myself," replied the doctor. "we have long known each other, mr gresham, and you said here the other day, that this is a subject as to which we have been both of one mind. birth and blood are very valuable gifts." "i certainly think so," said the squire; "but one can't have everything." "no; one can't have everything." "if i am satisfied in that matter--" began frank. "stop a moment, my dear boy," said the doctor. "as your father says, one can't have everything. my dear friend--" and he gave his hand to the squire--"do not be angry if i alluded for a moment to the estate. it has grieved me to see it melting away--the old family acres that have so long been the heritage of the greshams." "we need not talk about that now, dr thorne," said frank, in an almost angry tone. "but i must, frank, for one moment, to justify myself. i could not have excused myself in letting mary think that she could become your wife if i had not hoped that good might come of it." "well; good will come of it," said frank, who did not quite understand at what the doctor was driving. "i hope so. i have had much doubt about this, and have been sorely perplexed; but now i do hope so. frank--mr gresham--" and then dr thorne rose from his chair; but was, for a moment, unable to go on with his tale. "we will hope that it is all for the best," said the squire. "i am sure it is," said frank. "yes; i hope it is. i do think it is; i am sure it is, frank. mary will not come to you empty-handed. i wish for your sake--yes, and for hers too--that her birth were equal to her fortune, as her worth is superior to both. mr gresham, this marriage will, at any rate, put an end to your pecuniary embarrassments--unless, indeed, frank should prove a hard creditor. my niece is sir roger scatcherd's heir." the doctor, as soon as he made the announcement, began to employ himself sedulously about the papers on the table; which, in the confusion caused by his own emotion, he transferred hither and thither in such a manner as to upset all his previous arrangements. "and now," he said, "i might as well explain, as well as i can, of what that fortune consists. here, this is--no--" "but, dr thorne," said the squire, now perfectly pale, and almost gasping for breath, "what is it you mean?" "there's not a shadow of doubt," said the doctor. "i've had sir abraham haphazard, and sir rickety giggs, and old neversaye die, and mr snilam; and they are all of the same opinion. there is not the smallest doubt about it. of course, she must administer, and all that; and i'm afraid there'll be a very heavy sum to pay for the tax; for she cannot inherit as a niece, you know. mr snilam pointed that out particularly. but, after all that, there'll be--i've got it down on a piece of paper, somewhere--three grains of blue pill. i'm really so bothered, squire, with all these papers, and all those lawyers, that i don't know whether i'm sitting or standing. there's ready money enough to pay all the tax and all the debts. i know that, at any rate." "you don't mean to say that mary thorne is now possessed of all sir roger scatcherd's wealth?" at last ejaculated the squire. "but that's exactly what i do mean to say," said the doctor, looking up from his papers with a tear in his eye, and a smile on his mouth; "and what is more, squire, you owe her at the present moment exactly--i've got that down too, somewhere, only i am so bothered with all these papers. come, squire, when do you mean to pay her? she's in a great hurry, as young ladies are when they want to get married." the doctor was inclined to joke if possible, so as to carry off, as it were, some of the great weight of obligation which it might seem that he was throwing on the father and son; but the squire was by no means in a state to understand a joke: hardly as yet in a state to comprehend what was so very serious in this matter. "do you mean that mary is the owner of boxall hill?" said he. "indeed, i do," said the doctor; and he was just going to add, "and of greshamsbury also," but he stopped himself. "what, the whole property there?" "that's only a small portion," said the doctor. "i almost wish it were all, for then i should not be so bothered. look here; these are the boxall hill title-deeds; that's the simplest part of the whole affair; and frank may go and settle himself there to-morrow if he pleases." "stop a moment, dr thorne," said frank. these were the only words which he had yet uttered since the tidings had been conveyed to him. "and these, squire, are the greshamsbury papers:" and the doctor, with considerable ceremony, withdrew the covering newspapers. "look at them; there they all are once again. when i suggested to mr snilam that i supposed they might now all go back to the greshamsbury muniment room, i thought he would have fainted. as i cannot return them to you, you will have to wait till frank shall give them up." "but, dr thorne," said frank. "well, my boy." "does mary know all about this?" "not a word of it. i mean that you shall tell her." "perhaps, under such very altered circumstances--" "eh?" "the change is so great and so sudden, so immense in its effects, that mary may perhaps wish--" "wish! wish what? wish not to be told of it at all?" "i shall not think of holding her to her engagement--that is, if--i mean to say, she should have time at any rate for consideration." "oh, i understand," said the doctor. "she shall have time for consideration. how much shall we give her, squire? three minutes? go up to her frank: she is in the drawing-room." frank went to the door, and then hesitated, and returned. "i could not do it," said he. "i don't think that i understand it all yet. i am so bewildered that i could not tell her;" and he sat down at the table, and began to sob with emotion. "and she knows nothing of it?" said the squire. "not a word. i thought that i would keep the pleasure of telling her for frank." "she should not be left in suspense," said the squire. "come, frank, go up to her," again urged the doctor. "you've been ready enough with your visits when you knew that you ought to stay away." "i cannot do it," said frank, after a pause of some moments; "nor is it right that i should. it would be taking advantage of her." "go to her yourself, doctor; it is you that should do it," said the squire. after some further slight delay, the doctor got up, and did go upstairs. he, even, was half afraid of the task. "it must be done," he said to himself, as his heavy steps mounted the stairs. "but how to tell it?" when he entered, mary was standing half-way up the room, as though she had risen to meet him. her face was troubled, and her eyes were almost wild. the emotion, the hopes, the fears of that morning had almost been too much for her. she had heard the murmuring of the voices in the room below, and had known that one of them was that of her lover. whether that discussion was to be for her good or ill she did not know; but she felt that further suspense would almost kill her. "i could wait for years," she said to herself, "if i did but know. if i lost him, i suppose i should bear it, if i did but know."--well; she was going to know. her uncle met her in the middle of the room. his face was serious, though not sad; too serious to confirm her hopes at that moment of doubt. "what is it, uncle?" she said, taking one of his hands between both of her own. "what is it? tell me." and as she looked up into his face with her wild eyes, she almost frightened him. "mary," he said gravely, "you have heard much, i know, of sir roger scatcherd's great fortune." "yes, yes, yes!" "now that poor sir louis is dead--" "well, uncle, well?" "it has been left--" "to frank! to mr gresham, to the squire!" exclaimed mary, who felt, with an agony of doubt, that this sudden accession of immense wealth might separate her still further from her lover. "no, mary, not to the greshams; but to yourself." "to me!" she cried, and putting both her hands to her forehead, she seemed to be holding her temples together. "to me!" "yes, mary; it is all your own now. to do as you like best with it all--all. may god, in his mercy, enable you to bear the burden, and lighten for you the temptation!" she had so far moved as to find the nearest chair, and there she was now seated, staring at her uncle with fixed eyes. "uncle," she said, "what does it mean?" then he came, and sitting beside her, he explained, as best he could, the story of her birth, and her kinship with the scatcherds. "and where is he, uncle?" she said. "why does he not come to me?" "i wanted him to come, but he refused. they are both there now, the father and son; shall i fetch them?" "fetch them! whom? the squire? no, uncle; but may we go to them?" "surely, mary." "but, uncle--" "yes, dearest." "is it true? are you sure? for his sake, you know; not for my own. the squire, you know--oh, uncle! i cannot go." "they shall come to you." "no--no. i have gone to him such hundreds of times; i will never allow that he shall be sent to me. but, uncle, is it true?" the doctor, as he went downstairs, muttered something about sir abraham haphazard, and sir rickety giggs; but these great names were much thrown away upon poor mary. the doctor entered the room first, and the heiress followed him with downcast eyes and timid steps. she was at first afraid to advance, but when she did look up, and saw frank standing alone by the window, her lover restored her courage, and rushing up to him, she threw herself into his arms. "oh, frank; my own frank! my own frank! we shall never be separated now." chapter xlvii how the bride was received, and who were asked to the wedding and thus after all did frank perform his great duty; he did marry money; or rather, as the wedding has not yet taken place, and is, indeed, as yet hardly talked of, we should more properly say that he had engaged himself to marry money. and then, such a quantity of money! the scatcherd wealth greatly exceeded the dunstable wealth; so that our hero may be looked on as having performed his duties in a manner deserving the very highest commendation from all classes of the de courcy connexion. and he received it. but that was nothing. that _he_ should be fêted by the de courcys and greshams, now that he was about to do his duty by his family in so exemplary a manner: that he should be patted on the back, now that he no longer meditated that vile crime which had been so abhorrent to his mother's soul; this was only natural; this is hardly worthy of remark. but there was another to be fêted, another person to be made a personage, another blessed human mortal about to do her duty by the family of gresham in a manner that deserved, and should receive, lady arabella's warmest caresses. dear mary! it was, indeed, not singular that she should be prepared to act so well, seeing that in early youth she had had the advantage of an education in the greshamsbury nursery; but not on that account was it the less fitting that her virtue should be acknowledged, eulogised, nay, all but worshipped. how the party at the doctor's got itself broken up, i am not prepared to say. frank, i know, stayed and dined there, and his poor mother, who would not retire to rest till she had kissed him, and blessed him, and thanked him for all he was doing for the family, was kept waiting in her dressing-room till a very unreasonable hour of the night. it was the squire who brought the news up to the house. "arabella," he said, in a low, but somewhat solemn voice, "you will be surprised at the news i bring you. mary thorne is the heiress to all the scatcherd property!" "oh, heavens! mr gresham." "yes, indeed," continued the squire. "so it is; it is very, very--" but lady arabella had fainted. she was a woman who generally had her feelings and her emotions much under her own control; but what she now heard was too much for her. when she came to her senses, the first words that escaped her lips were, "dear mary!" but the household had to sleep on the news before it could be fully realised. the squire was not by nature a mercenary man. if i have at all succeeded in putting his character before the reader, he will be recognised as one not over attached to money for money's sake. but things had gone so hard with him, the world had become so rough, so ungracious, so full of thorns, the want of means had become an evil so keenly felt in every hour, that it cannot be wondered at that his dreams that night should be of a golden elysium. the wealth was not coming to him. true. but his chief sorrow had been for his son. now that son would be his only creditor. it was as though mountains of marble had been taken from off his bosom. but lady arabella's dreams flew away at once into the seventh heaven. sordid as they certainly were, they were not absolutely selfish. frank would now certainly be the first commoner in barsetshire; of course he would represent the county; of course there would be the house in town; it wouldn't be her house, but she was contented that the grandeur should be that of her child. he would have heaven knows what to spend per annum. and that it should come through mary thorne! what a blessing she had allowed mary to be brought into the greshamsbury nursery! dear mary! "she will of course be one now," said beatrice to her sister. with her, at the present moment, "one" of course meant one of the bevy that was to attend her at the altar. "oh dear! how nice! i shan't know what to say to her to-morrow. but i know one thing." "what is that?" asked augusta. "she will be as mild and as meek as a little dove. if she and the doctor had lost every shilling in the world, she would have been as proud as an eagle." it must be acknowledged that beatrice had had the wit to read mary's character aright. but augusta was not quite pleased with the whole affair. not that she begrudged her brother his luck, or mary her happiness. but her ideas of right and wrong--perhaps we should rather say lady amelia's ideas--would not be fairly carried out. "after all, beatrice, this does not alter her birth. i know it is useless saying anything to frank." "why, you wouldn't break both their hearts now?" "i don't want to break their hearts, certainly. but there are those who put their dearest and warmest feelings under restraint rather than deviate from what they know to be proper." poor augusta! she was the stern professor of the order of this philosophy; the last in the family who practised with unflinching courage its cruel behests; the last, always excepting the lady amelia. and how slept frank that night? with him, at least, let us hope, nay, let us say boldly, that his happiest thoughts were not of the wealth which he was to acquire. but yet it would be something to restore boxall hill to greshamsbury; something to give back to his father those rumpled vellum documents, since the departure of which the squire had never had a happy day; nay, something to come forth again to his friends as a gay, young country squire, instead of as a farmer, clod-compelling for his bread. we would not have him thought to be better than he was, nor would we wish him to make him of other stuff than nature generally uses. his heart did exult at mary's wealth; but it leaped higher still when he thought of purer joys. and what shall we say of mary's dreams? with her, it was altogether what she should give, not at all what she should get. frank had loved her so truly when she was so poor, such an utter castaway; frank, who had ever been the heir of greshamsbury! frank, who with his beauty, and spirit, and his talents might have won the smiles of the richest, the grandest, the noblest! what lady's heart would not have rejoiced to be allowed to love her frank? but he had been true to her through everything. ah! how often she thought of that hour, when suddenly appearing before her, he had strained her to his breast, just as she had resolved how best to bear the death-like chill of his supposed estrangements! she was always thinking of that time. she fed her love by recurring over and over to the altered feeling of that moment. any now she could pay him for his goodness. pay him! no, that would be a base word, a base thought. her payment must be made, if god would so grant it, in many, many years to come. but her store, such as it was, should be emptied into his lap. it was soothing to her pride that she would not hurt him by her love, that she would bring no injury to the old house. "dear, dear frank" she murmured, as her waking dreams, conquered at last by sleep, gave way to those of the fairy world. but she thought not only of frank; dreamed not only of him. what had he not done for her, that uncle of hers, who had been more loving to her than any father! how was he, too, to be paid? paid, indeed! love can only be paid in its own coin: it knows of no other legal tender. well, if her home was to be greshamsbury, at any rate she would not be separated from him. what the doctor dreamed of that, neither he or any one ever knew. "why, uncle, i think you've been asleep," said mary to him that evening as he moved for a moment uneasily on the sofa. he had been asleep for the last three-quarters of an hour;--but frank, his guest, had felt no offence. "no, i've not been exactly asleep," said he; "but i'm very tired. i wouldn't do it all again, frank, to double the money. you haven't got any more tea, have you, mary?" on the following morning, beatrice was of course with her friend. there was no awkwardness between them in meeting. beatrice had loved her when she was poor, and though they had not lately thought alike on one very important subject, mary was too gracious to impute that to beatrice as a crime. "you will be one now, mary; of course you will." "if lady arabella will let me come." "oh, mary; let you! do you remember what you said once about coming, and being near me? i have so often thought of it. and now, mary, i must tell you about caleb;" and the young lady settled herself on the sofa, so as to have a comfortable long talk. beatrice had been quite right. mary was as meek with her, and as mild as a dove. and then patience oriel came. "my fine, young, darling, magnificent, overgrown heiress," said patience, embracing her. "my breath deserted me, and i was nearly stunned when i heard of it. how small we shall all be, my dear! i am quite prepared to toady to you immensely; but pray be a little gracious to me, for the sake of auld lang syne." mary gave a long, long kiss. "yes, for auld lang syne, patience; when you took me away under your wing to richmond." patience also had loved her when she was in her trouble, and that love, too, should never be forgotten. but the great difficulty was lady arabella's first meeting with her. "i think i'll go down to her after breakfast," said her ladyship to beatrice, as the two were talking over the matter while the mother was finishing her toilet. "i am sure she will come up if you like it, mamma." "she is entitled to every courtesy--as frank's accepted bride, you know," said lady arabella. "i would not for worlds fail in any respect to her for his sake." "he will be glad enough for her to come, i am sure," said beatrice. "i was talking with caleb this morning, and he says--" the matter was of importance, and lady arabella gave it her most mature consideration. the manner of receiving into one's family an heiress whose wealth is to cure all one's difficulties, disperse all one's troubles, give a balm to all the wounds of misfortune, must, under any circumstances, be worthy of much care. but when that heiress has been already treated as mary had been treated! "i must see her, at any rate, before i go to courcy." said lady arabella. "are you going to courcy, mamma?" "oh, certainly; yes, i must see my sister-in-law now. you don't seem to realise the importance, my dear, of frank's marriage. he will be in a great hurry about it, and, indeed, i cannot blame him. i expect that they will all come here." "who, mamma? the de courcys?" "yes, of course. i shall be very much surprised if the earl does not come now. and i must consult my sister-in-law as to asking the duke of omnium." poor mary! "and i think it will perhaps be better," continued lady arabella, "that we should have a larger party than we intended at your affair. the countess, i'm sure, would come now. we couldn't put it off for ten days; could we, dear?" "put it off ten days!" "yes; it would be convenient." "i don't think mr oriel would like that at all, mamma. you know he has made all his arrangements for his sundays--" pshaw! the idea of the parson's sundays being allowed to have any bearing on such a matter as frank's wedding would now become! why, they would have--how much? between twelve and fourteen thousand a year! lady arabella, who had made her calculations a dozen times during the night, had never found it to be much less than the larger sum. mr oriel's sundays, indeed! after much doubt, lady arabella acceded to her daughter's suggestion, that mary should be received at greshamsbury instead of being called on at the doctor's house. "if you think she won't mind the coming up first," said her ladyship. "i certainly could receive her better here. i should be more--more--more able, you know, to express what i feel. we had better go into the big drawing-room to-day, beatrice. will you remember to tell mrs richards?" "oh, certainly," was mary's answer when beatrice, with a voice a little trembling, proposed to her to walk up to the house. "certainly i will, if lady arabella will receive me;--only one thing, trichy." "what's that, dearest?" "frank will think that i come after him." "never mind what he thinks. to tell you the truth, mary, i often call upon patience for the sake of finding caleb. that's all fair now, you know." mary very quietly put on her straw bonnet, and said she was ready to go up to the house. beatrice was a little fluttered, and showed it. mary was, perhaps, a good deal fluttered, but she did not show it. she had thought a good deal of her first interview with lady arabella, of her first return to the house; but she had resolved to carry herself as though the matter were easy to her. she would not allow it to be seen that she felt that she brought with her to greshamsbury, comfort, ease, and renewed opulence. so she put on her straw bonnet and walked up with beatrice. everybody about the place had already heard the news. the old woman at the lodge curtsied low to her; the gardener, who was mowing the lawn; the butler, who opened the front door--he must have been watching mary's approach--had manifestly put on a clean white neckcloth for the occasion. "god bless you once more, miss thorne!" said the old man, in a half-whisper. mary was somewhat troubled, for everything seemed, in a manner, to bow down before her. and why should not everything bow down before her, seeing that she was in truth the owner of greshamsbury? and then a servant in livery would open the big drawing-room door. this rather upset both mary and beatrice. it became almost impossible for mary to enter the room just as she would have done two years ago; but she got through the difficulty with much self-control. "mamma, here's mary," said beatrice. nor was lady arabella quite mistress of herself, although she had studied minutely how to bear herself. "oh, mary, my dear mary; what can i say to you?" and then, with a handkerchief to her eyes, she ran forward and hid her face on miss thorne's shoulders. "what can i say--can you forgive me my anxiety for my son?" "how do you do, lady arabella?" said mary. "my daughter! my child! my frank's own bride! oh, mary! oh, my child! if i have seemed unkind to you, it has been through love to him." "all these things are over now," said mary. "mr gresham told me yesterday that i should be received as frank's future wife; and so, you see, i have come." and then she slipped through lady arabella's arms, and sat down, meekly down, on a chair. in five minutes she had escaped with beatrice into the school-room, and was kissing the children, and turning over the new trousseau. they were, however, soon interrupted, and there was, perhaps, some other kissing besides that of the children. "you have no business in here at all, frank," said beatrice. "has he, mary?" "none in the world, i should think." "see what he has done to my poplin; i hope you won't have your things treated so cruelly. he'll be careful enough about them." "is oriel a good hand at packing up finery--eh, beatrice?" asked frank. "he is, at any rate, too well-behaved to spoil it." thus mary was again made at home in the household of greshamsbury. lady arabella did not carry out her little plan of delaying the oriel wedding. her idea had been to add some grandeur to it, in order to make it a more fitting precursor of that other greater wedding which was to follow so soon in its wake. but this, with the assistance of the countess, she found herself able to do without interfering with poor mr oriel's sunday arrangements. the countess herself, with the ladies alexandrina and margaretta, now promised to come, even to this first affair; and for the other, the whole de courcy family would turn out, count and countess, lords and ladies, honourable georges and honourable johns. what honour, indeed, could be too great to show to a bride who had fourteen thousand a year in her own right, or to a cousin who had done his duty by securing such a bride to himself! "if the duke be in the country, i am sure he will be happy to come," said the countess. "of course, he will be talking to frank about politics. i suppose the squire won't expect frank to belong to the old school now." "frank, of course, will judge for himself, rosina;--with his position, you know!" and so things were settled at courcy castle. and then beatrice was wedded and carried off to the lakes. mary, as she had promised, did stand near her; but not exactly in the gingham frock of which she had once spoken. she wore on that occasion-- but it will be too much, perhaps, to tell the reader what she wore as beatrice's bridesmaid, seeing that a couple of pages, at least, must be devoted to her marriage-dress, and seeing, also, that we have only a few pages to finish everything; the list of visitors, the marriage settlements, the dress, and all included. it was in vain that mary endeavoured to repress lady arabella's ardour for grand doings. after all, she was to be married from the doctor's house, and not from greshamsbury, and it was the doctor who should have invited the guests; but, in this matter, he did not choose to oppose her ladyship's spirit, and she had it all her own way. "what can i do?" said he to mary. "i have been contradicting her in everything for the last two years. the least we can do is to let her have her own way now in a trifle like this." but there was one point on which mary would let nobody have his or her own way; on which the way to be taken was very manifestly to be her own. this was touching the marriage settlements. it must not be supposed, that if beatrice were married on a tuesday, mary could be married on the tuesday week following. ladies with twelve thousand a year cannot be disposed of in that way: and bridegrooms who do their duty by marrying money often have to be kept waiting. it was spring, the early spring, before frank was made altogether a happy man. but a word about the settlements. on this subject the doctor thought he would have been driven mad. messrs slow & bideawhile, as the lawyers of the greshamsbury family--it will be understood that mr gazebee's law business was of quite a different nature, and his work, as regarded greshamsbury, was now nearly over--messrs slow & bideawhile declared that it would never do for them to undertake alone to draw out the settlements. an heiress, such as mary, must have lawyers of her own; half a dozen at least, according to the apparent opinion of messrs slow & bideawhile. and so the doctor had to go to other lawyers, and they had again to consult sir abraham, and mr snilam on a dozen different heads. if frank became tenant in tail, in right of his wife, but under his father, would he be able to grant leases for more than twenty-one years? and, if so, to whom would the right of trover belong? as to flotsam and jetsam--there was a little property, mr critic, on the sea-shore--that was a matter that had to be left unsettled at the last. such points as these do take a long time to consider. all this bewildered the doctor sadly, and frank himself began to make accusations that he was to be done out of his wife altogether. but, as we have said, there was one point on which mary would have her own way. the lawyers might tie up as they would on her behalf all the money, and shares, and mortgages which had belonged to the late sir roger, with this exception, all that had ever appertained to greshamsbury should belong to greshamsbury again; not in perspective, not to her children, or to her children's children, but at once. frank should be lord of boxall hill in his own right; and as to those other _liens_ on greshamsbury, let frank manage that with his father as he might think fit. she would only trouble herself to see that he was empowered to do as he did think fit. "but," argued the ancient, respectable family attorney to the doctor, "that amounts to two-thirds of the whole estate. two-thirds, dr thorne! it is preposterous; i should almost say impossible." and the scanty hairs on the poor man's head almost stood on end as he thought of the outrageous manner in which the heiress prepared to sacrifice herself. "it will all be the same in the end," said the doctor, trying to make things smooth. "of course, their joint object will be to put the greshamsbury property together again." "but, my dear sir,"--and then, for twenty minutes, the lawyer went on proving that it would by no means be the same thing; but, nevertheless, mary thorne did have her own way. in the course of the winter, lady de courcy tried very hard to induce the heiress to visit courcy castle, and this request was so backed by lady arabella, that the doctor said he thought she might as well go there for three or four days. but here, again, mary was obstinate. "i don't see it at all," she said. "if you make a point of it, or frank, or mr gresham, i will go; but i can't see any possible reason." the doctor, when so appealed to, would not absolutely say that he made a point of it, and mary was tolerably safe as regarded frank or the squire. if she went, frank would be expected to go, and frank disliked courcy castle almost more than ever. his aunt was now more than civil to him, and, when they were together, never ceased to compliment him on the desirable way in which he had done his duty by his family. and soon after christmas a visitor came to mary, and stayed a fortnight with her: one whom neither she nor the doctor had expected, and of whom they had not much more than heard. this was the famous miss dunstable. "birds of a feather flock together," said mrs rantaway--late miss gushing--when she heard of the visit. "the railway man's niece--if you can call her a niece--and the quack's daughter will do very well together, no doubt." "at any rate, they can count their money-bags," said mrs umbleby. and in fact, mary and miss dunstable did get on very well together; and miss dunstable made herself quite happy at greshamsbury, although some people--including mrs rantaway--contrived to spread a report, that dr thorne, jealous of mary's money, was going to marry her. "i shall certainly come and see you turned off," said miss dunstable, taking leave of her new friend. miss dunstable, it must be acknowledged, was a little too fond of slang; but then, a lady with her fortune, and of her age, may be fond of almost whatever she pleases. and so by degrees the winter wore away--very slowly to frank, as he declared often enough; and slowly, perhaps, to mary also, though she did not say so. the winter wore away, and the chill, bitter, windy, early spring came round. the comic almanacs give us dreadful pictures of january and february; but, in truth, the months which should be made to look gloomy in england are march and april. let no man boast himself that he has got through the perils of winter till at least the seventh of may. it was early in april, however, that the great doings were to be done at greshamsbury. not exactly on the first. it may be presumed, that in spite of the practical, common-sense spirit of the age, very few people do choose to have themselves united on that day. but some day in the first week of that month was fixed for the ceremony, and from the end of february all through march, lady arabella worked and strove in a manner that entitled her to profound admiration. it was at last settled that the breakfast should be held in the large dining-room at greshamsbury. there was a difficulty about it which taxed lady arabella to the utmost, for, in making the proposition, she could not but seem to be throwing some slight on the house in which the heiress had lived. but when the affair was once opened to mary, it was astonishing how easy it became. "of course," said mary, "all the rooms in our house would not hold half the people you are talking about--if they must come." lady arabella looked so beseechingly, nay, so piteously, that mary had not another word to say. it was evident that they must all come: the de courcys to the fifth generation; the duke of omnium himself, and others in concatenation accordingly. "but will your uncle be angry if we have the breakfast up here? he has been so very handsome to frank, that i wouldn't make him angry for all the world." "if you don't tell him anything about it, lady arabella, he'll think that it is all done properly. he will never know, if he's not told, that he ought to give the breakfast, and not you." "won't he, my dear?" and lady arabella looked her admiration for this very talented suggestion. and so that matter was arranged. the doctor never knew, till mary told him some year or so afterwards, that he had been remiss in any part of his duty. and who was asked to the wedding? in the first place, we have said that the duke of omnium was there. this was, in fact, the one circumstance that made this wedding so superior to any other that had ever taken place in that neighbourhood. the duke of omnium never went anywhere; and yet he went to mary's wedding! and mary, when the ceremony was over, absolutely found herself kissed by a duke. "dearest mary!" exclaimed lady arabella, in her ecstasy of joy, when she saw the honour that was done to her daughter-in-law. "i hope we shall induce you to come to gatherum castle soon," said the duke to frank. "i shall be having a few friends there in the autumn. let me see; i declare, i have not seen you since you were good enough to come to my collection. ha! ha! ha! it wasn't bad fun, was it?" frank was not very cordial with his answer. he had not quite reconciled himself to the difference of his position. when he was treated as one of the "collection" at gatherum castle, he had not married money. it would be vain to enumerate all the de courcys that were there. there was the earl, looking very gracious, and talking to the squire about the county. and there was lord porlock, looking very ungracious, and not talking to anybody about anything. and there was the countess, who for the last week past had done nothing but pat frank on the back whenever she could catch him. and there were the ladies alexandrina, margaretta, and selina, smiling at everybody. and the honourable george, talking in whispers to frank about his widow--"not such a catch as yours, you know; but something extremely snug;--and have it all my own way, too, old fellow, or i shan't come to the scratch." and the honourable john prepared to toady frank about his string of hunters; and the lady amelia, by herself, not quite contented with these democratic nuptials--"after all, she is so absolutely nobody; absolutely, absolutely," she said confidentially to augusta, shaking her head. but before lady amelia had left greshamsbury, augusta was quite at a loss to understand how there could be need for so much conversation between her cousin and mr mortimer gazebee. and there were many more de courcys, whom to enumerate would be much too long. and the bishop of the diocese, and mrs proudie were there. a hint had even been given, that his lordship would himself condescend to perform the ceremony, if this should be wished; but that work had already been anticipated by a very old friend of the greshams. archdeacon grantly, the rector of plumstead episcopi, had long since undertaken this part of the business; and the knot was eventually tied by the joint efforts of himself and mr oriel. mrs grantly came with him, and so did mrs grantly's sister, the new dean's wife. the dean himself was at the time unfortunately absent at oxford. and all the bakers and the jacksons were there. the last time they had all met together under the squire's roof, was on the occasion of frank's coming of age. the present gala doings were carried on in a very different spirit. that had been a very poor affair, but this was worthy of the best days of greshamsbury. occasion also had been taken of this happy moment to make up, or rather to get rid of the last shreds of the last feud that had so long separated dr thorne from his own relatives. the thornes of ullathorne had made many overtures in a covert way. but our doctor had contrived to reject them. "they would not receive mary as their cousin," said he, "and i will go nowhere that she cannot go." but now all this was altered. mrs gresham would certainly be received in any house in the county. and thus, mr thorne of ullathorne, an amiable, popular old bachelor, came to the wedding; and so did his maiden sister, miss monica thorne, than whose no kinder heart glowed through all barsetshire. "my dear," said she to mary, kissing her, and offering her some little tribute, "i am very glad to make your acquaintance; very. it was not her fault," she added, speaking to herself. "and now that she will be a gresham, that need not be any longer thought of." nevertheless, could miss thorne have spoken her inward thoughts out loud, she would have declared, that frank would have done better to have borne his poverty than marry wealth without blood. but then, there are but few so stanch as miss thorne; perhaps none in that county--always excepting lady amelia. and miss dunstable, also, was a bridesmaid. "oh, no" said she, when asked; "you should have them young and pretty." but she gave way when she found that mary did not flatter her by telling her that she was either the one or the other. "the truth is," said miss dunstable, "i have always been a little in love with your frank, and so i shall do it for his sake." there were but four: the other two were the gresham twins. lady arabella exerted herself greatly in framing hints to induce mary to ask some of the de courcy ladies to do her so much honour; but on this head mary would please herself. "rank," said she to beatrice, with a curl on her lip, "has its drawbacks--and must put up with them." and now i find that i have not one page--not half a page--for the wedding-dress. but what matters? will it not be all found written in the columns of the _morning post_? and thus frank married money, and became a great man. let us hope that he will be a happy man. as the time of the story has been brought down so near to the present era, it is not practicable for the novelist to tell much of his future career. when i last heard from barsetshire, it seemed to be quite settled that he is to take the place of one of the old members at the next election; and they say, also, that there is no chance of any opposition. i have heard, too, that there have been many very private consultations between him and various gentlemen of the county, with reference to the hunt; and the general feeling is said to be that the hounds should go to boxall hill. at boxall hill the young people established themselves on their return from the continent. and that reminds me that one word must be said of lady scatcherd. "you will always stay here with us," said mary to her, caressing her ladyship's rough hand, and looking kindly into that kind face. but lady scatcherd would not consent to this. "i will come and see you sometimes, and then i shall enjoy myself. yes, i will come and see you, and my own dear boy." the affair was ended by her taking mrs opie green's cottage, in order that she might be near the doctor; mrs opie green having married--somebody. and of whom else must we say a word? patience, also, of course, got a husband--or will do so. dear patience! it would be a thousand pities that so good a wife should be lost to the world. whether miss dunstable will ever be married, or augusta gresham, or mr moffat, or any of the tribe of the de courcys--except lady amelia--i cannot say. they have all of them still their future before them. that bridget was married to thomas--that i am able to assert; for i know that janet was much put out by their joint desertion. lady arabella has not yet lost her admiration for mary, and mary, in return, behaves admirably. another event is expected, and her ladyship is almost as anxious about that as she was about the wedding. "a matter, you know, of such importance in the county!" she whispered to lady de courcy. nothing can be more happy than the intercourse between the squire and his son. what their exact arrangements are, we need not specially inquire; but the demon of pecuniary embarrassment has lifted his black wings from the demesne of greshamsbury. and now we have but one word left for the doctor. "if you don't come and dine with me," said the squire to him, when they found themselves both deserted, "mind i shall come and dine with you." and on this principle they seem to act. dr thorne continues to extend his practice, to the great disgust of dr fillgrave; and when mary suggested to him that he should retire, he almost boxed her ears. he knows the way, however, to boxall hill as well as he ever did, and is willing to acknowledge, that the tea there is almost as good as it ever was at greshamsbury. none the twa miss dawsons by margaret murray robertson published by hodder and stoughton, paternoster row, london. this edition dated . the twa miss dawsons, by margaret murray robertson. ________________________________________________________________________ ________________________________________________________________________ the twa miss dawsons, by margaret murray robertson. chapter one. "auld miss jean." saughleas was not a large estate, nor were the dawsons gentlefolks, in the sense generally accepted in the countryside. it was acknowledged that both the mother and the wife of the new laird had had good blood in their veins; but george dawson himself, had been, and, in a sense, still was, a merchant in the high-street of portie. he was banker and ship-owner as well, and valued the reputation which he had acquired as a business man, far more than he would ever be likely to value any honour paid to him as the laird of saughleas. he had gotten his land honestly, as he had gotten all else that he possessed. he had taken no advantage of the necessities of the last owner, who had been in his power, in a certain sense, but had paid him the full value of the place; and not a landed proprietor among them all had more pride in the name and fame of his ancestry, than he had in the feet that he had been the maker of his own fortune, and that no man, speaking truth, could accuse him, in the making of it, of doing a single mean or dishonest deed. his mother "had come o' gentle bluid," but his father had been first a common sailor and then the mate of a whaling ship that sailed many a time from the little scottish east coast harbour of portie, and which at last sailed away never more to return. his widow lived through years of heart-sickness that must have killed her sooner than it did, but that her two fatherless bairns needed her care. they were but bairns when she died, with no one to look after them but a neighbour who had been always kind to them. the usual lot awaited them, it was thought. the laddie must take to the sea, as most of the laddies in portie did, and the lassie must get "bit and sup" here and there among the neighbours, till she should be able to do for herself as a servant in some house in the town. but it happened quite otherwise. whatever the dawsons had been in old times, there was good stuff in them now, it was said. for "wee jean dawson," as she was called, with few words spoken, made it clear that she was to make her own way in the world. she was barely fifteen at that time, and her brother was two years younger, and if she had told her plans and wishes, she would have been laughed at, and possibly effectually hindered from trying to carry them out. but she said nothing. the rent of the two rooms which the children and their mother had occupied, was paid to the end of the year, and the little stock of pins and needles, and small wares generally, by the sale of which the mother had helped out the "white seam," her chief dependence, was not exhausted, and jean, declining the invitation of their neighbour to take up their abode with her in the mean time, quietly declared her intention of "biding where she was for a while," and no one had the right to say her nay. before the time to pay another quarter's rent came round, it was ready, and jean had proved her right to make her own plans, having shown herself capable of carrying them out when they were made. how she managed, the neighbours could not tell, and they watched her with doubtful wonder. but it was not so surprising as it seemed to them. she was doing little more than she had been doing during the last two years of her mother's life under her mother's guidance. she had bought and sold, she had toiled late and early at the white seam, when her mother was past doing much, and had made herself busy with various trifles in cotton and wool, with crochet-needle and knitting-pins, when white seam failed them, and that was just what she was doing now. and she went on bravely. she accepted offered favours gratefully, but sooner or later, she always repaid them. if bell ray, the fishwife, left a fresh haddock at the door as she passed, she was sure to carry with her some other day a pair of little socks, or a plaything for the bairnie at home. and if mrs sims, next door, kindly took the heaviest part of the girl's washing into her hands, she got in return her sunday "mutch" starched and ironed and its broad borders set up in a way that excited the admiring wonder of all. the two rooms were models of neatness as they had always been. george was comfortably clothed, at least he was never ragged, he very rarely went hungry, and he went to the school as regularly, and to as good purpose, as the banker's son, or the minister's son, and was as obedient to jean as he had been to his mother in the old days. jean was neat, and more than neat in her black print frock and holland apron--it cannot be said of the first half year that she was never hungry. for many a time the portion set aside for the dinner of two was only enough for one, and it cost jean less pain to go without her share than to let the growing laddie be stinted of his needed food. but after the first half year, they had enough, and some to spare to those who had less, and much as jean sometimes needed money to add to her stock in trade, she had been too wisely taught by her mother, not to know that a sufficient quantity of simple and wholesome food was absolutely necessary for health of body and of mind, and therefore necessary for success in life. of course she was successful. in after years, when she used to go back to this time in her thoughts and in her talk, she attributed her success in business, chiefly to two things--her silence, and her determination never to fall into debt. to the talk which "neebour folk" fell into in her little shop, she listened, but she rarely added her word; and she so ordered matters that it never became, as it very easily might have been, a centre of gossip and a cause of trouble in the neighbourhood. as to falling into debt, her determination against it hindered her for a while; but when the "big" merchants of portie came to know her and her ways, they gave her the benefit of the lowest prices in sales, so trifling to them, but so important to her. they helped her with advice, and put some advantages as to fashions and fabrics in her way; and best of all, when geordie's schooling was supposed to be at an end, one of them took him into his employment in a humble capacity indeed, but his rise to the place of honour behind the counter, and then to the book-keeper's desk, was more rapid than generally happens in such a case as his. before jean was seven and twenty years of age, she and her brother were equal partners in a fairly prosperous business established by her in the high-street. after this fortune was secure in the course of time. they were equal partners for a good many years, but gradually, as their resources increased, and new ways of employing energy and capital were open to the brother, this was changed. with her usual prudence, jean refused to engage in risks which she had not sufficient knowledge to guide or strength to control, and a change was made in their business relations, and each continued to prosper in the chosen way. as time went on, jean ruled well her brother's home and helped him in many ways; but she did not, as had been predicted of her, grow into a mere hard business woman--seeing nothing so clearly as the main chance, and loving money itself better than the comfort that money may bring. it was they who knew her least, or who knew her only in her capacity of business woman, who feared this for her. the people who had watched and wondered at her early efforts and success, the neighbours, and the fisher wives who had exchanged kindly gifts with her in these days, did not fear it, nor the "puir bodies" in the back streets and lanes of portie, who enjoyed the pickles o' tea and snuff, and the bits of flannel that found their way to them from her hands, nor the mothers of fatherless bairns who "won through sair straits," and got the better in many a "sair fecht" with poverty and trouble by her help. her silence and reserve, even to her friends--and she had many--looked to those who were not specially her friends, like the coldness and hardness that strengthens with the years. it was by deeds rather than words that her strong and tender nature found expression, and those who needed her help most, knew her best and trusted her most fully, and even in the busiest time of her life, she saw enough of other people's cares and sorrows, to remind her that there was something more needed in life than money, or the good things that money could bring. and, when she ought to have been past "the like o' that," as she said to herself, for she was not far from thirty, the wonderful gift of love was given to her. and then, through her love, came the gift which god is sure, sooner or later, to give to his own,--the gift of sanctified trouble. there came to portie in one of the ships in which her brother had an interest, a lad--he looked scarcely more than a lad--sick with fever. accident brought him to george dawson's house for a night, and in the morning he was too ill to leave it. through long weeks of suffering and delirium, jean nursed him, and cared for him, and saved him from death. he was not a good young man. the wild words uttered in his wanderings, proved this to jean, only too clearly, and if he had gone away as soon as he rose from his bed, he would have taken her interest and her good will with him, and nothing more. but his convalescence was long and tedious, and whatever his sins against himself and others might have been, he was of a sweet and kindly nature, and a handsome and manly lad withal. and of course it was the fairest side of his character that he showed to jean in these days. not that he tried to hide his past follies and even his sins from her. but it was his sorrow for them that he showed her, and his longing to live a better life by her help; and what with his penitence and his gentleness and his winning english ways, he wiled the heart out of her breast before she was aware. and the love was mutual. but whether he ever could have given to her all that she gave to him, was doubtful to the only one who knew what had befallen her. to say that her brother was amazed at her love for a man so much younger and mentally and morally so much beneath her, is to say little. he was utterly dismayed. but he knew her strong and steadfast nature too well to try to move her from her purpose. he only stipulated that there should be time given to prove the young man's love, and to prove also the firmness of his determination to live a new life. it was not a severe test that he insisted on. one voyage the young man was to make, and coming home with the good word of his captain and shipmates, no difficulty should be put in the way of the marriage, strange as he confessed the idea of such a marriage to be. it was to be a six months' voyage only, and though jean did not feel that such a sacrifice need be made, she was yet willing to make it at the will of the brother whom she loved. and so they parted. but six months passed, and then six more, and when three more had worn away tidings came. through these months of waiting jean went in silence, and when the captain's son came home--the only survivor of the crew of the ship that had carried her heart and her hope away--and told the story of their wreck on wintry seas, no one knew that she listened and suffered as no widow of them all suffered for her cruel and utter loss. her lover's name was spoken with the rest, and it was told how brave he had been and kindly, and how he had kept up the courage of the rest and cheered them all to the last, and how the hardest and most careless of the crew had planned together to beguile him into taking more than his share of the food they had, because he was not strong like the rest, and because they loved him. and jean listened to it all, and never uttered a word. nor afterward did she open her lips even to her brother. he tried to speak to her some vague words of comfort, as to its being god's will, and all for the best, but she only put forth her hand to bid him cease, and when he still would fain have spoken a word of his own sorrow for her trouble she rose and went away, and it was many years before either of them returned to the sorrow of that time. she lived through her trouble, and she did not grow hard or bitter under it, as she might have done if he had lived and forgotten her; and comfort came to her as the years went on. it came to her in a strange way, her brother thought, and though he was glad of its coming, it cost him some pain. the first, indeed the only, danger of estrangement that ever came between the brother and sister grew out of this. not that there was any real danger even then; for jean was, in her silent and determined way, so soft and gentle and unprovokable in the new manner of thought and life into which she fell at this time, that though her brother was both angry and ashamed, and suffered both shame and anger to appear to her and to others, it made no real breach between them. and he had cause for neither shame nor anger. it was only that weary of herself and the drowsy ministrations of the parish kirk, jean had strayed one stormy sabbath night into "a little kirkie" lately built in a back street by "a queer kin' o' folk ca'ed missioners," and had there heard words such as she had never heard before, and had found in them more than comfort. not that the words were altogether new, nor the thoughts,--they were in her bible, every one of them--she told her brother afterwards; but, for one thing, they were earnestly spoken by one who believed them, and then they came to one ready for them and waiting, though she knew it not. ah! well, that does not explain it altogether. it was the lord himself who spoke to her by the voice of his servant revealing himself to her, through his own familiar word in a new way. after that she could say of him, "whose i am and whom i serve," and her life took a new meaning. it was his who "had bought her with a price." all that she had done hitherto for pity's sake, she did now _for his sake_. "to one of the least of these," he had said. the world was full of "these little ones" of his, and there were some of them in portie even, and henceforth they were to be her care. her outward life did not change much however. except that at first she "whiles" went to "the little kirkie," and afterwards went there altogether, there was no difference that could be named by her little world generally. her brother saw a difference, and so did the poor folk who shared her care and kindness. her eye was brighter and her step lighter, and the look of suffering she had lately worn was giving place to a look of patient even cheerful peacefulness that was good to see. she had more words, too, at her command. not for her brother--at least not for him at first. but the impulse which her new love for her master had given her, was strong enough to overcome the silence natural to her, and "good words" gently and yet strongly spoken went with her gifts now, and sometimes they were received as gladly as her gifts. but that she should cast in her lot with the handful of "newfangled folk" in stott's lane was a pain and a humiliation to her brother which it took years to outlive. their outward life went on as it had done before for a good while, and then her brother married. his wife was of a family which had had a name and a place in the countryside for generations; but george dawson found her earning her bread as a teacher in a school in aberdeen, and married her "for pure love," portie folk said; and some who had known him best, expected no such thing of george dawson. it was doubtful whether his love for her or his pride in her was strongest. he did not take her to the house above the shop where he and his sister had lived so long, but to a fine house at the head of the high-street in a far pleasanter part of the town, and there they began their married life together. jean did not go with them, though they both wished it. it was better for them to be alone, she said, and as well for her. so she staid still in the house above the shop, making a home for the young men employed in the business, keeping a wise and watchful eye on them and on the business also. after a few years, when her sister-in-law became delicate, and there were little children needing her care, she, with greater self-denial than any guessed, gave up her independent life and went home to them for a while, and lightened the mother's care for them and for the home as well, and found her reward in knowing that her work was not vain. but when more years had passed, and her brother, a richer man than she knew, bought the small estate of saughleas, and took his family there, she did not go with them. she was getting on in years, she was too old to begin a new life in new circumstances, and the bairns were getting beyond the need of her care. so she went to a home of her own that looked out upon the sea, and set herself with wisdom and patience and loving kindness to the work which her master had given her to do. chapter two. the brother's sorrow. george dawson had been very successful in life. he was not an old man when he took possession of his estate of saughleas. he had many years before him in which to enjoy the fruit of his labours, he told himself, and he exulted in the thought. what happy years the first years there were! his children were good and bonny and strong; his wife was--not very strong--but oh! so sweet and dear! what lady among them all could compare with her, so good and true, so fair and stately, and yet so kindly and so well-beloved? "i will grow a better man to deserve her better," he said to himself with a vague presentiment of change upon him--a fear that such happiness could not last. for who was he, that he should have so much more than other men had? so he walked softly, and did justly, and dealt mercifully in many a case where he might have been severe with justice on his side, and strove honestly and wisely to make himself worthy of the woman who had been growing dearer day by day. growing dearer? yes--but who was slipping away from him, slowly, but surely, day by day. he strove to shut his eyes to that which others clearly saw, but deep down in his heart was the certain knowledge that he must lose her. but not yet. not for a long time yet. with care in a warmer climate, under sunnier skies, she might live for years yet-- many years. so he set himself to the task of so arranging his affairs, that he might take her away for the winter at least, away from the bleak sea winds to one of the many places where he had heard that health and healing had come to many a one far more ill than she was. and if he could have got her away in time, who knows but so it might have been. but illness came in amongst the children, and she would not leave them even to the wise and loving care of their aunt; and when first one, and then another little life went out, her husband could see with a sinking heart, that she longed to follow where they had gone. when the other children grew better he took her away for a little while. but the drawing of those little graves, and the longing to die at home among those who were still left, brought them back to saughleas--only just in time. he did not lay her in the bleak kirkyard of portie. he _could_ not do it. it was a foolish thing to do, it was said, but in the quietest, bonniest spot in saughleas, in a little wood that lay in sight of the house, he laid her down, when he could keep her no longer, and by and by he lifted her bonny little bairns and laid them down beside her. and then it seemed for a while that to him life was ended. but life was not ended. he had more to do, and more to suffer yet, and indeed had to become a changed man altogether before he could be ready and worthy to look again upon the face that he so longed to see. oh, the length of the days! the weariness of all things! he used to wonder at the sickness that lay heavy on his heart all day--at the anguish that made the night terrible to him. he was growing an old man, he said to himself, and he had thought it was only the young who strove and suffered, and could not yield themselves to the misery of loss and pain. but then--who, old or young, of all the men he had ever known, had lost what he had lost? no wonder that he suffered and could find no comfort. "ay! no wonder that you suffer," said his sister to him once. "but take tent lest ye add rebellion to the sin of overmuch sorrow. have you ever truly submitted to god's will all your life, think ye, george, man? things had mostly gone well and easily with ye. but now this has come upon you, and take ye thought of it. for ye're no' out of god's hand yet, and `whom he loveth he chasteneth.'" she did not speak often to him, but he heard her and made no answer. that was jean's way of looking at things, he thought; and because she had had sore troubles of her own, he did not answer her roughly, as he felt inclined to do. there was nothing to be said. he sent his two daughters away to be educated, first to edinburgh and afterwards to london, and after that, the house of saughleas, except a room or two, was shut up for a time. the father and son left it early and returned to it late, and the father spent his days in working as hard as ever he had done in the days when he was making his own way in the world. the winter was hard to bear, but the coming of the spring-time was even worse. every bonny flower looked up at him with the eyes of her he had lost; every bird, and breeze, and trembling leaf spoke to him with her voice. the sunlight lying on her grave, the still, soft air, the sweetness of the season,--all brought back on him like a flood, the longing for her presence; and he must have gone away or broken down altogether, if it had not been for his son george, his only son. he was a handsome, kindly lad, more like his mother than any of his bairns, and dearer than any of them to his father, because he was her firstborn. george had mourned his mother deeply and truly, but her name had never been spoken between them till on one of the first sunny days of spring, the father found the son lying on his face among the long withered grass that covered her grave. sitting there then, lips and hearts were opened to each other, and it was never so bad to either after that. by and by hope sprang up in the father's heart, in the presence of the son who was so like his mother, and so the weight of his heavy sorrow was lightened. but there were folk in portie, and his sister jean was one of them, who doubted whether the father was doing the best that could be done for his son. he held a situation in the portie bank, and his father's intention was, that he should there, and elsewhere, when the right time came, acquire such a knowledge of business, as should enable him, if not to make money for himself, at least to make a wise use of the money already made for him. but his work was made easy to the lad, as was natural enough, by others besides his father, and his comings and goings were not so carefully noted, as if he had not been his father's son. he had time and money at his disposal; not so very much of either, but more than any of his companions had, and certainly more than was good for him. not that he fell into ill ways at this time, though that was said of him. that only came afterwards; and it might have been helped, if his father had been as wise then as he was determined with him afterwards. but that which raised his father's anger, was almost worse, to his thought, than falling into ill ways, in the common acceptation of the term, would have been. he might have spent money freely, even foolishly, and his name might have been spoken with the names of men whose society his father would have shunned or scorned, and he might have been reproved and then forgiven. but that he should love and be determined to marry a girl in humble life, the daughter of a sailor's widow, and he not one and twenty, seemed to his father worse than folly and even worse than sin. the father had never given a thought to any woman except his sister, till he was thirty-five, and that his son, a mere lad, should wish to marry any one, was a folly not to be tolerated. he blamed his sister in the matter, for bonny elsie calderwood was the daughter of the man who had brought home to her the bitter tidings that her lover was lost, and jean had cared for and comforted his widow and orphans when their turn came to weep for one who returned no more. but he was wrong in this, for she had known nothing of the young man's wishes, certainly she had never abetted him in his folly, as was said. indeed she had taken no thought of danger for him. "they were just a' bairns thegither," she had said, "and had kenned one another all their lives." for the calderwood bairns had been the chosen companions of geordie and his sisters in the days when, openly scorning the attendance of nursemaids, they had clambered over the rocks, and waded in the shallows along the shore, and gathered dulse and birds' eggs with the rest of the bairns of the town. when his sisters went away, after their mother's death; the intimacy was naturally enough continued by george, and all the more closely that he missed his sisters, and was oppressed by the dreariness of the life at home. it was natural enough, though the father could not see it so, and he spoke angrily and unwisely to his son. but mrs calderwood was as proud in her way as mr dawson was in his, and she scorned the thought of keeping the rich man's son to the promise he had made without leave asked of her. she was also as hard in her way as he was in his, and forbade the young man to enter her house, and gave him no chance to disobey her. but in a place like portie young folks can meet elsewhere than at home, and one or other of them must be sent away. so with miss jean's advice and help elsie was sent to get a year at a boarding-school, as was wise and right, all her friends in portie were given to understand. but she went away without giving back her promise for all that her mother could say. she went cheerfully enough, "to make herself fitter to be his wife," she said. but she never returned; a slow strong fever seized her where she was, and first her mother went to her, and then miss jean, whose heart was sore for them all. and then miss jean did what the mother never would have done. when she saw that the end was drawing near, she wrote one letter to her nephew telling him to come and take farewell of his love, and another to his father telling him that so she had done. all this mattered little however. for it was doubtful whether the dying girl recognised the lover who called so wildly on her name. but she died in his arms, and he went home with her mother and his aunt to portie and laid her down in the bleak kirkyard; and then he went away speaking no word to his father, in his youthful despair and anger, indeed never looking on his face. there had been something said, before all this came to pass between them, of the lad's being sent to london for a while, to learn how business was done in a great banking-house, one of the partners of which was a friend of his father; and after a time he was heard of there. but he did not write to his father directly, and he never drew a shilling of the money that his father had deposited in his name. he did not stay long in his place in the london bank, but went away, leaving no trace behind him, and was lost to them all; and it was long before his name was spoken by his father again. even miss jean, having no words of comfort to put with it, never named to him the name of his son, for whom she knew he was grieving with anger and pain unspeakable. it was to be doubted, jean thought, whether these days were not longer, and drearier, and "waur to thole" than even the days that had followed the death of the mother of the lad. but they had to be borne, and he left himself in these days little time for brooding over his troubles. he devoted himself to business, with all his old earnestness, and wealth flowed in upon him, and the fear was strong in his sister's heart, that he was beginning, in the desolation that had fallen upon him, to love it for its own sake. he added to saughleas a few fields on one side, and a farm or two on the other, which the necessities of the owners had put into the market, at this time; but it was more to oblige these needy men, than because he wanted their land. he had the money in hand, he said indifferently to his sister, and the land would ay bring its price. but he took little pleasure in saughleas for a while. when geordie had been gone a year and more, his sisters came home from school. they had been away long, and their father had, as he said, to make their acquaintance over again. they had changed from merry girls of fifteen and sixteen, into grown up young ladies,--"fine ladies" their father called them to their aunt, and a good many people in portie, called them "fine ladies" also, for a while. they looked to be fine ladies, with their london dresses, and london manners, and some folk added, their "london pride." they held their heads high, and carried themselves erect and firmly as they walked, and spoke softly and in "high english," which looked like pride to some of their old friends, who were more than half afraid of the young ladies of saughleas, they said. but it soon came to be known that what looked like pride was more than half shyness, and as for the "high english," the kindly scotch fell very readily from their lips on occasion. it cannot be said that they made themselves very happy in saughleas for a time. they came home in november, and that is a dreary month on the east coast, indeed all the winter is dreary there. there were gay doings in the best houses in portie to welcome them home, and they enjoyed them well. for they had only been school-girls in london, and the gayeties they had been permitted to mingle in there, had been mostly of the kind which are supposed to blend improvement of some sort with the pleasure to be enjoyed, and though they doubtless valued such opportunities and made good use of them, both for pleasure and improvement, the gayeties of portie were quite different and more to their taste. they were young and pretty and gay, and the kindness and the admiration so freely bestowed on them were very pleasant to them both. but they would have preferred the house in the high-street, where they had all been born, in these first days, for their home. saughleas was dull and dreary in the short winter days, and oh! how they missed their mother! it was like losing her again, to come home to the great empty house, which their father left almost before the sun rose for weeks together, not to return again till the lamps had been lighted for hours in the wide hall. and geordie! when they had been at saughleas a month or more, their father had never spoken his name, and when jean, the eldest and bravest of the sisters, putting great force upon herself, asked him when her brother was coming home, he answered so coldly, and with words so hard and bitter, that her heart sank as she heard. they had known for some time that something had gone wrong between them. geordie had told them that, when he had gone to see them in london; but the sad story of poor elsie calderwood they had never heard. they mourned for their brother, and longed for his coming home, thinking that the happy days that were gone would come again with him. though the estate of saughleas was small, the house was both large and stately. the last owner had put into the house, the money which should have been given to enrich the land, and make a beginning of the prosperity of the family which he had hoped to found. so it was like a castle almost, but it was little like a home. the two or three great landed proprietors in the countryside were great people in their own esteem, and in the general esteem also; and george dawson, notwithstanding saughleas, was just the merchant and banker of the high-street to them--a man much respected in his own place, and he was not out of place on occasion, at the table of any of them all. but an interchange of civilities on equal terms between the ladies of the families was not likely to take place, nor was this greatly to be desired. it might have been different if their mother had lived, they said to one another; for in their remembrance of her, she was superior in every way to any lady of them all. but they were quite content with the society of portie, and would have been content with the house in the high-street as well. mr dawson asked his sister to come and live in his house when his daughters came home, but she declined to do so. they did not need her as mistress of the house, and she believed that her influence over them would be more decided and salutary should she remain in her own house. they were good bairns, she said, who meant to do right, and though they might whiles need a word of advice, or a restraining touch, it must be their own guidance that their father must lippen to, and not hers. and auntie jean was right. they were good bairns on the whole, as their aunt said, and they were "bonnie lassies" as well. the first idea that most people had on seeing them, was that in person, mind, and manners, they were very much alike. even their father thought this at first. but it was not long before he discovered that in most respects they were very different may, the youngest, was like her mother, "though _nothing like_ so bonny," he told himself with a sigh. jean was like her aunt, it was said, but auntie jean herself, and the two or three others who remembered auntie jean's mother as she was before her husband's ship went down, said that the elder sister was like her grandmother, who had been a far bonnier woman than ever her daughter had been. in form and features there was a resemblance between the sisters; may was the fairer and slighter of the two, and was often called the prettier. but as time went on the resemblance did not increase. jean was the strongest in person and in mind, and the better able of the two to profit by the discipline, which time and circumstances brought to them both, and of this difference in character her face gave token to those who had eyes to see. they loved each other, and were patient and forbearing with each other when they did not quite agree as to the course which either wished to pursue. but when it came about that one must yield her will to the other, it was may who was made to yield when her will would have led her into wrong or doubtful paths. but if pleasure were to be given up, or a distasteful duty done, or if some painful self-denial had to be borne by one so that the other might escape, such things generally fell to the lot of jean. chapter three. a dreary day. the folk looking out of their windows in portie might well wonder what could be bringing the young ladies of saughleas into the town on such a dismal day. though april was come in, it might have been the wintriest month of the year; for the wind that met them was dashing the wet sleet in their faces, and tangling their bright brown curls about their eyes, till laughing and breathless they were fain to turn their backs upon it before they were half down the high-street. they were in shelter for a little while as they crossed through a side street, but the wind met them again as they went round a corner, and came close upon the sea. they were going to their aunt's house and a few steps brought them to the door; but for all the wind and the sleet, they did not seem in haste to enter. they lingered, taking off their dripping cloaks and overshoes. "auntie will wonder to see us on such a day." "she'll wonder to see you. she kens that i am not afraid of wind or rain." as they lingered the door opened. "eh! miss dawson and miss may. is it you on sic a day? wha would ha'e expected to see you--and on your ain feet too. wet enough they must be." "we'll go to the kitchen, nannie, and no' wet the carpet," said may; and they staid there chatting with the maid for a minute or two. the expected greeting met them at the parlour door. "eh! bairns! here on such a day!" "papa had to come to the town," said jean. "and so we thought we might as well come with him," said may. "weel, ye're welcome anyway, and ye're neither sugar nor salt to be harmed by a drop of rain. but come in by to the fire." but their tussle with the wind had made the fire unnecessary. "it's a good thing that your curls are no' of a kind that the rain does ill with, may, my dear. but you might as well go up the stair and put them in order now." "oh! i needna care. we have only a minute to stay, and it's hardly worth my while." "papa went straight to the inn with the dog-cart, and we only walked down the high-street. it _is_ a dreary day." "and we'll need to go to the inn and wait for him. for he said nothing of coming here," said may. "but it's likely he'll come for all that. he maistly ay looks in. it's a pity he came out on sic a day, and him no weel. but i suppose he had to come. the `john seaton' sails the day," said their aunt. the sisters gave a sudden involuntary glance at each other. may reddened and laughed a little. her sister grew pale. their aunt looked from one to the other, thinking her own thoughts, but she did not let this appear. "she mayna sail the day. they have lost some of their men, it is said, and that may hinder them." "and the wind and the waves are fearsome," said the elder sister with a shiver. "ay, but the wind is in the richt airt. that wouldna hinder them," said her aunt; and then she added in a little. "willie calderwood goes as her first mate. that's a rise for him. i hope he may show discretion. he's no' an ill laddie." "and he's on a fair way to be a captain now," said may. "so he told me--in awhile." "ay, in a while," said her aunt dryly. "but he has a long and dangerous voyage before him, and it's no' likely that all who sail awa' the day will ever come hame again." the eldest sister was standing with her face touching the window. "the sea looks fearsome over yonder," said she. "ay. but they'll ha'e room enough when once they are outside the harbour bar, and then the wind will drive them off the rocks and out to sea; and they are in god's hands." "auntie jean," said the girl turning a pale face toward her, "why do you say the like of that to-day?" "it's true the day as it's true ilka day. why should i no' say it? my dear, the thought of it is a consolation to many a puir body in portie the day." "but it sounds almost like a prophecy of evil to--to the `john seaton,' as you said it. and the sea is fearsome," repeated she, turning her face to the window again. "lassie, come in by to the fire. ye're trembling with cold, and i dare say ye're feet are no' so dry as they should be. come in by and put them to the fire." "but we havena long to bide." however she came at her aunt's bidding, and sat down on a stool, shading her face with a paper that she took from the table. "auntie jean," said may, "i have seen just such a picture in a book, as you would make if you were painted just as you are, with your hands folded on your lap, and your stocking and your ball of worsted beside you, and your glasses lying on the open book. look, jeannie, look at auntie. is she not like a picture as she sits now?" "what's the lassie at now, with her picturing and her nonsense?" said her aunt, not sure whether she should be pleased with all this. "i'm just as usual, and so is the room. no more like a picture than on other days." she was in full dress--according to her ideas of full dress--and she was that every day of the year. she had on a gown of some soft black stuff, the skirt of which was partly covered by a wide black silk apron. a snowy kerchief was pinned across her breast, and fastened at her neck with a plain gold brooch, showing a braid of hair of mingled black and grey. her cap was made in the fashion worn by the humblest of her countrywomen, but it was made of the finest and clearest lawn, and the full "set up" borders were edged with the daintiest of "thread" lace, and so were the wide strings tied beneath her chin. not a spot nor a speck was visible upon it, or upon any part of her dress, nor indeed on any article which the room contained. she and her room together would have made a picture homely and commonplace enough, but it would have been a pleasing picture, with a certain quaint beauty of its own. "it is that you are so peaceful in here always, and untroubled. that is what may means when she says it is like a picture in a book. and after the wind, and the sleet, and the stormy sea, it is quieting and restful to look in upon you." "weel, maybe. but it is the same picture ilka day o' the year, and i weary of it whiles. and the oftener you look in upon it, the better it will be for me. what ails the lassie? canna ye bide still by the fire?" for jean had risen from her low seat, and was over at the window again. "the clouds are breaking away. it is going to be fair, i think. we'll need to be going, may, or we may be late. i'll come over to-morrow, auntie, and good-bye for to-day." "but, lassie, what's a' your haste? your father will be sure to come for you. bide still where you are." "i think i'll bide still, anyway," said may. "i am no' going, jeannie. i'm no' caring to go." "yes, you are coming with me," said her sister sharply. "you must come. i want to speak to you--and--yes, come away." may pouted and protested, but she followed her sister to the kitchen where they had left their cloaks, and they went away together. they kept for a while in the shelter of the houses nearest the sea, but they did not speak till they were beyond these. the wind was still high, but neither rain nor sleet was falling, and they paused a minute to take breath before they turned to meet it again. "the `john seaton' sails the day," said may, turning her laughing face toward her sister. jean did not laugh. "as though that werena the very thing that brought us both out as well as papa, though we said nothing about it before we came. to the high rocks? but it would be more sensible like to go to the pier head, and then we might get a chance to shake his hand and say god bless him. and it's not too late yet." "no, i'm no' going. it would do no good and it would anger my father." but may persisted. "why shouldna we be there as well as half the town? papa mightna like it, but he couldna help it, if we were once there. and ye ken ye never said good-bye to willie calderwood." "may," said her sister, "when did you see willie? i mean, when did he tell you that he was to be first mate of the `john seaton,' and maybe captain by and by?" "oh! i heard that long ago, and i saw him last night. he came a bit of the way home with me. he would have come all the way to say good-bye to you, but he had something to do, that couldna be put off. and i'm sure he'll expect to see you at the pier to-day." "but i canna go." and then she added--"well, and what more did he say?" "oh! what should he say? he said many a thing. he told me if i would stand on the high rocks above the tangle stanes and wave my scarlet scarf when the `john seaton' was sailing by, he would take it as a sign of good luck, and that he would come safe home again, and get his heart's wish." "and we are going there." "oh! i dinna ken. it's cold, and the ship mayna sail, and we might have to wait. i'm not going." "did he say that to you? yes, you are going. do you mean that you would let him be disappointed at the very last, and him taking it for a sign?" "but the mist is rising, and it's all nonsense--and he winna see." "where is your scarlet shawl? did you no' bring it?" "oh! yes. i brought it fast enough," said may, laughing and lifting her dress, under which the shawl was fastened. "as we were going to auntie jean's i thought it as well to keep it out of sight. but, jean, it is wet and cold, and he was only half in earnest." "how could he speak out all that he wanted to say, kenning my father! but you must go." "go yourself. he'll never ken the difference." "no, he'll never ken the difference. but when he comes home--what will you say to him then? and besides it was your being there that was to be the sign of his safe coming home--and--his getting his heart's wish. you are coming." they turned their steps northward, in the direction of a high ledge of rocks, that half a mile above the harbour jutted out into the sea. it was this point both had been thinking of when they left home, for they well knew that the young ladies from saughleas could not, on such a day, go to loiter on the pier with all the town, just to see a whaling ship set sail for northern seas. if the day had been fine, they might have gone with a chance companion or two to see what was to be seen, and to while away an hour. even in the wind and sleet jean might have gone with her father, if the ship had not been the "john seaton," or if willie calderwood had not been on board. but as it was, she could not even name such a thing to her father. he would have been angry, and it would have done no good. so it was to the rocks above the tangle stanes they must go. if the day had been fine, there would have been other folk there, and many a signal would have been given as the ship went by. but they had the high desolate rocks to themselves when they had clambered up at last, and it was all they could do to keep their footing upon it, for the wind which had met them so fiercely even on the level, raged here with tenfold violence. and there was no sign of the ship. there was nothing but great wild waves rising and falling as far as they could see, and masses of white foam here and there, where they broke themselves on half hidden rocks beneath. there was no sign of life except that now and then a solitary sea-gull shrieked sadly through the blast. "eh! but it's dreary and cold," said may with a shudder. "go down to yon sheltered nook and bide there till i tell you that she is coming." "but it's a' nonsense, jean. she mayna come at all, as auntie said." "since we're here, we'll bide a while:" so may went down to the sheltered nook, and wrapping her cloak about her, she took from her pocket a biscuit or two with which she had providently supplied herself, and prepared to wait with what patience she could till her sister chose to go. and jean, unable to stand still in the bitter wind, struggled up and down the narrow limits of the ledge,--not thinking--hardly feeling-- for she needed all her power to keep her footing on the slippery rock-- only waiting for the ship. she came in sight at last, but, driven by the wind, as soon as she was beyond the harbour bar, she drifted so far to the eastward, that it was doubtful whether any signal from those on shore could be seen on board. "are you coming, may? haste you," cried jean, and while her sister lingered, she let the long shawl float its full length on the wind. at the moment the clouds parted, and a sudden gleam of sunshine lighted the rock and the girlish figure, and the waving signal which she held. it was but for a moment. before may had clambered to her side, the clouds met again, and dimness and dreariness were over all. "take it, may. it is you he is thinking of now when he sees it. he must have seen it when the sun shone out. take it, and hold it fast." "it is easy said, hold it fast, and it's all nonsense," said may pettishly, and from her uncertain fingers the wind caught the scarlet signal, and carried it out to sea. "my shawl!" gasped may. "my bonny scarlet shawl?" "it's an ill omen, i doubt," said jean in a whisper. "but never mind the shawl; you shall have my bonny blue one instead. and now we may go home." "it is all folly from first to last," said may. "and what i am to say about my shawl, i canna tell." "say nothing. who has a right to ask? and, may, i think i'll walk home--to warm myself, for i am cold." she looked cold and could not keep herself from trembling. "go back to auntie jean's. my father will be sure to seek us there, and i'll be home before you." may was not sure of the wisdom of consenting to meet her father without her sister, lest he might ask any questions as to how they had spent the afternoon. but hoping that she might get to her aunt's house before him, she hurried away, scarcely remembering till she sat beside her aunt's pleasant fire, that she had left her sister standing there on the desolate wind-swept height. and there she stood while the ship went slowly on its northern way, "carrying her life with it," she said to herself, in vague wonder at the utter faintness of heart, and weariness of body which had fallen upon her. "what has come to me?" she muttered. "what is willie calderwood to me, but a friend? he has ay been that, and ay will be, and if he is more to my bonny may--why that makes him more to me--and not less, surely. and friends must part. there is many a sair heart in portie the night--and folk man just thole whatever is sent, and say nothing. and oh! if geordie would but come home?" again the clouds parted, and a gleam of sunshine touched the water, giving her one more glimpse of the white sails of the ship before she went down to the north, and then there was but "the fearsome waves of the sea," from which she could scarcely turn her dazed eyes. but she had to take her way down the steep rocks, and through the wet fields, the near way home. she lingered and walked wearily, and it was growing dark when she went in at the gate. "is it you, miss dawson?" said a voice in the darkness. "has any thing happened? are ye your lane?" "nothing has happened. i preferred to walk. are they not come yet?" "nobody has come yet, miss dawson, and there has been nobody here but robbie saugster, wantin' a book that you promised him--or miss may maybe it was," said phemie. "you were hardly awa' ere he was here, and he said he'd come back the morn." jean sat down wearily in the hall. "i am wet and tired," said she. "i was sure you would be that," said phemie, "and i made a bit fire in your ain room, and i'll bring warm water and bathe your feet in a jiffy. no wonder you are tired." "that was well done. they cannot be long now in coming. i'll go and make myself ready, and have the tea made at once." phemie was up with the warm water almost as soon as her mistress. "eh! miss dawson, but you are white and spent looking. it's the heat, i dare say, after being in the cold." she knelt and took off her shoes and stockings, and bathed her weary feet with kindly care, and jean let her do as she would, saying nothing for a while. "i'm better now. yes, it must have been coming into the warm room after the cold of the afternoon. thank you, phemie, that is comfortable. i will be down in a minute now." she was sitting behind the urn with a book in her hand when her father came in. "you are late, papa." "yes--too late--too late," said he, and then he sat down by the fire without taking off his greatcoat or the heavy plaid which was on his shoulders above it. "something has happened," said jean to herself. but she knew he would not in his present mood answer her questions. she rose and took the plaid and his hat, and carried them away. then she helped him to take off his coat. he did not resist her, but he did not speak, and by the time he was seated at the table, may came down. her sister met her at the door, asking softly,-- "what has happened to my father?" "has any thing happened? i do not know. i waited at auntie's till i was weary, and then i went to jamieson's, and waited there. he came at last, but he has not opened his lips all the way home." and he did not open his lips during the meal. he ate and drank as usual, and as usual took his notebook from his pocket when he was done, and turned the leaves and wrote a word or two. he was scarcely more silent than was his wont, but there was a look on his face that jean had seen only once or twice upon it--a look at once grieved and angry, of which she had learned to be afraid. she longed to ask him if any new trouble had befallen him, but she did not dare to ask, and she sat in silence with her work in her hands till phemie appeared at the door. "if you please, miss dawson, will you speak here a minute. it's robbie saugster again." jean rose and went out of the room, conscious that her father's eye followed her, with something of suspicion in its glance. she went into the room where her father's books and papers were kept, and in a minute phemie ushered in a boy who looked as though he had had the benefit of all the wind and the rain that had fallen through the day. he waited till phemie had shut the door, and then he said: "it is this i was bidden give you, miss jean. i cam' afore, and then i looked for ye on the pier and a' way, but i couldna see ye, and i doubt it's ower late for an answer new." he offered her a soiled and crumpled note, which she read at a glance and put in her pocket. "what is this about a book that i promised you, robbie?" she asked. "oh! ay, miss dawson. i had to tell phemie something. and i'll be glad o' an orra book or two, as i'm goin' to the school--a count-book or maybe a latin grammar. but i'll come back for it again." "wait a minute, robbie," said jean. she went into the parlour again where her father was sitting. "may, what is this about a book for robbie saugster? did you promise him one? he says he is going to the school." "a book? i dinna mind. maybe i did. what kind of a book was it? i canna look it out to-night, i am too tired." the father's eyes had gone from one to the other with eager scrutiny. "there are old school books enough, and i'll tell him that you'll look them out to-morrow." "you should have had them ready, no' to keep the laddie coming back again," said her father sharply. "i didna mind about it, and i dare say jean promised as well as me," she answered pettishly. "mind next time then; and, jean, tell phemie to give the laddie his supper before he goes home." "yes, papa," said jean as she shut the door. "something has happened and he was watching. it is about poor geordie, and i'm not sure whether i should tell him or not i must think about it first." robbie got his supper, and the promise of the books, and then jean came in and sat down with her work at her father's side, working quietly and busily as usual, but all the time putting a strong restraint upon her thoughts lest she should betray herself unawares by look or sign. may, weary with the exertion of the afternoon, by and by fell asleep in her chair. "bid them come ben to worship, and let the lassie go to her bed," said her father. when worship was over, jean folded her work, saying she was weary too. "unless you may want any thing, papa," said she turning before she reached the door. he looked at her a moment as if in doubt, and then he said shortly, "i want nothing," and jean went away to let herself think over it all. "no answer!" said she as she took the note from her pocket again. a leaf torn from an account-book it seemed to be. she spread it before her on the table; there were only a few words written on it. "miss dawson,-- "if it is possible, come to the pier head before the `john seaton' sails. maybe the sight of you will do what no persuasion of mine can do. but no ill shall come to geordie that i can keep from him. come at all risks. "your humble servant,-- "w.c." "and i might have been there, if i had but known. what will he think of me? and can it be that geordie has sailed on the `john seaton'? no wonder that my heart grew sick as the ship went out of sight. and oh how can i ever tell my father?" chapter four. saughleas. saughleas with the june sunshine felling on it was a very different place from saughleas under the "drip, drip" of winter rain and sleet, with the wind moaning or roaring through the bare boughs of its sheltering beeches. the house was plain and heavy looking. it stood too near the road for so large a house, it was said, and it was so high that it made all the trees--except the few great beeches--look smaller than they would have looked elsewhere. but it was built of the cheerful looking reddish granite of the neighbourhood, and with its green adornment of honeysuckle and climbing roses and its low french windows opening on the little terrace above the lawn, it looked in summer-time a handsome and homelike dwelling. there were many trees about it--fruit trees, elms, and poplars, norway spruces, and scotch firs; but most of them had been planted within the last fifteen years, and trees on this east coast--like the children in the song--"take long to grow." the beeches, seven in number, were both old and beautiful--so beautiful and so stately amid the dwarfs around them that they, and not the wavering line of saughs or willows that followed the margin of the burn running through the long low fields, it was sometimes said, should have given a name to the place. there was a narrow belt of wood behind the house which had been planted long ago, and even in it the trees were not very large. but it was a very pretty spot, a real wood, where up through the undisturbed dead leaves of autumn came snowdrops and violets and primroses in the spring. between this wood and the house was a field of grass, which was not cut smoothly every day or two like the lawn in front, but was allowed to grow tall and strong till the right time came to cut it down for hay. through this field a gravelled walk led down to "the well"; a clear, unfailing spring at the edge of the wood, and to a moss-covered stone seat beside it. beyond this a narrower path led through the grass and the last year's dead leaves into the heart of the wood, where, in a circular space, large enough to let the sunlight in though the trees had been higher, lay "mary keith, beloved and honoured wife of george dawson," with her little children at her side. here the turf was soft and green, but there was no adornment of shrub or flower on the grave or near it, only a simple headstone of grey granite and near it a turf seat, over which the slender boughs of a "weeping birch" hung sadly down. beyond the wood were the low fields through which the saugh burn ran. parks they were called, but they were just long grassy fields, with rough stone walls round them, and cows and sheep feeding in them. there was no "park," in the grand sense of the term, about saughleas as yet. there was no space for one without appropriating some of the best fields from the leased farms, and if things had gone right with him, that might have been done in time, mr dawson sometimes said to himself with a sigh. but things had not gone right with him of late. any thing but that--if one might judge from the look of care and pain, that had become almost habitual to him now. "george, man, is it worth your while to wear your life away gathering gear that ye dinna need, when ye might be enjoying what ye have in this bonny place?" "it _is_ a bonny place," was all he said in reply. they were sitting, not on the lawn, but on the other side of the drive, where the sunshine was softened by the fluttering beech leaves overhead. at least, miss jean was sitting there. her brother was "daundering" up and down the walk with his hands clasped behind him, as his way was, lingering a little, now at the gate and now at his sister's side. he had forgotten her for the moment, as he stood looking out toward the distant sea, and the look which his daughter had come to know well, but which his sister was seldom suffered to see, came to his face and rested on it still when he turned along the walk again. and so he spoke. "it _is_ a bonny place," he answered, and then he walked away. but though he let his eyes wander over the gardens and the wood, and the fields beyond, there came to his face no glad look of possession or self-gratulation, and his head drooped lower and his step lagged as he drew near her again. he stood silent at her side, as though he expected her to say more, but she said nothing. "it _is_ a bonny place," said he again, "though it has given me but little pleasure as yet, and whiles i think that i am near done with it-- and--there's none to come after me." "george, man! that's an ill thing to say." "but it's true for a' that god knows i was thinking little of myself when i put the winnings of my whole life into the land. and what is likely to come of it? ye might weel say, jean, that god's blessing hasna been upon it." "no, i would never say that." he took his way down the walk again, and went quite round the broad lawn, and she had time for a good many troubled thoughts before he came back. "i doubt ye're overworking yourself, george," said she. she put out her hand to draw forward a garden chair that stood beyond her, and he did not refuse it, as she was afraid he might, but sat down beside her. "where are the girls?" asked he. "they are busy up the stair--about may's dress, i think. but there is nothing to hinder them coming, if ye're wanting them." "no. i'm no' wanting them. i have something to say to you, and i shall find no better time. i am going to make a new will." "well?" "i have waited long, but if any thing were to happen to me, there would be endless trouble--if--unless--" he paused a moment and then added, "i know not well what to do." "need ye do any thing at once?" "i think i should. life is uncertain, though mine may be no more so than that of other men. but no man should put off settling his affairs, for the sake of those that are to come after him. i wish to do justly, but i will not divide the land, and i will not burden it." "no, it wouldna be weel to divide the land nor to burden it," said miss jean. there was a long silence and then mr dawson said gravely, felling into the scottish tongue as he and the rest of them were apt to do when much moved. "gin ony stranger were to go through portie the day and speir at ane and anither up and doon the street, as to who had been the successful man o' these pairts for the last five and twenty years or mair, there's little doubt whose name would be given them. and yet--my life looks and feels to me the day--awfully like a failure." the shock which his unexpected words gave his sister was not all pain. she had thought him only too well content with his life and with what he had done in it. he was going down the hill now. it was well that he should acknowledge--that he should even be made sharply to feel, that all that he had--though it were ten times more--was not enough for a portion. but the bitter sadness of his look smote her painfully. "god help him!" she said in her heart, but to him she said nothing. he did not take her silence for want of sympathy. he was too well acquainted with her ways for that, and in a little he added,-- "like other folk i have heard o', i have gotten my wish, but all that made it worth the having has been taken from me. gin she had lived--" his sister did not speak. she just laid her hand on his for a moment, and looked at him with grave, wet eyes. "if she had lived," he went on, not yielding to the weakness that had come upon, him, "if she had lived, the rest might have been hindered." "god knows," said miss jean softly, taking up her knitting again. "ay, he knows, but i dinna seem to be able to tak' the good o' that that some folk do. but good or no good, i man submit--like the lave." "here are the bairns," said miss jean softly as the two sisters came through one of the open windows to the terrace about the lawn--"a sight worth seeing" the father in the midst of his painful thoughts acknowledged. they lingered a moment in the terrace raised a little above the lawn, the one stooping over a bonny bush of wee scotch roses at her feet, the other standing on tiptoe trying to entangle a wandering spray of honeysuckle that it might find support. the eyes of father and aunt could not but rest on them with pleasure. "i wonder that i ever could have thought them so much alike," said their father, in a little. "they're like and they're no' like," said miss jean. they were even less alike than they had been that day when they had startled her coming in on her out of the storm. their dress had something to do with it doubtless. may wore something white and fluffy, with frills and flounces and blue ribbons, and her brown curls were bound back by a snood of blue. she was in her simple finery as fair and sweet a picture of a young maiden as one could wish to see. jean was different. her dress was made of some dim stuff that looked in the distance like brown holland. a seafaring friend of her father's had brought it to her from india, her aunt remembered, and it came into her mind that perhaps there had not been enough of it, to make the frills and flounces, that young people were so pleased with nowadays. it was severely simple in contrast with her sister's, and her hair was gathered in one heavy braid at the back of her head. she had not her sister's fair and smiling loveliness, but there was something in her face that went far beyond it, her aunt thought, as she watched them standing there looking over the lawn to some one approaching along the road. her face was bright and her air cheerful enough at the moment, but for all that there was a look of thoughtfulness and gravity upon it--a silent look-- which reminded her father of his sister's look at her age. only she was more beautiful. she was like a young princess, he thought, in his pride in her. "is it her gown?" asked he; "or is it the way that jean puts her hair? what has 'come o' a' her curls this while back?" the question was not to be answered. the opening of a little gate at the side of the lawn made them turn, and then mr dawson rose to greet a stranger who was coming up the walk. he was not quite a stranger to him. he knew his name and that he was a visitor at blackford house, a gentleman's seat seven miles away. it was at this gentleman the girls had been looking, and at the lady who was in the carriage with him, as they passed slowly along the highway. he was a tall fair man--young and good looking--very handsome indeed. he was a little too much inclined to stoutness perhaps, and rather languid in his movements, it might have been thought, as he came up the walk; but no fault could be found with his graceful and friendly greeting. it was miss jean dawson that he wished to see. it had been suggested to his sister, mrs eastwood, that miss dawson would be able to tell her what she wished to hear of a poor woman in whom she took an interest. she had been at miss dawson's house in portie, and hearing she was at saughleas, had called on her way to blackford, to save another journey. she was in her carriage at the gate, and could miss dawson send her a message? or perhaps-- the gate was hidden by a clump of firs. miss jean gave a glance in that direction and then laid her hand on her staff. then she beckoned to her nieces who were still on the terrace. jean came quickly toward her, and may followed more slowly. it was worth a body's while, phemie told her fellow servants afterwards, just to see the way the gentleman took off his hat and bowed as miss dawson came near. phemie saw it all from her young lady's window upstairs, and she would have liked well to hear also. "it is about mrs cairnie, jean, my dear. ye ken her daughter annie went south last year, and her mistress promised to see her mother, when she came north, and would like to hear o' her. i might maybe get to the gate with your help?" "certainly not. you are not able to walk so far. if a message will not do, it must wait." miss jean shook her head with a slight smile. she had seen "miss dawson's grand air" before, and so had may, but her father looked at her amazed. it was not her words that startled him so much as her manner. she looked at the stranger who stood with his hat in his hand, as though he were at an immense distance from her. but in a minute she added more gently: "i will take a message, aunt, if you wish. or, i could--" "pray do not think of such a thing. i could not think of troubling you," said the young man confusedly. "or i could write a note," said the young lady taking no notice. "or the lady might drive into the place. she need not leave her carriage," said mr dawson, not quite pleased at his daughter's manner. "certainly that will be much the best way," said the stranger, bowing to miss jean and the young ladies. miss jean the elder was generally sparing of words of reproof, and even of words of advice, unless advice was asked, and she said nothing. but may exclaimed,-- "you might have been civil to him at least, jeannie. we have not so many gentlemen coming to see us." "to see us! it was auntie jean he came to see--on an errand from his sister. and i think it was a piece of impertinence on his part to expect miss jean dawson to go at his bidding--and you so lame, auntie," added jean as she saw her aunt's face. "he couldna ken that, and i'm no' sure that he did expect me to go to the gate. and i'm no' feared for my ain dignity, jean lassie, and i dinna think ye need be feared for it either." "dignity!" exclaimed may. "why, he is one of the fine folk that are staying at blackford house." "and that is the very reason," said jean hotly--"the very reason that i--" "it's but a poor reason," said miss jean. but no more could be added, for the carriage was passing round the drive toward the spot where miss jean was sitting. the lady was driving her own ponies, and very nice she looked in her fresh muslins and simple straw hat. she was not very young, judging from her lace, which was thin and rather dark, but she had a youthful air, and a sweet smile, and seemed altogether a pleasing person. even jean could find no fault with her manner, as she addressed her aunt. there was respect, even deference, in every tone of her voice, and in every bend of her graceful head. there was not very much to be said between them however. miss jean told the lady where mrs cairnie lived. any body in portie could have told her that. then there was something said about the poor old lady's wants and ways, and the chief thing was that the daughter had sent some money and other things, which were to be left in miss jean dawson's hands, for a reason which the lady could not explain. but explanation was unnecessary, for miss jean knew more of poor tibby cairnie's troubles and temptations than even her own daughter did. it was all arranged easily enough, but still the lady seemed in no hurry to go. she could hardly have gone at once, for mr dawson had taken captain harefield round among the trees, and they were out of sight at the moment may admired the ponies, and jean stood with her hand on her aunt's chair looking straight before her. "a striking face and graceful figure, and a wonderfully intelligent look as well," thought mrs eastwood, and then in a pretty friendly way she seemed to include the silent girl in the talk she had been making with miss jean about the trees, and the views, and the fine weather they had had of late; and when miss jean became silent, as she generally did unless she had something to say that needed to be heard, jean took her part in the conversation and did it well. when the gentlemen returned, mrs eastwood still seemed in no haste to go. a new idea had seized her. would miss dawson kindly go with her some morning soon to see mrs cairnie? it would be a pleasure to a faithful servant, if she could tell her on her return that she had seen her old mother; and if miss dawson could make it convenient to go with her, she would call some morning soon, and drive her to portie. no serious objection could be made to this, though in her heart miss jean doubted whether the absent annie would care much to have the lady see her old mother, who was not always in a state fit for the eyes of "gentlefolk." however a day was set, and other little matters agreed upon, and then with many pleased looks and polite hopes that they might meet again, their visitors went away. that night when they were sitting alone in the long gloaming, the sisters being not at home, mr dawson suddenly returned to the discussion of the subject which had been touched on in the garden. "i couldna divide the land, but there is enough of money and other property to do fair justice to the other, and i think the land should go to jean." his sister said nothing. "she is the eldest, and the strongest in every way. if she were to give her mind to it, she might, in time, hold her own in the countryside with the best of them." he was silent for a minute. "and she might many, and get help in that way. and her son would have the place. and he might take my name, which is an honest one at least." "ye're takin' a lang look," said miss jean at last. he gave an uncertain laugh. "oh! weel! that's atween you and me, ye ken. it might be. a lad like him that was here the day, for instance--a gentleman by birth and breeding. he is a poor man, as poverty looks to the like of him, a two or three hunder pounds or so a year. it would be wealth to most folk, but it's poverty to the like o' him. but if it should so happen--and i were to live another ten years--i might satisfy even the like o' him." there was much which miss jean might have said to all this, which fell like the vainest folly on her ears, but she said nothing. "and as for my jean!--she needs to see the world and society, and all that, doubtless, but if there's many o' the fine london ladies that will hold a candle to her as far as looks go--it's mair than i think. she might stand before the queen herself with any of them." and still miss jean said never a word. "it might very well be, and i might live to see it. there's more land to be had too, if i'm willing to pay the price for it--and with this in view i might care to do it. i'll do nothing in haste." he seemed to be speaking to himself, rather than to her. "i'll do nothing in haste," he repeated. "but i could do it, and there would be some good in life--if this thing could be." "are ye forgetting that ye ha'e a son somewhere in the world?" said his sister gravely. mr dawson uttered a sound in which pain and impatience seemed to mingle. "have i? it is hardly to be hoped. and if he is--living--it is hardly such a life as would fit him to take his place where--he might have been. i think, jean, it might be as weel to act as if i had no living son." "but yet he may be living, and he may come home." mr dawson rose suddenly and went and leaned against the darkening window. "no, jean, if he had ever been coming home, he would have come ere now. he was seen in portie not three months since, and he never came near me. ye think i was hard on him; but i wasna so hard as all that." "who saw him?" asked his sister greatly startled. "he was seen by more than one, though he was little like himself, if i can judge from what i heard." "but he is living, george. there's comfort in that." "if i had heard that he was living on the other side of the world, i might have taken comfort from it. but that he should have been here, and never came home--there is little comfort in that." "but he is living and he'll come home to you yet. do you think his mother's son will be left to go astray beyond homecoming? he'll come home again." "many a son of a good mother has gone down to death--and that he should have come so near her grave, without coming nearer! i would almost sooner know him to be dead than to know that of him. and when i mind--" that was the last word spoken. mr dawson rose and went out into the faint light of the summer night, and though his sister sat long waiting for him after the girls had come in and had gone to bed, she saw no more of him that night. chapter five. a new acquaintance. mr dawson was just as usual the next morning. he was never so silent, nor in such haste to get through breakfast and away to the town when his sister was in the house, for he took pleasure in her company, and never failed in the most respectful courtesy toward her when she was under his roof--or indeed elsewhere. she saw traces of last night's trouble in his face, but it was not so evident as to be noticed by his daughters. indeed he seemed to them to be more interested than usual in the amusing discussion into which they fell concerning their yesterday's pleasure. they had been at a garden party given by mrs petrie, the wife of their father's partner in the bank, and had enjoyed it, and may especially had much to say about it. "and who do you think was there, papa? captain harefield?" "captain harefield! how came that about?" "james petrie asked him, it seems. but he said he came because he thought we might be there." "but he acknowledged that it was his sister that `put him up to it,'" said jean. "so the petries may thank you for the honour of his company. that would rather spoil the honour to them, if they were to hear it," said mr dawson with a laugh. "well, very likely he may let them know it. i canna say much for his discretion," said may with a shrug. "he asked me who made my sister's gown, and you should have seen his face when i told him that she made it herself." "and didna he admire your gown?" asked her father, to the astonishment of the two jeans, and indeed to may's astonishment as well. "oh! yes. but then he said mine was just like other girls' gowns, `very pretty and all that.' but miss dawson's was `unique,'" said may with a drawl. "and he said he would tell his sister." "and maybe she'll want me to make one for her. she looks like one who cares about her gowns," said jean. "she would be a queer kind o' a woman if she didna," said her father dryly. jean laughed. "but there are degrees in that, as in other things. if captain harefield had spoken to me, i would have offered to make one for her." "and had the captain nothing to say to you; jean?" asked mr dawson. "he was feared at jean," may said laughing. "he just stood and looked at her." "he had plenty to say, if i had had the time to listen. he said his sister insisted on his coming north that he might keep out of mischief. he found blackford house a bore rather," said jean imitating may's drawl with indifferent success. then she added,-- "i beg your pardon, auntie. i ken ye dinna like it, and then i don't do it well enough to make it worth my while, like may here." "my dear, ye baith do it only ower weel. and as to my no' liking it-- that's neither here nor there. but i have kenned such a power o' mockery give great pain to others, and bring great suffering sooner or later on those that had it. it canna be right, and it should be no temptation to a--christian", was the word that was on miss jean's lips, but she changed it and said--"to a young gentlewoman." may looked at her sister and blushed and hung her head. miss jean so seldom reproved any one, that there was power in her words when she did speak; and may had yesterday sent some of her young companions into agonies of stifled laughter, by echoing the captain's drawl to his face. "i'll never do it again, auntie," said she. "and besides," said her sister, "captain harefield is not fair game. it's not just airs and pride and folly with him, as it is with some folk we have seen; it is his natural manner." "but that is just what makes it so irresistible," said may laughing. "to see him standing there so much at his ease--so strong and stately looking, and then to hear the things he says in his fine english words! it might be simple sandy himself," and she went on to repeat some of his remarks, which probably lost nothing in the process. even her aunt could not forbear smiling as she listened. "well, i must say i thought well of what i saw of him," said mr dawson. "i would hardly call him a sharp man, but he may have good sense without much surface cleverness. i had a while's talk with him yesterday." "and he's a good listener," said jean archly. her father laughed. "i dare say it may have been partly that. he is a fine man as far as looks go, anyway." "very. they all said that," said may. "and mavis said to me, `eh, may, wouldna he do grand deeds if he were the same a' through?' he has the look of `grand deeds.' but i have my doubts, and so had mavis," added may shaking her head. "there are few men that i have ever met, the same a' through. but who is mavis that sets up with you to be a judge?" asked her father. "mavis!"--said may, hanging her head at her father's implied reproof, as he supposed. "mavis--is wee marion--marion calderwood." "and we used--in the old days--to call her mavis because she has a voice like a bird, and to ken her from our may, and marion petrie," said jean, looking straight at her father, and as she looked the shine of tears came to her bonny eyes. "she is but a bairn," said miss jean gravely. mr dawson's face darkened as it always did at the mention of any name that brought back the remembrance of his son. may was not quick at noticing such signs, and she answered her aunt. "a bairn! yes, but `a bairn by the common,' as mrs petrie's eppie says. she is a clever little creature." "she is a far-awa' cousin o' mrs petrie's, and she's learning some things from the governess of her bairns. but she might well have been spared on an occasion like yesterday, i would think," said miss jean. "oh! _all_ the bairns were there, as well as marion. and she looked as a rose looks among the rest of the flowers." "as the violet looks in the wood, i would say," added jean. "she'll be as bonny as her sister ever was." there was a moment's silence, round the table, which jean broke. "she was asking when you would be home, aunt. she has gotten her second shirt finished, and she wants you to see it. she is very proud of it. i told her that you werena going to portie, except on sundays, for a month yet, and she must come here and let you see it." "weel, she'll maybe come. it was me that set her to shirt making. there is naething like white seam, and a good long stretch of it to steady a lassie like marion. and if she learn to do it weel, it may stand her instead when other things fail." "white seam!" exclaimed may. "not she! may calderwood is going to educate herself, and keep a fine school--in london maybe--she has heard o' such things. she's learning german and latin, no less! and i just wish you could hear her sing." "she markets for her mother, and does up her mother's caps," said jean, "and she only learns latin for the sake of helping sandy petrie, who is a dunce, and ay at the foot of the form." "she's nae an ill lassie," said miss jean softly, and the subject was dropped. phemie came in and the breakfast things were removed, and the girls went their several ways. miss jean, who was still lame from a fall she had got in the winter, went slowly to her chair near a sunny window and sat looking out upon the lawn. mr dawson went here and there, gathering together some papers, in preparation for his departure to the town. he had something to say, his sister knew as well as if he had told her, and she would gladly have helped him to say it, as it did not seem to be easy for him to begin. but she did not know what he wished to speak about, or why he should hesitate to begin. at last, standing a little behind her, he said,-- "it's no' like john petrie and his wife to do a foolish thing, but they are doing it now. and their son jamie just the age to make a fool o' himself, for the sake o' a bonny face. `a rose among the other flowers,' no less, said may." "but jean said better. `a violet in the wood.' she is a modest little creature--though she has a strong, brave nature, and will hold her own with any petrie o' them a'. and as good as the best o' them to my thinking." "well, that mayna be the father's thought, though it may be the son's." "dinna fash yoursel' about jamie petrie. he'll fall into no such trouble. it's no' in him?" added miss jean with a touch of scorn. "i never saw the lad yet that hadna it in him to ken a bonny lass when she came in his way; and for the lassie's ain sake, ye should take thought for her." "she has her mother," said miss jean, more hastily than was her way. "and any interference would come ill from you or me where this one is concerned. and my bonny mavis is but a bairn," she added more gently, "and she's in no danger from james petrie, who is a well intentioned lad, and who has been ower weel brought up, and who is ower fond of siller and gentility, to have either roses or violets in his plan o' life, unless they're growing in a fine flowerpot, in somebody's fine house. marion calderwood is no' for the like of him." her brother regarded her with anger so evidently struggling with astonishment in his face, that she expected hot words to follow. but he kept silence for a moment, and then he said quietly enough,-- "it seldom answers for ane to put his finger into another's pie. there are few men so wise as to profit by a lesson from another man's experience, and i doubt john petrie is no' ane o' them." "and there's few men, it's to be feared, wise enough to take the best lesson from their ain experience," said miss jean gravely. "and that is a sadder thing to say." it was quite true, as captain harefield had said, that it was his sister who "put him up" to going on james petrie's invitation to the garden party that afternoon. the natural desire to get him off her hands, for the rest of the day was her only motive in urging it, and a sufficient one, for it was true that he was bored by the quiet of blackford house, and that he did not suffer alone. but it was the unwonted energy of his admiring exclamations as soon as they had passed out of the gate of saughleas, that had suggested the idea. by "this and by that," were they not beauties, these two girls? who would have thought of coming upon two such without warning? even his sister must acknowledge that they were beautiful. she did acknowledge it, but there was something far more wonderful to her than their good looks. that two country girls--and scotch country girls--should be found at home dressed as these two were, astonished her more than their beauty. "they might have passed at any garden party of the season," said she. "passed! i should think so. i don't know about their gowns, but _they_ would pass, i fancy." "she couldn't have fallen on any thing to suit her style of face and figure better if she had made a study of it." "perhaps she did," said her brother, laughing. "or perhaps they get their gowns from london." "no, they would probably have been dressed alike, in that case, and in the height of the fashion. the white one was very much like the dresses of other girls, but the other was unique. and they seemed nice, lady-like girls." "did they not? and not so very scotch." "well, perhaps not so _very_--but rather so. but then i like the scotch of scotch people better than their english as a rule. however, the few words i heard them speak were softly and prettily spoken, and quite appropriate to the place and time. how it might seem elsewhere i could not say." "it is rather a nice place, too, isn't it? the estate is small, but he has no end of money, they tell me, and he seems a sensible old fellow enough." "the sister is a striking looking woman--with a certain dignity of manner, too." "yes, and young petrie tells me that she used to keep a little shop, in her young days. indeed, not so very long ago." mrs eastwood did not reply to this. her mind was evidently intent on solving the problem of jean's tasteful gown. "and at home too! i have heard that young people of their class, get themselves up in fine style when they go out to tea. but sitting there on the grass, with the old woman in the cap--" "but perhaps they are going out to tea.--to the garden party! `by this and by that'--did i tell you? young petrie at the bank asked me to go. i have a great mind to go." he glanced down at the faultless grey morning suit he wore. "i could not go all the way to blackford house and return again, could i?" "hardly, and you could not improve yourself if you were to go. yes, by all means accept the invitation. you will be sure to meet the misses-- dawson is it? and the circumstances will be more favourable for knowing them than they were this morning." it ended in captain harefield's leaving the carriage, and returning to portie on foot. he lunched at the inn, and presented himself at petrie villa in company with the eldest son of the house in the course of the afternoon. it is to be supposed that he enjoyed himself, for this was by no means his last visit, and his sister was able to congratulate herself on getting him off her hands a good deal after this while they remained in the north. various circumstances combined, made this a pleasanter summer in saughleas than the last had been. for one thing, miss jean was there more than usual. the fall which had made her almost helpless for a while, still prevented her from moving about with ease; and the lord's "little ones," for the time, received the aid and comfort which she owed them for his sake, through the hands of others, and she had to content herself with sitting still and waiting his will. she could have contented herself in circumstances more adverse than those in which she found herself. she knew that her presence in the house was a pleasure to her brother, and that it was not an uncomfortable restraint upon her nieces, as it might have become, even though they loved one another dearly, had she assumed any other place than that of visitor among them. so young a mistress of a house, to which there were so many coming and going as there always were in summer, needed the help which the presence of an elder person gave, and it was all the better that the help was given and received with no words about it. jean the younger, was glad of her aunt's stay, because she loved her, and because escaping now and then from the pleasant confusion that sometimes prevailed in the house, she found quiet and rest in her company. and though she might not have acknowledged her need of her help in any other way, she was doubtless the better of it. it cannot be said that it was altogether a happy summer to her, but it was a very busy one. she was mistress and housekeeper, and gave her mind to her duties as she had not done at first. indeed, it seemed that she was determined to give herself and her maidens no rest for a while, so intent was she in doing all that was to be done. and even when her maidens had necessary respite, she took none to herself. in the house or in the garden she occupied herself all the morning. she took long walks in the afternoon if there were no visitors to entertain, and if the rain, or the special need or wish of her aunt or her sister kept her in the house, she employed herself still with work of some sort, sitting at it steadily and patiently, "as if she had her bread to make by it," her father said one day when he had been watching her for some time unperceived. "i should like to know how it would seem to do that," said jean gravely. "you would soon tire of it," said her father laughing. "i dare say. i tire of most things," said she, rising and folding up the long, white garment on which she had been so busy. her father regarded her curiously from behind his newspaper. she did not look either well or happy at the moment, he thought. "it is all nonsense, jean lassie, to keep yourself at your seam, as you have been doing for the last two hours, when there are so many poor women in portie that would be glad to do it for what you would hardly miss." "but i like to do it, papa, for the moment, and one must do something." "it is just a whim of hers, papa," said may laughing. "think of her stinting herself to do so much an hour, when she might as well be amusing herself." "it's good discipline, auntie jean says," said jean laughing. "and i need, it she thinks. at any rate, every woman ought to do white seam in the very best way, and i didna like it when i was young." "but now we have the sewing-machine, and as for the discipline, it's all nonsense." "well never mind, may. now is the time to speak to papa about the children's party. papa, may wants to give a large children's party--for the little corbetts, ye ken. though there must be grown people here too, and it will be great fun, i have no doubt." jean seemed quite as eager about it as may, her father thought, as they went on to discuss the proposed party. of course the result of the discussion was just what the sisters knew it would be. their father said they were to please themselves, only adding several cautions as to the care that must be taken of fruit trees and flower beds, and some doubts as to how the portie bairns, accustomed to the freedom of rocks and sands, would care for a formal tea-drinking in the house, or even in the garden. "the bairns' pleasure is the excuse, and no' the reason, i doubt," said he; but he laughed when he said it. this was one of the things that made this summer pleasanter than the last had been. they had amused themselves last summer and their father had not objected; but as to his enjoying any thing of the kind, such a thought had never entered the minds of his daughters. but now he did not endure their gay doings painfully, protesting against them by his manner, if not by his words, nor did he ignore them altogether as had been most frequently his way. he looked on smiling at the enjoyment of the guests, and took evident pleasure in the success of his daughters in entertaining them. if it had been otherwise, there would have been few visitors to entertain, and few gayeties attempted. for jean did not care enough for these things to make the effort worth her while, and may would have had to content herself with the gayeties provided by other people. but as it was, the elder sister did her part, and did it well; so well that none but her aunt suspected that her heart was not in these things quite as it used to be. certainly her father was far from suspecting any such thing. and sitting apart, seeing them both and watching, and musing upon all that was going on, miss jean could not but wonder at his blindness, and at the folly of the vague and pleasant possibilities he was beginning to see, and to rejoice over in the future. chapter six. a proposal. the garden party at petrie villa had been the first of a series. not a very long series, indeed, for there were not many gardens in portie equal to the requirements of such an entertainment, even according to the limited ideas of those who had never "assisted at" a garden party anywhere else. but there had been several, and the presence of captain harefield would have been generally declared to be the most interesting feature of nearly all of them. he had not always been invited. that is, he had not always been invited in the formal way usually considered necessary on such occasions even in portie. but through the kindness of james petrie at first, and afterward of others, when he became better known, he was sure to make his appearance in the course of the entertainment, and so comported himself and so evidently enjoyed himself, that even those who were at first inclined to resent, as a liberty, his coming so unceremoniously among them, forgot to do so in his presence, and ended in being as pleased and flattered as the rest. of course there was a garden party at saughleas, and of course captain harefield was a guest, formally and specially invited by mr dawson himself. but his presence was not the most interesting circumstance of the occasion, for his sister, mrs eastwood, was there also. mrs eastwood had come according to her promise and had taken miss jean in her carriage to visit mrs cairnie, and it had been a successful visit in every way. for may had given the old woman warning, and she had prepared herself to receive them. not only had she on a clean "mutch" and apron, but her house was "redd up" in a way that would have seemed wonderful to her visitor, if she had been familiar with its aspect on other days. mrs cairnie was a clever old woman, and made the most of her opportunity. she bewailed the loss of her daughter's society, and of the help and comfort she had been to her, but enlarged on her sense of the good fortune that had come to the lassie in being admitted into the service of such a kind and gracious lady. she declared herself overpowered at the condescension and kindness of the visit in terms which did not seem so very much exaggerated to the visitor; but miss jean knew that the bad auld wife was laughing in her sleeve at the english lady and her simplicity. however, the visit was considered a success by those chiefly concerned, and it was to be repeated before mrs eastwood took her departure. on returning to leave miss jean at saughleas, mrs eastwood expressed herself delighted to accept mr dawson's invitation to alight and drink a cup of tea before she set out for blackford house. in a little the tea and all the pretty accessories were brought out to the terrace, and it was charming--every thing was charming, mrs eastwood declared, and "not at all scotch"; but happily the last part of her opinion was reserved till she was relating her afternoon's adventures at blackford house. she herself did her utmost to charm every one, and succeeded very well on the whole, and her suggestion as to an invitation to the garden party came very naturally and gracefully in the midst of the gentle thanks addressed to miss jean because of the kindness shown to her brother. captain harefield, whom she confessed to be a little impatient of the quiet of blackford house. even miss dawson did not seem to think it strange when, in her pretty way, she begged to be allowed to accompany her brother to the garden party on the day appointed. "it was very silly of her," jean said afterwards. "what possible pleasure could she expect?" "i don't see that. why should she not take pleasure in it as well as you? she is young yet," said mr dawson, ready to take the lady's part. "i should have no pleasure in going out of my own sphere," said jean with dignity. "eh! jeannie, i'm no' so sure of that. werena you just the other day playing at `the beds' with mavis, and emily corbett, and the rest of the bairns on the sands? and didna you finish maggie saugster's seam to let her get away with the rest? and didna you--" "nonsense, may! i've played at `the beds' all my life, and i dinna look down on mavis and maggie and the rest. and it was for their pleasure i played with them, and not for my own." "well, it may be for our pleasure that mrs eastwood is coming here, and as for looking down on us--" said may with a toss of her pretty head. "whisht, bairns," said miss jean gently. "i dare say she thinks lang in the country as weel as her brother,--her that's used with london life,-- and she would like to come just for a pass-time, with no thought of looking down on any one." "her brother doesna seem to be looking down on any one," said mr dawson with a short, amused laugh. "oh! he makes no secret that it is just for a pass-time, that he favours portie folk with his company. he finds blackford house dull. he gets awfully bored," said may in the captain's languid manner. "it's a wonder he stays on then," said mr dawson. "i said that to him once, and he said--" may hesitated. it would not have been easy to repeat all that had been said on the occasion alluded to; but she put the gist of his communications more clearly and directly than he had done himself, when she added,-- "it is a good place not to spend money at, and he does not seem to have much to spend." "weel, he's honest--as to his reasons, at any rate," said her father. "oh! that is what i gathered, rather than what he said. he is out of the reach of duns. that he _did_ say." "he doesna seem to me like an ill-disposed youth," said miss jean. "oh, no, auntie! he's nice and agreeable, and--all that; but he is-- soft," said may laughing. her father looked as if he were going to say something sharp, but he did not. "his sister is very fond of him, and very good to him, he says. and he must be a heavy handful whiles," said jean gravely. "in what way?" asked her father. "oh! just having him on her mind to keep sight of, and amuse, and keep out of mischief, as he says. just fancy the weariness of it?" "you seem to have gathered a good deal from him, as well as your sister," said mr dawson, not well pleased. "and you find him a heavy handfu', do you? i have thought whiles that you get on very well with him." "oh, yes, i get on very well with him! i'm not responsible for him, ye ken, and that makes all the difference." "marion petrie says that jean keeps him very much to herself, and jamie looks as if he thought so, too, sometimes," said may laughing. "that is one of your `gatherings,' may, my dear," said her sister. "well, you must make your best of the visitor when she comes," said mr dawson as he went out. and it was very easy to make the best of mrs eastwood. she was amiable and agreeable, and if she looked down on any one, it did not appear. she did not mingle much with the younger portion of the company, but she amused herself by observing all that was going on, and talked pleasantly with miss jean, and afterwards with mr dawson, about various things, but chiefly about her brother, whom she evidently loved dearly, and who as evidently caused her anxiety, though she had no thought of letting this appear. miss jean found her soft flowing talk pleasant to listen to, and all the more that she did not need very often to reply. mr dawson was charmed with her, and it was not, as a general thing, his way to be charmed with strangers. but she was not altogether a stranger. her husband's name-- eastwood, the london banker--had long been familiar to mr dawson. he knew him to be a "responsible" man, and that was more than could be said of all the fine english folk, who found it convenient to pass a part of the summer or autumn at blackford house. mrs eastwood herself was of high family, being the granddaughter, or at least the grand-niece, of a living earl, and though mr dawson would doubtless have scorned the imputation, it is possible that he found all the more pleasure in entertaining her because of that mr eastwood was not of high family. he was very rich however, and they got on together, pretty well, may "gathered" from captain harefield's conversation; that is, they never quarrelled, and were content to spare each other to enjoy the society of other people for a good part of the year. but mrs eastwood made much of her husband when speaking of him to mr dawson, and of her brother also. of the brother, she had much to say, and mr dawson listened with great interest to it all, as miss jean could not fail to see. and in the mean time the young people amused themselves in the garden and in the wood, and captain harefield seemed to be at no loss for amusement among them. jean certainly did not keep him to herself to-day, as mr dawson noticed; but then jean was hostess, and had to occupy herself with the duties of her position, and with the party generally. it passed off very well, all things considered, and the children's party was likely to be the same thing over again, with the children added. the little corbetts, who were the reason, or the excuse, of the prospective gayeties, had come from their home in an english manufacturing town, in order that the sea breezes of portie might put strength in their limbs and colour in their wan cheeks; and they had come at the special invitation of mr dawson. their father, the son of the portie parish minister of the time, had been his chief friend in the days of his youth, and they had never forgotten one another, though they had not for a long time been in frequent correspondence. during one of mr dawson's infrequent visits to liverpool, they had met by chance, and had renewed acquaintance to the pleasure of both, and mr dawson allowed himself to be persuaded to go and pass a few days with his friend. mr corbett had not been a very successful man in the way of making money, and he had a large family, few of them able to do much for themselves. but they were cheerful, hopeful people, and made the best of things. there had been illness among them recently, which had left the younger children white and thin, and not likely to mend during the summer heat in a close city street; and when mr dawson asked as many of them as liked to spend a month or two among the sea breezes of portie, the invitation was accepted gratefully. but it was doubtful whether, for economic reasons, they could have availed themselves of it, if mr dawson had not taken matters into his own hand, and insisted on taking some of them home at once. so the two youngest, polly and dick, with an elder sister of fifteen to be responsible for their well-being and well-doing, were carried off to saughleas, and presented unannounced to the startled, but well pleased, household. their coming gave interest, and occupation as well, to every one, for "mr dawson had given mamma no time for preparation," as the pretty, anxious elder sister was fain to explain when she asked miss dawson's advice and assistance in the matter of shoes and stockings, and other things suitable for the perfect enjoyment of the rocks and sands of portie. miss dawson made all that easy, taking the equipment of the children, and the elder sister as well, into her own hands. and the puny city children enjoyed the sands and the sea, the running and clambering, and the free out-of-doors life, as much as their father had done in his boyish days; and their own mother would hardly have recognised their round brown faces before the first month was over. as to their needing entertainment in the way of children's parties, that was not likely. but for the sake of their father and grandfather they had been invited to many houses in portie, and it was but right that they should have a chance to invite their young friends in return. and so the party was decided on, and was much enjoyed, and so might be dismissed with no more words about it, except for a circumstance or two which attended it. mrs eastwood was there again, but not by invitation. she had not been aware that there was to be such gay doings at saughleas, she said, when she came into the garden, and she stayed a while at miss jean's request, to enjoy the sight of so many happy bairns. but she was not bright and beaming and bent on pleasing every one, as she had been the first time she was at saughleas. to tell the truth, she was anxious and unhappy, at a loss what to do, or whether she should do any thing, or just let events take their own course. it was her brother and his affairs that occupied her thoughts. she had been so long accustomed to think for him, and advise him, he had come to her so constantly for help in the various difficulties into which he had fallen during his life, and she had been so successful in helping him, and so happy in doing so, that she could not--though she sometimes tried--divest herself of a feeling of personal responsibility for his well-being. and now that he seemed to be at a turning point in his life, she felt all the anxiety of one who had a decision of importance to make, with no one at hand on whose judgment she could rely for guidance. it added to her unhappiness, that she could not quite free herself from blame in regard to the matter to be decided. she need not have made herself unhappy about her own course. nothing that she had done or left undone, had much to do with the intentions of which her brother had informed her that morning. she had been conscious of a feeling of relief for herself at the chance of his finding the means of amusing himself innocently in the country. that was the uttermost of her sin towards him. but his frequent visits to saughleas, and his loiterings in portie, would have been none the less frequent had he believed that his sister missed and mourned every hour of his absence. and her present anxiety as to his next step was just as vain. she could neither help nor hinder it, and, whatever might be the result, neither praise nor blame could justly fall to her because of it. but she did not see it so, and so she had come to saughleas with many vague thoughts as to what it might be wise to do, but with a firm determination as to one thing that was to be plainly said before she went away again. her first thought when she saw the pleasant confusion that the children were making on the lawn and in the gardens was, that nothing could be said to-day. but by and by, when children and young people, her brother among the rest, went away to amuse themselves with games in the field beyond the wood, the way to speak was opened to her, and she saw no reason why she should not say all that was in her mind. it was to miss jean she had intended to say it, and miss jean was sitting under the beeches with folded hands, ready to listen. and yet, looking into the grave, serene face of miss jean, she did hesitate. she could not tell why; for miss jean was only a person who had kept a shop, and counted and hoarded the pence, and who knew their value. a commonplace, good-natured woman, not easily offended, why should she not say to her all that she had to say--and say it plainly too? and so she did. and miss jean listened with no offence apparently, with only a little gleam of surprise and interest in her eyes, and perhaps a little gleam of amusement also. mrs eastwood was not sure. she did not say much, but she said it very plainly. miss jean must have noticed the frequency of captain harefield's visits to saughleas, and his warm admiration of the young ladies, her nieces. it had gone beyond admiration, she had reason to think, as to one of them. indeed her brother had intimated as much to her, and had filled her with anxiety; for her brother had no fortune. of course if he married he would wish to leave the army. could miss jean tell her whether the fortune which mr dawson could give his daughter would be sufficient to insure the comfort of the young people in case of a marriage? "and did your brother send you to ask?" said miss jean quietly. "and why do you ask me?" "of course he did not i speak because of my own anxiety, and you must see that i could not speak to mr dawson about money until a proposal had been made." "weel, madam, i can give you no help and no information. i have no' sufficient knowledge of my brother's means, or of his intentions. and i could not influence him in this matter, even if i were to try. which of them is it?" but strangely enough mrs eastwood could not answer this question. the intimation she had that morning received of her brother's intention to propose to mr dawson for the hand of his daughter, had not been very definite or very clearly given. it had come in during a discussion of other and painful matters, with which money, or rather the want of money, had to do. and if her brother had told her which of them he intended to honour, she had failed to understand him, or she had forgotten. so her reply did not touch this question. "i cannot say whether i approve or disapprove of his choice. your niece is very pretty and lady-like, and she would take her husband's rank-- and, my dear miss dawson, i trust you will not think me mercenary, but my brother can give his wife a high station, and a place in society, and to make the marriage an equal one, or in the least degree suitable, there should not only be beauty and grace, which your niece i must acknowledge has, but--money." "and plenty of it," said miss jean. "of course. and unless there is, as you say, plenty of it, percy should not be allowed to speak." "but if they love one another?" mrs eastwood turned and looked at miss jean. she had rather avoided doing so hitherto. she was not sure that the old woman was not laughing at her. miss jean's face was grave enough however. "if there is not a prospect of--of--a fortune, he should not be allowed to speak. not that i do not admire your niece. i admire her extremely. she is clever, and sensible also, and would restrain--i mean she would influence her husband. she would make a good wife to percy, who is--who needs some one to lean on." "a heavy handfu'," said miss jean, unconsciously repeating her niece's words. there was a silence of several minutes between them, and then mrs eastwood continued, carrying on her own train of thought. "of course i knew that the foolish boy admired the young lady--fancied himself in love; but that has often happened to him before, and i thought it would pass with the month. but they are very pretty and fresh, and the tall one is clever, and she would--yes, she would make him a good wife--provided--" miss jean's spirit was stirred within her, but she said nothing; and mrs eastwood said all the more, unconsciously betraying her belief that it would be the best thing that could happen to her brother, that he should marry and settle down with a wife clever enough to influence him. and to influence him meant, evidently, to keep him from spending too much money, and from the companionship of those who loved to lead him astray. she did not say in plain words that his marriage with such a one would be a great relief to her and that it would be the saving of him to be kept out of london and out of harm's way for the greater part of the year; but miss jean saw clearly that she was more eager for his success than she was willing to acknowledge. miss jean listened silently and patiently. her niece knew her own mind, doubtless, and would not be likely to allow herself to be influenced by the wishes of any one, and she had no call to reprove, or even to resent, the "ill manners" of the lady. so she sat silent and let the softly spoken words "go in at one ear and out of the other," till she heard the tramp of a horse's feet, and knew that her brother was come home, and then she rose, and invited mrs eastwood into the house, hoping that she would refuse the invitation and take her departure. for at the sound of her brother's voice, miss jean's heart misgave her. chapter seven. a misfortune. miss jean's heart misgave her, for she knew that the thought suggested to her brother on the morning when mrs eastwood and captain harefield came to saughleas to inquire about poor tibbie cairnie had returned to him more than once; and she feared that should captain harefield speak to-day, he might not refuse to listen, and then there would be troublous times before them. that there was even a possibility that he should be willing to listen to him was amazing to miss jean. so wise and cautious and far-seeing as he had always shown himself to be, how could he think of trusting any part of the wealth which he had spent his life in gathering, to the hands of a man who had proved himself incapable of making a good use of that which had fallen to him? to say nothing of being willing to trust him with his daughter! there was comfort here, however. jean's welfare was in her own keeping. miss jean was not so much at a loss as mrs eastwood, as to which of her nieces captain harefield intended to seek. and she was glad it was jean, for jean could hold her own against father and lover and all. but still there was trouble before them, for, strangely enough, her brother, hard-working and practical, a thorough man of business, had taken pleasure in the comings and goings of this young man so utterly unlike himself in all essential respects. she had seen it with wonder and a little amusement at first; but she knew now, or she thought she knew, that he had been preparing disappointment for himself and vexation to her bonny jean. "truly we need guidance," she said aloud, and then she rose and invited mrs eastwood to go in to the house and take a cup of tea, hoping all the time that she might refuse, and that she might be away before mr dawson came. it was not to be so arranged however. mr dawson was delighted to see mrs eastwood, and expressed his pleasure so frankly, that miss jean thought it possible the lady might take courage, and make known to him as plainly as she had done to her the cause of her visit. so, instead of moving away with the help of her cane, as she had at first intended to do, she seated herself again. not that she thought that her presence would be likely to prevent her speech, but she was curious to know how the matter, so interesting to the lady, should be presented to a new listener; and curious also to see how her brother might receive it. there were the usual inquiries and compliments as to health, and the usual remarks about the weather and the appearance of the country, and then mrs eastwood spoke of the benefit she had received from her long stay, and her regret that the time of her departure was so near. then mr dawson inquired with more interest than the occasion demanded, whether captain harefield was to leave also. "if he take my advice about it, he will certainly do so," said mrs eastwood. "but that is doubtful. the interest of the season is just beginning to him, and as he has had his leave extended, he may remain." "he is a keen sportsman, i hear," said mr dawson. "oh, yes; and the shooting here is good, they say, and does not involve very much fatigue. yes, he will probably stay for a little; though i think he had much better go, for various reasons." she spoke with a certain significance of tone and manner, and mr dawson remained silent, expecting to hear more; and possibly he might have had the pleasure of hearing of captain harefield's hopes and his sister's opinions, had no interruption occurred. but at the moment a sudden outcry arose somewhere in the garden. they could see nothing where they were sitting, but they heard the sound of many voices--entreating, expostulating, scolding, and at last they heard words. "ye needna tell, may. naebody will ken wha did it." "i wouldna tell mr dawson--for--oh! for ony thing." "an' naebody will ken that it was you that did it." "it wasna me, but it was my fault; and if sandy winna tell, i must, and just take the wyte (blame) mysel'." "eh! marion! yon's him speaking to the leddy. i wouldna be you for something." "something untoward has happened, i doubt," said miss jean. "i hope no ill has come to any of the apple-trees." now mr dawson's apple-trees were the pride of his heart. it is not easy to raise fruit trees of any kind so near to the sea; and as far as apple-trees are concerned, the fruit is not of the best, when success has crowned persevering effort. but on a few young trees, bearing for the first time, there hung several apples beautiful to behold, and they had been watched through all the season with interest by every one in the house, but above all by mr dawson. so when miss jean said "apple-trees," he rose at once to satisfy himself that they were safe. but alas! before he had fairly turned to go, all doubt was at an end. there were many children at a little distance, and two or three were drawing near, and in the hand of one, a girl in her teens, was a broken branch, on which hung two of the half dozen apples from the best of all the trees. mr dawson had watched them with too great interest not to know just where the little branch belonged. he did not speak,--indeed the little maiden did not give him time. "it was a' my wyte, mr dawson, and i'm very grieved," said she, holding up the branch, and looking up into his face with eager, wistful eyes. mr dawson took it, but he looked not at it, but at the child, saying nothing. "i beg your pardon. i'm very grieved," repeated she. mrs eastwood whispered to miss jean what a pretty picture the child made, but miss jean was thinking of other things. "it was sandy," continued the little pleader. "he was taking a' wee david's sweetees, and i couldna bide that, ye ken, and i just--just tried to hinder him; an' he ran awa', and me after him. and he ran in beneath the tree, but he wouldna have gone, if i hadna been after him, and so--" "she licket me, and she tried to rug my lugs," (pull my ears), said a voice in the distance. the change in the girl's face was wonderful to see as she turned to the speaker. a sudden colour rose to her cheeks, and her grey eyes flashed scorn and anger. "if i only had been able!" said she, and then she turned to mr dawson again. "i'm very grieved," repeated she. "it canna be helpit now, maysie," said miss jean. "never heed. run awa' with the lave o' the bairns." for miss jean knew that it was not the apples nor their destruction that had brought that look to her brother's face. "are ye angry with me, sir? and winna ye forgive me?" said maysie, the sweet wistfulness coming back to her eyes. "i'm very grieved." "it canna be helpit. never heed," said mr dawson, repeating his sister's words. "i dinna think i mind your name," added he, not meaning to say it, but making a great effort to recover himself. "i'm marion calderwood," said she, a sudden brightness, followed by a cloud as sudden, passing over her face. she lifted beseeching eyes to his face, and then she turned to miss jean. "run awa', lassie, with the lave o' the bairns," said miss jean. "maybe i should go hame?" "hoot, lassie! never heed. only run away with the lave." quite unconscious that he owed an apology to mrs eastwood for his abrupt departure, mr dawson turned and strode off in another direction. "they must be precious apples," said mrs eastwood, looking after him with surprise not unmingled with disgust. "it's an old trouble," said miss jean sorrowfully. "he'll hear none o' her fine words the night," she added to herself, conscious, amid her trouble, of some satisfaction that it should be so. no, mr dawson was not likely to listen patiently to words of any kind that night. the very first look from the child's eyes smote his heart with a pang in which there was regret, as well as anger and pain. for a sudden remembrance of eyes as sweet, and with the same look of wistful appeal in them came back to him--the eyes of bonny elsie calderwood, who had come between him and his son. almost the last words which his son had spoken to him, the very last such as a son should speak to his father, had been spoken while those wistful eyes entreated him. it had been a moment of great bitterness, and as he passed down the lane that led to the fields, and then to the sea, eager to get beyond the sound of the gay voices ringing from garden and wood, the old bitterness returned, and with it came the added misery of the vain wish that he had yielded his own will that day--a longing unspeakable for all that he had lost. his boy--the only son of his mother who had been so dear, had he lost him forever? would he never return? could he be dead? should he never see his face or hear his voice again? he had a bitter hour or two, this man, whom even his sister, who knew him best and loved him best, called hard in her secret thoughts. and the bitterness did not pass with the hour, nor the pain. silence reigned in the house before he came home that night, and in the morning something of the old gloom seemed to have fallen upon him. captain harefield did go home with his sister; at least he left blackford house with her, and that without returning after the night of the children's party to say "good-bye" to his friends at saughleas. may remarked upon this with a little indignation, and mr dawson said it was not like the young man not to do what was polite and kind, and he also wondered at the omission of the visit. jean said nothing; at least she said nothing to them. to her aunt she acknowledged that she had known of his intended departure, and that she had also known when he bade her good-bye that night, that she was not likely to see him again. but even to her aunt she did not acknowledge that he would have stayed longer if she had bidden him, or that even now a word from her would bring him back again. out of the unfortunate incident of the broken apple-tree, there rose a little talk between "the two jeans." miss jean had for a long time had something on her mind to say to her niece, but it was the younger jean who spoke first. "aunt, what is this they are saying about my father's anger at marion calderwood?" "my dear, he wasna angry!" "did you see it all, auntie? because marion went home greeting, the other bairns say. of course it was a pity about the tree, but it wasna marion who broke it, and it wasna like my father to show anger to a guest, even to a bairn." "my dear, he showed no anger." "but, auntie, there must have been something; for i met mrs calderwood in the high-street this morning, and she went red and then white, and was stiff and distant, as she used to be when we first came home. she had grown quite friendly of late, and to-day she would have passed me without speaking. it must have been because of marion." "it might have been, but i dinna think it. mrs calderwood is a proud woman, jean, my dear,--and--" "well?" "weel, ye have been consorting with fine folk lately, and maybe--" "auntie jean! dinna say more, for that is not your real thought; and that is a terrible thing to say of you." "my dear, it is my real thought, as far as it goes. i ha'e little doubt that was present in mrs calderwood's mind when she met you in the high-street--with other things." "we'll take the other things first then," said jean, the angry colour rising in her cheeks. "you must think your friend but a poor creature, or she must think it of us." it was the first time in all the girl's life, that her eyes with an angry light in them had rested fully on her aunt's face. her aunt did not resent it, or notice it, except by a gentle movement of her head from side to side, and the shadow of a smile passed over her face. she looked grave enough as she answered, however. "i am far from thinking her a poor creature, whatever she may think of us. and, jean, my dear, i think ye maun ken something of the other things, though ye never heard them from me." jean's look grew soft and sad, and she came and leaned on her aunt's chair. "do you mean about bonny elsie, and--our geordie? was it because of elsie that geordie went--and lost himself? tell me about it." "i think ye maun ken all that i could tell you--or mostly all." "i only ken--i mean i used to think that they--cared for one another--oh long ago, before my mother died. and since we came home, i have heard a word dropped now and then, by different folk--marion petrie, and her mother; and once tibbie cairnie said something about my father's cursed pride, and his fine plans that would come to nothing. but it wasna till afterwards that i knew that it was geordie she was thinking about auntie jean, i have had my thoughts, but i ken little. was my father angry? but he must have been sorry for george when poor elsie died. and was it because of elsie that my brother went away?" it was not an easy story to tell, and miss jean put it in as few words as possible, having her own reasons for telling it to jean. she dwelt less upon her father's anger at his son's folly, than upon the heartbreak that his loss had brought him. but she made it clear that "poor bonny elsie" was the cause of their estrangement, and that it would have been the same had elsie lived and had george carried out his determination to marry her against his father's will. "if the poor foolish lad had only waited and had patience in the mean time, much sorrow might have been spared to all concerned. your father might have given in--though i dinna think it; or as they were little more than bairns, they might have forgotten ane anither--though i dinna think that either. but if george had won to man's estate, and had been doing a man's work and getting a man's wages, he would have had a better right to take his own way, and your father _might_ have given in then. at least he must have been silent, and let the lad go his ain gait. i whiles weary myself thinking how it might have been." jean sat without a word, but with a face that changed many times from white to red and from red to white as she listened; and when her aunt paused, and took up the work which in her earnestness she had allowed to fall on her lap, she sat silent still, quite unconscious of the uneasy glances that fell on her from time to time. "it has made an old man of your father," added miss jean in a little. "poor father! and poor geordie! ay, and poor elsie! and nothing can change it now." jean rose from the stool on which she had been sitting at her aunt's feet, and walked restlessly about the room. by and by, she came and stood behind her aunt's chair, leaning upon it. "aunt--there is something i would like to tell you. i wonder if i ought?" "ye maun judge, my dear." "if i were only sure." both were silent for a time. "would i be better able to give help or counsel to you or--to any one-- if i were to hear what you could tell?" jean shook her head. "nothing can be done--at least not now," said she sadly. "weel then, dearie, dinna speak. whiles troubles take shape and strength in the utterance and grow persistent, that might have died out or come to little in silence. if a time should come that you are sure that speaking would do any good, tell me then." "it would do no good now. and i am not sure that there is any thing to tell." there was a long silence between them. jean was thinking of the "john seaton" sailing away with her brother to the northern seas. miss jean was thinking of the "john seaton" too, and of willie calderwood, with a sad heart. "they were just a' bairns thegither i thought, but i little kenned. and wae's me! for my bonny jean, gin she has to go through all that--and wae's me! for her father as well. no' that the pain and the trouble need be feared for them, so that they are brought through--and no unfilial bitterness left to sicken my bairn's heart forever more; but i mustna speak, or let her speak. i think she hardly kens yet how it is with her, but she would ken at the first word; silence is best." and silence it was. but by and by more was said about the story of those two "for whom life was ended," as jean said sadly. she was not angry at her father's part in the matter, as her aunt had feared she might be. it could not have been otherwise, looking at things as he looked at them, she acknowledged, and she grieved for him all the more, knowing that there must mingle much bitterness, perhaps remorse, with his sorrow for his son. "if my mother had but lived!" she said sadly. "ay, lassie! but he kens best who took her hence where we'll a' soon follow. we make muckle ado about our gains and our pains, our loves and our losses, forgetting that `our days are as a shadow, and there is no abiding.'" "a shadow to look back upon, auntie, but a reality as we are going through with them day by day." "ay! that's true, my lassie, and a stern reality whiles. the comfort is that it is a' ordered for us." jean shook her head with a doubtful smile. "only it is not till afterward that we get the good of that knowledge." "and coming afterward it comes ower late, ye think, lassie. but bide ye still and see. and indeed no one need wait till afterwards to know the blessedness o' just lying quiet in his hands. and ye needna wait a day for that, my dear bairn." if jean had spoken, the tears must have come; so she rose and kissed her aunt silently, and then went away. chapter eight. willie calderwood. the name of willie calderwood had never been spoken between the sisters since the day when, standing on the high rocks above the tangle stanes, they had watched the "john seaton" making out to sea. jean was silent for one reason, and may for another; and there were reasons enough that both could see why silence was best, to prevent either of them from feeling such silence strange. willie calderwood had been their companion and their brother's chief friend in the days when they all played together on the rocks and sands of portie--in the days before george dawson had admitted into his heart the thought, that the wealth he had won, and the estate he had made his own, gave his children a right to look higher for their friends than among their less prosperous neighbours. but his children were not of the sort that forget easily, nor were the calderwoods the sort of friends to be easily forgotten. willie had always been a leader among them, a handsome, fearless, kindly lad, and he became a hero to them all, when he went to sea and came home to tell of shipwreck first, and then of strange adventures among strange people; of hunger and cold and suffering, and escape at last. a hero! there were many such heroes in portie who had suffered all these things and more--old men and men old before their time who had passed their lives in whaling ships on the northern seas; who had been wounded or maimed in battles with northern bears and walruses, and with northern frost and snow; and even they made much of the lad who had begun his battles so early. so no wonder that he was a hero to his chosen companions and friends. "they were jist a' bairns thegither," as miss jean had said; but it was during that summer, the last of his mother's life, that young george lost his heart to bonny elsie, and it was during that summer too, that the visionary glory that rested on the name of the returned sailor carried captive the imagination of his sister jean. she did not forget him while she was away from portie; but when she returned they did not fall into their old friendly ways with one another. that would have been impossible even if the sad story of george and elsie had never been to tell; for jean was a woman by this time, and she was miss dawson of saughleas, and he was but the second mate of a whaling ship; a brave man and a good sailor, but not the equal of the rich man's daughter as times were now. so they seldom met, and when they did meet, it was not as it used to be in the old times between them. he never sought her out when they met in the houses of their mutual friends, and when the circumstances of the moment brought them together, he was polite and deferential and not at his ease. jean would fain have been friendly and tried to show it, and not knowing then of her father's anger, because of his son's love, she could not but wonder at her ill success. "maybe he is like tibbie cairnie, and thinks you are set up with london pride," said may laughing. "if i were you, i would ask him." but jean never asked him, and he was not long in portie after they returned. but when he came back again it was very much the same. he was at home the greater part of the winter before he sailed with the "john seaton," and they met him often at other houses, though he never went to saughleas. there were times when they seemed to be felling back into their old friendliness, and jean, who was noted in their small circle for the coolness with which she accepted or rejected the compliments, or the graver attentions of some who seemed to seek her favour, grew gentle and winning, and even playful or teasing, when any movement in the room brought the young sailor to her side. "she is just the jean of the old days," poor willie said to himself, and he could say nothing better than that. they fell back at such times into the kindly speech of their childhood "minding" one another of this or that happy day when they were "a' bairns thegither." they could say little of elsie who was dead, or of george who was lost, in a bright room with others looking on, but the tears that stood in jean's "bonny een" told more than words could have done of her love and sorrow for them both. if she had known all, she might have thought it wise to say nothing; but her words and her wet eyes were as drops of sweet to the lad in the midst of much bitterness. he did not always go home cheered and comforted after the sweetness; but jean did, telling herself that at last they were friends as they used to be--till they met again, and then the chances were, that her "friend" was as silent and deferential and as little eager, apparently, to seek her company as ever; and she could only comfort herself with the thought that the fault was not hers. so it went on strangely and sadly enough for a while, and then jean began to see that though he shunned rather than sought her, he seemed friendly enough with her sister. he seemed to seek her out, and to have much to say to her; and why he should be friendly with may and not with her, she could not easily understand. "unless--and even then?" said jean to herself with a little sinking of the heart. she did not follow out her thought at the moment, but it came back to her afterwards, and on the high rocks as they watched the departing ship, she thought she saw it all clearly, and that she was content. he was her friend, and if he were may's lover, he would still be her friend, and all the more because of that, and time would make all things that might hinder their friendship now, clear to them both. but she did not speak to her sister about this. it was for may to speak to her, she thought at first, and after a while it would not have been easy to speak, and on the whole, silence was best. then as she listened to her aunt's story of their brother and elsie, and of their father's opposition and anger, she was not sure that silence was best. how much of it may might know, she could not tell; but sooner or later she must know it all, and if there was trouble before her, it would make it none the easier to bear, but all the heavier, the longer the knowledge was kept from her. but she shrank from speaking all the same. "i will tell her to-night," she said as she sat by her aunt's side. but she did not, nor the next, and even on the third night she sat long in the dark when the house was silent, listening to the wind among the trees, and the dull sound of the sea, and the painful beating of her own heavy heart, before she found courage to go into her sister's room. "if she is asleep, i will not wake her." but may was not asleep. she had been lingering over various little things that she had found to do, and had only just put out her light when her sister softly opened the door. she seemed to sleep, however, as jean leaned over to listen, but as she turned away, may laughed softly. "well, what is it? i dinna think i have done any thing so very foolish to-day--not more than usual, i mean." for, in her elder sisterly care for her, jean thought it wise to drop a word of counsel now and then, and this was the hour she usually chose to do it. she stooped down and kissed her as she turned, a circumstance that did not very often occur between them. for though they loved one another dearly, they were--after the manner of their kin and country-- shy of any expression of love or even of sympathy in the way of caresses. "is there any thing wrong?" said may startled. "did any one ever tell you about--about our geordie and elsie calderwood, may? auntie jean has been speaking about them to me lately." it was not a very good beginning, but she did not know what better to say. may raised herself up, and looked eagerly in her sister's face. "i have heard something. do you mean that you only heard it the other day?" "tell me all you know," said jean, leaning down on the bed beside her. "and why did you not tell me before?" "i did not like--and i thought you must ken about it." "ah! yes. it is sad enough. no wonder you didna like to speak about it. but tell me now all you know." and may did so, and it was very nearly all there was to tell. she had heard the story, not straight through from beginning to end, as jean had heard it from her aunt, but from words dropped now and then by one and another of their friends. and jean could not but wonder that, may having heard so much, she herself should have heard so little. but may knew little of the part her father had taken in the separation of the lovers, how angry he had been, and how determined to put an end to what he called the folly of his son. it was just this that may ought to know, and jean told it in as few words as possible. she wondered a little at the way in which her sister seemed to take it all. "poor elsie! but she might have died even if she had not been sent to the school. how little folk ken! they say in portie that her mother sent her away that she might learn things that would fit her to be the wife of young mr dawson, and by and by the lady of saughleas--and that her pride got a fall. it is a sorrowful story, jean." "and the saddest part of it to us is, that poor geordie is lost and gone from us. and even if he were to come home, it might be little better." "is my father angry yet, jean? or is he sorry? would he do the same if it were all to do over again?" "who can say! he has many thoughts about it, doubtless, and some of them cannot but be bitter enough. but as to his doing differently--" jean shook her head. "but, jean, i canna blame my father altogether. his heart was set on his only son, and george was but a boy." "yes, and aunt jean says if he had but waited with patience my father might have yielded at last." "or george might have changed. he had seen no one else, and though elsie was good, and bonny too, there was a great difference between her and--and some that we have seen,--ladies educated and accomplished as well as beautiful. and, jean, i canna but be sorry for my father." "sorry! that says little. my heart is like to break for him whiles-- and it might have been so different!" said jean sadly. "if he were living, we should have heard from him before this time." "who can say? oh! he is living! i canna think he is dead. poor papa, he must have a sore heart often." "jean," said her sister after a long silence, "do you think he would do it all over again? i mean--do you think he would be as hard on--you or me?" "do you mean--willie?" asked jean at last. "well--willie or another. it is not easy for my father to change." "no, it is not. but, may, have patience. things often come round in strange ways when we least expect it. if george would only come again! how long is it since the `john seaton' sailed?" "a good while since." jean could have told her sister the days and even the hours that had passed since then, but she did not. when she asked the question, it was her brother she was thinking of; but may, who could not know that, believed that she was thinking of willie calderwood. "he may be captain next voyage," said may. "but i wish he could leave the sea altogether. my father could open the way for that, if he chose." "leave the sea? is it willie you are speaking about? he would never do it. may, you must not ask it of him. it would be putting him in a false position altogether. he is a true sailor." "oh! i shall not ask him. it would do little good. but i wonder at you all the same. you have no ambition. he can never be more than just a sea captain--and always away." "a sea captain!" repeated jean. "a sailor!--and what would you have? would you put him behind the counter in a shop? or set him to casting up figures or counting money in a bank? would you even old mr petrie or james or any of them with the like of him?" may laughed. "oh! well, a sailor let him be. but ye needna flee at me as though i had said something horrible. and we needna vex ourselves. that will do no good." "it must be late," said jean rising. "she takes it quietly enough, and it is well she does. it would wear her out to be ay thinking and fearing and longing for his coming home, as i long for poor george's. she is ay light-hearted, dear child. god bless her," added jean with a sigh. the rest of the summer passed quietly away. the little corbetts went home strong and brown and with a wonderful knowledge of and delight in their father's mother tongue, rejoicing over the invitation for another visit the next summer, if all should be well. they were much missed in saughleas, and so was miss jean, who, though she enjoyed a visit to her brother and her nieces now and then, liked best the quiet of her own house, and the silent secret doing of the work which she had chosen among the sinful and suffering poor creatures of which, especially in winter-time, portie had its share. her stay at saughleas had done her good. she left her crutch behind her there, and she was able now to go with her staff in one hand and "help and comfort" in the other, to those who in the back sheets and lanes of the town needed her help most. at saughleas they missed her greatly, for various reasons, and chiefly for this, that at meal times, and at other times also, mr dawson was ready to fall into his old habit of silence and reserve, when left alone with his daughters. this silence was good neither for them nor for himself. "and i am going to try and have it otherwise," said jean to herself, as she sat behind the urn, waiting for his coming the first morning they were alone. he came in as usual with a bundle of papers in his hand, letters that had been received last night, and that must be answered this morning as soon as he reached the bank, and in the mean time he meant to look them over while he drank his coffee. "i think," said his daughter looking straight into his face as he adjusted his spectacles, so that he might not let her remark fall as though it had been made to her sister, "i think aunt jean is the woman the most to be envied among all the women i know." "ay! think ye that? and what new light ha'e ye gotten about her to-day?" said her father, arrested by her look rather than her words. "no new light. only i have been thinking about her last night and to-day. she is the best woman i know, and the happiest; and i envy her." "ye have but to follow in her steps, and ye'll be as good as she is,--in time," said her father dryly. "as to her happiness--i should say she perhaps makes the most of the means of happiness given to her, but otherwise i see little cause that you have to envy her. she is reasonable, and doesna let her wishes and her fancies get the better of her good sense, and so she is content." "and if i were reasonable, would i be content, i wonder? as to being as good--that must come of higher teaching and peculiar discipline, and i doubt i shall never be good in her way." "and what for no? your aunt would be the first to tell you that you can get the higher teaching for the asking. and as for discipline--the chances are ye'll get your share as well as the rest of us." "but not just in the same way. a long, patient, laborious, self-forgetting life hers has been--has it not? she is strong and she has been successful; yet she is not hard. she is good, but she is not down on wrong-doers in the way that some good folk are. if i had my choice, i think i would choose to have just such a life as she has had-- if it would make me like her." mr dawson looked at his daughter in some surprise. jean was not looking at him, but over his head far away to the sea, bright for the moment, under a gleam of sunshine. "would that be your choice? a life of labour, and then the life of a solitary single woman! i think i see you!" said her father with something like indignation in his tones. may laughed. jean's eyes came back from the sea with a vague, wistful look in them that startled her father. "i think, jean, ye hardly ken what ye're speaking about." "yes. about aunt jean. `a solitary single woman?' no. not solitary. that has such a sorrowful sound. oh! she is not solitary in an unhappy sense; even when she is quite alone in her own house by the sea." "what i mean is, that she has neither husband nor child. she is alone in that sense. and if ye think that she hasna whiles felt--weel--as if she had missed something in life--that's no' my thought." "yes--and that is part of the discipline, i suppose. missed something-- yes. but then, having had these things she might have missed that which makes her different from, and better than, any one else. i ken no one like my aunt jean." "weel--ye're no' far wrong there. and if ye had kenned her in her youth, you would have said the same. there were none like her then more than now. but she's growing unco frail-like now, poor body?" added mr dawson with a sigh. and then there was more said. mr dawson went on to tell many stories of his sister's youth, all going to prove that there were few like her for sense and goodness even then. most of these his daughters had heard before, but they liked to listen all the same. and mr dawson forgot his letters, and jean forgot that it was only to keep his eyes away from them, that she had begun to speak about her aunt, and she took courage because of her success. chapter nine. an invitation. she was not always so successful; still she was successful to a degree that surprised herself, in withdrawing her father from the silent and sombre musings which of late had become habitual to him. this was the work which she set herself. her time, while he was in the house, or near it, was given to him. she disturbed him doubtless now and then when he would have been better pleased to be left to himself; but upon the whole he responded to her advances, and by and by showed in many ways that he counted upon her interest in whatever he might be doing, and on such help as she could give. in all matters connected with the management of the estate he took especial pains to claim her attention and interest. she tramped with him over the wet autumn fields in all weathers, and listened to his plans for the improvement of the place in the way of dikes and ditches and drains, and to plans that went further than these--plans which it would take years to carry out well and wisely. her interest was real for the moment, and soon it became eager and intelligent as well. she not only listened to him, but she discussed, and suggested, and even differed from him in various matters, and held to her own opinions in a way that certainly did not displease him. she tired of it all sometimes, however, and though she permitted no sign of it to appear to her father, she could not always hide it from her sister. "and what is the good of it all? you cannot surely be vain enough to think that you are doing any good, or that papa cares to have you tramping about in the wet and the wind." "oh, i like it! and i may as well do it as any thing else. as to papa--yes, i think he likes it. i am better than no one to speak to, and--oh yes, i like it!" "it is all nonsense!" said may with a shrug. "as for papa, he might enjoy it, if it were peter stark, or john stott, or any one that could understand him, or give him a sensible answer;--but you!--what is the use of it?--and just look at your shoes and stockings!" jean looked down, as she was bidden, at her feet, and her soiled petticoats. "they _are_ wet," said she, "and dirty." "and tell me if you can, what is the good of it all?" "it has made me hungry, and it will make me sleep, perhaps. and the best reason for it is, that i like it--as well as any thing." she went away to change her wet things, and came back in her pretty house dress with a knot of gay ribbon at her throat, looking wonderfully bright and bonny her father thought as he came in at the hall door, and so he noticed all the more readily, perhaps, how white and changed she looked afterwards. when he also had changed his wet things, and came in to sit down, she was standing in the darkening room, looking out at the window, leaning on the ledge as though she were tired, and she did not turn round as he passed her to take his usual place at the fireside. "the days are drawing in fast," said he, by way of saying something. "yes, it is already growing dark. i cannot see the sea." "ye needna care. it is an angry sea to-night, and the wind is rising." "yes, the moan of it is in among the trees already, and before morning it will be a cry--a terrible sharp cry--that will not be shut out. an ill night for those at sea." "by no means. the folk at sea are safe enough, so that they bide away from the shore. there will be worse nights than this, and many of them, before the winter be over." "the long, long winter! and think what it must be in greenland seas, with the ice and the dark, and the bitter cold." "lassie, draw the curtains and come to the fire. what ails you at the wind and the sea to-night, more than usual? draw the curtains, and shut out the night, and come and make the tea." and then when jean did his bidding and turned from the window, he saw that her face was white and her eyes strained and anxious. she came to the fire and stooped down, warming her hands at the blaze. "one would think you were a sailor's wife, and that his ship was in danger," said her father. "it is the book she has been reading," said her sister. "that american book about the men who sailed in search of sir john franklin and his crew. what pleasure there can be in poring over any thing so dismal, is more than i can tell." "that is because you do not know. it gives one courage to know that there have been men--that there are men--so patient and so brave. their leader was a hero," said jean with shining eyes. "well, we'll have our tea now," said mr dawson in a tone that made may think he was ill-pleased at something, though he said nothing more. he was wondering what could have come to the lassie so to change the brightness of the face that had met him at the door. may knew that jean must be thinking of the "john seaton," but she knew that her father could have no such thought. nothing was said by any of them for a while, but by the time tea was over, they had fallen into their ordinary mood again, and spoke of other things. but afterwards jean was sorry that she had not taken courage that night to tell him how she had heard that her brother had sailed in the "john seaton" so long ago. for her secret knowledge burdened her sorely. that george should have been at home and then have gone away again without a word, it would be like to break his father's heart to know. the hope of seeing him when the "john seaton" came home might be better than the uncertainty of the present. but if his anger still burned against his father, he might not come home, and such a disappointment would be worse to bear than even the present uncertainty. she wearied herself thinking about it, but she did not know what to do. she longed to tell her aunt. she had almost done so, but her aunt had forbidden her, or so she had thought. and months must still pass before the "john seaton" could be in port again. her thoughts were with her brother night and day, and she was pre-occupied and grave, and grew white and anxious-eyed; and by and by it added to her trouble, to know that her father was observing her. so when he was in the house, all her thoughts were given to the effort to be just as usual. she talked cheerfully and had visitors at the house; and when they were alone she worked busily and steadily, falling back, when her white seam failed her, on may's embroidery; and did her best to grow enthusiastic with her sister over silks and wools of brilliant hue. she practised her music also, and took courage to sing even when her father was in the house. it needed some courage, for their mother had been one of the sweetest of singers, and their father had never heard the voices of his daughters since the days when they used to stand at their mother's side, and sing the songs she loved. no harm came of it. though her father made no remarks, she knew that he listened to her voice in the dark, and if it woke the old sense of pain and loss, it stirred neither anger nor rebellion, as the gentleness of his words and ways made her sure. and so the winter wore on with the usual breaks in the way of hospitalities given and received till the days began to lengthen--and then something happened. there came to the girls an invitation from a friend, to pass a month or two with her in london. the friend had been miss browning, their favourite teacher in their london school. now she was mrs seldon, the wife of a young city merchant, "as happy as the day is long," she wrote, and she promised them a taste of many enjoyments, if they would come and see her as mistress of her own pretty house--free now to come and go at her own will and pleasure. much she said to induce them to come, and much was not needed, as far as may was concerned. mr dawson might have hesitated as to accepting an invitation for his daughters into an unknown household, even though he had every confidence in the good sense and discretion of the lady who invited them. but strangely enough, it happened that mr seldon was the son of almost the only man in london with whom he had ever had other than mere business intercourse, and the young man himself was not altogether a stranger to him. as men of business, father and son were worthy of respect, and socially occupied an unexceptionable position, and mr dawson was more than pleased that his daughters should see something of london, in circumstances so favourable as a residence with such people would imply. so his consent was given readily. jean listened and said little through all the preliminary discussion of the matter; but when it was settled that the invitation was to be at once accepted, she quietly declined to leave home. she gave several good reasons why one should pay the visit rather than them both, and several why it should be may that should pay it. she gave several reasons also, why it would be wrong for both of them to leave home at once. their father would be left in the house alone. their aunt was by no means strong. indeed if there were no other reason she would never think of leaving her alone during the spring months, which had during the last few years been so trying to her. then there had been something said about certain changes to be made in the early spring in the grounds and gardens. these might certainly be put off till another year, as her father suggested, but it would be a pity to do so, and if they were to be made, jean must be at home to superintend them. "and indeed, papa, it was may who used to be miss browning's friend, much more than i. mrs seldon would enjoy may's company better than mine, and may would take ten times the pleasure that i should take. how should i have any pleasure knowing that my sister was lonely and disappointed at home. as to both going, it is out of the question. and i can go next time." of course mr dawson could not do otherwise than yield to such an array of good reasons, especially as may was as eager to go as her sister was to stay; but he had an uneasy feeling that jean herself had needed none of these good reasons to induce her to remain. it pleased him, of course, that she should like home best, and he was glad not to be left to the trial of a silent and forsaken house during a gloomy month or two. but it did not please him that jean should care so little for the enjoyment that her sister anticipated with such delight. it was not natural, and he wearied himself trying to imagine what it might be. "i will see what my sister says about it," thought he. but in the mean time he could only let her take her way; and he and may set out together on their journey, for he would not permit his daughter to travel alone. and then for a few days jean had the house to herself, and during these days, she became aware of one thing. she must turn her thoughts away from the constant dwelling on poor lost geordie, and his wanderings on northern seas, or she would lose the power of thinking or caring for any one or any thing in the world besides. it had nearly come to that already. if the wind blew, it was of him she thought, and it was the same if the sun shone, or the rain fell. night and day her heart was heavy with fears for him. it was the shipping news she read first in the papers, about storms and wrecks of whale ships that had come home, and of some that might never come, till she grew morbid and heartsick with her doubts and her fears. when she went to the town, or took her daily walk by the sea, she spoke with the fishermen about the signs of wind and weather, and with certain old sailors--long past sailing because of age and rheumatism--about the voyages they had made, and about the dangers of the deep, and the dreariness of arctic seas when winter nights were long and the days "but a blink." and of late, she had come to be aware that now and then as they talked, there was a look of wondering curiosity in their dim old eyes. they took her sixpences, and her "bits o' backey" with smiles and nods of encouragement, and with assurances "that there was nothing like keeping a stout heart and a cheerful, on the shore as well as on the sea." "and they canna ken about geordie," she said to herself wondering. no; they did not know about geordie; but they saw the weary, wistful looks ever turned to the sea, and they could not but know that they must mean something, though neither kith nor kin of hers had sailed from the harbour of portie, as far as they knew, for many a day. and thinking about their words and their looks, she told herself, that unless she meant to fall into utter uselessness and folly, she must shake herself free from this dull brooding over her fears. for the suspense must continue for months yet--perhaps for many months, and she began to be afraid for herself at the thought. "i wonder what the sailors' wives do, and their mothers and sisters all these wintry months? do they sit and think of the danger, and the distance, and the long suspense? no, they must live and have patience, and take the good of other things, and trust in god--as i must, if i would not go wild. _they_ get through, and i must. "but then i must never speak about him, and my fears for him, and that must make it worse to bear. oh, if i had but told my father that first night! how can i wait on for months like this?" and jean suffered herself to cry as she had never cried before. she might cry this once since there was no one at home to notice the traces of tears. but all the same she knew that she must make a braver stand against the trouble that oppressed her, and even amid her tears she was saying that to-morrow she would begin. and so when to-morrow came, instead of going toward the wild sea shore above the town, she set out to go directly to her aunt. it was not an agreeable day for a walk. it was not raining, but the mud was deep on the road, and the fields which jean liked best at such times, were in places under water; and a wide ditch here and there was so full, that she had doubts of being able to get across, since the footing on either side could not but be insecure in the prevailing wetness. so she kept the highway, warily picking her steps, and meeting the wind from the sea with a sense of refreshment--and by and by with a conscious effect to throw off the weight of care which had so long oppressed her. when she came to the corner at which she turned into the high-street, she saw marion calderwood coming toward her with her music book under her arm. a pretty sight she was to see, and a welcome as she sprang forward, greeting her joyfully. but a shadow passed over the girl's face when the first words were spoken. "oh! yes. i am very glad to see you, and miss jean will be glad too. but if ye hadna come in this morning, i was going out to see what had become of you. your aunt bade me ask my mother to let me go when my lesson was over--and--i think she would have let me." "and she'll let you still. run away now to your lesson, and you'll find me at aunt jean's, and we'll go out together." marion looked doubtful. "my mother would have let me go to oblige miss jean, but--she does not approve of my leaving my other lessons, for one thing--and besides--" "run away. i'll ask your mother. she'll let you go home with me, if i ask her." marion was not very sure, nor was jean. for mrs calderwood was a very proud woman, and her pride took the form of reserve, and a determined avoidance of any thing that looked like claiming consideration or attention from those whom, from their circumstances, she might suspect of wishing to hold themselves above her. and there were reasons of another kind, jean well knew, why she should look with little friendliness on any one in the house of saughleas-- reasons that must prevent all renewal of the intimacy that had been so warm and pleasant during her mother's lifetime. still she had almost always been friendly in manner with jean when they had chanced to meet, but jean had been but seldom in her house since she had come from school, and she was glad of the excuse which her proposed invitation to marion gave her to go there. for it had come into her mind that she might speak to mrs calderwood about the trouble which she found it not easy to bear alone. chapter ten. mrs calderwood. mrs calderwood's house faced the sea a little nearer the pier head than miss jean's, and miss dawson nodded and smiled to her aunt in the window as she passed, hardly confessing to herself that she felt a little anxious as to how she might be received. "but she'll not be likely to put on her stiff, silent manner in her own house," said she, encouraging herself. mrs calderwood was not alone. mrs cairnie was with her, asking advice and sympathy for "a beeled thoom," and mrs calderwood was in the act of applying a warm poultice to relieve the pain. in the poor old woman's eagerness to tell her troubles to a new listener, the awkwardness of the first moment was got over. nor was mrs cairnie in any hurry to leave when the interesting subject was exhausted. "so ye didna gang up to lunnon with your father, miss dawson? ye're wise to bide and let the great folk come to seek you. it's a thankless job whiles gaen after them." this of course required no reply. "and are ye your leafu' lane at saughleas? but i suppose ye're used with it now--the big hoose and the few in it. it is changed times since ye used to bide in the high-street. but being an eddicated leddy, ye'll ha'e resources in yoursel', as the books say." no, miss dawson did not like being "her leafu' lane" in the big empty house, and she turned to mrs calderwood with her request for marion's company. but tibbie had not yet said her say. "your leafu' lane! it's little ye ken what that means. bide ye till the time come when ye lie through the lang nichts o' a hale (whole) winter, hearkening to the awfu' things that the winds and the waves are crying in at your window and doon your lum (chimney), and some o' yours far awa' on the sea--and syne ye'll ken. oh! the weariness o't, and the dreariness o't, and nae help frae heaven aboon nor frae earth beneath, but just to sit still and wait for their hame coming. and whiles they come, and whiles they never come--and ane canna be sure even o' their loss till years go by. eh! woman' ye little ken, but speir ye at mrs calderwood." she paused a moment in the surprise of seeing jean's face grow pale as she listened, but went on again before any one spoke. "i'm through wi't, for the last o' mine was lost lang syne. but she has ane yet--as far as she kens. god be gude to him! ye've had no word o' the `john seaton' as yet, mem?" "not yet; it is not to be expected yet," said mrs calderwood quietly. "martha will give you a cup of tea. you will be the better of it, as you were able to take little breakfast; and i hope your thumb is past the worst now." mrs cairnie felt herself to be dismissed beyond even her power to linger. "many thanks to ye, mem, and ye ha'e nae occasion to be mair anxious than ordinar' as yet. and ye can just encourage ane another--and i'se awa' hame." "poor bodie! she has had her share of trouble in her day, and some of it she brought on herself, which makes it none the lighter, i dare say," said mrs calderwood as she shut the door. "you are not growing anxious, mrs calderwood, are you?" said jean. "it is not time to be anxious yet?" "not anxious--more than usual. oh, no! of course the wind and the waves have something to say to me most nights. but i can only wait." "yes, it is the waiting that is so terrible. and it must be for a good while yet." "for months. we cannot say how many. we seldom see the ships home within the year." "and the `john seaton' sailed on the tenth of april. it is nearly three months still till then. and to think of all who are waiting even here in portie--wives and mothers and sisters. it makes one's heart sick to think about it." then she sat silent, with her eyes turned toward the window, through which was to be seen the dull grey sea, all unconscious of the uneasy glances with which mrs calderwood was from time to time regarding her. "mrs calderwood," said she at last, "how will you ever bear it as the time draws near? the waiting and the suspense, i mean?" "my dear, i have had worse troubles to bear." "ah! yes; but those will make this all the worse to bear." "i can but trust in god and have patience. he is very merciful." "very merciful. but then--he lets terrible things happen whiles." mrs calderwood rose and moved about the room. she was startled out of her usual quiet by the girl's changing colour and the sad eagerness of the eyes that looked out upon the sea. she was afraid of what might be said if they went on. she wished to hear no sorrowful secret from the girl's lips. she would hear none, she said to herself with a sudden sharp pang of remembrance. george dawson's daughter could have nothing to say to which it would be right for her to listen. at last jean left the window and came and stood near the fire. "i came in to ask you if i might have marion home with me for a day or two. i am `my leafu' lane,' as tibbie says. and i think she would like to come with me." "there is little doubt of that," said mrs calderwood sitting down with a sense of relief, for she thought the danger was over. "there is no danger of her falling behind in her lessons for a day or two, and i can help her with her music. i will take good care of her, and her company will be a great pleasure to me." there was no sufficient reason why the child should not have this pleasure--at least there was none that could be spoken about. she had no time to make clear to herself why she would have liked to refuse, she could only say,-- "you are very kind. the child will be pleased to go," and jean thanked her, accepting it as consent. she was still standing with her muff in her hand as though she were about to take her leave. but she did not go. she stood, not looking at her friend, but past her, seeing nothing, with her eyes full of eagerness and anxiety, and before mrs calderwood, moved by a sudden fear, could find words to avert it, that which she feared had come upon her. jean came a step nearer. "mrs calderwood, may i tell you something? i have no one else, and you will at least help me to be patient. you were my mother's friend, and you have had much to bear, and will you help me?" but there was no friendly response in mrs calderwood's face. she withdrew herself from the eager girl, with something like terror in her eyes, actually moving away till she touched the wall of her narrow parlour, holding up her hands entreatingly. "no. do not tell me. i am not the right person to receive confidences from--from any one. i am not sympathetic i do not care to hear secrets. and--you have your aunt." jean looked at her with surprise but with no anger in her eyes. "my aunt! i tried to tell her once, but she said unless i were quite sure that she could help me, i should not speak. it would have grieved her--and--" "she was quite right, i have no doubt," said mrs calderwood. "the least said is soonest mended, as the old saying has it. silence is almost always best, even between friends." mrs calderwood had come forward again to the table, and her hands were busy moving about various things upon it, hurriedly and heedlessly, as though she hardly knew what she was doing; while jean looked on saying nothing for a little. "is silence always best? it would be such a comfort to me to be able to tell some one. i daze myself thinking about it. i am sorry now that i did not tell my father at once, though at the time it did not seem the wisest thing to do--or even possible. it was on the very day the ship sailed--the tenth, ye ken. and--" "whisht, lassie! i will not hear your secret," said mrs calderwood with a cry which told of many things. "it is to your father that you must tell it, if you have not the sense and courage to keep silence forever. as for me, i will hear no secret from the lips of your father's daughter. no good could come of it. oh! must i go through with all that again! and my poor, foolish willie that i thought so wise and strong!" she hardly seemed to know what she was saying for the moment. but she made a great effort to restrain herself, and rose and came forward, holding out her hand as if the visit were at an end. but she paused, startled as she met jean's look. a sudden momentary wave of colour crimsoned her face and even her throat, and passing left her as white as death. through it all she never turned her eyes from the face of her friend. "mrs calderwood," said she in a voice that scarcely rose above a whisper, "i think i must tell you now--that my brother george sailed in the `john seaton.'" mrs calderwood sat down on the sofa without a word. of what horrible thing had she been guilty? what words had she spoken? she could not recall them, but the girl's changing colour showed that her thoughts had been understood. in her sorrow and shame she could have knelt and entreated forgiveness. but she well knew that _now_ at least, silence was best. no words of hers could help the matter now. it cost her positive pain to raise her eyes to the girl's face. the colour came and went on it still, almost at every word; but jean spoke quietly and firmly, and never turned her eyes from the face of her friend. "you are right perhaps, and i ought to have spoken to my father at once; but since i have waited so long, it may be as well to wait till the `john seaton' comes in--and i must have patience--like the rest of those who wait." "are you sure he went? my son said nothing to me about george--poor dear geordie?" said mrs calderwood, with a sudden rush of tears. jean sat down on the other side of the table and leaned her head on her hand. "did he not? still i think he must have gone--or what can have become of him?" "who told you he went? it is strange that you have never spoken of it all this time. why do you think that your brother sailed in the `john seaton'?" "is it strange? perhaps i was quite wrong. but i did not know till afterwards. robbie saugster brought word that day to saughleas, but i had gone to the town. that night he came back again, but it was too late. the ship had sailed, and we had been at the high rocks to see her pass, may and i--never thinking whom she was carrying away." "and had robbie seen him?" "no. i never asked him. i don't think he knew. it was in a note that i got from--your son." "and what did he say?" asked mrs calderwood in a little. "he said i was to come to the pier head before the ship sailed, and that perhaps i might be able to persuade my brother--though he could not. but he came too late. the ship had sailed." "well, we can only wait now till she comes home again." "yes, we can only wait. i am glad he went with--willie, who will be good to him. that is all my comfort." "yes, willie will stand his friend whatever happens." there was no more said, for marion came dancing in. "yes, mavis dear, your mother says you may come home with me. i must go and see aunt jean first, and you will find me there." "and, miss dawson, take a good rest, and we'll go round by the sea shore. it is so long since i had a walk with you. see the sun is coming out after all." "well," said jean nodding and smiling. then she shook hands with mrs calderwood, but they did not linger over their good-byes. marion turned a wistful look to her mother's face when they were alone. but her mother would not meet it, but hastened her away. jean turned towards the pier head, to let the wind from the sea blow her hot cheeks cool, before she came into her aunt's sight, and as she went she was saying to herself,-- "it was may she was thinking about i could not speak, because may has never spoken to me. and after all--i dare say she is right. `the sense and courage to keep silence.' no wonder that his mother should say that, who can never forget her poor bonny elsie." it was mid-day--the hour when the usual frequenters of the pier head were home at their dinners, and jean stood alone for some time looking out to the sea, and thinking her own thoughts. they were troubled thoughts enough. "the sense and courage to keep silence." her temptation was not to speech. it was sense and courage to speak that she needed. her aunt too had told her that silence was best--that foolish fancies, that might have vanished otherwise, sometimes took shape and became troubles when put into words. all at once it came into jean's mind, that it could not have been of her brother's loss, but of something quite different that her aunt had been thinking when she said this. could it have been of may and willie calderwood? "she too must think that my father would never yield, and that it would be just the same sad story over again. but still, i am not sure that silence is best." by and by those who worked or loitered on the pier head, came dropping back in twos and threes, and jean knew that unless she would keep her aunt's dinner waiting she must go. miss jean had said to herself that the first word spoken would reveal to the girl her own sad secret. but it had not done so--or she would not acknowledge it--even though the remembrance of mrs calderwood's words and manner brought a sudden hot colour to her face. "it was may she was thinking about," she repeated, as she went down the street. she looked "bonny and bright--a sicht for sair e'en," nannie, her aunt's maid, said, when she came in. she did not stay very long. she had intended to spend the day, but marion calderwood was going home with her, and she would have to come another day, she told her aunt. indeed marion came in before dinner was over, and jean was glad to have a long walk and the young girl's gay companionship, rather than an afternoon of quiet under her aunt's keen, though loving, eyes. chapter eleven. a visitor. mr dawson was longer away than he had intended to be when he left. a visit was made to the corbetts on the way, and from thence came a letter telling jean to prepare to receive another visitor when her father should return. hugh, the corbett who came next after emily, a schoolboy of fourteen, had been so unfortunate as to hurt his knee in some of his holiday wanderings during the previous summer, and had been a prisoner in the house for months, and mr dawson proposed to bring him to portie for a change. jean was promised no pleasure from the visit. the lad was ill, and "ill to do with," irritable and impatient of his long confinement in the house. there was little enough space in the corbett house for those who were well, and it would do the lad good to see something else besides the four walls of the rather dim parlour where he had been a prisoner so long. he must be a prisoner even at saughleas for a time, poor lad; but when the spring came so that he could get out, and get the good of the sea air, he would doubtless be better; and in the mean time, said her father, jean must make the best of him. the next letter was from london, telling of their safe arrival, and kind reception, but neither that nor the next, told the day on which mr dawson might be expected home. indeed it told nothing in a very satisfactory manner; but jean gathered that they found themselves in very favourable circumstances for seeing many of the wonderful sights of london, and the only thing they seemed to regret was, that jean was not there to enjoy it all with them. a good many names of people and places were mentioned, but no very clear idea was conveyed with regard to them all, and jean was advised to wait patiently for her father's return to hear more; and this she was content to do. her father came home the better for his trip, jean saw at the first glimpse she got of his face. of course the first minutes were given to care of the lame boy, who was tired and shy, but when he had got his tea, and was happily disposed of for the night, jean sat down to hear what her father had to tell. not that she expected to hear much at any one time. his news would come out by little and little on unexpected occasions, as was his way with news, but he answered her questions about her sister, and her friends, and gave his opinion of them and their manner of life readily enough. he had evidently enjoyed his stay among them, and acknowledged that he had known nothing of london before this visit. jean listened, pleased and interested; but all the time she was waiting to hear a certain name which had occurred more than once in the brief letters of her sister, and which had also been mentioned once at least by her father. "and you went to the british museum?" said she at last. "yes. i had been there before, but this was different. it is one thing to wander about, looking at things which you don't understand, till eyes and mind and body grow weary,--and never a clear idea of any thing gotten, to keep and carry away to look at afterwards--and it is quite another thing to go about in the company of one who, by two or three words, can put life and spirit into all there is to see. mr manners was with us that day." and it seemed that mr manners had been with them other days, and on one occasion when her father had mentioned his name several times, jean asked,-- "and who is mr manners? you have not told me who he is." "he is a man with a clear head o' his ain, who will make his mark yet, or i'm much mistaken. no, he was not staying with the seldons, though he was there often. he has rooms near the university in which he is a professor. i thought much of him." "what is he like? is he old or young?" asked jean. "oh! he is not young. not that he is to call old either. he is tall and thin rather, and stoops a little, and he wears glasses whiles, but not when he is reading." jean laughed. "stoops and wears glasses!" she was laughing at herself. she had been conscious of a little discomfort, at the frequent mention of this man's name. a new interest and influence had come into her sister's life in which she had no part, and it saddened her though she acknowledged that her sadness was unreasonable. but she was a little anxious as well as sad, because, having so long watched over her sister, she feared that in the new circumstances in which she found herself, her care might be needed and missed--which was also unreasonable, since she might have gone with her had she cared to do so, and since her sister had both sense and judgment to care for herself. and for the special danger which was in jean's thoughts--though she would not allow that she feared it--surely may was safe from that. the child liked attention and admiration, and got them wherever she went; but her heart was not in her own keeping, as jean believed, and so she was safe, and would come back to them as she went; and jean acknowledged her own folly in being either anxious or sad. but all the same she laughed and was, pleased, that the new friend she had found should be "not young, though not just to call old," as her father had said, and that he should stoop a little and wear glasses. so she determined to put all unpleasant possibilities out of her thoughts, and the fact that the professor's name no longer found frequent place in her sister's letters, made it all the easier for her to do so. besides, she had more to occupy herself as the winter passed away, and less time to brood and vex herself; and as it was not in her nature when she was well to vex herself without sufficient occasion, her occupations helped her to a better kind of cheerfulness than that which of late she had sometimes assumed for her father's sake. young corbett was her best help toward a more reasonable frame of mind with regard to all things. the journey had been too much for him, or he had in some way injured his knee again, for he suffered much pain in it for a time, and his young hostess was kept constantly busy, ministering to both mind and body. dr maitland, the chief portie practitioner, took a different view of the lad's case from that which the doctor at home had taken, and he was subjected to different treatment which told to his benefit after a time. but just at first he suffered a good deal, and jean "had her ain adoes wi' him," as phemie, her maid, declared. he was not an ill-tempered boy, though mr dawson had received that impression from what he had seen and heard in his own home. he suffered, and he was irritable, and impatient of necessary restraint. but he made an effort towards patience and submission to circumstances in the presence of strangers which he possibly would not have made at home, and the change and the quiet of the house helped his patience on to cheerfulness before very long. "how my father and mother should have ventured to inflict such a nuisance upon you amazes me; and how you should consent to it amazes me more still," said he to jean when he had been two days in the house, and when he was beginning to feel himself not so strange and forlorn as he had felt at first. "but i did not consent i was not consulted," said jean laughing. "no," said the boy gravely. "and you could hardly refuse to have me when i was laid down at your door. but that only makes it all the more surprising that you should--take so much trouble with me." "but then it was to my father's door you came, and he brought you himself. don't be foolish. if i were lame and ill and needed your help, would not you be willing to give it to me?" "but that would be quite different. and i could not help you, besides." "well, never mind. i am glad papa brought you here. i am going, by and by, to send you home strong and well, and fit to do a man's work in the world. and in the mean time--though i acknowledge that you are whiles a wee fractious and ill to do with--i like you. i'm glad my father brought you here, and we'll be friends always," and jean held out her hand. the tears started in the lad's eyes. "it is very good of you," said he with a gasp. after that, life went better with him. when after a little he could be taken every day and laid on the sofa in the parlour, he began to feel the good of the change. he had plenty to amuse him. he liked reading, well enough, as boys like it, but he was not a book worm; and jean might have found him heavy on her hands during the first weeks after he came down-stairs, if he had had only books to fall back upon. but to her surprise and his own, an unfailing source of interest and pleasure presented itself to him. scarcely a vessel for the least ten years had come into the harbour of portie without bringing some curious or beautiful thing to one member or another of the dawson family, until the house was filled with them. a wonderful collection they made,--corals, shells, minerals, stuffed birds, beetles, and butterflies; and a scarcely less wonderful collection of objects of art and skill. a great trouble this accumulation became to housemaids, and even to the young mistress of the house, who could not always trust the dusting and keeping them in order to unaccustomed hands. there were many valuable and beautiful things among them, and almost all of them had some pleasant association with the giver, which made it not easy to part with them even to persons who would have valued them, or to put them out of sight. so there were a great many of them scattered up and down in the house. in these the boy found constant interest and delight, and when he had gone over all that were within his reach, he was quite ready to begin again. and then jean bethought herself of the quantities of things which in past years had been bestowed in out-of-the-way corners of the house, to make room for new treasures, and with some trouble to herself, but with some pleasure also, these were sought out, and brought to the lad, as he could not go to them. of course the result was an untidy room, and after a while, confusion so utter as not to be endured patiently. this lasted for a few days, and then a chance word from the lad, suggested the idea of proper cases being made in which all these things might be bestowed, and so arranged as that they might be more carefully preserved, and made useful as well as pleasant to look at. "there are few things in our town museum at home so rare or so beautiful as several of these. i have been through ours scores of times. i like it." rather to jean's surprise and much to her delight, her father took up the idea as a good one, and entered into the discussion of the different kinds of cases required, with interest. the cabinet-maker was sent for, and by the help of hugh's description of the arrangements made for such things in the museum of his native town, they succeeded in settling all things in a satisfactory manner. the long hall extending from one side of the house to the other was the place to receive them. therefore the cases must be handsome as furniture as well as convenient for the reception of the articles to be arranged in them; and in a shorter time than would have at first seemed possible, john helvie finished the work in a way which pleased himself and his employers. in the mean time may was written to for books about shells and minerals, and all such things; and hugh, and even jean, grew enthusiastic over them. and so the last months of winter passed more quickly than the first had done. may's visit was prolonged beyond the six weeks which had been at first stipulated for, and the third month was nearly at an end before any thing was said about her return. she was well and happy, and her friend was happy in her company. she was not especially needed at home, and neither her father nor her sister cared to shorten her holiday, as she called it. but if jean had known what was to be the end of it all, the chances are that she would have been speedily recalled. as hugh grew better and the weather became milder, a new means of pleasure and health was presented to him by mr dawson in the shape of a small shetland pony. he was one trained to gentleness and past his youth, so that there was no risk in riding, when the doctor's permission had been obtained. it could hardly be called riding for some time. it was slowly creeping along, with some one at his side, to make sure that no stumble should harm the still painful knee; but it was a source of much enjoyment to the lad who had been a prisoner so long. jean was most frequently his companion, and at such times their favourite course was along the sands when the tide was out, or by the path which led over the rocks. they lingered often on their way, to talk to the old sailors who remembered the lad's father and grandfather, and who had much to tell about his grandfather's goodness, and his father's wild exploits as a lad. they talked with the fishwives also in the town, and made friends with the bairns, who, as the days grew milder, came in flocks to their favourite playground, the sands above the town. all this was good for the lad, who caught a little healthy colour from the fresh sea breezes, and day by day, mr dawson thought, grew more like his companion and chief friend in the days when they were both young. but it was not so good for jean. for their talk with the old sailors, and the fishwives, and indeed their talk together, was mostly of the sea and its dangers, the treasures which it hid, and the far lands that lay beyond it. she told him tales of the sea, and repeated songs and ballads made about sea kings and naval heroes of all times, and sang them in the gloaming, with their wild refrains, which look like nonsense written down, but which sung, as jean could sing them, deepened the pathos of the sad and sometimes terrible tales which were told; and the lad was never weary of listening. and all this was not good for jean. it stirred up again the old fears and doubts and questionings as to whether she had done right to keep silence about her brother, and whether she ought even now to speak. the wistful, far-away look which her father could not bear to see, came back to her eyes, now and then; and on stormy nights, when the moan of the wind was in the trees, and the sound of the sea came up like a sigh, the old restlessness, which in her father's presence she could only quiet by constant and determined devotion to work of some kind, came upon her. she could not read at such times or even listen. her "white seam," on which her father used to remark, was her best resource. he remarked on it still, and not always pleasantly, and jean began to be aware that his eyes now followed her movements as they had done in the first part of the winter, and that even when he occupied himself with a book, or with his papers, he listened to the talk into which she and hugh sometimes fell. she did her best to be cheerful, and with the lad's help it was easier than it had once been; and she comforted and strengthened herself with the thought that the year was nearly over, and that it could not now be long before the "john seaton" came home. chapter twelve. northern seas. "do ye ken what ye are doing, jean? ye're doing your best to mak' a sailor o' the lad; and ye'll do him an ill turn and get him into trouble if that happens. his father has other plans for him." her father had come in to find jean singing songs in the gloaming. it could hardly be said that she was singing to hugh. she would very likely have been singing at that hour, if she had been quite alone; but she would not have been singing,-- "the queen has built a navy of ships, and she has sent them to the sea," in a voice that rang clear and full in the darkness, and she would not have followed it with the ballad of "sir patrick spens," which mr dawson was just in time to hear. he was not sure about all this singing of sea songs; but he said nothing at the time, and sat down to listen. he had heard the ballad scores of times, and sung it too; but he felt himself "creep" and "thrill," as jean--her voice now rising strong and clear, now falling into mournful tones like a wail--went through the whole seven and twenty verses. she said it rather than sung it, giving the refrain, not at every verse, but only now and then; the pathos deepening in her tones as she went on towards the end, when-- "the lift was black, and the wind blew loud, and gurly grew the sea." and there were "tears in her voice" as she ended-- "and lang, lang may the ladies sit wi' their fans into their hands, before they see sir patrick spens come sailing to the strand! "and lang, lang may the maidens sit wi' the gowd (gold) kames in their hair, awaiting for their ain true loves, for them they'll see nae mair--" and then the refrain--which cannot be written down--repeated once and again, each time more softly, till it seemed to die away and be lost in the moan of the wind among the trees. no one spoke for a minute or two. "i think you might give us something mair cheerfu' than that, jean, my lassie," said her father, inclined to resent his own emotion and the cause of it. "and in the gloaming too!" "the gloaming is just the time for such ballads, papa. but i didna ken ye were come in. shall i ring for lights now?" said jean rising. "there's nae haste. it's hardly dark yet." jean crossed the room to the window that looked out to the sea, and leaning on it, as she had a fashion of doing, softly sang the refrain of her song again. her father could not see her face, but he knew well the look that was on it at the moment,--a look which always pained him, and which sometimes made him angry; and the chances are he would have spoken sharply to her, if hugh had not said after a little while, "but sailors don't go to sea now to bring home king's daughters, or even to fight battles with their foes. they go for wages, as the navvies do on railways, and the factory people in the towns. it is just the common work of the world with them as it is with others--buying and selling--fetching and carrying. there is nothing heroic in that." "of course--just the common work of the world. but i would not think less, but more, of the courage and endurance needed to do it, because of that," said jean gravely, turning round to look at him. "it is just like the navvies, as you say, that they may live and bring up their families; and i think it is grand to leave their homes, and face danger, just because it is their duty, and with no thought beyond." "they get used to the danger, and it is nothing to them, i suppose. and it must be fine to be going here and there, and seeing strange countries, and all sorts of people. i should like that i would like to have gone with sir humphrey gilbert, or sir walter raleigh in the old times. that must have been grand." "yes," repeated jean, as she came forward and sat down by the fire. "that must have been grand--the sailing away over unknown seas to unknown lands. they had hope, but they could have had no knowledge of what was before them." "what did they care for danger or hardship, or even death! they were opening the way to a new world." "yes. if they could only have had a glimpse of all that was to follow! i dare say they did too--some of them." "yes; walter raleigh looked forward to great things. it was worth a man's while to live as those men lived. it was not just for wages that they sailed the sea." mr dawson laughed. "that is the way you look at it, is it? and how many--even among their leaders--thought about much except the gold they were to find, and the wealth and glory they were to win! it was as much work for wages then as now. it is a larger world than it was in those days, but the folk in it ha'e changed less than ye think; in that respect at least." there was a good deal more talk of the same sort, jean putting in a word now and then, and what she said, for the most part, went to show, that in doing just the common work of the world, the buying and selling, the fetching and carrying, of which she thought hugh had spoken a little scornfully, there were as many chances for the doing of deeds of courage and patience, as there could have been in the old times which he regretted. there were such deeds done daily, and many of them, and the men who did them were heroes, though their names and their deeds might never be known beyond the town in which they had been born. she told of some things done by portie men, and her father told of more, having caught the spirit of the theme from jean's thrilling tones and shining eyes, and from one thing they went on to another, till at last jean said,-- "i was reading a book not long since--" and when she had got thus far hugh surprised mr dawson by suddenly rising from the sofa on which he had been lying all this time, and still more by hopping on one foot, without the help of crutch or cane, to the fireside and then laying himself down on the hearth-rug. "my lad, i doubt the wisdom of that proceeding," said he gravely. "oh! there is no harm done. miss dawson is going to tell us about the book she has been reading lately, and i like to see her face when she is telling a story." mr dawson laughed. he liked that himself. in her desire to withdraw her father from the silent indulgence of his own thoughts, into which he was inclined to fall, when left alone with her sister and herself, jean, when other subjects of conversation failed them, had sometimes fallen back on the books she had been reading, and talked about them. she could give clearly and cleverly enough the outlines of a theory, or the chief points in an argument. she could tell a story graphically, using now and then effectively the gift of mimicry of which her aunt had been afraid. mr dawson's constant occupation had left him little time for general reading during the past, and had made the habit not easy to adopt now that he might have found leisure for it. but he enjoyed much having the "cream" of a book presented in this pleasant way by his daughter. so he also drew forward his chair, prepared to listen to what she might have to say, understanding quite well how the boy might like to see her face as she talked. "well," said jean, "we need not have the lights, for i can knit quite as well in the dark. it is a sad book, rather. but i like no book that i have read for a long time, so well as this. it is about men who were willing, glad even, to take their lives in their hands, and sail away to northern seas, in hope of finding some trace of sir john franklin and his men. "it was not for wages that they went, hugh, my lad; at least it was not with most of them. it was with the hope--and it was only a hope, and not a certainty--of saving the lives of men who were strangers to them, who were not even their own countrymen. and they went, knowing that years might pass before they could see their homes again, and that some among them never might come home. "it is a sad story, because they did not find the men, nor any trace of them. but it was worth all they suffered, and all that was sacrificed, just to show to the world that was looking on, so noble an example of courage and strength and patience as theirs. but i am beginning at the wrong end of the story." jean had read with intense interest the history so clearly and modestly written by the leader of the band, and she told it now with a power and pathos that made her father wonder. of course there was much in the book on which she could not touch. she kept to the personal narrative, telling of the hope that had taken them from their homes, and that sustained them through the night of the arctic winter, as they lay ice bound in the shelter of a mountain of ice on a desolate shore, when sickness came to most of their number, and death to more than one. she told of long journeys made in the dimness of returning day, of the glad recognition of known landmarks, of the long, vain search for the lost men--of how hope fell back to patience, and patience to doubt and dread, as they waited for the sun and the summer winds to break the chains that bound their good ship in that world of ice, and set them free. and then, when their doubt and dread became certainty, as the long arctic day began to decline, and the choice lay between another winter in the ice-bound ship, and an endeavour to find their way over the frozen wastes that lay between them and the open sea, beyond which lay their homes, some of their number chose to go; but their leader would not forsake the ship, and a few of his men would not forsake him. and beside those brave souls who held their duty dearer than their thoughts of home, there were some who were sick, and some who were helpless through the bitter cold and the hardships they had borne, who had no choice but to stay and take what poor chance there might be of getting home with the ship, should the sun and the warm winds of a summer yet far before them set them free at last. "and now," said jean her voice falling low, "the time to test their courage had come." she had told the story hitherto--in many more words than are written here--with eager gestures, and with eyes that challenged admiration for her heroes. but now her work fell on her lap, and her face was shaded from the firelight, and though she spoke rapidly still and eagerly, she spoke very softly, as she went on to tell how with a higher courage than had been needed yet, their leader looked the future in the face--seeing in it for himself, and for those for whom, as their commander, he was in a sense responsible, suffering from cold and hunger, from solitude and darkness, and from the wearing sickness of mind and body that these are sure to bring. "`with god's help we may win through,' said this brave and patient spirit. "and there were none who could turn cowardly under such a leadership as his," said jean, with a sound that was like a sob, her father thought. "and so they all fell to doing with a will what might be done to protect themselves from the bitter cold, and to provide against some evils that were possible, and against others that were certain to come upon them. and surely they had god's help, as their leader had said; and those pain-worn men, in the darkness of that long night, saw in him what is not often seen--a glad and full obedience to our lord's command, for the chief to become the servant of all. there was no duty of servant or nurse too mean for him to do. not once or twice, but daily and hourly, as there was need, during all that time of waiting, when he only called himself well, because he was not utterly broken down and helpless, as almost all the others were. "patience, courage, cheerfulness, they saw in him, and they saw nothing else. for the souls and spirits of these men were in his hands, as well as their bodies, and if his courage and cheerfulness had failed in their sight, alas! for them. "but they did not fail. and even in his solitary hours--in the night when he watched that they might sleep--and in his long, and toilsome, and often vain wanderings over the frozen land and sea in search of the food that began to fail before the end came--surely he was not left to even a momentary sense of desertion and discouragement, to a brave man an experience more terrible than death! "that was known only to god and him, for strength came equal to his day, as far as they could see who leaned on him and trusted him through all. he did not fail them. "and when, after months had gone by, the band who had left them, and turned as they believed their laces homeward, came back to the ship broken and discouraged with all they had passed through, he gave them a brother's welcome, and gladly shared with them the little that was left of food and fire and comfort, and doubled his cares and labours for their sakes. "as time went on, death came to some, and the rest waited, hardly hoping to escape his call. but the greater number won through at last. they had to leave their good ship ice bound still, and then they took their way, through many toilsome days, over that wide desolation of ice and snow, going slowly and painfully because of the sick and the maimed among them, till at last they came to the open sea. then trusting themselves to their boats, broken and patched, and scarcely seaworthy by this time, they sailed on for many days, making southward as the great fields of floating ice opened to let them through,--and still oh, after the sea was clear, till they came to land where christian people received them kindly, and here they rested for a while. "and one day they sailed out on the sea to meet a great ship that came sailing up from the south, and over this ship the flag of their country was flying; and as they drew near, one looked down on their little boat and said, `is this doctor kane?' and then, of course, their troubles were over, and soon they were safe at home." no one spoke for a little while. phemie brought in the lights, and then jean laid down her knitting, and came to the table to make the tea. after that mr dawson went to his own room, and hugh lay musing or dreaming on the rug till it was time for him to go to bed. it was when jean went to say good-night to her father before she went to bed that he spoke to her. "you will be making a sailor of the lad--with all that foolish singing and talk about heroes and sea kings. what on earth has set you off on that tack? the sea! the sea! and nothing but the sea! his father would be ill-pleased, i can tell you; for hugh is a clever lad, and he has other views for him." jean had nothing to say for herself, and took her father's rebuke humbly and in silence. she had not thought for a moment of influencing the lad towards the life of a sailor; and when she had taken a minute to consider the matter, she was quite sure that no harm had been done, and so she assured her father. "i would send the lad home, rather than run the risk," said he with some vexation. "yes, it would be better," said jean. "but there is no risk. hugh is older than his years, and he has taken his bent already, or i am much mistaken. whether it will be according to his father's will, i cannot say; but there is no danger of his turning his thoughts to the sea. he might like to visit strange countries, if the way were open to him; and with opportunity he might become a great naturalist, for his knowledge of all natural objects and his delight in them is wonderful." to this mr dawson had nothing to say. and indeed it was not about hugh that he was at that moment troubling himself; but his trouble was not to be spoken about to jean, and with rather a gruff good-night he let her go. but he could not put his trouble out of his thoughts. it had been there before, though he had almost forgotten it for a while. "the sea! the sea! and ay the sea!" repeated he discontentedly. "what can have come to the lassie? she has no one on the sea to vex her heart about, unless indeed--she may fancy--that her brother is there," and the shadow that always came with thoughts of his son, fell darkly on his face. "or--unless--but that can hardly be. there is no one, and she has sense. and yet--her brother--" he rose, sick with the intolerable pain that a vivid remembrance of his loss always awakened, and there came to him suddenly a thought of elsie calderwood and her brother, the handsome mate of the "john seaton," now almost a year at sea. he sank into his chair again, as if some one had struck him a blow. "that would be terrible!" said he, putting the thought from him with an angry pang. the remembrance of captain harefield's admiration, and the indifference with which his daughter had received it came back to him. could there have been any thing besides the good sense for which her aunt gave her credit to account for her indifference? could it be possible that young calderwood could be in her thoughts? he wearied himself thinking about it, long after the fire had gone out on the hearth, and he believed that he had convinced himself that his sudden fear was unreasonable and foolish. it could not be true. "but true or not, i must keep my patience. it might have ended differently with--the other,--if i had taken a different way with him. i see that now. i might have led him, though i could not drive him; and i fancy that would be true of his sister as well." he went to his room with a heavy heart, but it grew lighter in the morning. he had been letting his fancy and his fears run away with his judgment, he thought, when he came into the breakfast-room, to find jean and the lame boy interested and merry over a last year's birds' nest which jean in her early walk had found in the wood. it was birds and birds' nests that made the subject of conversation this morning, and mr dawson might well express his wonder that a lad, born and brought up in a great town, should have so much to say about them. jean suggested the idea of his having played truant whiles, to advance his knowledge in this direction, and the lad only answered with a shrug which was half a confession. his holidays, at least, had all been spent in the fields and woods even in the winter-time. "and if i could have my own way, all my days should be spent--in the woods and fields," said he gravely, as if it were rather a sore subject with him. mr dawson left the two considering the matter as though nothing of greater interest than birds and birds' nests existed for either of them. "a far safer subject than the dangers of the sea," said he as he went his way. chapter thirteen. a discovery. in the beginning of april may came home--"bonnier than ever," as jean told her father, as she met him at the door. he laughed when he heard her say it, but he agreed with her, and told her so when a day or two had passed. he could hardly make it clear to himself, nor could jean, in what she was different from her former self. it was because she was growing to be more like her mother as she grew older, he said. and jean by and by came to the conclusion that something had happened to her sister while she was away--something to make her hopeful and happy, and at the same time graver and more thoughtful; yet she was very merry and sweet, and it was oh! so pleasant to have her home again. they made holidays of these first days of her home coming, and jean was able to forget, or put aside, her sad and anxious thoughts for a while. but there came a day when she well knew they would not be forgotten or put aside. "may," said she one morning, "let us go down to the tangle stanes to-day. this is the tenth, ye ken." "well, let us go. it is a bonny day. but what about the tenth. i don't know what you mean." "have you forgotten? the `john seaton' sailed on the tenth," said jean gravely. may's colour changed a little. so did jean's. but while may reddened, jean grew pale. "have they heard bad news? surely it is time that they were coming home again," said may. "they might have been home before this time. but the voyage is often longer. i don't think there is any anxiety as yet." "well--we can go down to the tangle stanes. and will hugh come too? i see the pony is brought round." but they could not go at once, for jean heard her father's voice calling her, and went to his room. as she did not return immediately, may and the lad set off together. "jean will come to the tangle stanes. i will wait for her there. and you can go on by yourself, hugh, and meet us there afterwards." and a message to this effect was left for miss dawson. jean found her father sitting with an open letter in his hand. he made a movement as though he meant to give it to her, but withdrew it again saying,-- "i fancy it was only meant for my eye. i have a surprise for you, jean. mr manners, the university professor i told you about, writes, offering a visit. he does not say when, but soon--as soon as may be." "mr manners! i did not know that you had asked him, papa." "oh, yes! i asked him in a general way, as i did others--if he should ever be in this part of the country. but he is coming for a particular reason, it seems." "papa! not for may?" said jean sitting down suddenly. "well--it looks like it, though how you should have guessed it is queer enough. it never came into my mind, often as i saw them together. is it from any thing your sister has said?" "may has said nothing to me--nothing." "i acknowledge that i am surprised. i should not have supposed that he was at all the man to be taken with a girl like may. if it had been you now--" "are you pleased, papa? will you let him come? and would you give him may?" "may must decide that for herself. all that he asks now is my leave to come and speak for himself. he does not wish any thing to be said to her till he says it himself." "and will you let him come?" asked jean gravely. "well, i think he has a right to be heard. yes, i think we must let him come." "is mr manners a rich man, papa?" "a rich man? i should say not. indeed he tells me as much as that. he has a professional income, enough to live comfortably upon. he is a scholar and a gentleman, and money is a secondary consideration." "yes--if every thing else is right," said jean a little surprised. she had not supposed that in any case, money would be a secondary consideration with her father. "but he is a stranger, and--an englishman." mr dawson laughed. "an englishman! that can hardly be put as an objection, i should think. he is a stranger--in a sense--but he is a man well-known in his own circle, and beyond it--a man much respected, they tell me." jean knew by her father's manner that he was as much pleased as he was surprised. "she is very young," said she in a little. "she is old enough to know her own mind, i suppose, and there need be no haste, if it is to be. i think i must let him come." "and i am not to speak to her?" "oh! as to that, i suppose he only meant that he wished to tell his own story. still as there is no time set for his coming, it may be as well to say nothing for a day or two." "very well," and jean rose and went away. "she doesna seem to be over weel pleased at this, but she'll come round. i'm glad that it should be her sister rather than her that i maun part with. i could ill spare my jean," said mr dawson to himself, as his eye followed her as she moved slowly down the walk. "though i dare say her turn will come," he added with a sigh. it was not that jean was ill-pleased, but she was disturbed at the thought of trouble that might be before them. "my father will never listen to a word about willie calderwood. and unless may is very firm--" and she could not but have serious doubts of may's firmness in withstanding the will of her father. "but at least he will not force her to many any one else. i could help her to stand out against such a thing as that. and i will too," said jean. but a greater surprise than her father had given her at home, awaited her at the tangle stanes. may sat on the lower ridge of rock where she had sheltered herself that day, while jean watched for the "john seaton." this was a very different day from that. there was no wind to-day and the sun shone and the air was soft and warm. the sea was calm and blue as the sky--with only here and there a touch of white where the tiny wavelets broke on the half hidden rocks beyond the tangle stanes. jean stood still, and looked out upon it, pondering many things, then her eye fell on her sister. she was singing softly to herself, as she plucked at the dried stalks of last summer's weeds that still clung to the sheltered side of the rock, or gathered the broken bits of stone, and threw them down into the sea. she was looking neither sad nor anxious, she was smiling, at her own thoughts, jean fancied, as she stood still a minute or two looking down upon her. then may turned and saw. "such a bonny day?" said she. "yes--a bonny day indeed. where is hugh?" "he's not far away. i told him that we would wait for him here. will you come down, or shall i come up to you?" "i'll come to you. some one might join us if we were to stay up in sight, and i have something to say to you. or rather i have a question to ask you about some one." "well, come then. is it about anyone in--london?" asked may smiling, while a little colour rose to her cheek. "no," said jean gravely. "i am going to ask you about willie calderwood. and indeed i think you might have spoken more plainly to me long ago." may laughed. "i have often wondered that you have never spoken plainly to me." "have you? well, being your elder sister, perhaps i ought to have done so. i did not like to speak, since you did not." "just so. and i did not like to speak to you for the same reason." "well, we will speak now. may," said she softly, laying her hand on her sister's shoulder, "tell me just how it is between willie and you." "i don't understand you, jean. there is nothing in the world between willie and me." "may, have you--changed your mind? don't you care for him any longer?" "i don't know what you mean. as to caring for him--of course i care for him--in a way. but, jean, it is not me that willie calderwood cares for. he has said nothing to me that he might not have said to--almost any one in portie." "may, have you forgotten a year ago?--how you came here a year ago, because he asked you? of course he could not speak, because of my father. do you mean that he doesna care for you--more than for any one else." "he has kept it to himself, if he does. oh! yes, i know--my father. but if he had had any thing to say, he would have said it, or i would have guessed it. i don't know why you should have taken the like of that into your head." "i saw him seeking you out wherever we met. he said more to you at such times than to all the rest of us put together. he followed you always. every one saw it as well as i. and then the day he went away--" "oh, jean, what nonsense! i came that day to please you. you made me come. you must mind that well enough. as for his asking me, it was more than half in jest. i am sure he did not expect me to come. and he never could have seen us, on such a day." "and do you mean that if he were to come home to portie and not find you here, it would be all the same to him?" "oh! he'll find me here when he comes, and i shall be glad to see him safe and well. but he has no right to expect a warmer welcome from me than from--any other friend, and he doesna expect it." jean looked at her in amazement. "have i been dreaming all the year?" said she. "it would seem so. i have just as much right to ask you about willie calderwood, as you have to ask me." jean shook her head. "he has very seldom spoken to me since--the old days." "but that might be because of my father, ye ken," said may laughing. and then she added gravely, "we may be glad that there is nothing between him and either of us, jean. it would only have been another heartbreak. i have fancied whiles, that _you_ were thinking about him-- but i am very, _very_ glad for your sake that--" "of course i have been thinking about him--about him and you. i ought to be glad that i have been only dreaming, as you say, because of my father. but--poor willie!--i doubt he has been dreaming too." "no, jean, not about me. and even if it had been as you thought, i would never have listened to him, and indeed he never would have spoken after all that's come and gone." "it would not have been the same to my father, as george and elsie." "but coming after--it would have been all that over again, and worse. and willie calderwood is as proud and hard about some things, as my father." "and that might have kept him from speaking," said jean. "and so it ought, even if he had had any thing to say, which he had not. you need not shake your head as though you didna believe me." "i must believe you--since you say so--for yourself. but you may be mistaken about him, though he never spoke." "never spoke!" repeated may, mimicking her sister's voice and her grave manner. "and do you think i would have needed words to let me know if he had cared for me--in that way? you are wise about some things, jean, but you are not just so wise as you might be about others. wait a while." may laughed and reddened, and then turned and climbed to the top of the rock to see if hugh were in sight. jean followed her slowly. "i ought to be glad. i am glad. there is a great weight lifted from my heart. may is safe from the trouble that threatened, and so is my father. as for willie calderwood--well it is better for him too, that may doesna care, even if--and he'll get over it." when hugh came back they all took their way to miss jean's house by the sea. but as hugh was not yet equal to the feat of dismounting without more help than he was willing to accept from the young ladies, may and he soon turned their faces homeward again, and jean, who had something to do in the town, was left behind. she sat a while with her aunt, but she was quite silent, and her face was turned toward the sea. miss jean was silent also, giving her a glance now and then, feeling sure that she had something more than usual on her mind which perhaps she might need a little help to tell. "well," said she after a little, "have you any news? i think i see something in your e'en. come awa' frae the window and say what ye ha'e to say." jean rose and came forward to the fire. "has my father been in? he will tell you himself, when there is really any thing to tell. he is sure to be in some time to-day." "and it is nothing to vex you, dear? are you glad about it?" "it ought not to vex me. it is only what was sure to happen. and though i am not glad yet--i dare say i shall be glad in time." "is it about your sister?" "yes--and i think papa is glad. but he will tell you himself." "and there is nothing else?" jean sat looking at her aunt for a minute or two. "yes, there is something else that ought to lighten my heart. it has lightened it, i think. i'm not just sure." "and that is about may too?" "yes--about may." she said no more and her aunt did not question her. by and by miss jean said,-- "it's a bonny day--and fine for the season. it was a different day last year when the `john seaton' sailed." "yes, i mind it well." jean did not look like herself, but absent and dazed like, as though her mind were full of other things. miss jean said nothing for a while, and jean rose as if she were going away; but stood for a while looking out of the window. "my dear," said her aunt, "i have thought that you have been troubled like about various matters, this while back, and about your sister among the rest. but i think ye ha'e nae occasion." "yes, i have been anxious." "because of willie calderwood? but, my dear, i canna think that there's any occasion." "i seem to have been mistaken as far as she is concerned. she says so." "and as for him--i never asked him and he never told me--but i'm no feared that he'll be the worse in the end for any such trouble. and, jean, my lassie, we ha'e great reason for thankfulness that so it is. it would only have been anither heartbreak." "yes. that is what may said." "not but what they both would have outlived it--and had many a happy day after it. but i am glad we havena to go through all that, for all our sakes, and more especially for the sake of your father. for he is growing an old man now, and another blow like that would have been ill on him, whichever way it had ended." "but, aunt,--ye mustna be angry at me for saying it,--but i canna think that my father was altogether wise or right in the way he took with george and elsie." "my dear, who is ever altogether wise and right in all they do, even to those they love best? and, my dear, ye are nae your father's judge. and do ye think that he sees now that all he did was wisest and best? and yet he might do the very same again. and even if he shouldna, it would be a misery and a lifelong pain to him all the same. my dear, i'm mair than thankful and we'll say nae mair about it." and no more was said. but as jean went slowly homeward, she had many thoughts of all she had heard that day. glad! of course she could not but be glad that all which must have brought disappointment and pain upon so many, had only been a dream of hers. how could she have been so mistaken! how much better it would have been if she had spoken plainly to her sister a year ago! would may have answered as decidedly then? yes. jean did not doubt that she would have done so. she did not doubt her sister's sincerity when she declared that she had never cared for willie calderwood "in that way." "wise about some things, but not so wise about others," said jean with a smile, recalling her sister's words. and might she not have been mistaken about willie calderwood as well as about may? may declared it, her aunt seemed to imply it. but surely mrs calderwood had been thinking about may that day! jean's cheeks grew hot as she recalled her words and looks. "oh! i am thankful that i never named my sister's name to her. and if it was may she was thinking about, she will soon see that she was mistaken too, and that she needna have feared. and if it wasna may she was thinking about, she needna be feared?" jean walked more rapidly, and held her head higher as the thought passed through her mind. she believed herself to be very angry as all the scene came vividly back to her--angry with mrs calderwood. but for all that she went home with a lightened heart and with a face at once brighter and more peaceful than her father had seen for a while. chapter fourteen. mr manners. it would not have been easy for jean to set about any very elaborate preparations for the reception of the expected guest, without attracting the notice of her sister, who was to know nothing of his coming beforehand. happily no special preparation was needed in her well-regulated household, for within a shorter time than seemed possible after her father's letter of invitation had been sent, he made his appearance at saughleas. he had reached the town at night, and presented himself at the bank in the morning before mr dawson had reached it. they missed each other as he took his way to saughleas, and jean was the only one there to receive him. the day was mild and dry, and may and young corbett had set off immediately after breakfast, on an expedition to the castle. jean was in the garden, intent on hastening the completion of certain changes that had been commenced in the arrangement of flower beds and shrubbery, indeed putting her own hands to the work of clipping and transplanting under proper direction and authority. she saw the stranger the moment he opened the gate, and stood still in her place behind a sheltering fir-tree, regarding him as he came slowly round the drive. she saw a pleasant face, with something of the pallor of the student upon it--not handsome, but a good, true face, she thought as he came nearer. he was tall, as her father had said, and he stooped a little; but it was not a round-shouldered stoop, rather a slight inclining forward as he walked, such as short-sighted people are apt to fall into unawares. certainly he was "not to call old." a scholar and a gentleman, her father had said. he was all that, or his looks belied him, jean told herself as he came slowly forward. he stood for a moment looking up into the sky through the lovely mingling of faint colours made by the swelling buds and opening leaves in the tops of the great beeches, and jean's impulse was to come forward at once and give him welcome. but she looked at her gloves, and at her thick shoes soiled with the garden mould, and at her linsey gown too short to hide them, and she thought of her sister, and "these fastidious english folk," and the "credit of the family," and so went swiftly round the house, and in at the back door, and up to her own room. she did not linger over her toilette, however. by the time phemie came to announce the stranger's arrival, the stately young mistress of the house was ready in her pretty house dress of some dim purple stuff to go down and receive him. she went with more shyness than stateliness, however, being conscious of the object of his coming, and entered so quietly, that he did not move from the window out of which he was gazing, till she had come near him. he turned quickly at the sound of her voice. "is it--mr manners?" said she, offering her hand. "you expected me then?" "yes. papa told _me_ you were coming." "and you are jean? and you will be my friend?" jean's eyes met his frankly and very gravely for a moment, and then she said softly,-- "yes. i think i may promise to be your friend." if she could put any trust in the face as an index of character, she might surely promise that, she thought. she waited a moment, expecting that he would ask for her sister. he did not, but stood looking at her in a silence that must have become embarrassing if it had continued long. so she offered breakfast, which he declined. then she expressed her regret that he should have missed her father, but she would send at once to tell him of his arrival. this was not necessary, however. mr dawson having heard of mr manners' arrival at the bank, returned home immediately; but they were already in the dining-room, before may and young corbett appeared. they went in the back way and passed through beckie's kitchen. "eh! miss may! what can ha'e keepit you? miss dawson has been muckle putten aboot. your papa's come hame and a strange gentleman wi' him. na, it's naebody ye need to heed. was't peters they ca'ed him, phemie? it's luncheon and nae dinner--so you can just go ben as ye are. ye couldna look better or bonnier though ye were to change your gown and tak' an hour to do it. and miss dawson was sair putten aboot." so with no warning as to whom she was to see, flushed and laughing, and submitting to be made a crutch by the recovering and adventurous hugh, may entered the dining-room. "it was hardly fair upon her," her father thought, and jean turned pale with vexation that it so should have happened. but she need not have been afraid. after the first startled glance, and rush of colour, may met her friend with a gentle dignity which left nothing to be desired in her sister's opinion. mr manners was to all appearance less self-possessed than she was, and his greetings were brief and grave. all were for some time in a state of restrained excitement that made conversation not easy, till hugh came to the rescue by referring to mr dawson the decision of some point which had fallen under discussion during the morning's ride, on which miss may and he had disagreed. it had reference to a circle of stones in the neighbourhood, said to be of druidical origin, and hugh stated the difference of opinion clearly and fairly enough. mr dawson could give no light on the subject, however, and smiled at the idea of attaching any importance to the question. "and besides," said may gently, but with an air of wishing to put an end to the matter, "i told you i did not hold any opinion with regard to them." but hugh, in his persistent way, refused to let it so end; and jean, glad of any thing rather than silence, added her word, hoping that they might some time during the summer go to see the "stanes." "but, miss may," continued hugh, "though you said you did not know yourself, you gave authority for your opinion--at least as far as similar circles elsewhere are concerned. and was it not?--yes, it was mr manners that you said had told you--" jean laughed. she could not help it. may grew red as a rose. then mr manners took up the word, and there was no more uncomfortable silence after that; and hugh heard more concerning this new subject of interest than he would be likely to hear again for many a day. before they rose from the table, mr dawson was called away by some one who wished to see him on business, and hugh, with jean for his crutch this time, betook herself to his room to rest and be out of the way. may went to the parlour with mr manners, intending only to show him the way and then go to her own room to change her habit for her house dress; but when jean came back again, may was in the room still, and the door was shut. jean stood looking at it for a moment, with the strangest mingling of emotions--joy for her sister, sorrow for herself--a feeling as if the old familiar life were come to an end, and a new life beginning; nay, as if the very foundations of things were being removed. "we can never be the same again--never," she said, with a sharp touch of pain at her heart. "i have lost my bonny may." it was foolish to be grieved, it was worse than foolish to be angry, at the thought of change; but she knew that if she were to look closely into her heart, she would find both grief and anger there. "i canna help it, but i needna yield to it," she said; and then she turned resolutely toward the kitchen, where beckie was awaiting necessary directions with regard to dinner. she lingered over her arrangements, and by and by put her own hands to some of them, for she found it impossible to settle quietly to any thing, though she told herself that her restlessness was foolish and not to be excused. it took her out of the house at last, and down the walk past the well and through the wood, where she had many times gone during the last few months to the most sweet and peaceful spot in all the world, she thought--where her mother and her little brother and sisters lay; and here, after a while, her father found her. he was not free from restlessness either, it seemed. jean rose as he drew near. "where is your sister? should you have left her?" asked he doubtfully. jean shook her head and laughed. "they shut the door upon me." "ay! he's in earnest, yon lad. you like him, jean? though it's soon to ask." "not too soon. i liked him the first glance i got of him. he has a good, true face. yes; i like him." "it doesna take you long to make up your mind," said her father laughing. but he was evidently pleased. "you dinna like his errand? well that was hardly to be expected. but if it hadna been him, it would have been another, and we should have lost her all the same. and it might have been worse." "yes, it might have been worse." jean was thinking what her father's feelings would have been had may's troth been plighted to willie calderwood. but her father was thinking that it would have been worse for him to-day had it been for jean that the stranger had asked. "it will be your turn next," said he with a sad attempt at jesting. but jean answered gravely,-- "no. i think not i'm content as i am." her father laughed, a short, uncertain laugh. "ay! that will do till the right man comes, and then--we'll see." "but he may never come. he never came to auntie jean." "did he no'? weel, it came to that in the end." mr dawson looked up and met the question in jean's eyes, but he did not answer it, and her lips were silent. she did not need an answer. though she had heard nothing, she seemed to know how it had been with her aunt. disappointment had come to her in her youth. whether death had brought it, or change, or misunderstanding, or something harder to bear than these, she knew not; but however it had come, it had doubtless been a part of the discipline that had wrought toward the mingled strength and sweetness of her aunt's character, so beautiful in jean's eyes. she forgot her father in thinking about it. and for the same reason her father forget her. there were none like his sister in his esteem. none, of all the women he had seen grow old, had lived a life so useful, or were so beloved and respected in their old age as she. her life--except for a year or two--had never been solitary in a painful sense, he thought. it had been, and was still, full of interest--bound up with the lives and enjoyment of others, as much as the life of any married woman of them all. "and if she were to die to-night, there are more in portie that would miss and mourn her than for many mothers of families, and that is not more than all would acknowledge who ken what she is and what she has done in the town." but for his daughter? no, it was not a life like her aunt's that he desired for her. his eye came back to her as the thought passed through his mind. she was gazing straight before her, in among the trees, but it was not the brown buds nor the opening leaves that she saw, he knew well. what could it be that brought that far-away look to her eyes. was she looking backwards or forwards? where were her thoughts wandering? her look need not have vexed him. it was a little sad, but she smiled as though her thoughts were not altogether painful. he could not but be uneasy as he watched her. he loved her so dearly, she counted for so much in his life, that he longed for her confidence in all things, and he knew that there was something behind that smile which he could not see. "weel?" said he as she turned and met his look. "i should go back to the house, you are thinking? yes, i am going. but, papa--it will not be very soon? may's going away, i mean." "that is all before us. i can say nothing now. i doubt all that will be taken out of our hands, my lassie. he is in earnest, yon lad." "but, papa--it is surely our right to say when it is to be? and may is so young--not nineteen yet." "just her mother's age, when--" he rose as if to go, but sat down again and said quietly, "a few months sooner or later will make little difference, and we could hardly expect that he would hear of making it a matter of years. nor would i wish it." "but it will not be--just at once?" said jean. she had almost said "not till the `john seaton' comes home." "well, not just at once. there is time enough to decide that." mr dawson looked doubtfully at his daughter. the look he had wondered at had left her face. she had grown pale and her eyes had the strained and anxious look that had more than once pained him during the winter. the question over which she had wearied herself then was up again. "shall i speak to him about geordie? shall i tell him how he went away?" but he did not know her thoughts, and fancied she was grieving about her sister. "my dear, it is hard on you for the moment. but it is not like losing your sister altogether." "papa! it is not may i am thinking about. it is--geordie. oh, papa, papa!" "my dear," said her father after a pause, "it will do no good to think of one who thinks so little of us. think of him! we maun ay do that, whether we will or no'. but i whiles think he maun be dead. he could not surely have forgotten us so utterly." his last words were almost a cry, and he turned his face away. "papa!" said jean with a gasp, and in another moment she would have told him all. but before she could add a word he was gone--not back by the path to the house, but through the wood the other way, slowly and heavily with his head bowed down. jean looked after him with a sick heart. "it is my mother he is thinking of, as well as his son. oh! i wish i hadna spoken?" she sat down in a misery of doubt and longing, not sure whether she were glad or sorry that he had given her no chance to say more. how little and light her own anxieties looked in the presence of her father's sorrow! the silence and self-restraint, which day after day kept all token of suffering out of sight, made it all the more painful and pitiful to see when it would have its way! miss jean, his sister, had seen him more than once moved from his silent acceptance of pain and loss, but his daughter had never seen this, and she was greatly startled, and sat sick at heart with the thought that there was no help for his trouble. for even if she were to tell him now that her brother had gone to sea in the "john seaton," there would hardly be comfort in that; for it was more than time that the ship were in port, and though no one openly acknowledged that there was cause for anxiety, in secret many feared that all might not be well with her. no, she must not tell him. the new suspense would be more than he could bear, jean thought; and she must wait, and bear her burden a little longer alone. the tears that she could not keep back, did not lighten her heart as a girl's tears are supposed to do, and though she checked them, with the thought that she must not let their traces be seen in the house, they came in a flood when she found her sister's arms clasped about her neck and her face hidden on her breast. but she struggled against her emotion for her sister's sake, and kissed and congratulated her, and then comforted her as their mother might have done. and may smiled again in a little while--indeed what cause had she to cry at all, she asked herself, for surely there never was a happier girl than she. and they both looked bright enough when they came down to dinner, and so did their father. jean wondered and asked herself whether the sight of his moved face and the sound of his breaking voice, had not come to her in a dream. he only came in at the last moment, and if he guessed from may's shy looks that something had happened to her, he took no notice, and every thing went on as usual, though a little effort was needed against the silence which fell on them now and then. of course after dinner, the girls went to the parlour and young corbett went with them; and when, by and by, their father and mr manners came in to get some tea, jean knew that may's fate was decided, as far as her father's consent to her marriage could decide it. pretty may blushed and dimpled and cried a little when her father came and kissed her and "clappet" her softly on her shoulder, and in rather an uncertain voice bade "god bless her." then mr manners brought her to jean. "will you give me your sister?" said he gravely. "since she seems to have given herself to you, i may as well," said jean kissing her sister and keeping back the tears that were wonderfully ready to-night. "and remember your first word was a promise to stand my friend." "only i don't think you seem to stand in need of a friend just now," said jean laughing. "ah! but i may need one before all is done. and you have promised." chapter fifteen. mr dawson's will. it would doubtless have been agreeable to mr dawson had mr manners been a richer man than he seemed to be, but he did not allow even to miss jean, that this want of money was a serious drawback to the satisfaction he felt in consenting to his daughter's marriage. "he is a man whom i like much, and money is a secondary consideration," said he. "that's true," said miss jean. "not that he is without means, and he has a good professional income. they will do very well. it is true i havena kenned him long, as ye say; and i dare say ye think i have been in haste with my consent. but just wait a wee. he'll ha'e your good word. for ye ken a man when ye see him." "if they truly love one another--that is the chief thing." mr dawson laughed. "they do that." "and what does jean say?" "she'll tell you herself. there has been little time to say any thing. he is to be brought over to see you to-day. i wished to send for you, but jean said it was more becoming that he should come to you. jean has her ain notions about most things." "ay, she has that." "and ye'll come hame with them to saughleas? there are two or three things that i would like to have a word with you about. and ye'll be sure to come." but miss jean did not promise. she liked best to be at saughleas when there were no strangers there, she said. mr dawson was ready to resent her calling mr manners a stranger, so she said nothing. the matter could be decided afterwards. probably jean was only thinking of what was due to her aunt, when she insisted on taking their new friend to make her acquaintance in her own house. but it was a wise thing to do for other reasons than miss jean's "dignity," which her niece might very well have left to take care of itself. the house was like herself,--quiet, simple, unpretending, but with a marked character of its own; and no one could fail to be impressed with his first glimpse of miss jean, sitting in her quaint parlour, with its shelves of brown old books, its great work-basket, and its window looking to the sea. she was an old woman now, and not very strong; but the inward calm which earthly trouble had no power to disturb, had kept disfiguring wrinkles from her face, and the soft wavy hair that showed under her full-bordered cap was still more brown than grey. some who had known miss jean all her life declared that she was far more beautiful at sixty than she had ever been in her youth. and naturally enough. for a life of glad service to a loving master, a helpful, hopeful, self-forgetful doing of good as opportunity is given, for his sake, tell on the countenance as on the character; and the grave cheerfulness, the trustful peace that rested on the old woman's face were beautiful to those who had eyes to see. it was not may, but miss dawson, who came with the visitor that morning. "auntie jean, i have brought mr manners to see you," said she coming in unannounced. miss jean received them kindly, but with a certain gravity. "yes, your father has been here. he told me who was coming," said she, and her eyes sought jean's gravely and earnestly. jean nodded and smiled, carrying her aunt's look to the face of mr manners. "yes, auntie, that is the way of it." then miss jean gave him her hand again. "the lord keep and guide you both. and the lord deal with you as ye shall deal with the bairn that is willing to leave her father's house to go with you." "amen!" said mr manners, and he stooped and touched with his lips the soft wrinkled hand that had been offered him. they had not very much to say to one another for a while. it was jean who kept up the talk for a little, remarking upon the "bonny day," and the flowers that were coming out earlier than usual, and on the sea, which was seen at its best to-day, she said, a sparkling blue that faded to pale green and grey in the distance. "you have a wide view of it here," said mr manners who was leaning against the ledge looking out. there was nothing to be seen from miss jean's usual seat, but the sea and one rocky cape in the northern distance. "it is company to me," said she. "it is ay changing." "but it is dreary whiles, aunt, very dreary, when the wind blows loud, and the winter is here." miss jean smiled. "i think winter makes less difference to my outlook than it does to yours, jean, my dear. it's ay the sea, and ay the same, yet ay changing ilka day o' the year, be it summer or winter. it is like a friend's face to me now after all that's come and gone." it was not easy getting below the surface of things, because their thoughts were of the kind not easily spoken. miss jean said least, but she looked and listened and was moved by the soft flowing english speech of their new friend, in a way that filled her with amazement, "after all these years," she said to herself. by and by may came in, leaving hugh corbett in the pony carriage at the door. she hesitated a moment, shy, but smiling, on the threshold, and then mr manners led her forward to be kissed and congratulated and made much of by her aunt. "ye'll try and be a good wife--as your mother was," said miss jean softly, and she gave a tearful, appealing glance toward him who had won the child's heart. "i love her dearly," said he gently. "and i will care for her first always." "i believe ye," said miss jean. what with his good, true face, his kindly ways and winning-speech, he had won her good word, as easily as he had won jean's "who liked him at the first glance," as she had told her father. mr manners' visit was necessarily brief, but when he went away, he carried with him the good-will, and more than the good-will, of them all. even young corbett, who had at first resented the break made in the pleasant life they had been living of late by his monopolising miss may's time and attention, agreed with the rest at last. they became mutually interested over shells and seaweeds, beetles and birds' nests, and they were very friendly before mr manners went away. before his departure mr manners put jean's friendship to the test. "if you are on my side, i shall be able to bring about that on which i have set my heart, and i must remind you of your promise." jean laughed. "it seems that you are like to get that on which you have set your heart without the help of any one." "ah! but how would it have been if you had set yourself against me? or if you were to do so even now?" "it is too late for that now, and i don't think you are much afraid." "jean," said he gravely, "i want my may for my very own on the first day of august." jean was not so startled as she might have been. "i did not think you would be willing to wait very long. but the first of august! that is not much more than three months. it will look like haste." there were, it seemed, many good reasons for that which looked like haste. the chief one was this: mr manners looked forward to two full months of leisure after that time, which could not happen again for another year. he had set his heart on carrying his bonny may to switzerland for the whole two months. "think what that would be in comparison to a winter marriage, and then straight to a dull house in a london street!" "will she find it dull, do you think?" asked jean smiling. "ah! that may be very possible, even though i know she will go willingly. miss dawson, i feel as if i were guilty of wrong-doing in thinking to take my darling from a home like this, to such a one as i can give her, even though i believe she loves me." but jean smiled still. "you need not fear." "thanks. i will not. but in those two months, think how we should learn to know each other, as we could not in my busy days in london! and she would learn to trust me. and it might be if you were to be on my side. as to preparations--dresses and things--" "it is not that. all that is quite secondary. i mean i could see to all that after," said jean to his surprise. "it is something quite different that i was thinking about." it was the return of the "john seaton" with her brother george on board of which she was thinking, and she was wondering whether it would be right to let her sister go, if he should not be home before that time. but she could not speak to mr manners of this. indeed she could speak of nothing for the moment. for may came into the room, and her lover intimated triumphantly that her sister agreed with him as to the important matter of the time. "and you know you were to leave the decision to her." "i agree with you that preparations need not stand in the way. as to other things, i cannot decide. it was something quite different that i was thinking of." but she did not say what it was, even to her sister, and from that time it was understood that the marriage was to take place on the first of august, and that, if possible, mr manners was to pay one more visit before that time. in the quiet that followed his departure, the anxiety which in her interest in her sister's happiness she had for the time put aside, came back again to jean. she strove to hide it from her father, and devoted herself to may and her preparations, with an earnestness which left her little time for painful thought. there was less to do in the way of actual preparation than might have been supposed--at least less than could be done by their own hands. the "white seam" that had employed jean's fingers through so many summer afternoons and winter evenings, came into use now. "i meant them for you, quite as much as for myself, and i shall have plenty of time to make a new supply before i need them," said she when may hesitated to appropriate so much of her exquisite work. there was plenty to do, and jean left herself no time for brooding over her fears. she kept away from the shore and the old sailors now, and from the garrulous fishwives of the town. she would not listen even to the eager reasoning of the hopeful folk who strove to prove that as yet there was no cause to fear for the ship; and she did keep all tokens of anxiety out of her face as far as her father saw; which perhaps was because he was occupied more than usual at this time with anxieties of his own. but when mr manners had been gone a month and more, and they were beginning to look for his return, something happened which would have made it impossible for her to hide her trouble much longer. mr dawson had never yet taken any important step in business matters, or in any matter, without first talking it over with his sister. he did not always take her advice, and she never urged her advice upon him beyond a certain point; but whether her advice was accepted or rejected, there was no difference in their relations to each other because of that. he claimed her sympathy when the next call for it came, none the less readily because he had refused to be guided by her judgment, nor was she the less ready to hear and sympathise. "the breaks, which humour interposed, too often makes," never came between these two, and her judgment guided him, and her conscience restrained him, oftener than either of them knew. long ago he had spoken to her about some change that he wished to make in his will, and some words of hers spoken at the time, hindered him from obeying his own impulse in the matter. he knew that it was not wise to delay the right settlement of his affairs, and now the arrangements necessary in regard to his daughter's marriage portion brought the matter up again, and made some decision inevitable. that his son was dead, or worse than dead, he could not but believe, now that another year had gone bringing no word from him. in his silent broodings, he had in a sense got accustomed to the misery of the thought. he was dead, or, if he lived, he was lost to him forever. even if he were living, his long silence proved to his father that he never meant to come home while his father lived. he might come afterwards; and then his coming might bring trouble upon his sisters, unless all things were settled beyond the power of change. and so it must be settled. but, oh! the misery of it! to think that his only son might come when he was dead, and stand where they had stood together at his mother's grave, and have only hard thoughts of his father! how could it ever have come to such a pass between them! the memory of those first days of their estrangement, seemed to him now like a strange and terrible dream. had he been hard on his son? he was but a lad,--he repeated many a time,--he was but a lad, and he had loved him so dearly. nothing could be changed now. in the silence of the night, often amid the business of the day, his heart grew soft towards his son, and he repented of his anger and his hardness toward him. but nothing could be changed now, and the future of his daughters must be made safe against possible trouble when he should be no more. he had nothing that was new to say to his sister, except that the year that had gone by bringing no word of him, made it less likely that they would ever hear from him again; and she could only listen sadly and acknowledge that it was even so. but though there was not much that was new to be said, they were rarely left alone together that their talk did not turn on this matter. mr dawson's mind was so full of all that must be gone into and arranged in view of what he had to do, that he was sure to speak of it, and to dwell upon it, more sometimes than was wise. and so it happened that jean, coming in from a solitary walk in the gloaming to the parlour, where there was no light, was startled by hearing her father say,-- "i think that will be a just division. i will make it up to her aster, but it is jean who must have the land. i will not divide, and i will not burden the land." jean heard the words without fully taking in their meaning, till her aunt said in her grave, firm voice,-- "and if he ever should come home, you may trust to my jean to deal kindly and justly with her brother." "papa," said jean coming forward, "i heard what you were saying." mr dawson did not answer for a moment, then he said, "it might have been as well if ye hadna heard. but a while sooner or later can make less difference than it would if ye werna a woman o' sense." "papa! have you forgotten--geordie?" her father answered nothing. her aunt put out her hand and touched hers, and jean knew that the touch meant that silence was best. but she could not keep silence. "papa, you think that he is dead, but he is not. he will come home again. and how could we look him in the face if we were to wrong him when he is away! as for me, i will never take what is his by right-- never. you must give the land to whom you will, but not to me." still her father did not utter a word. "whisht, lassie," said her aunt; "ye dinna ken what ye are saying. dinna grieve your father, jean." but jean was "beside herself," her aunt thought. "papa, was it not for george that you bought the land? have you had much pleasure in it since he went away? but, papa, he will come again. he is sure to come home--soon." jean's voice faltered a little. that night her father had come home anxious and burdened with fears for the safety of the "john seaton." there had been some of the sailors' wives inquiring for news, and there was no news to give them though it was more than time; and though mr dawson had spoken cheerfully to the women, the few words he spoke, and the grave face he wore at his own tea-table, had made it plain to jean that his fears were stronger than his hopes. he looked up at jean when she said so eagerly that her brother was sure to come home, as though he expected her to say more. but how could jean say more, knowing what she knew? it was too late now to tell that her brother had sailed in the "john seaton." she could only look at him with pitiful, wet eyes, and repeat over and over again,-- "papa, he will come home. he is sure to come. we must always hope. and when he comes, he must not know that you ever thought of putting-- another in his place. it must not be me. even if i could give it all back to him, it would not be the same. he could never believe you had forgiven him if you were to do as you said. and, oh! auntie jean, he is sure to come home. we can only wait and hope?" "only wait and hope and pray. he will come if it is god's will. and if he shouldna, god's will is best." there was nothing more to be said. but did the old man sitting there with his face hidden in his hands assent to his sister's words? had god's will been best? if he could have had his will, all should have been very differently ordered, as far as the past of his son was concerned. as for the future--did he wish for his return? could the misery of their long estrangement ever be forgotten or outlived? the bright-faced, happy, loving lad never could return--never. what was his son like now? what could he hope from him, or for him, after what he knew of him? oh, yes! he loved him, pitied him, longed for him; but if it were god's will that he should come home again, would god's will be best? god himself could not blot out the past, and make them to each other all that they had been before this trouble came between them. he groaned aloud in his misery, and then he remembered that he was not alone. he rose up as if to go, but sat down again, putting great constraint upon himself. "we'll say nae mair about it now, lassie," said he hoarsely. "no, papa, only this, wait a little while. george will surely come home--or--we shall hear that he is dead. i think he will come home-- soon." "will our geordie, our frank, true-hearted, noble lad ever come home to us again, think you? could god himself give him back to us as he was?" "whisht! george, man," said his sister gravely. "think what ye're saying! all things are possible with god." "ay! to him that believes, but that is beyond belief--to me," said the old man with a sob. "papa," said jean touching his bowed head with her hand, "he will come home--soon." "and whether he come or no', we have just to live our lives and make the best of them," said mr dawson rising; and he went away with no word of good-night. jean lent her young strength to the weakness and weariness of her aunt as they went up the stairs together, but there were no more words spoken between them. they kissed one another in silence, and each knew that the other could not lighten the burden of care and pain that had fallen on both. though they had waited so long and so anxiously for the return of the "john seaton," it took the dawsons by surprise at last. but from the moment that the white sails broke the line of the far horizon, the ship was watched by an ever-increasing crowd gathering on the pier, and on the high rocks above the town. glasses were passed from hand to hand, while some looked doubtful and grave, and others joyfully declared that it was the long-expected vessel. in an anguish of hope and fear fathers and mothers, wives and sisters, waited. some wept and prayed, and wandered up and down, others sat in still excitement counting the moments till the suspense should end. it was sunday afternoon and so none of the dawsons were in the town. even miss jean was at saughleas. in the excitement of the moment none thought of sending word to the owner of the ship. not one of all the anxious mothers and wives who were waiting but had more at stake than he. "but when we are sure, and when i've seen our tam, i'll be off to saughleas to tell the twa miss jeans," said robbie saugster to his sister maggie, who was waiting and hoping like the rest. "ay. they'll be glad--or sorry," said maggie with a sob. "the twa miss jeans, said he!" repeated mrs cairnie, who was wandering up and down, anxious and intent as all the rest, though there was no one belonging to her on the ship, or on any ship that sailed. "the twa miss jeans! and what is it to them? ay, i ken fine the auld man is chief owner, and weel he likes his siller. but the twa miss jeans! what is it to them? except that they may ha'e had their ain thochts for a' the puir bodies that ha'e grown feared this while," added the old woman relenting. "they ha'e had many an anxious thought, and many a kind word and deed for them--i ken weel," said another woman whose eyes were on the ship. "an' sae do i," said another who was sitting on a stone with her baby in her arms, because her trembling limbs would not support her. "what would i ha'e done but for auld miss jean since my man sailed." "ay; and they say auld miss jean has been through it all." "and whether or no', she kens how to weep wi' those who weep." "but she'll `rejoice with them that do rejoice' this time, for as sure as i ha'e e'en to see, yon's the `john seaton'!" "and i'se awa' to the pier head," said robbie. "are you coming, maggie?" maggie took two steps after him, then she turned. "come, mrs barnet. it'll soon be over now. i'll carry wee jamie." and the crowd moved with them. it was the "john seaton." all saw that by this time. there was but a thin kirk that night, for none could force themselves away from the shore, and some who set out for the kirk, turned aside with the rest to meet and welcome those who were coming home. but the kirk was empty and the crowd increased before the "john seaton" touched the pier. the first who reached the deck was robbie saugster, and the first man he saw was willie calderwood, tall and brown and strong, a hero in the boy's eyes. "our tam?" said he with a gasp. "tam's a' richt. tell your mother i'll be round to see her." there was no time for more. the folk pressed forward, and all noticed that the mate's face was graver that it ought to have been. there was something wrong. "is mrs horne here? or my mother?" asked the mate. "is that you, robbie saugster? run to my mother's house and say i bade her go to mrs horne's, and bide till i come there." robbie was off like a shot. "is it ill news?" "if it's ill news, the laddie should speak in and tell auld miss jean." "miss jean is unco frail." "miss jean is ower at saughleas." "and is it captain horne? and when did it happen?" "puir woman! her turn has come at last!" many voices took up the "ill news," telling it gravely till it went through the throng. even those who had got their own safe home again, spoke their welcome gravely, thinking of her who had to hear heavy tidings. chapter sixteen. the "john seaton." mrs calderwood stood waiting outside mrs horne's door, when her son came there. "is it you, mother?" "is it you, willie? thank god?" "amen. mother, i bring heavy news to this house." "ah! poor soul! i dared not go in till i knew the worst. is it long since it happened?" "three months and more. he was long ill, and glad to go." "and must i tell her? oh, if miss jean were here!" "i will tell her, but i wanted you here. does she ken that the ship is in?" "she must ken, i think. but it is no' like her to go out among the throng. she's just waiting. god help her, poor woman!" "ay, mother, _ye_ ken." "but, willie--i must say one word. george dawson? he sailed with you?" "yes, mother, but--" a voice from within bade them enter, and there was time for no more. we shall not enter with them. the first tears of a childless widow suddenly bereaved, must not be looked upon by eyes indifferent. there was much to be told--much that must have made her thankful even in her bitter sorrow. but it was a painful hour to the returned sailor, and there were tears on his cheeks when at last he came out to clasp his joyful only sister at the door. but he could not linger long. he had more to do before he returned to the ship. "i must go to saughleas," said he, as they paused at the corner where his sister must turn towards home. "to saughleas? oh! willie let me go with you," she cried clinging to him. "mother will maybe bide with mrs horne a' nicht. oh, willie, let me go! i'll keep out o' sicht, and naebody will ken. if ye maun go, let me go with you." "i maun go. i promised geordie." "geordie? have ye seen him? did he sail in the `john seaton'? and has he come home?" "ye dinna mean that ye never heard that he sailed with us?" "i never heard. did miss dawson ken? it must have been that that made her e'en grow like my mother's when she looked out over the sea." they were on their way to saughleas by this time. they had much to say to one another. or rather marion had much to say, and her brother had much to hear. a few words were enough to tell all that he needed to tell until his mother should hear him also. but marion had to give him the news of a year and more,--the ups and downs, the comings and goings of all their friends and acquaintance; the sickness of one, the health of another; the births and deaths; the marriages past and in prospect. with the last the name of may dawson was mentioned, and being herself intensely interested in the matter, marion went into particulars. "he is an englishman; but they all like him. i like his lace. yes, i saw him once, and jean made me sing a song to him--`the bonny house o' airlie.' and auld miss jean likes him, she told my mother. he is no' a rich man, and folk wonder at mr dawson being so well pleased. but what seems strange to me is, that may should be married before her sister. and i whiles think, that maybe if he had seen jean first--but love goes where it is sent, they say," added marion gravely. "and her sister's turn will come next," said willie. "oh! as to that--" said marion, and then she was silent, adding after a little, "and _he_ was an englishman too. may is nice, ye ken, but there's no' another in all scotland like jean." they were approaching saughleas by this time. they went slowly round the drive to the open hall door. the summer gloaming was not at its darkest yet, and there were no lights visible. as they stood for a moment at the door, they heard enough to make them aware that a messenger had preceded them. "it's robbie saugster, miss dawson. he says he has news for you--or for mr dawson, i canna say which. will you come but the house and see him? or will i send him ben to you?" but jean did not need to answer. robbie had followed his message. "miss dawson, it's the `john seaton.' she's won safe hame. but there's ill news. it's the captain. but i saw willie calderwood, and he said--" it was hard on robbie that after all his trouble, the telling of the news should fall to another. a heavy hand was laid on his shoulder, and a voice said,-- "that'll do, robbie, lad. i'll say my ain say." and then jean stood face to face with willie calderwood. for one wonderful moment they clasped hands and gazed into each other's eyes. not a word, not even the name, of george was spoken. and then came a joyful cry from may,-- "it is willie calderwood. oh, willie! willie! papa, the `john seaton' has come." then there was a minute or two of confusion in the hall, hand shaking and congratulations, and then mr dawson ordered lights, and they went into the parlour where auld miss jean was sitting, for she had not moved with the rest. she drew down the young man's handsome head and kissed him. "oh, your happy mother!" said she softly. but the mate of the "john seaton" did not sit down. he stood erect beside miss jean's chair, with his eyes cast down upon the floor. he must go back to the ship at once. he would report himself at mr dawson's office to-morrow; he had come to-night because of a promise-- "did i hear something about ill news?" said mr dawson. "jean, what was it the laddie said about captain horne." "yes," said the sailor, "it is bad news. it is three months and more since we lost him; a heavy loss. a better sailor never sailed--nor a better man." there was silence for a minute. "his wife! puir body!" said miss jean. "my mother is with her," said the sailor. "they were wishing for you, miss jean, to tell her. i almost think she kenned what was coming." the young man seemed to forget where he was for the moment. there were more questions asked, and more particulars given, and all the while the mate stood beside miss jean's chair, making his answers clear and brief, and suffering no sympathetic friendliness to soften voice or manner, except when he spoke to miss jean. "and are there any more sorrowful hearts in portie the nicht?" asked she gravely. "did a' the lave win hame?" "saugster, the second mate, did not, nor two others. but nobody need grieve for saugster. there was never less occasion. he'll be home all right, i hope soon." and then he told how they had met in with an american fishing vessel partially disabled from encountering a heavy storm, and far out of her course. she had lost four of her men, one of them the mate, from the capsizing of a boat. the captain was down with fever, and the ship was at the mercy of the winds and waves as there was no one on board who had the knowledge or skill to sail her. "we might have taken the rest of the men on board, but it would not have been right to abandon their ship, and as tam saugster and--two others were willing to go, there was nothing to be said. i dare say they are safe in portland harbour by this time." mr dawson asked some questions as to the cargo and value of the vessel taken in charge, and the mate answered them briefly, and then he said, "and now i must go. i came to-night, because of a promise i made--" jean had been sitting all this time in the shadow of her lather's high-backed chair, a little out of sight. she rose now and stood gazing at the mate with dilated eyes and a face on which not a trace of colour lingered. he did not look at her, but at her father, who had risen also, ready to give his hand at parting. "it is a letter," said the sailor. "i must give it into your own hand, as i promised george." "george!" repeated mr dawson suddenly falling back into his chair again, with a face as white as jean's. "yes. he sailed with us. you surely must have heard of that." "i heard nothing of it." "well, that is queer?" he hesitated and remained silent, as he might not have done if he had seen the agony of the father's face. jean had stretched out her hand and touched him. she was trying to say something, but her lips uttered no sound. "my son! my son! oh, dinna tell me that he didna come home?" it was an exceeding bitter cry. "he didna come home--" "oh, willie, tell him?" cried an eager voice, and his sister sprang forward and a hand was laid on the old man's arm. "he hasna come home, but he's safe and well and he is coming home. and he is--good now. he was ay good, but now he is sorry, and he's coming home. and--oh, sir, i beg your pardon--" added marion, coming to herself, and she would have darted away again, but jean held her fast. willie's heart softened as he met the old man's look. "george was one of the two that went with saugster. there is no better sailor than tam, as ye ken; but he's open to the temptation o' strong drink. if there is any one that can keep tam straight, it's george. i dare say they are in port by this time." "willie," said miss jean, "tell us how it happened that he sailed with you. surely you should have told us before you let him go?" "i did my best, miss jean. he came on board that last morning with some of the men who had been making a night of it on shore, but i did not know it till we were nearly ready to set sail. i did my best to persuade him to stay at home. i sent three different messages to his father, but he couldna be found; and i wrote a line to--" mr dawson groaned. "i had heard that he had been seen in the town, in company with niel cochrane of the how. i went there to seek him, and the ship had sailed before i came back again." "it was to be," said the sailor. "and though i was sorry at the time, i was glad afterwards, and ye'll be glad too, sir. it has done him no ill, but good. he has gathered himself up again. he is a man now--a man among a thousand. and ye havena read your letter." a curious change had come over the young man's manner, though there was no one calm enough to notice it but mr manners. he had for the greater part of the time not been looking at mr dawson, but over his head, or at any one else rather than the master of the house when he spoke. but now he sat down near him, his voice softening wonderfully, and his face looking like the one that was leaning on miss dawson's shoulder on the other side of the old man's chair. it was a very handsome face, but for that mr manners would have cared little. it was a noble face, strong and true; a face to trust, "a face to love," said he to himself. he had heard of willie calderwood before, as he had by this time heard of the most of may's friends, and he had gathered more from the story than may had meant to tell. and now he noticed that the handsome face had hardly turned towards jean, and that jean had not spoken since he came into the room. mr dawson opened his letter with fingers that trembled. there was only a line or two, and when he had read it, he laid it on the table, and laid his face down upon it without a word; and when he lifted it again there were tears upon it. "oh, willie, man! if ye had brought him home! there is nothing of mine but ye might have had for the asking, if ye had but brought him home!" the young man rose and walked up and down the room once or twice, and then sat down again, saying gently,-- "i had no right to prevent his going. he was in his lather's ship of his own will, and though he submitted to command through all the voyage, that was of his own will too. and i am no' sure that i would have kept him, even if i could have done it. it was to save life that he went. danger? well, it turned out that there was really less danger than was supposed when he offered to go. i went on board with him and we overhauled the ship and did what was needed to make all safe. as to its being his duty--he had no doubts o' that. it was to save life." "dinna go yet, willie, man," said mr dawson, putting out his hand as the mate rose. "we are a' friends here. this is hugh corbett, his father was your father's friend. and this is mr manners who has come seeking our may. it is no secret now, my lassie." the two shook hands heartily--each "kenning a man when he saw him." and then the sailor offered his hand to may. and if jean had had any doubts remaining as to the nature of the mutual interest of these two they were set at rest now. may blushed, but met his look frankly, and for the first time since he came willie smiled brightly--a smile that "minded" jean of the days before trouble of any kind had fallen upon them. the rest of the story might have kept till another day, as willie said, but he yielded to entreaty and sat down again. he had nothing to tell of george's story before he found him on board ship. he had come home meaning to see his father, but had fallen into bad hands, and, discouraged and ashamed, had changed his mind, not caring whether he lived or died. if he had not been allowed to go in the "john seaton," there were other vessels leaving portie in which he could have sailed. "i could only have kept him at home by using force, or by betraying him, as he called it. i thought he was better at sea with a friend than on shore with those who did him no good--for home he would not go. so i risked the captain's anger and said nothing. but i never supposed but you would hear about his sailing, as there must have been more than one who knew it." no one made any reply to this. captain horne, a good and just, but stern man, was sorely displeased when he found that his owner's son had sailed secretly with them; and he showed his displeasure by ignoring his presence on board after the very first, and leaving him to suffer all the hardships of the lot he had chosen. george accepted the situation, asked no favours, and shirked no duty, but lived in the forecastle, and fared as the rest fared there. after a time he grew strong and cheerful and did his part for the general entertainment, chatting and chaffing--singing songs and spinning yarns, and winning the good-will of every man and boy on board. nor did he lose his time altogether, as far as self-improvement was concerned. he read every book on board, and at leisure times gave himself to the reading of mathematics and the study of navigation with his friend, and had done it to some purpose, his friend declared. they reached the arctic seas in good time, and had there met with more than the usual success, so that they had good hope of getting home to portie before the year was over. but after that heavy storms had overtaken them, and they had driven before the wind many days and nights without a glimpse of sun or star, and so had drifted far out of their course. they had taken shelter at last in an unknown bay and had lain ice bound for many months. here sore sickness fell on captain horne, against which--being a man strong and brave and patient--he struggled long, only to yield at last, and take to his berth helpless, and for a time, hopeless. a good man, a true christian--("ane o' your kind, miss jean," said the sailor),--he had yet fallen into utter despondency, out of which, strangely enough, the foolish lad who had wandered so far from home, and from the right way, had helped him. when he came to this part of the story, the mate rose and took two or three turns up and down the room again; then he came and stood beside miss jean's chair, saying softly,-- "sometime, miss jean, when geordie comes home, ye must ask him about it. i could never tell you all he was to the sick man in those days. no son ever served a father more faithfully. no mother ever nursed, cared for, and comforted a sick child with more entire forgetfulness of self. whiles he read to him out of the bible, and out of other books, and whiles he talked to him and told him things that he had heard--from his mother, i dare say, and from you, miss jean, and whiles--once at least in my hearing--he prayed with him, because in the darkness that had fallen on him the old man couldna pray for himself i mind that night well." there was a long pause after this, and then he went on; "geordie will tell you all about it better than i could do. a good while before the end, light came back to the captain--and, oh! the brightness of it! and the peace that fell on him! the good book says `it is more blessed to give than to receive,' and that was the way with geordie. for as much good as came to our captain through him, there came more to himself; and it came to him first. "you are one of those, miss jean, who believe in a change of nature,-- coming from darkness to light--from `the power of satan onto god.' well, i would have said that geordie needed that change less than most folk, but it was like that with him. even i, who saw few faults in him before, could see the difference afterward. but it canna be spoken about, and it is more than time that i were away." however he sat down again for a moment on the other side of the table where he had been sitting before, and went on to tell, how after a few bright days, the captain died, and they buried him in the sea. at last they got away from the ice, and were beginning to count the days, before they might hope to see the harbour of portie, when they fell in with the ship in distress, and this ended in tam saugster being sent to take her to her port, and in george going also, to help tam to withstand his foe. for the "john seaton" was a temperance ship, and tam had tasted nothing stronger than tea or coffee since he lost sight of portie harbour. "he had sailed with us, just to give himself another chance, he said, and, poor lad, he had gone far the wrong gait--and he was another man; a fine fellow truly, when he was out of the way of temptation. and whiles i have thought it was for tam's sake, more even than for the sake of the yankee ship and its crew, that george was so fain to go. it cost him much no' to come home with us, for he had come to a clearer sight of-- two or three things,--he told me. but i think he made a sort of thank-offering of himself for the time, and even if i could have hindered him, i could hardly have found it in my heart to do it. and he is sure to come soon." "he is in safe keeping," said miss jean. "yes, he is that, and we may hear from him any day." there was not much more said. mr manners had some questions, and so had miss jean, and may asked if her brother had changed much as to looks; and mr dawson looked from one to the other as each spoke, but he did not say another word, nor did jean till willie rose to go. "now, marion, it is late and we must make haste." then jean said softly--it was the first word she had uttered since he came into the house-- "no, marion. it is too late to go. willie will tell your mother that you are going to bide with me to-night." of course that was the wisest thing for the girl to do, as mrs calderwood might remain all night with poor mrs horne, and it was necessary that her brother should go back to the ship. and so the mate went away alone. chapter seventeen. home coming. that night mr dawson and miss jean sat long together, when the others had gone away, and for the most part they sat in silence. mr dawson had some thoughts which he would not have liked to tell his sister,-- thoughts which he knew she would call wrong and thankless--which he would gladly have put away. the good things of this life, the glad surprises, the unhoped for reprieves from sorrow, rarely come without some drawback of regret or pain. that he should have got tidings of his son; that he should be coming home, and glad to come; that he should be well and worthy, a man to honour and to trust,--how utterly beyond his hopes had this been yesterday! his son was coming home; but, alas! he could never have his light-hearted, bonny laddie back again. george was a man now, "knowing good and evil." it could never be again between them as it had been before their trouble came. "ane o' your kind, miss jean," the mate had said; "a changed man." mr dawson's thoughts went back to the time of his sister's trouble, when she had become "a changed woman." all the anger and vexation, that had then seemed natural and right, because of her new ways, had passed out of his heart, a score of years and more. it was as though it had never been. he glanced up at her placid face, and said to himself, as he had said before many times, "a woman among a thousand." but he remembered the old pain, though it was gone, and he shrank from the thought that he might have to suffer again through his son. "he is a man now, and must go his ain way," he said to himself, moving uneasily on his chair and sighing. "we canna begin again where we left off. ungrateful? yes, i dare say it would be so called; but, oh! geordie, my lad! i doubt your way and mine must lie asunder now." miss jean too had some thoughts which she would not have cared to tell, but they were not about george; for him she was altogether joyful. if willie calderwood's words about him were true, and he were indeed "a changed man," nothing else mattered much in miss jean's esteem. the "good," for which he had god's promise as security would be wrought out in him whether by health or sickness, by joy or sorrow, by possession or loss, and through him might be brought help and healing, higher hopes, and better lives to many. the master who had chosen him would use him for his own work, and that implied all that was to be desired for any one to miss jean. but in the midst of her joy for him, she could not forget jean's silence, and willie calderwood's averted eyes. and though she told herself that possible pain and disappointment could work good to her niece as well as to her nephew, she could not but shrink beforehand from the suffering that might be before her. but it was not a trouble to be spoken about. neither had spoken for a long time, when the door opened and jean came in. she was wrapped in her dressing-gown, over which her long hair hung, and her face looked pale and troubled. "are you here still, auntie jean? no, don't go, papa," said she as he rose. "i have something to tell you." "it maun be late. i thought you had been in your bed this hour and more," said her father. "yes, papa, i was in bed, but i couldna sleep." "for joy, i suppose?" said he smiling. "yes, for joy and--because--papa, i knew that my brother had sailed in the john seaton." "you knew! and never spoke?" "would it have been better if i had spoken? would you have suffered less? but i did not know it till after the ship had sailed, and i thought it would break your heart to know that he could have been here and gone away again, without a word. i tried to tell you afterwards, and you, auntie jean, as well. i longed to tell you. i could hardly bear the doubt and fear of the last few weeks. but i thought if it was so terrible to me, what would it be to you!" mr dawson did not answer for a moment. he was thinking of the stormy nights of last winter, and the dread in her eyes as they looked out over the angry sea. "no wonder that you were anxious often, and afraid." "ought i to have told you? but you are not angry now, papa?" "there is no good being angry--and you did it for the best." and then jean told them about the note that robbie saugster had brought too late to let her see her brother before the ship sailed. miss jean said it had doubtless been wisely and kindly ordered, that the lad would come home and be a better son, and a better man for the discipline of the time. and then when they went upstairs together, she added a few joyful words to jean, about the change that had come to her brother, and about the peace that would henceforth be between his father and him. but she would not let her linger beside her for any more talk. "ye need your rest, my dear, and we'll baith ha'e quieter hearts, and be better able to measure the greatness of the mercy that has come to us. and other things will take a mair natural look as well." though mr manners had only one more day at saughleas at this time, he accepted mr dawson's invitation to walk with him to portie in the morning. mr dawson wished to show him the "john seaton," and mr manners wished to see again the fine young fellow, who might, if he chose, henceforth have the command of the ship. mr dawson had something to say to him on the way. "you will get a scanter portion with your wife than you would have gotten if--we had heard no news." "oh! my wife! my bonny may," said mr manners with smiling eyes. "but then i shall have a brother--i who never had one--and i shall have a right to my share of the family joy." mr dawson did not speak for a moment. "there will be something at once," and he named a sum, "and there will be something more at my death." then he went on to mention certain arrangements that were to be made, and mr manners, of course, seemed to listen with interest; but when he ceased speaking, he said gravely,-- "i have only one fear, lest the joyful expectation of having her brother home again, may make may wish to delay her marriage." "as to that--if he come at once he will be here long before the first. and if he should delay--no, i do not think that that ought to be allowed to interfere with your plans." "thank you," said mr manners. "oh, he will be sure to be here in time." "wha kens?" said mr dawson. "it seems beyond belief that i should ever have my son back again. i never can in one sense. he is a man now, and changed. i wouldna seem unthankful; but, oh, man! if ye had ever seen my george, ye would ken what i mean." he was greatly moved. if he had tried to say more, daylight as it was, and on the open road, his voice must have failed him. they walked on in silence for a while--for what could mr manners say?--and before they reached the high-street, he was himself again. there were many eyes upon him as they went down the street, for by this time it was known through all the town that george had sailed in the "john seaton." but "the old man took it quietly enough," some said, and others, who saw him in the way of business through the day, said the same. the sailors in the "john seaton," when later he and mr manners went down to the pier, saw nothing unusual in his rough, but kindly, greetings. there was not one of them but would have liked to say a kindly and admiring word of "geordie"; for "geordie" he had been to them all, through the long year; and doubtless it would have pleased the father to hear it. but he heard nothing of it there. it did not surprise these men to see that he took it quietly. their own fathers and mothers took quietly the comings and goings of their sons. but it would have surprised them to know that the old man kept silence because he was not sure whether his voice would serve him if he should try to speak. he turned back again for a minute when mr manners and the mate came on deck, when all had been said that was necessary on that occasion, and it would have surprised them to know that it was to shut himself into the little cabin where george had so long served and comforted the dying captain, and that he there knelt down and thanked god for his goodness to his son. he seemed to take it quietly as far as people generally saw during the next ten days; but jean put away all remorseful thoughts as to the silence she had kept during the last long year. "he never could have borne the long suspense," she said to herself, as she watched him through the days and heard his restless movements through nights of sleepless waiting. he never spoke of his son, or his anxiety with regard to him; but jean took pains to speak of her brother to others in his hearing; and sometimes she spoke to himself, and he listened, but he never made reply. "he will grow morbid and ill if this continues long," she said one day to her aunt. "it will not continue long," said miss jean. "no, he will come soon, if he is coming." "oh, he is coming! ye needna doubt that. he is no seeking his ain way now. he'll come back to his father's house." and so he did, and he found his father watching for him. he did not go all the way to portie, but stopped, as his father knew he would, at a little station two or three miles on the other side of saughleas, and walked home. it was late and all was quiet in the house. summer rain was softly falling, but mr dawson stood at the gate as he had stood for many nights; and george heard his voice before he saw him. it might have been said--if there had been any one there to see--that mr dawson "took it quietly" even then. there were not many words spoken between them, and they were simple words, spoken quietly enough. how it happened neither of them could have told,--whether the father followed the son, or the son the father,--but instead of turning to the terrace, where the drawing-room window stood open to let them in, they turned down the walk, past the well into the wood; and whatever was said of confession or forgiveness was said by the grave of the lad's mother, in the stillness of the summer midnight, in the hearing of god alone. no one but jean knew that night that george had come home, and jean did not go to her brother till she had heard her father shut himself into his room. mr dawson himself brought food to his son, and wine, and watched him as he partook of it. but when he would have poured out the wine, he staid his hand. "i promised tam saugster--we promised one another--not to touch or taste before he comes home to portie." "it is for his sake then?" "and for my own," said george gravely. his father was silent. strangely mingled feelings moved him. "is he so weak that he cannot refrain? is he so strong that he can resist?" even in the midst of his joy in having his son back again, "clothed and in his right mind," he was more inclined to resent the implied weakness, than to rejoice in the assured strength. but he uttered no word of his thoughts then or ever, though george did not release himself from his vow even when tam saugster came home to portie "a changed man" also. when the house was quiet again, and the lights were out, jean stole softly to her brother's room, for one embrace, one kiss, a single word of welcome. but she would not linger. "we couldna stop, if we were once to begin, geordie; and you are tired, and my father would be ill-pleased. i only wanted to be sure that you were really home again. and i'm no' sure yet," she added laughing and touching with caressing fingers the soft brown beard, that she could just see, for a faint gleam of dawn was breaking over the sea. they looked at each other with shy pleasure, these two. jean blushed and smiled under her brother's admiring eyes, but she would not linger. "my father will hear us, and he will not be pleased," said she going softly away. but was it not a joyful morning? "may, are you ready? come down quickly. i have something that i want you to see." "may, i think it is i who have something to see," said george, as his younger sister came in. one might search the countryside and find no other such brother and sisters as these three. the father looked at them with proud but sorrowful eyes, for their mother was not there to see them. george was changed, even more than his sisters. he had gone away a lad, and he had come back a man. there was more than the soft brown beard to show that. he had grown taller even, his father thought, he had certainly grown broader and stronger. the colour that used to be as clear red and white as his sisters' was gone. his face was brown and his eye was bright and steady, and his smile--when it came--was the same sunny smile that his father had so longed for during the sorrowful days of his absence. but it did not come so often as it used to come, and at other times, his face was touched with a gravity new to them all. but there was no gloom on it, and no trace of any thing that those who loved him would have grieved to see. it was a stronger face now than it had been in the old days, but it was none less a pleasant face, and in a little while they forgot that it had changed. it was george's face. that was enough. "it is a _man's_ face. and he'll show himself a man yet, and do a man's share in the work of the world," said the proud and happy father. and in his heart he acknowledged his son's right to take his own way and live his own life, even though the way might lie apart from his, and though the life he chose might not be just the life that his father would have chosen for him. "your aunt should have been here, jean. you should have sent for her," said mr dawson in a little. "i will go and see her," said george. "i will walk in with you to the town, by and by." "but we must have her here, all the same, for a day or two. ye'll send for her afterward, jean." but they did not go in the morning as they meant to do. they lingered long over the breakfast-table, and then in the garden and in the wood, and the father and son went down the burn and through the green parks beyond, never thinking how the time was passing, till jean came to tell them that dinner was waiting. after dinner they went to the town. but they did not go down the high-street. they were both shy at the thought of all the eyes that would be upon them there. "and it should be your aunt first," said mr dawson. so they went down a lane that led straight to the sea and then turned to miss jean's house. "you'll go in by yourself and i'll step on and come back in a while," said his father. he had not stepped far before a hand touched his arm, and a pair of shining eyes met his. "oh, mr dawson! is it george come home? and isna your heart like to break for joy?" there were tears as well as smiles on the beautiful face that looked up into his with joyful sympathy and with entire confidence that sympathy would be welcome. for an instant mr dawson met her look with strangely contending emotions. then a strange thing happened. he took the bonny moved face between his two hands, and stooping down, kissed it "cheek and chin" without a word. he would not have believed the thing possible a minute before, he could hardly believe if a minute afterwards, as he turned back again towards his sister's house. mrs cairnie coming slowly down the street saw it-- and then she doubted, telling herself, that "her e'en were surely nae marrows," or that the last "drappie" she had taken at "the kail stock" had been ower muckle for her, and the first person to whom she told the story thought the same. bonny marion's mother and brother saw it from the window of their own house: he with amazement, she with dismay. "it maun be that geordie has come home, and that the joy of it has softened his heart," said willie. "ay. he has gotten his son back again?" said mrs calderwood. and willie knew that his mother was thinking of her child who would never return. marion came dancing in with the glad news. she told it soberly after a glance at her mother's face. and then they all sat waiting, knowing that george and his father would pass that way. but george did not pass. both men stood still before their door, and george's hand was laid for an instant on his father's shoulder. they knew what he was saying though they did not hear him speak, and then mr dawson went on "looking grave, but no' angry," marion whispered, and george came into the house. mrs calderwood received him as she had received her son, kissing him and thanking god for his safe home coming at last. their meeting could not be all gladness, remembering how they had parted. george was very white and silent. even marion's bright face and joyful welcome could not win a smile. willie and he had much to say to each other, but all that must wait till another time. george could stay but a moment, for his father was waiting for him at the pier. that night mrs calderwood and her son sat together in the gathering gloaming, and after a long silence willie said, "would it break your heart altogether, mother, to think of leaving portie?" "hearts are no' so easily broken as i used to think. i could leave it, if it were the wisest thing to do. i could leave even scotland itself, for that matter." "yes, it would end in leaving scotland--if any change were to be made. but as far as you are concerned, you needna be in haste for a time." "a while sooner or later would make little difference," said his mother. nothing more was said; but from that night, mrs calderwood knew that it might come to leaving portie with them, and she set herself calmly to look the possibility in the face. george came home about the middle of july, and the preparations for may's marriage were nearly completed by that time. jean had determined that it was to be a very pretty wedding, and so it was; and having said this, little more need be said about it. it was like all other pretty weddings--that is to say like pretty weddings in the north. the guests were many, and merrier than wedding guests usually are in other regions. mr and mrs seldon came from london to be there, and other friends came from other places. george was "best man," and there were many bridesmaids. marion calderwood was one of them, and willie was an invited guest. but at the last moment willie failed them, and the only reason given, was the unsatisfactory one of "business before pleasure." on the very morning of the marriage he left home "for london, or liverpool, or somewhere,--before i was up," said marion, who came early to put on her pretty bridesmaid's dress in jean's room; and george, when may questioned him, said with absolute truth, that not a word had passed between him and willie as to the reason of his going away. mr manners might have cast some light on the matter, though he also could have said that no word had been spoken with regard to it. intent on making the acquaintance of george, they had set out the night before the wedding for a long walk along the shore, and meeting young calderwood, he turned at their invitation and went with them. probably mr manners learned more about both of them in listening to their conversation with each other than he would have had he had one of them to himself. as it was he enjoyed it much. they went far and before they returned the gloaming had fallen. standing for a moment at the point where the high-street of portie turns off from the road which leads in one direction along the shore, and in the other out towards saughleas, they heard a voice, familiar enough to george and willie, coming through an open cottage window. "weel, weel! i maun be gaen. ilka ane kens her ain trouble. and them that ha'e nane, whiles think they ha'e, and that's as ill to thole till real trouble comes, and then they ken the difference. but i maun awa' hame." mrs cairnie lingered, however, at the open door. "eh, woman! wha's yon comin' up the high-street? wha would ha'e thought it? the dawsons are on the top o' the wave enow! do ye no' see, woman? yon's young miss jean's englishman." mr manners had not followed all the speech, but he understood the last part of it, and never doubted that it referred to himself, "though she has mistaken the lady's name," said he, turning laughing eyes on young calderwood. but willie did not meet his look. he was looking down the high-street, and george was looking at willie whose face had grown white through all its healthy brown. mr dawson was coming slowly up the street, and by his side there walked a young man large, and fair, and handsome; a gentleman evidently whom neither of them had ever seen before. a groom driving a dog-cart followed slowly after. "it must be captain harefield. may has spoken of him," said mr manners. it was captain harefield. mr dawson introduced him as they came up, and from his father's manner george knew that he was pleased at the meeting. "i have been trying to persuade captain harefield to come to the marriage to-morrow," said he. "it is short notice, i know, but not too short, if you will come out to saughleas to-night and see the bride." captain harefield murmured something about an engagement, but he looked as though he would willingly be persuaded to break it. mr manners first, and then george added a word, and he yielded, and he and mr dawson drove off in the dog-cart at once. "ye'll come with us, willie?" said george laying his hand on his shoulder, in boyish fashion. the friends looked at one another, and both changed colour a little. "no' the nicht, i think, geordie." then they shook hands and the mate went rapidly down the street, and the others were more than half way to saughleas before george uttered a word. that night willie calderwood startled his mother by saying suddenly after a long time of silence,-- "i am off to-morrow morning for liverpool, mother. i have a letter that i meant to show to george, but i couldna, and you must tell him. i have a chance to be second officer on one of the great ocean steamships. what do you think of that, mother? i think i'll take it." "then you've given up all thoughts of the `john seaton'?" "yes. this is a far better post--as you must see, mother, with a chance of promotion. i mean to command one of these fine ships yet." "but must you go so soon? you are expected to go to the marriage to-morrow." "yes. and i would have liked to see the last o' may dawson. but `business before pleasure,' ye ken, mother; and nobody will miss me, i dare say. and marion will say all that is needful to the bride." willie spoke cheerily--too cheerily, his mother thought, to be quite natural. "no thought of jean dawson shall ever come between my mother and me," willie was thinking. "even if she cared for me, it could never be; and i must get away from the sight of her, or i shall do something foolish, and give my mother all the old pain over again." then after a long time of silence, he said, "if you were to live in liverpool, or near it, mother, i could see you oftener than if i had to come to portie." "yes, i have been thinking of that." "marion wouldna like it?" "no, i dare say not. but it might be well for her to have a change." "well, then, that is settled. but there need be no haste, mother." "a month or two sooner or later would make little difference." and then they were silent again. mrs calderwood was thinking, "i am sorrier for her than i am for him. he is a man, with a man's work to do, and he will forget her. but as for jean--she's no' the kind of woman to forget." so willie kissed his sister in her morning sleep, and was away long before she opened her eyes on may's marriage day. if any one but his sister missed him amid the gay doings of the day, no one said so. the eyes and thoughts of all were on the bride and her attendant maidens, and it was a sight worth seeing. may behaved as a bride should, who of her own free will is leaving her father's house to go to the house of her husband. jean stood by her and her quietness kept the bride quiet also. but even jean's colour changed many times as they stood with all the kindly admiring eyes upon them. and when the ceremony was over, and the breakfast, and the speech-making, and the few painful moments of lingering that followed, and the happy bridegroom had at last gone away with his bonny bride, then nobody saw jean till a long hour and more was over. chapter eighteen. another proposal. captain harefield was at the wedding an honoured guest, as all could see, and for a very good reason, it was said. through the blackford groom, it had come to be known in portie that a change had fallen on the fortunes of captain harefield. through the sad and sudden death of a distant cousin, he had become heir to a large estate in one of the southern english counties, and though he might have a while to wait for the full enjoyment of his inheritance, and for the tide that was to come with it, there was in the mean time a happy change in his circumstances as far as money was concerned. he had not come to blackford house this time, to escape duns. and his sister had not come to take care of him. the chances were that he had an object in view in coming, and on the wedding day more than one of those who saw the looks he cast at the bride and her maidens, had felt satisfied as to what that object might be. mr dawson was one of these. there were several guests still in the house, when a week had passed. mr dawson and his sister were sitting one afternoon on the terrace, when captain harefield rode up, and in a little he had joined miss dawson in the garden. the father watched them as they came and went among the trees. "jean has the ba' at her foot this time, i'm thinking," said he. "weel, weel! it it pleases her, it will please me." "she'll never please ye in that way. dinna think it." "i'm no' so sure that it would please me--no' so sure as i was this time last year. but i think she might be satisfied." "she'll need a stronger hand to guide her." "she has strength and sense to guide _him_, and that might do as well." "it wouldna be for her happiness were she to be persuaded to such a marriage," said miss jean gravely. "persuaded! no, that is not likely. but, jean, i like the lad, though he is no' a solomon, i confess, and he has a high place in the world--or he will ha'e ane--and jean would do him credit." "high place or no', he is no' her equal in any important sense. if she cared for him, she might guide him and put up with him, as many another woman has to do. as to persuading her--no one could do that; but if she thought your heart was set on it, she might persuade herself to her ain unhappiness." "i'se never persuade her. and i would ha'e ill sparin' her. but it would be a fine position, and she would keep it we'll." "ay, if she could take it with a good conscience. but that she canna do," said miss jean. when the bustle attending the wedding was over and all the guests were gone, a new life began at saughleas. as far as george was concerned, it was not just the life his father would have chosen for him. but george was a man now, and every day that passed proved to his father that he was a man that might safely be trusted to guide himself. it would have pleased his father that he should at once have taken his place as the young laird of saughleas. there were many signs among the other proprietors of the neighbourhood, that he would have been welcomed to the houses of people who had held hitherto only business intercourse with his father. there was no need for george to return to the counting-house again. mr dawson acknowledged himself to be a richer man than was generally supposed, and george, as the heir of saughleas, might "take a long tether," as far as the spending of money was concerned. and he need not lead an idle life. all the congenial occupations of a country gentleman were open to him, to say nothing of the amusements which only men of comparative leisure could enjoy. or he might farm his own land. whether he could make such farming profitable to himself might be doubtful, but he might do good in the countryside, and he would thus have an opportunity of bringing himself into contact with people whose acquaintance was to be desired,--the lairds and gentlemen farmers of the north. it was to his sister oftener than to his son that all this was said; and listening to him, miss jean could not but wonder what had become of the sense and judgment that had guided him through all his life till now. "when you are dead and gone, and george has a son of his ain, he'll get willingly in the countryside what you are so anxious for him to take now. it would bring neither the honour nor the pleasure that you are dreaming about for him, if he were to turn his back upon--the shop--for that was the foundation o' your fortune, though you are a banker and a ship-owner now. let george win his ain way, as his father did before him; it will be mair to his credit, and mair to his happiness, than any such change as ye would fain see in his way of life. and he'll be far safer." "a body would think to hear ye, jean, that i was like to be ashamed o' the shop, and the makin' o' my ain way in the world; i'm so far from that, that i seek no other credit or honour in the countryside than what i have won as a man of business. but it might be different with my son." "weel, honour and consideration seldom come the sooner for the seeking. they'll come to george in good time, if he shall deserve them. it's little honour he would be like to get from men o' sense if he were content to sit down with what you ha'e won for him, putting himself in the place that ye ha'e honestly and honourably won for yourself. that would be for the honour o' neither you nor him, though ye may think it." "it was for him i won it. there would be neither pleasure nor profit for me, at my time o' life, in seekin' any change. but i acknowledge it would be a pleasure to me to see my son taking his right place in the countryside. it is no' as if he werena fit for it. just look at him! who is there to compare with him? and he has as good blood in his veins as the most o' them, when a' is said." "he'll get his right place in time, never fear. and he'll get it all the readier that he's no' in haste about it." in the mean time george was in his father's office, setting himself to the mastering of all details and succeeding therein, in a way that astonished his father. it was that part of the business that had to do with shipping interests which he liked best, and which chiefly claimed his attention at this time. his father acknowledged that he had a clear head, and a power of application that would stand him in stead either as merchant or landed proprietor. and the pleasure he had in his son's companionship, and in his sympathy with his work, went far to keep him silent as to any change in his present course. as for george, he was for the most part silent also, because he was unwilling by opposition to his father's wishes to put in jeopardy the new and pleasant relations existing between them. but to his sister and his aunt he spoke plainly enough. if any of them were to have special consideration from their neighbours, it must be because of his father's life, and what he had accomplished in it. as for his assuming the position of the young laird of saughleas while his father continued the laborious life of a man of business, that would be only contemptible. if he were to take his own way in life, he must win the right to do so, and he made no secret of the possibility that, as the years went on, his way of life might in some respects be different from his father's. he pleased his father in one way. he took great interest in all that concerned the management of the estate. he was fond of the place as his home. they agreed in most things which concerned its prosperity and prospects, and if george was less eager than his father in his desire to add to its extent, he did not vex him by showing this too plainly. they differed in opinion about this, and about other things often. but mr dawson put great restraint upon himself at such times, striving to remember that george had a right as a man to hold his own opinions and to act upon them though they differed from his. george, on his part, felt no temptation to fail in the perfect respect he owed to his father, in his words and in his ways. and so, in course of time, things bade fair to adjust themselves to the satisfaction of both. as was to be supposed, jean and her aunt looked on with deep interest, while the father and son were thus happily though warily renewing their acquaintance, but they said little about it, even to each other. during the first month after may went away there was much going on at saughleas. emily corbett, who had come for the wedding, stayed a while, and hugh stayed also, though he was strong and well and able for any thing now. there were young people coming to the house for their sakes,--marion calderwood, who was emily's chief friend, and the young petries, and others; and there were expeditions here and there, and garden parties at various houses; and jean's time and thoughts were much occupied. captain harefield made one of such parties now and then, but not so frequently as had been the case last summer. he was a person of more importance at blackford house now than he had been then, and though his sister was not there to take care of him, there were others there ready and willing to do the work in which it must be confessed she had failed. he was so good-natured, and so unaccustomed to exert his own will against any one who assumed the right to guide him, that he was easily taken possession of. it was agreeable also to be made much of, to be consulted and included in all arrangements for business or pleasure, so that he did not find his stay at blackford house "a bore," as he had done last summer, and he was less inclined to stray away into other parts to look for pleasure. the less frequently that he came to saughleas, the more kindly and frankly he was received by jean, who liked him very well since he seemed to have put foolish thoughts out of his head. but he came often enough to put foolish thoughts into the heads of other people. the young people who came to the house, watched with interest the captain's shy devotion, and jean's friendly indifference, not quite sure the last was altogether real. mrs seldon, during the weeks of her stay, never doubted as to his object in coming, and sensible of the importance attached to having a place in county society and a title in prospect, she doubted as little as to the result of his devotion, and mr dawson, with a mingling of feelings which he could not easily have analysed, repeated to himself that "jean had the ball at her foot, whatever way it might end." but miss jean held fast to her first opinion, that jean was safe from any temptation to yield to him, and so was another who had not had miss jean's experience. "oh! miss jean, i am the most unfortunate little creature in all portie, i think. i'm ay doing or saying something that i shouldna." "my dear, ye are worse than unfortunate if that be true. what have ye been at now?" "it was quite true, what i said, only i wish mr dawson hadna heard us. we were speaking about--about miss dawson--" marion hesitated. she was not quite sure how miss jean herself would like to hear that the young folk had been discussing her niece and her affairs so freely. "it was only that he heard us. i'm ay vexing mr dawson, i think." "are you?" said miss jean, smiling. "ay, am i. don't you mind the apple-tree that was broken, and don't you mind?" several other circumstances that it vexed the girl to remember. but jean herself coming in, the vexation of the moment could not be discussed and marion was not sorry. it had happened thus. she had come early to saughleas with the young petries intending to set out at once on an expedition that had been planned to the castle, but something had delayed several of their party, and the younger folk were whiling away the time of waiting, chatting and laughing as they sat on the grass. by and by the well-known dog-cart passed. "haloo! there is your englishman, marion," said hugh corbett. "i wonder he didn't come in. he'll be back again to go with us, unless we make haste to get away." "well, and why should not he come with us? the more the merrier," said his sister. "and he's no' _my_ englishman," said marion with dignity; "and for that matter ye are only an englishman yoursel'." "only an englishman! just hear her!" said hugh. "and ye're not even an englishman. you are neither one thing nor the other," said grace petrie laughing. "if ye were to bide a while in portie, ye might maybe pass for a scotchman, however." "oh, indeed! might i? that's encouraging." this was a favourite subject of discussion between these young people, and much banter passed with regard to the nationality of the corbetts. "but he is no' marion's englishman anyway," said jack petrie in a little. "he only falls back on marion when miss dawson's company is no' to be had." "and it's only because marion saves him the trouble of saying a word. she is such a chatterbox," said hugh. "and he'll have to fall back on her altogether soon, i'm thinking." "i'm sure that's no' what our milly thinks," said jack. "she says that miss dawson--" "your milly! she judges other folk by hersel'! miss dawson wouldna look at him," said marion calderwood. "but she does look at him, whiles," said grace. "but that's because she's no' ay thinkin' about--about the like o' that him indeed! he might as well go and ask for one of the young princesses at once." they all laughed and exclaimed. "well, she would be no more above him in one way than miss dawson is in another. a baronet? what o' that? any body might be a baronet, i suppose," said marion. "but nothing short of a lord will do for jean dawson, ye think. i doubt she'll bide a whilie," said jack scornfully. "and she can afford to bide a whilie. miss dawson is sufficient for herself," said marion loftily. "but i don't expect you to understand me, jack; and i don't think it is nice for us to be speaking that way about miss dawson." "i agree with you," said emily. "so do i," said hugh. "but i have one question to ask, and only one. who of all the gentlemen you have ever seen would you think good enough or great enough for miss dawson." "oh! as to good enough, that is not what marion means," said grace. "no. nor great enough," said emily. "well--just suitable--worthy of her, in every way? in mind, body, and estate. come, let us hear." "yes, come, let us hear." "in mind, body, and estate," repeated emily laughing. "i think enough has been said already," and marion rose to go away. "but if ye will have it--i never saw any body in every respect worthy of miss dawson-- except, perhaps--but yet--" marion hesitated, and then added,-- "i dinna believe there is another in all scotland like miss dawson." "i agree--nor in england either," said hugh. "but i rise to ask a question--" he had risen, but it was evidently with the design of intercepting marion, who was moving over the grass intent on getting away. "i leave it to the company if we have not a right to hear what is to be said; and, what is more, you are not going away till you tell us." he did not touch her, but he looked quite ready to do it. "nonsense, hugh! you are not to vex marion," said his sister; but she drew near with the rest to listen. "`not one in all scotland,' she said," repeated grace laughing. "let us stick to the point," said hugh. marion reddened and fidgeted, and measured the distance with her eye with the evident intention of running away, and all this hugh noted-- nodding and smiling. "ye canna gar marion speak, if she's no willin'. i've seen her tried," said another petrie. "why shouldna i speak?" said marion, realising the impossibility of getting away. "except that--it's no' a thing to speak about--here. what i mean is this. but yet if she were to give her whole heart to any one--he would be the right one--even if--but she would never care for one who was not worthy. now let me go." "yes--certainly. well?" marion had made up her mind to say no more. but when grace petrie, tossing her head and laughing, said that she could guess who the exception might be, she changed her mind again. "well!" said hugh, drawing still near as she receded. "`except, perhaps,' whom?" "i except no one that ever i saw, for there is no one that ever i saw who, in all things--in mind, body, and estate, as you say--i would think fit for miss dawson. but what i was going to say was--except, perhaps-- george--only he is her brother, ye ken." "george!" echoed, many voices. "and what's george more than another?" asked jack scornfully. "she'll be saying next, that there's naebody like _him_ in all scotland." and then marion, glancing up at the window beneath which they had been sitting, met the wondering look of mr dawson. "he must have heard every word," said grace in a whisper. marion turned and fled to seek comfort with miss jean. they went away to the castle, and miss dawson went with them; captain harefield came to the house soon after they set out, but he did not follow them, though mr dawson suggested that he might easily overtake them before they reached the place. it was mr dawson himself he had come to see; and when they all came back, and the young folk had had their tea and were gone home together in the moonlight, her father had something to say to jean. "it's a comfort that you can just leave it to jean herself," said his sister, when he told his news to her. of what her own opinion might be she said nothing, nor was she curious to hear what mr dawson might think now about the chance that his daughter had of becoming the wife of captain harefield. "it is a thing that she must decide for herself; and indeed she will let no one else decide it." there was a measure of comfort in that view of the matter. for though mr dawson was ambitious for his daughter, captain harefield as a man with expectations was by no means so interesting to him personally as he had been last year when he had none. he knew by jean's face at the first word spoken, that her aunt was right. "i gave him his answer last year," said she. "but it's no' an unheard of thing that a woman should change her mind," said her father dryly. "i have had no reason to change my mind, but many reasons against it. fancy my leaving you and george and the happy life we are just beginning, to go away with a stranger to folk that would look down on me, and think he had thrown himself away?" "i could make it worth their while to think otherwise." but jean shook her head. "last year you might, when he had nothing." "as for his friends--ye need ha'e little to do with them. i dare say none o' them can ha'e a higher sense o' their ain importance than his sister, mrs eastwood, and i think ye could hold your own with her." "if it were worth my while. but, papa--he is nothing in the world to me." "he is not a clever man, i ken that. but i like him. he is sweet tempered, and he is a gentleman, and he cares for you. and i think, with you to stand by him, he might be a good man and a useful." "but, papa--the weariness of it, even if i cared for him." "but that might come in time." "no, papa. i am not--going with him. he will find some one who will care for him, and who will fill the high position that he can give her better than i could do." in his heart the father did not believe that, but he only said,-- "very likely. you must please yourself i only wish you to ken your ain mind, and understand what you are refusing. he will be sir percy harefield, and there may come a time when you will regret your refusal." "i don't think it, papa." "as for not wishing to leave your brother and me--george will marry sometime, and then you will be but second with him, though he may be first with you." "of course he will marry, papa. and i will be `auntie jean' to his bairns. and i'll ay have you, papa." "but, jean, i want you to understand. when george marries it is my intention to give up saughleas to him. his wife will be mistress here then." he watched her face as he said this. she was not looking at him, but out at the window, standing in the full light. she turned to him with a smile like sunshine on her face. "then i could live with auntie jean when you didna need me any more. `the twa miss jean dawsons!' wouldna ye like that, auntie jean? but, papa," she added gravely, "it wouldna please george to hear you speak of giving up saughleas to him." "he need not hear it till the right time comes. there need be no haste. his choice will be the wiser the longer he waits, let us hope." "and you are not vexed with me, papa?" "so that you are sure o' yourself. that is the main thing. you might take longer time to think about it." "no, no. a longer time would make no difference. it would not be fair to captain harefield--and i am quite sure of myself." miss jean, as her manner was, had kept silence during the whole interview. "her time will come, i dare say, but she is fancy-free at present," said her father as jean left the room. "she has done wisely this time," said her aunt. "and it is well that she should wait till her time come." "that is well over," said jean to herself. "and i can wait--yes, though it be all my life--if so it must be." for jean had found herself out long before this time--before the "john seaton" had come home even. she knew that she "cared for" willie calderwood as she could care for no other man. and since that night when they had clasped hands and looked into each other's eyes she had not been ashamed of her love. for there had been more than the gladness of home coming in willie's eyes, his hand-clasp had told of more than friendship. true he had guarded eyes and hands and voice since then, and he might keep silence still for years--there was cause enough, jean acknowledged, remembering "bonny elsie." but he "cared for her," and she could wait. "patiently? yes, hopefully, joyfully," she had told herself often, and now she said it again as she sang softly to herself as she went about the house. but that night her brother came home with a sadder face than usual, for he had heard sad news, he said. willie calderwood had declined the command of the "john seaton." he was about to sail as second officer in one of the great ocean steamships. indeed he had already sailed, for his note to george was written at the last moment, he said; and he must cross the wide atlantic twice before she should see him again. "it is not so bad as a year's voyage to the north," she told herself. "portie is his home while his mother is here and marion." but he had spoken no word to her before he went, as he might have done, if he had been going away to the dangers of the arctic seas. that was the pain to her. but she comforted herself. though she knew his pride was strong, she thought that his love would prove stronger still, and he would speak when the right time came. but when willie had crossed the sea twice, and twice again, still he did not come to portie. he went instead to london, and there he fell in with an aunt of his father's who, in years long past, had been the wife of a london merchant, but who was a childless widow now. she had been left with a large house and a small income more than thirty years ago, when she was young and courageous, and she had put aside all the traditions of the class into which marriage had brought her, and had fallen back on the belief in which she had been brought up in her home in the north, that honest work honourably followed was a blessing to be thankful for, rather than a burden to be borne. so her head and her hands and her house were all put to use, and she had lived a busy and a happy life since then. but she was growing old now, and her heart longed for her own land and kindred, so when she saw willie, and heard of his mother who was a widow, and his young sister marion, she begged them to come to her for a while. it is doubtful whether mrs calderwood would have had the courage to accept the invitation, if the thought of leaving portie had not been already familiar to her; and it is equally doubtful whether she would have had the courage to go away, if this invitation had not come. it was for a visit that they were going, she said, but her house was given up, the few things which she valued and could not take with her, were safely put away in an empty room in miss jean's house. and no one knew when she might be expected in portie again. jean had not often seen mrs calderwood since the day she had gone to ask marion to visit her at the time her sister may was in london, but she saw her now in her aunt's house, where the last few days of the mother and daughter were passed, and though they both strove against it, there was a shadow of embarrassment between them. "we'll maybe see may in london, and we'll be sure to see you when you come to visit her there," marion said, including both george and jean in her words. "london is a large place, and mrs manners has her own friends," said mrs calderwood. "we shall find you out, never fear, and we winna forget you even if you should live in london all your life." marion laughed and then looked grave. "but that can never happen," said she. if jean was grave and silent for a while at this time, no one noticed it but her aunt, and she did not remark upon it. indeed she was grave and a little sad herself for she greatly missed both mother and daughter, who had been her dear friends and daily visitors for many a year, and she confessed to a strange feeling of loneliness in her house by the sea. jean came often to see her and so did george, but she seldom spoke about the calderwoods to either of them. now and then a letter came from marion to jean or to her aunt, but after the very first these letters said nothing about coming home to portie again. and jean waited. not unhappily. far from that, for her life was a busy one. she had much to do and much to enjoy in her father's house and beyond it. she strove to forget herself, and to remember others, and made no one anxious or curious because of her grave looks and her sadness. she just waited, telling herself that if so it must be, she would do as her aunt had done, and wait on till the end. chapter nineteen. george. they had three years and more without a break of the happy life to which jean had looked forward when her brother came home. the days seemed all alike in the quiet routine into which they fell; but no one wished for a change. if mr dawson had misgivings as to how his son, after his long wanderings round the world, would settle down into the man of business, intent chiefly on the work which the day brought to his hand, they were all put aside after a time. george fell into his place with an ease which indicated a natural aptitude for the kind of work expected from him; and during a slight but tedious illness, which kept his father a few weeks at home, george filled his place in the counting-house with a success which proved that in all but experience, he was fitted, and might be trusted to hold it to as good purpose as ever his father had done. he had the same clear head, and the same directness of purpose in his dealings with other men; and he had, what his father even in his youngest days had never had, the natural kindliness of heart and temper that won good-will without an effort. mr dawson had always been respected as an honest man,--a man of his word; but when their fellow townsmen discussed the father and son in their new relations, as they were not slow to do, it was said of george, that he was "a true gentleman"; and by this it was meant, that the temptations which his father, as a man of business had all his life successfully resisted, the son would never see as temptations at all. while those who came into business relations with him saw that he would probably be as successful in the making of money as his father had been; they also saw that he cared far less for it; and with better opportunities for knowing, they would also have seen that he spent a good deal of it in a manner, which, according to his father's judgment, would bring but poor returns. the poor folk of portie, the sailors' widows and orphans, and the "puir auld wivies" of the town, knew about it, though even they oftener saw miss jean's hand in the help that came from him, than his own. "ane o' miss jean's folk," they called him, and so he was, in that he served the same master, and loved the service. but he did not offend nor grieve his father by openly casting in his lot with these people as his aunt had done. there was not the same need. miss jean had found in communion with the despised little flock in stott's lane, the help and comfort which she had failed to find in the kirk of her fathers. but times had changed since then. in the kirk of their fathers in portie as well as elsewhere there was found in george's day the personal consecration, the fervour of love, the earnestness of service, which in the old days had made the folk of stott's lane "a peculiar people." george was content to remain with them, and his aunt had no desire that he should do otherwise. and then he went quietly on his way, unconscious that the eyes of all portie were upon him; not just watching for his halting, yet with a certain movement of expectation to see him fall into his old light-hearted, careless ways again. he did not begin his new life among them with any definite plan of work. he had no such faith in his own strength or wisdom as to make him hopeful as to what he might do for any one. but this work came to him, as in one way or another work will come to all who wish to serve. it came to him out of the every-day work of his life, which brought him into contact with ships and sailors, either setting sail, or coming home after a voyage. he sent away those who were going with a friendly "god speed," and met those who returned with a kindly greeting, and was frank and sympathetic with all, because it was his nature to be so; and the men liked him as every body who came near him had liked him all his life. and his sympathy and their liking opened the way for the help which he could give, and which some of these poor fellows needed badly enough. by and by he found himself in the midst of work which had come to his hands he scarcely could have told how;--certainly not from any impelling sense of the duty which he owed to this class of his townsmen, and not consciously from any thought of the service that he owed them for his master's sake. one needed his help, and another, and he gave it gladly, taking pleasure in it, and before he knew it, his hands and his heart were full. it was in one way humble work enough that he did--speaking a word of caution to one, laying a restraining hand on another, guiding another past an evident danger, helping another firmly to withstand the temptation of strong drink, too often the sailor's strongest and wiliest foe. all this led him at times into dark places, and queer companionships, where was needed a strong arm as well as a cool head and a persuasive tongue. for "poor jack," just off a long voyage with money in his pockets, was considered fair game in portie as in other places; and even in portie, where dark deeds could not be easily hidden, dark deeds were sometimes done. though the influence of the respectable part of the community could be brought to bear more readily and directly on the doers of such deeds, than could be the case in larger places, yet direct interference, either to prevent or to punish, was not always effectual. "poor jack" himself was often as eager as his enemy to resent and resist such interference, and those who ventured upon it, sometimes fared ill between them. to these poor fellows george gave both time and interest, and not in vain. in all his dealings with them they were made to feel that it was not a sense of duty merely, that brought him near them. he understood them, and liked them and their ways, and was their friend. they believed in him, and did, to please him, what they would hardly have been brought to do from higher motives. after a time they trusted him entirely, as well they might. he loved them. there was nothing that he would not do to help them--few things that he did not do for some of them. in the many ways which genuine personal interest can devise, he befriended them and theirs. in sickness he helped them by helping those to whom they belonged--which was well, and he put his own hands on them, which was better,--putting his strength to gentle uses: soothing, restraining, comforting them, as he never could have done if he had not loved them, and if they had not had confidence in his love. and because he loved them, they were not unwilling to listen to him when he told them of a "greater love," the love of one who grudged not to give his life for their sakes. he never told it in many words, and he did not for a good while try to tell it to any but the sick and the suffering, as he got a chance for a word with them one by one. but later, when there were occasions, now and then, for sharp though kindly words of rebuke where numbers had gathered, words of gentleness were sure to follow about the love that could keep them in all straits from yielding unworthily to wrong-doing. and if such occasions grew more frequent as time went on, it was because of no plan or intention of his. little of all this was known in portie, except among the men themselves and their families, and among the ill-doing folk who would fain have made gain of their folly; but the result was visible enough in the better lives of some and added comfort of many a home in the place. but to no one did george's work do more good than to himself. it gave him an interest in life which business, engaged in conscientiously for the sake of pleasing his father and making up to him for the disappointment which the last few years of his life had caused, could never have supplied. it did more to establish him permanently in portie, and to make him content there, than did the partnership into which during the second year he entered with his father. he grew more like his old self, his father said to miss jean, giving the new partnership, and the increased interest and responsibility which it implied the credit for it. in miss jean's eyes, he was as little like the wilful lad who had given cause for many anxious thoughts in the old days, as could well be, except that he had the same sunny temper and the same winning ways, and was well-beloved as he had been in his most foolish days. now he was a man to be trusted as well as loved. he was a graver man than he might ever have become without the discipline of sorrow through which he had passed, and the remorseful memory of the worse than wasted years that followed; but his "trouble," as the suffering and sinning of those years were vaguely called, had not harmed him. at least good had come out of it all. he was grave, but he was not gloomy; and though he availed himself less than pleased his father of the opportunities given for mingling in such society as portie and its neighbourhood afforded, he made home a different place to them all. these were happy days to jean. between her and her brother, as to all that filled his life and made the future hopeful, there was perfect confidence and sympathy. she helped him in his work among the sailors and their wives and families, and among the fishers of the neighbourhood, by doing many things that only a woman's tact and skill and will could do, and she helped him even more by the eager sympathy with which she listened and advised when she could not put her own hand to the work. they were true friends as well as loving brother and sister, and as time went on, their father began to fear that they might grow too well content with each other and the life they were living, and so fail of the higher happiness which he coveted for them, and which was the right of such as they. "there is time enough," said miss jean comforting him. "yes. he is young, and he will surely forget," said his father. "and as for jean, she is fancy-free." to this miss jean made no reply. she was not sure of either the one thing or the other. but she saw that the brother and sister seemed content, and that they were doing willingly and effectively the work that fell to their hands, and in her esteem life had nothing better to give than this. "all that you wish for them may come in the natural course of things, but ye must have patience and no' try to force it," said miss jean. "and in the mean time, ye ha'e ay one o' may's bonny boys to fall back upon for saughleas, if that is what is in your mind." for they had lately heard of the birth of mrs manners' second son, and much rejoicing had it caused. "i wonder ye're no' thinkin' o' going south to see your new grandson. the change would do you good, and it would be a great pleasure to may." "there is nothing to hinder, if jean will go with me." but there was much to hinder jean it seemed. may had better nursing than she could give her, and she would much rather make her visit when her sister should be well and strong and able to go about with her. and then george had been promising to take her to paris and perhaps farther, later in the summer, and they could visit may at the same time. besides--she told her father privately she would not go away and leave her aunt so long alone just at present, for she was never strong in the spring; and her father could urge her no longer. jean had another reason, of which she could speak to no one, why she did not wish to leave portie at this time. she had heard from one of the young petries of the hope they had of a visit from marion calderwood and her brother, and jean would not leave home and lose the chance of seeing them. willie calderwood had never been in portie again, and jean had never seen him, since he left it on the morning of her sister's marriage day, and that was a long time now. she had waited patiently, but she longed for the time of waiting to be over. she knew now how well she loved him, and in her heart she believed that he loved her as well. he had never spoken, he might never speak; but whether he spoke or not, she had a longing unspeakable, just to see his face and touch his hand again. she had been quite happy during these two years, she told herself; but her heart sprang gladly up at the thought that her time of waiting might be nearly over. she had never spoken his name even to her brother, and he had been as silent to her, but she sometimes thought that george knew how they cared for one another, and that he kept silence because he knew it would not be well to speak. but all the same, jean would not lose the chance of seeing willie again. so, after some consideration, mr dawson set off alone. he reached london late at night and did not go to his daughter's house until the morning. she lived in a pleasant part of a pleasant suburb, in a little house which stood in the midst of a tiny garden, which was enclosed within high walls. they had removed to it recently, and mr dawson had never seen it before. it was a very pretty place, he thought as he entered--a little confined perhaps, for the high walls were not very far apart--a little like a prison, he could not but fancy, as the gate was locked behind him. mr manners had already gone out for the day, the neat little maid told him, and mrs manners was not down yet, but she would be down presently. she was well and so was baby. but he was not left alone long, and then he had another greeting. he thought for a moment that it was may who came toward him with outstretched hand. it was not may. it was a tall, slender, dark-eyed girl with a blooming face in which there was something familiar. he knew who it was as soon as he heard her voice. "didna jean come with you?" a shadow fell on the bright face at his answer. but it passed in a minute. "it is good to see a `kenned face' again. mrs manners is very well, and so is baby--such a darling! mrs manners is coming down-stairs to-day for the first time. she will be down soon," added the girl more sedately, as if she had got a little check. she was thinking of the time when she stood before mr dawson with the broken branch of the apple-tree in her hand, and oddly enough, so was he. but the sight of marion calderwood stirred no angry feelings now. that was all past. the ill that had come to his son through elsie calderwood had been changed to good. the sudden glad remembrance of the son he had left at home--a man strong, earnest, good--softened his heart and his voice as he looked on the girl's wistful face, and he smiled kindly as he said,-- "england seems to agree with you, my lassie." marion shook her head. "but it is no' home," said she. "i like portie best." then she took courage to ask him about the place, and about the folk in it, and the changes that had taken place since she left. trifling questions some of them were, but they were asked so eagerly, and the answers were listened to with such interest, that he could not but take pleasure in it. nobody was forgotten. from miss jean herself to poor old mrs cairnie, every body in portie seemed to be a friend of hers, and all that concerned them of the deepest interest to her. mr dawson had difficulty in recalling some of the folk she asked about. "ye should come back and renew acquaintance with them all." "oh! wouldna i like it! and maybe i may--some day. we thought miss dawson was coming with you," said marion with a little change of face and voice! "jean? yes, i thought that too; but she had some good reasons of her own for staying at home. her aunt is not just so strong as she might be, and she didna like to leave her. she'll come soon, however. she is a friend of yours, it seems." "she was ay good to me," said marion softly, and there was nothing more said for a while. "but what have i been thinking about all this time?" said marion suddenly. she left the room and returned almost immediately with a child in her arms--may's eldest, a beautiful but rather delicate looking boy of a little more than a year old. "this is george dawson--the precious darling. he is just a little shy at first, but he is not going to be shy with his own grandpapa, is he, my pet, my darling, my bonny boy?" and she fell into a soft babble of fond words, which would have had no meaning to an indifferent listener, but the grandfather listened, well pleased. the "bonny boy" showed his shyness by clinging to his nurse, but he looked at his grandfather bravely enough, and did not resent the cautious advances made to him. he was persuaded to show all his pretty tricks of action and speech, and smiled, and cooed, and murmured his baby words; and it would not have been easy to say whether his nurse or his grandfather was most delighted at the success of the introduction. "and now," said marion, "i think we may tell grandpapa our secret. and it will not be long a secret now, will it, my bonny boy? for mamma is coming down to-day, and all the world must know." then setting the child safely in a corner, she moved a step or two away, and held out her arms. then there were more sweet foolish words, and then the venture was made, and two or three uncertain steps taken, and the little hero was safe again in her arms. again and again, with a skill and courage that increased as the distance was lengthened, the journey was made in triumph. then marion knelt down, and steadying the child before her, said softly and firmly,-- "now go to grandpapa." and forgetting his shyness in the glory of success, away he went with eager, faltering steps, and sprang joyfully into the old man's arms. the door had opened softly and the young mother, pale but smiling, stood on the threshold seeing it all. as the child turned she stooped and held out her arms, and again he crossed the space between them with quick, uncertain steps; and may kissed her father with her child in her arms. then, after a whispered word, marion went out and returned in a little carrying a tiny bundle with trailing white robes, and presented to mr dawson another grandson. if she had been at all afraid of him at first, her fear had not outlasted the play with the child, and mrs manners saw with mingled surprise and amusement the good understanding between them, and the interest her father allowed to appear in the pretty ways and pleasant words of the girl whom in the old days they had found it best to keep a little out of his sight. he listened to their lamentations about jean's not coming patiently, and answered with a good grace, more questions in ten minutes than ever she had ventured to put to him in as many days. "she has wonderfully improved since she left portie," said he, when marion had carried away the baby again. "she was ay a bonny lassie," said may. she was not going to put him on his guard against the fascinations of her friend by praising her too earnestly. "i like her to be here with me when i cannot go out. she is very nice with georgie." that was all she said to him, but she told her husband that night, that marion, with the help of the "bonny boy," had made a conquest of her father. chapter twenty. marion. that was but the beginning. mr dawson might have had a dull time for the next few days, since mr manners was more than usually engaged, and mrs manners was not permitted to come down-stairs very early. but he did not. there was the boy, and there was marion, ready to show one another off to the best advantage for his admiration and amusement. and when the boy was carried away by his nurse, marion still considered herself responsible for the entertainment of the old gentleman of whom, since he had showed himself inclined to unbend, she had ceased to be afraid. she read to him, she sang to him, she talked to him about many things-- about the leaders in the _times_, the fishing interests, the prospects of a good harvest. and when other subjects failed there was always portie to fall back upon. her interest in all that pertained to her old home and its inhabitants was inexhaustible. "oh! we are never at a loss," she told mrs manners, when she asked her how they had got through the day. it might have come to that, however, if mrs manners had not judiciously suggested a change. when one morning mr dawson said he must go into the city, his daughter suggested that business and pleasure might be united for once, and he might take marion. his business took him to the bank of england, and there marion found her pleasure. for he took her through all that wonderful place and showed her what was to be seen, to her great delight. then they threaded their way through the crowds of cheapside, and came to the great cathedral which hitherto marion had only seen in the distance. it was almost too much in one day, she thought, the bank of england and saint paul's. but did she not enjoy it? they only meant to go in to rest for a minute, but hours passed before they came out again. then mr dawson took her to lunch at a curious little place near ludgate hill, and then they moved through crowds again along fleet street till they came to temple bar and turned into the temple. oh! the peace and quiet of the place, after the jostling and noise and confusion of the great thoroughfare! marion fancied herself walking in a dream, as they wandered through the silent courts, and listened to the soft "plash, plash" of the fountain, and then sat down to rest under the trees of the garden. a score of names famous in history and fiction rose to her lips. they had not said much to one another all the morning. marion had said only a word now and then in her delight at the wonderful things she saw, but as they sat a while to rest and catch the cool air blowing from the river before they set out for home, her lips were opened, and she talked a good deal more than she would have been likely to do to mr dawson, or any one else, in other circumstances. foolish talk some of it was, about unreal folk who will still live forever because of the genius that called them into being. unknown names most of them were to her listener; and in another mood and place, he might have called it all folly or worse. but he listened now with the pleased interest that one gives to the fancies of a child. and all she said was not foolish, he acknowledged as she went on. there were little words now and then, clear and keen and wise, which pleased him well. but nothing that was seen or said that day pleased him so much as this. "you have made a day of it together," said mrs manners laughing, as she met them at the door. "you must be tired enough by this time." "yes, i am tired. and no wonder. i think i never had so much pleasure in one day in all my life before." she did not say it to him. he only heard it by chance as she passed up the stairs. but he said to himself that there should be more such days for one so easily pleased before he left london. and so there were. they saw together pictures and people, parks and gardens. they went to richmond and kew and hampton court, and to more places besides. mrs manners went with them sometimes, but their energy and interest were too much for her, and usually she let them go without her. and mr dawson was fain to acknowledge to himself that he had a share in the pleasure which he meant to give "the blithe and bonny lassie" at such times. she was "blithe and bonny" at all times, but when he saw her, as often happened, moving about among the guests that sometimes filled his daughter's pretty rooms, none more admired and none more worthy of admiration than she, he owned that she was more than that. they were not just well-dressed, well-mannered nobodies that mrs manners entertained. many of them were men and women who had been heard of in the world for their worth or their wisdom, or for good work of one kind or another done by them. and this blithe and bonny lassie, who enjoyed her play with the child and her sight-seeing with the old man, was not out of place among them. she was young and a little shy of folk that seemed great folk to her, and she was very quiet and silent among them. but many eyes followed her with delight as she moved up and down among them in her pretty evening dress; and she had words of wisdom spoken to her now and then as well as the rest, and she could answer them too, on occasion, as he did not fail to see. she sang too, not only the old songs that delighted him, but grand, grave music, to which they listened who were far wiser about such things than he. she was a wonder to him at such times, but in the morning she was just as usual, "bonny and blithe" and easily pleased. "ye mind me whiles of our jean," said he to her one day, and he could not but wonder at the sudden brightness that flashed over her face at the words. mrs manners laughed. "that is the very utmost that can be said, papa. you cannot go beyond that. there is no one like. jean in. marion's eyes." "am i like her? maybe i may grow like her, sometime," said the girl softly. all this time may had been keeping a wise silence with regard to her friend. she believed that he would see all that was good and pleasant in her all the more readily that they were not pointed out to him; and so it proved. the days passed quickly and happily and came to an end too soon. all this time mrs calderwood had been at the seaside with her old friend, who had needed the change, and when they returned marion was called home. she was glad to go home, but at the same time she acknowledged herself sorry to leave. "for i think i never had so much pleasure all my life before. only i am afraid my mother will think i cannot have been much comfort to you." "she will be quite mistaken then," said mrs manners laughing and kissing her. "you have been a great comfort to me." a great surprise awaited marion when she reached home. she found her mother pondering gravely over a letter which she held in her hand, and the shadow of care did not--as it ought to have done--pass from her face as her daughter came in. it deepened rather; and in her pre-occupation she almost forgot to return the girl's greeting. "is any thing wrong, mother? is it willie?" "no, no. it is a letter i have gotten from miss jean." she spoke with hesitation. marion looked wistfully at the familiar handwriting of her old friend. "miss jean asks you to visit her in portie. it seems her nephew and niece are thinking of a journey, but miss dawson doubts about leaving her aunt, who is not strong. miss jean thinks she would go if you would promise to go and stay with her a while." "oh! mother! i should so like it." marion held out her hand for the letter, but her mother did not offer it to her; she read bits of it here and there instead. "`i have said nothing about it to jean, and shall not till i hear from you. they would likely set off at once if you would promise to let marion come to me, and that would please you, though--' "`if you decide to let her come, she might travel here with young mr petrie, who, i hear, is soon to be in london. though i think myself it might be better for her to come at once, in the company of my brother, who will not likely stay much longer.'" "oh, mother! i should so like to go. and is that all that miss jean says?" "all she says about your visit." "you don't wish me to go. why, mother? it is nae surely that you canna trust me so far away? i am not more foolish than other girls, am i?" mrs calderwood looked at her a moment as though she did not understand what she was saying. then she laughed and kissed her. "nonsense! dear. you are a sensible lassie and discreet. i would be sorry to disappoint miss jean, though she has friends enough in portie one would think. but it is the first favour she has ever asked of me, and many a one she has done me." "but, mother, i think this is a favour to us--to me at least. oh! it seems too good to be true." "well, we will think about it." "and, mother, if i should go, i would like--wouldn't you? rather to go with mr dawson than with james petrie." her mother's face clouded again. "what ails you at young mr petrie?" marion shrugged her shoulders. "oh! nothing. only i like mr dawson better--better than i could have believed possible. he has been very good to me. i haven't told you yet. mother, i think he must have grown a better man since george came home." her mother said nothing. she did not think well of mr dawson. she did not wish to think well of him. when she had heard from marion that he had come to his daughter's house, her first impulse was to recall her at once. the impossibility of leaving her old friend, or of permitting marion to travel alone, prevented her from acting on her first impulse, and when she had time to consider the matter, she saw that it would be better for her to remain. it was not likely that mr dawson would see much of her, and whatever he might feel, he would not do otherwise than treat politely his daughter's guest. that he should "begood to her," that he should put himself about, as she knew he must have done, to give her pleasure surprised her, but it did not please her. she had forgiven him, she told herself. at least she bore him no ill-will for the share he and his had had in the trouble of her life, but she wished to have nothing at all to do with him, either as friend or foe. but miss jean's friendship was quite apart from all this. it had been a refuge to her in times of trouble long before she lost her elsie, and this invitation was but another proof of her friendship, and she would let her daughter go. as for her escort--mrs calderwood was as averse to accepting james petrie as such, as her daughter was, though from a different reason. but she was equally averse to any appearance of presuming on the kindness of mr dawson. fortunately the matter was taken out of her hands. mrs manners came the next day empowered to plead that miss jean's invitation should be accepted, and when she found that this was not necessary, she found courage to propose that instead of waiting for any one, marion should hasten her preparations and go on at once with her father. trouble! what possible trouble could it be for her father to sit in the same railway carriage with the child? as for jamie petrie--it was easy seen what he was after. but it would be quite too great a grace to grant him at this early stage of--of his plans and projects. oh! yes. of course it was all nonsense, but then-- but the nonsense helped to bring mrs calderwood to consent that marion should go at once. and so it was arranged. it would have pleased mr dawson to take marion with him to saughleas, but this she modestly but firmly declined, because her mother expected her to go at once to miss jean's house by the sea, and there she was kindly welcomed. it was like getting home again, she said. the sound of the sea soothed her to sleep, and it woke her in the morning with a voice as familiar as if she had never been away. she was out, and away over the sands to the tangle stanes, and had renewed acquaintance with half the bairns in portie, before miss jean was ready for her breakfast. the bairns had all grown big, and the streets and lanes, the houses and shops, had all grown narrow and small, she thought. but the sea had not changed, nor the sands, nor the far-away hills, nor the sky--which was, oh! so different from the sky in london. marion had not changed much, her friends thought. some of them said she was bigger and bonnier, but she was blithe and friendly and "a'e fauld" still--and london hadna spoiled her as it might very easily have done. at any rate she meant to enjoy every hour of her stay, and that was the way she began. she did not miss jean either, for george had been called away on business for a few days and when he returned they were to set out on their travels. during these few days marion saw much of her friend. jean was graver than she used to be, marion thought; but she was kind and friendly, and could be merry too, on occasion. they had much to say to one another, and they spent hours together in the old familiar places, in the wood and on the rocks by the sea, and heard one another's "secrets," which were only secrets in the sense that neither of them would have been likely to tell them to any one else. marion told her friend all that she had been seeing and doing and reading, and some things that she had been hoping, since she went away, and jean did little more. she told what her brother was doing and the help she tried to give him, and she told of the life that seemed to be opening before them. not such a life as they used to plan and dream about for themselves, when they were young; a quiet, uneventful, busy-life, just like the lives of other people. judging from the look on jean's face it did not seem a very joyful life to look forward to. marion regarded her friend with wistful eyes. "no. it will never be that, i am sure--just like the lives of other people, i mean." "and why not? well, perhaps not altogether. it will be an easier life than the lives of most people, i suppose. it will not just be a struggle for bread, as it is for so many. and we can do something for others who need help, and we need not be tied to one place every day of the year, as most folk are. and by and by we will be `looked up to,' and our advice will be asked, and folk will say of us, as they say of my father, that `they are much respeckit in the countryside.' and by that time i shall be `auld miss jean,' and near done with it all. but it is a long look till then." "but it may be all quite different from that. many a thing may happen to change it all." "oh! many things will happen, as you say. may and her bairns will be coming and going, and the bairns will fit into the places that the years will leave empty, and george will need a staff like my father, and i will grow `frail' like auntie jean, and sit waiting and looking at the sea. and ye needna sit lookin' at me with such pitiful e'en, for who is waiting so happily as she? and yet who will be so glad to go when her time shall come?" marion said nothing, but turned her eyes seaward with a grave face. jean went on. "yes, many things will happen, but it will be just the same thing over again. the ships will sail away, and there will be long waiting, and some of them will come home, and some will never come, and the pain will be as hard to bear as if it had never come to many a sore heart before. and some folk will be glad, and some will be at least content, and some will make mistakes and spoil their lives and then just wait on to the end. marion, what are you thinking about?" "i'm wondering if it is really you who are saying all that. and i am thinking that is not the way miss jean would speak." "oh! miss jean! no, she has won safely past all that. but once, long ago, before she had learned the secret of peaceful and patient waiting, she might have been afraid of the days. come, it is growing cold. let us go on." they rose from the tangle stanes where they had been sitting and moved away, and jean said,-- "and as for you--are you sure it is to be the grand school after all? well, you will come back when the heat and burden of the day is over to take your rest in portie. and you will be a stately old lady, a little worn and sharp perhaps, as is the fate of schoolmistresses; but with fine manners, and wisdom enough for us all. and the new generation of petries will admire you and make much of you--not quite as the petries of the present day would like to do," said jean laughing. "and behold! there is master jamie coming on at a great pace. shall we let him overtake us? or shall we go in and see poor old tibbie and let him pass by?" they were on their way to saughleas, where marion was to pay her first visit. miss jean had gone on already in the pony carriage, but the girls were walking round by the shore. there was no reason why marion should wish to avoid mr james petrie, except that she wished no one's company when she had jean's, but she was quite willing to go into mrs cairnie's house where she had been several times already. it was a different looking place from the house to which miss jean had taken mrs eastwood long ago. mrs cairnie's daughter annie had returned and was going to remain, and the place was "weel redd up," and indeed as pleasant a dwelling, of its kind, as one would wish to see. poor old tibbie had lately met with a sad mishap, which threatened to put an end to her wanderings, and keep her a prisoner at home for some time to come. annie had come home to care for her, with the design of earning the bread of both, by making gowns and bonnets for such of the sailors' wives and fisher folk, as were not equal to the making their sunday best for themselves. but a different lot awaited her. she had gone away with the english lady "to better herself," it was said; but that was only half the reason of her going. she went because she feared to be beguiled into marrying a man whom she loved, but whom she could not respect, because of his enslavement to one besetting sin. the love of strong drink had brought misery to her home, since ever she could remember. it had driven her brothers away from it and had caused her father's death and her mother's widowhood, and she shrank with terror from the thought of living such a life as her mother had lived. when her lover entreated her, saying, that being his wife she might save him from his sin, she did not believe it; but she knew that in her love and her weakness she might yield her will to his, and lose herself without saving him. so she went away with a sore heart, and when her mother's accident had made it necessary for her to come home again, she hardly could tell whether she was glad or sorry to come. and the first "kenned face" she saw as she drew near home was the face of her lover. he did not see her. he had stepped from another carriage of the train, into the little station a few miles from portie. young george dawson's hand rested on his shoulder, for the single minute that he stood there, a very different looking person from the wild lad she had left years ago. "yon's young saughleas," she heard one fellow-traveller say to another. "and yon's tam saugster. he's hame again, it seems." "i ha'e heard that he has gathered himsel' up wonderfu' this while back. he is a fine sailor-like lad." "ay. he's his ain man now. and he'll be skipper o' the `john seaton' before she sails again if young george dawson gets his way, and they say he gets it in most things with his father." then annie saw the sailor spring back into the carriage again as the signal was given, and she got a glimpse of george dawson's kindly face as they passed, and then she saw nothing for a while for the rush of tears which she had much ado to hide. "the skipper o' the `john seaton'! ah! weel, he has forgotten me lang syne, but that is little matter since he has found himsel'." but tam had not forgotten her, and whatever he might have done at the time, he did not now resent her refusal to take as her master one who could not master himself. that very night as she sat in the gloaming listening to her mother's fretful complaints, and taking counsel with herself as to how they were to live in the coming days, a familiar step came to the door, and tam lifted the latch and came in without waiting to be bidden. all the rest was natural enough and easy. the next time tam sailed he was to sail as master of the "john seaton," and he was to sail a married man, he said firmly, and what could annie do but yield and begin her preparations forthwith. the cottage in which mrs cairnie had hitherto had but a room, was taken, and tam set himself to making it worthy to be the home of the woman he loved. and a neat and pleasant place it looked when jean and marion went in that day. into the pretty parlour the bride that was to be looked shyly, scarcely venturing to follow them. it was marion who displayed to jean the various pretty and useful things already gathered. on the mantel-piece was a handsome clock, and over it the picture of a ship with all her canvas spread, sailing over smooth seas, in the full light of the sun of an arctic summer day. there was a low rocky shore in sight, and the gleam of icy peaks in the distance; but the ship with the sunshine on the spreading sails was the point of interest in the picture--and a pleasant picture it was for the eyes of a sailor's wife to rest upon. they were both mr george dawson's gift to the bride, marion told jean. jean nodded and smiled. "yes, i know," said she. "miss dawson," said annie taking one step over the threshold where she had been standing all the time. "it is all your brother's work, and you must let me say to you what i canna say to him. though he had done no more good in the world, it was worth his while to live, to help in the saving such a lad as tam saugster." "they helped one another," said jean softly. "ay. that i can easily believe. there are few men like tam when ance ye ken him." "and jean thinks there are few like george," said marion smiling, as they came away. "and isna that what you think of your brother?" said jean. "oh! yes; and with good reason," marion said; and the rest of their talk was of their brothers, till they came to the gate of saughleas. chapter twenty one. a meeting. mr dawson and miss jean were sitting on the terrace by the parlour window as they went in. jean knew by many signs that her father and marion had come to be very good friends, and she was prepared to see him give her a warm and kindly welcome. but she was a little surprised at the ease and pleasure with which marion met him. she did not turn away after a shy brief greeting, as the young people who came there were rather apt to do, but smiled brightly and answered merrily when he asked her whether she had enjoyed all that she had expected to enjoy when she came to portie. and then she sat down on the grass at miss jean's feet, and looked round with a sigh of satisfaction at "the bonny place." "what kept you on the way?" asked miss jean. "oh! we came round by the shore," said her niece, "and we sat a while at the tangle stanes, and then we went in to see mrs cairnie--and by the by--we didna see her after all." "she was sleeping," said marion. "and we were admiring the fine things that captain saugster has been gathering for his bride," said jean. "that would hardly have kept you long," said mr dawson. "a few chairs and a table, and a bed and blankets, and some dishes." "but we saw more than that; didna we, marion?" "yes. even annie herself wasna thinking of chairs and tables and dishes. it was of the new home that is to be there, we were thinking, and it never might have been, if--jean, tell them what annie said." "tell it yourself," said jean. "i canna just mind all," said marion with hesitation. "but it was to mr george dawson that they owed it all--their happiness, i mean--and that it was a grand thing to have a hand in saving such a lad as tam." "she thinks muckle o' tam, it seems," said mr dawson laughing. "and he is a good sailor, if he can only keep hold o' himsel' where the drink is concerned." "his master will keep hold of him, i trust," said miss jean. "and is he to sail the `john seaton,' papa?" asked jean. "that is what george says. there is a risk, but we'll take it, and tam will be none the less safe for the responsibility, let us hope." "annie is proud and glad, and so are all the saugsters," said marion. "but the proudest and gladdest of all must be--george." "ay, even the angels are glad over a sinner repenting," said miss jean. mr dawson looked from one to the other. "saved, is he! and george did it? but tam has hardly been tried yet." "oh! yes. he is surely to be trusted now. three whole years since he has touched a glass. yes, nearly three years annie told me once--and i think she wouldna be vexed at my telling you, because--george belongs to you," said marion, turning a soft bright glance on mr dawson. she rose in her eagerness, and stood before them, and with softened voice and changing colour told the story of one dark night on board the "john seaton," when some kind word of george's had touched a sore spot in poor tam saugster's remorseful heart, and had opened his lips to utter all his shame and sorrow over a life worse than wasted. the very first thought of hope that had come to tam since annie forsook him, came when george laughed at him for saying that his life was nearly over. he was but a lad yet, and his life was before him, and the way was to let the past be past, and begin again with better help than he had asked for yet. and tam was not ashamed to say that his tears had fallen fast into the sea as he listened, and if he had been his own brother, george could not have been more patient with him, or have done more for him than he had done. "and i think," added marion, turning her shining eyes on the old man, "that george must be even happier than his friend." she paused suddenly, turning a startled look to miss jean, who had gently touched her hand. jean was looking at her father with a smile upon her lips, but he was looking away to the sea. "shouldna i have said it? was it wrong? tell me what you are thinking about, miss jean," said marion in dismay. "i'm thinking the wind has been making free with your hair, my lassie, and it is near tea-time." jean kissed her laughing. "come with me and put your hair in order, as auntie says. no, never mind. there is nothing to look grave about. it was only that my aunt was surprised to hear any body say so many words to my father, and about george too. oh! yes, he liked it, you may be sure. i'm glad that he heard it anyway." "but i'm afraid that miss jean must have thought me--forward," said marion, hesitating over the hateful word. "nonsense, you are not a child any longer. and she was as well pleased as i am that my father should hear it all." it was mr dawson who broke the silence that fell on them when the girls went away. "she is an outspoken lassie yon." "ye canna judge her as ye might any o' the common sort," said miss jean shortly. "i'm no' seeking to judge her. she seems a nice lassie enough. i like her frank, free way." "she's but a bairn--though she is the height of our jean, and coming on to womanhood," said miss jean with a sigh. "ay. she is a weel grown lassie," said mr dawson, rising, and then he went away and moved up and down the walks, pausing at shrub or tree, or flower bed, as his manner was when he was at leisure, and he only returned in time to give miss jean his arm when they were called into the house. that evening they were so fortunate as to have the company of james petrie and his sisters, and several other young people, among whom was mr charles scott, to whom the eldest miss petrie was engaged. the young people enjoyed themselves, but marion was not able to forget the touch of miss jean's fingers upon her arm, and she was rather grave and silent, the others thought. they had music, in which she took her part, singing a song or two, and then miss petrie played her masterpiece, a very grand piece indeed, in the midst of which mr dawson went out to the little gate to wait for his son. he had gone there many times since that first night of his son's coming home. he did not always wait till he came in sight. he moved away sometimes, as his footsteps drew near, slow to acknowledge to himself, or to let his son see how much his home coming meant to him. but to-night he waited. "there are young folk at the house to-night," said he, as though giving a reason for being in the garden at that hour. "the petries are there, and young scott, who seems to be one of them. and your aunt is over and her visitor. will you go and see them?" "oh! yes, surely; only i would need to go upstairs first. jamie petrie! what brings him here? i thought that was over," said george with a laugh. "is it jean you mean?" said mr dawson gravely. "but it's no' jean the nicht." very evidently it was not jean, mr dawson thought when he went in again. young mr petrie had eyes for only one, and that was marion, who, sitting at miss jean's side, seemed busy with a piece of worsted work. mr petrie was talking eagerly and confidentially, as though he had a right as well as a pleasure in doing so. "he has put jean out of his head soon enough," said mr dawson to himself, by way of accounting for the uncomfortable feeling of which he was conscious at the sight. "are we to have no more music? will you not give us another song, miss petrie?" said he. certainly miss petrie would give him more than one, but marion calderwood must come with her--not to sing, but to turn her music for her, a task to which mr scott was not quite equal. and so it happened that marion was standing gravely at her side, in the full light of the lamp, when george came to the door of the room. he stood for a moment, with his eyes, full of wonder and pain, on the fair thoughtful face of the girl, and his father saw him grow white as he gazed. "he hasna forgotten," thought he with a sudden, sharp pang of regret and anger. would the memory of the dead girl ever stand between him and his son? he had not thought marion like her sister; but as he saw her now, standing so still with a face of unwonted gravity, there came a vivid remembrance of the young girl who in his hearing had said so quietly and firmly to her mother,-- "he will never forget me, and i will never give him up." "she should never have been brought here. what could jean have been thinking about? what could i have been thinking about myself?" when he looked again george was gone. when, however, he came into the dining-room, where they were all assembled later, he appeared just as usual, and greeted the young people merrily enough. but mr dawson forgot to notice him particularly, so startled was he by the sudden brightness of marion's face at the sight of him. george did not see her at first--at least he did not seem to see her, and she stood beside miss jean's chair, her smile growing a little wistful as she waited for his coming. miss jean looked grave as she watched her. "george," said his sister, laying her hand on marion's and drawing her forward, "george, who is this? have you forgotten our wee maysie?" no, that was not likely, he said; but he could scarcely have been more ceremoniously polite in his greeting had she been a strange young lady from london, and not the marion whom he had petted and played with as a child. he lingered a moment beside her, asking about her mother, and if there had been any news from her brother, and then he went to his place at the table, and made himself busy with his duty there. something was said about the anticipated trip to the continent, and the time of setting out george had intended to leave at once if his sister were ready, but he found he must stay in portie a few days longer. "but next week, jean, we must go, or give it up altogether." "the sooner you go now, the better, or the best season will be over," said mr petrie. "oh! as to that, any season is good for what we mean to do." "still, the sooner the better. could not i do what would be necessary to let you go at once?" said his father. george laughed and shook his head. "i am afraid not. it seems i stand pledged to be best man at captain saugster's marriage, and he has no idea of putting off the happy day for a month or more--since his time may be short. so he is to hasten it on instead, and i must wait and see him through it." "that will hardly be fair on annie," said miss jean. "oh! she is ready, i dare say; and she can finish her preparations afterwards," said miss petrie. "and it is to be very quiet. indeed, hardly a wedding at all in the usual sense," said george. "but that is rather mean of tam, i think," said mr petrie. "he ought to give a dance on board the `john seaton,' if he is to have the command of her." his sisters were charmed with the idea. and would not mr george put the thought into tam's head? "the `john seaton' is not in yet. he would hardly consent to wait for that," said mr scott. "don't you call it a risk, giving a man like tam saugster the command of a vessel like the `john seaton'?" mr petrie asked the question not at george, but at his father. "there is ay a risk of one kind or another about all seafaring matters," said mr dawson quietly. "but there ought to be a fine wedding. tam is quite a credit to the town now. we could all go to the dance," said miss annie petrie. "but i am afraid tam would not long be a credit to the town if the whiskey were to flow as freely as it usually does at sailors' weddings. that could hardly be dispensed with, the whiskey, i mean. it would test tam's principles at any rate, in which i cannot say i have very great faith," said james with a little sneer. "i think keeping out of the way of temptation might be a better proof of his wisdom," said mr dawson coldly. "i doubt, jean, your aunt is getting wearied. she should be allowed to go." but jean had long ago sent word to nannie that her mistress was to stay at saughleas for the night. the young people did not linger much longer. george went out with them to the gate, and did not return till the rest had gone upstairs. nor did they see him in the morning. he had taken an early breakfast and gone away long before any one was down. on each of the three days that passed before jean and her brother went away, george went to his aunt's house as was his daily custom; but he scarcely saw marion. the first day she had gone out, the next his father was with him, and the third time there were several of marion's young companions with her, so that no word passed between them till the day of tam saugster's marriage. "if marriage it could be called," said some of tam's indignant friends, "going off on the sly as gin he were ashamed o' himsel'." they were by no means ashamed of themselves. tam and annie went quietly to the manse with tam's father and mother, where miss dawson and her brother and marion calderwood and maggie and robbie saugster were waiting for them, and they "got it putten ower quaietly," as tam's father rather discontentedly said. his judgment doubtless approved of "a teetotal" marriage in tam's case, but neither his taste nor his sense of the fitness of things was satisfied. who had a better right to feast their friends and "fill them fou" on such an occasion than the saugsters? and to go back to tam's house just to tea and jelly and fushionless sweet cakes!--it might be prudent, but it wasna pleasant, and any thing but creditable, in his father's opinion. and while he grumbled secretly the bride's mother, poor mrs cairnie, openly resented and railed at the manner of the marriage as mean, and as a confession of most shameful weakness on tam's part. even shrewd and sensible mrs saugster, though joyful over her returned prodigal and thankful to escape the risks attending a marriage as usually ordered in their rank of life, even she did not think it wrong to connive at the brewing of a steaming bowl of "toddy" for the comforting of the old folks when tam and his wife had set out on their week of pleasure, and all the rest of the young folk were gone away. it was a "bonny nicht," jean said, as they lingered in their walk down the street. over the soft glow of sunset fading in the west hung the pale new moon, and a star showed here and there among the grey wreaths and flakes of cloud that floated far beneath the blue. the tide was out, and over the sands came the soft "lap, lap" of tiny waves, with a sound more restful than silence. they stood still a minute at the point where they were to turn into the high-street. "we may as well go home the long way. it is not late yet," said jean. "going home the long way," meant turning back, and going over the sands, the mile that lay between the town and the tangle stanes, and they turned with one accord. "it is our last night for a while," said jean, and scarcely another word was spoken till they found themselves climbing the broken path that led to the high rocks. the night air blew cool from the sea, and jean led the way to the sheltered seat a little further down. the two girls sat down together, and george stood above them with folded arms, looking out upon the sea. they spoke about "the happy couple," who had gone away to begin their new life together, about tam's long voyage and annie's hopeful waiting, and the chances they had of happiness, because they loved one another. and then they went on to other things, some of them glad, and some of them sad, and "do you mind that time?" and "have you forgotten this?" they said, and sometimes they sighed, and sometimes they smiled, and at last they fell into silence. by and by jean rose and moving upward, paced up and down the narrow ledge, as she had done so many a time before in so many a mood. the two who remained were silent still, busy with their own thoughts, till george, stooping down and speaking softly, said. "marion, do you mind one day coming here with--elsie and me?" "ay, george, i mind it well." marion turned, and took in both hers the hand that he held out to her. "poor george!" said she, drooping her head till her cheek just touched it. then she rose and stood beside him still holding his hand. george stood with his face turned away, and neither spoke or moved for a good while. "george, do i mind you of her? does it grieve you to see me?" george turned and met the look in her sweet wistful eyes. "you mind me of her, but it does not grieve me to see you--my dear little sister." and then george did an unwise thing. he clasped and kissed her, and held her to him, "as i might have clasped and kissed my own sister," he said to himself afterward, trying to still the voice that said it was not wise. and marion went home smiling in the darkness, and saying to herself,-- "now i have two brothers, and which of them i love best; i'm sure i canna say." so george and jean set out on their travels next day, and miss jean and her visitor were left to entertain one another, and they did not find it a difficult thing to do. miss jean had lived too much alone, to care even for pleasant company continually, and marion had friends and engagements enough to call her away, so as to leave her to her solitude for a while each day. and whether she was out with her friends, or at home with miss jean, she was happy as the day was long. they had many quiet hours together, when the wisdom which had come to the elder woman out of her sore troubles and solitary days which god had blessed, and out of willing service given to the needy and the suffering for his sake, was spoken for the good of the girl who had all her troubles and her solitary days before her. these were the hours that afterwards marion liked best to remember. it seemed a very happy world to her in those days. nothing evil or sad seemed possible to her in her young strength and hopefulness. and even trouble itself, sickness or pain or disappointment, if it brought to her what had come through all these to miss jean--a heart at peace, a heavenly hope, surely even of these things she need not be afraid. when she said something like this to miss jean, her old friend smiled and answered,-- "surely not. even when you feel the pain you needna fear the evil. and when the pain hurts most--is worst to bear, i mean--it doesna really harm. why should i fear for you?" "and do you fear for me more than for the rest?" said marion gravely. "i ought to fear less for you than for some, because i hope ye're one who winna lose the good which is meant to come out of all trouble. but ye're young and bonny and winsome, and whiles troubles come to such that pass others by; and a heart both strong and tender, such troubles hurt sore. but the sorer the pain the deeper and sweeter the peace, if it sends you to the feet of the master," added miss jean cheerfully. there was silence for a little while, and miss jean looked up with surprise at marion's first words. "am i bonny, miss jean? as bonny as our elsie was?" miss jean looked at her a moment without speaking. elsie calderwood had indeed been a bonny lassie, but looking at her sister, miss jean could not but acknowledge that she was far more than that. she was like her sister. she had the same sweet eyes and lovely colour, the same wealth of shining hair. but in the face before her miss jean's discerning eye saw a beauty beyond that of mere form and colouring. it might have come to elsie too, with cultivation, and a higher intelligence, and the wisdom that experience brings. but miss jean, remembering well the girl who was dead, saw in her living sister's face a beauty that had never been in elsie's. "does your mother think ye're like your sister?" said she, evading the question. "my mother hardly ever speaks about my sister. but once--some one said--that i minded him of her." as she spoke, a feint, sweet colour overspread her face. her eyes did not fall before the grave eyes of her old friend, but there came into them a soft, bright gleam, "like a glint o' sunshine on the sea," miss jean told herself as she gazed. "ay, ye're like her. i think them that mind her weel would say that ye're like her." marion's head drooped and rested on her hand. "whiles i wonder how it would have seemed if elsie hadna died." "it was a mysterious providence indeed, her early death. the living should lay it to heart," said miss jean; and then she took up the book that lay at her hand--a sign that no more was to be said at that time. chapter twenty two. young mr petrie. that night mr dawson came to invite them to pass a few days at saughleas. he "wearied" there alone in the mornings and the long evenings, and there was no good reason why he should be alone, when they could come to visit him without leaving any one but nannie to miss them. nannie putting in her word, said she would not object to being left since the change would be good for them both. "and as mrs petrie asked you for a few days, marion, my dear, if you like you can go there instead." "oh! miss jean! if you please?" marion's face fell so decidedly that mr dawson laughed and insisted that marion must come also, and miss jean had nothing to urge against it since both were pleased. "mrs petrie is very kind, but she canna really care very much; and i see some of them every day," said marion, fearing to appear ungrateful. "miss jean will be all the better o' her company when ye're in the toon," said nannie privately to mr dawson. "and as to thae petrie's-- we ha'e eneuch o' some o' them at a' conscience;" which was marion's opinion also. the days passed happily at saughleas. marion enjoyed the garden and the woods and fields, and every growing thing in them, as only they who have been long shut up in a dull house in a dull city street can do, and her delight in all that saughleas had to offer was pleasant to see. mr dawson went to the town every day, but some days he did not stay there long, and marion and he grew as friendly among the flowers and fields, as they had been among the wonderful sights of london during the first days of their acquaintance. the shyness which old associations had brought back since she came to portie, passed quite away, and the frankness which had been her chief charm to the old man returned, and they took pleasure in each other's company. "i'm going over to the brae to see a fine new plough that mr maclean has got. have ye a mind for a walk, my lassie?" said mr dawson as they met one afternoon in the kitchen garden behind the house. marion had been longing for a walk and was delighted to go. there was a cold wind blowing from the sea, and she went to the house for a shawl, but came back in a minute with a clouded face. "the petrie's--at least young mr petrie is at the gate," said she. "and ye would rather bide at home? weel--" "oh! no! but if i go in for the shawl he will see me; and it is not so very cold." "i doubt ye may find it some cold on the hill, but run ye away through the wood, and i'll ask phemie for a wrap of some kind." "and it winna be rude?--to miss jean, i mean--i'm no' caring for jamie petrie." mr dawson laughed. "he'll think the mair o' your company when ye come back," said he. it was a successful afternoon on the whole. they walked quickly at first through the fields, but when they got over the hill, they took it leisurely. then mr dawson said a word about young mr petrie's disappointment, and marion looked grave. "he is very kind--they are all very kind, and i am afraid you will think me ungrateful. oh! yes, i like him well enough, but it was only the other night that he was at miss jean's--" "and i dare say he will come back again." "oh! yes, i dare say he will. oh! i like him well enough, but i get tired of him whiles." "well, never think about it." "i'm no' caring for _him_. but i hope miss jean winna be ill-pleased." "she needna ken that ye saw him," said mr dawson much amused. marion shook her head. "i doubt i'll need to tell her." "nonsense! it was my fault. ye would ha'e stayed if i had bidden you." "yes, that is true. and miss jean must see that i would far rather please you than jamie petrie." "that's as may be, but for once in a way you may be excused." though they were away for a long time, they found mr petrie sitting with miss jean when they returned. "come awa'," said miss jean. "where have ye been? and what can have keepit ye sae lang? mr james and i have been wearyin' for our tea." "oh! well, ye'll enjoy it all the mair for that, and so will we," said mr dawson. marion went away to arrange her hair which the wind had blown about, and when she returned mr dawson was asking mr james what news the afternoon's post had brought. but mr james had left before the post came in. "then you must have been here a good while. it is a pity that ye hadna been in time to go with us. we went over to the brae to see the new plough that the farmer has gotten. miss marion explained the philosophy of the thing to us." "miss marion is in some danger of becoming a learned woman, i hear," said mr james, with an uncomfortable smile on his lips. "in danger? oh! weel, i dare say ye're right. i'm no' sure but there is danger in it. i canna say that i think very learned women are best fitted for the kind o' work that most commonly falls to a woman's hand." "but for the work of a schoolmistress," said marion eagerly. "i am going to be a schoolmistress,--not a governess, not a teacher in a school merely, but the mistress of a school." "you mean if you cannot do better," said mr petrie. "better? but that is what i have been thinking about all my life. my plans are all laid-- only--" "but then you could just let them all drop, if any thing _better_ should present itself, as james says. but what are your plans? if it be fair to ask," said mr dawson. marion did not laugh, but answered gravely, "first i must make `a learned woman' of myself, and that will take a good while. i used to think i would have a young ladies' school, but i have changed my mind. young ladies are troublesome, and i think i would prefer to teach boys." mr james whistled. mr dawson said, "well, and what would you teach them?" "whatever they needed to learn. i can hardly tell yet about it. but mrs manners has promised me her boys." "she is to lose no time it seems," said miss jean smiling. "oh! but you forget, i have to educate myself first. i am afraid i should have to be a great deal older before people would trust their boys to me. but that is what i mean to do." marion spoke gravely. "and ye'll do it too, if you set yourself to do it," said mr dawson. "and she could hardly set herself to a better work," said miss jean. but mr petrie by no means agreed with them, and expressed himself to that effect with sufficient decision. he ridiculed the idea, and being very much in earnest, he was not so guarded as he might have been, and allowed a tone of contempt to mingle with the banter which he meant to be playful, and at the same time severe. marion answered lightly enough, and was in no danger of being angry as miss jean feared, and as, after a time, mr james hoped she might be. the necessity of making his peace with her would have pleased the young man better, than her laughing indifference to his opinions, or to his manner of expressing them. but she was so friendly in her manner, and so willing to oblige him by singing his favourite songs when miss jean sent her to the piano, that he had no excuse for returning to the subject again. his errand, he told them when he rose to go, was to ask miss marion to join his sisters and some of their friends in walking to the castle the next day, and after an inquiring glance at miss jean the invitation was accepted with sufficient readiness. "and if the day should not be fine, it is understood that you will spend it with my sisters, and the castle can wait till fair weather." to this also marion assented with a good grace, and the young man went away assuring himself that he ought to be content. he might have been less so, had he seen the shrug of her pretty shoulders, and heard her voice as she said to miss jean,-- "what should the like of james petrie ken?" when she was gone for the night, mr dawson, laughing, told miss jean of the manner of their departure for the brae that afternoon. miss jean looked grave. "ye dinna mean to say that ye think the lassie did any thing out of the way?" said mr dawson. "she said she doubted she would need to tell you, though i'm sure i canna see why." "i wasna thinking about that i was wondering whether after all, i had done a wise thing in bringing her down here." "i have wondered at that myself, whiles, though i acknowledge i had a part in bringing her. but it depends on what ye brought her for." miss jean said nothing. "if it were to do young petrie a pleasure, i think ye ha'e nothing to regret." but miss jean shook her head. "i'm no' so sure o' that," said she. "as to how his father may be pleased, that is another matter." to this miss jean made no answer. "and if i mind right, ye once thought jamie petrie would ha'e little temptation to look that way, and little chance of success if he did." "that is just what i thought, but i was wrong it seems as to the temptation. as to the success--i canna say, but--" "but why should you be downcast about it?" "it is for the lad i am sorry, because i doubt he has disappointment before him. he should have been content to bide awhile. she is but a lassie, with no such thoughts in her mind." "she looks like a woman." "ay, she does that. but she is but a bairn in some things. she is no' thinkin' o' him. she doesna even amuse herself with him. he is just jamie petrie to her, and that is all. i'm wae for the lad." "his father and mother will be all the better pleased." "that may be, but i dinna think it." then miss jean told in few words a story to which mr dawson listened with varying feelings,--the story of james petrie's love and what was like to come of it. he had seen her in london about six months since, miss jean said, and had made his admiration very evident to the mother whose surprise was great; for like the rest of the world she had given him credit for a degree of worldly wisdom greater than a serious attachment to a penniless girl would seem to imply. he made no formal declaration of his suit, to which indeed mrs calderwood would not have listened, as marion was in her eyes little more than a child. in her heart she believed and hoped that his fancy would pass away, or be put by prudent thoughts out of his head, without a word spoken. for she did not want him for her daughter. he was a rich man's son, and would be a rich man himself one day. by years of steady attention to business, and by exemplary conduct generally, he had proved himself worthy of a certain confidence and respect. but whatever other people might think of him, he was not in the opinion of mrs calderwood worthy to have as his wife her beautiful and intelligent marion, and she determined that he should not speak if she could prevent him. marion was pleased when he came, and liked him as she liked all the rest of the folk of portie, who had been kind to her all her life, liking them all the more that she had left them, and saw little of them. her mother feared that, flattered by his admiration, she might fancy it was more than liking that she felt for him, and that should he ask her to become his wife, she might accept him, and repent it all her life as many another woman has done. she must hear nothing of this till she was old enough to know her own mind about it, and wise enough to make no such terrible mistake. but by and by, when there came friendly advances from the father and mother, showing that they were aware of their son's feelings and intentions, and at least did not disapprove of them, mrs calderwood was much moved. marion might at feast hope for a kindly welcome among the petries. she was not sure that she was right in wishing that nothing might come of it. there was another view to be taken of the matter. her own health was by no means firm, and she had no expectation of living many years. her son in his profession could hardly hope to give a home to his sister for years to come, nor could he give her personal care and guardianship should she be left alone. it was well enough for marion to talk about making herself independent by keeping a school. her mother had given her every chance to prepare herself for it, if such was to be the work of her life. but the girl was too young and too pretty to be fit for any such position for years to come, and the mother's heart shrank from the thought of the struggle and the weariness that even in the most favourable circumstances such a life must bring to her child. was it right for her to hesitate when a home among her own people was opened to her? might she not live a quiet and happy life, beloved and safe from the manifold difficulties and dangers that beset even the most successful women, making their own way in the world? a word of encouragement from her would make the young man speak, but whether to give it or withhold it she could not decide. in the discomfort of her indecision she sought counsel of miss jean. but what could miss jean say but just what she had said to herself, that it must depend on marion's own feeling whether such a word should be spoken. out of this had come miss jean's desire to bring marion to portie for a little while. the girl would learn to know the young man with so many pleasant chances of intercourse, as she never could do in his brief and infrequent visits to london, and she would also come to a better understanding of her own feelings with regard to him. it is likely that mrs calderwood understood her motive and intention, though no word passed between them with regard to it. all this miss jean told in as few words as might be to her brother. "i doubt it hasna answered," added she. "such plans seldom answer. but why should you take it to heart. they maun please themselves," said mr dawson impatiently. "i acknowledge i am surprised that old petrie should pitch on a penniless lass for his son. it is nae what i should ha'e expected of him, and i ken him weel." "he didna pitch on her, i doubt it is but making the best of a bad matter, with him. mrs petrie was ay fond o' marion, and she is a peacemaker. and james is as determined as his father and not altogether dependent on him. and the old man has the sense to see that his son must judge for himself. and any thing is better than dispeace in a family. and now that he has seen her again, the father likes marion." "and are ye satisfied that such a marriage would be the wisest thing for her? james petrie is a good business man, capable and honest. but when ye ha'e said that, it's a' there is to say. as for her--ye ken best about her." "there are few like her, and there are plenty like him. but if they loved one another, that would make them equal in a sense, and they might live happily enough. but she's no' thinkin' about him." "but why should you vex yoursel' about it." "i doubt i was wrong to bring her. and i'm sorry for the young man." "oh! as to that, he'll win over it, as he has done before. there is no fear." but miss jean still looked grave and troubled. "that was different. our jean was the most beautiful woman and the best match in the town, and no doubt he believed that he was in love with her, but this is different; and it will do him harm, i fear." "well, i canna see that you are needing to make yourself responsible for jamie petrie's well-being, if that is all." but that was not all. miss jean had anxious thoughts about others besides james petrie. her anxiety she could not share with her brother however, and she said no more. nor was mr dawson more inclined to carry on the conversation. the pain of past years was sharply stirring within him, though even his sister did not guess it from his words or his manner. indeed he hardly knew it himself, till they fell into silence; but that night his head pressed a wakeful pillow, and the ghosts of old troubles came back upon him. how vividly it came back to him, all that he had suffered in those nights long ago when he could not sleep for the pain and the anger and the utter disappointment in his hopes for his son! in those nights he had sometimes had a doubt whether he had wrought wisely toward the desired end, but he had never doubted as to the wisdom of that end--till to-night. was john petrie, whose judgment when exercised beyond the even routine of business, he had never highly valued--was john petrie showing himself wiser in yielding to the wishes of his son, than he had been in resisting the wishes of his? what an influence for good in a man's life must be the love of such a girl as marion calderwood. had bonny elsie been one like her? remembering the sweet, calm eyes of the girl so long dead and gone, the gentle strength, the patient firmness by which she withstood not him alone, but her own mother whom she loved, rather than break her promise to the lad who loved her, he could not but doubt whether he had judged wisely then, and whether he had afterward dealt wisely with his son. ah, well! that was all past now, and good had come out of it to george. but would he ever forget? would there ever come to his son's home in future years one who would be to him all that mary keith had been to him. "he has not forgotten her," he said to himself, remembering his pale looks when first his eyes fell on elsie's sister. but he was young yet, scarce five and twenty, and his life was before him, and all might be well. at any rate nothing could be changed now. he had a troubled, restless night, and the first sight he saw when he looked out in the early morning was marion walking up and down among the flowers. she was walking slowly, with a graver and more thoughtful face than she was used to wear in his presence. she saw the beautiful things around her, for she stooped now and then over a flower as she passed, and touched tenderly the shining leaves as she bent her head beneath the overhanging branches. but she was evidently thinking of other things, and paused now and then looking out upon the sea. "a strong, fair woman," he said. "she will make a man of james petrie, if there's stuff enough in him to work on--which i doubt. if they love one another--that is the chief thing, as jean says, and the folk that ken them both will mostly think that she has done well." miss jean went in to portie that day, having her own special work to attend to there, and it was understood that for this time the visit at saughleas was over. marion went to the castle with the rest, but she did not go with them to mr petrie's house to pass the evening. she came straight to miss jean's, having mr james petrie as her escort, and it so happened that mr dawson met them both on their way thither. "something has come to her since morning," he thought as he watched her approaching. she was walking rapidly and steadily, carrying her head high and looking straight before her, with the air of being occupied with her own thoughts, rather than with mr petrie's eager, smiling talk. "i'll hear about it from jean," said mr dawson to himself, with a feeling of discomfort which he did not care to analyse. but he heard nothing from miss jean. if she had any thing to tell, it could not be that which he had at first expected to hear. for young mr petrie, whom he saw as he saw him every day, did not carry himself like a triumphant lover, neither did he look downcast, as though he had met with a rebuff. he was just as usual, seemingly content with himself and with the world generally. "i dare say it was but my own imagination," said the old man, wondering a little that he thought about it at all. he did not see marion the next day when he called at miss jean's house, nor the next, nor for several days, and friendly though they had become, he still felt a certain disinclination to ask miss jean about her. he caught a glimpse of her on the third morning as he was coming down the high-street, but she turned toward the shore before he came near. she had not seen him, he thought. when he did see her at last, sitting sedately, her eyes and her hands occupied with her work in miss jean's parlour, the same thought came into his mind. "something has happened to her. some one has been saying something to vex her, whatever it may be. but young lasses are whiles easily vexed." the next time that miss jean was asked to spend a day at saughleas, it rained heavily, and she could not go, and when she was asked again, marion was engaged to go somewhere else, and miss jean went alone. "oh! ay, she is quite right to please hersel'," said mr dawson coldly, when miss jean explained that it was necessary that she should go and visit miss spence that day, because the visit had been put off more than once before. "miss spence was a friend of her mother lang syne," said miss jean. mr dawson did not ask, as he had meant to do, what had happened to vex the girl, though he guessed from miss jean's manner, that whatever happened, it was known to her. chapter twenty three. danger and reconciliation. it had been arranged that mrs manners and her children should return with george and jean for a visit, but when the time came it was decided that it was too late in the season for the northern journey, and in order to make amends to the sisters for their disappointment, it was proposed that george should go home alone, and that the sisters should spend a few weeks together at the seaside. jean hesitated long, before yielding to her sister's entreaties, though she acknowledged she had no reason for refusing the pleasure, since it had been proposed by her father, and since her aunt was well, and nothing had happened to make it necessary to go home. she yielded at last, however, and george went home without her. he did not go alone. he had spent many words in trying to persuade willie calderwood, who had just come to london for a day or two, to go with him; and at the last moment willie decided that it was possible for him to go for a single day, to bring his sister home. it might be long before he would see her again, for his next voyage was to be a long one. in a week he was to sail for australia, not as commander of the vessel this time, but if all went well, he had the hope of making his second voyage as commander of a fine new ship that was to be ready for him by the time his present engagement came to an end. he had been fortunate, during one of his atlantic voyages, in coming under the notice of a great merchant and ship-owner, who was capable of appreciating his high qualities as a sailor and as a man. the offer of a ship was made by him and accepted by willie, and now he could with certainty look forward to a successful career in the profession he had chosen. they reached portie only just in time, they were told, for the "john seaton" was to sail that very day, and it would have been hard indeed if captain saugster should have missed the sight of his friends. they were hardly in time for speech. the ship was to sail at noon, and the new skipper was busy with a thousand things, and had only time for a word, and a grip of the hand when they went on board. they walked about, and lingered here and there, and had something to say to most of the ship's company as well as to the skipper, and mr dawson grew soft-hearted as he watched the friendly looks that met his son wherever he turned. george had a word for most of them, a promise to one, a caution to another, a joke with a third, a kind word to all. "ye're no' to vex yourself about your mother and the bairns, sandy. miss dawson will see that they are cared for if the sickness should come again. donald, man, be thankful that ye're leaving your temptation behind ye, and that ye're to sail under the temperance flag this time. gather strength to withstand your foe, by the time ye come home again. i suppose we must call ye a man now, jack. dinna forget the mother and grannie. they winna forget you." mr dawson kept near his son when he could do so without too evidently appearing to be listening to him, and he heard all with mingled feelings. george's way had never been his, and it was only a qualified approval that he had been brought to give to his son's method of dealing with the men, but he could not but be pleased and proud at the many tokens of respect and affection with which he was regarded by them all. even the strangers among them turned pleased looks to the young man, as he moved up and down among them. "it is a pity but you had come sooner, that you might have had a longer time on board," said mr dawson, as he took his way to miss jean's house in company with the two young men. "ye might almost take an hour or two's sail with them and land at f--or c--and be home to-night, or early in the morning." before twenty-four hours were over he would have given much that he had not uttered the words. but george and his friend caught at the idea, and before they went into the house all arrangements for going with captain saugster for a few hours' sail were made. miss jean looked grave when the plan was spoken of, but she said nothing in the hearing of her brother. "ye winna bide awa' long, and make us anxious," said she. they must not stay long, for willie had but a single day, or at most two to see all the folk he wanted to see in portie, and they would be certainly home early in the morning. there was no time to discuss or even to consider the matter. willie had only a word or two with his sister, but he followed every movement of hers with glad, proud eyes; and when she went for a moment out of the room, he said softly to miss jean, "she has grown a woman now, our wee maysie." and miss jean said as softly and a little sadly, "ay, has she!" did george's eyes follow her too? his father could not but think so. "for the sake of the girl who is dead," he said to himself with a pang. marion's eyes were only for her brother, but she had few words even for him. they had little time for words. they bade miss jean and marion "good-bye" in the house. by and by, mr dawson saw marion standing a little apart from the group of women gathered on the pier, but when he looked again she was no longer to be seen. he was a little disappointed. he thought if they had walked up to his sister's house together, he might have said a word to dispel the cloud of shyness or vexation that had somehow come between them since the day she had gone with the petries to the castle. he would not make much of it, by speaking about it openly, nor could he bring himself to ask his sister about it. miss jean was not easy to approach on the subject of the calderwoods. she had never said one word to anger him at the time when she had thought him hard and unreasonable with regard to them, and neither had she noticed by word or look the interest with which he had come to regard her young visitor; and her silence made it all the more difficult for him to speak. but when he went in on his way home, as it drew towards gloaming, and found her sitting alone in her darkening parlour, he asked her why she did not have lights brought in, and where was her visitor. "marion went over to the tangle stanes with the skipper's wife and maggie, and i dare say she has gone hame with her. her troubles are begun, puir body--annie saugster's--i mean." "what should ail her? she has just the troubles that ay maun fa' on sailors' wives." "ay, just that," said miss jean. "and she kenned them a' beforehand. and what gude could a lassie like that do her? she has had small experience o' trouble anyway." "she has a tender heart--and she shows her sympathy without many words. and folk like her," said miss jean. there was a moment's silence, and then mr dawson said hesitating,-- "what ails her this while? is it only as her brother says, that she is growing a woman, that she is so quiet? or has any thing happened to vex her? i have hardly got a word from her since she left saughleas. is it james petrie that's to blame?" added he with a laugh. miss jean regarded him gravely for a minute. "yes, i think it was something he said. i ken it was, for she told me." "and did she give him his answer?" miss jean shook her head. "it's no' what ye're thinkin'. that question hasna been asked yet," said she. "and i doubt he'll need to put it off, for a while. he didna help his ain cause by what he said, though he meant it for that. he was telling her about--about george and her sister elsie." mr dawson said nothing in the pause which followed. "of course she had heard something,--that they cared for one another,-- and that george's heart was nearly broken when elsie died. but she had never heard of your displeasure, nor of some other things. though how he thought it would help him to tell all this to her, i canna tell-- unless he may be afraid that--but she is to go hame with her brother, it seems, and i hope that no ill may come o' my bringing her here." "nonsense, jean! what ill should come of it? and why should you take the blame of it? it was her mother's doing, sending her here. and if it should end in her agreeing with james petrie, ye may be sure she will be well pleased." "i'm no' sure. though, puir body! she maybe was thinking o' that too." "it is to be supposed that she kens her ain mind about it. james petrie will be a rich man some day. doubtless she thinks of that." "less than ye would suppose. but she is not a strong woman, and if any thing were to happen to her, the lassie would be left alone almost. she would be safe here among douce, well-doing folk, like the petries, and in time she might be content enough." "but how should he think to help his cause by--by telling that tale? and what kens he about it?" "he kens just what other folk ken, and guesses something, i dare say. he thought to help his wishes by letting her ken, that when george looked kindly at her it was for her sister's sake." "george!" repeated mr dawson in dismay. miss jean had not been betrayed into saying this, though that was her brother's first thought. "yes. she is like her sister--and he hasna forgotten _her_. but i think it was chiefly your anger and vexation that he held up to her--as against his own father's kindness." "but george?" repeated mr dawson. "yes. but it is not george i am thinking about, but marion. and her mother too. do ye ken that though he has ay gone to see mrs calderwood whenever he has been in london, george had never seen her daughter after the time of may's marriage till he saw her the ither night at saughleas? that was her mother's will. what with one thing and another,--his love for her sister, and his friendship for her brother, and his being lost from hame so long--the lassie was ay inclined to make a hero of george. and minding on elsie, and all she had suffered, the mother grew to have a fear that was unreasonable, lest marion should come to care for him beyond what should be wise. so she kept her out of his sight, and she would never have let her come north but that she knew george was going away. she may have had her ain thoughts of young mr petrie--as i had myself, since he showed that he had the sense to see her value." it was some time before another word was spoken, then mr dawson said,-- "i did but what i thought my duty. i did but what her mother was as keen to do as i was. i tried to prevent my son from doing a foolish thing. and i dare say she thinks that i killed her sister." "no, it is not that. but ye ha'e ay been kind to her, and she thinks the sight of her must give you pain, and she is not at her ease. and so she is unhappy, for she has a grateful nature. well, she will soon be away now, and whether she'll come back again with young mr petrie--i canna say. he'll hardly have the courage to ask her this time." "i wouldna promise. there are few things that seem to him to be beyond his deserts--though i canna say i'm of his opinion." miss jean knew that her brother was angry and that he was trying to restrain himself as he rose to go. "a thoughtless word does great ill whiles, but i doubt this has done most ill to his ain cause, if he but kenned it. and it is a pity--" added miss jean. "he'll get through it. it winna be the first time," said mr dawson angrily. "are ye awa'? i think we need hardly expect those lads till morning. they'll be enjoying the sail this bonny nicht," said miss jean. "it depends on several things--the light and the tide and the wind. it was rather a foolish thing to undertake, though it was myself who first spoke of it. but we needna expect them till we see them." and then he went away. he paused a little when he was outside the door, looking up into the sky, and over the sea, thinking whether he might not as well wait a while, rather than go home alone. it was not so fine a night as miss jean had supposed, nor as it had promised to be earlier. there were heavy banks of clouds on the horizon in two directions, and the moon which showed faintly through a dull haze, had a heavy ring around her and not very far away--sure token that a storm was near. "they ken the signs better than i do. they'll lose no time." he lingered still, going as far as the pier head which was not yet quite deserted; but he turned his face homeward at last. "it will be a long night, i doubt!" and so it was. many a look he cast to the sky, which before midnight grew like lead, showing neither moon nor star. a long and heavy night it was. sleeping or waking, it was the same; dark with fears, vague and unreasonable, which he could not put away--with painful dreams, and startled wakenings, and longings for the day which came at last--a dismal day, with a dull grey mist lying low on land and sea, darkening all things. it brightened a little as the morning advanced, but he did not hasten early to the town. there was no real cause for anxiety he assured himself, the fog would account for their delay. they would be home soon. he was not anxious, but he shrank from the thought of the pier head and all the folk looking out for them and wondering where they were and when they would be home. and so it was noon before he called at his sister's door to assure her that there was really no cause for alarm. the fog would account for the long delay. there might have been danger to folk not so well acquainted with every nook and headland and current along the shore, but there could hardly be danger to these two. what a long day it was! and when the gloaming began to fall, there was still no word of them. he went on to miss jean's house, and at the door marion met him. he got a good look of her face this time. whatever had grieved or angered her, was not in her thoughts now. her eyes asked eagerly for tidings. "no word o' them yet, but they canna be long now," said mr dawson cheerfully. "i have come to ask you for a cup of tea, though i dare say ye have had yours lang syne. ye maunna be anxious, my dear. there is really no cause to fear for them as yet." he had been saying this to himself all day, but his heart was growing sick with anxiety all the same, and though he could hide it from marion, he knew that he could not hide it from his sister. "we maun just ha'e patience," was all that miss jean said. marion prepared the tea herself, and went out and in and did what was to be done. she made his tea and served him as though she liked to do it, and his eyes followed her with an interest which for the moment half beguiled him from the remembrance of his fears. but there was not much said between them, and by and by he said he would step down to the pier head and take a look at the weather before it was quite dark. marion looked as if she would like to go too, and all the old anxiety was in her eyes, as she turned them to miss jean. "my dear lassie," said her old friend, "they are safe in god's hands." "yes, they would be safe there, even if we were never to see them again. but o, miss jean!--" "ay, lassie! try ye and measure the blessedness o' that knowledge. it is no' in the power o' evil to harm them, whatever may befall. and, my dear, we have no reason to doubt that we shall see them again. they may be in at any moment, as my brother says." "i might licht the lamp, mem," said nannie at the door. "there is no haste," said miss jean. "only its e'erie like sitting in the dark when folk ha'e anxious thoughts for company. though there's no occasion as yet. what's a day and a nicht! many a boat has come hame safe eneuch after many days and nichts. they may be in at any minute, and i maun keep the kettle boiling, for they'll be baith cauld and hungry." then nannie retreated to her kitchen, doubtful as to the comfort she could give since her own fears were so strong. mr dawson went to the pier head, but he did not linger long, he turned and wandered up and down the sands in the gathering darkness. the fears which he had refused to acknowledge during the day, he could no longer put away from him. the sickness of the heart with which he had slept and waked so many a night and morning in past years, came back again, strange yet familiar. was it never to leave him more? was the time coming when the happiness of the last two years would seem to him like a dream? how many fathers had wandered up and down portie sands, waiting for sons who had never returned! who was he that he should escape what so many a better man had endured? but it had not come to that with him yet. surely god would be merciful to him, and spare so good a man as george to do his own work in the world. he was afraid to be angry, afraid to utter the rebellious words that rose to his lips, lest god should judge him for them. "i am losing myself, i think," said he, making a strong effort to restrain his thoughts. "i may as well go back to jean, or to the pier head." no, he could not go to the pier head, to listen to words made hopeful for his hearing,--to see cheerful looks that would grow pitiful as soon as his face was turned away. and as for jean-- well, she was doubtless praying for the lad whom she loved scarcely less than he. but he was not ready for jean yet jean had a way of thinking her prayers answered whatever befell. if george never were to come home, it would not come into jean's mind that god had turned a deaf ear to her cry. she would say that her prayers had doubtless been answered in a better way than she could see. that had ay been her way all her life. "but as for me--when a time like this comes, i canna be sure. it's like putting out my hands in the darkness, never knowing that there is aught to meet their helplessness." that had been the way when he saw death drawing near to his dear children and their dearer mother. no voice had answered, no help had come. they had gone down to the darkness of the grave, and he had been left in deeper darkness, never knowing whether the merciful god in whom jean trusted had given a thought to him through it all. he had gone far by this time, and he turned to avoid meeting some of the townspeople who were out on the sands waiting for tidings as well as he. the clouds were lifting, and as he turned he felt the west wind in his face, and heard a voice say,-- "if it has been the fog that has keepit them, they'll soon be in now, for it will be a clear nicht, and willie calderwood kens ilka neuk and ilka rock on the coast for miles. they'll soon be in now, if the fog is all that has keepit them." "what could ha'e keepit them but the fog?" said a woman's voice. "ye speak as if ye werena expectin' them." "i'm no' sayin'. only if it's the fog, they'll soon be in now." mr dawson moved on lest he should hear more. of course they would be home now, since the fog was lifting. what should hinder them? but he had a bad half hour and more as he moved up and down keeping out of the way of the groups, whose voices came to him through the darkness. as he waited there came to him a sudden clear remembrance of willie calderwood's face when he came that night with tidings of his son. oh! the joy of it! had he not been grateful to god for his goodness then. was there any thing which he possessed that he would have grudged as a thank-offering that night! god did seem near to him then. "i had an inkling that night of what jean may mean when she speaks o' the blessedness o' them that rest themselves on god." but as to grudging! he was not so sure. even before he saw his son, had he not been afraid lest, being "a changed man," as his friend had called him, george might have other aims and other plans of life than he had for him, and disappoint him after all? true he had hated himself for the thought, but it had been there that first night. and afterwards he had looked on with something like anger, as day by day he had seen him giving ten thoughts to the helping of others in their cares and their troubles, where he did not give one to the winning the place and the honour that his father coveted for him among men. that had all passed away long ago; not, however, because he had ceased to grudge, but because, as the father put it, "it had answered well." george stood higher to-night in the respect and esteem of those who knew him, than he would have done had his aims and plans and expectations been those of his father, who saw all things too clearly not to acknowledge it. george was a man among a thousand, he said to himself with a little movement of exultation, half forgetting his fears, till the wind, as he turned again, dashed the heavy drops of another shower in his face, and he saw that the clouds had gathered close again over all the sky. unless they had already landed, the fog and the darkness which had kept them last night might keep them still. how could he bear another night of such suspense? another night! it might be days and nights, for all that he could tell. he turned with a sinking heart towards the town again. "o! geordie! oh! my son!" he did not know that he spoke the words aloud, but they were heard, and a hand was laid on his in the darkness. "miss jean thinks you should come into the house, for you must be cold and wet," said marion calderwood. "winna ye come with me, mr dawson? and, dear sir, there has been word of a boat that landed in the gloaming at c--only john fife, who brought the word, hadna heard that there were any fears for any one, and he came away without asking any questions. but it is sure to be them. and, mr dawson, winna ye come with me to miss jean?" he had eaten little all day, and he was weary with his long wanderings up and down the sands. he scarcely caught the meaning of her words, but he knew that she was saying something hopeful, and he frankly grasped the hand she had laid on his. "ay. we'll gang in to jean," said he. he leaned on her strong young arm more heavily than he knew as they drew near the house. there was light streaming from the windows and from the open door, but before they reached it a voice said cheerily,-- "all's weel, mr dawson. they're coming hame safe enough." "glad tidings of great joy." that was what came into marion's mind when she heard the words. they had come already. at miss jean's door marion was clasped in the arms of her brother, and george wrung his father's hand and brought him in to the light. "the lord is ay kind, george," said miss jean. but mr dawson said nothing. he was too deeply moved for words for a little while, and indeed so were they all. nannie, notwithstanding her fears, had made great preparations for the entertainment of the wanderers, and though it might have been wiser for george and mr dawson to go home at once, there was no time to decide the matter before the supper was on the table, and they all sat down together. afterwards they were glad of this, for mr dawson did not see either marion or her brother again before they went away, and george only saw them for a moment, just as they were setting out. they lingered a good while at the table, though even willie owned himself tired enough to wish to rest. they had been in no special danger. the misfortune was that the small compass, to which they were to trust should the night be foggy and the stars invisible, had been left in the ship in the pocket of george's coat, and so they had had no means of directing their course during the night, and indeed as little during the day. they had been farther out at sea than they supposed, and when, as day began to decline, they got a glimpse of the sun they had to row hard to get sight of land before the darkness fell. "and i canna say that i am proud o' mysel' on this occasion," said willie laughing. "but except for the fright that we have given you all, i canna say that i shall ever regret the day and the night we have been on the deep," he added after a moment. george said nothing, but his eyes and his smile assented to the words of his friend. the brother and sister had many people to see and many things to do during the day that remained, so it happened that neither george nor mr dawson saw them when they called next day at miss jean's, and george only saw them a moment at the station as they were going away. there were a good many other people there to see them off as well as he. james petrie was there, looking a little anxious and uncertain, and not so ready with just the right word to say, as he generally supposed himself to be. his sisters were there also, and some other of marion's friends, and she was monopolised by them during the two or three minutes that remained after george came. and it was willie that george came to see, they thought. for he stood with his hand on his friend's shoulder, and the face of each was grave enough as they said their last words to one another. but george got the last touch of marion's hand, and the last glance of her sweet eyes, and the last words which marion heard, george spoke, and they were words that she had heard him say before-- "my dear little sister." mr dawson had to wait a good while for the return of his son that night, and he watched him rather anxiously from the window when at last he came in sight george moved slowly, with a graver face than usual, and though his eyes were wandering over the pleasant green of the lawn and gardens, his father knew that his thoughts were not with his eyes. "how little i am in his life besides what he is in mine!" thought the old man with a sigh. "but so it ay maun be between father and son, and he is a good son to me--a good son. and it's no' for what i have to give him," added he with a sudden movement of both pleasure and pain at his heart. "though bonny saughleas were in other hands, and all my gold and gear were swept into the sea, he would be sorry doubtless, but he would be a good son still. and he would not be unhappy, for his portion--that which he has chosen for himself in life would still remain to him." the old man's heart grew soft and a little sad, but he spoke just as usual when george came in. "ye're late the nicht." "yes. i went round by the station to see the calderwoods off. and i think i have taken longer time than usual for the walk home. i must be tired, i suppose." "and no wonder. and so they are gone. and was nothing said about their coming back to portie again?" "no. there was time for few words, and there were other people there to see them off--the petries, and maggie saugster, and some others." "was james petrie there? then his answer has been to his mind, or maybe he hasna asked the question. i dare say he was as wise." to this george made no reply whether he understood or not, and in a little he left the room. but his father's first words went back to the same subject. "it is no' so unwise a thing in james petrie as it looks, because--" "his wisdom has to be proved," said george gravely. and then he held out a letter to his father. "i don't believe in bringing business to saughleas, as a rule, but i thought it as well to let you see this to-night." his father took it and read it. it was a business letter--important, but still it might have waited till morning. "it is because he doesna wish to hear about james petrie and his hopes. it is of her sister dead and gone that he is thinking," said his father with a sigh. "his is a true and tender heart, and oh! i wish that i could do him a pleasure." suddenly there returned to him the thought that had been with him during his long wanderings over the wet sands that weary time of waiting. "there is nothing which i possessed, that i would not have given for a thank-offering that night. and there is nothing that i would not give now." and when george came into the room after a long hour or two, his father was pondering the same matter still. in a few days mr dawson declared that it was quite time that jean were coming home, and to the surprise of his sister and his son he announced his intention of going to fetch her. for in the opinion of both, and certainly in her own opinion, jean was quite able to take care of herself, whether in the house or by the way, and there was no need of his going for her sake. but he went, and stayed a few days, and they came home together. jean had no light to throw on his motive for the journey, for he had never intimated that he thought she needed his escort home. but in a few days there came a letter from mrs manners to her aunt which said,-- "the strangest thing happened when my father was in london. he went to see mrs calderwood, with whom he had not exchanged words for years. marion was with me, so it was not she that he went to see. and her mother never told her what he had to say. he only left a small parcel which her mother was to give her when she came home. it turned out to be an exquisite little gold watch. mrs calderwood would have refused so valuable a gift for her daughter, if she had known it, which would have been very absurd, as i told marion. for what is a few pounds more or less to my father. but i would give my own watch and chain too, to know just what was said between them. "i have written all this to you, auntie, because my father whiles reads jean's letters, and he might not be pleased that i have told it. but if you think it wise, you may tell george; i am sure he will be glad to hear it. and as for marion--i do not wonder that she has stolen my father's heart in spite of him." mrs manners would have paid dear for a knowledge of all that passed. in one way it was very little. mr dawson sent in his name and waited in the drawing-room, and mrs calderwood came in a little with a smile on her lips, expecting to see george. "i have come to say, `let by-ganes be by-ganes' between us. if you can forgive all that is past, give me your hand." he spoke almost harshly as his manner was when moved, but he spoke sincerely and even eagerly, and mrs calderwood could hardly have refused her hand, even if she had not long ago forgiven him, as she herself hoped to be forgiven. "i have never borne ill-will, mr dawson," said she. "no. and now i see it might have been different if i had been wiser. but--i was hardly myself in those days. he was my only son--and--i had lost his mother--" he suddenly turned his back upon her and strode to the window, and stood long looking out into the darkening street. his face was quiet enough when he turned toward her again. "the least said the soonest mended," said he; "if you will let by-ganes be by-ganes, as i said before. i have had many thoughts since i--well this while--and the other night when they were in danger together--your son and mine--i got a glimpse of what should be. they are true friends, these two; and surely there is no reason why we should be other than friends also." mrs calderwood was a woman not easily moved. if he had given her time to think about it, if he had written to her, as he at first thought of doing, she would not have refused to meet his advances, but she might have met them less cordially. but when this man, whom she had long thought of as a hard man, turned a moved face towards her, and speaking with a softened voice held out his hand again, what could she do but put hers within it with some gently spoken word of kindness. and that was all. mr dawson did not even sit down. he did not name marion till he put the little packet in her mother's hand, and he did not return to see her again, though when he went away he meant to do so; and no one ever knew from him that he had been there. but even before their sister's letter came, both george and jean knew that in some way, not easy to name, a change had come over their father. when one day they were together in their aunt's house and she gave them their sister's letter to read, they understood that something which had burdened his conscience and embittered his temper had been cast off forever; but they never spoke of it to each other after they left their aunt's presence, and she never spoke of it to them. but she saw, as other folk did, that in their father's company a new gentleness of word and manner made itself visible in them both, and she also saw what others could not see, that with this new gentleness george's face grew brighter, but on the face of jean a shade of sadness fell. chapter twenty four. another home. "weel! weel! if the marriage is wi' auld mr dawson's free consent, then the ethiopian can change his skin, and that would be makin' the bible out nae true. it's little ye ken! he's nae a man to change like that." it was mrs cairnie who spoke, sitting at her daughter's door, with her crutch at her side. young mrs saugster was sitting inside with her baby on her lap, and her mother-in-law and maggie, busy with her seam, were with her. "but mr dawson went to the marriage himself, and he wouldna ha'e gone but o' his ain free will," said maggie as no one else answered. "there's nae sayin'. young george has the tow in his ain hand. it's as he says now, i doubt, about maist things." "but he could hardly have wished the auld man to go against his will. and indeed mr dawson gets the credit o' makin' the marriage himsel', though that's likely going beyond the truth," said old mrs saugster. "but what i wonder at is mrs calderwood. she is a quait woman, but she is as stiff in her way, and as proud as ever mr dawson was; and though she said little at the time, she carried a sair heart and angry, for many a day after she lost her elsie." "folk change," said her daughter-in-law. "ay. and it's wonderfu' what folk can outlive." "mrs calderwood!" repeated mrs cairnie. "what about her! it's a grand marriage for the like o' her dochter, no' to say that she has gotten her triumph ower auld george at last. it's weel to be her." "it is all like a tale in a book. somebody should make a ballad about it," said maggie. "it's no' often that we see a thing comin' to the right end, as this ha'e done." "the end hasna come yet," said mrs cairnie. "and it's no' that richt for some folk. look at young miss jean. she has her ain thoughts, and they are no' o' the pleasantest, or her lace doesna tell the truth. and why didna she go to the marriage wi' the lave?" "oh! it wasna as if it had been a fine wedding. it was to be very quiet. and miss dawson has mrs manners' boys at saughleas. she couldna weel leave them, nor her aunt." "weel, maybe no'. but it canna please her to think o' leaving saughleas, and letting marion calderwood reign in her stead. it'll come to that, though it seems the young folk are goin' to the high-street in the mean time." "weel, miss dawson may be in a home o' her ain by that time," said old mrs saugster. "and whether or no', she's no' the first sister in the countryside who has had to give way before a brother's wife." "mother! mrs cairnie! to say such like things about miss dawson! ye ken little about her, if ye think she would grudge to do what is right." maggie, red and angry, looked from one to the other as if she would have liked to say more. her mother laughed. she knew maggie's admiration for young miss jean of old, but mrs cairnie said sourly,-- "it's weel seen that ye belong to the rising generation. in my day lassies werena in the way o' takin' the words out o' their mother's mouth, to say naething o' folk four times their age. as for young miss jean, she's liker ither folk than ye think." "whisht, mother. see yonder is miss dawson coming down the street." "ay, she'll be on her way to the house in the high-street, though why i should be bidden whisht at the sight o' her, i dinna ken. and there's one thing sure. naebody has seen auld george on his way to the house yet. that doesna look as gin he were weel pleased." "eh, woman! ha'e ye forgotten? it was there he took mary keith a bride. let him be ever so weel pleased, it will give him a sair heart to go there again." there was a slight pause in preparation for miss dawson's greeting, but before she came near them, she was joined by her father and both passed on with only a word. "he's hame again. and i canna say i think he looks ower weel pleased," said mrs cairnie. "it is of mary keith he is thinking," said her friend. "he has a feelin' heart for a' sae down as he looks. i doubt he has an ill half hour before him." in the mean time jean and her father had reached the gate which opened into the garden of the high-street house. it was a large and well-built house, higher and with wider windows than most of the houses in portie, and on the whole it was a suitable place of abode for a young man of george's means and station. there was only a strip of green between it and the street, but behind it was a large walled garden into which mr dawson had never been since he left it for saughleas long ago. indeed he had hardly seen the house since the death of his wife. he never came to the town over the fields as the young people were in the way of doing, and he always turned into the high-street from the turnpike road at a lower point than this. "papa," said jean, arresting her hand which held the old-fashioned knocker of the door, "well go home to-night and come over in the morning. you are tired." "no, no. we'll get it ower to-night," said her father in a voice which he made gruff in trying to make it steady. jean followed the servant into the kitchen and lingered there a while, and mr dawson went alone into the once familiar rooms, and not a word of sorrow or sympathy was spoken between them, though the daughter's heart ached for the pain which she knew was throbbing at the heart of her father. he was looking from the window over the garden to the sea, and he did not turn as jean came in, so she did not speak, but went here and there giving a touch to the things over the arrangement of which she had spent time and taken pleasure during the last few weeks. "you must have made yourself busy this while, jean," said her father coming forward at last. "and i must say you have done well. it is all that can be desired, i would think. there are some things coming from london, however." "does it not look nice? george had his say about it all. i only helped. i think marion will be pleased." "but they should have been guided by me, and come straight to saughleas. that would have been the best way." "i'm no' so sure. i think it was natural and right that george should wish to be the head of his own house. no, papa. you are master at saughleas and ought to be, and i am mistress. oh! yes, we would both have given up willingly enough, but then neither george nor marion would have willingly taken our places. but never mind, papa. it will all come in time, and sooner than you think. and i like to think of george bringing his bride to the very house where you brought mamma." it was a rare thing for jean to speak her mother's name to her father. it came now with a smile, but with a rush of tears also, which surprised herself quite as much as they surprised her father, and she turned away to hide them. it was her father's loss she was thinking of rather than her own. "ay, my lassie! may they be as blessed here as we were," said her father. and so the first look of his once happy home was gotten over with no more tender words between them, and they went slowly home together, through the fields this time. many things had wrought toward the change which mrs cairnie and other folk as well saw in mr dawson about this time. the new life which george was making honourable among his fellow townsmen, the firm stand he took on the side of right in all matters where his influence could be brought to bear, the light hold that wealth, or the winning of it for its own sake, had ever had upon him, had all by slow degrees told on the old man's opinions and feelings. but as to his wish for his son's marriage with marion calderwood, it was marion herself who had brought that about. he had noticed her, and had liked her frank, fearless ways before she left portie, and the sight-seeing together in london, and more still, the few quiet days which she had spent with miss jean at saughleas, won him quite. it was going beyond the truth, as mrs saugster had said, to declare that the old man had made the marriage, though it is doubtful whether it would have come about so soon, or whether it would have come about at all, if it had not been for a question or two that he had put to his sister as he sat once in the gloaming in her house. then there was a softly spoken word or two between miss jean and her nephew, and then george went straight to his father. "father, i am going to ask marion calderwood to be my wife, if you will give your consent." it would not have been like mr dawson if he had shown at the first word the pleasure with which he heard it. "you are of age now, george, and your ain man. i have no right to hinder you." "father," said george, after a moment's silence, "i shall think you have not forgiven the past, if you say the like of that." the old man's hand was raised to shade his eyes; he could not quite trust his face to hide his feelings now, but he said in a voice which he tried to make indifferent,-- "i suppose it is to be her or nobody. is that what you would say to me?" george made no answer to this. "i shall never ask her without your full and free consent." mr dawson's hand fell and he turned sharply upon him. "and what about her feelings, if that is to be the way?" "i have never given her a word or a look that a brother might not give to a sister. but i cannot but hope--" added george with a sudden light in his eye, and a rush of boyish colour to his face. "and i thought you liked marion, father?" "like her?" said his father rising. "george, man, go in god's name and bring her home. she shall be to me like my own daughter. and the sooner the better." so george went to london and won his bride--"too easily," her mother said. indeed george had more trouble to win the mother than the daughter. it was to the mother he went first. as for her, unless she could blot out altogether the remembrance of the sorrow and the hard thoughts of all the past, how could she consent to give her child to him? "and would it not be well to blot them out?" said george. "ay, if it could be done. but as for me--i canna forget my elsie--" "and do i forget elsie? when marion looks at me with elsie's eyes and speaks to me with her voice, and--" "and will that content my marion, think ye? george, marion is not just what her sister was. she is of a deeper nature, and is a stronger woman in every way. she is worthy of being loved for her own sake, and nothing less would content her, though she might think it for a while. and oh! george, i cannot bear the thought of having her free heart and her happy life disturbed. to think that she must go through all that!" said the widow with a sigh. "dear mother," said george--it was not the first time he had called her so--and he took her unwilling hand between his own as he spoke, "she shall not be disturbed, unless you give me leave to speak; i will go away again without a word. i will not even see her for a while. i cannot promise to give up the thought of her altogether, but i will go away now." but mrs calderwood said,-- "no, george. you must see her since you are here, though you must not speak to her of this. she is no longer a child, and i fear i did an unwise thing in trying to keep you out of her sight so long. it kept you in her mind all the more--not you, but a lad of her own fancy with your name. miss jean ay said it would be far better to let things take their course, and so it might have been." "and do you mean that you kept us from meeting of your own will?" "dinna look at me in that way, george. what could i do? you were both young, and she ay made a hero of you. and there was your father. and i wouldna have my bairn's heart troubled. not that i mean that she cares for you, as she ought not--" "dear mother, let me ask her." mrs calderwood made a sudden impatient movement. she loved the young man dearly. and her own son, who to her proud thought was "a man among men," was scarcely dearer. he was a son in all but the name. she loved him, and she believed in him; and even to herself, as she looked at his face, it seemed a foolish and a wrong thing to send him away. but then it had always been in her thought that these two must never come together in this way, because of her dead elsie, and because of the hard old man's angry scorn, which, though she had forgiven him, she could not forget. she could not change easily. it was not her nature. and she could not bear that her marion's heart should be disturbed from its maiden peace. she moved about the room uncertain what she ought to say or do, and utterly impatient of her own hesitation. when she sat down again george came and stood before her. "mrs calderwood, my father gave me god speed, and bade me bring her home." "oh! your father," cried mrs calderwood with sudden anger. "your father has ay gotten his ain will for good or for ill, all his life long. and now to think--" "his last words were--`she shall be to me as my own daughter.'" mrs calderwood turned her face away. "he loves her dearly," said george softly. still she did not speak. "and, mother,--turn your face to me,--i love her dearly." she turned then, and at the sight of his moved face her eyes overflowed with tears. "oh! george! you are very dear to me, but my marion is all i have--" what more she might have said, he never knew, for the door opened, and marion came softly in with a letter in her hand. her mother rose, but she did not move away from george, as was her first impulse, nor did she try to hide her tears. it would have been no use, for they were falling like rain over her face. marion stood still at the door, looking at them with wonder and a little fear. george went to her, and taking her hand led her to her mother. he was very pale and his lips trembled as he said,-- "mother, will you let me speak to her now?" what she might have answered she could not tell. she dropped into her seat with a little cry, and in a moment marion was kneeling before her, and then so was george; and, of course, there was only one way in which it could end. mrs calderwood said afterwards that marion had let herself be too easily won. marion laughed when she said this. "i think, mother, i was won long before that day," said she. but at the moment the mother could only give her consent. in a little, when george had taken his wife, that was to be, to the other end of the room, mrs calderwood picked up the letter which marion had let fall, and opened it mechanically, letting her eye fall on the written words while her thoughts were elsewhere. but before she had read many words she uttered an exclamation and hastily went out of the room. _her_ pride was to be spared at any rate. nobody had supposed that _she_ would be too easily won. the letter was from mr dawson; and by rights she ought to have had it before george came, for it was to bespeak her good word for him that he had written. it was just, "let by-ganes be by-ganes. give your daughter to my son, and she shall be welcomed among us with all the love and honour of which she is worthy--and more cannot be said than that." mrs calderwood read it and read it again, and her wonder grew. changed! surely if ever a man was changed, george dawson must be to write to her such a letter as that. but when she showed it to her daughter, marion was only surprised at her amazement. all these kind words did not seem strange to her. she had never heard any but kind words from him. "i began to think he liked me when i was staying with mrs manners, and i was sure of it at saughleas--only afterwards--and even then--" said marion not very coherently. but she did not explain her meaning more clearly. "the sooner the better," mr dawson had said, and george said the same, and so did jean in a few sweet words that came in a day or two, and so did her aunt. mrs manners reminded her husband that she had told him of marion's conquest of her father on that first day of her visit to them last year, and also that she had foreseen this happy ending. so with all belonging to george so ready to welcome her child among them, and george himself so dear, what could mrs calderwood do but be glad also, and give her up with a good grace? it was not so difficult a matter after all, she found when she had thus determined. and by and by she forgave her daughter for having been too easily won. and the visionary jealousy which had risen within her at the memory of her lost child vanished, though in her heart she doubted whether her poor dead elsie had ever won such love as george had now to give her sister. so the marriage day was set. it was not very soon, george thought, but the time was not unreasonably long, and it was hastened a little at the last. captain calderwood came home from his second voyage in his own ship sooner than was expected, and his stay was to be shorter than usual. the wedding was to be a very quiet one, and it could be hastened without interfering seriously with preparations. marion had set her heart on her brother's being with her, and it was so arranged, and all things went well. all things but one. at the very last there came from jean a letter with many good reasons why she could not come with her father and brother, and with many sweet words of love to the girl "whom she would have chosen from all the world to be her sister." but mr dawson was there, intent on doing honour to the occasion, and mr and mrs manners and captain saugster of the "john seaton," and of all people in the world, sir percy harefield! who did not, it is to be supposed, come without an invitation, but who possibly suggested to mr dawson that he would like to receive one. and all went well. there was no large party and no regular speech-making. the bridegroom said nothing, captain calderwood said only, "if he could have chosen a brother out of all the world, he would have chosen no other;" and mr dawson remembered the words of jean's letter to marion, which she had shown him before she sent it away. mr dawson said a few words, but he was not so happy, because he could not help again expressing a wish that "by-ganes might be by-ganes," which mrs calderwood thought he might have omitted on that day at least. it came to an end, and the bride and bridegroom went away, and mr dawson and sir percy harefield went with captain calderwood to see his ship, and they were all very friendly together; so friendly that sir percy had thoughts of turning his back on london and the prospective delights of the moors, and taking the voyage with captain calderwood to see what the other side of the world was like. "and what thought ye o' willie himself?" asked miss jean, when mr dawson was telling her all this, after he had been at home a day or two. "is he likely to be such a man as his father was?" "there's mair o' him than ever there would ha'e been o' his father, if he had been spared, poor man. he is much thought of by his employers. i thought him stiff at first. but he thawed out and was cordial and kindly after a little. he would have made the englishman very welcome to go with him, if he had keepit in the same mind till he sailed. but i doubt, as jean once said o' him, he would have found him a heavy handfu' ere a' was done. i ken no greater misfortune that can befall a man than to have nothing to do in the world." "he has his soldiering?" "no, he hasna even that now, and he is unfortunate in caring little for the occupations that seem to pass the time for folk o' his class. he is coming north again, he says, and i dare say we'll get a sight o' him." "he was ay an idle man, even when he was a poor man." "yes. but i ay think he might have been made something of, if the right woman would have taken him in hand." miss jean could not agree with him. "and whether or no', he needna come north to find her," said she. "no, i suppose not, but it is a pity." "george, man! i canna but wonder to hear you," said his sister gravely. "weel, he has a kind heart, and i canna but be sorry for him. and he is a perfect gentleman." "being sorry for him is one thing, and being willing to give him our best is another," said miss jean, with a sharpness that made her brother smile. "but i'm no' feared--" miss jean paused. she was not quite sure that she had nothing to fear. to her it seemed that the englishman had been wonderfully constant--"for the like o' him"--and she was not quite so sure of jean as she used to be. one day while her father was away, they had been speaking of mr dawson's wish that george should take his bride to saughleas. jean had said the best way to settle it would be for her to go away to a house of her own and then george could not refuse to take marion to saughleas. "weel," said her aunt, "i dare say that might be brought about, if you could bring your mind to it." "i'll bide a wee," said jean laughing, but her face grew grave enough in a minute or two. "i have ay thought myself of some use to my father and george, but now george is away, and even my father would be content with marion in my place." "that is scarcely the most cheerful way to look at it, or the wisest. and it's no' like you, jean, my dear." "are you thinking that i am jealous of marion, aunt jean? no, it is not that i love her dearly, and i am glad for george, and for my father, since he is pleased. but are you sure that it gave _you_ no pang to give up your brother to mary keith?" miss jean smiled, and shook her head. "i was growing an old woman even at that time. no, though she was almost a stranger to me, i was only glad for george. they loved one another." "and besides you were an independent woman, with a life and work of your own, and content." "jean, my dear," said her aunt, laying down her work and folding her hands on her lap, as was her way when she had something serious to say, "unless ye are keeping something in your heart that ye have never told to me, and there be a reason for it, i would hardly say that you are looking at things with your usual sense and cheerfulness. do you think that your father has less need o' you now than he has ay had? and do you think it is because o' you that george is so set on taking his wife to the high-street? i see no great change that has come to you or your work, and though it is like giving up your brother in a sense, yet you are glad to do it. what has happened to you, my dear? would it ease your heart to tell it to me?" jean had changed colour many times while her aunt was speaking, and now she sat with her eyes turned away to the sea, as if she were considering whether it would be well to speak. miss jean kept silence. she needed no words to tell her the girl's trouble. she had guessed the cause of the weariness and restlessness that jean could not hide from her, though she could keep a cheerful face before the rest of her world. but she thought it possible that after so long a silence it might do her heart good to speak, if it were only a word, and so she waited silently. but on the whole she was not sorry when jean rose and took her hat in her hand to go. "no, auntie jean, i have nothing to tell you, positively nothing. i am `ower weel off,' as tibbie cairnie says. that is what ails me, i dare say." "you'll ha'e may and her bairns through the summer, and plenty to do, and there is nothing better than that to put away--" "discontent," said jean, as her aunt hesitated for a word. "my dear, ye should ha'e gone with your father and george. it would ha'e done you good." "well, perhaps it might. but it is too late now. did i tell you that may wrote that sir percy harefield was at the wedding?" "no, ye didna tell me." "may thinks he asked my father to invite him, and my father seems to be as much taken up with him as ever. he is coming north again, she says." "and has his new tide changed him any, and his new possessions, does your sister say?" "he has grown fat--more portly, may calls it," said jean laughing. "she says he is going to parliament." "he'll do little ill there, it's likely." "and as little good, ye think, auntie. it will keep him out of mischief, as he used to say. and after all, i dare say he will do as well as most of them. he is a gentleman anyway, and that is ay something." and then she went away, and while miss jean mused on the cause of jean's discontent, she could not forget what she called the englishman's constancy, and she heartily wished that something might happen to keep him from coming north for a while. "and i canna help thinking that if jean had gone to her brother's marriage, something might have happened to set her heart at rest." but that was not jean's thought. she had not said until the last moment that she was not going, partly because she wished to avoid discussion, and partly because of something else. the many good reasons by which she had succeeded in convincing her father that it was best for her to stay at home, were none of them the reason why she did not go. that could be told to no one. it was only with pain and something like a sense of shame--though she told herself angrily that there was no cause for shame--that she acknowledged to herself the reason. "i care for him still, though he has forgotten me. i ay cared for him. and he loved me once, i know well. but if he loved me still, he would come and tell me. i could not go and meet him now--and his mother's eyes would be on me--and yet, oh! how i long to see his face after all these years!" after all these years she might well say. for since may's marriage day, when her heart fell low as marion told her that her brother had gone away, she had never seen him. he had come north once with george when she was away from home, and he had been in england more than once while she was visiting his sister, but he had never come to see her. it had hurt her, but she had comforted herself, saying it was because of her father or perhaps also because of his own mother that he did not come. but since marion was coming home to them, that could be no reason now if he cared, and almost up to the last moment she had waited, hoping that he might come. and then she told herself it was impossible that she should go to meet him, caring for him still. "and the best thing i can do now is to put it all out of my mind forever." if she only could have done so, and she did her best to try. may came home with her father; and she and her pretty boys and her baby daughter were with them all the summer. and by and by george brought home his wife, and it was a gay and busy time with them all. may, who saw most things that were passing, noticed that in some ways her sister was different from what she used to be. she was not the leader in all the gay doings, but left the young visitors at the house to amuse themselves in their own way. she was intent on household matters, as was right, and she took more time to herself in the quiet of her own room than she used to do. but she was merry enough with the children, and indeed gave much of her leisure to them, going about in the house and the garden with baby mary in her arms, and the little brothers following in their train for many a pleasant hour. george brought his wife home to the high-street. even mr dawson after a while acknowledged that they had been wise to secure for themselves the quiet of a house of their own. not that they began in these first days by living to themselves. there was enough to do. there were gay doings in many homes in honour of the bride, and the honour intended was generally accepted none the less gratefully or gracefully, that the gay doings could have been happily dispensed with by them both. they had pleasures and occupations of another kind also, for marion was too well-known to the poor folk of portie to make her coming among them as young mrs dawson an intrusion or a trouble. so the young husband and wife went in and out together, "the very sicht o' them," as even mrs cairnie owned, "doing a body gude as they passed." and on the comings and goings of these happy young people, on the honour paid them, on their kindly words and deeds, and heartsome ways with rich and poor, with old friends and new, mr dawson looked and pondered with a constant, silent delight which few besides the two jeans saw or suspected. even they could not but wonder sometimes at the unceasing interest he found in them and their doings at home and abroad. he wondered at it himself sometimes. it was like a new sweet spring of life to him to see them, and to hear about them, and to know that all things went well with them; and though few out of his own household could have seen any change in him, it was clear in many ways to those who saw him in his own house day by day. "god leads his ain by many ways to himself," thought miss jean in her solitary musings over it all. "they that think they ken a' the secrets o' nature tell us that the flowing waters and the changing seasons, bringing whiles the frost and whiles the sunshine, have made from the rocks that look so unchangeable, much o' the soil out of which comes bread to us all. and who kens but god's gender dealings, coming after sore trouble, may prepare his heart for the richer springing o' the good seed, till it bring forth a hundred-fold to his honour and glory. i ay kenned that the lord had a richt hold o' him through all, and that he would show him his face at last. blessed be his name?" "it whiles does folk gude to get their ain way about things, though that's no' the belief o' gude folk generally, and nae in the bible, as they would gar us believe," said mrs cairnie, who never kept her opinions to herself if she could get any one to listen to them. "george dawson is growing an auld failed man--and nae won'er considerin' how lang he has been toilin' and moilin', gi'ein' himsel' neither nicht's rest nor day's ease. but auld and failed though he be, there's a satisfied look on his face that naebody has seen there since the days he used to come in to the kirk wi' his wife and a' his bairns followin' after him,--langer ago than ye'll mind, maggie, my woman. and for that matter naebody saw it then. it was satisfaction o' anither kind that he had in those days, i'm thinkin'." "but, grannie," said maggie saugster, giving her the name that the old woman liked best, though she would not acknowledge it, "is it about young mr and mrs dawson you are thinkin', or is it about may and her bairns? because i mind ye once said to my mother and me that you doubted the old man wasna weel pleased when mr george brought marion calderwood home." "oh! ay. ye're gude at mindin' things that's nae speired at you whiles. he's gotten his will about mair things than that of late, and what i say is, that it has done him gude, as trouble never did." "maybe his satisfaction comes from giving up his ain will, rather than from getting it. i ken the look ye mean, mother," said her daughter gently. "weel, it may be. a thing seems to ha'e taken a turn sin' i was young. but it's nae the look his face used to wear when man or woman countered him in the old days." "ay. but it would be different when the lord took him in hand." "the lord has been lang about it, if it's only the day that he's takin' him in hand. but what i'm sayin' is this, that it does folk gude to get their ain will about things whiles, and i only wish that the lord would try it on me, and set me strong on my ain twa feet again," said mrs cairnie, taking up her crutch with a sigh. "or satisfy you with his will instead. that would do as well, mother." "weel, weel! that's your way o' it, and if i'm allowed to tak' the wrang gait, it winna be for want o' tellin'," said the old woman, moving slowly down to the corner of the street which was almost the length of her tether now. the eyes of the others followed her pitifully. "she's nae that sharp now--nae that soon angered, i mean," said maggie, with some hesitation, meaning to say something kind, but not quite sure how far her sister-in-law might accept her sympathy. "no," said the other after a pause. "and i whiles think that the lord is getting his will o' her too, though she hardly kens it hersel' yet." "ay. as miss jean says, the lord has many ways," said maggie reverently. chapter twenty five. suspense. and so the summer wore over, and may went home with all her children, though jean would fain have kept one boy with her. but her mother feared the bleak east winds for the rather delicate georgie who was the favourite at saughleas, and she had reasons that satisfied herself for taking little keith home also, but she promised to send them both back again as soon as the winter was over. the summer ended, and autumn days grew short, and a quiet time came that reminded jean of the days when may had gone to london "to meet her fate," and she was waiting for the coming home of the "john seaton." there was the same long dreaming in the gloaming, before her father came in, the same listening to the woeful voices of the winds and the sea, and the same shadow on jean's face and in her wistful eyes that her father had seen in those days--now so long ago. he sometimes surprised it now, but, if this happened, it went hard with jean if she did not make him forget it before he slept. about the new year mrs calderwood's old friend died, and when her will was read, to her surprise mrs calderwood found that she had left her money enough to enable her to live henceforth free from the cares which accompany the task of making too little do the work of enough, as had been her lot during the greater part of her life of widowhood. george, who had gone to london to be with her at that time, insisted on bringing her back to scotland with him. she had exhausted herself in attendance on her old friend, and she needed a change. later she was to return and make all necessary arrangements, but in the mean time it would have been neither wise nor kind he thought to leave her there alone. for this george had a better reason than he gave to her. news had come of terrible storms that had passed over southern seas. already rumours of disaster and loss had reached england, and the owners of captain calderwood's ship, the "ben nevis," were beginning to feel some anxiety with regard to her. another ship, the "swallow," had arrived from melbourne, bringing word that the "ben nevis" was to have sailed three days after the time she had put to sea. the voyage had been a long one, though happily the "swallow" had passed beyond the latitudes where the storms had raged most fiercely before the danger had arisen. the "ben nevis" was the swifter vessel of the two, and by rights, she ought to have reached england before her. and when ten days passed, and then ten more, there was good reason for fear for her safety. happily captain calderwood's outward voyage and his stay in melbourne had been shorter than his mother had calculated upon, so that as yet no thought of anxiety had come to disturb her, and she was glad to go with george, believing that she could pay a few weeks in scotland with her daughter, and still be in london in time to receive her son when he should return. it was mrs calderwood's first visit after an absence of several years, to a place which had been her home during the greater part of her life. there were many to welcome her, and there was much to see and hear, and she was greatly occupied. but george wondered sometimes that she should live on from day to day, showing no misgivings, even no surprise, at the continued absence of her son. he need not have wondered. she had been a sailor's daughter, and a sailor's wife, and she had lived the greater part of her life among sailors' wives and widows, and had learned the necessity of giving no unwise indulgence to fancies and fears, and to keep quiet and face them when fears and fancies had to give place at last to a knowledge of disaster and loss. she had had anxious thoughts doubtless while she awaited the expected summons to meet her son, when the ship should be heard from, but outwardly she was calm and even cheerful. it was wise for her own sake not to dwell on her fears--which indeed were hardly fears as yet, but only a vague movement of surprise and impatience that she should have to wait so long. and it was wise also for the sake of her daughter, who was not so strong as usual. so she kept herself cheerful and seemed to be taking so little thought of what might be awaiting her, that george questioned at last whether it might not be both kind and wise to prepare her for the shock which he began to fear must come soon. this painful task did not fall to him however, and mrs calderwood was already better prepared for it than he knew. it was drawing near the end of february by this time, and it was a milder season than portie often sees. there were weeks of bleak weather to come yet, for this eastern coast rarely escapes a full share of that sooner or later. but in the mean time the days were fair and calm, and looking over a pale grey sea, bright now and then with a blink of sunshine, thoughts of storm and danger did not come so readily, as with a wild and angry sea they might have done. but even marion was beginning to wonder that her mother said nothing of what might be keeping the "ben nevis" so long. and then a single word came to break the silence between them, and they knew that the mother's quietness had cost her something. but she was quiet still when doubts and fears and even despair were busy at her heart. they were still sitting at breakfast one fair morning when jean came in. she was just as usual, they all thought at the moment, but afterwards each remembered the look on her face as she opened the door. the air had brought a colour to her cheeks, so she was not pale, but there was a startled look in her eyes as she turned them from one to another before she uttered a word. it changed as she marked the unmoved face of each. she kissed marion, and then, strangely enough, she kissed mrs calderwood, and laid two pale primroses, the first of the season, on a book which she held in her hand. they were friendly, these two, and even more than friendly, but there was always a touch of shyness and reserve between them, even when they were most friendly. marion, who so dearly loved them both, saw it and wondered at it often, but she smiled now as jean stooped and touched her lips to her mother's cheek. mrs calderwood grew a shade paler, and a question came into her eyes as she met jean's look. but jean had no answer for it. "i found them in a sheltered nook in the wood when i was out this morning. they are come earlier than usual, and there will soon be more of them." jean did not meet her look as she thanked her, but turned to george who was preparing to go out, nor would she sit down. "i only looked in as i passed, to see if all was well with you. i have many things to do, but i will come in again before i go home, unless i should be detained longer than i expect in the town." so in a little she and her brother went out together. "are you taking the paper with you, george?" said mrs calderwood following them to the door. "not if you wish to see it. i will send for it by and by when i want it." "you have seen it, george?" said jean as they went on. "if you mean the paragraph about the `ben nevis,' yes, i have seen it. it does not say much beyond the usual, `fears are entertained for the safety, etc.'" "and now she will see it." "yes, i think it is as well. it will help to prepare her for what she may have to hear later." "george," said jean in a little, "does that mean that you are afraid?" "there is cause for anxiety. there was that before we left london. i only wonder that mrs calderwood has said so little about it." "and you left london more than six weeks ago." george told her of the succession of terrible storms that had swept over the southern seas about the close of the year, in latitudes where possibly the "ben nevis" had been at that time, acknowledging that there would be reason to fear for the fate of the ship unless she were heard from soon. his anxiety had been greater than he knew, and he had kept it to himself so long that to speak was a relief, which led him to say more to his sister than he would otherwise have done. his words were less hopeful than he meant them to be, until jean said, "do you mean that you give them up?" "by no means. i do not even give up the ship. i know willie calderwood and what he can do too well to do that yet a white. and even if they had to forsake the ship, the chances are in favour of safety for the men. all that depends on circumstances of which we can know nothing. but i by no means give up the ship even yet." "but, george, should you not have stayed to tell mrs calderwood so?" "no, i think not. there will be time enough for that, and she is of a nature to meet the first pain best alone." "but marion?" "she will not speak to marion at once. and, jean, it is as well that the awful possibility of loss should be admitted. but my hopes are stronger than my fears." "the awful possibility of loss?" jean repeated the words with white lips, not knowing that she did so. they had lengthened their walk, passing miss jean's house and going on to the pier. they turned now and came back in silence. at miss jean's door they paused. "it will be as well to say nothing as yet," said george. "not to aunt jean?" "oh! yes. i have spoken to her already. i mean to people generally. and, jean, go and see marion and her mother again before you go home." but jean said nothing to her aunt about what she had heard. she stayed her usual time, and discussed certain purchases that were to be made of material for the summer outfit of some of her aunt's "puir bodies," and went into matters of detail as to quantity, and needles and thread, and as to the help that each would need in the making of her gown. and then she went away and did all else that she meant to do when she left home, and lingered over it, till it was too late, she told herself, to go to the high-street again. three days passed before she went there, and the like had seldom happened since marion came home. she did not know how she could speak to the mother of the anguish and suspense that lay before her, and she shrank from a betrayal of her own pain. but when she went in on the fourth day it struck her with surprise to see that they were just the same as usual. no change of grief or terror had passed upon them. mrs calderwood was grave and pale, but she spoke about various matters cheerfully enough, though she made no allusion to the fears for her son. marion spoke of her brother, and said how hopeful george was about him, and how the old sailors about the pier were saying to one another, that captain calderwood was not the man to be caught unprepared for a storm, and being prepared, with plenty of sea room, what was there to fear? he would bring his ship home all right. there was no fear of that. but the next news that came made even the old sailors shake their heads when the ship was spoken of. a boat had been picked up by a south american vessel, filled with men from the wreck of the "ben nevis" and from the southern port to which these had been carried came the tidings. they had encountered a succession of storms, which had so strained and shattered the good ship "ben nevis," that there seemed a fairer chance of escaping with life by betaking themselves to the boats than by remaining with the ship. there were not many passengers on board, only seventeen all told. nine of these, with four sailors, were in the boat which the american had saved when they had been five days away from the wreck. they could say nothing of those whom they had left on board, though they had still seen the ship afloat in the distance on the second day. there was no familiar name in the list of the rescued, but it was said that the weather had moderated while they were in the vicinity of the ship, and there seemed no reason to doubt that the rest of the passengers and crew had been able to save themselves. captain calderwood's name was mentioned in terms that brought tears of pride and sorrow to the eyes of those who loved him. his courage and kindness and patience had never failed through all the terrible days of storm. discipline had been maintained through all, as perfectly as during the summer calm that preceded those awful days; and the last sight which the rescued saw as they drew off from the ship, to await the manning of the other boats, was their captain standing on the deck encouraging them with hand and voice. and that was all. but that was much, and now they could wait for further tidings with patience. on the whole they kept in good heart for a while. but as time went on, the suspense and anxiety of the days that went before, seemed to pass into each new day as it came. for they knew that each passing day without tidings mocked the hope they had so long cherished. through all the mother waited quietly. never quite without hope that she would see her son again, but after a while the poor pretence of cheerfulness for which she had striven, because of marion, failed beyond her power to help it. the silent patience which had been the habit of her life under other troubles, stood her in good stead now. and when this failed her, and the restlessness, of a slowly dying hope came upon her, she would go away by herself till she could hide all tokens of her pain again. sometimes she went to miss jean's for comfort, but often when her daughter believed her to be there, she was walking up and down the wet sands, or sitting in some sheltered nook among the rocks, striving for calmness to bear to the end. she had gone through it all before, and now she seemed to be waiting again and longing and fearing for his father, while she waited for her only son. when other eyes were upon her she was calm enough, and troubled no one with her trouble, but she needed the rest which solitude gave her to carry her through the lengthening days. marion bore the long suspense well, they all said. she was young, and it was her nature to look for brightness rather than gloom, and no such trouble had come upon her as had darkened the life of her mother. there were only hopeful views expressed in her presence, and though she knew that cheerfulness was encouraged and often assumed for her sake, she had the sense and courage to respond to the efforts of those who loved her, and to keep herself quiet and patient for their sakes. one good came to mrs calderwood out of the trouble of those days. she had forgiven mr dawson the hard words and unreasonable anger of the old days, or she believed that she had, but even to herself she could not say that she had forgotten them. she was never quite at her ease in his presence. it was not so much that she disliked him, as that she could not convince herself that he did not dislike her. the sight of her could only, she thought, recall to him much that he could not but wish to forget; and if she could do so, without remark, she generally chose to be out of the way during his frequent visits to the house. but whatever he might feel towards her, there could be no doubt as to the esteem in which he held her son, or as to the anxiety which he shared with them all. he was not, as a general thing, ready with words of sympathy, but she had seen tears in his eyes more than once as he spoke her son's name, and her heart could not but soften towards him, and a real friendliness, which in other circumstances might have come but slowly, grew up in this troubled time between them. there was no lack of sympathy. not a man or woman in portie, but felt deeply for the trouble of willie calderwood's mother and sister, though they were for the most part shy as to any expression of it. indeed mrs calderwood kept out of the way of words. george guarded his wife from the hearing of any thing that would move her out of her usual quiet, and when he was not at hand, jean guarded her as carefully for his sake. to jean, as to the rest, the days passed slowly and heavily. to the eyes of even her aunt she was just as usual, no graver nor sadder than was natural since a friend, and one who was more than a friend to those she loved, was in danger. but no one ever heard her speak of the anxiety that oppressed them all. she listened in silence when, as is the way at such times, the causes for hope or fear were gone over, and over, and over again, or she went away and did not listen, but she never put in her word with the rest. it was only as a friend that she had a right to grieve for willie calderwood, she told herself. they had never been lovers. they had cared for one another long ago--oh! so long ago now. but they had not seen one another for years, because he had not cared to see her, and it was all past now. she had been angry at first, and then sorry. yes, she had suffered sharply for a while, she acknowledged. but she was neither sorry nor angry now. she was anxious for his safety, and she longed for his return, as all his friends did. and her heart ached for his mother and his sister, and for george, to whom he was both brother and friend. and that was all. but a day came when her heart spoke, nay, cried out as the heart of no mere friend could cry. she was sitting one day in miss jean's parlour, when her brother came in. there were tears in his eyes and a strange, uncertain smile on his lips, and he laid his hand on her shoulder as she stood by the window, pausing a moment before he spoke, as if he were not sure of his voice. "jean," he said, "there is news at last." jean grew very white. "well?" said she sitting down. "is it good news, george, man?" said his aunt hastily. "it is just such news as one would expect to hear from willie calderwood. yes, i call it good news, whatever may come next." and then he told them how another of the "ben nevis'" boats had been heard from. after much suffering from anxiety and exhaustion, they who left the ship in it had landed somewhere on the west african coast, and had, after some delay, been taken from thence in a portuguese vessel to lisbon. and now some of them at least had reached england. and this was the news they brought. when those who were to go in the second boat were about to take their places in it, captain calderwood had, to their utter amazement, declared his intention of remaining with the ship for that night at least. the vessel was new and strongly built, and within the hour he had seen some tokens that led him to believe that, during the storm, it had not gone so hardly with her as had been at first feared. the cargo was a valuable one, and his duty to his employers demanded that, while there was a chance of saving it and the ship, he should remain on board. at the same time he acknowledged, that as far as could now be judged, there was but a chance in ten, that he could do this, while by taking to the boats at once, there was a fair prospect of their being picked up by one of the many homeward bound vessels which at that season followed the course which they had taken. then he called for volunteers to remain with him. not a man among the sailors but would have stayed at his bidding. but an able crew was placed in the departing boat, and he was left with just men enough to work the ship, among them three passengers, should all go well. should they find when the night was over, that chances were against saving the ship, they also were to take to the boat and do what might be done to escape with the rest. they who were in the second boat had stayed in the vicinity of the ship that night and the next day and night, but when the second morning dawned she was no longer to be seen. whether she had sunk or whether she had sailed away out of their sight they had no means of knowing, nor could they form any conjecture as to the fate of those who remained on board. they might have betaken themselves to the boat at the last moment, or they might have gone down with the ship. but whatever had happened this was sure--no braver man or better sailor than captain calderwood had ever commanded a ship. this was all that was to be told about the "ben nevis." "and what do you gather from it all?" said miss jean in a little. "ye dinna give up all hope?" "we can only wait patiently a little longer. if the bringing home of the disabled ship was a thing to be done, captain calderwood was the man to do it. no, i by no means give up hope. he may come any day now." they had said this many times before, and now none of them had the courage to say that he should have been home long ago if all had been well. "i fear it was an unwise courage that led him to undertake an impossible work," said miss jean sadly. "no, aunt. you must not say that. he must have seen more than a possibility, or he would never have risked life. it was his simple duty as he saw it, neither more nor less. we may be sure of that, knowing him as we do." "but, oh! george, what is a ship's cargo, or even the ship itself, in comparison with a young strong life like his?" "ay, aunt. but duty is the first thought with a true man like captain calderwood. and he has all the resources that strength and patience and skill and courage can give to a man, and i cannot but hope that he'll come safe home yet." "he is in god's hands," said miss jean. "ay, is he. and god bless him wherever he is," said george with a break in his voice. jean had sat in silence, turning her eyes from one to the other as each had spoken. "have you told his mother?" said miss jean. "yes, she has heard all. it seems two of the sailors have reported themselves to the owners in london, and she thinks she must see them, though i fear it will do little good." "it will give her something to do anyway," said miss jean. "but she is quite worn out with anxiety, though she has said so little about it, and i doubt she ought not to go alone." "no, i shall go with her," said george. "it would make marion miserable to think of her mother with her sore heart solitary in london. we need not stay long." "and after a day or two she will think of her daughter's need of her, and come home. if only the suspense were over one way or another--" "no, aunt, don't say that. we have hope yet--strong hope of seeing him again. if you only heard the tales i hear on the pier about the wonderful escapes that skill and courage have won. hope! yes, i have hope." "my dear, i have heard all that could be told before you were born. but all the same there has many a ship gone down since then, and many a sore heart has waited and hoped in vain. but i'm no' goin' to say all that to willie calderwood's mother, true though it be." "and, george," said jean speaking for the first time, "you may be quite at peace about marion." "yes. i leave her with you. she will keep herself quiet." "we will take her to saughleas. that will please my father." and so it was settled, and the long days went on. jean busied herself with her father and her sister, and went out and in just as usual, giving no time when other eyes were upon her to her own thoughts. but she welcomed the night. sitting in the darkness, with only the grey gleam of the sea for her eyes to rest upon, she gave herself up to thoughts of her friend. she called him her friend, but she knew that he was more than a friend to her; and she had at least this comfort now, that she was no longer angry or ashamed to care for him still, although he had forgotten her. he would always be her friend now, whether he lived or died. she might grieve for those who loved him, and whom he loved, and for the young strong life lost to the world which needed such as he to do its best work, but he would still be hers in memory, and more in death than in life. and yet she had a vague dread of the dreariness and emptiness of a world in which he no longer lived and moved, and doubted her power to adapt herself to its strangeness. she knew, or she tried to believe, that good would come out of it all even to her, and when she came to this she always remembered her aunt. it had been by "kissing the rod" under such discipline as this that her aunt, after long, patient years, had grown to be the best, the most unselfish woman that she knew; yes, and the wisest with the highest wisdom. sometimes she had said to herself and to others, that she meant to grow to be such a woman as her aunt, and so take up her work in the world when it should be time for her to lay it down. and now, perhaps, the lord was taking her at her word, and was about to prepare her for his own work, in his own way, which must be best; and she tried to be glad that it should be so. but when she looked on to the life that lay before her, her heart sank at the length of the way. "i am not like aunt jean. i am not good enough to get her work to do, and to take pleasure in it. maybe after long years i might be able to do it. if i only had the heart to care for any thing any more! "but i must be patient. the pain is new and sore yet, but time heals most wounds, and as auntie says, `the lord is ay kind.'" this was her last thought most nights; but there were times when she could not get beyond the darkness, and lay lost and helpless till the morning. then she put aside her own pain, and grew cheerful and hopeful for the sake of others. if she came to the task with white cheeks and heavy eyes, as happened now and then, no one wondered, or indeed noticed it much, for she was none the less ready with cheerful words and kindly deeds for the comfort of them all. chapter twenty six. safety. and so the nights passed and the long days, and even jean's heart sprang up to meet the next news that came. the ship "ben nevis," captain calderwood, supposed to be lost, had been spoken at sea by a vessel homeward bound. her latitude and longitude were given, and it was said that considering her condition, she had made good progress since the time her boats had left her. she lay low in the water and laboured heavily, but her captain and crew were in good heart, and with fair wind and such weather as they might hope for now, they were sure soon to reach an english harbour. so hopes were raised and courage renewed. mrs calderwood would fain have remained in london to meet her son when he came; but the time of his coming was uncertain, and he might even put in to some nearer port, and her daughter needed her. so she returned home to portie with george again. and when they came it was to find marion the joyful mother of a son. the news had been duly telegraphed to london as soon as possible after the event, but they had left before that time. it was mr dawson himself who met them at the station with the news, and passing by george without a word, it was to mrs calderwood that he told it with a trembling but triumphant voice. there were tears in the eyes that she had always thought so cold and hard, and these tears washed away the last touch of pained and angry feeling from the heart of the mother of poor dead elsie. if any thing could have added to the old man's pride and delight in his grandson, the fact that he had drawn his first breath in saughleas would have done so. not that either his pride or his delight was made very evident to the world in general. he answered inquiries and accepted congratulations with as much composure as was compatible with the satisfaction that the occasion warranted, it was thought, and perhaps with rather more. but even the world in general began to acknowledge that he was growing to have gender and more kindly ways than he had once had, and folk agreed with mrs cairnie, that it had done him good to get his own will. as for george, he took his new happiness soberly enough to all outward appearance. there was still so much anxiety as to the fate of the "ben nevis" as to temper the joy of the young father and mother over their firstborn, and to make them quiet and grave in the midst of it. but their hopes for their brother and those who had stayed with him were stronger than their fears, and even mrs calderwood took heart and did not shrink from the hearing of her son's name. her care for her daughter and her grandson left her little time to brood over her fears, and she felt that to do so, would be "to sin against her mercies," since her daughter had been spared to her and was growing stronger every day. as marion grew strong, and mrs calderwood devoted herself to her, jean had more time for herself, spent much of it in the wood or on the shore, or in her aunt's parlour, which, during those days, she found to be as good a place as either the wood or the shore for the indulgence of her own thoughts. for miss jean troubled her with few words; but sat silent, seeing without seeming to see, that all was not well with her niece. it was a rest for jean to sit there in the quiet room, and it is not to be wondered at that there were times when she forgot to keep guard over her face, as even before her aunt she had done of late. at such times her aunt regarded her anxiously. she had become thin and white, and her eyes had grown large and wistful; as her mother's eyes had been, before she had resigned herself to the knowledge that she must leave them all. "a word or two might do her good, if i could ken the right word to say," thought miss jean, as she sat one day watching the stooping figure and averted face. the suspense about the "ben nevis" would soon be over, but miss jean's thought was that the ending of this suspense would not be the ending of her bairn's troubles. however her first words turned that way. "it canna be long ere we hear now." "no. it canna be long," said jean, recalling her thoughts and taking up her work again. "and they all seem to be in good heart about the ship. they may come any day. it has been a long time of suspense to his mother, and to us all." "yes. it has been a long time." "it will soon be over now in one way or another. and even if he should never come, it will only be like a longer voyage, that will be sure to have a happy ending in a peaceful haven, where the mother and son are sure to meet." "and she will have him for her own at last." neither spoke for a long time after this. jean's head drooped lower, and though her eyes were on the sea, it was not the harbour of portie that she saw, but a wide waste of ocean with a labouring ship, making for her desired haven, it might be, but bringing no one home to her. she rose and moved restlessly about the room. "i wish you were able to go for a little walk, auntie. dinna ye think it might do ye good to take a turn or two up and down by the sea?" "no' the day, my dear. but if ye would like to go out, never heed me. i think myself that a walk would do you good, or a fine long seam, such as your mother used to give you to do, when your restlessness was ower muckle for yourself and others. but the walk would be more to your mind, i dare say." jean laughed. "but then, i have the long seam ready to my hands," said she, sitting down again and taking up her work resolutely. by and by, when she forgot it and her face was turned seaward again, her aunt laid down hers also and said softly, with a certain hesitation,-- "jean, my dear, did you and willie calderwood part friends?" jean sat absolutely motionless for a minute or two. "yes, aunt, we were friends always. as to parting--" "weel--as to parting?" "we had no parting. he went away without a word." "that was hardly like a friend on his part," said miss jean gravely, and then in a little she added,-- "and, jean, love, were ye never mair than friends?" then jean rose, and turning looked straight in her aunt's face. "no. never more than friends. you surely havena been thinking ill thoughts of willie, auntie?" "that's nae likely. but whiles i ha'e wondered--and now that he is coming hame--" jean stood a moment irresolute, and then coming forward she sat down on a hassock at her aunt's feet, as she often did, and leaned her head upon her hand. "jean, my dear, have ye nothing to say to me?" "no, aunt. there is nothing. i have no more right to grieve or to be glad for willie calderwood than any one of his many friends in portie." "grief or gladness is whiles no' a question o' rights," said miss jean gently. jean said nothing. she was too weary and spent to be very angry with herself for the weakness which had betrayed her secret. but she had strength and courage to shut her lips on the words that rose to them. and before her aunt had time for another word they heard mrs calderwood speaking to nannie at the door. except for a sudden bright colour that had risen to her cheeks, jean was just as usual when she came in. "there's nae news?" said miss jean. this had long been her first salutation to any one coming in. "no, there is nothing more," said mrs calderwood. "weel, we maun just have patience." jean brought forward an easy chair for her aunt's friend, and carried out some tea for nannie to make a cup to refresh her after her walk. but she did not sit down again. "i'll go now. i have something to get in the town. shall i come round this way again, mrs calderwood, so that we may walk home together? or will it be too long for you to wait?" it would not be too long. there was no haste, mrs calderwood said. george had gone home already and was to take marion out for a little while, and they might come round this way to get a sight of miss jean. so jean promised to return, and then she went out, not quite knowing where she was to go, or what she was to do. but it was settled for her. for as she turned into the high-street she met her father. "i was going to your aunt's to say that i am going to john stott's. i canna say just when i may be home, and you are not to wait for me." "is john worse, papa? let me go with you. i needna go into the house." "i doubt he is near as bad as he can be, and be living. i doubt it is ower far." "ower far! no' for me, if it's no' ower far for you. and i have nothing to do that canna be put off. and it is a long time since we have had a walk together." so, well pleased, they set out john stott was a labourer who had long been in mr dawson's employment. he had been for days ill with fever, and was now supposed to be dying. they spoke of him a little, and of the helpless family he would leave, and of the best manner of helping them without making their help seem like alms. for john had long been a faithful servant, and mr dawson meant to set his heart at rest about those, he was leaving; indeed this was the reason of his visit at this time. then after a little he spoke, not quite so hopefully as usual about the "ben nevis," saying they must hear soon now, or they would have to give her up altogether. then he went on to say how well it was that marion had grown so strong before any particular excitement either of joy or pain had come to disturb her. "she is very well," said jean. "george is going to take her out in the pony carriage this afternoon, her mother told us. i left her at aunt jean's." "i doubt that is venturesome of him. i hope he'll take the best of the afternoon to it. and that is near over already. he'll be thinking of taking her back to the high-street again, i suppose," said he discontentedly, "unless we can persuade them to bide at saughleas altogether." jean was silent a minute or two. "there are just two things that would be likely to prevent them," said she. "weel, let us hear of them." "one is that except for a while, mrs calderwood would not easily be persuaded to think of saughleas as her home; and both george and marion wish her to remain with them." "which is but right. george is no' a man to let himself be vexed with his mother-in-law, even were she a more difficult person. but why should she not live with them at saughleas?" but as he asked the question he saw that such a thing would seem impossible to mrs calderwood. it was not a matter for discussion, however. "and what is the other reason?" "it is not a very good reason. both george and marion think that i should be the mistress of saughleas, while i am there. they think, and other folk think, that i would not like to--to be set aside. and i might not like it. but if it were the best way for all, my not liking it would be a small matter." mr dawson muttered impatiently,-- "ay. it's ay said that twa women canna agree in the same house. but i think, jean, ye might show them something else. i'm sure marion wouldna be ill to live with." "it is not a matter of agreement or disagreement, papa. there cannot be two mistresses in any house with comfort to, any one concerned. and there need not be two if marion were willing. and if i were not there she would fall naturally into her right place. i might go away for a little while, papa, and when i came back i might fall into the second place, and make no work about it. or i might bide with auntie jean." "nonsense! bide with auntie jean, indeed! if you were going to a house of your ain, it might do. but good and dear as marion is, i could ill bear to see you put out of your place in your father's house, even for her." "yes, if i cared, papa. i might once when i was younger. but i dinna think that i could care much now." mr dawson looked at her curiously, but jean's eyes were turned away to the sea. "but even if that were the best way--which i am far from thinking--there is ay mrs calderwood and her wishes to be considered. i doubt we'll just need to let them go." "but i think--and aunt jean thinks--which is more to the purpose--that mrs calderwood would hardly content herself in her daughter's house wherever it was, for a continuance. i mean that she would rather be in a home of her own. that might be got over." there was silence between them for some time, and then jean said with more earnestness than she had shown yet,-- "papa, will you let me tell you just what i would like? i would like you to give me the house in the high-street for a present--as a part of my portion--just as if i were to be married, ye ken. and then i would persuade my aunt and mrs calderwood to live there together. and by and by when i grow old--and have not you any longer, i could live there myself." mr dawson listened to her with mingled feelings, but he said quietly, "what would two women folk, seeing little company, do with a big house like that? and you could never persuade them." "but they would see company more or less, and have folk coming for the summer. and the house is not so very big, and none too good for the `auld laird's' sister, and the `young laird's' mother. and i think i could persuade them. and if this were all settled george would be content to bide with you at saughleas. and i could--come and go." "jean," said her father gravely, "why do you ay speak as if you were never to have a house of your own? i'm no' pleased to hear you." "but, papa, i never do. that is what i am wanting--a house of my own-- sometime--not just yet." "but i am not thinking of such a home as ye could make to yourself in the house in the high-street, but of something quite different." jean laughed. "i canna help it, papa." "but ye might have helped it." "no, papa, i never could yet." "weel! weel! we'll say nae mair about it. it's nae ower late yet. we maun ha'e patience, i suppose." though jean laughed her face grew strangely grave and sad, her father thought, as they went on in silence together. "you might think about it, papa, and speak to aunt jean about it. i should never feel safe or happy to be long away from portie, unless there were some one ay with aunt jean. and i think that she and marion's mother would suit one another as no one else would suit either of them. they would be busy and happy together, and i should feel safe about my aunt wherever i might be." "but why should you speak as if you were not to be here? why should you go away?" "only for a little while, papa. and then george and marion would stay. and it is not for that altogether. i would like to go a while for my own sake. i think i need a change." "are ye no' weel?" said her father in some surprise. "oh! i am well enough; but i would like to go away for a little. i am tired, i think. we have been anxious, you know, especially when george and mrs calderwood were away. and i think i am wearying for a sight of may and the bairns. i know a change would be good for me, for a little, i mean." she spoke with some difficulty, and the colour was coming and going on her cheek. her father's surprise changed to anxiety as he regarded her. he saw as her aunt had seen, that she had grown thin and pale, and that her eyes looked large and anxious, like eyes that had slept little of late. "what ails ye, my lassie? ye're surely no' weel. if it's only may and her bairns that ye're wanting, ye can easy get them. only," continued mr dawson after a little, "it might hardly look kind to go away now, till the `ben nevis' has been heard from again." "no, i suppose not." "and if we shouldna hear--ye'll be needed all the more. willie calderwood will be a hero to the seafaring folk o' portie when he does come. and i dare say ye'll like to see him as well as the rest." "yes. it is long since i saw him." "if he brings the `ben nevis' safe to an english port, his reputation will be established, and his fortune will be made. that is as far as a mere sea captain can be said to be able to make a fortune by his profession. he must be a man of great courage and strength of character, as george says, even to have made the attempt to bring the ship home. they may weel be proud of him,--his sister and his mother, and we must do nothing that would seem to lichtlify him--neither you nor me." jean looked at her father in a strangely moved way which he remembered afterwards, but she said nothing. "i mind ye were ay fond o' sea-heroes; and all his friends will need to make much o' him when he wins safe home." they were drawing near the cottage by this time. mr dawson would not let jean go in because of the fever, and she sat down on the dyke at the house end. but her father did not keep her waiting long. john had fallen into a sleep which might be the saving of him yet, and must not be disturbed, and promising, if it were possible, to see him to-morrow, he came quickly out to jean. they had little to say to each other as they turned homewards. jean acknowledged herself tired with her walk, and when she said she had promised to go back again to her aunt's to walk home with mrs calderwood, her father bade her wait there, and the pony carriage, when george and marion returned, should be sent for them both. mr dawson pursued his homeward way alone, but he had not gone very far before he met a messenger and turned back again. "good news! good news!" shouted young robbie saugster as soon as he was within hearing distance. "the `ben nevis' is safe in port, and captain calderwood is here in portie, i saw him mysel' at the station, and i told him that his mother was at miss jean's, and then i ran on to saughleas with the news; but there was naebody there to hear it but phemie and ann. and i'm glad to see you, sir, anyway." "good news!" that it was, well worth the half crown which mr dawson put into the hand of the astonished laddie. he had heard no news so good for many a day, he said, as he turned toward the town again. but when he came to his sister's house, and went softly in, he was not so sure of its being the best of news to him. for the first sight he saw was his daughter jean lying on her aunt's sofa with a face as white as death, and her bright hair tossed and wet falling down to the floor. leaning over her, but not touching so much as a finger, was a sailor in rough sea clothes; and though he neither moved nor spoke, there was no mistaking the tale told by his working face and his eager eyes. mrs calderwood stood beside him with her hand on his shoulder. "willie," she entreated, "you must come away. she must not see you when she comes to herself. she was startled, and you have no right--" "no, mother. i know i have no right--except that i have loved her all my life--" "but you must come away. it is not fair to her. and think of her father." "yes. i have ay thought of him. yes, mother, i will go with you," and he stooped and touched, not with his fingers, but with his lips, the shining braid of hair that hung down to the floor, and then he turned and went out. it was hard on mr dawson. he had been more than anxious for the sailor's return for his mother's sake and his sister's, as well as for his own, and he had meant to give him the best of friendly welcomes. but now what was this he saw? astonishment was his first feeling. he had never once thought of these two in this way, at least he had not for a long time. then he was angry. had jean been deceiving him all this time. but his anger was only momentary. he knew his daughter too well to believe that possible. he knew not what to think, except that his welcome to the sailor was not so ready as it would have been an hour ago. fortunately it was not called for at the moment, for captain calderwood turned into nannie's kitchen and went out the other way without seeing him. seldom in his life had the old man been so startled. instead of going into the house, he turned down to the pier to consider the matter. he had not much comfort in that. as he turned again into the high-street, he heard the sound of voices far up in the square, and as he went on, he caught sight of his own low carriage standing in the midst of what seemed a crowd of people, not waiting there quietly, but eager and excited, over something which had pleased them well. and could it be possible? in the carriage sat his daughter-in-law with his grandson on her lap. he knew that he was angry then, and he pushed his way forward intending to say so plainly, and to put an end to all this, at least as far as she was concerned. but when he drew nearer, and marion, with the tears running over her smiling face, stretched out both hands to him over her son, claiming his sympathy in the great joy that had come to her, somehow he forgot his anger and shook her hands kindly and joyfully; yes, and kissed her there before all the folk, to their intense amazement and delight. it had not been at marion that he had been angry. and he had not even the excuse of danger for his anger, for young robbie saugster had placed himself at the heads of the ponies, and there was not the slightest danger of their running away. and when he had time to look about him, there was half the folk in portie assembled to welcome the returned sailor, and in the midst of them stood george, with his arm laid across the shoulders of his friend. it was something to see these two faces--the one fair, smiling, noble,--the other no less noble, but brown and weatherbeaten, and with a cloud upon it, notwithstanding all the joy of home coming. they were brothers in heart, he saw that, whatever might befall. before he could make up his mind to push his way toward them, a hush fell on the crowd. captain calderwood was making a speech. it was not much of a speech that captain calderwood made, however. he had only done his duty, he said, as nobody knew better than the seafaring folk of portie, every one of whom would have done the same in his place, if they had seen the same reason. he was glad to be safe home again with his ship and cargo, and not a life lost, and he was proud of the welcome they were giving him--for there was no place like portie to him, and no folk like the folk of portie whom he had known all his life. that was all. but george made a speech, and said just enough and no more--"as he ay does," his proud father thought as he listened. still standing with his hand on his friend's shoulder he said a few words about what captain calderwood had done. he could not tell them the story, because he had heard nothing as yet, more than the rest. but he knew as well as if he had been told, how all things had been ordered on board of the "ben nevis," both before the storm and after it, because he knew captain calderwood. he had done his duty. that was all. but he need not tell the men of portie--the saugsters and the cairnies, the smiths and the watts, the bruces and the barnets, who had had sailors among their kin longer ago than the oldest of them could mind--what duty meant to a sailor. it meant to him, whiles, what heroism meant to other folk. it meant courage to face danger, patience undying through want and weariness and waiting, cheerful endurance through wakeful nights and toilsome days, and long banishment from friends and home. it meant to the master, a power to command himself, as well as his men; it meant skill and will, and wisdom to act, and strength to bear up under the terrible responsibility of holding in his hand other men's lives, no one but him coming between them and god. to the men it meant obedience, entire and unquestioning, sometimes, alas! to unreasonable commands--to tyranny to which, in the hands of evil men, unrestrained power might easily degenerate. it meant to all and each--to master and to man--a taking his life in his hand--a daily and nightly facing of death--ay, and of suffering death. it might mean that to some of their own, now far away. it might have meant that to captain calderwood, for instead of coming home with ship and cargo safe and with not a life lost, he might have given his own life in doing his duty, as his father had done before him, and his grandfather, as all the men of portie knew. "and is he less a hero to us to-day because he has only done his duty? and if instead of having him here among us to-day--to fill with joy and pride every sailor's heart in portie--there had come to us from the sea, first a vague and awful rumour of danger and loss, and then one or other of the tokens that have come to some here--a spar, a broken piece of the ship, a word or two written beneath the very eyes and touch of death-- would he not have been a hero to us then? and all the more, that having no thought of what men's eyes might see in his deeds, or men's tongues tell of them, he had lived through the violence of the tempest, and through the lingering days of peril that followed, only to do his duty?" it was here that george's speech ought to have come to an end. it was at this point that his father thought he had said "just enough and no more." and it was here also that willie shrugged his shoulders under the hand that still rested lovingly on them as he muttered,-- "hoot, man, geordie! cut it short." but the folk--who had listened in a silence so absolute that the "click, click" of mrs cairnie's crutch could be heard on the stone causeway--stirred a little and murmured, and then waited for more. and george had more to give them. "and now, men of portie--sailors and fishers--ay, and sutors and saddlers, masons and merchants--every man among you, i have just one word more to say to you all--but chiefly to you sailors. willie here has whispered two words in my ear, and one of them i'll give you. "never through all that terrible storm that beat upon them, nor after it, when the bitter thought that the ship must be forsaken was forced upon them, nor during the long doubtful days--harder to bear--that followed, when in the morning none could say whether hope or fear was to win the day, or at night whether there was to be another day to them-- through all that time, i say, not a man among them looked to the devil for courage to dare his fate, or deaden his fears. there passed not the lips of a man among them a drop of that which has lost more ships, and broken more hearts, and beguiled more sailors from their duty, than you and i, and all here could count in a day." "is that so, willie?" cried a voice from the crowd. "ay, is it. and no man here needs me to point the moral." willie had had enough of it by this time. he would not be beguiled into answering questions or telling tales. so he slipped his shoulder from under george's hand and withdrew a little from him. but george did not move. he stood with glad eyes looking down on the familiar faces of his townsfolk and with a sweet and kindly gravity which was better to see than a smile, and when he lifted his hand, the movement in the crowd and the murmur of talk that had risen were hushed. the last word had been from his friend. this was from himself. it was only a word. it was not about the courage or skill or immovable patience of the young commander that he spoke; but of something that lay behind all these, and rose above them--the living belief in an eye that saw him, in a hand that held him, in a will that controlled and guided and kept him through all, and in a love and care that could avail in shipwreck and loss; ay, in death itself. it was this living belief in the lord above as a living lord that had stood him in such stead in those terrible days. "was willie _feared_, think ye?" said george, coming back to their common speech in his earnestness. "some o' ye ha'e come through, and mair than aince, the terrors o' storm and threatened shipwreck, and ye ha'e seen how strength and courage, and common humanity itself, whiles fails before the blackness and darkness and tempest; and it's ilka ane for himsel', be he master or man. "but, with this belief in a living lord who has called himself and proved himself friend and brother in one, was there danger of this to captain calderwood and those whom he commanded? "belief, said i? nay, lads, who of us can doubt that the lord himself stood by him, as he stood by paul his servant at such another time, giving him promise of life to them who saw only death waiting them. "was captain calderwood afraid? look ye at his clear eye, and take a grip o' his steady hand, and hearken to what his men may have to say of him, and ye'll ken that he came out of it all by other help and a better strength than his own--a help and a strength that we a' need, on land and sea, and that we can get for the seeking--as some o' ye ken better than i can tell you--and may it be baith yours and mine when our time of trouble shall come--" said george ending rather abruptly at last. chapter twenty seven. at last! "grandpapa," whispered marion, as her husband and her brother drew near, "do you think there ever was so glad and proud a woman as i am to-night?" he had not time to answer her, but he shook her brother's hand cordially. "god bless ye, willie, man. welcome home." and for the moment he quite forgot the shock which the first sight of the young man had given him. it was only for a moment, however, and the remembrance of it brought a cloud to his brow, and sharpened his voice as he said,-- "george, man, i think ye have been forgetting your wife with your speech-making." george laughed. "she will forgive the first offence in that way, for the sake of the occasion." "weel, weel! haste ye home now for it's mair than time baith for her and the bairn. no, ye'll go with her yourself i have sent robbie saugster with the inn fly to your aunt's, and they'll all come out in it. and i'm going to walk. i have a word to say to captain calderwood. not go?" added the old man sharply as a look of hesitation and doubt passed over willie's face. "where on earth should you go but to your ain sister's house? it's hers while she's in it, and so it's yours, to say nothing o' george there, who surely is your friend and brother, whatever ye may ca' me." and as captain calderwood had something to say to him also, they set off together. but they walked half the distance before either uttered a word. willie waited for mr dawson to speak, and he, remembering that no one bad seen him at his sister's house, was at a loss how to begin. but when they came in sight of saughleas, captain calderwood paused. "mr dawson, i must say a word to you now, or i shall be taking a welcome from you under false pretences. i love your daughter. i have loved her all my life." here was an opening with a vengeance! "and what says she to that?" asked mr dawson grimly. "i have never spoken a word to her. may i speak to her now?" "and how was that--since it's been all your life?" said mr dawson ignoring the question. "there were reasons enough. i was only the mate of the `john seaton,' and she was the young lady of saughleas. and i had promised my mother that i would never even look my love without your sanction. afterwards there were other reasons as well." "i dare say ye may have a guess as to what her answer might be?" "mr dawson, give me your leave to ask her. i have not seen her for years. yes, i have seen her--but she has not seen me, and we have not spoken a word to each other, since the day before may's marriage." "and i mind ye left in a hurry. did she send ye awa'?" "no. i did not speak to her; but if i had stayed i must have spoken. and what would you have thought of my pretensions beside those of captain harefield? and indeed, i knew well that, except for my love of her, i wasna her equal. so i said, i will forget her and i went away?" "that's a long time since. and ye have never seen her again?" "yes. i have seen her. i saw her once in the park riding with her brother and captain harefield, and i saw her looking at the pictures among all the great folk, and i used to see her whiles, playing in the garden with her sister's bairns." "and that was the way ye took to forget her?" said mr dawson dryly. "no. i had given that up as impossible. that was the way i took to teach myself the folly of remembering her." "and what has happened to make it less like folly now?" "well," said captain calderwood after a pause, "the first gleam of hope i got was when sir percy harefield proposed to take ship with me on the `ben nevis.' he has gotten his answer, i thought. and i vowed that if ever i came home again i would speak to you--" "jean is of age, and in a sense her own mistress. she could do as she pleased, even if i were to refuse you." "i shall never speak to her unless i have your full and free consent." it was queer, mr dawson thought george had said the same to him about marion, and had meant it too, as possibly this young man meant it also. he cast a sidelong glance at the strong, grave face beside him. it had grown white through all its healthy brown. "curious!" thought mr dawson. "now, i dare say that didna happen in the very face o' the tempest. surely a love that has lasted all his life must be a good thing for any woman to have." but all the same he wished with all his heart that he could refuse to let him speak. not that he had any special fear of jean. she would surely have given some token during all these years, if her fancy had turned to willie calderwood. but he had returned a hero--"in a small way," as mr dawson put it, and young lassies are so open to impressions of that kind. and the lad was every inch a man, that could not be denied. "i ken well she might look higher. who is worthy of her?" said willie humbly. "it teems to me ye can ken little about her," said mr dawson irritably. "there's george now, what says he? he kens all this, doubtless?" "he kens, doubtless," repeated willie gravely. "but his sister's name has never been named between us--in that way." so the father had not even that excuse for vexation. he had no excuse. the young man was acting honourably in the matter, and he told himself that he was not afraid about jean's answer. and yet in his secret heart he was a little afraid. they had come to the gate by this time. "mr dawson, do you bid me come into your house, after what i have told you?" "bid ye come in! and your sister waiting for you at the door, and your friend and brother as weel! i would hardly venture in myself without you. and indeed i welcome you heartily to my house, for your own sake as well as theirs. and as to--that other matter--we'll say nae mair about that the nicht." with this the young man was obliged to content himself george's eyes were full of questions, but his lips uttered not one as he took him to his room, to supply all that had been left in the bag forgotten in the town. before they came down again the fly had crept up to the door, but there was no one waiting for them in the hall except miss jean, and she was ready with a second welcome. "it is good to see ye here, willie," said she as they went into the parlour together. jean had gone straight to the dining-room, and her father heard her there giving orders to phemie in her usual voice. by and by she came out, carrying her head high--"the young lady of saughleas" indeed; and mr dawson smiled at his fears as she came slowly toward him. she went up the long room in the same stately way, holding out her hand and saying gravely,-- "you are welcome home, captain calderwood." but when they looked into each other's faces--these two who had been strangers so long--how it all happened cannot be told. did he clasp her to him? or did she lay her head upon his breast? it was only amazement that the father felt at first. no one knew less than he did himself whether he was glad or sorry at the sight. and then miss jean came over to him with slow soft steps, and they went out together. "george," said she gently, "i think i might say that i have nothing else to wish for here, if i were sure that this didna trouble you." "it canna be helpit, it seems, whether or no," said he, but he let her take his hand, and his eyes looked soft and kindly. george and marion came in at the moment and made a diversion. "are ye no' ower weary to be down again, my dear?" said mr dawson. "ye ha'e had an afternoon of exertion and excitement, and ye maun mind that ye ha'e anither dependin' on ye now." "tired! do i look tired?" said marion. certainly there was no sign of fatigue in the bright face of the young mother as she came smiling toward him. "weel, then, george, ye'll bring in your aunt and mrs calderwood. the dinner has waited long, and it shall wait no longer." and he gave his arm to marion as he spoke. "my dear," said he, leading her to jean's place at the head of the table, "sit ye here, for i doubt jean will want little dinner the day." and it was marion's seat ever after. "has any thing happened to jean?" said marion. "nothing is wrong, i hope." "nothing that can be helpit, i doubt. ye'll hear in time, i dare say." and then he nodded to mrs calderwood who had grown very white. "ay, it's the old way. i doubt your willie is thinking as little of you as my jean is of me at this moment. but we'll take our dinner anyway." mrs calderwood sat down without a word. it was an awkward hour for every one of them, though miss jean and her nephew did what they could to keep up conversation for them all. it was all the more so for mr dawson, that he was not sure what his own feelings were or ought to be. he sat hardly hearing what was said, though he put in a word now and then, but all the time he was thinking,-- "if any one had said to me four years since that the widow calderwood's daughter would be sitting at the head of my table, and that i should be glad to see her there, would i have believed it? and her mother too, the very sight o' whose widow's cap used to anger me in the kirk itself. as for jean, my sister, i ay ken when she's pleased, though she says nothing. and george too, though i dare say he's sorry for me, and will say no word to his friend, till i give him leave--as i maun do now, i suppose, whether i'm pleased or no'." but mr dawson was less displeased than he supposed himself to be. he had been taken utterly by surprise, which was never agreeable to him, even when the surprise was a pleasant one. and it came to him with a feeling of comfort that neither his sister nor his son was likely to make a mistake, and be glad for the wrong thing where jean was concerned. but it was a long hour to him, and when it was over he went away as his custom was for a while's peace to his own peculiar domain. and here after a little jean found him. she went in, feeling very much as she used to feel long ago, when some piece of girlish mischief more than usually serious, made her conscious of meriting a rebuke from her father. she had been upstairs since she came home, and now wore one of her prettiest gowns, as befitted the occasion, and she had put a rose in her hair, which had not happened for a long time; and when her father turned at the sound of her voice, he saw as fair and sweet a daughter as ever gladdened a father's heart. she had always been fair and sweet, but there was a new look in her face to-day. her eyes fell before his; but he knew it was rather to veil the happiness that shone in them, than to hide the shyness which made it not easy for her to look up. his heart could not but grow soft as he looked. "were you wanting me, papa?" said jean, feeling more and more like the childish culprit that was to be chidden first and then forgiven. mr dawson himself thought of those days, when his hardest words to jean were sure to end gently, as he bade her be a good lassie and go to her mother. but he did not let the softness pass into his look or his voice as he said,-- "what is this that i have been hearing of you, jean?" "are ye very angry, papa? i couldna help it." "dinna ye think i have a right to be angry, hearing such a tale after all these years?" "but, papa, i didna ken. i thought he had forgotten me, and whiles i wasna sore that he had ever cared; and, papa, nothing has been said even yet." mr dawson laughed. "and ye wouldna have broken your heart, even if this confident sailor had never come home?" "no, papa. i don't think it. there is always plenty of work in the world, and i would have tried to do my share, as auntie jean has done. i should not have broken my heart, but--you are not very angry, papa?" "my dear, my anger is neither here nor there. ye are your ain mistress now, and can do as you please without asking my leave." jean went white as she listened, and sat suddenly down, gazing at him with wide, startled eyes. she had expected her father to be disappointed, perhaps angry, but she had expected nothing so terrible as this. "papa," she said, rising and coming a step nearer, "nothing can happen without your full and free consent. if you cannot give it, you must send--captain calderwood away--" "they have all said that," said mr dawson to himself. aloud he said with a dubious smile, "and ye'll promise no' to break your heart about him yet?" but his eyes softened wonderfully as he looked at her. "papa," said jean laying her hand on his shoulder as she stood a little behind him, "we love one another dearly. and you ay liked willie, papa, and so did--mamma." "my dear, i like him well. but have you thought of all you will have to bear as a sailor's wife?--the anxiety and suspense, the long, long waiting, and--" "but, papa, i should have that anyway. i _have_ had it, though--" "my dear, ye little ken. and it might have been so different with you?" "no, papa. it never could have been different. i wouldna have broken my heart, but i could never have cared for any one else." a knock at the door prevented any thing more, and in answer to mr dawson's voice captain calderwood entered. "i beg your pardon, mr dawson. i thought you were alone," said he in some embarrassment. "come awa' in," said mr dawson. "i thought, my lad, there was nothing more to be said the nicht?" "and so did i. and indeed there has been little said as yet." mr dawson laughed uneasily. no one was less fitted to act the part of the mollified father at the last moment, and he felt quite as little at his ease as either of them. but he could not but look with pride and pleasure on the handsome pair. "i doubt there is little more that need be said." "only a single word from you, sir. i know as well as you that i am not worthy of her, but man and boy i have loved her all my life." mr dawson had risen and jean's face was hidden on his shoulder. he raised her face and kissed her, saying softly,-- "i doubt the word is with jean now." it is possible that even now mr dawson might have resented a triumphant claiming of jean on her lover's part. but he only smiled, well pleased when the young man bowed his handsome head and kissed her hand as if it had been the hand of a royal princess. and then he sent them away to be congratulated by aunt jean and the rest. "and if they are any of them more surprised at my consent than i am myself, it will be strange," said he to himself as he sat down again, not sure even yet that he was not displeased, or at least disappointed still. but by the time he heard the slow unequal steps of his sister coming, as was her custom when any thing more than usual was going on, for a word or two with him before she went to her bed, he was able to receive her softly spoken congratulations cheerfully enough. she did not use many words; for she had an intuitive knowledge that some of her brother's thoughts about this matter had better not be uttered. but there was no mistaking the grave gladness of her face, and it came into her brother's mind that his sister's thoughts about most things were such as usually commended themselves to him in the end. as for the others to whom captain calderwood after a little conducted his promised wife, none of them except marion confessed to surprise, and none of them seemed to share the old man's doubt as to whether it was matter for rejoicing or no. jean's first glance at mrs calderwood was a little wistful and beseeching, as though she were not quite sure of a daughter's welcome. but two or three low spoken words set that at rest forever. captain calderwood's doubtful looks were cast on miss jean. "i ken weel i'm no worthy of her, auntie," he said. "ah! weel!--if she thinks it--that is the main thing," said miss jean. "my friend, and twice my brother," was all george said to him. and to jean he said softly, "happy woman?" and that was all. not a soul in portie but had something to say about them on the occasion. every body was surprised at the first announcement of the news, though afterwards there were two or three who had had, they said, an inkling of it all along. there was a whisper among the fine folk in the high-street which implied that miss dawson might have laid herself open to the suspicion of having "passed through the wood to find a crooked stick at the last." but even in the high-street no one ventured to say it aloud. for the handsome sailor, though he was not a rich man, was as good as the best of them, even in their own partial opinion. it was a grand ending to captain calderwood's romance of the sea in the opinion of all the seafaring folk of the town. the hand of the best and bonniest lass in portie was a suitable reward for the hero. and when it was whispered that they "had ay cared for one another since they were bairns together" the tokens of the general approbation were given with enthusiasm. "and that is an end o' the twa miss jeans. but it's o' george dawson himsel' that i'm ay thinkin'," said mrs cairnie to all who would listen to her. "as for auld miss jean--her consent was what ye would expect. she was ay soft-hearted, and she has had an experience o' her ain. but as for auld george!--" but even mrs cairnie owned that if he was not satisfied with the prospects of his daughter, "ye wouldna ken it by him." and mr james petrie, who watched him closely, and had better opportunities, said the same, and so did portie generally. one token of his satisfaction was of a kind that all portie could appreciate, though those chiefly concerned would gladly have dispensed with it. he insisted on a grand wedding, and as captain calderwood's time was limited, the wedding had to be hastened, and there was some dismay at saughleas at the thought of it. but may, who agreed with her father heartily on this point, came down, and took the matter into her own hands, and distinguished herself on the occasion. it was a grand wedding. there were many guests and many gifts, and it must be confessed many opinions entertained, though not expressed, as to the wisdom of the marriage. but no one ventured to hint that the wedding itself was not a splendid success. strangely enough, sir percy harefield was there and his sister. they were visitors at blackford again. mrs eastwood looked with silent and rather scornful amazement on the girl who had slighted all that her brother had to offer, and who was now giving herself to this--sailor. even mrs eastwood could not look at captain calderwood on his wedding morning and join any contemptuous term to his name. he was like a young sea king among them all, she acknowledged; and he was a hero, it seemed, to these quaint northern folk that made his world. with a dim remembrance of her own youthful dreams, she acknowledged that perhaps, after all, miss dawson's choice was not so surprising; and even her love and admiration for her brother could not make her blind to the contrast which the two men made. but she was scornful of jean's choice all the same. sir percy was scornful of no one, but friendly and admiring, though a little heavy and dull, among so many gay folk. but he presented the bride with an elegant bracelet and bore no malice. he offered his congratulations to both bridegroom and bride with sufficient heartiness, and not even his sister could tell whether any painful sense of regret touched his heart that day. one good thing came out of the grand wedding. there were guests from far and near, and among the rest--as one of the bridesmaids--came pretty emily corbett. not the slip of a lassie who had clambered over the rocks and run about the sands with her little brother and sister and the rest of the bairns that happy summer long ago, but a stately young englishwoman, tall and fair and wise. in her presence mr james petrie forgot several things, and among the rest, his father's pawky hints about miss langrigs and her tocher, which were to be had for the asking, as he thought. and despite many prophecies to the contrary, james married for love a portionless bride, and was made a man of by the doing it. the "young sea king" and his bride had a few days among the highland hills, and a few days more among the english lakes. but the real "wedding journey" was made in the "ben nevis." they sailed away together into a new summer beneath southern skies, and jean got a glimpse of a new world full of wonders to her untravelled eyes. happily both voyages were as peaceful and pleasant as the last had been tempestuous, and nothing happened to darken a single hour of that happy time. through the quiet of the soft sunny days, and the glory of nights made beautiful by the light of unfamiliar stars, these two young people, who had been for the last five years almost as strangers to each other, renewed their acquaintance, and indeed grew into a truer and deeper knowledge of each other than years of common life might have brought them, and before the happy outward voyage was over, there mingled with jean's love for her husband the reverence which no true heart can withhold from the man "who is good before god." it was not a full experience of sea life which his wife had got, captain calderwood owned, but this was less to be regretted, that she looked forward to many another voyage in the years that were before them. in the mean time she came home to her own house in the high-street where miss jean and mrs calderwood had been living together all this time. it was her home and theirs for many a happy year, and other homes in portie were made happier through the happiness of theirs. jean had much work laid to her hand in her own home as the years went on, and she found also something to do beyond it. she was her father's almoner to many a widow and orphan child in portie; and she helped her brother with higher work than her father's almsgiving. through her miss jean enjoyed in her last days, that which had made the happiness of her life for many years--the ministry of love to the "stranger," the "naked," the "sick, and in prison," for his sake who said, "inasmuch as ye did it to the least of these, ye did it unto me." and her experience as a sailor's wife and the mother of children, did not make her less fit for this work, but more. it made her wise to understand, and strong to help other sailors' wives in their time of need, and firm as well as tender in her dealings with many a child whom the cruel sea made fatherless. and to many "puir auld bodies," who had forgotten the events of yesterday, and last year, and of many a long year besides; and had come in their second childhood to live over the days of their youth again, the help and comfort which made their days of waiting a quiet rest, before the last "flitting," still came to their belief as help and comfort used to come through "the twa miss jeans." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ the end. niece catherine by mary hampden author of 'alison's ambition' 'the girl with a talent' 'stranger margaret' etc. london the religious tract society paternoster row and st paul's churchyard butler & tanner, the selwood printing works frome, and london. [illustration] contents chapter i. the heroine chapter ii. uncle ross chapter iii. uncle jack chapter iv. catherine's resolution chapter v. an unshaken resolution chapter vi. a sunday's experiences chapter vii. a ray of light chapter viii. the coming of catherine's betrothed chapter ix. an important offer chapter x. the unexpected happens chapter xi. confidences and an attempt chapter xii. good-bye chapter xiii. the fate of a letter chapter xiv. catherine's appeal chapter xv. as god willed chapter i the heroine 'catherine!--_catherine!_' mrs. arderne stood at the foot of the staircase, looking upward, and calling her companion. though her voice sounded impatient there was an amused smile on her face, because she could hear merry laughter from the night-nursery, where 'catherine' was helping nurse to put ted and toddie into bed. the last call produced the effect desired. a tall slim young woman came running downstairs, explaining and apologising. 'oh, i am really very sorry! have you been trying to make me hear? i didn't know that you were calling, not until a minute ago; and then ted was on my lap, and made himself _so_ heavy when i tried to lift him back into his cot!' 'you spoil my children.' the mother was still smiling. catherine laughed aloud, and very musically, the laugh of a girl to whom people had always been kind. 'if you seriously meant that accusation, mrs. arderne, i should have to try to prove my innocence; but as i am sure you didn't, i will only tell you what a darling ted has been to-night. he said his hymn right through, and afterwards composed a dear little prayer for "mother's wicked headache to be taken right away." now could i refuse to tell him about _jack and the beanstalk_ after that?' catherine was trying to smooth back her brown hair with her hands as she spoke, for several curly locks were fluttering round her equally brown eyes, toddie having 'rumpled dear carr's head all up,' as the little girl herself would have expressed it. 'kiss the tiny fellow "good-night" for me, dear,' said mrs. arderne, leading the way into the villa drawing-room. 'i called you down that you might fasten this flower in my dress, your fingers are so deft.' after having performed the task catherine stood back a few paces to survey the effect. 'you look delightful,' she remarked. 'but i'm not certain that it's a "companion's" place to tell you so!' 'the remark might be flattery. "companions" are supposed to flatter.' catherine made a grimace. this was a bad habit she had, a trick copied unconsciously from her boy cousins in melbourne. 'i won't ever be a first-rate "companion" then. mrs. arderne, it was tremendously good of you to take me, to give me a home, and a salary. until i came to england i hadn't the least idea how ignorant, and peculiar, and--and--and independent a creature i am!' 'you were just going to use a stronger term of opprobrium!' 'yes, dreadful slang. i checked myself for once, just because i am in real earnest. oh, i _am_ grateful to you! i want to learn to be of use to you,--to repay some of your goodness to me; please teach me to be a satisfactory companion in every way but that of flattery!' there were tears sparkling in the brown eyes now, and a sweet pleading expression on the whole face. mrs. arderne, being a woman of the world, did not show how much she was touched, and answered laughingly,-- 'catherine, you are beautiful! why did you spoil all my best plans for you by getting engaged to brian north?' a series of dimples played round the girl's lips. she put her hands behind her back, dropped a curtsey, after the manner of charity children before a benefactress, and blushed. 'please, ma'am, i think it was because--i love him.' 'romantic nonsense! my dear, you could as easily have loved another man. mr. north is not a paragon of every virtue and charm. he happened to love you, and so, soft-heartedly, you tried to pay him back for love, just as you want to pay me back because i offered you a home when you were in want of one.' 'you didn't try to patronise me. you came to me, and spoke like the dear true woman you are, as a sister might have spoken; and you burdened yourself, or rather let me burden you, with an untrained, wild, hot-tempered girl, an individual who knew simply nothing of etiquette, whose manners were all learned in the bush! that is a gentle description of me,--you know it is! and i don't believe you needed a companion at all!' 'i have learned to appreciate the advantages of possessing one, then. but seriously, catherine, have you no expectations at all? who is this uncle, who lives in this neighbourhood, to whom you were writing this afternoon?' 'uncle ross, or uncle jack--which do you mean? i wrote to them both. oh, uncle ross, i suppose, for he is the elder. he is ross carmichael, esq., of carm hall, beverbridge, and he used to be very nice to me when i was a child. he and uncle jack came out to australia once, years ago, before they quarrelled, and i have written to them every christmas ever since.... uncle jack was quite a darling!' 'why did they quarrel?' 'about an adopted nephew, named loring carmichael, whom they both loved. uncle ross wanted to make a business man of him; uncle jack wished him to go into the army. i never heard quite the rights of the matter, for i never met loring, though my melbourne cousins knew him well; in fact, one of them was in egypt at the time he was. he became a soldier, but only a "private," for he enlisted; he left home hoping that his absence would heal the feud between his uncles.' 'whereabouts _is_ carm hall?' 'i asked the stationmaster when we arrived this afternoon, and he said, "it's four miles straight up the road from woodley villa, miss." so i shall walk up to see my uncles to-morrow morning, with your consent. four miles are nothing!' 'since they have quarrelled, they maybe living in different places, not in the old home.' 'oh, i hope not. the stationmaster said "yes," when i asked if they were both well. he looked as though he wanted to talk a lot about them, but of course i could not allow him to gossip about my own relatives.' 'but is the adopted nephew dead? there is the "fly" at the door, and i must go, but i want to find out first what expectations you have, my dear. tell me, in a few words!' catherine's face was quite grave now. 'yes, he died in battle, in the third year after he left home. uncle ross means to leave all his fortune to charities, and uncle jack never had any money to speak of, so my "expectations" are _nil_, mrs. arderne, dear. i shall earn my own living until brian can afford to get married. if uncle's intentions had not been fully explained to me in one of his own letters, i should not have expected any part of his fortune, for my melbourne cousins are nearer kin to him than i.... now let me help you on with your cloak.... wasn't it wonderful that you should have taken a furnished house in this very neighbourhood?' 'i've many friends here, you see. after to-night you must come out with me, child. a little gaiety will do you good.' the expressive face lit up with smiles again, as catherine cried,-- 'how kind you are! but please, please, don't worry over me. i believe you are often quite unhappy for my sake, just because my stepfather squandered all my money. dear mrs. arderne, _money doesn't matter_, it really doesn't. if i were delicate, unable to earn my living, i might merit pity, but not as i am. why, i've never been ill in my life, and i'm _so_ happy always, that it's not the least bit of a wonder that i feel i must thank god every minute for all his goodness to me!' mrs. arderne gave an impatient shrug, and hastily kissed her companion's rosy cheeks. 'child, you are rather ridiculous sometimes. there, good-night. that "fly" has been at the door five minutes, and i shall be late for mrs. dumbarton's dance.' catherine ran out into the hall to wave a hand as her employer and friend was driven away, then went upstairs again to peep at the children, to whom she was devotedly attached. six-year-old ted was slumbering quite peacefully, his usually mischievous expression having given place to a seraphic smile. as the girl bent above him he laughed in his sleep, so she dared not linger by his side, lest he might wake to clamour for the history of _jack and the beanstalk_ all over again. passing into the inner room, she found 'toddie' (otherwise nora) likewise wrapped in slumber, and not in danger of being disturbed by a kiss. toddie was a very calm, sensible little person, a model of deportment and good conduct, compared with that enchanting rebel ted, who was but one year her junior. presently catherine stole away, into the sanctum of her bedroom; and there, kneeling on the hearth, with her hands stretched out to the blaze of a glorious fire, she gave herself up to pleasant thoughts, many of which were connected with the portrait of brian north, which occupied the place of honour on the mantelpiece. it was a fine photograph. the keen eyes looked straight out at the observer, with an earnestness of gaze betokening earnestness of purpose. the features and contour of the face were both delicate and strong; and the mouth, sensitive as well as resolute, was shadowed, not hidden, by the dark moustache. this young man was an intellectual worker--a journalist by profession, an author by predilection--and already the dark hair over his brow was streaked with grey, though he was only thirty. from her kneeling posture on the rug catherine, looking up at the portrait, mentally apostrophized it. 'my dear, hard-working old boy! mrs. arderne wonders why i accepted the offer you made me--why i valued it! she thinks i could have loved any one else just as well! isn't it wonderful how dense the nicest people are sometimes? ah, yes, even _you_, dear!' at this point in her meditation catherine's eyes saddened. 'you are dense on the greatest subject of all. do you guess how much i pray god to _make you see_? if i were not so sure that you, being you, must grow wise before long, must shake off the contagion of the world's indifference, your want of faith would be enough to do away with all the happiness i have been boasting about. but you will soon learn, brian dear; you will let my persuasion rouse you. god must love you so well that he will surely show the beauty of his love to you.' brian north had been brought up by a father who had taught him to feel scorn for that profession of religion which so many men make without ruling life by it--the empty show of faith in god without any attempt to serve him. no mother had ever shown brian the truth of christianity--since his birth he had been motherless. the clever lad had always admired his father, and had willingly been led by him. in early life he had even been proud of doubting that which the majority of men believe. of late years, indeed, as his intellect had ripened, he had begun to perceive the folly of unbelief--had come to see that religion, pure and honest, is for every man the matter of supreme importance, and that faith, though dishonoured by some hypocrites, remains the chief glory in a glorious world. but, until catherine carmichael had talked to him of these subjects, he had tried to put them out of his thoughts, to imagine that he had not been specially 'called' to the leading of that christian life which he owned was a noble one. his hours were spent in business struggles; his times of leisure were few, and he always brought to them a brain wearied by money-earning, and, often, the despondency of baffled ambitions. his heavenly father had now indeed 'called' to him by the voice of the woman of his love, and well might she hope for great things from his faith, when it was once thoroughly aroused. to-night nearly all her thoughts were of brian, of his needs. she could scarcely spare one reflection for the matter which mrs. arderne considered all-important--the possible reception which rich uncle ross might give her. when she remembered the two old men, it was to feel pleasantly sure of their affection, not to long for a share in the fortune of the elder. her heart was full of tenderness to-night, and it was partly because she was so earnestly sorry for brian, who did not possess her secret of happiness, that she let him monopolize her thoughts to such a degree. it was not his lack of money of which she was thinking when she prayed, 'o god, make my dear boy rich! he is so poor and needy, while i can never thank thee enough for the gifts thou hast lavished upon me. no one can be content without thee, my god.' and long before mrs. arderne returned from the dance catherine was sleeping soundly and peacefully, like ted with the smile on his lips. chapter ii uncle ross ross carmichael, esq., of carm hall, beverbridge, was not a punctual person at the best of times, but on this particular morning he was the cause of his servants' despair, for never had he been so late in coming down to breakfast. the cook had begged the footman to let her have back the bacon to 'hot up,' but he had replied that he dared not remove the dish from the table: 'master might come down any minute now, and it would never do for him to have to wait while the dish was carried upstairs again.' now mr. carmichael had never been known to lose his temper with a servant, so their alarmed anxiety would have appeared ridiculous to any one ignorant of the peculiar awe that old gentleman inspired. he never scolded harshly, nor raised his voice in remonstrance, but his reproof would have been sarcasm, and the memory of the fault would have lingered for days in his mind. his expression was severe generally; only those persons who had not been so unfortunate as to offend him nearly always found out that his face did not do his heart justice. a man of prejudices, and keen, though controlled passions, was ross carmichael, very self-sufficient, and terribly unwilling to forgive or forget the smallest injury. this morning, however, he did not mind whether his bacon were well or ill-cooked, hot or cold, and the fact that one egg was boiled too hard quite escaped his attention. his 'good-morning, james,' was spoken as usual, then he sat down to the breakfast-table and ate the habitual meal in silence. james began to grow anxious about his master. he was not often so taciturn. at the end of a quarter of an hour the man ventured to inquire whether his master felt the room cold and would like a fire. mr. carmichael lifted his eyes from his plate (fine, dark eyes they were, in striking contrast to the bent white brows above them), checked a desire to frown at the interruption to his reflections, and answered: 'no, james, thank you. a fire? you know i never have one lit in this room until october. this is only september.' 'yes, sir; but unusually cold to-day is.' mr. carmichael returned to his breakfast and meditation. in a few seconds, however, he looked up again and smiled. 'do you remember that it was in september, ten years ago, that we returned from australia, you and i, james?' 'yes, sir, that i do. it was a capital journey, so we was told, but the sea was a deal too playful for my tastes.' 'tut, tut; the sea was smooth--perfectly smooth--most of the time. you will not have forgotten the "station" then, the homestead, and little miss catherine?' 'the young lady as used to ride better than most men do over here, sir? it was a sight, and no mistake, to see her clearing the paling round that place they called the gum paddock--and she not more than fourteen or fifteen, or thereabouts.' 'i never gossip,' said the old gentleman, after another pause. 'no, sir; of course not.' 'i had a reason when i spoke about the journey to and from australia, and the "homestead" where i stayed, you have served me tolerably well, and i am sure loyally, to the best of your ability for so long now, james, that i feel able to talk to you as i would to none of your fellow-servants.' 'i'm sure i hope so, sir,' cried the man, sorely puzzled, and not a little hurt by the dictatorial and patronising tone of his master. his chagrined look touched mr. carmichael's heart. 'why, certainly, james; i regard you as a proved friend. don't look as though i had called you a murderer. we've faced perils together, and--and----' suddenly the 'squire' discovered that he was speaking strangely after the manner of his brother (catherine's uncle jack), and this surprising fact made him break down altogether in his speech. the question to which he had been gently leading up, in order not to surprise james into feeling curious about it, burst without any warning from his lips. 'do you think miss catherine liked me--was fond of me--in those days, james?' 'indeed, yes, sir; why, she was for ever talking about her uncles.' 'ah! but _which_ did she prefer?' 'which uncle, sir?' 'yes. it was her uncle john, was it not, james?' 'mr. jack, sir? well, she was certainly remarkably attached to him, but then so she was to you, sir, and she seemed able to do anything she liked with you, sir, and it's not many people that could be said of.' the squire pondered the answer, until he chuckled over it. the chuckle ended with a sigh, though. rising from the table, he drew a letter from his pocket and said shortly: 'wrongly addressed; send newton at once with it. and, james, after all you may light the fire here, and another in the drawing-room, for i expect miss catherine to see me this morning.' james gave a start of surprise. before he had recovered from his amazement sufficiently to reply, the squire had left the room, and was shut up in the library. '"miss catherine" coming to carm hall! why, "miss catherine" must be quite grown up by this time!' then james read the address on the letter in his hand: 'colonel j. carmichael, carm hall, beverbridge.' 'poor mr. jack! she reckoned he would be still here, in the old home!' sighed the man to himself, as he hurried away to send newton at once with the missive. 'strange, too, as the postman didn't know better than to deliver his letter here; but no doubt he only looked at the address, that's plain enough,--and where _he_ ought to be too!' the elder mr. carmichael was not studying in the library. his account-books lay untouched on his secretary-table; his morning papers were not cut yet; the huge volumes of reference stood upright on the shelves. he was sitting in his 'office-chair' before the desk, and there was a lot of business correspondence awaiting his attention; but he was only reading and re-reading the letter from his niece catherine. 'woodley cottage, 'beverbridge. 'my dear uncle ross,-- 'i am coming to see you to-morrow morning--a few hours after you will receive this! since i wrote to you, last christmas, my worldly circumstances have undergone such a tremendous change that i am obliged to earn my own living; for which fact many kind-hearted, well-meaning folk have pitied me. _i wonder why_ they think me so unfortunate? at the homestead i worked fifty times harder than my duties as mrs. arderne's companion oblige me to do now; and, after all, work is happiness, when god sanctions it. you shall hear no grumbles from me, i promise you! my stepfather is not dead, only bankrupt, and the station has passed into other hands. mother's money, the little fortune she left me, has vanished, and alice is married. mrs. arderne offered me a home just when i found myself without one. the dear kind soul has no real need of a "companion," so i tell her often; yet, as she does not wish me to leave her, i feel justified in remaining under her roof. _this_ is a hired roof, by-the-bye, uncle--a furnished villa, taken for six months, because she has friends in the neighbourhood. is it not a splendid opportunity for me to see you both again? it is ten years since we last met, when i rode with you as far as the boundary-rider's hut on the curra paddock. we said good-bye at wattle creek, do you recollect? uncle jack, seeing that i was nearly crying, tried to cheer me by inviting me to beverbridge for next christmas; but i went home in tears, because i knew i shouldn't be allowed to go to england all by myself. yet here i am--ten years later! i'm grown up now, though; not "little catherine" any longer! 'my pen has been running on, while i ought to have reserved all my news to tell you to-morrow, when i see you again; and i have not been able to resist writing to uncle jack as well as to you. 'good-bye again, dear uncle, for a very short time now. 'your affectionate niece, 'catherine carmichael.' 'ha!--couldn't resist writing to "uncle jack" as well!' the squire sighed and frowned as he pondered this admission. ten minutes later the library door behind him opened and shut, and he was startled by a voice which cried: 'uncle, you didn't want me to wait ceremoniously in the drawing-room, did you?' 'bless my soul, it is you, catherine!' the girl let both her hands remain in his grasp, and stood facing him, smiling, scrutinizing his face eagerly. 'yes, catherine at twenty-five instead of fifteen! _you_ look very little older, only your beard has turned quite white!... how is uncle jack? shall i see any difference in him? is he as upright as ever?' 'he--i--i really do not know, my dear.' '_not know?_ oh, you mean that people who are always together are easily deceived on such points.' 'no, i did not, catherine. it is three years since your uncle john and i were always together!' 'your own, only brother! perhaps he is abroad, serving his queen and country?' 'he lives in beverbridge still, but not here. your letter has been sent on to him by one of my servants, though i might reasonably have returned it to jenkins, the postman, who should have known his business better than to have delivered it wrongly. now come into the drawing-room, my dear; there is a fire there.' 'please let us stay here. you look at home in this room. the drawing-room will be a chilly-looking place, i know, in spite of the fire.' mr. carmichael's gaze softened as it rested on the merry pleading face. 'still the same roguish young lady, catherine? bent on having your own way, even in trivial matters! ah, well, you _ought_ to have it, if it doesn't spoil you.' 'that latter sentence was an after-thought, uncle! thank you! remember, i am not a spoilt child of fortune any longer, but poor miss carmichael, the companion!' her hearty laugh was not echoed by her relative. in his opinion the loss of money was a great evil,--a few years earlier he would have been disposed to think it the greatest possible, only he was beginning to realize that riches are less powerful than is usually supposed. catherine, being quick to note changes of expression in those dear to her, cried suddenly: 'uncle! you are sorry for me!' 'is that so remarkable, my dear?' 'perhaps not, only i--i regret it. why should you worry over my case, when it does not in the least distress me? if i were _very_ rich, i should worry about the responsibility of such a stewardship, for fear i might not make the best use of it, and so disappoint god.' mr. carmichael smiled involuntarily. 'you have an extraordinarily familiar way of speaking of god!' 'because i used the words "disappoint god"? does he not yearn over sinners? did christ not weep over jerusalem? are we not told, "ye have wearied the lord with your words"? if you, uncle, had showered love and wonderful gifts upon a creature who cast away the affection and the help, would not you be disappointed?... oh, forgive me! my thoughtlessness has hurt you! i--i forgot loring!' her penitence was very real, and tears had come into her eyes. she felt desperately angry with herself for having reminded uncle ross of the nephew who had run away to be a soldier. 'loring certainly disappointed me--he has left my home lonely; and you are right in supposing that i prefer not to speak of him.' the old man's brow had contracted with a frown, which deepened as he went on speaking. 'while we are upon the subject, catherine, let me remind you that, had not loring despised money, as you seem to do, he would not have behaved badly to me. i consider that men and women ought to desire and respect wealth.' it was the office-chair in which catherine was sitting. she swung it round, that she might face her uncle, who was standing beside her, and impulsively laid her hand on his, as she answered: 'it is difficult to be quite frank with you, yet sincerity is always best, isn't it? i don't despise money,--indeed, i do desire it,--at least i should like more than i have, because--because i am engaged to a very poor hard-working man, and we shall not be able to marry until his circumstances have improved.' 'engaged, catherine?' she blushed and nodded. 'but please let me make my explanation first,--i will tell you all about _him_ presently. some one suggested to me that--that some people might suppose that i--expected help from you, or--or----oh, _please_ understand, uncle dear, without any more explaining!' 'some one suggested that the pretty niece was going to see a rich old uncle who would probably make her his heiress,--was that it? in this cynical world motives are generally misjudged, my dear girl.' 'i told the person (it was not brian) that my melbourne cousins were nearer kin to you than i,--i am only a stepniece, though we have the same surname,--and also that you have resolved to leave your fortune to charities, as you told me by letter. all the same, i was foolishly nervous lest you might misunderstand me; so i assured you, too bluntly, that i am quite happy with mrs. arderne, and enjoy earning my own living.' the frown had gone from the squire's brow. it was with a serene smile that he asked, pressing catherine's hand: 'and i may believe without undue vanity, that you wanted to see the old uncle again for his own sake?' 'yes; yes, indeed!' 'now tell me about this brian. is he worthy of you?' 'of course he is!' 'that reply was expected.' 'you mustn't tease me, if you want to hear about my first and last romance!' catherine was not used to speaking much about herself, so it was the relation of brian north's merits, talents, and history which she told uncle ross, rather than the story of how she had learned to love this man to whom her promise was plighted. the squire paid most attention to the description of brian's abilities; in fact, the moneyed gentleman was trying to calculate the author's worth by estimating his possible financial success or failure. 'if the young fellow has tact and imagination, and a practised pen, he may win you a fortune yet, my dear; but if, as i suspect, he is one of the large army of obstinate, blind, proud geniuses, then he isn't likely to be able to offer you a home at all; in which case, i can only trust you will grow tired of believing in him.' catherine felt that her pleasure in meeting this uncle again was all gone--dissipated by a few unsympathetic words! yet, being genuinely fond of him, and knowing that his worldly wisdom was far more on his lips than in his heart, she tried to make allowances for him. still, her feelings had been really hurt. 'you would not mistrust him if you knew him, uncle!' she cried eagerly. 'you wouldn't like me to have given him a half-hearted kind of love, would you? if i didn't believe in him, trust him wholly, i should not have promised to be his wife.' 'girls are too tender-hearted,' said the squire. 'and where their affections are concerned they are utterly incapable of judgment. i will try to believe in your impecunious betrothed, catherine, and soon you must make him come down to beverbridge to see me, or rather that i may see him.... in the meantime we will not discuss him. you will stay and spend the day with me, of course?' 'no, i cannot, uncle. i am sorry, but my time is not my own, you know. i have to be back for lunch at one o'clock.' 'then you certainly need not spring up now! sit down again, and i will ring for my housekeeper, mrs. marlin,--a worthy soul,--to relieve you of your hat and jacket.' 'but it is a four-mile walk home, and--i must go to see uncle jack.' again the frown came on mr. ross carmichael's brow, and his voice regained a cynical tone as he replied: 'you are not likely to find my brother indoors in the morning; i believe he employs his time in the office of the rd battalion of the royal beverbridge volunteers. he will not have received your letter yet. if you can bear to postpone your visit to him until evening, you had better do so, unless indeed you want to spend some hours alone with agatha.' 'poor agatha! how is she?' 'worse, i believe. a life like that is better ended.' 'god doesn't think so, that is evident,' said catherine. chapter iii uncle jack mrs. arderne made catherine give a full account of her visit to uncle ross, but wisely refrained from commenting upon the recital, knowing that her companion would be distressed by any expression of her own firm opinion that a fortune and a good position were to be had for even less than the asking. the kindly-natured, worldly woman was quite excited over catherine's prospects, though she dared not speak of them. a rich, lonely old uncle, with no relatives near him but a brother from whom he was estranged, and that brother's invalid ward, a girl twelve years of age,--where could catherine be more sure to find a benevolent patron for brian north (if she was resolved to be faithful to her promise to him), or to whom could she more reasonably look for help in her orphanhood and poverty? but catherine was such an oddly unpractical, independent young woman that she absolutely refused to speculate as to her chances! for this reason, mrs. arderne felt positively bound to speculate for her, and to persuade her to behave to uncle ross in a manner likely to please him. needless to say, therefore, she strongly disapproved of catherine's intention of visiting uncle jack on this, her first whole day at beverbridge. 'my dear child, you really ought not to go roaming about the country after nightfall,' she remonstrated. ted and toddie had just been sent back to the nursery, after the usual game of play following upon dessert, and catherine's cheeks were flushed, her brown hair rumpled by exercise. she was now seated on a low stool at mrs. arderne's side, smiling up at her confidentially. 'why, i simply couldn't get lost on a starlight night,--besides, i have a compass on my watch-chain! do you think i relied upon the aid of street-lamps and sign-posts in australia? uncle jack lives quite near us, in a bye-lane or street of the village. the postman looked so pleased just now when i asked him about colonel john carmichael! "the nicest gentleman i ever met, miss," he said. "quite one of the old sort. there's no telling the kindnesses he's shown to the poor; not so much money-giving, for folk do say he isn't well off enough for himself, but in other ways, that mean more, usually. oh, that village postman is quite a philosopher, i assure you!' 'you delayed her majesty's mail while you gossiped with him!' catherine laughed. 'i forgot that; he didn't seem in any hurry, and i'm sure he enjoyed telling me about uncle jack.' mrs. arderne reverted to the original subject. 'i am not at all certain that i shall let you out to-night, miss carmichael.' 'you--you _don't_ mean that, do you?' 'why should you annoy your uncle ross, who seems to have been very nice to you? i am certain he will be vexed by your going at once to seek out the brother with whom he has quarrelled.' 'but the right of the quarrel is all on uncle jack's side,' said the girl simply. 'you will understand that when you have met him.' 'he persuaded loring carmichael to rebel against his elder uncle's authority.' 'he only talked to him enthusiastically of the army; uncle jack, dear old fellow, never could talk even to me for a quarter of an hour without mentioning sebastopol! he is such a thorough, devoted soldier, and he always abhorred mere money-earning life-occupations!' 'the world would say that, in persuading his rich brother's adopted son to rebel, he was probably actuated by money interests himself.' catherine was silent and very grave. this was her habitual manner when disappointed or grieved. mrs. arderne bent down to glance at the saddened young face, and promptly repented for having banished its customary smile. 'there, i'm sorry i said that! no doubt mr. jack is a guileless hero; but such persons are often tiresome! go and find him this evening, if you must, only don't perversely quarrel with the other uncle on his account,--that other, who has certainly been very badly treated!' so, after tea, catherine set forth at a brisk pace through the village, smiling to herself all the way so happily that many of the cottagers, seeing her, smiled too for sympathy. yes, here was the lane, or street rather, of which the postman had told her, leading out of the old market square. a small white house stood on the right, planted sideways, within a high wall. there was no proper entrance to it, only a narrow wooden door, painted green, and inscribed with the name, redan cottage. at the sight of that address (which, after the manner of country dwellers, the postman had omitted to mention, having called the house 'carmichael's'), catherine's smile widened, and her heart began to beat fast in her eagerness. redan cottage!--of course that was the name uncle jack _would_ have chosen for his house! no sooner had she rung the bell than the door opened as if by magic, and a rosy-cheeked lad invited her to follow him across a tiny stone-floored yard, under an ivied porch, and indoors. 'i am expected!' thought catherine. indeed, the boy had not paused to ask her name or business, and now preceded her into a little dark room, with the announcement: 'miss catherine's come at last, please, sir!' uncle jack had been pacing the room--a short promenade! his niece had just time to find out how overwhelmingly delighted she was to see him once again, before he had put his arm round her shoulders and kissed her cheek, as a father might have done. 'my darling! what, crying? oh, it's a long while since we said good-bye at wattle creek, isn't it? i couldn't tell you how often i've wanted my niece since then. but i believed we should meet again some day, and i've found out that the times chosen by the great commander are always best and fittest, lassie.' 'uncle jack, why didn't you write oftener to me? why did you let me forget even a little bit how good you were to me, and how fond we were of one another? when you call me "lassie" it all comes back to me. i used to fancy that my father must have been like you.' 'an uncle isn't as much good as a father; still, he may be some use. and you are poor now--your possessions have melted away! we won't call the absent bad names, lassie, will we? but i always saw "rascal" written on your stepfather's brow. he couldn't stand fire properly, though he ought to have been used to it out there. i remember once i held my sword to his throat, too--to show him how poor northcote died; and he winced under it. still, i won't blame him, since we are the gainers by his wrong-doing, agatha and i.' 'gainers? how is that?' 'because you are coming home, my dear, to live with us. sit there in the basket-chair--it was bought for you this morning, for this room was rather short of chairs--and good old harriet made the cushions. i verily believe she went without her dinner that she might get them finished. ah, you kept us waiting a long time, lassie! robert has been in the yard nearly all day, he was so anxious not to keep you on the doorstep.' catherine sat down in the chair, and could not find words to answer with all at once. home! uncle jack had taken her consent to his invitation for granted! _home!_ and even the postman knew that he 'wasn't well enough off for himself'! oh, the dear, true-hearted, generous old man! and what could she say? she could not bear to hurt his feelings, yet she must not be a burden upon him. tears were in her eyes, and it was with the utmost difficulty that she steadied her voice to thank him. 'gratitude? nonsense, my dear (if i may use such a word to a lady). think of the joy your presence will be to us--agatha, myself, old harriet, and even robert. i haven't been able to resist talking about you to the servants, and they have been very curious to see you; you would have laughed at harriet's endeavour to get a cake made ready to greet you. she is not the typical, cross housekeeper, resenting interference. indeed, she told me to-day that we all need some one to smarten us up, and that you, "being a travelled young lady," would be sure to do it!' in this way did colonel jack talk on, softly patting catherine's hand, and trying to give her time to control her evident emotion. she understood this, and appreciated it. soon her eyes began to smile through her tears, and she cried: 'you _know_ i am grateful, so i need not speak any more thanks to you; but oh, uncle jack, dear, until you offered me a home i had not realized the loneliness of being without one. mrs. arderne has always been so kind to me (you remember her, don't you?) that i've never been sorry for myself while with her, and uncle ross's pity this morning only made me feel more independently cheerful!' 'so i've taught you to be lonely, lassie?' 'no; you first made me long for a home, and then you gave me one! i cannot come to live in it altogether, for i must earn my living--not be an idle creature, you know; but redan cottage is "home" for me from henceforth--"home," to love, to remember, to dream of, to visit, to spend my holidays in!' uncle jack looked troubled. 'catherine, you are not--what is commonly called "an advanced woman," are you? you are not of opinion that women should do all the work in the world?' she laughed. 'no, indeed! but a penniless young woman certainly should support herself, if she is able to do so. dearest of uncles, don't you think that, by coming "home" to subsist upon the income which keeps up this establishment, i should be defrauding agatha, if not you?' 'the poor child would receive benefits that no money could buy her: your love and care--and counsel, especially counsel.' 'whose counsel can be better than yours?' there was a shake of the white head. 'i'm a beginner in christianity, catherine,' said the colonel thoughtfully. 'in my youth i wasn't taught much about god, and then my ambitions and enthusiasm for the service left me no time, so i imagined, for other than military studies. naturally, when my comrades were falling around me, i prayed, for them and for myself, if i were about to fall too; still, i knew next to nothing of the lord whose help i asked. lately i _have_ been studying the bible, and i'm honestly ashamed of my purposeless past. every time i pray i make the best excuse i can to the creator, by assuring him that had i been so fortunate as to know him earlier, i would have served him as loyally as, thanks be to him, i have always served my queen.' catherine's smile was very tender as she looked at the colonel's reverential face. 'god must quite understand you!' 'do you think so? you used to talk of him in the old days, i recollect, but i regarded your piety as a mere part of a gentle girl's sentiments--as a sort of beautiful romance unsuitable for men to share. dear, what a fool i was, catherine (if you will excuse the strong expression)!' 'you are god's own soldier now, dear uncle. i am glad indeed. nothing is equal to the peace of serving him who died for us.' 'ah, what a soldier he was!--the great commander is the title i like best to give him. you will teach me all you know about him, will you not, my child?' catherine's fingers returned the pressure of his hand. 'we will teach each other, uncle jack. and even when we are absent one from another we shall know that we are both looking in the same direction, towards the glory of the prince of peace and the king of battles.' 'if you _must_ earn your living, lassie!' 'it seems to be a clear duty. i will never stay away from home out of pride, or because i do not like to take favours from you, you may be quite sure of that. and if brian could only find employment in this neighbourhood, oh, how glad i should be! he is not very strong, his health would be so much better in the country, and he would have quiet hours in which to write.... oh, i forget--you don't know about brian yet!' 'your bright face tells your secret, lassie. tell me you love him, and that he loves you with all his heart, and then i shall be quite satisfied!' 'yes, to both those questions! he is a poor, hard-working journalist, earning a bare livelihood for himself.' 'that doesn't matter; his love will give him courage to work on for you, and god will reward him some day!' 'he does not call god "father" yet; his mind is only just groping nearer to the light; his heart has not yet been taken captive by the lord.' 'you will teach him, as i want to be taught. god will help you.' 'uncle jack, you are the dearest consoler and encourager possible! brian shall love you almost as well as i do! he shall come to see you very, very soon! uncle ross wants to see him too; isn't it strange?' 'surely not strange, lassie. he would naturally be interested. if my brother offers you a home with him--what then? you will be standing in your own light if you refuse. he is a rich man; carm hall is more fitted than this cottage to be your shelter. you mustn't allow any--any affection for me to--to influence you in this matter.' yet, bravely though the colonel was looking this possibility in the face, nobly though he was anxious for catherine's welfare rather than for his own pleasure, the contemplation of his vision of what might be, cast a shadow into his eyes. watching him, catherine learned how sincerely he wanted her. though a most unworldly young woman (as mrs. arderne had often told her), she could not help understanding that she had made a choice which most people would blame and ridicule. she had promised always to regard redan cottage as home. though she honestly believed that uncle ross would keep to his intention of leaving his wealth to be divided among charities, she could not deny that he might offer her, and even her husband, a home during his lifetime--possibly a small portion of his fortune might be set aside for them. yet, as she had said, she believed 'the right of the quarrel to be on uncle jack's side,' and never could she deny this belief. the result of her short reflection was that she said happily, 'i have got a home now, and i prefer it to any other at present existing in all the world, dear colonel!' 'then my duty is done! i need never again try to persuade you to desert me, lassie! and if brian is vexed with me----' 'but he won't be.' 'no doubt you can answer for him, so i won't trouble over any supposition! ross does not need you, as agatha does. he is a good man, in his own way; heaven forbid i should judge him harshly, but he would not be grateful for being taught religion.' 'my choice is made, uncle dear, and you may be sure i shall never, never regret it!' 'god bless you, lassie!' the old gentleman bent his lips to his niece's hand, and they were both silent for a minute or two, gazing into the fire. then he said: 'i must take you to agatha now; the poor little maid will be wearying for you.' so catherine was led out of the tiny parlour, across the hall of this doll's house of a cottage, past the open door of the kitchen, where old harriet and robert were waiting to catch a glimpse of her as she passed, and into another room as wee as the parlour, where bright pictures, pink curtains and upholstery generally, and the presence of flowers, betokened the colonel's fatherly care for his adopted ward. chapter iv catherine's resolution agatha had been an invalid all her short life. suffering had made her fretful and terribly nervous, especially of death, which she always imagined to be coming soon to her. she was not at all resigned to her lot, nor anxious to learn resignation, unless to escape the punishment that she feared must be the result of rebellion. a more unhappy, self-tormenting child could scarcely exist. directly catherine caught sight of the piteous-looking countenance, with its great dark passionate eyes, her heart went out to agatha. the little girl was lying flat on a wheel-couch before the fire, with her face turned away from the warmth, towards the door of the room. there were tears on her cheeks; she had been indulging in a stormy fit of crying because she had been, as the colonel had surmised, wearying for the coming of catherine. 'you might have come to me sooner!' these were her first words. bending to kiss her--a greeting that was warmly returned--catherine answered: 'it is such a long while since i saw uncle jack that it was excusable for us to have a great deal to say to one another, wasn't it? don't scold me on the very first evening of our acquaintance, agatha, for you and i will be friends soon, i hope. it is very nice of you to be anxious to share your home with me, dear. i cannot come to live here, but i shall pay you frequent visits, and spend my holidays with you both.' 'you won't come altogether?' 'i cannot give up my work.' agatha laughed bitterly, and shrugged her shoulders with the gesture of a spoiled child. 'i suppose you're afraid of offending our enemy! guardian, don't look cross with me because i said that! he _is_ our enemy, if he isn't more willing to make up the quarrel than you say he is. miss carmichael, you'll be very silly if you don't take uncle ross's side of the dispute, not ours! being poor, and living in a tiny cottage, and having to be economical, _is_ so horrid!' the colonel showed no sign of being cross; there was only an expression of perplexity in the gaze he bent upon his ward. 'now, dearie, do not try to shock catherine--she will not understand, as i do, that you never mean one half the shocking things you say.' 'oh, guardian, i can't be polite to her, just as though she were a stranger, for i'm much too glad she's come. catherine, if you make uncle ross adopt you, i suppose you'll be cutting us out, spoiling any chances we may have, you know, but i don't mind that a bit, and you can see guardian doesn't. will you promise _always_ to remember that? i _would_ like the quarrel to be made up, just so that we went back to carm hail to live, but that's all! i don't want any one to leave money to us, because----oh, never mind about why. only say you won't misunderstand when i grumble! i want _you_ most of all; if you'd come and live here, it wouldn't be as dull, and it's only the dulness that matters much.' this extraordinary series of sentences was delivered in a jerky, half-shy, half-reckless fashion, and agatha's glance remained fixed on catherine's face. stroking the child's thin cheek, miss carmichael asked playfully: 'don't you know that you would have to be still more economical if i came to live here, dear?' to her amazement agatha burst into tears. 'there! you will misunderstand me! i only mind economy because i'm miserable often, and dull, and frightened. now you've forced me to tell the truth, and guardian's feelings will be hurt. oh, i'm always doing wrong somehow!' catherine sat down on the edge of the couch, and laid her face on the tumbled mass of brown curls. 'you little goose! i was half in fun. i do believe that you want me to come; only i can't, so you must be content to have me sometimes.' the sobs still continued. uncle jack smiled wistfully at his niece, shook his head with a puzzled air, and stole out of the room, wisely thinking that the two girls, of ages so different, would arrive sooner at mutual understanding if they were left alone together. catherine refrained from asking for an explanation of the sobs, and presently agatha raised a tear-strewn face out of the pillows, and nestling her cheek against her new friend's arm, said penitently: 'i'm sorry i'm such a little beast. my ideas are all in a muddle, so that it's impossible for me to make you understand what i mean. and i was trying to be diplomatic, and you've no notion how difficult that is when one's head is always aching!' 'poor little woman! but why want to be diplomatic? simplicity is true, noble and best. your guardian has a simple heart.' 'i am going to _try_ to make you understand, catherine!' cried agatha resolutely. 'ever since guardian adopted me i've heard praises of you--of your courage, and sincerity, and beauty, and talents--until you've become a sort of _ideal_ to me. do you see?' 'a very poor basis to found an ideal upon!' laughed catherine. 'i know all about your australian life--how you found out when the stockman (jock was his name, wasn't it?) was being cruel to the cattle, and you told your stepfather about him, in spite of his threats of revenge. i've made a map of the station, and guardian marked the paddock-fence where your pony threw you when you were a child, and you called to your mother that you were "all right," though your leg was broken! i know how you used to spend your time, working for poor people, and trying to make the awful rough men kinder to their wives and children--and teaching the children about god and reading the bible to invalids. oh, you're a very satisfactory ideal, i assure you!' catherine's face was one bright blush at this enthusiastic commendation. she was about to protest against it, but agatha went on eagerly: 'don't contradict, please don't, for it's all true. i told you about it, so that you might leave off being surprised at my wanting you so much. you _can't_ seem like a stranger. i made up my mind to love you, long before i guessed you'd come to england, so when your letter came this morning i went just wild with delight. guardian said at once that you would live with us, and then i thought how beautiful life would be. there was nothing but happiness in my mind until then.' she paused, frowning at the consideration of what came afterwards. 'go on, dear,' said catherine encouragingly. 'then i found out that my wishes were all in a muddle too. living in a cottage _is_ so tedious! there's nothing to see, and nothing to do. guardian's out a great deal, busy over the volunteers, and there's no one but robert to help harriet, so he can't be spared often to wheel my chair. i do most dreadfully want to go back to carm hall to live, to have nice food, and pretty rooms, and money to buy presents, and--oh, and everything i used to have! now, i suppose, you think me horrid and mean!' 'no, dearie.' 'uncle ross--i always called him that, you know--won't make the first advance, so the quarrel won't ever be made up unless guardian tries to do it. he would if he wasn't so proud, for he's very unhappy about being at war with a brother. you should just hear him pray about it every morning and night,--for we've family prayers now, with harriet and robert,--his voice often shakes, and on uncle ross's birthday the prayers are ever so long. at christmas, and easter, and any home-anniversary, he is just wretched, catherine. yet he is too proud to be persuaded to make any more advances.' 'any _more_?' repeated miss carmichael, questioningly. 'yes, he made lots at first. he used to write, until uncle ross refused to open any more letters; he sent congratulations to him on his birthday, until that message came back unread; he always spoke on sundays in the churchyard, until once, when it was the anniversary of loring's going away, and through a chance word the quarrel got as bad as ever again; and now uncle ross always passes us by with a stiff bow. oh, guardian is in the right, only he's unhappy, and uncle ross isn't. catherine, i scarcely know _what_ i want! that is the truth! i should hate for uncle to adopt you, because that would take you away from us; yet i almost began to hope that your coming would patch up the feud somehow. can't you be peacemaker?' 'i will do everything in my power to promote peace, dear.' 'yet by choosing this cottage for "home" you'll offend uncle ross bitterly. it'll be like loring's choice all over again!--between carm hall and riches, and guardian and poverty. for it was his love for guardian that made loring want to be a soldier. dear loring! he was always so good to me! catherine, most people would call your choice dreadfully silly!' catherine was aware of this, but her brave spirit was quite undaunted by the reflection. the choice had been offered her suddenly, between hurting uncle jack's feelings and accepting the home he had so lovingly offered her; and as her heart had dictated, so had she acted. in gratitude and affection had the choice been made. now, far from regretting it, she had become aware of many strong reasons in its favour. to begin with, it gave her the chance to be uncle jack's confidante, even in a humble way his helper, in religious questions; it provided her with freedom which she could use in trying to heal the quarrel between her uncles; it offered her a new task and duty, that of helping poor, fretful, ignorant, passionate agatha to find peace in the thought of jesus christ. had catherine remained homeless, she could have done, perhaps, much of the work she was already yearning to perform, but uncle ross might have doubted her perfect sincerity. now she could not be suspected of mercenary motives in trying to influence him. had she waited until he had offered her a home at carm hall, which might have happened, she would either have been obliged to offend him by refusing, or probably would have been forbidden to visit redan cottage. no!--though the world might ridicule her unselfish choice, she was proud and glad of it! for brian north's sake it was natural that she should momentarily regret the lost chance of uncle ross's help for him; but she was perfectly sincere in the hearty words by which she assured agatha that, though her choice might be ridiculed by some, she was yet both determined and happy in it. the girl clung to her, and protested both against her resolution to stay with mrs. arderne and her obligation to return now to woodley villa. but catherine was firm. 'you'll come again to-morrow, won't you?' 'if i possibly can, darling.' 'oh, i want you so badly! i think you'll help me not to be so miserable. i'm _very_ ill, you know; the pain's often bad, and then i think i'm going to die at once, and--and if i _did_, i'm certain i shouldn't--go to heaven.' '_agatha!_' with attempted bravado agatha laughed. 'no, of course i shouldn't! i'm beastly selfish, and i've never done anything but _think_ grumbles at god. i'm not resigned a bit,--not meek and humble of heart,--i don't see why i should be.' 'don't you? have you never thought about the debt we sinners owe to the son of the heavenly father, who died upon the cross for us, that we might become entitled to the glorious eternity of heavenly life?' 'but god made me,--crippled, useless, invalided as i am!' 'but, dearie, suppose some great physician came to tell you that you must suffer and be helpless for one short hour, and that then you would recover your health and strength for eighty or ninety years, would you not bless his name?' 'of course i would!' 'and supposing that the physician had obtained your cure through making some colossal sacrifice himself as a propitiation?' 'catherine--you--you mean that christ is the great physician!' 'yes, dear. when from the eternal heavens you look back upon your life of pain and weariness on earth, it will seem but as a fleeting hour, and you will wonder why you couldn't understand god's loving promises better while you lived,--why you grumbled at the moments of suffering which his compassion sent you to purify your soul from sin, to prevent your caring too much for the things of this earth. why, agatha, don't we despise a little child who cries and storms about some momentary, necessary pain? yet we all of us behave just as weakly before the eyes of our father.' 'but i shan't ever get to heaven. i'm not good.' 'jesus came on earth to save sinners. remember how we are told, "the lord thy god in the midst of thee is mighty; he will save, he will rejoice over thee with joy; he will rest in his love, he will joy over thee with singing." tell me, is that a picture of a cruel god? of one who does not feel for the weakness and perversity of human nature? oh, my dearie, think over those three words only, "he will save," and offer him your heart, with all its imperfect longings. he is the saviour who "pardoneth iniquity, and passeth by transgression," who "retaineth not his anger for ever, because he delighteth in mercy."' agatha's dark eyes gazed wonderingly at catherine's sweet, smiling face. 'i--i will think about him,' she whispered after a pause. 'but, oh, do come again to-morrow if you can. guardian doesn't talk about god as clearly as you do; he's groping after him still, catherine, but you speak and look just as though you'd been to heaven yourself, and seen him face to face!' 'so may we all see him, dear,--in the blessings of earth, in daisies, and sunsets, and storms; in love, and humility, and suffering. for heaven is where he is, and he is everywhere! i shall pray that you may receive him into your heart, and so make heaven there, little agatha.' chapter v an unshaken resolution when catherine ran up the steps of the villa on her return that night, she caught sight of mrs. arderne's anxious eyes peeping through a front window at her, and the door was quickly opened by that lady herself. 'my dear girl, i have been worrying about you! how dark it is outside!' 'i am not late for supper, am i?' 'no. i only worried because you were out alone in the darkness.' 'you dear soul! it was very kind of you, but there was nothing at all terrible to be met with in this peaceful english village! the poorer people are all out now, shopping for to-morrow--it is saturday night, you know. there! i don't believe that a companion ought to call her employer "you dear soul." why don't you scold me when i forget our new relation to one another?' mrs. arderne patted catherine's rosy cheek, and taking her arm led her into the sitting-room, where supper was spread for two. 'because i do not wish you to be a bit different, child, except in the way of having more worldly wisdom in your private affairs. i hoped that your impecunious uncle jack would disappoint you, and his ward prove a captious, annoying, spoiled invalid, instead of which he has evidently pleased you so well that even miss agatha has not been able to put you out of spirits.' 'poor little agatha!--indeed, she too pleased me!' mrs. arderne sighed. 'it is a disappointment to _me_, i assure you, to see you come back wearing that radiant face!' 'they have been so good to me! and the night air is deliciously cold, and i'm as hungry as a hunter! i must be an expensive companion, for i eat so much, don't i?' 'not a morsel more than a healthy girl should. satisfy your appetite, catherine; then we will sit round the fire while you give me an honest account of your visit to redan cottage.' so, when the servant had cleared away, the two friends began a cosy chat, the younger seated as usual on a low stool, leaning her right arm on the elder's knee. it was a joy to catherine, this description of her visit to her uncle jack and agatha, for it enabled her to recall the incidents of an eventful evening, and helped her to understand better both his character and that of his ward. the more she reflected and spoke, the more did she see that she had chosen rightly, and mrs. arderne's well-meant regrets only made her own courage and gratitude the stronger. after some discussion mrs. arderne asked, in bewildered tones: 'is it mere preference for one uncle that has made you choose to sacrifice all your chances, child?' 'no. there are many, many reasons why i could not have chosen otherwise. you would not have had me refuse a kind offer, hurt uncle jack's feelings, disappoint agatha, and deny my own wishes as well, and all for the sake of a possible financial advantage, would you? uncle ross did not offer me a home at all; and if he had done so, i don't think i could have accepted it. he would have expected me to share his line of policy towards uncle jack. besides, i should have felt a mercenary wretch. since i am blessed with health and an opportunity to earn my own living, i ought not to live in idleness and luxury at any relative's expense. and i should be wrong, were i to accept from one uncle the wealth which belongs rightly to his nearest relative--the other uncle.' 'now i do begin to understand!' cried mrs. arderne. 'your pride influenced you principally in the making of your choice.' catherine raised her frank eyes to meet the disapproving gaze of her friend. 'i don't think it was a bad kind of pride,' she answered simply. 'and i was only leading up to my biggest reason of all.' 'probably that is as absurd as the others, my dear!' 'i hope you won't try to think lightly of it, dear mrs. arderne, for it is the best and sincerest part of me. it is--my love for god. uncle jack and agatha are actually in need of help that i can give them, while they in their turn will help me to lead the higher life, which is the only worthy one. we shall encourage one another to serve god better.' 'but you are not going to live at redan cottage, thank goodness!' 'no. i shall only spend most of my spare hours there so long as we are in the neighbourhood, and all my holidays will pass there, at home. then i can write to them very, very often during the times i am away. as a rule people do not make half enough use of the post. it offers a splendid means of communication between friends who are parted.' 'and if you had agreed to live at carm hall, you would have been within five miles of these beloved relatives!' 'i should have been dependent upon a man who behaves persistently ill to them. dear, kind friend, do you not suppose that if uncle ross became my benefactor, to the extent of giving me my daily all, he would not try, and be more or less justified in expecting, to make me obedient to his wishes in all important matters? if i let him be as a father to me, shouldn't i owe him consideration? and "consideration" in his opinion would mean giving up constant intercourse with those who have offended him.' 'but, child, child, your uncle jack and agatha can surely become religious without your aid, if they desire to.' catherine laughed blithely. 'why, of course--only i think that i can help them, and that god means me to do so. if a poor man asked you for an alms, and you were _sure_ he was very hungry, you wouldn't refuse to give to him because some one else might be just as well able to do so. i have had experience in regard to the destitution of souls that know not god's peace. there is a spiritual hunger which is worse, far, far worse, both to bear and to witness, than mere bodily starvation!' an impatient sigh escaped mrs. arderne's lips. 'you are an incorrigible zealot, evidently!' 'i hope so.' 'at least you will admit that you could be just as religious yourself at carm hall as at redan cottage.' 'oh yes; but uncle ross doesn't like people to be religious. he would attack my faith daily with sharp little weapons of perfectly courteous ridicule, and when i repulsed the attack he would be angry at heart with me.' 'you could have borne that for brian's sake, i should have thought, and you could have told your uncle jack to apply for religious instruction to the proper person, namely, the clergyman of the parish.' 'mr. burnley, if he is still here, could scarcely be expected to spare time to smooth away all my poor little agatha's nervous fears and doubts, even supposing she could be persuaded to tell them to him. dear mrs. arderne, do not try to destroy my choice, for it is irrevocably made, and i am very happy in it.' 'it is full of conceit, catherine! you imagine you have a solemn mission from god to convert your heathen relatives.' catherine's face clouded. '_don't, dear!_' she pleaded earnestly. 'don't try to be bitter or cynical, for those moods are quite unlike you. i may be conceited, i daresay i am, about other matters, but not about my knowledge of the love and mercy of our saviour. that is a subject upon which i own my ignorance, for every hour that i live i make some new, beautiful, blessed discovery in it! but it is certain that god gives to each one of us some particular duties, some work to be performed to his honour and glory, and i cannot refuse to do that which seems to me both right and necessary. you wouldn't really wish me to choose to serve mammon instead of god!' mrs. arderne would not own that she was convinced of catherine's wisdom, though she could not advance another argument against the latter's decision. she contented herself with exclaiming: 'you are a most disappointing young woman, catherine!' 'as a companion, please, ma'am?' asked the culprit, who was genuinely amused by this description of herself. 'n-no; disappointing to your friends--to me especially, because i had set my heart upon seeing you reinstated in a position suited to you, either by your uncle or by your marriage.' 'my brian does not please you?' 'you will not please him by this last folly.' 'he isn't a bit mercenary. you will see, he will approve my choice, when he has read the long letter i mean to write him before breakfast to-morrow morning. he will sympathise, too, with my great wish, which is that, with god's help, i may be able to act as peacemaker between my uncles.' 'good gracious, child, i never contemplated that possibility!' 'did you not? it will be a difficult task.' 'so i should imagine.' 'but if i could but do it, they would all be so much happier! dear uncle jack frets about the quarrel; he is really attached to his brother. uncle ross is terribly lonely in his big house, with no one to love him. then agatha could have the care and nursing she needs.' 'and catherine carmichael could have----' 'i don't understand you,' said the girl slowly, trying to read mrs. arderne's meaning in her face. 'i--should lose redan cottage for a home. and--oh, i suppose "home" would be carm hall then. how funny!' 'how ridiculously unpractical you are! a veritable _baby_! this new plan of yours, miss peacemaker, is the one way in which you can make up to your friends, your lover, and yourself for the folly of your choice! reconcile your uncles and go to live with them. mr. ross carmichael will alter his will, and leave his thousands to you instead of to charities.' there was a very mischievous smile playing round catherine's lips while she listened to mrs. arderne's eagerly explained advice, a smile which increased as she answered, 'i _am_ glad that you approve of me for something, and that our wishes coincide for once! i mean to try my very hardest to bring about that reconciliation; but i shall work for dear uncle jack's sake principally, then for agatha's, lastly for uncle ross's. and if i am happy enough to succeed, i shall be so glad and proud that no worldly prospects of my own could possibly make me happier!' '_i_ can be mercenary-minded for you--that is one comfort, child.' 'it would be nicer if you would not.' 'nonsense; you surely aren't so mad that you despise wealth and power?' 'no; only i hate to calculate about them, and i don't covet them. god will send me enough daily bread, and that is all that matters.' 'for the sake of brian----' 'riches and position are not always blessings, dear mrs. arderne. we are told in the bible, "he that hasteth to be rich hath an evil eye," "he that loveth silver shall not be satisfied with silver," and "how hardly shall they that have riches enter into the kingdom of god!" neither for brian nor for myself can i covet a stewardship the duties of which we may not be fitted to perform, which might take from us the best wealth--god's love.' 'of course i cannot say any more, since you have taken to quoting the bible, catherine. my memory for texts was always a bad one.' 'ted and toddie shall not be able to say that when they are grown up--not unless they wilfully forget all i teach them, and they love their scripture lessons too well to do that. do you know, toddie told me yesterday that god seems ever so much _realer_ than other kings? wasn't it sweet of her?' mrs. arderne gave catherine's brow a quick kiss. 'naturally _i_ think most of toddie's speeches sweet. go on training my babes in the knowledge of the creator, catherine, for i--i shouldn't like them to grow up to be worldly like their mother.' 'you only _try_ to be worldly, your heart isn't one bit so.' 'yes, it is; i love all the pleasures and vanities of life. now go to bed, catherine, child, or you will oversleep yourself in the morning, and not be able to write that lengthy letter to brian north.' the girl sprang up, and clasped her strong young arms round her friend, crying: 'good-night, then, you dearest of employers. tell me once again that you _do_ really want me, and that you will give me notice directly i cease to be of use to you.' 'have i not told you, just this minute, that i want you for my babies' sakes as well as for my own? if ted and nora had not their "dear carr" to teach them about god, they might question mother, and find out how little her knowledge is on the subject. you have another mission here, catherine, for the enlightenment of ignorance.' 'and "mother" knows where to seek knowledge, whereas babies do not. thank you again and again, dear, for making me welcome.' mrs. arderne turned the conversation into a more shallow channel by laughingly reminding her young friend: 'we shall probably get on together famously for the future, because your plan and my plan for you are identical. we are both bent upon the reconciliation of your uncles.' chapter vi a sunday's experiences catherine carmichael was up and dressed next day fully two hours before any one else was stirring in woodley villa. then she said her prayers, and read her bible, and still had plenty of time left for the writing of her letter. softly opening the bedroom window, which was in the front of the house, she placed her desk on a small table, and sat down where she could feel the fresh wind and look out occasionally over the country scene. a september sunrise, and an open window! mrs. arderne would have been horrified at catherine's imprudence, but to this girl an open-air life had been natural in all weathers, and for early hours she had a strong preference. 'before breakfast' was always her thinking-time. she was of opinion that men and women need leisure in which to reflect upon their lives, and to remember both the high purpose and the unimportance of earthly existence. beginning the day thus, with happy realization of the creature's indebtedness to the creator, she found daily crosses and perplexities much easier to bear with serenity, while joys and innocent pleasures acquired double powers of satisfaction, by being hallowed with foreseeing gratitude. the country was very quiet at this early hour of the sabbath; no agricultural workers were abroad, and smoke had scarcely begun to issue from the picturesquely irregular chimneys of the village. in front of the villa were fields, pasture land upon which grazed some venerable horses, and across which a path wound away to a distant wood. over the trees hung a pearl-tinted mist, which the sunshine was beginning to dispel. when, presently, the sun contrived to peep between two barriers of cloud, the wood gleamed golden and gorgeous, as the light struck upon its copper beeches. catherine unconsciously smiled at the loveliness spread out before her eyes, and remembered the words of a poet: 'what sweeter aid my matins could befall than this fair glory from the east hath made? what holy sleights hath god, the lord of all, to bid us feel and see! we are not free to say we see not, for the glory comes, nightly and daily, like the flowing sea.' then she took up her pen and began to write to brian. this was no hard task, for she knew that he liked her letters to be rambling and unstudied, consisting of sentences from her heart, just as she loved best to make them. all her pure girl's fancies and imaginings about the higher life, all her tender anxieties--on the subject of himself usually--her fears for his health, and longings for his complete understanding of god, all her merry discoveries in her daily life, all the kindnesses she received, all her hopes for the future, these were written down simply for his interest. fortunately, brian north could be trusted to appreciate and reverence catherine's sincerity. the letter, when written, was a precious revelation of a good woman's very soul. probably the 'good woman' herself would never guess how large an effect her letters wrought upon brian's heart and intellect, how he was learning to accept her ideas, see god through her eyes, and exchange his worldly ambitions for her lofty content with aspirations infinitely nobler. she was quite unconsciously setting him a lovable model of a christian life, as all god-serving girls should be able to do for those who are dear to them. her pen flew over the several sheets of paper, until she felt satisfied that her lover had been given a really accurate description of her new experiences at beverbridge. she had honestly tried not to allow her great affection for uncle jack to prejudice her in writing of uncle ross, yet she wanted brian to be prepared to be devoted to the former. mrs. arderne's suggestion that brian would not approve of his betrothed's acceptance of redan cottage as 'home' scarcely occurred to catherine this morning. she had not the least doubt that she had acted in the best way in regard to uncle jack's offer, and so, loyally, she felt certain that brian must agree with her when he considered the subject. the letter, though of even unusual length, was finished some time before the hour for breakfast, so catherine began to write another to her cousin george in melbourne, the cousin who had been in the same regiment with poor loring carmichael. after sending messages to george's relatives, and giving him a spirited account of her experiences in london, describing the sights she had seen, she continued as follows: 'do you remember that you used to call me "the most meddlesome of girls"?--that year when i tried to reconcile my stepfather and his men. well, i am going to be meddlesome again, for i want, if god will let me, to make peace between our two english uncles. would you believe that they are living in different houses in the same neighbourhood, and are still estranged because of loring's choice of a profession? yet i can see that they both desire to be friends again, if once their pride could be overcome. now that loring is dead, uncle jack must partly regret having persuaded him to be a soldier, and uncle ross should be able to forgive the choice, especially as he has been chiefly to blame for the strength to which this foolish family feud has attained. if you can tell me anything, george, about loring's death, since you, his friend, were with him when he fell, i might be fortunate enough to effect a reconciliation through their mutual interest in the news. did loring send no messages to either uncle? please let me know all you know, for i, being on the spot, can perhaps make good use of the knowledge.' this letter was also finished, and the envelope addressed and stamped, before the breakfast bell sounded. catherine ran downstairs, to find ted and toddie awaiting her in the dining-room, two solemn-faced little people, wearing their best frocks, and standing side by side, hand in hand, on the hearth-rug. 'we've been _vewwy_ good, an' we're so tired wiv it,' announced toddie, with emphasis. 'we didn't fink muvver was ever comin', nor you, nor bweakfast,' explained ted. 'bweakfast comed first though, an' we didn't peep one bit under the cover, did we, toddie?' 'no, but it's sausages, i fink, 'cause it smells like it.' 'then you comed next, dearie carr, an' we won't have to be good no longer.' ted's face was roguish again, and he scrambled on to catherine's knee as she sat down in the arm-chair, while toddie, regardless of her sunday dress, sank down in a happy heap on the rug at her feet. 'not good any more! oh, ted, you know i always want you to be good!' she exclaimed, trying to preserve discipline. 'oh yes, of course!' cried the culprit, 'only the nurse says "be vewwy good children," when she just wants us not to cwumple our clothes. _you_ don't do that. _you_ don't like us best when we're _stiff_, does you, carr?' 'you mustn't spoil your nice clothes on purpose, ted and toddie, but you--you needn't keep on remembering them. why, they are sensibly-chosen clothes, they will not easily take harm. some poor little children are always dressed in silks and satins, so grand that they are expected to take great care of them, but your kind mamma likes you to be happy and able to romp about.' '_silks an' satins!_' repeated toddie. 'gwacious!--_wouldn't_ we cwumple them all up!' mrs. arderne came into the room, and found the usual picture awaiting her vision--catherine and the babies laughing together, clinging together, perfectly happy in their merriment. 'ah, chickies, plaguing "carr" again. catherine, dear, in a weak moment yesterday i promised those infants that they should spend sunday with us, and come to church.' 'we'll be _vewwy_ good.' 'we'll twy dreffully hard not to laugh.' catherine kissed them both as she lifted them comfortably on to their chairs close to the table. 'you must promise faithfully not to talk in church, children, not even if there is a funny-looking old lady in front of you, or any naughty little boys try to make you laugh at them.' 'not if there's anover lady who can't find her pocket, carr?' 'or an old, old man wiv a spider cweeping up his back?' 'not for any reason at all. you must promise to try to remember all the time that you are in church to please god, not to amuse yourselves.' 'but we mustn't speak pwayers out loud.' 'muvver, you don't always 'member, _does_ you?' 'i'se _sure_ muvver doesn't, 'cause once she laughed an' spoke to carr something about bonnets,' cried toddie delightedly. 'now you are beginning to talk too much, and about matters you do not properly understand,' said miss carmichael quickly. 'say grace, and eat your breakfasts, dears.' the mother and children, and the companion, sallied forth early to find the village church. ted and toddie walked most demurely, one on either side of catherine, sometimes uttering their quaint criticisms of the people and objects they passed, and proudly carrying their prayer-books, so that their own destination was plainly intimated to all persons curious on the subject. 'won't look as though we was goin' no wicked walk,' explained toddie. the church proved to be quite a long walk away. it was a beautiful old grey brick building, wreathed and wrapped round by ivies of many species, and stood, in the midst of its little graveyard, on the summit of a hill. two roads approached it from different sides of the country, and there was also a much-used footpath leading from a vista of park-like meadows to the vestry door. by this path came the clergyman, a venerable-looking gentleman, whom catherine guessed to be the mr. burnley of whom her uncles had told her many years ago. just as catherine passed at the wicket-gate of the churchyard she became aware of the approach of mr. ross carmichael, who had just stepped out of his carriage. it was a rare event for him to be seen in the precincts of a church. the tall, straight old gentleman was dressed with his accustomed care, from the glossy hat to the perfectly-fitting _suéde_ gloves, and the white 'spats' over patent-leather boots. catherine noticed that his step was very firm, unlike that of uncle jack, who was approaching from a greater distance, coming slowly uphill, beside agatha's wheel-chair, which robert was pushing. the military uncle's face had none of the deep lines which creased that of the business man, yet he seemed the elder and less strong, and his moustache was quite as silvery as was the other's short beard. probably uncle ross was aware of the approach of uncle jack, for he advanced quickly to greet his niece, who introduced him to mrs. arderne. 'this is a pleasure. i trust you will add to it by helping to fill my pew.' now this invitation could not easily be refused, though catherine reflected regretfully that her other relative might object to her having accepted it. mrs. arderne settled the question by answering gratefully: 'that is exceedingly kind of you, mr. carmichael. it is sometimes so difficult for strangers to find good seats in country churches. i only hope that the children will do nothing to make you regret your considerate offer.' ted and toddie were gazing in an awe-stricken manner up into the face of the austere-looking, handsome old gentleman, who now shook hands ceremoniously with them both. uncle jack and agatha were nearly at the gate by this time. uncle ross, after a glance over his shoulder, lingered outside the porch to ask: 'catherine, i am anxious for another talk with you. can you come to see me to-morrow? will you be able to spare her, mrs. arderne?' 'oh, certainly.' 'i will walk up in the afternoon then,' said the girl; adding, with a laugh and a blush, 'and if by any happy chance brian should run down to-morrow to see me, may i bring him also?' 'it will gratify me to make his acquaintance. excuse my leading the way into church.' uncle jack and agatha were not more than twelve steps behind now, but catherine could not refuse to follow uncle ross through the porch and up the aisle. ted and toddie peeped across her skirts at one another, and murmured, '_dwefful_!' 'i will speak to uncle jack at all costs, even if i have to appear rude to uncle ross, after service,' catherine decided. she tried her utmost to forget her family quarrel, at least its difficulties and perplexing incidents, while she listened to the sermon; and endeavoured, as she prayed for god's help in her effort at peace-making, not to be conscious of the reproachful glances which agatha, from her chair in a side aisle, was directing towards her. afterwards, when the congregation had nearly dispersed, uncle jack and uncle ross remained in church, each waiting for the other to move first. each happened to be resolved not to do so. uncle ross wished to prevent catherine from speaking to his brother. uncle jack was simply determined to speak to her, as he and agatha both desired to do so. at length, when the long wait was becoming ridiculous, and ted and toddie were beginning to fidget, mr. ross carmichael rose, and walking with more than usual stiffness, led the way out of church. immediately the colonel marched out, too, down the side aisle. the groups joined in the porch, and passed into the open air together. catherine saw the two old gentlemen exchange the stiffest of bows, but her quick eyes noted also the restrained impulse of uncle jack's right hand, and the wistful expression in the gaze with which he regarded his brother, who was now bending courteously over agatha's chair, inquiring after her health. 'i'm tired, and in pain, but then i always am,' said the child fretfully. 'and i've had a lot of neuralgia lately; the air seems damp and horrid down in the village, where _we_ live.' uncle ross murmured polite regrets, and after bowing to mrs. arderne, and reminding his niece, 'i shall expect you to-morrow afternoon, then,' turned away by the footpath across the fields. by this time mrs. arderne and the colonel were chatting together. agatha beckoned to catherine to come near, and whispered: 'you ought to have sat in _our_ seat.' 'no; if i have accepted a "home" from one uncle, surely i may accept the occasional loan of a pew from the other? you must not be unreasonable, dear, if you want me to try to effect a reconciliation; you must leave me free to use my own methods.' 'horrid old man! and you are going to him to-morrow!' 'well, i am coming to you to-day. mrs. arderne has kindly promised to spare me this evening.' 'come early, then, for i want some of you all to myself!' ted and toddie ran up to the side of the wheel-chair at this moment, and scrutinized agatha. 'can't you get up?' 'no.' 'never mind, though,' said toddie, anxious to be consoling. 'you look vewwy nice, an' you must feel comfor'ble. i wish _we_ had sofas in church. carr wouldn't let us even kneel back'ards this mornin'.' ''cause of the stiff old man,' ted explained. '_your_ old man's ever so much nicer!' chapter vii a ray of light 'i don't suppose she'll come at all, guardian. everything turns out disappointing. that mrs. arderne will keep her indoors, or she'll be afraid to walk in the rain, or she'll forget all about me, or those--those extraordinary children will coax her to stay with them.' agatha had been fretting all the afternoon in this fashion, until she had forced herself to believe her own dismal prophecies, and no words of her guardian availed to comfort her. he was standing beside her couch now, holding her thin right hand in his firm grasp, smilingly trying to persuade her to be more reasonable, and to take the tea and hot buttered toast which harriet had prepared with so much care. the colonel was enveloped in a huge cloak, for he was going out to read aloud at a young men's club,--a habit of his on many sunday evenings. 'catherine is true to her promises, i am certain of that, dear. she will come to you if she possibly can.' 'very likely; but she is sure to be afraid of the weather. just listen to the wind and rain! it is a shame, when the morning was so lovely.' 'god's weather, my little woman: that must be for the best.' 'oh, _bother_!' was the rude answer, and agatha turned her head away from her best friend. the colonel did not take offence. he was grieved by her rebellion against god far more than by her impertinence to himself; and he was sufficiently humble to recollect how short a time it was since he had learned to trust the all-father, saying in his thoughts, 'if i, a grown man, could be both ignorant and stubborn-willed, how dare i be shocked by this invalid child's foolishness?' so, instead of scolding, he slipped an arm under agatha's shoulders to raise her up, that she might take her tea before he was obliged to leave her. 'if catherine comes, you will need strength to entertain her cheerfully. be brave and good, dear.' agatha longed to push the cup away from her, but his patient kindness prevailed over her cross mood. 'i'm a savage little beast. guardian, i'm--i'm sorry!' 'there's a dear girl! no doubt pain is very bad to bear.' 'i haven't any pain now--only in my temper. but i don't pretend to be _religiously_ sorry, you know; i don't want to be bad to you--that's all.' 'your father in heaven loves you better than i, your adopted father on earth, can do.' 'you only love me out of duty. it must be that, because i'm not a bit nice; so probably my father in heaven gave me up long ago!' 'agatha, my darling, do you not know better than that?' 'better than _which_, guardian? better than to doubt god's love or yours?' she asked, smiling through tears that seemed to burn her weary eyes. 'i might answer truthfully, "both"; but if you cannot trust in my love, you should be able to lean confidently upon the love of your maker.' 'are you _really_ fond of me? would you be sorry if i were to die?' colonel jack looked his ward gravely in the face, his eyes filled with sincerity. he was a man of action, not of words, so he made no lengthy protestations, only saying with heartfelt fervour: 'i love you, for your own sake and that of my old friend, your father; and i should be lonely without you.' agatha gazed at him in silence for a minute or two, studying the sincerity of his eyes, which had so often looked at death calmly. then she pressed her lips to his hand, and cried: 'i'm happier now, then! it's dreadful to think that no one does. perhaps--i mean, i'll believe god does.' '"greater love hath no man than this, that he lay down his life for his friends,"' quoted the colonel reverently. 'guardian, you are always repeating that. i believe it's the only text you know by heart!' seeing agatha's natural expression come again to her face--the teasing, audacious, little smile he knew so well--he was contented. 'it is the best i _could_ remember, little woman. now, promise me you will not fret any more to-night, while i am away. catherine will come to you, unless she is unavoidably prevented.' 'i'll try to be reasonable. it would be much nicer if you could stay with me till she comes, though. there's something very odd about persuading young men and boys to go to a club on sunday evenings, just to hear reading, when they could quite well go to church.' 'none are allowed in but those who have been to church in the morning, and mr. burnley tells me that many go to service (who used never to be seen in church before), just that they may be entitled to join our sunday evening circle. we read interesting books to them, and sometimes there are recitations of poems,--it is not surprising how many great literary works there are which raise the heart and mind to god. then we always begin and end with prayer. it is not a bad service itself, agatha; and the young fellows would not go to church twice a day--they would probably spend their evenings in gambling and drinking, or in the company of street loafers. beverbridge has its bad characters.' 'now, why is it that you never address meetings of the club?' asked his ward mischievously. 'that was quite a speech!' he laughed. '_i_ speak? my courage fails me even when i begin to read aloud! no, no, that is not the kind of action for which my poor powers are suitable.... now, good-bye, my dear. keep a brave heart until catherine comes. be god's plucky little soldier!' only half an hour later agatha was nestling her face against catherine carmichael's shoulder, smiling up at her radiantly. they were talking of agatha's own life,--its trials, pleasures, wants, and blessings. 'oh, you can't guess how badly i've wanted a girl-friend, some one to tell everything to! i used to dream about you, when you were out in australia, and i nearly began to write long letters to you.' 'i wish you had written.' 'you couldn't have known what i was like. i should have hated you to think me nice, and then to have come to england and been disappointed. it's best as it is. help me, cath; _do_ help me! what am i to do to be nicer?' 'leave off thinking so much about yourself.' 'why? i ought to meditate continually upon my faults, ought i not? people have told me so.' 'that is a morbid idea of religion and duty, dear. be as sorry as possible for your sins, but spare time to meditate upon god's mercy and goodness, otherwise how can you learn to love him? then again, by thinking always of your faults, you grow into a spiritual hypochondriac. how ill a person would feel who spent all his time in considering the exact strength and nature of every small pain or weariness! no, no, agatha; to be healthily religious, you must trust in god a great deal more, and, in remembering him, forget yourself!' 'it must be much easier for you, catherine,' said the little girl wistfully, 'for _you_ never feel too ill to do anything but be cross, do you?' 'no, dear. but there will be a wonderful reward due to you in heaven, if, in spite of your bodily weakness, you serve the father bravely. tell him your difficulties; speak to him quite simply, at all hours, out of the fulness of your heart, and he will understand. you will learn to feel sure of his presence near you; you will love to bear pain patiently, to please him, and in remembrance of the agony he chose for his portion in order that we, his rebellious servants, might be eternally happy. once you have learned this lesson, you will never feel lonely any more.' catherine's face was glorified by the light of the peace of which she was speaking, that peace which truly passeth understanding! perhaps agatha learned more by watching her friend's face than even by listening to her words. certainly she was both convinced and comforted. 'catherine, i'll try.' the promise (for as a promise the words were spoken) came slowly, earnestly, eagerly from the child's lips. then, laying her head on her friend's shoulder, she went on to say: 'it won't be easy, i know that; and it means never trying to please myself only, never speaking angrily just to make other people angry, never calling uncle ross our enemy and trying to hate him, never.... oh yes, it _will_ be difficult! only now i seem to understand, as i never did before, that it isn't only people who want to be extra good, but it's _every one_ who ought to serve god _thoroughly_. do you know what i mean?' 'yes, dear. it is very common for persons to say or think, "_i_ needn't devote my whole efforts to serving god. _i_ shall be all right, so long as i do not sin in great matters." but that is a form of ignorance. directly such a person is asked, "why were you created?" "are you fulfilling the creator's purpose?" there is no answer forthcoming, except an admission of failure. now we all of us despise failures that are the result of idleness; so how can we expect god, at the last judgment, to reward us for failing through our ill-will and slothfulness?' 'it all seems quite plain, when you talk of religion.' catherine's gentle hands were stroking agatha's hot forehead, passing and repassing over her eyes with a soft touch which was very soothing. 'my mother taught me all these truths, and i have never forgotten them,' she answered. 'so you are going to give god your whole heart?' 'i'll begin this very evening, and i shall write down the promise, in cypher, in my diary, that i mayn't ever be able to forget for long. cath, if i were to die now ... should i go to hell?' 'if _you_ had a servant who had neglected his duty, but who was honestly sorry, and promised you that he would never wilfully sin against you again, would you wish to condemn him to eternal misery? oh, childie, when you doubt god's mercy, you do him a terrible injustice, for he is many million times more generous than the greatest and best of his creatures can ever become.' 'oh, catherine, you _are_ beautiful!' 'why, what sudden nonsense is this, my pet?' was the amused question. 'i was watching you. does mr. north love you very, _very_ much? he ought to.' blushes stole over the face that had been praised. 'he loves me a great deal more than i deserve.' 'i made guardian tell me all you told him. you don't mind my knowing, do you?' 'of course not. it will be nice to be able to talk and write of him to you, little one, for there was no one to sympathise with my romance until i found you and uncle jack.... brian _may_ come down to see me to-morrow, but i am trying not to hope too much, or else i shall feel dismal if a disappointment follows. still, he hasn't telegraphed yet, nor written for two whole days, so i think he must be coming.' 'if he does, you will bring him here?' asked agatha excitedly. catherine nodded. 'i am simply longing to show him to uncle jack; they are sure to love one another. in the afternoon i have agreed to go to see uncle ross, and to take brian with me, if possible.... now, agatha! what a dreadful frown!' 'it's gone, now, and i know you are quite right and wise, cath. please go on with what you were going to say.' 'but i shall insist upon leaving carm hall in time to spend the evening here. i shall say you have invited me to supper. that will be true, won't it?' 'yes, yes, and harriet shall lay the cloth and make the table look very nice, before she goes out for her "evening." ah, cath, you have made me happy!' 'god bless you, darling! he will teach you to be a great deal happier yet, i hope.' when the colonel returned from his work at the club he heard agatha's laughter resounding through the cottage,--a sound that was strange indeed. the girls were neither of them in the least tired of their _tête-à-tête_, yet they gladly welcomed him and soon the three were chatting as gaily as two had done. before catherine went home she shared in the evening prayer at redan cottage, and heard the colonel's voice falter as he offered up one special petition for the 'welfare, spiritual and temporal, of all relatives and friends.' no wonder that the girl's heart was filled with rejoicing as she walked back to woodley villa! she had been able to comfort poor little agatha, and had persuaded her to serve god. and there was still plenty of work to be done, a beautiful reconciliation to effect, if god would give her grace and aid sufficient. not for an instant did she count up the gains that might accrue to herself from this peace-making. her intentions were pure and unselfish. little world-loving mrs. arderne would have marvelled again, had she been able to read her companion's heart to-night. chapter viii the coming of catherine's betrothed by ten o'clock on monday morning brian north had earned a holiday. he had been up and working since the small hours, but instead of going back to his lodgings to rest, he hurried to a station and took train for beverbridge. catherine's letter had been brought to him, and had made a precious interlude to his occupation. generally he was as busy in the evening as in the morning, but his other occupation had been taken away from him,--a loss which he was obliged to regret, although it had obtained him an opportunity for a few days' holiday in the neighbourhood of catherine carmichael. had she been in london, brian would have remained there, too; so when the landscape began to be green, and the buildings few, and the sky showed a clear expanse above, his spirits revived with his gratitude for the fact that his dear girl was in the country. the fresh pure air strengthened him already. beverbridge was a long journey from town, but he found time pass pleasantly, as he leaned back close to the open window, and let his thoughts rove over the subject of catherine's perfections. there would be need to ponder over the question how to gain some new work, how secure a prize in an overcrowded amphitheatre, since his marriage would be delayed until he could earn not only a sufficient income to provide a home, but also a small sum 'laid by' as provision for 'rainy days.' brian was resolved not to persuade catherine to make an improvident marriage; he had seen much misery resulting from such folly, and his love for her was deep enough to make his plans unselfish. there was a smile on his lips as he sat thinking, alone in the railway carriage--the smile which thoughts of catherine always created. tired, disappointed, harassed though he was, his life was blessed by a great happiness, and but for the fear of being guilty of hypocrisy, he would have thanked god for it. these were the doubts which prompted the fear: 'was he not supposed to be resigned to any possible manifestation of god's will? without this resignation would not gratitude be guilty of mockery, since the creator possessed undoubtedly the right to take, as well as to give? how could he honestly thank god for the gift of catherine, if he were not prepared also to acknowledge god's right to take catherine from him? it may be thought that brian was too sincere with himself in this matter. the girl he loved was strong and healthy, and likely, humanly speaking, to live to a good old age. but he was essentially thorough, and now that he was groping after the light, he was anxious to invite it to shine into every corner of his heart. he had already perceived that religion must be all or nothing, a sham or a whole, so that he could not rest content with any reservations. if he was to love god, then to the creator must be given more love than to the creature. human tenderness and sympathy do not enter into the devotion that a soul must cherish for its maker. he was not so foolish as to expect to feel the same impulses of longing for a vision of god, for instance, as it was natural for him to feel for the presence of catherine; but he was not able yet to give the love which is commanded, the perfect acknowledgment of god as author of all good, the resignation of praying 'thy will be done,' of owning 'thy will must be best,' and the confidence of leaving the future entirely, gladly, in god's care. brian often worried about the future. his health suffered from the feverish manner in which he pursued fortune--all for catherine's sake. as a youth he had fretted for fame; now he spent his life in restlessly striving after money and a secured position. his pale, lined face, the grey hairs threading the dark curls over his temples, and his sunken eager eyes, proclaimed his want of peace. there was no one but a porter in the little beverbridge station when brian arrived. just as he was calling the man to take charge of his bag, and to direct him to a respectable inn, he chanced to look up at the bridge which spanned the rail. a tall girl standing, holding a little boy in her arms--catherine herself! lovers' eyes are seldom deceived in such cases. catherine, out for a walk with ted and toddie, had brought them within the precincts of the railway, not only because the small folks delighted in the sight of 'a big puffing engine,' but also because there was a possibility that brian might come down to-day by the london express. her beaming smile as she gazed down at him over the parapet of the bridge was the cause of sympathetic beams upon his face. 'that gentleman is--a great friend of mine, ted and toddie!' she cried exultantly. 'how nice!' said ted. 'he _must_ be nice if _you_ like him, carr.' 'he's comin' up. oh, poor, poor man! is he ill, carr?' 'no, dears, only hard-worked; and he lives in smoky dark london.' by this time brian had mounted the steps and emerged through the doorway on to the bridge. catherine had put down the child, so she put both her hands into brian's, and so they stood for a few minutes, smiling, silent, looking into one another's eyes, in delicious contentment at having met once more. then the woman's practical mind read the significance of the presence of a bag. 'you are come, and you haven't got to go away again yet!' 'i may spend three days in beverbridge, dear.' 'god is good!' was catherine's simple answer. '_i'm_ ted arderne,' announced a little voice. 'and i'm toddie,' said another. brian responded warmly to the children's greeting, gave ted his umbrella to play with, and made toddie laugh at the energy with which he shouldered his bag. together they went along the quiet country road and through the pretty village, brian delighting in the autumnal crispness of the wind and in the beauty of the unpretentious scenery. 'did you expect me, catherine?' he asked. 'i only hoped for you.' mrs. arderne welcomed brian most kindly. true, she did not think that in becoming engaged to him catherine had acted wisely, but her womanly instinct was aroused to take benevolent interest in a love affair. she could not help being prepossessed in brian's favour by the first glimpse of his expressive, clever-looking, worn face. and the manner in which she showed her kindness was the best evidence she could have given of her sympathy. 'i will take care of the children,' she said. 'you and mr. north can have a quiet half-hour in the garden before lunch. you must have reams to say to each other.' so catherine led him out, and they strolled up and down the narrow gravel paths, under the gnarled branches of venerable apple trees, in and out among the flower beds, and past the vegetables. then he began to tell her about his troubles. 'you are much poorer, then, than you were?' she said quickly, glancing at his face. 'and i might have helped you--i mean, i might have schemed to gain a fortune--and i won't even try to do so. brian, tell me all that is in your heart now, all the thoughts that came to you when you read my long letter.' 'i love and admire my dear brave girl more than ever. when i had read her letter all through, i told myself that she was a woman in a thousand, that it was a privilege indeed to be allowed to work for her. then, if you want a complete account, i smiled over the description of uncles ross and jack, and reflected, "what a first-rate old chap the colonel must be!"' 'did you? i'm glad. you must love him. and you do not in the very least wee bit blame me for having accepted the home he offered me?' 'no, catherine; i would have you happy and free to follow your own ideal. we should neither of us know much happiness, my dear one, if we were a rich relative's pensioners, obliged to humour all his whims, and keep silent when we disapproved of his practices.' 'you are--just the brian i knew you were!' she exclaimed gratefully. 'only poorer.' 'a new post will be found some day. meanwhile you will have a badly-needed rest!' 'the literary labour-market is fearfully overcrowded, catherine. i doubt if i shall obtain more employment,--not before christmas, at all events. every week of idleness postpones our wedding day.' 'god will help us, even in worldly matters, if we ask him to, and if we trust him, dearest. tell me, have you _thought_, as you promised to think? have you studied your bible? have you prayed for faith?' 'yes, to all three questions. i do believe, but my new faith is not strong enough to stand some tests i have put it to--one test especially.' 'what is it?' 'if god took you away from me, cath, i could not forgive him.' 'yet god gave me to you. but for his will we should never have crossed one another's paths, never loved one another.' 'that truth would in no way minimise the loss we are supposing.' 'if i were to die, you would not wish that we had never loved one another?' 'no, no!' 'then, by your own admission, god would have conferred a boon upon you, even if he had done that which, in thought, appals you.' 'the apparent cruelty of his will would not be less.' 'you are not rebellious now because we are parted for weeks together, brian.' 'because i am hoping for a time when we shall be always together, dearest.' she smiled radiantly. 'ah! you have answered your own doubt! _life_ is only as a day compared with eternity. what though god, for some wise and good purpose, were to part us on earth! has he not promised an everlasting home of perfect happiness after life? oh, dear boy, let us praise him every hour for the gift of love he has generously bestowed on us. don't let us use his gift to deny him! besides, it is wrong for a weak human creature to consider persistently and hopelessly all the possible sorrows of his future. god has promised not to fail us, to send us grace sufficient for the differing needs of every crisis. we can't expect to be brave _in advance_, but we must trust him to give us our "daily bread."' 'you mean that if god takes you from me some day, he will give me strength to bear the blow?' 'yes, dear; that is certain.' 'and i am no hypocrite if i thank him for a gift which i cannot yet bear the thought of his recalling?' 'not if you try honestly to pray, as he taught us, "thy will be done." that does not mean that you think yourself ready, unaided, to bear the blow, only that you admit his right to do as he pleases with his own creations, and that you believe his will to be designed for our highest welfare.' brian sighed, as a man does from whom a great trouble has departed. 'i will believe that god is good, therefore that he is merciful to the weakness of his servants. my faith grows stronger when you teach me, catherine.' chapter ix an important offer mrs. arderne had kindly invited brian north to stay to lunch, as he and catherine were to go to carm hall early that afternoon. 'on your return from the visit to mr. carmichael you can take your bag and find an inn,' she suggested. during the meal she occupied herself in studying brian, 'drawing him out,' by artful questions on literary and other matters. while quite aware of her scrutiny and purpose, he allowed himself to gratify her curiosity as much as possible, acknowledging tacitly her right as catherine's friend to be anxious lest catherine's lover should prove a simpleton or a cad! brian was keenly amused. not being a very young man, he was free from self-consciousness under the investigation, and was able to repay study by study. vivacious, worldly little mrs. arderne, with her contradictory feelings towards catherine's lover--half desirous of agreeing with catherine's choice, yet disappointed because catherine had been 'so romantic' as to accept a penniless suitor--was a charmingly inconsistent character for the writer to consider. the result of this mutual interest was naturally twofold. brian decided that he was glad catherine possessed so true-hearted a friend, and mrs. arderne came to the conclusion that brian was a man of delightful manners, brilliant wit, good breeding, and undoubted talents--a fit husband for catherine in every way but that of fortune! lunch over, ted and toddie came down to be played with as usual, and immediately insisted upon questioning mr. north at great length as to where he lived, and why he lived there, what he did all day long, and why he did it, etc., etc. by his answers he gave purposely an accurate account of his circumstances,--more for the information of mrs. arderne than to please her children. 'i write for papers--sometimes all night long, while you little people are comfortably sleeping,' he said, laughingly lifting them on to his knees. 'it is tiring work, and i can't say i'm fond of doing it; i should like to sit at home and write about things that interest me--to make books, you know. only people are not paid for doing the things that amuse them, and if i did not work for money i shouldn't ever have any jam to eat with my bread and butter. i really doubt if i should have even the bread without the butter!' ted and toddie stared solemnly at him. 'it's _your_ lessons. we don't get money at all for doing ours, though.' 'for shame, ted!' cried catherine. 'you get prizes when you are good, industrious children, and your work is not worth money yet. some day, when you are quite grown up, you will be able to earn payment, as mr. north does, but only if you learn well while you are young.' 'did _you_ learn well when you were six?' asked toddie, anxiously peering into his face. 'i am not quite certain, dear, but i was always very fond of reading.' 'and i say, are you working for prizes too, as we are?' brian glanced smilingly at catherine, who blushed radiantly as he answered: 'yes, ted, for a prize that is very beautiful; but i cannot stay to tell you now what the prize is, because i am going out with miss carmichael this afternoon.' 'carr, you'll tell us all about it to-night, won't you?' ''bout mr. north's prize!' added toddie. an interruption occurred at this moment. a servant brought in a note for catherine, and explained that mr. carmichael's carriage had come for her. the letter was as follows: 'carm hall. 'my dear niece,-- 'i hope you will give me as much of your society as possible to-day (bringing mr. north with you, if he has arrived yet in beverbridge); but apart from this desire of mine, pray keep the carriage waiting as long as suits your convenience. 'believe me to be, 'your affectionate uncle, 'ross carmichael.' 'oh, good-bye to our nice walk!' sighed the girl mischievously, as she handed the note to brian. 'a closed carriage too! i see it through the window! and this is such a lovely autumn day! dear old uncle, i ought to be ashamed of my grumbles, though, for he meant to show me a most considerate attention!' brian laughed, as he answered: 'the walk is a loss, certainly, but by driving we shall be able to spend a longer time at carm hall, and i am anxious to make the acquaintance of your relatives.' 'mr. carmichael is a charming old gentleman,' said mrs. arderne. 'and what is colonel carmichael, please, ma'am?' 'my darling girl, don't question me in that impertinent fashion. my admiration for your elder uncle does not make me blind to the charm of the younger.' 'uncle jack impressed you favourably, i am certain, though you saw so little of him!' 'mr. north, do you mean to allow catherine to obstinately insist upon offending mr. ross carmichael?' brian looked from the interrogator to catherine's demurely smiling face, then back again. 'if i wished catherine to be worldly-wise, mrs. arderne, i should be wishing her to give me up.' 'no, not necessarily,' cried the kind little woman, anxious to make amends for having reminded him of his poverty. 'if mr. ross takes a fancy to you, he might--do anything for you both. he is already much attached to his niece. it is only her obstinate choice of a home with uncle jack that stands in the way of her heiress-ship!' 'while catherine sees a work awaiting her, she will become happy only by doing it. i would rather she should be happy than rich.' 'then _you_ believe in her possession of a serious vocation to convert the inhabitants of redan cottage?' 'i always believe in a woman's vocation to do that good which she clearly sees ought to be done, and for which her gifts and sympathies fit her,' he answered gravely. 'oh, brian, thank you!' the girl cried gratefully. 'i thought that only catherine was quixotic and imprudent, but now i see that you are both in the conspiracy to ruin your prospects!' was mrs. arderne's regretful reply. 'at least you need not let uncle ross's horses catch their deaths of cold! go and get ready, catherine, foolish child!' as they were driven along the well-kept country road leading to carm hall, catherine and brian talked of their 'prospects' almost as practically as mrs. arderne could have done, but they were the prospects of finding work for him, not an heiress-ship for her! and to an irreligious or god-forgetting person their trust in the efficacy of asking heavenly aid would, no doubt, have seemed childish. they were content, however, because now they both believed that god would provide for the necessities of those who turned to him in faith. it was mr. carmichael's footman, not his personal attendant, james, who opened the door of carm hall to them, and they were ushered into the large drawing-room, where the master of the house was awaiting them. 'uncle ross, i have brought brian, you see!' 'i am glad to make your acquaintance, mr. north.' these were the first words spoken. some time elapsed before the trio could shake off the strangeness of their meeting; even the elderly man was conscious of a feeling of awkwardness. brian, who had come to be inspected, was perhaps most at ease. it was due, chiefly, to his adroit management of the situation that conversation became more confidential before long. in speaking of some news of the day, he alluded to the opinion advocated on the subject by the paper for which he had formerly worked, and expressed his regret at having lost his employment. 'for, as you know, sir, i am a very poor man, with the best possible reason for desiring success in my profession.' 'catherine says you are a hard worker when work is ready for you to do,' said mr. carmichael. 'it would be strange if i were not, since our home depends upon my industry,' answered brian, with a smile. 'we have been making each other very hopeful--haven't we, catherine?--by deciding that work usually comes to those who are anxious and _able_ to do it.' 'work, perhaps--though personally i doubt your optimistic theory--but not always the kind of work desired.' 'it would only be a question of capability with me. i would do any honourable remunerative task.' uncle ross began to question brian closely as to the writing he had done, and the extent of his literary and journalistic experience, and the talk became animated, interspersed with anecdotes of celebrated literature, and keen, clever expressions of opinion by the younger man. catherine sat silent, listening and taking pride in her lover. that uncle ross was pleased was evident. it was after tea--over which catherine presided--that a chance question brought discord among them. mr. carmichael asked their plans. was mr. north staying long in beverbridge? and how much of his time was already allotted? 'none, except this evening, when i believe i am to have the pleasure of making your brother's acquaintance,' answered brian. the frown, almost habitual, but which had been invisible during the last hour, returned to the squire's brow. 'i regret that my niece continues to court the favour of those persons--i should say of the person--who has wronged me.' 'it was an involuntary wrong; uncle jack desires nothing so much as to have his share in the quarrel forgiven him!' 'when trust has been once broken, trust can never again be established. catherine, i wish you to be happy; mr. north, i hope to make you an offer which you will be able to accept without loss of independence; but i do require from you both some practical evidence of your consideration.' 'but, uncle dear, i have been offered a home at redan cottage, and though i do not mean to give up my situation as mrs. arderne's companion, i have promised always to regard uncle jack's home as my own.' 'you have done this in defiance of my objection?' 'agatha wants me, poor lonely little soul! and from whom but an uncle could i accept a shelter?' 'true. i regret that my offer was not made first. however, all that is necessary now is that you should inform--the--the other uncle that you are obliged, for mr. north's sake, to withdraw your acceptance of the home.' 'why "for mr. north's sake"?' asked the girl, going at once to the root of the matter. uncle ross knew that this inducement was the strongest he could offer, and she, by her question, admitted as much. 'i will tell you my plan,' said mr. carmichael, 'though i had intended waiting for a day or two, until mr. north and i had begun to understand one another more. it is this. i purchase the paper known as _the circle_, and become sole proprietor. it is in the market, and is as safe an investment as any i know. then i offer mr. north the editorship, with a yearly increasing share in the profits. at my death he shall become proprietor in my stead. the sole return i require from either of you is a reasonable amount of companionship--say a frequent saturday to monday visit, as the paper is a weekly one, and occasional longer stays here at carm hall--with a cessation of your visits to the brother who has injured me. in the interests of peace and goodwill, i would sanction a meeting between you and him at christmastide.' while the squire had been speaking he had watched the faces of his auditors, had noted and apprised the strength of glad surprise, of gratitude, of hope, of disappointment, of disapproval. he could scarcely believe that his offer would be refused, yet he saw how trustfully brian turned towards catherine, leaving her to answer, and how brave was the determination in catherine's eyes. 'uncle, your offer of help is a very large one, and we both thank you for it; but i cannot, even for brian's sake, break my word to uncle jack, who was the first to offer me a home, and to agatha, who wants me. neither could i enter upon a share in the quarrel, taking your part in it, since i believe that, though uncle jack may have acted imprudently, he never meant to make loring turn against you. i think that you might hold out a hand to him. he would be so glad, for he frets over your estrangement, and prays for you every day.' 'my dear niece, even a young and charming woman is not entitled to give advice to her elders. on my part, i advise you not to let mere sentiment stand in the way of your future husband's advancement in life.' 'i could not be so much indebted to you while i blame you in my heart. oh, uncle, if a young woman ought not to judge her elders, when she is called upon to decide between them, she is obliged to consider what is her duty! my choice was declared when uncle jack made to me the best offer in his power, and brian will not wish me to break my word to him, to agree to behave towards him as though i possessed one tithe less of the respect, love and admiration i have always felt for him!' brian responded to this appeal gravely and resolutely. 'while regretting the necessity to refuse so generous an offer, i think catherine is quite right. this family quarrel exists through no fault of ours, so maybe it is not fair that we should suffer through it; but as we have to choose a side in it, we are bound in honour to make the choice in sympathy with our honest opinion of the right, not letting ourselves be influenced by the gain or loss of any worldly advantage. in catherine's name, as well as in my own, sir, i express a hope that our being unable to accept favours from you will not prevent our owning your friendship.' the squire turned abruptly aside and crossed the room to the window, where he stood for a few minutes gazing out. land, houses, wealth, position, ease,--all these things had been scorned once by young loring carmichael; now they were once again refused by catherine and her poor journalist lover. yet the squire had spent his lifetime in amassing these goods,--had made great sacrifices for them, had toiled feverishly in his youth, and plodded through his best years of manhood,--had believed that wealth rules the world, and is the chief power over men and women. this second blow was a hard one, but he was too proud a man to wish to show chagrin. as he returned from the window he replied to brian. 'you must forgive me if i think you foolish. having made you an offer, for which you have been good enough to express gratitude, it would be unreasonable were i to quarrel with you for refusing it. your peculiarly delicate conscience will interfere with your chances in life, i fancy; but argument with an obstinate man is worse than useless.' catherine approached him, and clasped his right arm with her two hands, crying pleadingly: 'uncle, say you forgive me for refusing. i don't want to lose your affection. i told you the other day that i sought you out for the sake of your old kindness to me, with no idea that a penniless niece might be helped by your money.' the ring of truth in her voice touched the old man's heart, making him yet more regret her refusal of his offer. here was honesty shining behind those frank brown eyes, and he half repented having hedged his plan round with conditions. but obstinacy, the fault of his old age, prevented him from withdrawing one of his former words. 'i forgive you, catherine. i trust you may not suffer much through your folly,' was his sole answer. chapter x the unexpected happens catherine's choice had been finally made, approved by brian and declared. they decided that there was no need to tell uncle jack of the offer uncle ross had made them, not unless he were to question them in such a manner that truth would be sacrificed by silence. and this did not happen. the colonel was anxious to be assured that his brother would not quarrel with them on account of catherine's promise to regard redan cottage as home, and when he was gratified by receiving this assurance he believed that all was well. 'uncle ross has forgiven me. i shall go to see him sometimes, just as i have been doing,' she said. those were delightful days during which brian remained in beverbridge. not only did mrs. arderne kindly invite him a great deal to her house, but she allowed her companion so much liberty that the young people were almost constantly in one another's company. 'i'm afraid i haven't been of much service to you lately!' the girl exclaimed penitently, when brian had returned to town. 'nonsense, my dear!' was the little lady's prompt answer. 'you simply obeyed my wishes, which happened to coincide with your own. i derived a great deal of entertainment as well as pleasure from observing you and your lover. good gracious, what a weary-looking, thin fellow he is! but his holiday did him good, and his face was rapidly gaining a peaceful expression, which i hope it won't lose directly he sets to work again.' 'oh no, that expression has come to stay!' catherine replied, with a happy smile. 'what do you mean, you perplexing young woman? how can you possibly tell? your brian will begin to overwork himself again just as soon as he gets an opportunity. and unless he does, thanks to your united folly, you will never be able to get married.' 'brian's peace doesn't come from any cause that can be taken away from him, dear mrs. arderne. not even great fatigue, nor a breakdown in health could rob him of it.' 'religion again, catherine!' 'yes; trust in god. oh, i wish you would rejoice with me over brian's new knowledge! i wish you would understand what true happiness is, you dearest of employers!' mrs. arderne kissed the speaker, but shook her head. 'i've not a religious mind, catherine. it refuses to concern itself chiefly with spiritual matters. the unseen thing called faith was always a mystery to me. of course, god must exist, since we do, and the earth must have been made by him; but if he wants us to love him, he should manifest himself to us.' 'so he does, in wonderful ways to those who seek him. you would not have him speak intimately to persons who will not listen for his voice? in countless mysteries he is always proving his power, in the things he has created; but human beings turn away their eyes from the evidences of his power and their own helplessness. directly a soul begins to grope after the light, light comes in plenty. it is those souls which do not wish for faith which remain desolate for want of it!' 'no wonder, say i, that some do not wish for it, since its possession seems to entail upon them such extremes of self-sacrifice.' catherine pondered this remark, mrs. arderne watching her face meanwhile, and admiring the grace of her bended neck and the sweetness of her smile. 'do you know, dear friend, i think all the better parts of ourselves are in great sympathy with self-sacrifice' (this was the outcome of her reflections), 'since love is the greatest joy we know, and love means preferring another's happiness to our own. if a man loves a comrade, he will go into dangers for his sake; if a woman loves her husband, even if he be unkind to her, she will spend her life in trying to make his happiness, and in shielding him from blame; and what will not some mothers give up for the sake of their children? this seems to me to be the truth of the matter--that self-sacrifice becomes happiness when it is founded upon sufficient love. no doubt happiness follows any renunciation for the sake of duty; but the other is the more human point of view.' 'and what lesson do you deduce from that truth, catherine?' mrs. arderne was interested in the study of her companion's opinions. 'that love of god makes sweet and easy every sacrifice made for him. christ, the great model of self-renunciation, appeals for sympathy to the better self within each one of us--which was created in us--the breath of god in man. and it is only those who let god live within the soul, who do not hinder his work, who desire his guidance and control, who feel strong enough to be happy in a life which is all uncertainty. the luckiest man in all the world may be destined for overwhelming misery and pain to-morrow; it is only the man whose happiness consists in obedience to god's will, and in hope for an eternity cf perfect joy, whose peace neither fear nor suffering _can_ overwhelm!' 'it is a pity that we do not have female clergy, my dear. if we did, you might become a popular preacher.' 'oh, you are laughing at me! am i too fond of talking about my opinions? i was only trying my best to answer the questions you asked me.' 'yes, i know. i like to listen to you, though i wish you were less convincing. my own life always looks a poor, dreary, selfish one, filled with perils i've no courage to face, and my longing to be braver always frets me, after i have heard some of your sermonettes, child. if great misery or suffering were to overwhelm me to-morrow, i don't know what i should do!' 'you would lay your burden upon the saviour, would you not, you darling?' 'how could i, after ignoring his existence so long as my life was placid. certainly he must be generous, or he would send trials at once to test me, and to prove his power.' 'if he did, it would only be in his mercy, in order to expose you to the influence without which you will not seek the only lasting happiness.' mrs. arderne sighed. 'i _will_ turn over a new leaf; you shall help me, dear. i have been very much worried of late, because my husband wants me to rejoin him soon in india, and i don't want to go out there. my babes must stay in england. i will not have their health injured, perhaps permanently, by my selfish longing to keep them with me; and how can i bear to part from the darlings?' there was a tremor in the mother's voice. catherine clasped the little woman in her arms, and laid her cheek against her face. 'oh, you might have told me sooner of your anxiety! would it not have been easier to bear, if you had told some one, even me, who would have sympathised?' 'i knew you would say i must go. it _is_ my duty, i admit. henry has let me have a long holiday trip--first to australia, now to england. i have seen all my friends and relatives, and recovered my own health. with the exception that it is terribly hard to leave my children, there is not the slightest excuse for me to stay here.' 'is the climate _really_ so bad?' 'for children, yes. they shall not grow up sickly because their mother thought more of her own happiness than of their welfare.' 'and you expressed a wonder, only a few minutes ago, that any one could desire faith which might entail self-sacrifice! oh, you dear, brave little mother, even while you are lonely for want of your babies, will you not be proud and glad because you have loved them better than yourself? that is the way in which gladness comes from loving god. and it is he alone who can comfort you, to whom you can pray for ted and toddie; to whose loving care you can confide them, knowing that he can guard them better even than your love could do, were you always close beside them!' mrs. arderne laid her hand on her companion's shoulder, and indulged in a hearty cry. 'oh, cath!' she said at last, 'i _must_ learn to love god now, for i shall be so lonely in india, and i must feel that i can do something for the babies when i am far away from them. he won't be angry and refuse to listen to me, will he, because so long as i was quite happy i did not serve him?' 'the labourer who came at the eleventh hour into the vineyard received the same pay as those who had borne the heat and labour of the whole day. for god sent not his son into the world to condemn the world; but that the world through him might be saved.' after another silence mrs. arderne said: 'when i go, you will take charge of ted and toddie? promise me that, catherine. whether you live in redan cottage, or in your husband's home, you can give a shelter to my babes. there need be no difficulty about money, for i can make a liberal allowance for their comfort, and to do _something_ towards recompensing your care of them. this idea only occurred to me the other day, after i received henry's letter asking me to come back soon to him, and then i felt i could have hugged you for refusing to be adopted by your uncle ross!' 'he did not want to adopt me, dear. i should have had a home of my own. still, perhaps he would not have liked me to bring ted and toddie on constant visits to carm hall; and if i have charge of them, i will never be parted from them.' 'if? tell me you _will_, catherine. i can only be happy about them if i leave them in your care.' 'i promise i will have them, if uncle jack does not refuse, and he is not likely to do that.' 'you do not speak of brian's opinion.' 'there is no need. brian will be glad for me to do anything in the world that i can do to ease your anxiety. besides, are you not making me a most helpful offer? you are going to keep on your companion, letting her live at home. she would be altogether delighted, were it not that she will be parted from you!' 'you must write to me, cath, very, _very_ often; and you won't let the babes forget me, will you? oh, but i know you will not! your salary must be doubled, so that you are no expense to uncle jack, and we will decide on a sum to pay for the board of ted and toddie. dear child, it is a comfort to me to feel that you will benefit by my misfortune. you'll be able to save money, to help your lover, and in a few years henry will bring me back to england.' after a little more discussion of this plan, mrs. arderne sent catherine to take the news to redan cottage. chapter xi confidences and an attempt only agatha was at home this evening, and her joy may be imagined. 'oh, _catherine_; you will come to live here, with those two dear children? we shall have you, just as we planned to do! and you are _glad_ to come!' a short while ago the little girl would have said, '_i_ shall have you,' and would not have troubled to question whether or not the arrangement would bring joy to others; but the influence of catherine's teaching was working within this heart. 'glad?--yes indeed, dearie!' 'and you will talk to me every day about god, until he seems real and near? then i shall not be so dreadfully afraid of dying.' the colonel returned to the house early in the evening, to be greeted by the radiant smiles of his niece and ward. the former rose from her low seat by agatha's couch, and advanced to meet him with her hands outstretched, and cried,-- 'i want to come "home" to stay, dear uncle. will you have me?' it was sweet for her to see the joyous light that broke over his face as he listened to her explanations, for she learned to understand more and more how much he had wanted her. his earnest words of welcome were not necessary, though they also were sweet to catherine. later, when he was walking back to woodley villa with her, she learned a fact which robbed her prospects of some of their joyousness, but which made her trebly thankful that she was to live 'at home' for the future. they had reached the gate of mrs. arderne's house, when uncle jack laid his hand detainingly on his niece's arm, and said,-- 'lassie, you know that my pension is a very small one, and that it will die with me?' 'yes?' 'when agatha comes of age, if she lives, she will come into a tiny fortune; but meanwhile, the sum that was allowed me for her maintenance is barely sufficient.' 'are you afraid that i shall prove an extravagant housekeeper?' 'no, dear,--no. but if i were to die,--what would become of agatha?' 'could i take care of her,--i mean, would she suffer if i had to provide for her altogether out of that sum which you say is barely sufficient?' 'you could do it, lassie, but she would be a great tie.' 'i will never desert her while she needs me. even if brian would not let me have her with me, and you know that is an unnecessary supposition, i could make arrangements for her to board and lodge somewhere quite near, so that i could be often with her. you meant, did you not, that you could not bear to think of her being left lonely, and obliged to think and manage for herself? i would prevent that.' uncle jack smiled, and squeezed the arm he was holding. 'god bless you, dearest,--you have taken a load of anxiety off my mind! yes, that _was_ all i meant. i couldn't endure the thought that my poor agatha might be utterly alone. probably my brother would offer her a home,--but i could not count upon that.' 'but you--you are not going to die soon. i mean you--you are not ill?' 'for a year past i have had need to be careful of myself. my heart is in a wrong condition, so the doctor tells me. in fact, lassie, his warnings simply amount to this, which we all believe of ourselves,--that i might die any moment, if god so pleased.' for a while catherine was speechless. then she realised the truth which the colonel's words had suggested--threatened his life might be, but it could not end until the creator had ordained that he should die. 'no wonder you have been anxious about agatha. dearest uncle, do not worry about her any more. please god, we will keep you for many, many years to come, but if he were to call you away from us, we would cling to one another for all our lives.' 'lassie, lassie,--i didn't mean to bring tears into your eyes! you mustn't be less brave than your words. we are all under orders,--and a good soldier never lets himself fear the next command.' 'no, i will remember your advice,--colonel.' there was a smile on her lips now, as she gazed lovingly into the old man's face. 'this is a secret from agatha, of course--she is not strong enough yet to bear burdens that can be spared her. you and i are more like comrades, lassie, who can hearten and strengthen one another by exchanging ideas and knowledge.' 'i shall always ask god to help me to help you, then, uncle jack, for you are naturally a brave fighter, while i am but a girl.' 'many a woman's courage has shamed a man! i remember hearing how, just before the battle of inkerman----' and then followed an anecdote, the telling of which brought fire into the eyes of the old soldier, and a thrill into his voice. catherine, watching him, guessed that it was in this unconscious manner that he had inspired poor loring carmichael with that love for the military profession which had caused him to anger his uncle ross. an unconscious influence!--this it was for which uncle ross would not forgive his brother, who daily grieved for the estrangement between them! and though loring had died young, had he not died honourably? since there must be soldiers, why, some must die young,--and all honour be to them! surely uncle jack had done loring no great injury after all. the young man had been spared the temptations of long life, and had gone to find the reward which the king of battles gives to all loyal-hearted fighters. while hearing the anecdote of the battle of inkerman, catherine carmichael once more resolved to make every effort to bring about a reconciliation between her uncles. 'that was a fine story!' she cried, when the tale was ended. 'yes, lassie; women are very brave,--often. you have made me happy to-night. i could say you have taken away my last trouble, if it were not for ross' anger against me. god knows i would give the rest of my life, if possible, in exchange for the reinstating of the old regard we had for one another! we were devoted to one another as lads and young men, catherine. there was never a quarrel between us,--and we were friends, true, absolute friends, until ross caught the gold fever, that passion for money-earning and hoarding which ruins many men.' 'that was the beginning of your estrangement?' 'that began to put us out of sympathy; but i want him just as badly as ever, lassie. after almost a lifetime of brotherly affection, this separation is terrible. i think the tie that binds one man's heart to another is tremendously powerful. i shouldn't wonder if ross were wishing for my friendship all the while almost as strongly as i long for his; but his pride has grown very stubborn, and i did him an undoubted injury, though i meant no harm.' 'god will answer our prayers, uncle jack, dear. the reconciliation will come some day.' 'his will be done!' was the reverent answer. then the colonel suddenly remembered how long he had kept his niece standing talking by the gate,--and they parted with a great hand-clasp,--'just like comrade-soldiers,' as catherine thought to herself. she ran indoors, and sought out mrs. arderne, who was in the nursery putting away the toys which ted and toddie had been playing with before they had been carried away to bed. 'cath! your face has a cloud over it!' 'oh, you quick-sighted friend!--yes, i want to tell you about something--about uncle jack.' the little woman drew a chair forward, and made the tall girl sit down; then standing beside her, pillowed her brown head on her arm. 'let me hear all,--it is my turn to try to comfort you now!' gradually the tale was told, and catherine did not pretend not to be deeply grieved about her uncle's illness. warm-hearted, tender-natured as she was, she could not fail to sorrow over the news he had told her of his state of health, although she never lost consciousness of that beautiful truth that god was taking care of him. 'you see, god may mean to take him from me soon,' she explained, clinging to the encircling arm. 'i cannot tell _how_ soon. god has a right to do so. his decrees are always for our good, but--but--i love uncle jack so truly, and i have only just found him! it seems so hard to contemplate the possibility of having to give him up to god just yet. you won't think me wicked, or a hypocrite, to be feeling like this, will you?' 'no, no, childie! your religion would not be beautiful at all, if it did not make allowance for natural human feelings. resignation must be the result of sorrow, mustn't it? poor, dear old gentleman! i hope and trust that he may be spared to you for a long, long time. and you know, dear, threatened lives are often lengthy. you must take great care of him.' 'indeed i will! do you not think that his trouble must be very bad for him?--his regret about the quarrel? he told me to-night that he would gladly give the rest of his life, if by so doing he could become friends again with his brother.' 'can't you soften mr. carmichael's heart by telling him of his brother's illness?' catherine raised her face, and eagerly considered this suggestion. 'oh, if i only could coax him to make the least advance, or even to meet uncle jack somewhere for a talk, the battle would be won! it is dreadfully selfish of me to be sitting here crying, when i ought to be forming plans of action and praying for success with them!' 'oh, you energetic young woman, you need not grudge yourself five minutes' rest and indulgence in tears! why, a good cry sometimes does a girl a world of good, and acts as a tonic, so that she can work fifty times better after it.' 'i know, and you are such a dear to cry upon!' 'we are to be parted so soon, cath, that it is best for us to help one another all we can now.' 'will it be very soon? agatha asked me, but i told her that i did not know.' 'i have been making my plans while you were away, and i have decided to leave england the week after next. nurse can have board wages instead of her notice, unless, indeed, you would like to keep her on. you are quite welcome to do so, if you prefer it.' 'there would be no room for her in redan cottage, and i would much rather have ted and toddie all to myself. you do not imagine that i regard a nurse's daily work as hard or derogatory, do you? why, it is some of the best and greatest labour a woman can possibly find to do!' 'my children are extraordinarily lucky little people to be left in your care, catherine!' said the mother gratefully. 'so you will be with your husband for christmas?' 'yes,--poor henry! i had contemplated inviting lots of friends down to stay with me, and indulging in all the yule-tide frivolities and entertainments of the neighbourhood--dances, etc.; but my heart has reproached me too strongly. thanks to you, i'm not half as pleasure-craving a butterfly as i used to be. duty seems not only best, but happiest. once i have got over the parting with you and the chicks, i know i shall be glad to be with henry, in spite of the climate.' the two women kissed one another, and clung together, feeling that their troubles had wrought a strong tie of sympathy between them. then ensued a long, thoughtful silence, which was broken at last by catherine's earnest, low-toned voice, saying,-- 'do you remember the words of jesus christ to simon peter: "i have prayed for thee that thy faith fail not; and when thou are converted, strengthen thy brethren"? i have always thought that so touching an instance of our lord's mercy! for he knew that peter was about to deny him, yet he prayed that in sin he might not lose his faith, but, in spite of his errors, come to be a teacher of others. dearest of friends, i am only an ignorant, sinful creature, but if we ask god to help me, he will teach me how to watch over and train ted and toddie, so that they may not suffer for want of their mother's presence.' 'cath,--teach them to be like yourself, and i shall be more than satisfied!' chapter xii good-bye catherine wrote two long letters next morning--one to brian, the other to uncle ross--to acquaint them with her new prospects. she concluded the letter to her uncle in this way:-- 'i shall be sorry if my going to live at redan cottage displeases you, but i know you will be glad for me to do anything i can to serve my kind friend, mrs. arderne,--and remember, you promised not to quarrel seriously with 'your affectionate niece, 'catherine carmichael.' in the course of the same day she received his reply, brought down to her by a groom. her uncle assured her of his esteem for mrs. arderne, and his unalterable affection for herself, and expressed satisfaction that the proposed change in her circumstances would be of pecuniary advantage to her. redan cottage was not so much as mentioned, nor was uncle jack nor agatha. brian's reply, which was lengthy, greatly comforted catherine. not only did he thoroughly approve mrs. arderne's plan, but he sent such earnest sympathy, combined with encouragement, on the subject of the colonel's state of health, that his promised wife felt that she possessed in him a consoler upon whose perfect understanding and stable judgments she could always rely. and, in advising her to hope for success in her efforts to effect reconciliation, he alluded to 'your happy faith, which you have taught me to share.' during the following days uncle jack and mrs. arderne, agatha, and the children, met many times, and inaugurated friendships, greatly to catherine's delight. 'that old man is a hero and a darling!' the vivacious little lady told her companion one evening, after they had spent some hours at redan cottage. 'yet you once wanted me to give up his friendship, to refuse his offer, to practically behave as though i did not love him, and all for the sake of uncle ross's money!' 'cath, don't throw my past folly in my face! i didn't know your uncle then, and i felt sure you were championing the one because he was the poorer,--out of a mingling of quixotic chivalry and obstinate pride.' 'what is your opinion of my poor little agatha?' 'i don't like her--i've not advanced far enough in the study or practice of universal charity to feel sure that i love her, as we are told to love all men! as for loving her specially, as you seem to do, that is quite out of the question for me,--a thing far beyond the bounds of possibility.' 'she only shows you her outward self,--the bad manners and forgetfulness of others of a spoilt child; if she had shown you her heart, with all its pathetic longings, fears, and affections, all its contradictory beauty and ugliness, you would be just as fond of her as i am.' 'i can't think so. the only reason why i feel the least tenderness towards her is the fondness she shows for my babies.' 'the more you see of her the faster will grow that tenderness. she is one of the many girls who suffer countless deprivations on account of their unconciliatory manners, and who remain lonely and morbid because no one ever loves them well enough to gain their confidence.' 'but supposing there seems nothing worth loving?' 'that can't ever be--not to a person who sees god's handiwork--something, therefore, of god's own beauty--in every human face,' said catherine. before the day came for mrs. arderne's departure from beverbridge, she had become genuinely interested in agatha, and much more friendly towards her. ted and toddie, with the impulsiveness of their youth, had forced their passage into agatha's love. 'we only just wanted to be nice at first, 'cause we was sowwy for you, 'cause you can't get up,' ted announced once; 'but now we weally loves 'oo.' and after a speech of this description, delivered by a truthful, confiding, kissable urchin six years of age, and echoed by his more demure but equally kissable sister, what could agatha's pride do but yield? she was always happy, even when suffering pain, if ted and toddie were playing about the room, running up to her couch every few minutes to ask her opinion or advice, or to bestow a 'weal good cuddle' upon her. 'muvver, you've _no_ idea how _vewwy_ nice ag'tha is,' declared toddie. ted one evening determined to break the ice between his mother and agatha, and proceeded to act upon his intention with his usual all-subduing bluntness. 'ag'tha,' he announced, 'you like muvver, don't you? and muvver, you like ag'tha, don't you? so s'pose you just kiss one anover an' be fwends ever afterwards?' the kiss was given, laughingly; indeed, it could not well be refused. agatha wondered if ted were right, if mrs. arderne did really like her; and this thought made her manner gentle and timid, the consequence of which was that the child's surmise was proved accurate, even though it had been a mistake at first. the time for the mother's departure arrived all too rapidly. she had superintended the fitting up of ted and toddie's nursery in redan cottage, had found out, with pride, that the little people were already beloved by all the household, and knew that they were certain to be quite happy with catherine. perhaps her heart suffered a few pangs because of her knowledge that they would have grieved far more, had it been catherine who was obliged to leave them; but this reflection she resolutely put away from her, as one likely to encourage selfishness. after all, the fact was not strange. it was catherine who had appealed to the souls of the babies, taken notice of their young emotions, studied their characters, helped and consoled them in their troubles; she, the mother, had petted them egregiously when they pleased her, and banished them without remorse when their prattle had tired her. by assiduously caring for their health, she had imagined that her duty had been fully done, but now, when it was too late, she realized that even small children should be taught to respect the justice of praise and blame, punishment and reward, and that they turn naturally with the greatest affection to those who appeal to their generosity. while catherine had taught them 'be good, or you will grieve your loving father in heaven, who sees you every minute of the day and night, who is sorry when you are naughty, and glad when you are trying to please him,' mrs. arderne had ruled by alternate bribes and threats, such as, 'if you are naughty, you shall not have that picture-book i promised you,' or, '_do_ be good, ted and toddie, then you shall have those nice chocolates out of the cupboard.' often and often had ted's spirit failed to be subdued by these means; he had been known to answer, 'don't care! do wivout choc'lates'; but a few minutes' talk with catherine had never been found to result in anything but meekness and repentance. it was the old story--when worldly measures proved worthless, god's love produced wonders. the day of farewells came at last, after a few days which had seemed to lag because they had been filled with sorrow. mrs. arderne was to start very early for london, so the parting with ted and toddie was a silent one. bending over them where they lay happily asleep in their cots--ted pouting and toddie smiling seraphically--the mother would not waken them to gratify herself at their expense. 'it's best that they don't know,' she whispered, 'for they would cry, though you could soon comfort them.' then she kissed the rosy cheeks, laid her hands on the golden head and the brown one, and let catherine lead her out of the room. 'oh, cath, cath, be good to them!' 'you know i will, dearest.' 'don't let them forget me. try to make them remember their mother's good points only, if she has any. i have not been the best of mothers, but it was through ignorance; and, please god, i'll learn all about him, so that the children may not find me wanting in sympathy when i come home to them.' 'pray for them night and morning, just when you feel sure they are saying their prayers and asking god to bless "muvver."' 'oh, their dear little lisps! they won't be babies any longer when i see them again, my darlings!' this was the worst parting; though the little woman clung to catherine at the last moment in the railway carriage, and felt, as she owned, that she could scarcely bear to let her go, the mother's sorrow was naturally the stronger, as was proved by her last words. 'be good to them, cath, take care of them.' as the girl returned alone to the villa, to superintend the removal of herself and the children to redan cottage and to part with the nurse, she was conscious of a feeling of dread at the responsibility she had adopted, as well as of a loneliness due to the loss of her friend; and it was only by means of prayer that she regained courage. not until ted and toddie were installed in their new home did catherine break the news to them of their mother's departure. '_oh, carr, she's not gone'd?_' the pathetic cry, the startled look went straight to the girl's heart. 'ted, she is coming back again!' she cried, clasping him to her breast, 'and you must try ever so hard to grow good, wise, and clever, that she may be really proud of her boy!' toddie sat down on the floor and began to weep, refusing utterly to be comforted until she had had her cry out, when she displayed healthy curiosity regarding her new doll's cradle, her mother's parting gift. ted had by far the more affectionate disposition, and grieved trebly as much as his sister, as catherine had expected. he tried to hide his unhappiness, even from her, until night, when she found him sobbing pitifully in the dark, and had to spend a long while in endeavouring to soothe him. at last he cried himself to sleep in her arms. it was many days before the little fellow ceased to fret, and at one time catherine began to fear for his health; but she and agatha managed him so adroitly that he was surprised into laughing over a new game one evening, and after that laugh his spirits gradually returned to him. 'his mother will cry over the letter i have sent her, describing ted's way of bearing his first big sorrow,' said catherine to agatha; 'but they will be tears that will do her heart good.' toddie was quite placid again by this time, and was becoming the idol of all but agatha and catherine, who could not help loving ted best, though they tried to show no preference. 'uncle jack' was the tiny girl's favourite friend, and he spent most of his leisure in her company, which never failed to cheer him. how greatly he was in need of cheering, catherine now began to discover. she loved him so well that her power of character-reading was greatly aided in his case. when agatha thought him merely tired, catherine knew that he was dejected; when he was laughing aloud over his games with the children, catherine saw the weary look in his eyes, detected a wistful cadence in his voice, and knew that he was thinking of the quarrel which was as a dark shadow over these years of his old age. morning and night, at family prayers, a petition was offered up for the reconciling of all family feuds, the forgiveness of injuries between friends, the health and happiness of relatives. and one day some time after christmas the colonel turned to those around him, saying simply:-- 'this is the anniversary of the day when i and my brother ross quarrelled, when he told me we could live together no longer. will you all pray silently for his welfare, here and hereafter, and for our reconciliation, if god in his mercy wills it? i know i have always prayed aloud for this before, in other years; but to-day--my courage fails me.' 'catherine, if i should die suddenly,' he said when next alone with his niece, 'i trust to you to tell ross i have never borne him any ill-will, and that i hope to meet him in the kingdom where all the secrets of men's hearts will be made plain, and where the god of love reigns for ever and ever.' 'i promise to bear your wish in mind, dearest uncle,' was her answer. and she resolved that not another day should pass before she made one more attempt to soften her other uncle's heart and overrule his pride. chapter xiii the fate of a letter next morning dawned fair. catherine was astir early, as was her custom; but, instead of writing letters, devoted all her time to meditating upon her resolution to plead with uncle ross. these meditations were interspersed with earnest prayers, and with a study of those parts of the bible which she thought would best help her in her task. 'i must go to work very humbly,' she told herself, 'or else i may make some serious mistake, and maybe increase instead of lessening uncle jack's trouble. if i remember all the time that no action of mine can be the least use unless god helps me, then i am not likely to do harm.' her desire to make another effort on uncle jack's behalf was just as strong by morning light as it had been the preceding evening, but the difficulties in the way of success looked more colossal. what could she say, that would not be mere repetition of all she had already said? nothing, except that now she could plead for the reconciliation to take place because the colonel's life was in danger. and if uncle ross did not care sufficiently for his brother to be touched by this news, influenced by the dread lest the quarrel should continue until death, there was no strong argument upon which the pleader could fall back as a last resource. but surely, surely uncle ross _would_ care! the lonely old man, surrounded by riches and comforts, _must_ be longing all the while for the brotherly love he had cast away, and repeatedly refused to welcome back again! catherine's warm heart glowed with affection for all who were good to her, but more especially for those to whom she felt drawn by the tie of sympathy; and she could not believe that a brother could possibly continue to refuse to clasp a brother's hand, nor that any one could long withstand the gentle fascination of uncle jack's sincerity. the more she prayed and meditated, the more hopeful did she become. she even found herself smiling over the contemplation of a dream-picture--the possible result of the efforts she was planning--of the brothers meeting once again as friends, not foes, and trying to outdo one another in their expressions of sorrow for the years of misunderstanding. 'uncle ross is generous at heart, i feel sure he is!' she thought. 'it is only, as uncle jack told me, that he has allowed his business career to spoil his outward character--he has grown too fond of money--hard, calculating, and cynical. but, in spite of his wealth, he is unhappy and lonely--he has come to regard his life as a failure. he will welcome the friendship and unmercenary devotion of the brother who has never ceased to sorrow for the loss of his regard!' before going downstairs to breakfast catherine woke and dressed the children and listened to their prayers. they clung round her and begged for a 'talk,' and this too she gave them--a quaint little morning homily--dealing with the probable events of the day, containing a promise to have a real, long game of play with them in the evening, to make up for leaving them with agatha until dinner-time. 'you will be dear, good little people, will you not, so that i may go to see uncle ross quite happily, without worrying about having left you at home?' ted laughed wickedly, but was instantly rebuked by toddie. 'naughty boy not to pwomise at once! _i'll_ be good, carr dear, but i can't keep ted fwom bein' bad.' 'ted will not break his word to me, i am certain of that,' said catherine, gravely regarding the mischievous-looking urchin. 'that's why didn't want to pwomise,' explained the rebel. 'feels naughty this mornin'.' 'come and kiss me.' this invitation could not be resisted. in a second he had scrambled on to her knee, was clasping both his fat little arms round her neck, and showering kisses upon her cheeks and brow. 'oh, ted, you do not wish to vex our good god, and to worry your own carr, do you?' '_ni-ever!_' cried ted with emphasis. 'only wanted to play pwanks, go an' tease hawwiet in the kitchen, an' make ag'tha let me do everything i like best!' 'you will do none of those things,' announced catherine firmly. ted, scarcely believing she could be angry, yet awed by the decided tone, gazed up at her, asking,-- '_why_ won't i?' 'because you love me, ted. i cannot have that which _i_ like best, if you are determined to try to please yourself this morning. i shall have to stay at home to take charge of you, if you mean to be naughty.' 'an' you _weally_ want to go to see that howwid old man?' 'oh, ted,' put in toddie the virtuous, 'you _are_ a wicked, bad boy to-day! i wonder carr has any patience wiv 'oo.' 'i shall be _very much_ disappointed if i cannot go to carm hall.' ted meditated for a minute, then he laughed delightedly,-- 'then i'll save all the pwanks up!' he announced. 'i promise dweffully solemnly that i'll be won'erful good all the times you'se away, carr lovey!' when catherine, having completed her conquest over ted's mischievous longings, ran downstairs to breakfast, she found a letter awaiting her. it proved to be from her melbourne cousin george, to whom she had written so long ago asking him for news of the last hours of poor loring carmichael. robert was shovelling away at the fire, and harriet was laying the meal, so after a few words to them catherine slipped away into the garden to read the long letter in peace. she was not in the least cold, though the january air was fresh, as she paced round and round the narrow gravel walk which surrounded the small lawn. her cheeks were glowing with a healthy colour, and her brown hair, having just been rumpled by that naughty ted, was blown in bewitching locks and curls about her brow. there was a happy smile of pleased expectation on her lips as she began to read, but it faded away and was replaced by a look of anxiety and grief long before she had finished the letter. after a few unimportant sentences george carmichael wrote:-- 'i know that i ought to have answered your letter long ago, and i should have done so, had i been certain how much i was justified in telling you about poor loring. you say you are in a position to make use of any information i can send you, but my knowledge seems to me to be of a kind which, if shared with our uncles, would only increase their quarrel, not lessen it. loring dictated two letters before he died, which i wrote and despatched as he desired--the one to uncle ross, the other to uncle jack. they were addressed to carm hall. as he was able to write through me, he did not give any verbal messages when he was dying. have you never heard of these letters? it is not possible, is it, that uncle jack never received his? there! that question is as bad as a lie, so please consider it scratched out. i know, by something you said in your last letter to me, that uncle j. can't have received it. these are the facts of the case. loring was offered his choice between giving up his intention to be a soldier, or accepting an income of £ a year, with the prospect of inheriting almost all uncle ross's fortune. this sounds straight enough, but it was not straight, for he was bound over not to tell uncle jack of the bribe offered. uncle j. thought he was choosing simply between the army and an office stool. uncle ross offered him money down, and a life of idleness, spent where he pleased; in fact, there was nothing he would not have offered in order to buy out his brother's influence. when loring lay dying he considered himself freed from that promise of secrecy which he had made for his lifetime, and he wrote to uncle jack telling him how ross had acted. he also explained that he had left home without any farewells, in order to leave them free to forget him, the cause of their quarrel, and because he was indignant at the secrecy, which seemed dishonourable, of the offer made him. "you," he wrote, "would have scorned to privately bribe me, had you possessed my other uncle's wealth. i chose to follow my own wish in the matter of choosing a profession, since i felt that, by attempting to bribe me, uncle ross had absolved me from all obligation due to his former care of me. until he made that offer, which few young men would have refused, i was trying to subdue my longing for a soldier's life, that i might repay him for making me his heir. you never tried to influence me; you only told me true stories of a soldier's life. _it was entirely owing to uncle ross's secret persuasion that i left home to enlist._" there, my dear catherine, as nearly as i can remember, those were the words poor loring wrote to uncle jack by my hand in that letter which it is clear enough uncle jack has not received. my own opinion is, that it reached carm hall after the colonel's departure, and that uncle ross (knowing some of its contents through loring's letter to him) purposely refrained from forwarding it. if my suspicion is correct, the news i send you will surely increase the family quarrel rather than lessen it; but i place it in your hands to be used or not used, as you judge best. my opinion is that a reconciliation will never take place, if it cannot come to pass without a confession by the squire. it is more often the person who has done the injury, not the person injured, who refuses to forgive. if you ever wish for it, catherine, i can send you a copy of loring's letter to the colonel, for i have at home the rough notes for it--the words that his failing breath dictated to me.' [illustration] 'catherine, dear!' uncle jack had come to the open window of the dining-room, and was calling her in from the garden. 'coming!' there was no time to think over the letter she had been reading, and she must laugh and talk over the breakfast just as though no news had come to startle her. catherine made a brave effort to appear unconcerned, and, luckily, agatha was in a cheerful, unobservant mood; and the colonel, though he noticed that his niece's merriment was rather strained, guessed that she was tired, or maybe disappointed at having received no communication from brian. when prayers had been said, and agatha carried back to the couch in her own little sitting-room and given charge over ted and toddie, who promised to be 'beautifully good all mornin',' catherine was free to put one or two careful questions to her uncle. she went to him where he was sitting before his writing-table, and clasping his arm, knelt by his side, gazing affectionately into his face. 'dear, i--have been thinking a great deal about poor loring this morning.' 'ah! my dear boy! he was the best of lads; so honourable and high-spirited!' 'did he send you a message--or a letter--before he died, dear?' 'no, not a word. but you must not blame him for that, lassie. he may have had no time, have remained unconscious until the end; or i sometimes think he may have learned to regret his adoption of the profession, since for a gentleman a "private's" life is a hard one, and he may have felt anger against me for having caused him to become a soldier.' 'but you did not directly counsel him to enter the army, did you, uncle?' 'no, no; i never counselled him to refuse to obey the wishes of the uncle to whom he owed all. i only pleaded with ross for him, and no doubt i talked to him a great deal about the service--i could not help that; and he used to question me so eagerly. yet i have no doubt that i was to blame, as ross says i was, for the lad's rebellion and decision.' catherine rose, and kissed the old man's forehead before leaving him. 'i do not believe that loring ever regretted his decision or ceased to be grateful to you, dear uncle,' she said softly. she thought over george's letter while she walked the four miles to carm hall; but her resolution had sprung into being directly she had heard the colonel's self-blaming answer to her questions. she was indignant now on his behalf. had the squire indeed kept back the dying lad's letter to his best friend, the relative whom he had loved more than any other living creature? if so, then the time had come for her to make a bold attempt to force a reconciliation, unless she could persuade uncle ross to yield for reason's, for honour's, and for pity's sake. and uncle jack had said, 'i would gladly give the rest of my life, if possible, in exchange for the reinstating of the old regard we, ross and i, had for one another. i want him just as badly as ever, lassie!' oh, supposing the wrong were proved to have been done--and of this catherine could not have much doubt--if uncle ross would but ask for pardon, how gladly, generously, would not uncle jack give it! 'o my god, help me!' prayed the girl, as she hurried along the country road. 'without thy aid i can do nothing. help me not to judge others harshly, to remember that i _can't judge_ of the strength of those temptations to which others have yielded. let me forget myself and my own poor opinions; let me not speak angrily or foolishly; and if thy will does not forbid it, let me see my uncles true brothers again--uncle ross forgiven by the man he has injured, as a prelude to being pardoned by thee!' chapter xiv catherine's appeal when catherine carmichael reached carm hall she found that a groom was leading the squire's horse up and down the carriage drive. her uncle appeared at the hall door, booted for riding, just as she arrived at it; but he smilingly welcomed her, and gave orders that the spirited bay should be taken back to the stable. 'i do not receive visits from you so often that i can afford to cut them short, my dear,' he replied to her promise that she would not detain him long. 'don't take me into the drawing-room,' she petitioned. 'i have a great deal to say to you, uncle, and the library is so much more cosy. if you treat me as a stranger, my courage will fail me, and i shall not be able to find words in which to explain my reason for coming to-day.' he smiled. 'your wish is, of course, a command to me. i trust that nothing is troubling you? mr. north is not ill?' 'no; the trouble does not concern brian.' he wheeled the largest arm-chair near to the fire for her, and stood beside her, looking down into her face. his figure was upright, his eyes keen, but the lines in his brow were deeply cut, and his beard and hair were quite white. a fine old man, a typical squire, with an autocrat's expression. even while admiring her uncle, catherine was remembering the secret wrong he had done--the dishonouring small sins of which he had been guilty. his proud air and haughty manner hid remorse and self-condemnation; surely this must be so! 'your friend, mrs. arderne, is not ill either? the children cannot be unwell, or you would not have left them.' 'the troubles all concern uncle jack and--and you.' there was a great fear in her heart, and her voice trembled. oh, if this dread, this mastering weakness of will, were to continue, there would be no chance of influencing this stern, self-possessed man by her words! in that moment catherine both despised and detested herself. but she had sought powerful aid; she had put her case into the hands of her heavenly father, beseeching him to plead her cause for her through her own lips; and the remembrance of his mercy and goodness came back to her mind just as she needed it most. with god's help, wonders and miracles might be accomplished! at the mention of uncle jack the squire's frown had appeared. it was a visible effort to him to show the unvarying courtesy he deemed due to a woman when catherine would speak of his enemy. 'forgive me if i say that you had better have chosen a different confidant, if you wish to discuss affairs concerning my brother.' 'no other confidant would do, and i knew you would not refuse to listen to me.' 'i am powerless to refuse a lady's request, when it is in my power to grant it, when the lady is my niece, to whom i am attached, and when she proffers the request under my own roof. i can only request her to desist from making it.' 'uncle, i have such strong motives that i cannot yield my will to yours this time!' he smiled cynically. 'my dear catherine, you have not exhibited any willingness ever to consider my desires rather than your own!' a hot retort was just springing from her lips, but she restrained the wrong impulse. 'i am sorry, truly sorry, that i have not been able to please you. had i been in your favour, my task to-day would have been so much easier. uncle, let me stand beside you; i can talk better when i stand, and i am tall enough to look right into your eyes! don't be angry with me, dear! you were never vexed with "little catherine" in the old days. do you recollect one great argument we had about the necessity for men, as well as women, to lead religious lives? i was only a child; it was not easy for me to bear my part in that argument. i lost my temper, and behaved very impertinently to you, i'm afraid, yet you were not angry--certainly not the least bit sarcastic! when i apologised afterwards, you told me you "liked my spirited defence of that which i believed right!"' the squire's expression softened, and he laid his hand on that small but firm one which had stolen through his arm. 'are you preparing to lose your temper again, catherine?' 'no, i will try not to do so; i don't think i shall want to. uncle ross, you have not the least idea how unhappy this family quarrel is making your brother. he longs for your friendship, for the old affection between you. he told me, only a little while ago, that he would gladly give the remainder of his life in exchange for the reconciliation; only god does not let his creatures bargain with him in that way. i have come here to-day to plead for uncle jack, not to begin by defending him. i appeal to your sense of generosity first, to your memory of the love that united you brothers in your childhood, youth, and young manhood.' 'there is an insuperable obstacle against the proposed reconciliation.' catherine watched his face as he spoke this quiet sentence. yes, there was the obstacle of his false pride. he would not confess himself in the wrong; he could not endure the thought of humbling himself. the harsh tone of voice, the fixed tension of the brows, the weary, cynical smile--all these betokened the squire's sacrifice to his idol, self. that he still cared for his brother catherine felt certain. a warm regard, the growth of years and years of intimacy, does not melt away in a short time, nor can it be entirely obliterated by any quarrel. the seeds of affection were springing ever fresh in a heart which would not let love blossom and bear fruit. there was sadness in the words 'an insuperable obstacle.' 'you wish that obstacle did not exist?' for a few minutes ross carmichael hesitated. he was reading his own mind. did he not regret that unworthy attempt to secretly bribe loring to reject uncle jack's influence? did he not repent of the impulsive hiding away of that last letter of loring's--the deception of an instant which had obliged him to practise deceit ever since? 'yes, catherine, i regret the obstacle.' 'and is it not in your power to overcome it?' yes, it was, in two ways. either the squire could confess the injury he had done his brother, or he might make overtures of friendship without ever owning the secret wrong. the first method was too distasteful to his false pride; the second was impossible to a man whose honour had been twice denied, but had never succumbed beneath the treatment. call jack brother, welcome him home, press his hand, live in his company day after day, and all the while deceive him? no; the squire's nature rebelled fiercely against this idea. 'you will find me a--tolerably patient listener, my dear; but i refuse to be "heckled,"' was his answer. 'forgive me, uncle! i am so much in earnest that maybe i am imprudent! you know that i care very truly for you; that i care also for uncle jack; and while i _know_ that he grieves for your friendship, i believe you miss his presence here more than you will own. god gave you to one another; let your warm affection be a joy to you; and now that you are estranged you both are sorry for the loss of one another. uncle jack tells me, "i long for ross more than ever, now that i am growing old."' 'catherine, catherine, for heaven's sake desist from these appeals and arguments, which have no respect for my feelings, but which are totally useless!' 'it is those feelings to which i wish to appeal. they have slept too long; it is well for them to be roused!' cried the girl, clasping his arm with both her hands. 'you will feel remorse and sorrow all the years of your life, if uncle jack dies before you have made all the amends in your power!' '_dies!_' the squire's face had become ashen; his repetition of the word catherine had used betrayed the shock it had caused him. '_dies!_' he repeated. 'john is my junior. the chance is that i die before him.' 'no, uncle; for his life is threatened; it might end any minute, so the doctors tell him.' there was silence in the library for a while, only the fire flickered and spluttered fiercely, and the heavy drops of a rain-storm dashed against the windows. the squire stood erect, gazing straight before him, with not a change of one muscle of his face. yet no one, least of all catherine, could have seen that face without learning that a struggle and a grief were tearing his heart. while he was silent he was looking into the far past, to the childish days when jack had been all-in-all to him, when his affection for him had been of the loyal protecting order of the elder for the younger; looking back to the youth of mutual aspirations after higher things than worldly ambition, to the confidences of young manhood, to the devotion for one woman, which had never separated them, because for each it had been equally hopeless. how jack had proposed, after that sorrow, 'let us keep together through life, you and i, ross. we shall always understand and respect one another's memories'! how the promise had been kept, even when absence made letter-writing the only method of communication! how nothing but the elder's change of disposition had weakened the old tie! money, money, money,--this had become ross's idol; in serving it he had lost touch with the finer nature of his soldier brother, whose loyal, pure heart had remained faithful. then the episode of loring carmichael's adoption; their mutual pride in the prospects of the clever lad who was to carry the old name honourably into another generation, and keep the home and estate in order. then loring's favouritism for uncle jack; the squire's growing jealousy, and attempt to purchase his allegiance secretly. later, loring's choice, loring's departure; lastly, loring's death, and the concealed letter! no, not lastly, for years of estrangement had followed, beginning with a mere quarrel which could easily have been made up, but which had been sealed, as it were, by the squire's act of deception, that dishonouring wrong to which he would not own. he saw himself in his true colours now, and was bitterly shamed by the vision. but to be ashamed, and to own to the shame, were two different things. he contrived to hide his emotion. 'i am exceedingly sorry to hear of my brother's ill-health, catherine. still, that does not efface the wrong he did me.' 'what if i can prove to you that loring was not influenced in his final choice by uncle jack?' 'i fail to understand how that could be. you never met--my nephew.' 'no, uncle, but you have another nephew, who was his friend, who was with him before his death, who wrote for him two letters of farewell--one to you, one to uncle jack--my cousin george in melbourne.' the squire's expression changed again. he glanced anxiously into catherine's face. how much did she know? was his wrong-doing to be exposed, brought home to him by this penniless niece, who had refused to sacrifice her sense of duty for the gain of a fortune?--this girl, whose spirit he had admired in times past? it was too strange that she should humble him! could he not think of any way in which to make sure of her silence? no; for she was absolutely unselfish and honest. there was admiration for her in his mind, even while she was so calmly defying him. her truthful brown eyes did not falter beneath his glance; her temper was not aroused. she was simply in earnest--doing battle for uncle jack. he could not think how to answer her, until she spoke again, quietly: 'i know _all_ about the quarrel, uncle ross. george has written to me. the only thing i do not know is what became of loring's letter to uncle jack, for it was not delivered to him.' if catherine had expected to break down the reserve of his manner, she was disappointed. ross carmichael was bent upon enduring his position as well as possible. 'the letter came here after my brother's departure, and i omitted to forward it. had he sent for it at any time, he could have had it. it lies in the locked drawer of a bureau in the hall.' 'will you let me take it to him?' 'certainly.' 'oh, uncle, george told me one sentence that is in it. loring declared, "it is entirely owing to uncle ross's secret persuasion that i left home to enlist." now that you know that uncle jack did not do you the injury of influencing loring to leave you, won't you forgive and be friends with him again?' catherine's voice was no longer calm. her appeal was made in impassioned tones, and her eyes were full of tears. the squire unclasped her hands from his arm and turned away. 'if i am not mistaken, the--the position is changed between my brother and myself. john will probably be indignant because i--did not trouble to--to forward the letter. there was no absolute necessity for me to do so; it was his affair that he left me and went to live by himself.' 'since you have wronged him, do you not wish to make amends to him?' 'that will be done--at least, the wrong will be ended when you have taken him the letter.' 'no, uncle, for he cares far more for you than he ever cared for loring. he longs for your love again--your confidence. will you not make some advance to him, as he has made so many which you have ignored? think--it is in your power to make these later years of his life happy instead of sad! can you be so hard-hearted as not to do it?' the squire walked away to the window, where he stood, turning his back upon his niece,--silently fighting with his feelings. catherine watched him, and prayed. at last the answer came, in a voice unlike the squire's usual harsh accents. 'you shall take the letter, and you may tell john i--am sorry. i shall be in beverbridge this evening, at the club quite near you. you can send for me if--if john wants me.' chapter xv as god willed 'let me be driven down, and let your carriage wait to bring uncle jack back to you as soon as he has read loring's letter. don't you know him better than to think that he will be content to wait to answer you until this evening?' pleaded the girl, with an odd little choke in her voice. her mission was almost accomplished, for there was not the least doubt as to the nature of the reply one brother would make to the other. and at that instant the unexpected happened. the library door opened, and the colonel himself stood on the threshold. his gaze went past catherine, to the tall, straight figure at the window. '_ross!_' '_john!_' the squire had turned; the two men stood looking at one another. the younger advanced with his right hand outstretched: 'forgive me for coming, especially for forcing myself on you unannounced. my excuse was a telegram for catherine. james let me in. don't be angry with a faithful servant on my account. ross, i've tried before to make up the quarrel between us, but i have not tried _hard_ enough. to-day i've been reproaching myself.' 'god knows you have no cause, jack!' the two right hands were clasped now. 'i've been thinking a great deal about loring, poor, dear fellow, and i seem to have realised what a blow losing him was to you, ross. you wanted some one to be proud of, and he was worthy; and i, garrulous old man that i was, persuaded him to long to be a soldier. it was a great injury to you.' 'hush, john, you mustn't say so. i----' 'i have come to speak my mind out. let me do it. have patience with me just for a few moments. you refused my overtures towards reconciliation a few times, ross, and my pride kept me from offering any more. that was where i was wrong--most wrong. i called myself a christian, but my conduct was utterly un-christlike. _pride?_ what is that between brothers? we loved one another once, and it shall be no fault of mine if our hearts are divided. and to-day i have been remembering the exhortation, "let brotherly love continue." ross, if it is to end, it shall not be by my fault. so i have come to ask your pardon for all the ill i have ever done you, purposely or unconsciously.' 'no, no, john. all the wrong has been mine. you will not want to ask my pardon when you know all. i have deceived you, and----' catherine heard no more, for she stole out of the room, leaving the brothers together. * * * * * 'and to-morrow we go home!' agatha was the speaker. it was the evening of the same day, and she was nestling in catherine's arms. from the other little room across the hall came the sound of voices. uncle jack and uncle ross were together there, talking over the many memories they shared, making plans for their future, agreeing to forget the past. 'yes,' agreed the elder girl, in the happiest of tones. 'you and i, ted and toddie, even harriet and robert--we are all to leave the cottage for the hall. my dear little woman, your wish has come true. i am so very glad.' 'it is all your doing, catherine. oh, it is a lovely ending to the family quarrel! i never saw guardian look as radiant as he does now. you do believe i'm most pleased about that, don't you? i used to covet comforts and money most dreadfully, but you've taught me to understand how little joy they can give.' 'you've grown a great deal wiser lately, dearie; but that is because you have learned to love god.' 'and i never should have known much about him and his wonderful love for us all, if you hadn't come to teach me, catherine. don't you feel proud of all the good you've done? you've made me less horrid (i _was_ a little wretch before you came). you've helped guardian to find peace in religion; you've reconciled him and uncle ross; you've taken care of ted and toddie, so that mrs. arderne can't be anxious about them. _when_ did she say she was coming home?' 'the telegram said, "henry has been offered a good post. we come home in a month's time."' 'but you will live with us until you are married, won't you? you do not mean to go back to be mrs. arderne's companion?' the squire and the colonel entered the room, arm-in-arm, and heard agatha's eager question. 'my dear, catherine has promised not to desert us,' said uncle ross with a smile--'not until she marries. but as i mean brian north to become editor of _the circle_ as soon as possible, her stay with us may not last as long as we could wish for our own sakes.' 'oh, uncle, you _are_ good to me!' the squire turned to his brother. 'niece catherine scarcely seems to know the value of the work she has done for me, john. i am under an obligation to her which i can never repay. money is not of the immense value i believed it to be, my dear; but i am thankful it can help you and brian to be happy.' catherine tried to express her feelings in words, but the task was a difficult one. her eyes were full of tears of joy as she looked from one uncle to the other, as they stood side by side, smiling at one another. 'god be blessed and praised for the mercy he has shown us, and the manner in which he has taken away our trials!' said uncle jack. 'the troubles are over for us all; it is well for us to remember the words, "let us love one another, for love is of god." lassie, this is the happiest day of my life!' 'even happier than the day when you first wore the queen's uniform, guardian?' asked agatha. 'yes, dear,' answered the colonel. 'i was a young, untried fellow then. it is when an old man, who has known sorrow, obtains his heart's desire, that happiness is greatest. the light is dearer to those who have lived in darkness.' 'john, it was all my fault.' 'no, no, ross; we were both to blame.' niece catherine came forward and stood between them, radiantly smiling. 'the past may be forgotten now, may it not, my dear uncles?' she asked. 'since the family quarrel is dead, let it be buried.' 'it is well for a man to remember his faults,' said colonel carmichael firmly. 'i was un-christian. i consider that my pride was----' 'nonsense, john!' interrupted the squire. 'as i have told you again and again, the wrong was entirely my doing. the part of the quarrel _i_ don't wish to forget is the fact that, after all, you came to me,--though god knows i didn't deserve you should do it.' niece catherine listened to this friendly altercation, and knew that the brothers would continue to loyally endeavour each to bear the greater load of blame, and saw by their faces that their hearts were filled with emotion which, being men, they felt obliged to master, the old quarrel being mutually, forgiven, the old regard being not only renewed, but increased. her 'mission,' as mrs. arderne had named it, was indeed accomplished; but she was certain that uncle jack had earned all praise for the happy consummation. but agatha, silent upon her couch, was remembering some verses of a poem she had read that morning, and applying them to catherine, her heroine:-- 'who toil aright, for those life's pathway, ere it close, is as the rose. the spires of wisdom stand, piled by the unconscious hand, from grains of sand. and pleasure comes unsought, to those who take but thought for that they ought.' betty leicester's christmas by sarah orne jewett boston and new york houghton, mifflin and company the riverside press, cambridge copyright, and , by sarah orne jewett all rights reserved to m. e. g. [illustration: in solemn majesty] list of illustrations page in solemn majesty (page ) _frontispiece_ "i was so glad to come" a tall boy had joined them betty, edith, and warford betty leicester's christmas i there was once a story-book girl named betty leicester, who lived in a small square book bound in scarlet and white. i, who know her better than any one else does, and who know my way about tideshead, the story-book town, as well as she did, and who have not only made many a visit to her aunt barbara and aunt mary in their charming old country-house, but have even seen the house in london where she spent the winter: i, who confess to loving betty a good deal, wish to write a little more about her in this christmas story. the truth is, that ever since i wrote the first story i have been seeing girls who reminded me of betty leicester of tideshead. either they were about the same age or the same height, or they skipped gayly by me in a little gown like hers, or i saw a pleased look or a puzzled look in their eyes which seemed to bring betty, my own story-book girl, right before me. * * * * * now, if anybody has read the book, this preface will be much more interesting than if anybody has not. yet, if i say to all new acquaintances that betty was just in the middle of her sixteenth year, and quite in the middle of girlhood; that she hated some things as much as she could, and liked other things with all her heart, and did not feel pleased when older people kept saying _don't!_ perhaps these new acquaintances will take the risk of being friends. certain things had become easy just as betty was leaving tideshead in new england, where she had been spending the summer with her old aunts, so that, having got used to all the tideshead liberties and restrictions, she thought she was leaving the easiest place in the world; but when she got back to london with her father, somehow or other life was very difficult indeed. she used to wish for london and for her cronies, the duncans, when she was first in tideshead; but when she was in england again she found that, being a little nearer to the awful responsibilities of a grown person, she was not only a new betty, but london--great, busy, roaring, delightful london--was a new london altogether. to say that she felt lonely, and cried one night because she wished to go back to tideshead and be a village person again, and was homesick for her four-posted bed with the mandarins parading on the curtains, is only to tell the honest truth. in tideshead that summer betty leicester learned two things which she could not understand quite well enough to believe at first, but which always seem more and more sensible to one as time goes on. the first is that you must be careful what you wish for, because if you wish hard enough you are pretty sure to get it; and the second is, that no two persons can be placed anywhere where one will not be host and the other guest. one will be in a position to give and to help and to show; the other must be the one who depends and receives. now, this subject may not seem any clearer to you at first than it did to betty; but life suddenly became a great deal more interesting, and she felt herself a great deal more important to the rest of the world when she got a little light from these rules. for everybody knows that two of the hardest things in the world are to know what to do and how to behave; to know what one's own duty is in the world and how to get on with other people. what to be and how to behave--these are the questions that every girl has to face; and if somebody answers, "be good and be polite," it is such a general kind of answer that one throws it away and feels uncomfortable. i do not remember that i happened to say anywhere in the story that there was a pretty fashion in tideshead, as summer went on, of calling our friend "sister betty." whether it came from her lamenting that she had no sister, and being kindly adopted by certain friends, or whether there was something in her friendly, affectionate way of treating people, one cannot tell. ii betty leicester, in a new winter gown which had just been sent home from liberty's, with all desirable qualities of color, and a fine expanse of smocking at the yoke, and some sprigs of embroidery for ornament in proper places, was yet an unhappy betty. in spite of being not only fine, but snug and warm as one always feels when cold weather first comes and one gets into a winter dress, everything seemed disappointing. the weather was shivery and dark, the street into which she was looking was narrow and gloomy, and there was a moment when betty thought wistfully of tideshead as if there were no december there, and only the high, clear september sky that she had left. somehow, all out-of-door life appeared to have come to an end, and she felt as if she were shut into a dark and wintry prison. not long before this she had come from whitby, the charming red-roofed yorkshire fishing-town that forever climbs the hill to its gray abbey. there were flocks of young people at whitby that autumn, and betty had lived out of doors in pleasant company to her heart's content, and tramped about the moors and along the cliffs with gay parties, and played golf and cricket, and helped to plan some great excitement or lively excursion for almost every day. there is a funny, dancing-step sort of walk, set to the tune of "humpty-dumpty," which seems to belong with the whitby walking-sticks which everybody carries; you lock arms in lines across the road, and keep step to the gay chant of the dismal nursery lines, and the faster you go, especially when you are tired, the more it seems to rest you (or that's what some people think) in the long walks home. whitby was almost as good as tideshead, to which lovely town betty now compared every other, even london itself. betty and her father had not yet gone to housekeeping by themselves (which made them very happy later on), but they were living in some familiar old clarges street lodgings convenient to the green park, where betty could go for a consoling scamper with a new dog called "toby" because he looked so exactly like the beloved toby on the cover of "punch." betty had spent a whole morning's work upon a proper belled ruff for toby, who gravely sat up and wore it as if he were conscious of literary responsibilities. papa had gone to the british museum that rainy morning, and was not likely to reappear before the close of day. for a wonder, he was going to dine at home that night. something very interesting to the scientific world had happened to him during his summer visit to alaska, and it seemed as if every one of his scientific friends had also made some discovery, or something had happened to each one, which made many talks and dinners and club meetings delightfully important. but most of the london people were in the country; for in england they stay in the hot town until july or august, while all americans scatter among green fields or seashore places; and then spend the gloomy months of the year in their country houses, when we fly back to the shelter and music and pictures and companionship of town life. this all depends upon the meeting of parliament and other great reasons; but even betty leicester felt quite left out and lonely in town that dark day. her best friends, the duncans, were at their great house in warwickshire. she was going to stay with them for a month, but not just yet; while her father was soon going to pay a short visit to a very great lady indeed at danesly castle, just this side the border. this "very great lady indeed" was perfectly charming to our friend; a smile or a bow from her was just then more than anything else to betty. we all know how perfectly delightful it is to love some one so much that we keep dreaming of her a little all the time, and what happiness it gives when the least thing one has to do with her is a perfectly golden joy. betty loved mrs. duncan fondly and constantly, and she loved aunt barbara with a spark of true enchantment and eager desire to please; but for this new friend, for lady mary danesly (who was mrs. duncan's cousin), there was something quite different in her heart. as she stood by the window in clarges street she was thinking of this lovely friend, and wishing for once that she herself was older, so that perhaps she might have been asked to come with papa for a week's visit at christmas. but lady mary would be busy enough with her great house-party of distinguished people. once she had been so delightful as to say that betty must some day come to danesly with her father, but of course this could not be the time. miss day, betty's old governess, who now lived with her mother in one of the suburbs of london, was always ready to come to spend a week or two if betty were to be left alone, and it was pleasanter every year to try to make miss day have a good time as well as to have one one's self; but, somehow, a feeling of having outgrown miss day was hard to bear. they had not much to talk about except the past, and what they used to do; and when friendship comes to this alone, it may be dear, but is never the best sort. the fog was blowing out of the street, and the window against which betty leaned was suddenly flecked with raindrops. a telegraph boy came round the corner as if the gust of wind had brought him, and ran toward the steps; presently the maid brought in a telegram to betty, who hastened to open it, as she was always commissioned to do in her father's absence. to her surprise it was meant for herself. she looked at the envelope to make sure. it was from lady mary. _can you come to me with your father next week, dear? i wish for you very much._ "there's no answer--at least there's no answer now," said betty, quite trembling with excitement and pleasure; "i must see papa first, but i can't think that he will say no. he meant to come home for christmas day with me, and now we can both stay on." she hopped about, dancing and skipping, after the door was shut. what a thing it is to have one's wishes come true before one's eyes! and then she asked to have a hansom cab called and for the company of pagot, who was her maid now; a very nice woman whom mrs. duncan had recommended, in as much as betty was older and had thoughts of going to housekeeping. pagot's sister also was engaged as housemaid, and, strange as it may appear, our tideshead betty was to become the mistress of a cook and butler. pagot herself looked sedate and responsible, but she dearly liked a little change and was finding the day dull. so they started off together toward the british museum in all the rain, with the shutter of the cab put down and the horse trotting along the shining streets as if he liked it. iii mr. leicester was in the department of north american prehistoric remains, and had a jar of earth before him which he was examining with closest interest. "here's a bit of charred bone," he was saying eagerly to a wise-looking old gentleman, "and here's a funeral bead--just as i expected. this proves my theory of the sacrificial--why, betty, what's the matter?" and he looked startled for a moment. "a telegram?" "it was so very important, you see, papa," said betty. "i thought it was bad news from tideshead," said mr. leicester, looking up at her with a smile after he had read it. "well, my dear, that's very nice, and very important too," he added, with a fine twinkle in his eyes. "i shall be going out for a bit of luncheon presently, and i'll send the answer with great pleasure." betty's cheeks were brighter than ever, as if a rosy cloud of joy were shining through. "now that i'm here, i'll look at the arrowheads; mayn't i, papa?" she asked, with great self-possession. "i should like to see if i can find one like mine--i mean my best white one that i found on the river-bank last summer." papa nodded, and turned to his jar again. "you may let pagot go home at one o'clock," he said, "and come back to find me here, and we'll go and have luncheon together. i was thinking of coming home early to get you. we've a house to look at, and it's dull weather for what i wish to do here at the museum. clear sunshine is the only possible light for this sort of work," he added, turning to the old gentleman, who nodded; and betty nodded sagely, and skipped away with pagot, to search among the arrowheads. she found many white quartz arrowpoints and spearheads like her own treasure. pagot thought them very dull, and was made rather uncomfortable by the indian medicine-masks and war-bonnets and evil-looking war-clubs, and openly called it a waste of time for any one to have taken trouble to get all that heathen rubbish together. such savages and their horrid ways were best forgotten by decent folks, if pagot might be so bold as to say so. but presently it was luncheon time; and the good soul cheerfully departed, while betty joined her father, and waited for him as still as a mouse for half an hour, while he and the scientific old gentleman reluctantly said their last words and separated. she had listened to a good deal of their talk about altar fires, and the ceremonies that could be certainly traced in a handful of earth from the site of a temple in the mounds of a buried city; but all her thoughts were of lady mary and the pleasures of the next week. she looked again at the telegram, which was much nicer than most telegrams. it was so nice of lady mary to have said _dear_ in it--just as if she were talking; people did not often say _dear_ in a message. "perhaps some of her guests can't come; but then, everybody likes to be asked to danesly," betty thought. "and i wonder if i shall dine at table with the guests; i never have. at any rate, i shall see lady mary often and be with papa. it is perfectly lovely! i can give her the indian basket i brought her, now, before the sweet grass is all dry." it was a great delight to be asked to the holiday party; many a grown person would be thankful to take betty's place. for was not lady mary a very great lady indeed, and one of the most charming women in england?--a famous hostess and assembler of really delightful people? "i am going to danesly on the seventeenth," said betty to herself, with satisfaction. iv betty and her father had taken a long journey from london. they had been nearly all day in the train, after a breakfast by candle-light; and it was quite dark, except for the light of the full moon in a misty sky, as they drove up the long avenue at danesly. pagot was in great spirits; she was to go everywhere with betty now, being used to the care of young ladies, and more being expected of this young lady than in the past. pagot had been at danesly before with the duncans, and had many friends in the household. mr. leicester was walking across the fields by a path he well knew from the little station, with a friend and fellow guest whom they had met at durham. this path was much shorter than the road, so that papa was sure of reaching the house first; but betty felt a little lonely, being tired, and shy of meeting a great bright houseful of people quite by herself, in case papa should loiter. but suddenly the carriage stopped, and the footman jumped down and opened the door. "my lady is walking down to meet you, miss," he said; "she's just ahead of us, coming down the avenue." and betty flew like a pigeon to meet her dear friend. the carriage drove on and left them together under the great trees, walking along together over the beautiful tracery of shadows. suddenly lady mary felt the warmth of betty's love for her and her speechless happiness as she had not felt it before, and she stopped, looking so tall and charming, and put her two arms round betty, and hugged her to her heart. "my dear little girl!" she said for the second time; and then they walked on, and still betty could not say anything for sheer joy. "now i'm going to tell you something quite in confidence," said the hostess of the great house, which showed its dim towers and scattered lights beyond the leafless trees. "i had been wishing to have you come to me, but i should not have thought this the best time for a visit; later on, when the days will be longer, i shall be able to have much more time to myself. but an american friend of mine, mr. banfield, who is a friend of your papa's, i believe, wrote to ask if he might bring his young daughter, whom he had taken from school in new york for a holiday. it seemed a difficult problem for the first moment," and lady mary gave a funny little laugh. "i did not know quite what to do with her just now, as i should with a grown person. and then i remembered that i might ask you to help me, betty dear. you know that the duncans always go for a christmas visit to their grandmother in devon." "i was so glad to come," said betty warmly; "it was nicer than anything else." [illustration: "i was so glad to come"] "i am a little afraid of young american girls, you understand," said lady mary gayly; and then, taking a solemn tone: "yes, you needn't laugh, miss betty! but you know all about what they like, don't you? and so i am sure we can make a bit of pleasure together, and we'll be fellow hostesses, won't we? we must find some time every day for a little talking over of things quite by ourselves. i've put you next your father's rooms, and to-morrow miss banfield will be near by, and you're to dine in my little morning-room to-night. i'm so glad good old pagot is with you; she knows the house perfectly well. i hope you will soon feel at home. why, this is almost like having a girl of my very own," said lady mary wistfully, as they began to go up the great steps and into the hall, where the butler and other splendid personages of the household stood waiting. lady mary was a tall, slender figure in black, with a beautiful head; and she carried herself with great spirit and grace. she had wrapped some black lace about her head and shoulders, and held it gathered with one hand at her throat. "i must fly to the drawing-room now, and then go to dress for dinner; so good-night, darling," said this dear lady, whom betty had always longed to be nearer to and to know better. "to-morrow you must tell me all about your summer in new england," she said, looking over her shoulder as she went one way and betty another, with pagot and a footman who carried the small luggage from the carriage. how good and kind she had been to come to meet a young stranger who might feel lonely, and as if there were no place for her in the great strange house in the first minute of her arrival. and betty leicester quite longed to see miss banfield and to help her to a thousand pleasures at once for lady mary's sake. v somebody has said that there are only a very few kinds of people in the world, but that they are put into all sorts of places and conditions. the minute betty leicester looked at edith banfield next day she saw that she was a little like mary beck, her own friend and tideshead neighbor. the first thought was one of pleasure, and the second was a fear that the new "becky" would not have a good time at danesly. it was the morning after betty's own arrival. that first evening she had her dinner alone, and afterward was reading and resting after her journey in lady mary's own little sitting-room, which was next her own room. when pagot came up from her own hasty supper and "crack" with her friends to look after betty, and to unpack, she had great tales to tell of the large and noble company assembled at danesly house. "they're dining in the great banquet hall itself," she said with pride. "lady mary looks a queen at the head of the table, with the french prince beside her and the great earl of seacliff at the other side," said pagot proudly. "i took a look from the old musicians' gallery, miss, as i came along, and it was a fine sight, indeed. lady mary's own maid, as i have known well these many years, was telling me the names of the strangers." pagot was very proud of her own knowledge of fine people. betty asked if it was far to the gallery; and, finding that it was quite near the part of the house where they were, she went out with pagot along the corridors with their long rows of doors, and into the musicians' gallery, where they found themselves at a delightful point of view. danesly castle had been built at different times; the banquet-hall itself was very old and stately, with a high, carved roof. there were beautiful old hangings and banners where the walls and roof met, and lower down were spread great tapestries. there was a huge fire blazing in the deep fireplace at the end, and screens before it; the long table twinkled with candle-light, and the gay company sat about it. betty looked first for papa, and saw him sitting beside lady dimdale, who was a great friend of his; then she looked for lady mary, who was at the head between the two gentlemen of whom pagot had spoken. she was still dressed in black lace, but with many diamonds sparkling at her throat, and she looked as sweet and quiet and self-possessed as if there were no great entertainment at all. the men-servants in their handsome livery moved quickly to and fro, as if they were actors in a play. the people at the table were talking and laughing, and the whole scene was so pleasant, so gay and friendly, that betty wished, for almost the first time, that she were grown up and dining late, to hear all the delightful talk. she and pagot were like swallows high under the eaves of the great room. papa looked really boyish, so many of the men were older than he. there were twenty at table; and pagot said, as betty counted them, that many others were expected the next day. you could imagine the great festivals of an older time as you looked down from the gallery. in the gallery itself there were quaint little heavy wooden stools for the musicians: the harpers and fiddlers and pipers who had played for so many generations of gay dancers, for whom the same lights had flickered, and over whose heads the old hangings had waved. you felt as if you were looking down at the past. betty and pagot closed the narrow door of the gallery softly behind them, and our friend went back to her own bedroom, where there was a nice fire, and nearly fell asleep before it, while pagot was getting the last things unpacked and ready for the night. vi the next day at about nine o'clock lady mary came through her morning-room and tapped at the door. betty was just ready and very glad to say good-morning. the sun was shining, and she had been leaning out upon the great stone window-sill looking down the long slopes of the country into the wintry mists. lady mary looked out too, and took a long breath of the fresh, keen air. "it's a good day for hunting," she said, "and for walking. i'm going down to breakfast, because i have planned for an idle day. i thought we might go down together if you were ready." betty's heart was filled with gratitude; it was so very kind of her hostess to remember that it would be difficult for the only girl in the house party to come alone to breakfast for the first time. they went along the corridor and down the great staircase, past the portraits and the marble busts and figures on the landings. there were two or three ladies in the great hall at the foot, with an air of being very early, and some gentlemen who were going fox hunting; and after betty had spoken with lady dimdale, whom she knew, they sauntered into the breakfast-room, where they found some other people; and papa and betty had a word together and then sat down side by side to their muffins and their eggs and toast and marmalade. it was not a bit like a tideshead company breakfast. everybody jumped up if he wished for a plate, or for more jam, or some cold game, which was on the sideboard with many other things. the company of servants had disappeared, and it was all as unceremonious as if the breakfasters were lunching out of doors. there was not a long tableful like that of the night before; many of the guests were taking their tea and coffee in their own rooms. by the time breakfast was done, betty had begun to forget herself as if she were quite at home. she stole an affectionate glance now and then at lady mary, and had fine bits of talk with her father, who had spent a charming evening and now told betty something about it, and how glad he was to have her see their fellow guests. when he went hurrying away to join the hunt, betty was sure that she knew exactly what to do with herself. it would take her a long time to see the huge old house and the picture gallery, where there were some very famous paintings, and the library, about which papa was always so enthusiastic. lady mary was to her more interesting than anybody else, and she wished especially to do something for lady mary. aunt barbara had helped her niece very much one day in tideshead when she talked about her own experience in making visits and going much into company. "the best thing you can do," she said, "is to do everything you can to help your hostess. don't wait to see what is going to be done for you, but try to help entertain your fellow guests and to make the moment pleasant, and you will be sure to enjoy yourself and to find your hostess wishing you to come again. always do the things that will help your hostess." our friend thought of this sage advice now, but it was at a moment when every one else was busy talking, and they were all going on to the great library except two or three late breakfasters who were still at the table. aunt barbara had also said that when there was nothing else to do, your plain duty was to entertain yourself; and, having a natural gift for this, betty wandered off into a corner and found a new "punch" and some of the american magazines on a little table close by the window-seat. after a while she happened to hear some one ask: "what time is mr. banfield coming?" "by the eleven o'clock train," said lady mary. "i am just watching for the carriage that is to fetch him. look; you can see it first between the two oaks there to the left. it is an awkward time to get to a strange house, poor man; but they were in the south and took a night train that is very slow. mr. banfield's daughter is with him, and my dear friend betty, who knows what american girls like best, is kindly going to help me entertain her." "oh, really!" said one of the ladies, looking up and smiling as if she had been wondering just what betty was for, all alone in the grown-up house party. "really, that's very nice. but i might have seen that you are mr. leicester's daughter. it was very stupid of me, my dear; you're quite like him--oh, quite!" "i have seen you with the duncans, have i not?" asked some one else, with great interest. "why, fancy!" said this friendly person, who was named the honorable miss northumberland, a small, eager little lady in spite of her solemn great name,--"fancy! you must be an american too. i should have thought you quite an english girl." "oh, no, indeed," said betty. "indeed, i'm quite american, except for living in england a very great deal." she was ready to go on and say much more, but she had been taught to say as little about herself as she possibly could, since general society cares little for knowledge that is given it too easily, especially about strangers and one's self! "there's the carriage now," said lady mary, as she went away to welcome the guests. "poor souls! they will like to get to their rooms as soon as possible," she said hospitably; but although the elder ladies did not stir, betty deeply considered the situation, and then, with a happy impulse, hurried after her hostess. it was a long way about, through two or three rooms and the great hall to the entrance; but betty overtook lady mary just as she reached the great door, going forward in the most hospitable, charming way to meet the new-comers. she did not seem to have seen betty at all. the famous lawyer, mr. banfield, came quickly up the steps, and after him, more slowly, came his daughter, whom he seemed quite to forget. a footman was trying to take her wraps and traveling-bag, but she clung fast to them, and looked up apprehensively toward lady mary. betty was very sympathetic, and was sure that it was a trying moment, and she ran down to meet miss banfield, and happened to be so fortunate as to catch her just as she was tripping over her dress upon the high stone step. mr. banfield himself was well known in london, and was a great favorite in society; but at first sight his daughter's self-conscious manners struck one as being less interesting. she was a pretty girl, but she wore a pretentious look, which was further borne out by very noticeable clothes--not at all the right things to travel in at that hour; but, as has long ago been said, betty saw at once the likeness to her tideshead friend and comrade, mary beck, and opened her heart to take the stranger in. it was impossible not to be reminded of the day when mary beck came to call in tideshead, with her best hat and bird-of-paradise feather, and they both felt so awkward and miserable. "did you have a very tiresome journey?" betty was asking as they reached the top of the steps at last; but edith banfield's reply was indistinct, and the next moment lady mary turned to greet her young guest cordially. betty felt that she was a little dismayed, and was all the more eager to have the young compatriot's way made easy. "did you have a tiresome journey?" asked lady mary, in her turn; but the reply was quite audible now. "oh, yes," said edith. "it was awfully cold--oh, awfully!--and so smoky and horrid and dirty! i thought we never should get here, with changing cars in horrid stations, and everything," she said, telling all about it. "oh, that was too bad," said betty, rushing to the rescue, while lady mary walked on with mr. banfield. edith banfield talked on in an excited, persistent way to betty, after having finally yielded up her bag to the footman, and looking after him somewhat anxiously. "it's a splendid big house, isn't it?" she whispered; "but awfully solemn looking. i suppose there's another part where they live, isn't there? have you been here before? are you english?" "i'm betty leicester," said betty, in an undertone. "no, i haven't been here before; but i have known lady mary for a long time in london. i'm an american, too." "you aren't, really!" exclaimed edith. "why, you must have been over here a good many times, or something"--she cast a glance at betty's plain woolen gear, and recognized the general comfortable appearance of the english schoolgirl. edith herself was very fine in silk attire, with much fur trimming and a very expensive hat. "well, i'm awfully glad you're here," she said, with a satisfied sigh; "you know all about it better than i do, and can tell me what to put on." "oh, yes, indeed," said betty cheerfully; "and there are lots of nice things to do. we can see the people, and then there are all the pictures and the great conservatories, and the stables and dogs and everything. i've been waiting to see them with you; and we can ride every day, if you like; and papa says it's a perfectly delightful country for walking." "i hate to walk," said edith frankly. "oh, what a pity," lamented betty, a good deal dashed. she was striving against a very present disappointment, but still the fact could not be overlooked that edith banfield looked like mary beck. now, mary also was apt to distrust all strangers and to take suspicious views of life, and she had little enthusiasm; but betty knew and loved her loyalty and really good heart. she felt sometimes as if she tried to walk in tight shoes when "becky's" opinions had to be considered; but becky's world had grown wider month by month, and she loved her very much. edith banfield was very pretty; that was a comfort, and though betty might never like her as she did mary beck, she meant more than ever to help her to have a good visit. lady mary appeared again, having given mr. banfield into the young footman's charge. she looked at sister betty for an instant with an affectionate, amused little smile, and kept one hand on her shoulder as she talked for a minute pleasantly with the new guest. a maid appeared to take edith to her room, and lady mary patted betty's shoulder as they parted. they did not happen to have time for a word together again all day. by luncheon time the two girls were very good friends, and betty knew all about the new-comer; and in spite of a succession of minor disappointments, the acquaintance promised to be very pleasant. poor edith banfield, like poor betty, had no mother, but edith had spent several years already at a large boarding-school. she was taking this journey by way of vacation, and was going back after the christmas holidays. she was a new-yorker, and she hated the country, and loved to stay in foreign hotels. this was the first time she had ever paid a visit in england, except to some american friends who had a villa on the thames, which edith had found quite dull. she had not been taught either to admire or to enjoy very much, which seemed to make her schooling count for but little so far; but she adored her father and his brilliant wit in a most lovely way, and with this affection and pride betty could warmly sympathize. edith longed to please her father in every possible fashion, and secretly confessed that she did not always succeed, in a way that touched betty's heart. it was hard to know exactly how to please the busy man; he was apt to show only a mild interest in the new clothes which at present were her chief joy; perhaps she was always making the mistake of not so much trying to please him as to make him pleased with herself, which is quite a different thing. vii there was an anxious moment on betty's part when edith banfield summoned her to decide upon what dress should be worn for the evening. pagot, whom betty had asked to go and help her new friend, was wearing a disapproving look, and two or three fine french dresses were spread out for inspection. "why, aren't you going to dress?" asked edith. "i was afraid you were all ready to go down, but i couldn't think what to put on." "i'm all dressed," said betty, with surprise. "oh, what lovely gowns! but we"--she suddenly foresaw a great disappointment--"we needn't go down yet, you know, edith; we are not out, and dinner isn't like luncheon here in england. we can go down afterward, if we like, and hear the songs, but we girls never go to dinner when it's a great dinner like this. i think it is much better fun to stay away; at least, i always have thought so until last night, and then it did really look very pleasant," she frankly added. "why, i'm not sixteen, and you're only a little past, you know." but there lay a grown-up young lady's evening gowns as if to confute all betty's arguments. "how awfully stupid!" said edith, with great scorn. "nursery tea for anybody like us!" and she turned to look at betty's dress, which was charming enough in its way, and made in very pretty girlish fashion. "i should think they'd make you wear a white pinafore," said edith ungraciously; but betty, who had been getting a little angry, thought this so funny that she laughed and felt much better. "i wear muslins for very best," she said serenely. "why, of course we'll go down after dinner and stay a while before we say good-night; they'll be out before half-past nine,--i mean the ladies,--and we'll be there in the drawing-room. oh, isn't that blue gown a beauty! i wish i had put on my best muslin, pagot." "you look very suitable, miss betty," said pagot stiffly. pagot was very old-fashioned, and edith made a funny little face at betty behind her back. the two girls had a delightful dinner together in the morning-room next betty's own, and edith's good humor was quite restored. she had had a good day, on the whole, and the picture galleries and conservatories had not failed to please by their splendors and delights. after they had finished their dessert, betty, as a great surprise, offered the hospitalities of the musicians' gallery, and they sped along the corridors and up the stairs in great spirits, betty leading the way. "now, don't upset the little benches," she whispered, as she opened the narrow door out of the dark passage, and presently their two heads were over the edge of the gallery. they leaned boldly out, for nobody would think of looking up. the great hall was even gayer and brighter than it had looked the night before. the lights and colors shone, there were new people at table, and much talk was going on. the butler and his men were more military than ever; it was altogether a famous, much-diamonded dinner company, and lady mary looked quite magnificent at the head. "it looks pretty," whispered edith; "but how dull it sounds! i don't believe that they are having a bit of a good time. at home, you know, there's such a noise at a party. what a splendid big room!" "people never talk loud when they get together in england," said betty. "they never make that awful chatter that we do at home. just four or five people who come to tea in tideshead can make one another's ears ache. i couldn't get used to it last summer; aunt barbara was almost the only tea-party person in tideshead who didn't get screaming." "oh, i do think it's splendid!" said edith wistfully. "i wish we were down there. i wish there was a little gallery lower down. there's lord dunwater, who sat next me at luncheon. who's that next your father?" there was a little noise behind the eager girls, and they turned quickly. a tall boy had joined them, who seemed much disturbed at finding any one in the gallery, which seldom had a visitor. edith stood up, and seemed an alarmingly tall and elegant young lady in the dim light. betty, who was as tall, was nothing like so imposing to behold at that moment; but the new-comer turned to make his escape. [illustration: a tall boy had joined them] "don't go away," betty begged, seeing his alarm, and wondering who he could be. "there's plenty of room to look. don't go." and thereupon the stranger came forward. he was a handsome fellow, dressed in eton clothes. he was much confused, and said nothing; and, after a look at the company below, during which the situation became more embarrassing to all three, he turned to go away. "are you staying in the house, too?" asked betty timidly; it was so very awkward. "i just came," said the boy, who now appeared to be a very nice fellow indeed. they had left the musicians' gallery,--nobody knew why,--and now stood outside in the corridor. "i just came," he repeated. "i walked over from the station across the fields. i'm lady mary's nephew, you know. she's not expecting me. i had my supper in the housekeeper's room. i was going on a week's tramp in france with my old tutor, just to get rid of christmas parties and things; but he strained a knee at football, and we had to give it up, and so i came here for the holidays. there was nothing else to do," he explained ruefully. "what a lot of people my aunt's got this year!" "it's very nice," said betty cordially. "it's beastly slow, _i_ think," said the boy. "i like it much better when my aunt and i have the place to ourselves. oh, no; that's not what i mean!" he said, blushing crimson as both the girls laughed. "only we have jolly good times by ourselves, you know; no end of walks and rides; and we fish if the water's right. you ought to see my aunt cast a fly." "she's perfectly lovely, isn't she?" said betty, in a tone which made them firm friends at once. "we're going down to the drawing-room soon; wouldn't you like to come?" "yes," said the boy slowly. "it'll be fun to surprise her. and i saw lady dimdale at dinner. i like lady dimdale awfully." "so does papa," said betty; "oh, so very much!--next to lady mary and mrs. duncan." "you're betty leicester, aren't you? oh, i know you now," said the boy, turning toward her with real friendliness. "i danced with you at the duncans', at a party, just before i first went to eton,--oh, ever so long ago!--you won't remember it; and i've seen you once besides, at their place in warwickshire, you know. i'm warford, you know." "why, of course," said betty, with great pleasure. "it puzzled me; i couldn't think at first, but you've quite grown up since then. how we used to dance when we were little things! do you like it now?" "no, i hate it," said warford coldly, and they all three laughed. edith was walking alongside, feeling much left out of the conversation, though warford had been stealing glances at her. "oh, i am so sorry--i didn't think," betty exclaimed in her politest manner. "miss banfield, this is lord warford. i didn't mean to be rude, but you were a great surprise, weren't you?" and they all laughed again, as young people will. just then they reached the door of lady mary's morning-room; the girls' dessert was still on the table, and, being properly invited, warford began to eat the rest of the fruit. "one never gets quite enough grapes," said warford, who was evidently suffering the constant hunger of a rapidly growing person. edith banfield certainly looked very pretty, both her companions thought so; but they felt much more at home with each other. it seemed as if she were a great deal older than they, in her fine evening gown. warford was very admiring and very polite, but betty and he were already plunged into the deep intimacy of true fellowship. edith got impatient before they were ready to go downstairs, but at last they all started down the great staircase, and had just settled themselves in the drawing-room when the ladies began to come in. "why, warford, my dear!" said lady mary, with great delight, as he met her and kissed her twice, as if they were quite by themselves; then he turned and spoke to lady dimdale, who was just behind, still keeping lady mary's left hand in his own. warford looked taller and more manly than ever in the bright light, and he was recognized warmly by nearly all the ladies, being not only a fine fellow, but the heir of danesly and great possessions besides, so that he stood for much that was interesting, even if he had not been interesting himself. betty and edith looked on with pleasure, and presently lady mary came toward them. "i am so glad that you came down," she said; "and how nice of you to bring warford! he usually objects so much that i believe you have found some new way to make it easy. i suppose it is dull when he is by himself. mr. frame is here, and has promised to sing by and by. he and lady dimdale have practiced some duets--their voices are charming together. i hope that you will not go up until afterward, no matter how late." betty, who had been sitting when lady mary came toward her, had risen at once to meet her, without thinking about it; but edith banfield still sat in her low chair, feeling stiff and uncomfortable, while lady mary did not find it easy to talk down at her or to think of anything to say. all at once it came to edith's mind to follow betty's example, and they all three stood together talking cheerfully until lady mary had to go to her other guests. "isn't she lovely!" said edith, with all the ardor that betty could wish. "i don't feel a bit afraid of her, as i thought i should." "she takes such dear trouble," said betty, warmly. "she never forgets anybody. some grown persons behave as if you ought to be ashamed of not being older, and as if you were going to bore them if they didn't look out." at this moment warford came back most loyally from the other side of the room, and presently some gentlemen made their appearance, and the delightful singing began. betty, who loved music, sat and listened like a quiet young robin in her red dress, and her father, who looked at her happy, dreaming face, was sure that there never had been a dearer girl in the world. lady mary looked at her too, and was really full of wonder, because in some way betty had managed with simple friendliness to make her shy nephew quite forget himself, and to give some feeling of belongingness to edith banfield, who would have felt astray by herself in a strange english house. viii the days flew by until christmas, and the weather kept clear and bright, without a bit of rain or gloom, which was quite delightful and wonderful in that northern country. the older guests hunted or drove or went walking. there were excursions of every sort for those who liked them, and sometimes the young people joined in what was going on, and sometimes betty and edith and warford made fine plans of their own. it proved that edith had spent much time with the family of her uncle, who was an army officer; and at the western army posts she had learned to ride with her cousins, who were excellent riders and insisted upon her joining them. so edith could share many pleasures of this sort at danesly, and she was so pretty and gay that people liked her a good deal; and presently some of the house party had gone, and some new guests came, and the two girls and warford were unexpected helpers in their entertainment. sometimes they dined downstairs now, when no one was asked from outside; and every day it seemed pleasanter and more homelike to stay at danesly. there were one or two other great houses in the neighborhood where there were also house parties in the gay holiday season, and so betty and edith saw a great deal of the world in one way and another; and lady mary remembered that girls were sometimes lonely, as they grew up, and was very good to them, teaching them, in quiet ways, many a thing belonging to manners and getting on with other people, that they would be glad to know all their life long. [illustration: betty, edith and warford] "don't talk about yourself," she said once, "and you won't half so often think of yourself, and then you are sure to be happy." and again: "my old friend, mrs. procter, used to say, '_never explain, my dear. people don't care a bit._'" warford was more at home in the hunting field than in the house; but the young people saw much of each other. he took a great deal of trouble, considering his usual fashion, to be nice to the two girls; and so one day, when betty went to find him, he looked up eagerly to see what she wanted. warford was busy in the gun room, with the parts of a gun which he had taken to pieces. there was nobody else there at that moment, and the winter sun was shining in along the floor. "warford," betty began, with an air of great confidence, "what can we do for a bit of fun at christmas?" warford looked up at her over his shoulder, a little bewildered. he was just this side of sixteen, like betty herself; sometimes he seemed manly, and sometimes very boyish, as happened that day. "i'm in for anything you like," he said, after a moment's reflection. "what's on?" "if we give up dining with the rest, i can think of a great plan," said betty, shining with enthusiasm. "there's the old gallery, you know. couldn't we have some music there, as they used in old times?" "my aunt would like it awfully," exclaimed warford, letting his gunstock drop with a thump. "i'd rather do anything than sit all through the dinner. somebody'd be sure to make a row about me, and i should feel like getting into a burrow. i'll play the fiddle: what did you mean?--singing, or what? if we had it christmas eve, we might have the christmas waits, you know." "_fancy!_" said betty, in true english fashion; and then they both laughed. "the waits are pretty silly," said warford. "they were better than usual last year, though. mr. macalister, the schoolmaster, is a good musician, and he trained them well. he plays the flute and the cornet. why not see what we can do ourselves first, and perhaps let them sing last? they'd be disappointed not to come at midnight under the windows, you know," said warford considerately. "we'll go down and ask the schoolmaster after hours, and we'll think what we can do ourselves. one of the grooms has a lovely tenor voice. i heard him singing 'the bonny ivy tree' like a flute only yesterday, so he must know more of those other old things that aunt mary likes." "we needn't have much music," said betty. "the people at dinner will not listen long,--they'll want to talk. but if we sing a christmas song all together, and have the flute and fiddle, you know, warford, it would be very pretty--like an old-fashioned choir, such as there used to be in tideshead. we'll sing things that everybody knows, because everybody likes old songs best. i wish mary beck was here; but edith sings--she told me so; and don't you know how we sang some nice things together, the other day upon the moor, when we were coming home from the hermit's-cell ruins?" warford nodded, and picked up his gunstock. "i'm your man," he said soberly. "let's dress up whoever sings, with wigs and ruffles and things. and then there are queer trumpets and viols in that collection of musical instruments in the music-room. some of us can make believe play them." "a procession! a procession!" exclaimed betty. "what do you say to a company with masks to come right into the great hall, and walk round the table three times, singing and playing? lady dimdale knows everything about music; i mean to ask her. i'll go and find her now." "i'll come, too," said warford, with delightful sympathy. "i saw her a while ago writing in the little book-room off the library." ix it was christmas at last; and all the three young people had been missing since before luncheon in a most mysterious manner. but betty leicester, who came in late and flushed, managed to sit next her father; and he saw at once, being well acquainted with betty, that some great affair was going on. she was much excited, and her eyes were very bright, and there was such a great secret that mr. leicester could do no less than ask to be let in, and be gayly refused and hushed, lest somebody else should know there was a secret, too. warford, who appeared a little later, looked preternaturally solemn, and edith alone behaved as if nothing were going to happen. she was as grown-up as possible, and chattered away about the delights of new york with an old london barrister who was lady mary's uncle, and warford's guardian, and chief adviser to the great danesly estates. edith was so pretty and talked so brightly that the old gentleman looked as amused and happy as possible. "he may be thinking that she's coming down to dinner, but he'll look for her in vain," said betty, who grew gayer herself. "not coming to dinner?" asked papa, with surprise; at which betty gave him so stern a glance that he was more careful to avoid even the appearance of secrets from that time on; and they talked together softly about dear old tideshead, and aunt barbara, and all the household, and wondered if the great christmas box from london had arrived safely and gone up the river by the packet, just as betty herself had done six or seven months before. it made her a little homesick, even there in the breakfast-room at danesly,--even with papa at her side, and lady mary smiling back if she looked up,--to think of the dear old house, and of serena and letty, and how they would all be thinking of her at christmas time. the great hall was gay with holly and christmas greens. it was snowing outside for the first time that year, and the huge fireplace was full of logs blazing and snapping in a splendidly cheerful way. dinner was to be earlier than usual. a great festivity was going on in the servants' hall; and when warford went out with lady mary to cut the great christmas cake and have his health drunk, betty and edith went too; and everybody stood up and cheered, and cried, "merry christmas! merry christmas! and god bless you!" in the most hearty fashion. it seemed as if all the holly in the danesly woods had been brought in--as if christmas had never been so warm and friendly and generous in a great house before. christmas eve had begun, and cast its lovely charm and enchantment over everybody's heart. old dislikes were forgotten between the guests; at christmas time it is easy to say kind words that are hard to say all the rest of the year; at christmas time one loves his neighbor and thinks better of him; christmas love and good-will come and fill the heart whether one beckons them or no. betty had spent some lonely christmases in her short life, as all the rest of us have done; and perhaps for this reason the keeping of the great day at danesly in such happy company, in such splendor and warm-heartedness of the old english fashion, seemed a kind of royal christmas to her young heart. everybody was so kind and charming. lady dimdale, who had entered with great enthusiasm into the christmas plans, caught her after luncheon and kissed her, and held her hand like an elder sister as they walked away. it would have been very hard to keep things from lady mary herself; but that dear lady had many ways to turn her eyes and her thoughts, and so many secret plots of her own to keep in hand at this season, that she did not suspect what was going on in a distant room of the old south wing (where warford still preserved some of his boyish collections of birds' eggs and other plunder), of which he kept the only key. there was a steep staircase that led down to a door in the courtyard; and by this mr. macalister, the schoolmaster, had come and gone, and the young groom of the tenor voice, and five or six others, men and girls, who could either sing or play. it was the opposite side of the house from lady mary's own rooms, and nobody else would think anything strange of such comings and goings. pagot and some friendly maids helped with the costumes. they had practiced their songs twice in the schoolmaster's own house at nightfall, down at the edge of the village by the church; and so everything was ready, with the help of lady dimdale and of mrs. drum, the housekeeper, who would always do everything that warford asked her, and be heartily pleased besides. so lady mary did not know what was meant until after her christmas guests were seated, and the old vicar had said grace, and all the great candelabra were lit, high on the walls between the banners and flags, and among the staghorns and armor lower down, and there were lights even in the old musicians' gallery, which she could see as she sat with her back to the painted leather screen that hid the fireplace. suddenly there was a sound of violins and a bass-viol and a flute from the gallery, and a sound of voices singing--the fresh young voices of warford and betty and edith and their helpers, who sang a beautiful old christmas song, so unexpected, so lovely, that the butler stopped halfway from the sideboard with the wine, and the footmen stood listening where they were, with whatever they had in hand. the guests at dinner looked up in surprise, and lady dimdale nodded across at mr. leicester because they both knew it was betty's plan coming true in this delightful way. and fresh as the voices were, the look of the singers was even better, for you could see from below that all the musicians were in quaint costume. the old schoolmaster stood in the middle as leader, with a splendid powdered wig and gold-laced coat, and all the rest wore coats and gowns of velvet and brocade from the old house's store of treasures. they made a charming picture against the wall with its dark tapestry, and lady dimdale felt proud of her own part in the work. there was a cry of delight from below as the first song ended. betty in the far corner of the gallery could see lady mary looking up so pleased and happy and holding her dear white hands high as she applauded with the rest. nobody knew better than lady mary that dinners are sometimes dull, and that even a christmas dinner is none the worse for a little brightening. so betty had helped her in great as well as in little things, and she blessed the child from her heart. then the dinner went on, and so did the music; it was a pretty programme, and before anybody had dreamed of being tired of it the sound ceased and the gallery was empty. after a while, when dessert was soon coming in, and the christmas pudding with its flaming fire might be expected at any moment, there was a pause and a longer delay than usual in the serving. people were talking busily about the long table, and hardly noticed this until with loud knocking and sound of music, old bond, the butler, made his appearance, with an assistant on either hand, bearing the plum pudding aloft in solemn majesty, the flames rising merrily from the huge platter. behind him came a splendid retinue of the musicians, singing and playing; every one carried some picturesque horn or trumpet or stringed instrument from lady mary's collection, and those who sang also made believe to play in the interludes. behind these were all the men in livery, two and two; and so they went round and round the table until at last warford slipped into his seat, and the pudding was put before him with great state, while the procession waited. the tall shy boy forgot himself and his shyness, and was full of the gayety of his pleasure. the costumes were all somewhat fine for christmas choristers, and the young heir wore a magnificent combination of garments that had belonged to noble peers his ancestors, and was pretty nearly too splendid to be well seen without smoked glass. for the first time in his life he felt a brave happiness in belonging to danesly, and in the thought that danesly would really belong to him; he looked down the long room at lady mary, and loved her as he never had before, and understood things all in a flash, and made a vow to be a good fellow and to stand by her so that she should never, never feel alone or overburdened again. betty and edith and the good schoolmaster (who was splendid in his white wig, and a great addition to the already brilliant company) took their own places, which were quickly made, and dessert went on; the rest of the musicians had been summoned away by mrs. drum, the housekeeper,--all these things having been planned beforehand. and then it was soon time for the ladies to go to the drawing-room, and betty, feeling a little tired and out of breath with so much excitement, slipped away by herself and to her own thoughts; of lady mary, who would be busy with her guests, but still more of papa, who must be waited for until he came to join the ladies, when she could have a talk with him before they said good-night. it was perfectly delightful that everything had gone off so well. lady dimdale had known just what to do about everything, and edith, who had grown nicer every day, had sung as well as mary beck (she had becky's voice as well as her look, and had told betty it was the best time she ever had in her life); and warford had been so nice and had looked so handsome, and lady mary was so pleased because he was not shy and had not tried to hide or be grumpy, as he usually did. betty liked warford better than any boy she had ever seen, except harry foster in tideshead. they would be sure to like each other, and perhaps they might meet some day. harry's life of care and difficulty made him seem older than warford, upon whom everybody had always showered all the good things he could be persuaded to take. x betty was all by herself, walking up and down in the long picture gallery. there were lights here and there in the huge, shadowy room, but the snow had ceased falling out of doors, and the moon was out and shone brightly in at the big windows with their leaded panes. she felt very happy. it was so pleasant to see how everybody cared about papa, and thought him so delightful. she had never seen him in his place with such a company of people, or known so many of his friends together before. it was so good of lady mary to have let her come with papa. they would have so many things to talk over together when they got back to town. the old pictures on the wall were watching miss betty leicester of tideshead as she walked past them through the squares of moonlight, and into the dim candle-light and out to the moonlight again. it was cooler in the gallery than in the great hall, but not too cold, and it was quiet and still. she was dressed in an ancient pink brocade, with fine old lace, that had come out of a camphor-wood chest in one of the storerooms, and she still held a little old-fashioned lute carefully under her arm. suddenly one of the doors opened, and lady mary came in and crossed the moonlight square toward her. "so here you are, darling," she said. "i missed you, and every one is wondering where you are. i asked lady dimdale, and she remembered that she saw you come this way." lady mary was holding betty, lace and lute and all, in her arms, and then she kissed her in a way that meant a great deal. "let us come over here and look out at the snow," she said at last, and they stood together in the deep window recess and looked out. the new snow was sparkling under the moon; the park stretched away, dark woodland and open country, as far as one could see; off on the horizon were the twinkling lights of a large town. lady mary did not say anything more, but her arm was round betty still, and presently betty's head found its way to lady mary's shoulder as if it belonged there. the top of her young head was warm under lady mary's cheek. "everybody is lonely sometimes, darling," said lady mary at last; "and as for me, i am very lonely indeed, even with all my friends, and all my cares and pleasures. the only thing that really helps any of us is being loved, and doing things for love's sake; it isn't the things themselves, but the love that is in them. that's what makes christmas so much to all the world, dear child. but everybody misses somebody at christmas time; and there's nothing like finding a gift of new love and unlooked-for pleasure." "lady dimdale helped us splendidly. it wouldn't have been half so nice if it hadn't been for her," said betty softly,--for her christmas project had come to so much more than she had dreamed at first. there was a stir in the drawing-room, and a louder sound of voices. the gentlemen were coming in. lady mary must go back; but when she kissed betty again, there was a tear on her cheek, and so they stood waiting a minute longer, and loving to be together, and suddenly the sweet old bells in danesly church, down the hill, rang out the christmas chimes. * * * * * electrotyped and printed by h. o. houghton and co. the riverside press cambridge, mass., u. s. a. * * * * * books by sarah orne jewett. deephaven. play-days. stories for children. old friends and new. country by-ways. the mate of the daylight, and friends ashore. a country doctor. a novel. a marsh island. a novel. a white heron, and other stories. the king of folly island, and other people. betty leicester. a story for girls. tales of new england. strangers and wayfarers. a native of winby, and other tales. the life of nancy. the country of the pointed firs. houghton, mifflin and company, boston and new york. after days of fog stanley heath, a stranger whose power-boat runs aground on the treacherous cape cod shoals, stumbles into the homestead and into the life of marcia howe, a young widow with whom half the men in the village are already in love. out of his clothing falls a leather case crammed with gems and the enigma of this puzzling possession provides the pivot around which the story revolves. marcia's blind, intuitive belief in the man's innocence brings its own reward. the hamlets of wilton and belleport, already so well known to miss bassett's readers, are again the setting of this new novel. a sparkling love story of cape cod. shifting sands other books by sara ware bassett the harbor road the green dolphin bayberry lane twin lights shifting sands sara ware bassett the penn publishing company · philadelphia copyright by the penn publishing company shifting sands manufactured in the united states of america _our lives are like the ever shifting sands which ocean currents whirl in the ebb and flow of their unresisting tides_ chapter i _the widder_ lived on the spit of sand jutting out into crocker's cove. just why she should have been singled out by this significant sobriquet was a subtle psychological problem. there were other women in belleport and in wilton, too, who had lost husbands. maria eldridge was a widow and so was susan ann beals. indeed death had claimed the head of many a household in the community, for to follow the sea was a treacherous business. nevertheless, despite the various homes in which solitary women reigned, none of their owners was designated by the appellation allotted to marcia howe. moreover, there seemed in the name the hamlet had elected to bestow upon her a ring of satisfaction, even of rejoicing, rather than the note of condolence commonly echoing in the term. persons rolled it on their tongues as if flaunting it triumphantly on the breeze. "marcia ought never to have married jason howe, anyway," asserted abbie brewster when one day she reminiscently gossiped with her friend, rebecca gill. "she was head an' shoulders above him. whatever coaxed her into it i never could understand. she could have had her pick of half a dozen husbands. why take up with a rollin' stone like him?" "she was nothin' but a slip of a thing when she married. mebbe she had the notion she could reform him," rebecca suggested. "mebbe," agreed abbie. "still, young as she was, she might 'a' known she couldn't. ten years ago he was the same, unsteady, drinkin' idler he proved himself to be up to the last minute of his life. he hadn't changed a hair. such men seldom do, unless they set out to; an' jason howe never set out to do, or be, anything. he was too selfish an' too lazy. grit an' determination was qualities left out of him. well, he's gone, an' marcia's well rid of him. for 'most three years now, she's been her own mistress an' the feelin' that she is must be highly enjoyable." "poor marcia," sighed rebecca. "poor marcia?" abbie repeated. "lucky marcia, i say. 'most likely she'd say so herself was she to speak the truth. she never would, though. since the day she married, she's been close-mouthed as an oyster. what she thought of jason, or didn't think of him, she's certainly kept to herself. nobody in this village has ever heard her bewail her lot. she made her bargain an' poor as 'twas she stuck to it." "s'pose she'll always go on livin' there on that deserted strip of sand?" speculated rebecca. "why, it's 'most an island. in fact, it is an island at high tide." "so 'tis. an' zenas henry says it's gettin' to be more an' more so every minute," abbie replied. "the tide runs through that channel swift as a race horse an' each day it cuts a wider path 'twixt marcia an' the shore. before long, she's goin' to be as completely cut off from the mainland at low water as at high." "it must be a terrible lonely place." "i wouldn't want to live there," shrugged the sociable abbie. "but there's folks that don't seem to mind solitude, an' marcia howe's one of 'em. mebbe, after the life she led with jason, she kinder relishes bein' alone. 'twould be no marvel if she did. furthermore, dynamite couldn't blast her out of that old daniels homestead. her father an' her grandfather were born there, an' the house is the apple of her eye. it is a fine old place if only it stood somewheres else. of course, when it was built the ocean hadn't et away the beach, an' instead of bein' narrow, the point was a wide, sightly piece of land. who'd 'a' foreseen the tides would wash 'round it 'til they'd whittled it down to little more'n a sand bar, an' as good as detached it from the coast altogether?" "who'd 'a' foreseen lots of pranks the sea's played? the cape's a-swirl with shiftin' sands. they drift out here, they pile up there. what's terra firma today is swallered up tomorrow. why, even wilton harbor's fillin' in so fast that 'fore we know it there won't be a channel deep enough to float a dory left us. we'll be land-locked." "well, say what you will against the sea an' the sand, they did a good turn for marcia all them years of her married life. at least they helped her keep track of jason. once she got him on the point with the tide runnin' strong 'twixt him and the village, she'd padlock the skiff an' there he'd be! she had him safe an' sound," abbie chuckled. "yes," acquiesced rebecca. "but the scheme worked both ways. let jason walk over to town across the flats an' then let the tide rise an' there he be, too! without a boat there was no earthly way of his gettin' home. marcia might fidget 'til she was black in the face. he had the best of excuses for loiterin' an' carousin' ashore." "well, he don't loiter and carouse here no longer. marcia knows where he is now," declared abbie with spirit. "i reckon she's slept more durin' these last three years than ever she slept in the ten that went before 'em. she certainly looks it. all her worries seem to have fallen away from her, leavin' her lookin' like a girl of twenty. she's pretty as a picture." "she must be thirty-five if she's a day," rebecca reflected. "she ain't. she's scarce over thirty. i can tell you 'xactly when she was born," disputed the other woman. "but thirty or even more, she don't look her age." "s'pose she'll marry again?" ventured rebecca, leaning forward and dropping her voice. "marry? there you go, 'becca, romancin' as usual." "i ain't romancin'. i was just wonderin'. an' i ain't the only person in town askin' the question, neither," retorted mrs. gill with a sniff. "there's scores of others. in fact, i figger the thought is the uppermost one in the minds of 'most everybody." abbie laughed. "mebbe. in fact, i reckon 'tis," conceded she. "it's the thought that come to everyone quick as jason was buried. 'course, 'twouldn't be decent to own it--an' yet i don't know why. folks 'round about here are fond of marcia an' feel she's been cheated out of what was her rightful due. they want her to begin anew an' have what she'd oughter have had years ago--a good husband an' half a dozen children. there's nothin' to be ashamed of in a wish like that. i ain't denyin' there are certain persons who are more self-seekin'. i ain't blind to the fact that once jason was under the sod, 'bout every widower in town sorter spruced up an' began to take notice; an' before a week was out every bachelor had bought a new necktie. eben snow told me so an' he'd oughter know bein' the one that sells 'em." "abbie!" "it's true. an' why, pray, shouldn't the men cast sheep's eyes at marcia? can you blame 'em? she'd be one wife in a hundred could a body win her. there ain't a thing she can't do from shinglin' a barn down to trimmin' a hat. she's the match of any old salt at sailin' a boat an' can pull an oar strong as the best of 'em. along with that she can sew, cook, an' mend; plow an' plant; paper a room. an' all the time, whatever she's doin', she'd bewitch you with her smile an' her pretty ways. it's a marvel to me how she's kept out of matrimony long's this with so many men millerin' 'round her." "she certainly's takin' her time. she don't 'pear to be in no hurry to get a husband," smiled rebecca. "why should she be? her parents left her with money in the bank an' the homestead to boot, an' marcia was smart enough not to let jason make ducks and drakes of her property. she dealt out to him what she thought he better have an' held fast to the rest. as a result, she's uncommon well-off." "all men mightn't fancy havin' a wife hold the tiller, though." rebecca gill pursed her lips. "any man marcia howe married would have to put up with it," abbie asserted, biting off a needleful of thread with a snap of her fine white teeth. "marcia's always been captain of the ship an' she always will be." gathering up her mending, rebecca rose. "well, i can't stay here settlin' marcia's future," she laughed. "i've got to be goin' home. lemmy'll be wantin' his supper. he can't, though, accuse me of fritterin' the afternoon away. i've darned every pair of stockin's in this bag an' there was scores of 'em. you turn off such things quicker when you're in good company." a scuffling on the steps and the sound of men's voices interrupted the words. the kitchen door swung open and zenas henry's lanky form appeared on the threshold. behind him, like a foreshortened shadow, tagged his crony, lemuel gill. "well, well, 'becca, if here ain't lemmy come to fetch you!" abbie cried. "'fraid your wife had deserted you, lemmy? she ain't. she was just this minute settin' out for home." "i warn't worryin' none," grinned lemuel. "what you two been doin'?" abbie inquired of her husband. "oh, nothin' much," answered the big, loose-jointed fellow, shuffling into the room. "we've been settin' out, drinkin' in the air." the carelessness of the reply was a trifle overdone, and instantly aroused the keen-eyed abbie's suspicions. she glanced into his face. "guess we're goin' to have rain," he ventured. "i wouldn't wonder," rejoined lemuel gill. humming to prove he was entirely at his ease, zenas henry ambled to the window and looked out. "where you been settin'?" demanded abbie. "settin'? oh, lemmy an' me took sort of a little jaunt along the shore. grand day to be abroad. i never saw a finer. the sea's blue as a corn-flower, an' the waves are rollin' in, an' rollin' in, an'--" "they generally are," abbie interrupted dryly. "just where'd you particularly notice 'em?" lemuel gill stepped into the breach. "'twas this way," began he. "zenas henry an' me thought we'd take a bit of a meander. we'd been to the postoffice an' was standin' in the doorway when we spied charlie eldridge goin' by with a fish-pole--" "charlie eldridge--the bank cashier?" rebecca echoed. "but he ain't no fisherman. what on earth was he doin' with a fish-pole?" "that's what we wondered," said lemuel. "charlie eldridge with a fish-pole," repeated abbie. "mercy! where do you s'pose he was goin'?" "i never in all my life knew of charlie eldridge goin' a-fishin'," rebecca rejoined. "not that he ain't got a perfect right to fish if he wants to outside bankin' hours. but--" "but charlie fishin'!" interrupted abbie, cutting her friend short. "why, he'd no more dirty his lily-white hands puttin' a squirmin' worm on a fish-hook than he'd cut off his head. in fact, i don't believe he'd know how. you didn't, likely, see where he went." "wal--er--yes. we did." zenas henry wheeled about. clearing his throat, he darted a glance at lemuel. "havin' completed the business that took us to the store--" he began. "havin', in short, asked for the mail an' found there warn't none," laughed abbie, mischievously. zenas henry ignored the comment. "we walked along in charlie's wake," he continued. "followed him?" "wal--somethin' of the sort. you might, i s'pose, call it follerin'," zenas henry admitted shamefacedly. "anyhow, lemmy an' me trudged along behind him at what we considered a suitable distance." "where'd he go?" rebecca urged, her face alight with curiosity. "wal, charlie swung along, kinder whistlin' to himself, an' ketchin' his pole in the trees and brushes 'til he come to the fork of the road. then he made for the shore." "so he was really goin' fishin'," mused abbie, a suggestion of disappointment in her voice. "he certainly was. oh, charlie was goin' fishin' right 'nough. he was aimed for deep water," grinned zenas henry. "he wouldn't ketch no fish in wilton harbor," sniffed rebecca contemptuously. "wouldn't you think he'd 'a' known that?" "he warn't," observed zenas henry mildly, "figgerin' to. in fact, 'twarn't to wilton harbor he was goin'." with a simultaneous start, both women looked up. "no-siree. bank cashier or not, charlie warn't that much of a numskull. he was primed to fish in more propitious waters." "zenas henry, do stop beatin' round the bush an' say what you have to say. if you're goin' to tell us where charlie eldridge went, out with it. if not, stop talkin' about it," burst out his wife sharply. "ain't i tellin' you fast as i can? why get so het up? if you must know an' can't wait another minute, charlie went fishin' in crocker's cove." "crocker's cove!" cried two feminine voices. zenas henry's only reply was a deliberate nod. "crocker's cove?" gasped abbie. "crocker's cove?" echoed rebecca. "crocker's cove," nodded zenas henry. "mercy on us! why--! why, he--he must 'a' been goin'"--began abbie. "--to see _the widder_," rebecca interrupted, completing the sentence. "i'd no notion he was tendin' up to her," abbie said. "wal, he warn't 'xactly tendin' up to her--least-way, not today. not what you could really call tendin' up," contradicted zenas henry, a twinkle in his eye. "rather, i'd say 'twas t'other way round. wouldn't you, lemmy? wouldn't you say that instead 'twas she who tended up to him?" sagaciously, lemuel bowed. the tapping of abbie's foot precipitated the remainder of the story. "you see," drawled on zenas henry, "no sooner had charlie got into the boat an' pulled out into the channel than he had the usual beginner's luck an' hooked a stragglin' bluefish--one of the pert kind that ain't fer bein' hauled in. law! you'd oughter seen that critter pull! he 'most had charlie out of the boat. "i shouted to him to hang on an' so did lemmy. we couldn't help it. the idiot had no more notion what to do than the man in the moon. "in our excitement, we must 'a' bellered louder'n we meant to, 'cause in no time _the widder_ popped outer the house. she took one look at charlie strugglin' in the boat, raced down to the landin' an' put out to him just about at the minute he was waverin' as to whether he'd chuck pole, line, an' sinker overboard, or go overboard himself. "quicker'n scat she had the fish-pole, an' while we looked on, charlie dropped down kinder limp on the seat of the boat an' begun tyin' up his hand in a spandy clean pocket handkerchief while _the widder_ gaffed the fish an' hauled it in." "my soul!" exploded abbie brewster. "my soul an' body!" "later on," continued zenas henry, "charlie overtook us. he'd stowed away his fish-pole somewheres. leastway, he didn't have it with him. when lemmy an' me asked him where his fish was, he looked blacker'n thunder an' snapped out: 'hang the fish!' "seein' he warn't in no mood for neighborly conversation, we left him an' come along home." chapter ii in the meantime, marcia howe, the heroine of this escapade, comfortably ensconced in her island homestead, paid scant heed to the fact that she and her affairs were continually on the tongues of the outlying community. she was not ignorant of it for, although too modest to think herself of any great concern to others, her intuitive sixth sense made her well aware her goings and comings were watched. this knowledge, however, far from nettling her, as it might have done had she been a woman blessed with less sense of humor, afforded her infinite amusement. she liked people and because of her habit of looking for the best in them she usually found it. their spying, she realized, came from motives of interest. she had never known it to be put to malicious use. hence, she never let it annoy her. she loved her home; valued her kindly, if inquisitive, neighbors at their true worth; and met the world with a smile singularly free from hardness or cynicism. bitter though her experience had been, it had neither taken from, nor, miraculously, had it dimmed her faith in her particular star. on the contrary there still glowed in her grey eyes that sparkle of anticipation one sees in the eyes of one who stands a-tiptoe on the threshold of adventure. apparently she had in her nature an unquenchable spirit of hope that nothing could destroy. no doubt youth had aided her to retain this vision for she was still young and the highway of life, alluring in rosy mists, beckoned her along its mysterious path with persuasive hand. who could tell what its hidden vistas might contain? her start, she confessed, had been an unpropitious one. but starts sometimes were like that; and did not the old adage affirm that a bad beginning made for a fair ending? furthermore, the error had been her own. she had been free to choose and she had chosen unwisely. why whine about it? one must be a sport and play the game. she was older now and better fitted to look after herself than she had been at seventeen. only a fool made the same blunder twice, and if experience had been a pitiless teacher, it had also been a helpful and convincing one. marcia did not begrudge her lesson. unquestionably, it had taken from her its toll; but on the other hand it had left as compensation something she would not have exchanged for gold. the past with its griefs, its humiliations, its heartbreak, its failure lay behind--the future all before her. it was hers--hers! she would be wary what she did with it and never again would she squander it for dross. precisely what she wished or intended to make of that future she did not know. there were times when a wave of longing for something she could not put into words surged up within her with a force not to be denied. was it loneliness? she was not so lonely that she did not find joy in her home and its daily routine of domestic duties. on the contrary, she attacked these pursuits with tireless zeal. she liked sweeping, dusting, polishing brasses, and making her house as fresh as the sea breezes that blew through it. she liked to brew and bake; to sniff browning pie crust and the warm spiciness of ginger cookies. keen pleasure came to her when she surveyed spotless beds, square at the corners and covered with immaculate counterpanes. she found peace and refreshment in softened lights, flowers, the glow of driftwood fires. as for the more strenuous tasks connected with homemaking, they served as natural and pleasurable vents for her surplus energy. she revelled in painting, papering, shingling; and the solution of the balking enigmas presented by plumbing, chimneys, drains and furnaces. if there lingered deep within her heart vague, unsatisfied yearnings, marcia resolutely held over these filmy imaginings a tight rein. to be busy--that was her gospel. she never allowed herself to remain idle for any great length of time. to prescribe the remedy and faithfully apply it was no hardship to one whose active physique and abounding vigor demanded an abundance of exercise. like an athlete set to run a race, she gloried in her physical strength. when she tramped the shore, the wind blowing her hair and the rich blood pulsing in her cheeks; when her muscles stretched taut beneath an oar or shot out against the resistance of the tide, a feeling of unity with a power greater than herself caught her up, thrilling every fibre of her being. she was never unsatisfied then. she felt herself to be part of a force mighty and infinite--a happy, throbbing part. today, as she moved swiftly about the house and her deft hands made tidy the rooms, she had that sense of being in step with the world. the morning, crisp with an easterly breeze, had stirred the sea into a swell that rose rhythmically in measureless, breathing immensity far away to its clear-cut, sapphire horizon. the sands had never glistened more white; the surf never curled at her doorway in a prettier, more feathery line. on the ocean side, where winter's lashing storms had thrown up a protecting phalanx of dunes, the coarse grasses she had sown to hold them tossed in the wind, while from the point, where her snowy domains dipped into more turbulent waters, she could hear the grating roar of pebbles mingle with the crash of heavier breakers. it all spoke to her of home--home as she had known it from childhood--as her father and her father's father had known it. boats, nets, the screaming of gulls, piping winds, and the sting of spray on her face were bone of her bone, flesh of her flesh. the salt of deep buried caverns was in her veins; the chant of the ocean echoed the beating of her own heart. lonely? if she needed anything it was a companion to whom to cry: "isn't it glorious to be alive?" and she already had such a one. never was there such a comrade as prince hal! human beings often proved themselves incapable of grasping one another's moods--but he? never! he knew when to speak and when to be silent; when to be in evidence and when to absent himself. his understanding was infinite; his fidelity as unchanging as the stars. moreover, he was an honorable dog, a thoroughbred, a gentleman. that was why she had bestowed upon him an aristocratic name. he demanded it. she would never want for a welcome while he had strength to wag his white plume of tail; nor lack affection so long as he was able to race up the beach and race back again to hurl himself upon her with his sharp, staccato yelp of joy. when easterly gales rocked the rafters and the wind howled with eerie moanings down the broad chimney; when line after line of foaming breakers steadily advanced, crashing up on the shore with a fury that threatened to invade the house, then it was comforting to have near-by a companion unashamed to draw closer to her and confess himself humbled in the presence of the sea's majesty. oh, she was worlds better off with prince hal than if she were linked up with someone of her own genus who could not understand. besides, she was not going to be alone. she had decided to try an experiment. jason had had an orphaned niece out in the middle west--his sister's child--a girl in her early twenties, and marcia had invited her to the island for a visit. in fact, sylvia was expected today. that was why a bowl of pansies stood upon the table in the big bedroom at the head of the stairs, and why its fireplace was heaped with driftwood ready for lighting. that was also the reason marcia now stood critically surveying her preparations. the house did look welcoming. with justifiable pride, she confessed to herself that heaven had bestowed upon her a gift for that sort of thing. she knew where to place a chair, a table, a lamp, a book, a flower. she was especially desirous the old home should look its best today, for the outside world had contributed a richness of setting that left her much to live up to. sylvia had never seen the ocean. she must love it. but would she? that was to be the test. if the girl came hither with eyes that saw not; if the splendor stretched out before her was wasted then undeterred, she might go back to her wheat fields, her flat inland air, her school teaching. if, on the other hand, wilton's beauty opened to her a new heaven and a new earth, if she proved herself a good comrade--well, who could say what might come of it? there was room, money, affection enough for two beneath the homestead roof and sylvia was alone in the world. moreover, marcia felt an odd sense of obligation toward jason. at the price of his life he had given her back her freedom. it was a royal gift and she owed him something in return. she was too honest to pretend she had loved him or mourned his loss. soon after the beginning of their life together, she had discovered he was not at all the person she had supposed him. the gay recklessness which had so completely bewitched her and which she had thought to be manliness had been mere bombast and bravado. at bottom he was a braggart--small, cowardly, purposeless--a ship without a rudder. endowed with good looks and a devil-may-care charm, he had called her his star and pleaded his need of her, and she had mistaken pity for love and believed that to help guide his foundering craft into port was a heaven-sent mission. alas, she had over-estimated both her own power and his sincerity. jason had no real desire to alter his conduct. he lacked not only the inclination but the moral stamina to do so. instead, day by day he slipped lower and lower and, unable to aid him or prevent disaster, she had been forced to look on. her love for him was dead, and her self-conceit was dealt a humiliating blow. she was to have been his anchor in time of stress, the planet by which when he married her he boasted that he intended to steer his course. but she had been forced to stand impotent at his side and see self-respect, honor, and every essential of manhood go down and he shrivel to a fawning, deceitful, ambitionless wreck. sometimes she reproached herself for the tragedy and, scrutinizing the past, wondered whether she might not have prevented it. had she done her full part; been as patient, sympathetic, understanding as she ought to have been? did his defeat lay at her door? with the honesty characteristic of her, she could not see that it did. she might, no doubt, have played her role better. one always could if given a second chance. nevertheless she had tried, tried with every ounce of strength in her--tried and failed! well, it was too late for regrets now. such reflections belonged to the past and she must put them behind her as useless, morbid abstractions. her back was set against the twilight; she was facing the dawn--the dawn with its promise of happier things. surely that magic, unlived future touched with hope and dim with the prophecy of the unknown could not be so unfriendly as the past had been. it might bring pain; but she had suffered pain and no longer feared it. moreover, no pain could ever be as poignant as that which she had already endured. and why anticipate pain? life held joy as well--countless untried experiences that radiated happiness. were there not a balance between sunshine and shadow this world would be a wretched place in which to live, and its maker an unjust dealer. no, she believed not only in a fair-minded but in a generous god and she had faith that he was in his heaven. she had paid for her folly--if indeed folly it had been. now with optimism and courage she looked fearlessly forward. that was why, as she caught up her hat, a smile curled her lips. the house did look pretty, the day was glorious. she was a-tingle with eagerness to see what it might bring. calling prince hal, she stood before him. "take good care of the house, old man," she admonished, as she patted his silky head. "i'll be home soon." he followed her to the piazza and stopped. his eyes pleaded to go, but he understood his orders and obeying them lay down with paws extended, the keeper of the homestead. chapter iii the train was ten minutes late, and while she paced the platform at sawyer falls, the nearest station, marcia fidgeted. she had never seen any of jason's family. at first a desultory correspondence had taken place between him and his sister, margaret; then gradually it had died a natural death--the result, no doubt, of his indolence and neglect. when the letters ceased coming, marcia had let matters take their course. was it not kinder to allow the few who still loved him to remain ignorant of what he had become and to remember instead only as the dashing lad who in his teens had left the farm and gone to seek his fortune in the great world? she had written margaret a short note after his death and had received a reply expressing such genuine grief it had more than ever convinced her that her course had been the wise and generous one. what troubled her most in the letter had been its outpouring of sympathy for herself. she detested subterfuge and as she read sentence after sentence, which should have meant so much and in reality meant so little, the knowledge that she had not been entirely frank had brought with it an uncomfortable sense of guilt. it was not what she had said but what she had withheld that accused her. marcia howe was no masquerader, and until this moment the hypocrisy she had practiced had demanded no sustained acting. little by little, moreover, the pricking of her conscience had ceased and, fading into the past, the incident had been forgotten. miles of distance, years of silence separated her from jason's relatives and it had been easy to allow the deceit, if deceit it had been, to stand. but now those barriers were to be broken down and she suddenly realized that to keep up the fraud so artlessly begun was going to be exceedingly difficult. she was not a clever dissembler. moreover, any insincerity between herself and sylvia would strike at the very core of the sincere, earnest companionship she hoped would spring up between them. even should she be a more skillful fraud than she dared anticipate and succeed in playing her role convincingly, would there not loom ever before her the danger of betrayal from outside sources? everyone in the outlying district had known jason for what he was. there had been no possibility of screening the sordid melodrama from the public. times without number one fisherman and then another had come bringing the recreant back home across the channel, and had aided in getting him into the house and to bed. his shame had been one of the blots on the upright, self-respecting community. as a result, her private life had perforce become common property and all its wretchedness and degradation, stripped of concealment, had been spread stark beneath the glare of the sunlight. it was because the villagers had helped her so loyally to shoulder a burden she never could have borne alone that marcia felt toward them this abiding affection and gratitude. they might discuss her affairs if they chose; ingenuously build up romances where none existed; they might even gossip about her clothes, her friends, her expenditures. their chatter did not trouble her. she had tried them out, and in the face of larger issues had found their virtues so admirable that their vices became, by contrast, mere trivialities. moreover, having watched her romance begin, flourish, and crumble; and having shared in the joy and sorrow of it, it was not only natural, but to some degree legitimate they should feel they had the right to interest themselves in her future. not all their watchfulness was prompted by curiosity. some of it emanated from an impulse of guardianship--a desire to shield her from further misery and mishap. she was alone in the world, and in the eyes of the older inhabitants who had known her parents, she was still a girl--one of the daughters of the town. they did not mean to stand idly by and see her duped a second time. the assurance that she had behind her this support; that she was respected, beloved, held blameless of the past, not only comforted but lent to her solitary existence a sense of background which acted as a sort of anchor. not that she was without standards or ideals. nevertheless, human nature is human nature and it did her no harm to realize she was not an isolated being whose actions were of no concern to anyone in the wide world. separated though she was by the confines of her island home, she was not allowed to let her remoteness from wilton detach her from it, nor absolve her from her share in its obligations. she had her place and every day of the year a score of lookers-on, familiar with her general schedule, checked up on her fulfillment of it. if, given limited leeway, she did not appear for her mail or for provisions; if she was not at church; if the lights that should have twinkled from her windows were darkened, someone unfailingly put out across the channel to make sure all was well with her. nay, more, if any emergency befell her, she had only to run up a red lantern on the pole beside her door and aid would come. what wonder then that, in face of such friendliness, marcia howe failed to resent the community's grandmotherly solicitude? she had never kept secrets from her neighbors--indeed she never had had secrets to keep. her nature was too crystalline, her love of truth too intense. if she had followed her usual custom and been open with jason's sister, the dilemma in which she now found herself would never have arisen. granted that her motive had been a worthy one had it not been audacious to make of herself a god and withhold from margaret hayden facts she had had every right to know, facts that belonged to her? such burdens were given human beings to bear, not to escape from. why should she have taken it upon herself to shield, nay prevent jason's flesh and blood from participating in the sorrow, shame, disappointment she herself had borne? the experience had had immeasurable influence in her own life. why should it not have had as much in margaret's? alas, matters of right and wrong, questions of one's responsibility toward others were gigantic, deeply involved problems. what her duty in this particular case had been she did not and would now never know, nor was it of any great moment that she should. margaret was beyond the reach of this world's harassing enigmas. if with mistaken kindness she had been guided by a pygmy, short-sighted philosophy, it was too late, reflected marcia, for her to remedy her error in judgment. but sylvia--jason's niece? with her coming, all the arguments marcia had worn threadbare for and against the exposure of jason's true character presented themselves afresh. should she deceive the girl as she had her mother? or should she tell her the truth? she was still pondering the question when a shrill whistle cut short her reverie. there was a puffing of steam; a grinding of brakes, the spasmodic panting of a weary engine and the train, with its single car, came to a stop beside the platform. three passengers descended. the first was a young portuguese woman, dark of face, and carrying a bulging bag from which protruded gay bits of embroidery. behind her came a slender, blue-eyed girl, burdened not only with her own suit-case but with a basket apparently belonging to a wee, wizened old lady who followed her. "now we must find henry," the girl was saying in a clear but gentle voice. "of course he'll be here. look! isn't that he--the man just driving up in a car? i guessed as much from your description. you need not have worried, you see. yes, the brakeman has your bag and umbrella; and here is the kitten safe and sound, despite her crying. goodbye, mrs. doane. i hope you'll have a lovely visit with your son." the little old lady smiled up at her. "goodbye, my dear. you've taken care of me like as if you'd been my own daughter. i ain't much used to jauntin' about, an' it frets me. are your folks here? if not, i'm sure henry wouldn't mind--" "oh, somebody'll turn up to meet me, mrs. doane. i'll be all right. goodbye. we did have a pleasant trip down, didn't we? traveling isn't really so bad after all." then as marcia watched, she saw the lithe young creature stoop suddenly and kiss the withered cheek. the next instant she was swinging up the platform. the slim figure in its well-tailored blue suit; the trimly shod feet; the small hat so provokingly tilted over the bright eyes, the wealth of golden curls that escaped from beneath it all shattered marcia's calculations. she had thought of sylvia hayden as farm-bred--the product of an inland, country town--a creature starved for breadth of outlook and social opportunity. it was disconcerting to discover that she was none of these things. in view of her sophistication, marcia's proposed philanthropy took on an aspect of impertinence. well, if she herself was chagrined, there was consolation in seeing that the girl was equally discomfited. as she approached marcia, she accosted her uncertainly with the words: "pardon me. i am looking for a relative--a mrs. howe. you don't happen to know, do you--" "i'm marcia." "but i thought--i expected--" gasped the girl. "and i thought--i expected--" marcia mimicked gaily. for a moment they looked searchingly into one another's faces, then laughed. "fancy having an aunt like you!" exclaimed the incredulous sylvia, still staring with unconcealed amazement. "and fancy having a niece like you!" "well, all i can say is i'm glad i came," was the girl's retort. "i wasn't altogether sure i should be when i started east. i said to myself: 'sylvia you are taking a big chance. you may just be wasting your money.'" "you may still find it's been wasted." "no, i shan't. i know already it has been well spent," announced the girl, a whimsical smile curving her lips. "wait until you see where you're going." "i am going to paradise--i'm certain of it. the glimpses i've had of the ocean from the train have convinced me of that. do you live where you can see it, aunt marcia? will it be nearby?" "i shall not tell you one thing," marcia replied. "at least only one, and that is that i flatly refuse to be aunt marcia to you!" "don't you like me?" pouted sylvia, arching her brows. "so much that your aunt-ing me is absurd. it would make me feel like methuselah. i really haven't that amount of dignity." "ah, now my last weak, wavering doubt is vanquished. not only am i glad i came but i wish i'd come before." she saw a shadow flit across her aunt's face. "you weren't asked until now," observed marcia with cryptic brevity. "that wouldn't have mattered. had i known what you were like, i should have come without an invitation." in spite of herself, marcia smiled. "here's the car," she answered. "what about your trunk?" "i didn't bring one." "you didn't bring a trunk! but you are to make a long visit, child." "i--i wasn't sure that i'd want to," sylvia replied. "you see, i was a wee bit afraid of you. i thought you'd be a new england prune. i had no idea what you were like. if i'd brought my things, i'd have been obliged to stay." "you're a cautious young person," was marcia's dry observation. "'twould serve you right if i sent you home at the end of a fortnight." "oh, please don't do that," begged sylvia. "it's in _the alton city courier_ that i have gone east to visit relatives for a few weeks. if i should come right back, everybody would decide i'd stolen the family silver or done something disgraceful. besides--my trunk is all packed, locked, strapped and i've brought the key," added she with disarming frankness. "it can be sent for in case--" "i see!" nodded marcia, her lips curving into a smile in spite of herself, "i said you were cautious." "don't you ever watch your own step?" as the myriad pros and cons she had weighed and eliminated before inviting her guest passed in quick review before marcia's mind, she chuckled: "sometimes i do," she conceded grimly. chapter iv the village store, grandiloquently styled by a red sign the wilton emporium, was thronged with the usual noontime crowd. it was a still, grey day, murky with fog and the odors of wet oilskins, steaming rubber coats, damp woolens blended with a mixture of tar, coffee and tobacco smoke, made its interior thick and stuffy. long ago the air-tight stove had consumed such remnants of oxygen as the room contained. the windows reeked with moisture; the floor was gritty with sand. these discomforts, however, failed to be of consequence to the knot of men who, rain or shine, congregated there at mail time. they were accustomed to them. indeed, a drizzle, far from keeping the habitués away, rendered the meeting place unusually popular. not but that plenty of work, capable of being performed as well in foul as in fair weather, could not have been found at home. zenas henry brewster's back stairs were at the very moment crying out for paint; the leg was off his hair-cloth sofa; the pantry window stuck; the bolt dangled from his side door and could have been wrenched off with a single pull. here was an ideal opportunity to make such repairs. yet, why take today? nobody really saw the stairs. if the sofa pitched the brick tucked underneath, it at least prevented it from lurching dangerously. the pantry window was as well closed as open, anyway. and as for the side door--if it was not bolted at all, no great harm would result. "nobody's got in yet," zenas henry optimistically philosophized as, despite his wife's protests, he slipped into his sou'wester, "an' i see no cause to think thieves will pitch on today to come. fur's that goes, wilton ain't never had a burglary in all its history. we could leave all the bolts off the doors." to this cheery observation he added over his shoulder a jaunty "goodbye!" and, striding out through the shed, was off to join his cronies. the argument with abbie had not only delayed him, but had left him a bit irritated, and he was more nettled still to find, when he crossed the threshold of the post-office, that the daily conclave was in full swing. nevertheless, the session had not become as interesting as it would after those who dropped in simply to call for mail or make purchases had thinned out. he had, to be sure, missed seeing the letters distributed, but the best yet remained. shuffling over to the counter where his friends were huddled, zenas henry unostentatiously joined them. "yes-siree, there'll be somethin' doin' in wilton now," enoch morton, the fish-man, was saying. "that sand bar's goin' to be the centre of the town, if i don't miss my guess. there'll be more'n charlie eldridge fishin' in the channel." a laugh greeted the prediction. "who's seen her?" captain benjamin todd inquired. "i have," came the piping voice of lemuel gill. "me and 'becca rowed over from belleport saturday. we went a-purpose, takin' some jelly to marcia as an excuse. the girl's jason's niece all right, same's folks say, though she looks no more like him than chalk like cheese. a prettier little critter 'twould be hard to find. it 'pears that at the outset marcia invited her for no more'n a short visit. inside the week, though, the two of 'em have got so friendly, sylvia's sent home for her trunk, an' is plannin' to stay all summer. she's head over heels in love with the place. i'm almighty glad she's come, too, for it's goin' to be grand for marcia, who must be lonely enough out there with only the setter for company." "it's her own fault. she could have other companions was she so minded," declared captain phineas taylor, significantly. "oh, we all know that, phineas," agreed the gentle lemuel gill. "there's plenty of folks hankerin' to be comrades to marcia. the only trouble is she doesn't want 'em." "with this girl at her elbow, she'll want 'em even less, i reckon," asaph holmes interposed. "mebbe. still, i figger that ain't a-goin' to discourage her admirers none. why, within the week sylvia's been here, i happen to know marcia's had four buckets of clams, a catch of flounders, an' a couple of cuts of sword-fish presented to her," ephraim wise, the mail carrier announced. "that stray blue-fish of charlie eldridge's must 'a' swelled the collection some, too," put in lemuel. "when i asked charlie what he done with it, he owned he left it over at the homestead. he said he never wanted to see another fish long's he lived." "that ain't all the gifts the widder's had, neither," volunteered silas nickerson, the postmaster, who now joined the group. "not by a long shot. i can see the whole of that spit of sand from my back porch, an' often after i've had my supper an' set out there smokin' an' sorter--" "sorter keepin' a weather eye out," chuckled a voice. "smokin' an' takin' the air," repeated silas, firmly. "i look in that direction, 'cause it's a pleasant direction to look. that's how i come to know more'n one lobster's been sneaked to marcia after dusk." "i don't so much mind folks makin' marcia friendly donations," captain jonas baker declared with guilty haste. "in my opinion, it's right an' proper they should. but when it comes to eleazer crocker, who's head of the fire department an' undertaker as well, goin' over there for the entire evenin' with the keys to the engine house in his pocket, i think the town oughter take some action 'bout it. s'pose there was to be a fire an' him hemmed in by the tide t'other side the channel? the whole village might burn to the ground 'fore ever he could be fetched home." "that certainly ain't right," zenas henry agreed. "eleazer'd either oughter hang the keys on a bush near the shore or leave 'em with some responsible person when he goes a-courtin'." "when you went courtin', would you 'a' wanted the whole town made aware of it?" queried enoch morton. chagrined, zenas henry colored. "well, anyhow, he's got no business goin' off the mainland. even if there ain't a fire, somebody might die. he's a mighty important citizen, an' his place is at home." "oh, i wouldn't go that fur," soothed peace-loving lemuel gill. "fires an' dyin' don't happen every day." "no. but when they do come, they're liable to come sudden," maintained zenas henry stoutly. "not always. besides, we've got to go a bit easy with eleazer. remember from the first he warn't anxious to be undertaker, anyway. he said so over an' over again," put in the gruff voice of benjamin todd. "he 'xplained he hadn't a mite of talent for the job an' no leanin's toward it. it was foisted on him 'gainst his will." "well, somebody had to be undertaker. i didn't hanker to be town sheriff, but i got hauled into bein'," rejoined elisha winslow. "in a place small as this honors sometimes go a-beggin' unless folks muster up their public spirit." "i don't see, 'lish, that the duties of sheriff have been so heavy here in wilton that they've undermined your health," grinned captain phineas taylor. "you ain't been what one could call over-worked by crime. was you to need a pair of handcuffs in a hurry, it's my belief you wouldn't be able to find 'em. as for eleazer--nobody's died for nigh onto a year; an' the only fire that's took place was a brush one that we put out 'most an hour 'fore the key to the engine-house could be found, the door unlocked, an' the chemical coaxed into workin'." "that's true enough," conceded captain benjamin. "still, i'll bet you a nickel was you to come down hard on eleazer, an' tell him that in future he'd have to choose 'twixt undertakin' an' courtin', he'd pick the courtin'. he's human. you can't press a man too hard. besides, you've no right to blame that mix-up 'bout the engine-house key on him, cap'n phineas. give the devil his due. eleazer warn't responsible for that. his sister borrowed the brass polish for her candle-sticks an' afterward slipped the key into her pocket by mistake. remember that? at the minute the fire broke out she was leadin' a women's missionary meetin' at the church an' was in the act of prayin' for the heathens out in china. it didn't seem decent to interrupt either her or the lord. unluckily the prayer turned out to be an uncommon long one an' in consequence the chemical got delayed." "well, anyhow, i'm glad this niece of marcia's come," broke in lemuel gill, shifting the subject. "she's a pleasant little critter an' will kinder stir things up." "oh, there's no danger but she'll do that all right, lemmy," zenas henry drawled. "you can generally depend on a pretty girl to raise a rumpus. give her a month in town an' she'll most likely have all the male population cuttin' one another's throats." fortunately both marcia and sylvia were at the moment too far out of ear-shot for this menacing prediction to reach them. cut off by curtains of fog and a tide that foamed through the channel, they were standing in the homestead kitchen. the builder of it would have laughed to scorn the present day apology for an interior so delightful. here was a room boasting space enough for an old-fashioned brick oven; an oil stove; two sand-scrubbed tables, snow white and smooth as satin; a high-backed rocker cushioned in red calico; braided rugs and shelves for plants. a regal kitchen truly--one that bespoke both comfort and hospitality. the copper tea kettle, singing softly and sending up a genial spiral of steam, gleamed bright as sunshine; and the two big pantries, through which one glimpsed rows of shining tins and papered shelves laden with china, contributed to the general atmosphere of homeliness. fog might shroud the outer world in its blanket of unreality, but it was powerless to banish from marcia's kitchen the cheer which perpetually reigned there. before the fire, stretched upon his side, lay prince hal, his body relaxed, his eyes drowsy with sleep; while from her vantage-ground on the rocking-chair above, the tiger kitten, winkie-wee, gazed watchfully down upon his slumbers. it was sylvia, however, who, in a smock of flowered chintz, lent the room its supreme touch of color. she looked as if all the blossoms in all the world had suddenly burst into bloom and twined themselves about her slender body. out of their midst rose her head, golden with curls and her blue eyes, large and child-like. with her coming, a new world had opened to marcia. the girl's lightness of touch on life; her irrepressible gaiety; her sense of humor and unique point of view all bespoke a newer generation and one far removed from her aunt's environment. not that she was without moral standards. she had them, but they were kept far in the background and were not the strained and anxious creeds which the woman of new england ancestry had inherited. to see sylvia jauntily sweep aside old conventions; to behold the different emphasis she put upon familiar problems; to witness her audacious belittling of issues her elders had been wont to grapple with was an experience that continually shocked, stimulated, challenged and amused. yet, there was something big and wholesome in it withal; something refreshingly sincere and free from morbidity; a high courage that took things as they came and never anticipated calamity. marcia found herself half reluctantly admiring this splendidly normal outlook; this mixture of sophistication and naïveté; her niece's novel and definitely formed opinions. for, youthful though sylvia was, she had personality, character, stratums of wisdom far in advance of her years. a very intriguing companion, marcia admitted, one of whose many-sidedness she would not soon tire. "now what shall our menu be, marcia, dear?" she was asking. "remember, according to our compact, it is my turn to get the dinner." "anything but fish!" marcia answered with a groan. "i'm so tired of salt-water products it seems as if never again could i touch another." "but my dear, if you will have a stag line of nautical admirers, what can you expect? you must pay the penalty. besides, i think you're ungrateful," sylvia pouted. "i love clams and other sea foods." "you've not had so many of them in your lifetime as i have. besides, i suspect you are not telling the truth. come, confess. aren't you a wee bit fed up on clams? clam chowder monday night, steamed clams tuesday noon; clam fritters tuesday night. and then that blue-fish. why, it was big as a shark! i almost lost my courage when the sword-fish and the flounders came, but fortunately with the aid of prince hal and the kitten, we disposed of them fairly well. the lobsters, alas, yet remain. i used to think it would be romantic to be a lorelei and live deep down beneath the waves; but this avalanche of fish--!" despairingly she shrugged her shoulders. sylvia laughed. "i don't feel at all like that. i've had a feast of fish and enjoyed it. but if i were to express a preference it would be for the hard-shelled suitors. do select one of those for a husband, marcia," begged she, whimsically. "the others are all very well. indeed, that blue-fish swain was magnificent in his way, but me for the crustaceans." "sylvia! you absurd child!" "just consider the clam character for a moment--so silent, so close-mouthed; never stirring up trouble or wanting to be out nights. in my opinion, he would be an ideal helpmate. not sensitive, either; nor jealous. marcia, do marry one of the clams! "i'm not so sure," went on the girl reflectively, "whether he would be affectionate. he seems somewhat undemonstrative. still, contrast him with the lobster. oh, i realize the lobster has more style, originality, and is more pretentious in every way. however, say what you will, he is grasping by nature and has a much less gentle disposition. besides, he is restless and always eager to be on the move. "yes, all things taken together, i lean strongly toward a nice, peaceable clam husband for you, marcia. he'd be twice as domestic in his tastes. i acknowledge the blue-fish has more back-bone, but you do not need that. you have plenty yourself. most women, i suppose, would be carried away by his dash, his daring, his persistence. he has a certain sporty quality that appeals; but he is so outrageously stubborn! he never gives in until he has to. he'd be dreadful to live with." "sylvia, you are ridiculous!" marcia protested. "you forget i am your aunt." "my mistake. i did forget it, i'll confess; and what's more i probably always shall. to me you are just a girl i'd be head-over-heels in love with if i were a man. i don't blame all the clams, lobsters, and flounders for flocking over here to make love to you." "stop talking nonsense." "but it isn't nonsense. it's the truth. isn't that precisely what they're doing? you certainly are not deluding yourself into thinking these men come gallivanting out here over the flats with the mere philanthropic purpose of seeing you don't starve to death, do you?" sylvia demanded. "perhaps they come to see you," hedged marcia feebly. "me! now marcia, pray do not resort to deceit and attempt to poke this legion of mermen off on me. as a relative, i insist on having a truthful, respectable aunt. consider my youth. isn't it your christian duty to set me a good example? whether you wed any of these nautical worshippers or not is your own affair. but at least honesty compels you to acknowledge they're your property." a shadow, fleet as the rift in a summer cloud, passed over marcia's face, but transient as it was sylvia, sensitively attuned and alert to changes of mood in others, noticed it. "what a little beast i am, marcia," she cried, throwing her arm impulsively about the other woman. "forgive my thoughtlessness. i wouldn't have hurt you for the world. you know i never saw uncle jason. he left home when i was a child and is no reality to me. even mother remembered him only as he was when a boy. she kept a little picture of him on her bureau, and on his birthdays always placed flowers beside it. she was fond of him, because he was only six when grandmother died. after that, mother took care of him and brought him up. she worried a good deal about him, i'm afraid, for it was a great responsibility and she herself was nothing but a girl. however, she did the best she could." sylvia stole a look at marcia who had stiffened and now stood with eyes fixed on the misty world outside. "mother felt sorry, hurt, that uncle jason should have left home as he did, and never came back to see her. he was an impulsive, hot-headed boy and she said he resented her watchfulness and authority. but even though he ran away in a moment of anger, one would think years of absence would have smoothed away his resentment. "for a little while he wrote to her; then gradually even his letters stopped. she never knew what sort of a man he became. once she told me she supposed there must be lots of mothers in the world who merely sowed and never reaped--never saw the results of their care and sacrifice." "jason--jason loved your mother," marcia murmured in a voice scarcely audible. "i am sure of that." "but if he loved her, why didn't he come to see her? i know it was a long journey, but if he could only have come once--just once. it would have meant so much!" "men are selfish--unfeeling. they forget," replied marcia, bitterly. "you give your life to them and they toss aside your love and devotion as if it were so much rubbish." the outburst, sharp with pain, burst from her involuntarily, awing sylvia into silence. what did she know of jason, that dim heritage of her childhood? of marcia? of their life together, she suddenly asked herself. dismayed, she stole a glance at her companion. it was as if idly treading a flower-strewn path she had without warning come upon the unplumbed depths of a volcano's crater. to cover the awkwardness of the moment, she bent to caress prince hal who had risen and stood, alert and listening beside her. only an instant passed before marcia spoke again--this time with visible effort to recapture her customary manner. "suppose we have lobster newburg this noon," suggested she. "i'll get the chafing-dish. what's the matter, hal, old man? you look worried. don't tell me you hear more fish swimming our way?" chapter v the nose of the setter quivered and, going to the window, he growled. "he does hear something," asserted sylvia. "what do you suppose it is?" "gulls, most likely. they circle above the house in clouds," was marcia's careless answer. "the prince regards them as his natural enemies. he delights to chase them up the beach and send them whirling into the air. apparently he resents their chatter. he seems to think they are talking about him--and they may be for aught i know--talking about all of us." a faint echo of her recent irritation still lingered in the tone and, conscious of it, she laughed to conceal it. again the dog growled. almost immediately a hand fumbled with the latch, and as the door swung open, a man staggered blindly into the room. he was hatless, wet to the skin, and shivering with cold, and before marcia could reach his side, he lurched forward and fell at her feet. "quick, sylvia, close the door and heat some broth. the poor fellow is exhausted. he's chilled to the bone." "who is it?" "no one i know--a stranger. bring that pillow and help me to slip it under his head. we'll let him rest where he is a moment." her fingers moved to the bronzed wrist. "he's all right," she whispered. "just cold and worn out. he'll be himself presently." she swept the matted hair, lightly sprinkled with grey, from the man's forehead and wiped his face. an interesting face it was--intelligent and highbred, with well-cut features and a firm, determined chin. a sweater of blue wool, a blue serge suit, socks of tan and sport shoes to match them clung to the tall, slender figure, and on the hand lying across it sparkled a diamond sunk in a band of wrought gold. it was not the hand of a fisherman, tanned though it was; nor yet that of a sailor. there could be no doubt about that. rather, it belonged to a scholar, a writer, a painter, or possibly to a physician, for it was strong as well as beautifully formed. sylvia bent to adjust the pillow, and her eyes and marcia's met. who was this man? whence came he? what disaster had laid him here helpless before them? as if their questions penetrated his consciousness, the stranger slowly opened his eyes. "sorry to come here like this," he murmured. "the fog was so thick, i lost my bearings and my power-boat ran aground. i've been trying hours to get her off. she's hard and fast on your sand-bar." "not on the ocean side?" marcia exclaimed. the man shook his head. "luckily not. i rounded the point all right, but missed the channel." he struggled to rise and marcia, kneeling beside him, helped him into an upright position where he sat, leaning against her shoulder. "i seem to have brought in about half the sea with me," he apologized, looking about in vague, half-dazed fashion. "no matter. we're used to salt water here," she answered. "how do you feel? you're not hurt?" "only a little. nothing much. i've done something queer to my wrist." attempting to move it, he winced. "it isn't broken?" "i don't know. i was trying to push the boat off, and something suddenly gave way." turning his head aside, he bit his lip as if in pain. "we'll telephone doctor stetson. the town is fortunate in having a very good physician. meantime, you mustn't remain in these wet clothes. there is no surer way of catching cold. do you think you could get upstairs if sylvia and i guided you?" "i guess so--if it isn't far. i'm absurdly dizzy. i don't know why. i suppose, though, i must shed these wet togs." "you certainly must. come, sylvia, lend a hand! we'll help him up." "oh, i'm not in such a bad way as all that. i can get up alone," he protested. "only please wait just another minute. the whole place has suddenly begun to pitch again like a ship in midocean. either i've lost my sea-legs or i'm all sea-legs, and nothing else. perhaps i may be faint. i haven't eaten anything for a day or two." "why didn't you tell me? the soup, quick, sylvia. i only wish i had some brandy. well, at least this is hot, and will warm you up. i'll feed you." "no, no. i needn't trouble you to do that. i'm sure i can manage with my left hand." "don't be silly. you'll spill it all over yourself. goodness knows, you're wet enough as it is. hand me the cup and spoon, sylvia." "but i feel like a baby," fretted the stranger. "no matter. we must get something hot inside you right away. don't fuss about how it's done," said the practical-minded marcia. "there! you look better already! later you shall have a real, honest-to-goodness meal. run and call doctor stetson, sylvia, and open the bed in the room opposite mine. you might light the heater there, too." as the girl sped away, marcia turned toward her visitor. "suppose we try to make the rocking-chair now. shall we? we won't aspire to going upstairs until the doctor comes. you're not quite good for that yet. but at least you needn't sit on the floor. what worries me is your wet clothing. i'm afraid you'll take your death of cold. let me peel off your shoes and socks. i can do that. and i believe i could get you out of your water-soaked sweater if i were to cut the sleeve. may i try? we needn't mind wrecking it, for i have another i can give you." the man did not answer. instead, he sat tense and unsmiling, his penetrating brown eyes fixed on marcia's face. apparently the scrutiny crystalized in him some swift resolution, for after letting his glance travel about the room to convince himself that no one was within hearing, he leaned forward: "there is something else i'd rather you did for me first," he whispered, dropping his voice until it became almost inaudible. "i've a package here i wish you'd take charge of. it's inside my shirt. but for this infernal wrist, i could reach it." "i'll get it." "i'd rather you didn't talk about it," continued he, hurriedly. "just put it in a safe place. will you, please?" "certainly." puzzled, but unquestioning, marcia thrust her hand beneath his sodden clothing and drew forth a small, flat box, wrapped in a bedraggled handkerchief. "if you'll look out for it, i'll be tremendously obliged." "of course i will," smiled marcia. "is it valuable?" the question, prompted by a desire to perform faithfully the service entrusted to her, rather than by curiosity, produced a disconcerting result. the man's eyes fell. "i shouldn't like to--to lose it," he stammered. "i'll be careful. you yourself shall see where it is put. look! here is my pet hiding-place. this brick in the hearth is loose and under it is plenty of space for this small box. i'll tuck it in there. just hold it a second until i pry the brick up. there we are! now give it to me." she reached hurriedly for the package, but as their hands met, the moist, clinging handkerchief became entangled in their fingers and slipping from its coverings a leather jewel-case dropped to the floor. out of it rolled a flashing necklace and a confusion of smaller gems. marcia stifled an involuntary cry. nevertheless, she neither looked up nor delayed. "sorry to be so clumsy," she muttered, as she swiftly scooped up the jewels. it was well she had made haste, for no sooner was the clasp on the box snapped and the treasure concealed beneath the floor than sylvia returned, and a moment later came both doctor jared stetson and elisha winslow. "mornin', marcia," nodded the doctor. "'lish happened to be in the office when your niece called up, an' hearin' you had a man patient, he thought mebbe he might be of use. what 'pears to be the trouble, sir?" "i've done something to my right wrist." "h--m--m! keepin' your diagnosis private, i see. that's wise. a wrist can be broken, fractured, dislocated, or just plain sprained an' still pain like the deuce." with skilled hand, he pushed back the dripping sleeve. "you're a mite water-logged, i notice," observed he. "been overboard?" "something of the sort," returned the man with the flicker of a smile. "mr.--" for the fraction of a second, marcia hesitated; then continued in an even tone, "--mr. carlton grounded his boat and had to swim ashore." "you don't say! well, i ain't surprised. 'tain't no day to be afloat. you couldn't cut this fog with a carvin'-knife. but for knowin' the channel well's i do, i might 'a' been aground myself. how come you to take your boat out in such weather?" the doctor demanded. "i was--was cruising." "oh, an' the fog shut down on you. i see. that's different. fog has a trick of doin' that, unless one keeps an eye out for fog symptoms. now, what i'd recommend for you first of all, mr. carlton, is a warm bed. you look clean beat out. had an anxious, tiresome trip, i'll wager." "yes." "i 'magined as much. well, you can rest here. there'll be nothin' to disturb your slumbers. we sell quiet by the square yard in wilton." a kindly chuckle accompanied the words. "better let 'lish an' me help you upstairs, an' out of your wet things, 'cause with a wrist such as yours, i figger you won't be very handy at buttons. not that 'lish is a professional lady's maid. that ain't exactly his callin'. still, in spite of bein' town sheriff, he can turn his hand to other things. it's lucky he can, too, for he don't get much sheriffin' down this way. wilton doesn't go in for crime. in fact, we was laughin' 'bout that very thing this noon at the post-office. 'pears there's been a robbery at one of the long island estates. quantities of jewelry taken, an' no trace of the thief. the alarm was sent out over the radio early yesterday an' listenin' in 'lish, here, got quite het up an' not a little envious. he said he 'most wished the burglary had took place in our town, excitement bein' at a pretty low ebb now." "zenas henry suggested mebbe we might hire an up-to-date robber, was we to advertise," put in the sheriff, "but on thinkin' it over, we decided the scheme wouldn't work, 'cause of there bein' nothin' in the village worth stealin'." he laughed. marcia, standing by the stove, spun about. "now, elisha, don't you run down wilton. why, i have twenty-five dollars in my purse this minute," she asserted, taking a worn pocket-book from her dress and slapping it with challenging candor down upon the table. "i keep it in that china box above the stove." "that might serve as a starter," remarked the stranger, regarding her quizzically. she faced him, chin drawn in, and head high and defiant. "besides that, in my top bureau drawer is a string of gold beads that belonged to my great-grandmother," she continued, daring laughter curling her lips. "they are very old and are really quite valuable." "we'll make a note of those, too," nodded the man, his eyes on hers. "i'm afraid that's all i can offer in the way of burglary inducements." "that bein' the case, s'pose you an' me start gettin' the patient upstairs, 'lish," broke in doctor stetson. "if we don't, next we know he'll be havin' pneumonia as well as a bad wrist. besides, i want to get a good look at that wrist. mebbe 'tain't goin' to be bad as it 'pears." the stranger's admiring glance fixed itself on marcia's. "what is my next move?" he inquired. "i told you before--you must take off your wet things and rest," she repeated. "you still prescribe that treatment?" "i still prescribe it." "in spite of the--the symptoms?" "why not?" was her quick answer. "very well. i am ready, gentlemen." erect, even with a hint of defiance in his mocking smile, the man rose to his full height. "before we go, however, i must correct a slight error. you misunderstood my name. it is not carlton. it is heath--stanley heath." chapter vi "and yet you told me, marcia, this was a quiet, adventureless place!" burst out sylvia, the instant the door had closed. "isn't it?" "it doesn't seem so to me. when shipwrecked mariners fall into your arms entirely without warning, i call it thrilling. who do you suppose he is?" "he told us his name." "of course--heath. stanley heath. it's quite a romantic name, too. but i didn't mean that. i mean where did he come from and why? didn't he tell you?" "not a word." obviously the girl was disappointed. "i thought perhaps he might have while i was upstairs. i was gone long enough for him to pour out to you his entire history. at least it seemed so to me. i ransacked every closet and drawer in sight trying to find something for him to put on. it wasn't until i struck that old sea-chest in the hall that i discovered pajamas and underwear. i hope you don't mind my taking them." a shiver passed over marcia. "no. they were jason's. i ought to have told you they were there. i kept them because i thought they might sometime be useful." "well, they certainly are," replied sylvia. "they will exactly fit mr. heath. he must be lots like uncle jason." "he isn't," contradicted marcia sharply. "he isn't at all like him." "in size, i mean," amended sylvia, timidly. "oh, in size. possibly. i haven't thought about it," came tersely from marcia. "let me see! we planned to have lobster this noon, didn't we? but that won't do for him. he will need something more substantial." "there are chops," suggested sylvia, following to the door. "so there are!" marcia brightened. "i'd forgotten that. we have had such a confusing morning--" absently she reached for the plates. "shall i put some potatoes in the oven?" "what?" "potatoes. shall i put some in the oven? for him, i mean." "oh, yes--yes. of course. chops and--" regarding the girl vaguely, marcia fingered the dishes in her hand. "and baked potatoes," sylvia repeated, a trifle sharply. "yes. chops and baked potatoes," echoed marcia, dragging her mind with an effort from the thoughts she was pursuing. "that will do nicely. and hot tea." "won't tea keep him awake?" "i don't believe anything could keep him awake." marcia was herself now and smiled. "where do you suppose he came from? and how long has he been knocking about in that boat, i wonder," ventured sylvia, her curiosity once again flaring up. "how do i know, dear?" marcia sighed, as if determined to control her patience. "you know as much about him as i do. i mean," she corrected, honesty forcing her to amend the assertion, "almost as much. i did, to be sure, talk with him a little while waiting for the doctor, but he did not tell me anything about himself." "one would never suspect you were such a matter-of-fact, unimaginative person, marcia," laughed sylvia, "now i am much more romantic. i am curious--just plain, commonplace curious--and i don't mind admitting it." again marcia's conscience triumphed. "i am curious, too," she confessed. "only perhaps in a different way." the moving of chairs overhead and the sound of feet creaking down the stairway heralded the return of jared stetson and elisha. she went to meet them. "'tain't a broken wrist, marcia," was the doctor's greeting on entering the kitchen. "leastways, i don't think it is. i've bandaged it an' 'lish an' me have your friend snug an' warm in bed. tomorrow i'll look in again. mebbe with daylight, i'll decide to whisk him down to the hyannis hospital for an x-ray just to make sure everything's o.k. there's no use takin' chances with a thing so useful to a feller as his wrist. but for tonight, the bandage will do. a hot water-bottle mightn't be amiss. nor a square meal, neither. beyond them two things, there ain't much you can do at present, but let him sleep." "we were starting to broil some chops." "fine!" doctor stetson rubbed his hands. "nothin' better. he was a mite fretted 'bout the boat; but i told him some of us men would ease her up 'fore dark an' see she was anchored good an' firm. there's a chance she'll float at high tide, i wouldn't wonder--that is if she ain't stuck too firm. the life-savin' crew will lend us a hand, i reckon. cap'n austin an' the boys have been itchin' for a job. anyhow, i told mr. heath to quit troublin' 'bout his ship an' go to sleep, an' he promised he would. seems a nice sort of feller. known him long?" "not so very long." "why, marcia--" broke in sylvia. "one sometimes comes to know a person rather well, though, even in a short time," went on the older woman, ignoring the interruption. "s'pose 'twas a-comin' to see you that brought him down this way," elisha volunteered. "somehow i don't recall meetin' him before." "he hasn't been here before," was the measured response. "oh, so he's new to wilton waters, eh? that prob'ly accounts for his runnin' aground. i was certain i'd 'a' remembered his face had i seen it. i'm kinder good at faces," declared the sheriff. "fine lookin' chap. has quite an air to him. nothin' cheap 'bout his clothes, neither. they was a quality clear through to his skin. silk, with monograms on 'em. must be a man of means." silence greeted the observation. "likely he is--havin' a power-boat an' leisure to cruise round in her," persisted the undaunted elisha. "i really couldn't say." "well, apparently he ain't one that boasts of his possessions, an' that's to his credit," interposed jared stetson good-humoredly. elisha's interest in the stranger was not, however, to be so easily diverted. "seen the boat?" he inquired. "no." "oh, you ain't! i forgot to ask heath the name of her. i'm sort of a crank on the names of boats. it always riles me to have a foolish name given a boat. no matter how small she is, her plankin' is all that divides her owner from fathoms of water, an' in view of the fact he'd oughter regard her soberly an' give her a decent name." elisha stroked his chin, rough with the stubble of a reddish beard. "years ago," he continued, "folks stood in awe of ships an' understood better what they owed 'em. in them days there warn't no wireless, nor no big ocean liners an' a man that sailed the deep warn't so hail-feller-well-met with the sea. it put the fear of god into him. when he started out on a cruise across the atlantic or round the horn, there warn't no slappin' his ship on the back. he respected her an' named her accordin'ly. _the flyin' cloud!_ can you beat that? or _sovereign of the seas_? them names meant somethin'. they made you want to lift your hat to the lady. but now--! why, last season a feller come into the harbor with as pretty a knockabout as you'd want to see. small though she was, every line of her was of the quality. a reg'lar little queen she was. an' what do you s'pose that smart aleck had christened her? the _ah-there_! thought himself funny, no doubt. 'twould 'a' served him right had she capsized under him some day when he was well out of sight of land an' left him to swim ashore. yes-siree, it would. if a man has no more regard for the keel that's under him an' the floorin' that's 'twixt him an' forty fathoms of water than that he deserves to drown an' i wouldn't care the flip of a cod's tail if he did," elisha blustered. "oh, come now, 'lish--you know you wouldn't stand by an' see no feller drown, no matter what kind of a fool he was," laughed the doctor. "yes, i would," elisha insisted, tugging on his coat. "well, all i can say is i hope the name of mr. heath's boat will meet with your approval," ventured sylvia archly. "i hope 'twill," was the glum retort, as the sheriff followed doctor stetson through the doorway. the moment the door banged behind them, sylvia turned toward marcia. "forgive my butting in, dear," apologized she. "but i was so surprised. you did say you didn't know mr. heath, didn't you?" "yes." "but--but--" "sometimes it's just as well not to tell all you know--especially in a place like this," was the evasive response. was the reply a rebuke or merely a caution? sylvia did not know. and what was the meaning of the rose color that flooded the elder woman's cheek? had marcia really meant to give the impression that she knew stanley heath? and if so, why? sylvia wracked her brain for answers to these questions. why, only an hour before, she and marcia had been on the frankest footing imaginable. now, like a sea-turn, had come a swift, inexplicable change whose cause she was at a loss to understand and which had rendered her aunt as remote as the farthest star. sylvia would have been interested indeed had she known that while she wrestled with the enigma, marcia, to all appearances busy preparing the tray for the invalid upstairs, was searching her heart for answers to the same questions. why had she sought to shield this stranger? why had she evaded doctor stetson's inquiries and deliberately tried to mislead him into thinking she and stanley heath were friends? what had prompted the deception? the man was nothing to her. of his past she had not the slightest knowledge, indeed he might be the greatest villain in the world. in fact, circumstances proclaimed him a thief. nevertheless, she did not, could not, believe it. there was something too fine in his face; his eyes. true, he had made no attempt either to defend himself or to explain away the suspicions he must have known would arise in her mind. on the contrary, with a devil-may-care audacity that fascinated her, he actually appeared to have tried to deepen in her mind the impression of his guilt. still she refused to believe. even in the face of overwhelming evidence she clung to her unreasoning faith in him. suppose he had stolen the gems and fled with them from long island? suppose he had lost his bearings in the fog; tossed aimlessly on the sea for a day and a night; and then run aground at her doorstep? it was possible, quite possible, even probable. yet was it? not for a man like stanley heath. marcia stubbornly insisted. so deep was the conviction, she shrank lest he should feel called upon to justify or defend himself. far from demanding explanations, she resolved she would give him no chance to make them. therefore, when his meal was ready and every last inviting touch had been given the tray, she said casually to sylvia: "suppose you take it up, dear?" "i?" "yes. why not? do you mind?" "not at all. i just thought perhaps you'd rather." marcia shook her head. "i want to stir the newburg and see it doesn't catch," she explained, avoiding the girl's eyes. "we are too hungry to risk having our dinner spoiled. you might just wait and cut the chops for mr. heath and fix his potato. find out, too, if there is anything more he wants. you needn't hurry back. i'll keep things hot." the task suggested did not, apparently, displease sylvia. she dimpled and sauntering to the mirror, she glanced in giving her mass of golden curls a feminine poke. she even slipped a vanity-case from her pocket and powdered her wee, up-tilted nose. "we may as well look our best," laughed she over her shoulder. "certainly." "perhaps i might take off my smock and go up in my dark dress." "i wouldn't. the smock is gay and suits you. invalids need cheering up." "so they do," agreed sylvia demurely, now quite self-possessed. a flutter of anticipation had put a sparkle into her eyes and faint color into her cheeks. she looked bewilderingly pretty. "here goes red-ridinghood," she murmured, taking up the tray. "all is, if i don't come back, you'll know the wolf has eaten me." in spite of herself, marcia smiled. she opened the door and stood watching while the girl ascended the stairs, for the hall was unlighted and the tray heavy. "i'm safe," called a merry voice from the topmost stair. marcia came back into the kitchen. she finished preparing the lobster, straightened the silver on the table, let in prince hal who came bounding to her side, picked a few dead blossoms from the geraniums, and sat down to wait. ten minutes passed! fifteen! half an hour went by. she fidgeted and stooped to pat the setter. then she went to the window. slowly the fog was lifting. it hung like a filmy curtain, its frayed edges receding from a dull steel-blue sea and through it she could discern the irregular sweep of the channel and the shore opposite where dimly outlined stood the spired church and the huddle of houses clustered like wraiths about the curving margin of the bay. yes, it was clearing. the tide had turned and a breeze sprung up. by afternoon the weather would be fine--just the right sort to get the boat off. she would go up the beach and watch the men while they worked. the house was close. she longed for air and the big reaches of the out-of-doors. a jingle of glass and silver! it was sylvia returning with the tray. her eyes were shining. "he ate every bit!" she cried. "you should have seen him, marcia. it would have done your heart good. the poor lamb was almost starved. he asked for you the first thing. i don't think he altogether liked your not carrying up the tray, although of course, he was too polite to say so." "you explained i was busy?" "yes. but at first he didn't seem satisfied with the excuse. however, he soon forgot about it and became gay as a lark. didn't you hear us laughing? the potato would fall off the fork. i'm not as good a nurse as you. my hands weren't so steady. i'm going back again for his wet clothes. we can dry them here by the fire, can't we?" "yes, indeed." "it's a pity there isn't a tailor at hand. his suit ought to be pressed." "i can do it," marcia declared with eagerness. "i'm quite used to pressing men's clothes. i always pressed jason's." this time the name dropped unnoticed from her lips. indeed she was not conscious she had uttered it. she was not thinking of jason. chapter vii it was late afternoon and, alone in the kitchen, sylvia yawned. since noontime she had sat reading and straining her ears for a sound in the room overhead, but there had been none. he was sleeping after his hearty dinner and that was encouraging. doctor stetson had hoped the wrist would not be painful enough to interfere with the rest the patient so obviously needed, and apparently this hope was being realized. sylvia was glad he was asleep--very glad indeed. she did not begrudge him a moment of his slumber. but what a delightful person he was when awake! his eyes were wonderful--so dark and penetrating. they bored right through you. and then he listened with such intentness, watching every curve of your lips as if fearing to lose a word. such attention was distinctly flattering. even though your chatter was trivial, he dignified it and transformed it into something of importance. how interested, for example, he had been in marcia; in learning she had been married and now lived a widow in the old daniels homestead! and what a host of inquiries he had made about jason--the sort of man he was and how long ago he had died! sylvia had not been able to answer all his questions, but of course she had asserted that marcia had adored her husband because--well, not so much because she actually knew it, as because widows always did. certainly marcia had declared she loved the homestead so deeply she never intended to leave it, and was not that practically the same thing as saying she loved jason, too? anyway, how she had felt toward him was not really a matter of any great importance now because he was dead. the thing that really mattered was mr. heath's interest in her--sylvia; in her trip east and her description of alton city, the little mid-western town which was her home. how he had laughed at her rebellion at being a school-teacher, and how insidiously he had hinted she might not always be one! and when she had tossed her curls at him as she often tossed them at billie sparks, the soda fountain clerk, how cleverly he had remarked that sunlight was especially welcome on a grey day. oh, he knew what to say--knew much better than billie sparks or even horatio fuller, the acknowledged beau of the town. in fact he made both of them seem quite commonplace--even hortie. fancy it! probably that was because he had traveled. apparently he had been almost everywhere--except to alton city. odd he should never have been there when he had visited just about every other corner, both of america and of europe. not that he had deliberately said so. he was far too modest for that. it was while trying to find out where his home was that she had stumbled upon the information. and come to think of it, she did not know now where he lived, she suddenly remembered. at the time she thought he had named the place; but she realized on reviewing the conversation that he had not. in fact, he had not told her much of anything about himself. it had all been about surfboating in the pacific; skiing at lake placid and st. moritz; climbing the alps; motoring in brittany. she actually did not know whether he had a father or a mother; a brother or a sister. at alton city you would have found out all those things within the first ten minutes. perhaps that was the reason he piqued her interest--because he was not like alton city--not like it at all. why, were stanley heath to stroll up maple avenue on a fine, sunny afternoon everybody--even the boys that loafed in front of bailey's cigar store and the men who loitered on the post-office steps--would turn to look at him. he would be so different from everybody else he would seem a being from another planet. it would be fun, she mused, to walk with him through this main street while those on both sides of it craned their necks and asked one another who he was. more fun yet to dash through its shaded arch of trees in a smart little car, talking and laughing with him all the way, and pretending to be unconscious of the staring spectators, although of course she would be seeing them all perfectly well out of the corner of her eye. she had done this sometimes with hortie fuller, simply because she knew every girl in alton city envied her his devotion. but what was hortie compared with mr. stanley heath? sylvia tilted her small up-tilted nose even higher. so occupied was she with these dramatic fancies she had not thought once of prince hal. in fact she had supposed that he had gone up the beach with marcia. now she suddenly became aware that he stood sniffing about the hearth, scratching at its surface as if he scented something beneath. he must not do that, and she told him so in no uncertain terms. nevertheless, in spite of the rebuke, he continued to poke away at the spot, whining faintly, until his persistence aroused her curiosity and she went to see what disturbed him. one brick projected ever so slightly from the others, and it was at this the setter was clawing. "what is it, prince? what's the matter?" whispered she. delighted to have gained her attention, the dog barked. "oh, you mustn't bark, darling," she cautioned, muzzling his nose with her hand. "you'll wake mr. heath. tell missy what the trouble is. do you smell a mousie under there?" for answer the dog wagged his tail. "i don't believe it," sylvia demurred. "you're only bluffing. between you and winkie-wee there isn't a mouse about the place. still, you seem terribly sure something is wrong. well, to convince you, i'll take up the brick." fetching from the pantry a steel fork, she inserted the prongs in the crack and pried the offending brick out of its hole. instantly the dog snatched from the space beneath a handkerchief containing a small, hard object. sylvia chased after him. "bring it here, hal! that's a good dog! bring it to missy." the setter came fawning to her side and unwillingly dropped his prize at her feet. as it fell to the ground, out rolled such a glory of jewels the girl could scarcely believe her eyes. there was a string of diamonds, dazzling as giant dewdrops; a pearl and sapphire pendant; several beautiful rings; and an oval brooch, its emerald centre surrounded by tier after tier of brilliants. sylvia panted, breathless. she had never seen such gems, much less held them in her hands. how she longed to slip the rings upon her fingers and try the effect of the diamonds about her slender throat! prudence, however, overmastered the impulse. marcia might return and surprise her at any moment. before that the treasure must be returned to the place from which it had been taken. gathering the rainbow heap together, she reluctantly thrust it into its blue leather case, snapped the catch, and placed it once more under the brick. then with relief she stood up and wiped the perspiration from her forehead. it was not until she was again in her chair, book in hand, and struggling to quiet her quick breathing that she discovered she still held in her hand the handkerchief that had been wrapped about the jewel-case. how stupid of her! how insufferably careless! well, she dared not attempt to replace it now. there was no time. instead, she smoothed it out and inspected it. it was a man's handkerchief of finest linen and one corner bore the embroidered initials s. c. h. she had known it all the time! there was no need to be told the jewels were his. what puzzled her was when he had found time to hide them. he had not, so far as she knew, been left alone a moment and yet here was his booty safe beneath the floor. she rated it as booty, because there could be no doubt he had stolen it. he had stolen it from that long island estate, escaped in his speed boat and here he was--here, under this very roof! a robber--that was what he was! a robber--a bandit, such as one saw in the movies! that explained why he was so well-dressed, so handsome, had such fascinating manners. he was a gentleman burglar. all up-to-date villains in these days were gentlemen. not that she had ever encountered a villain in the flesh. still, she had read romances about them and was there not one in every moving-picture? they were not difficult to recognize. now here she was, actually in the same house with one! how thrilling! here was an adventure worthy of the name. she was not in the least frightened. on the contrary, from the top of her head to the soles of her feet she tingled with excitement. she could feel the hot, pulsing blood throb in her throat and wrists. it was exhilarating--wonderful! of course marcia must not know. she, with her puritan ideas, would unquestionably be shocked to discover that the man she was sheltering was a thief. she would probably feel it her christian duty to surrender him to elisha winslow. how unsuspecting she had been! how naïvely she had clapped her purse down on the table and proclaimed exactly where her gold beads were kept! a thief in the room overhead! think of it! the very thief for whom all the police in the countryside were searching! he was no small, cheap type of criminal. he did things on a big scale--so big that radio announcements had been broadcast about him and no doubt at this instant detectives and crime inspectors were chasing up and down the highways; dashing through cities; and keeping telephone wires hot in wild search for the gentleman asleep upstairs! sylvia stifled her laughter. the whole thing was ironic. why, that very morning had not elisha winslow, the wilton sheriff, who had frankly admitted he yearned for excitement, helped undress the wretch and put him comfortably to bed? the humor of the situation almost overcame her. it seemed as if she must have someone to share the joke. but no one should. no! nobody should be the wiser because of her. the poor, hunted fellow should have his chance. he was an under-dog and she had always been romantically sorry for under-dogs. it was a little venturesome and risky, she admitted, to obstruct justice and should she be found out she would, without doubt, be clapped into jail. still she resolved to take a chance. after all, who could prove she had known stanley heath to be what he was? nobody. she would not even let him suspect it. the important thing was to await an opportunity and soon--before he was able to be about--return the handkerchief she held in her hand to its place beneath the brick. then all would be well. this should not be difficult. it would be quite easy to get marcia to take up mr. heath's supper. in the meantime, the situation was intensely amusing. its danger appealed to her. she had always enjoyed hair-breadth escapades. anything but dullness. that had been the trouble with alton city--it had been dull--deadly dull. but wilton was not dull. in spite of the fact that only this morning elisha winslow had complained the town was in need of a stirring up, it seethed with electricity. if she chose, she could hurl a bomb-shell into its midst this very minute. but she did not choose. instead she intended to play her own quiet game and keep what she knew to herself. she wondered why. perhaps she was falling in love with this adventurer. yes, that must be it. she was in love with him--in love with a bandit! how scandalized alton city would be! how the whole town would hold up its hands in horror if it knew! horatio fuller--dubbed hortie because of his high-hat manners and because his father owned the largest store in town--picture his dismay if he guessed her guilty secret! perhaps he would shoot the fellow--or the fellow shoot him. that was what usually happened in moving-pictures, somebody always shot somebody else. she wouldn't want hortie to be shot. the thought of it sobered her. after all, hortie was a dear, she liked him--liked him very much. on the other hand, she would not want stanley heath shot either. perhaps it would be just as well to leave out all this shooting, why heap horror upon horror? to be married to a bandit was adventure enough without being the wife of a murderer. sylvia's imagination had traveled so swiftly and so far that it came to earth with a crash when marcia opened the door. her hair, tossed by the wind, clustered about her face in small, moist ringlets; her cheeks were scarlet, her eyes shone. it was not alone the buffeting of the salt breeze nor the exhilaration of walking against it that had transformed her into something radiantly lovely. from within glowed a strange fire that made her another creature altogether. "why--why--marcia!" breathed sylvia, bewildered. "i've had such a glorious walk, dear!" cried marcia. "the fog has lifted and the sky is a sheet of amethyst and gold." "did the men get the boat off?" "yes. she is floating tranquilly as a dove." "what is her name?" "_my unknown lady._" "mercy on us! that ought to satisfy even elisha." "it did," said marcia. chapter viii sylvia's plans, so well laid and apparently so easy of execution did not, to her chagrin, work out, for instead of awaking and demanding supper stanley heath slept without a break until morning. had not marcia insisted on leaving her door ajar lest the invalid call, the girl might have slipped down stairs in the darkness and returned the handkerchief. as it was, fate forced her to put it into her bureau drawer and await more favorable opportunity. this, alas, did not come. sun was tinting the lavender sands to rose and gilding the water with its first flecks of gold when she saw marcia standing at the foot of her bed. "mr. heath has a high fever and can scarcely speak aloud," explained she. "i'm afraid he is quite ill. i wish you'd call up doctor stetson." "mercy on us!" the girl, drowsy and heavy-eyed, sprang out of bed. "i'll be down in just a minute," she exclaimed. "how do you happen to be up so early?" "i've been up off and on all night," answered marcia. "mr. heath was restless and thirsty. about midnight i heard him tossing about, and thinking he might be hungry, i heated some broth and took it to him." "i didn't hear you. i must have been dead to the world. why didn't you speak?" "there was no need of it. you were tired." "no more than you." "i was wakeful, anyway. i don't know why. perhaps i had him on my mind. if so, it is fortunate, for he did not call." "i'm dreadfully sorry he feels so miserable." "he won't admit it. he declares he is going back to new york today." "but he can't--he mustn't." "he is determined to. he says he has something very important to attend to. of course i have no authority over him but perhaps doctor stetson can exert some. that is why i am anxious to reach him before he goes out," explained marcia, moving toward the door. "i will call him right away." "i'll go down and start breakfast, then. mr. heath is dozing. he has promised not to get up for at least an hour. we must have the doctor here within that time." "i'll tell him to hurry." marcia tiptoed down the stairs. the freshness of early morning was upon the day. through the kitchen window pale shafts of light shot across the floor, brightening the colored rugs and making brass and copper glisten. starting the fire, she threw open the door to let in the salt breeze. the dampness and chill of the night had disappeared and the air was mild with the breath of coming spring. mingling with the gulls' cries she could hear the twitter of sparrows and the occasional chirp of a robin. the village, still hazy in mist, was taking on sharper outlines and from the bay the voices of fishermen and the chug of a motor-boat drifted distinctly across the water. prince came bounding into the house from some distant pilgrimage of his own, almost knocking her down in his eagerness for breakfast. she glanced far up the shore and saw, serenely rocking with the tide, _my unknown lady_. as she whispered the name, she was conscious of hot blood rushing to her cheeks. how ridiculous! stanley heath was simply a stranger of a night, he was nothing to her. well indeed was it, too, that he was not! during her hours of sleeplessness the ardor of her faith in him had, to a degree, cooled. true, she still maintained her belief in his innocence; but that belief, she now realized, was only a blind unfounded intuition. both the circumstances and sober second thought failed to back it up. the man's impatience to be gone, his complete silence with regard to the jewels, although perfectly justifiable, did not strengthen it. marcia conceded he had every right to keep his affairs to himself. she was close-mouthed and therefore sympathetic with the quality in others. but such an unusual happening! what more natural than that one should offer some explanation? last night, transported by emotion to a mood superheroic, she had wished none; nay, more, she had deliberately placed herself beyond the reach of it. today she toppled from her pedestal and became human, shifting from goddess to woman. had stanley heath started to confide his secret to her, she would even now have held up her hand to stay him. it was the fact that through the dim hours of the night, while she sat at his elbow trying to make the discomforts he suffered more bearable, he talked of almost everything else but the thing uppermost in both their minds. that was what hurt. she did not want to know. she wanted to be trusted; to help; to feel his dependence upon her. instead he held her at arm's length. oh, he voiced his gratitude for what she had done. he did that over and over again, apologizing at having caused her so much trouble. as if she minded! why, she was glad, glad to be troubled! he spoke with almost an equal measure of appreciation of the crew who had dragged his boat off the sand-bar, appearing to consider them also tremendously kind--as undoubtedly they were! still, they had not begun to come into the close contact with him that she had. marcia caught herself up with a round turn. here she was being sensitive, womanish. how detestable! why should stanley heath pour out his soul to her? she had never laid eyes on him until yesterday. in a day or two he would be gone never again to come into her life. she was glad of it. it was better so. she had just reached a state of complete tranquillity and happiness. why have her serenity stirred into turmoil and she herself transformed once more from a free woman to a slave? her mind should dwell no more on this man or his affairs. if he decided to go back to new york today, ill as he was, she would not attempt to deter him. his business was his own and he must manage it as he thought best. this decision reached, she drew in her chin, lifted her head a wee bit and began to get the breakfast. even doctor stetson's arrival and his subsequent verdict that the patient had bronchitis and would take his life in his hands should he leave his bed, afforded her only scant satisfaction. so she was to keep stanley heath under her roof after all--but against his will. it was not a very flattering situation. she sent sylvia up with his coffee and toast, and began her usual round of morning duties. and then just as they were finished and the clock was striking eleven, he called. she went up, cheerful but with her head still held high, and paused on the threshold. glancing at her he smiled. "you look like a bird about to take flight. won't you sit down?" she went nearer. nevertheless she did not take the chair he indicated. "i see you are busy," he said. "i thought perhaps your housework might be done by this time and you might have a moment to spare. well, i mustn't interrupt. forgive me for calling." "i'm not busy." "you seem hurried." "i'm not. i haven't a thing in the world to do," marcia burst out. "good! then you can stay a little while," he coaxed. "now answer this question truthfully, please. you heard what doctor stetson said about my returning to new york today. i don't want to be pig-headed and take a risk if it is imprudent; that is neither fair to others nor to myself. still, it is important that i go and i am anxious to. what is your advice?" "i think you are too ill." a frown of annoyance wrinkled his forehead. "if you will consent to stay where you are a few days, you will then be all right to go," she added. obviously the suggestion did not please him. however, he answered more mildly: "perhaps you're right. yet for all that i am disappointed. i want very much to go. it is necessary." "can't anything be done from here?" queried she. "such as--?" "letters, telegrams--whatever you wish. i can telephone or telegraph anywhere. or i can write." surprise stole over his face, then deepened to admiration. "you would do that for me--blindfolded?" "why not?" "you know why." "i simply want to help. i always like to help when i can," she explained hurriedly. "even when you do not understand?" piercingly his eyes rested on her face. "i--i--do not need to understand," was her proud retort. for the fraction of a second, their glances met. then she turned away and a pause, broken only by the crash of the surf on the outer beach, fell between them. when at last he spoke his voice was low--imperative. "marcia--come here!" she went--she knew not why. "give me your hand." again, half-trembling, half reluctant, she obeyed. he took it in his and bending, kissed it. "i will stay and you shall telegraph," was all he said. she sprang to fetch paper and pencil, as if welcoming this break in the tension. "i'm afraid i cannot write plainly enough with my left hand," he said. "will you take down the message?" "certainly." "_mrs. s. c. heath_" her pencil, so firm only an instant before, quivered. "have you that?" "yes." "_the biltmore, new york city._" "yes." "_everything safe with me. do not worry. marooned on cape cod with cold. nothing serious. home soon. love. stanley._" "got that?" "yes." had something gone out of her voice? the monosyllable was flat, colorless. heath looked at her. even her expression was different--or did he merely imagine it? "perhaps i would better just glance over the message before you send it--simply to make sure it's right." "let me copy it first," she objected. "copy it? nonsense! what for? nobody's going to see it." he reached for the paper. still she withheld it. "what's the trouble?" "it isn't written well enough. i'd rather copy it." "why?" "it's wobbly. i--i--perhaps my hands were cold." "you're not chilly?" "no--oh, no." "if the room is cool you mustn't stay here." "it isn't. i'm not cold at all." "will you let me take the telegram?" she placed it in his hand. "it is shaky. however, that's of no consequence, since you are to 'phone western union. now, if you truly are not cold, i'd like to dictate a second wire." "all right." "this one is for currier. _mr. james currier, the biltmore, new york city. safe on cape with my lady. shall return with her later. motor here at once, bringing whatever i need for indefinite stay._ _stanley c. heath_ "got that?" "o.k.," nodded marcia. this time, without hesitation, she passed him the paper. "this, i see, is your normal hand-writing," he commented as he placed the messages side by side. "i must admit it is an improvement on the other." taking up the sheets, he studied them with interest. "hadn't i better go and get off the messages?" suggested marcia, rising nervously. "what's your hurry?" "you said they were important." "so i did. nevertheless they can wait a few minutes." "the station might be closed. often it is at noontime." "it doesn't matter if they don't go until afternoon." "but there might be some slip." he glanced at her with his keen eyes. "what's the matter?" "matter?" "yes, with you? all of a sudden you've turned easterly." "have i?" lightly, she laughed. "i probably have caught the habit from the sea. environment does influence character, psychologists say." "nevertheless, you are not fickle." "how do you know? even if i were, to change one's mind is no crime," she went on in the same jesting tone. "the wind bloweth whither it listeth, and the good god does not condemn it for doing so." "but you are not the wind." "perhaps i am," she flashed teasingly. "or i may have inherited qualities from the sands that gave me birth. they are forever shifting." "you haven't." "you know an amazing amount about me, seems to me, considering the length of our acquaintance," she observed with a tantalizing smile. "i do," was the grim retort. "i know more than you think--more, perhaps than you know yourself. shall i hold the betraying mirror up before you?" "the mirror of truth? god forbid! who of us would dare face it?" she protested, still smiling but with genuine alarm. "now do let me run along and send off the messages. i must not loiter here talking. you are forgetting that you're ill. the next you know your temperature will go up and doctor stetson will blame me." "my temperature has gone up," growled stanley heath, turning his back on her and burying his face in the pillow with the touchiness of a small boy. chapter ix sylvia, meanwhile, had heard stanley heath call marcia and hailed her aunt's departure from the kitchen as the opportunity for which she had so anxiously been waiting. no sooner was the elder woman upstairs and out of earshot than she tiptoed from her room, the monogrammed handkerchief in her pocket. she had pried out the brick and had the jewel-case in her hand, wrapped and ready for its return when conversation overhead suddenly ceased and she heard marcia pass through the hall and start down stairs. sylvia gasped. she must not be found here. yet what was she to do? there was no chance now to put the package back and replace the brick which fitted so tightly that its adjustment was a process requiring patience, care, and time. flustered, frightened, she jammed the jewel-case into her dress and frantically restoring the brick to the yawning hole in the hearth as best she could, she fled up the back stairs at the same moment marcia descended the front ones. once in her room, she closed and locked the door and sank panting into a chair to recover her breath. well, at least she had not been caught and in the meantime the jewels were quite safe. mr. heath was too ill to be up and about for several days and until he was able to leave his room there was not the slightest danger their absence would be discovered. long before that time, marcia would doubtless go to walk or to the village for mail and leave her ample opportunity to put the loot back where mr. heath had hidden it. she took the case stealthily from her pocket. now that the gems were in her possession, it certainly could do no harm for her to look at them--even try them on, as she had been tempted to do when she first discovered them. probably never again in all her life would she hold in her hand so much wealth and beauty. no one, not heath himself, could begrudge her a peep at the trinkets. accordingly she unwound the handkerchief and opened the box. there lay the glistening heap of treasure, resplendent in the sunshine, a far more gorgeous spectacle than she had realized. going to the bureau, sylvia took out the jewels, one by one. she clasped the diamonds about her neck; fastened the emerald brooch in place; put on the sapphire pendant; then added the rings and looked at herself in the gold-framed mirror. what she saw reflected dazzled her. who would have believed jewels could make such a difference in one's appearance? they set off her blonde beauty so that she was suddenly transformed into a princess. no wonder stanley heath had risked his life and his freedom for spoils such as these! if she could have only one of the jewels she would be satisfied--the string of diamonds, the brooch, a ring--which would she choose? of course she never could own anything so gorgeous or so valuable. notwithstanding the certainty, however, it was fun to imagine she might. slowly, and with conscious coquetry, like a preening bird, she turned her head this way and that, delighting in the creaminess of the neck the gems encircled, and in the fairness of her golden curls. she really ought to have jewels. she was born for them and could carry them off. there were myriad women in the world on whom such adornment would be wasted--good and worthy women, too. fancy maria eldridge or susan ann bearse, for instance, arrayed in pomp like this! but marcia would be magnificent, with her rich complexion, her finely poised head, her splendid shoulders, her lovely neck. marcia dressed in all this wealth would be well worth looking at. then a voice interrupted her reverie. it was stanley heath calling. she heard marcia reply and come hurrying upstairs. guiltily sylvia took off her sparkling regalia; tumbled it unceremoniously into its case; and slipped it into the drawer underneath a pile of nightdresses. then she softly unlocked the door and sauntered out. it was none too soon, for marcia was speaking to her. "sylvia?" "yes." "how would you feel about going over to the village for the mail and to do some errands? the tide is out and you could walk. prince needs a run." "i'd love to go." "that's fine. here is a list of things we need at the store. just be sure not to dally too long and get marooned over in town." "i'll watch out." "you're sure you don't mind going?" "no, indeed. i shall enjoy being out." then suddenly sylvia had an inspiration which she instantly acted upon. "why don't you go?" she inquired. "you didn't sleep much last night, and a walk might do you good." "oh, i couldn't," objected marcia with haste. "i've a hundred and one things to do." "tell me what they are and i'll do them for you." "i couldn't. they are things i must do myself. thanks just the same." "well, you know your own business best. is this the list?" "yes. there are quite a few items, but they won't be heavy. here is the basket. prince will carry it. that is his job and very proud he is of doing it. goodbye, dear." "she's dreadfully anxious to get us out of the way, isn't she, prince?" commented young sylvia as she and the setter started out over the sand. "now what do you suppose she has on her mind? she's up to something. marcia isn't a bit of an actress. she's too genuine." marcia, standing at the window watching the girl in her blue sweater and matching beret swing along over the flats mirrored with tiny pools of water, would have been astonished enough had she heard this astute observation. she did want sylvia out of the way. the girl had read her correctly. she must telephone the messages to the station-master at sawyer falls, the adjoining town where the railroad ended and the nearest telegraph station was. she got the line and had no sooner dictated the telegrams than she heard heath's voice. during the interval that had elapsed since she had left him, both of them had experienced a reaction and each was eager to make amends. marcia regretted her flippancy. it had been childish of her to give way to pique and punish heath simply because it was proved he had a wife. why should he not be married? no doubt the absent mrs. stanley heath was a dashing, sophisticated beauty, too, who lived in luxury at the great city hotel to which the first wire had been sent. heath had been quite frank about the message and its destination. on thinking matters over, it occurred to marcia he might have considered this the easiest way to inform her of things he found it embarrassing to put into words. she had been made aware in delicate fashion that he was rich, married and moved in a circle far removed from the humble one she herself occupied. no doubt he felt she should realize this. it regulated their relationship and prevented any possible misunderstandings. and she? instead of appreciating his honesty, chivalry, gentlemanly conduct as she should have done, and receiving it graciously, surprise had betrayed her into displaying resentment. she was heartily ashamed of herself. no matter how much it humbled her pride, she must put things right. fortunately it was not too late to do so. therefore, a very different marcia howe responded to stanley heath's summons. she was now all gentleness, friendliness, and shyly penitent. if her former coquetry had been bewitching, this new artless self of hers was a hundredfold more alluring. stanley, again master of himself, welcomed her with amazement. could man ever fathom a woman's moods, he asked himself? why this chastened and distractingly adorable marcia? it was he who had been in the wrong and given way to temper, yet instead of demanding the apology which trembled on his tongue, here she was taking the blame and passing over his irritability with the charity of a mother humoring a fretful child. well, if he could not fathom her, he at least was grateful for her understanding. nevertheless he did mentally observe he had not dreamed her to be so many-sided or credited her with a tithe the fascinations he had so unexpectedly discovered her to possess. "here i am, mr. heath. what can i do for you?" was her greeting. this time she did not hesitate, but went directly to the chair beside his bed and sat down. he smiled and, meeting his eyes, she smiled back. this was better. heath sighed a sigh of relief. "i've been thinking, since you went down stairs, about currier. he ought to arrive late tonight or early tomorrow morning. he will start the moment he gets my wire. although he will not know in which house i am quartered, he will have the wit to inquire, for he has more than the ordinary quota of brains. i don't know what i should do without him. he has been with me for years and is an admirable crichton and a good man friday rolled into one. i shall have him leave the car in the village and after he has delivered over the clothing he is to bring, he can take the noon train back to new york, carrying the jewels with him." "i see," nodded marcia. she did not see. she did not understand any of the snarl of events in which so unwittingly she found herself entangled. nevertheless she heartily welcomed the intelligence that the jewels with their damning evidence, if evidence it was, were to be removed from the house. the sooner they were out of the way the better. if they were not damning evidence they at least were a great responsibility. suppose something were to happen to them? suppose somebody suspected they were in the house? the thought had occurred to her more than once. "so," continued stanley heath, "i think sometime today when you have a good opportunity you'd better get the case and bring it up here. i shall then have it here in my room and i can hand it over to currier without any trouble." "i'll go and fetch it now. sylvia has gone to the village and this is a splendid chance," cried marcia. "fine!" "i'll be right back." he heard her speed down the stairs and listened to her step in the room below. then there was silence. a few moments later she came racing back, white and breathless. "they're gone!" she cried. "the place is empty! the jewels are not there!" her terror and the fear lest her pallor foreshadowed collapse produced in heath that artificial calm one sometimes sees when a strong nature reins itself in and calls upon its reserve control. marcia had fallen to her knees beside the bed and buried her face, trembling with agitation. the man thought only of how to quiet her. reaching out, he touched her hair. "hush, marcia. the jewels will be found. don't give way like this. i cannot bear to see you. the whole lot of them are not worth your tears." "but you left them in my care. it was i who suggested where to hide them," she moaned. "i know. and it was a splendid idea, too. besides, we had no time to hunt hiding-places. we were forced to act right away. i could not let that sheriff of yours peel off my clothes and find the diamonds on me. he isn't a man of sufficient imagination--or perhaps he is one of far too much. i am not blaming you,--not in the least. we did the best we could in the emergency. if things have gone wrong, it is no fault of yours." "but you trusted me. i ought to have watched. i should not have left the kitchen day or night," declared marcia, lifting her tear-stained face to his. "you have been there most of the time, haven't you?" "i went to see them get the boat off yesterday." "still, someone was here. sylvia was in the house." "yes, but she knew nothing about the jewels and therefore may not have realized the importance of staying on deck. how could she, unless she had been warned? all i asked her to do was to remain within call. she may have gone upstairs, or into another room." "when she comes back, you can ask her." it was he who now soothed and cheered, his caressing hand moving from her shoulder down her arm until her fingers lay in his. convulsively she caught and clung to them. "now we must pull ourselves together, dear," went on stanley gently. "it is important that we do not give ourselves away. sylvia may know nothing and if she does not, we must not let her suspect. the fewer people there are mixed up in this dilemma the better." "yes." she rose but he still held her hand, a common misery routing every thought of conventionality. the firmness and magnetism of his touch brought strength. it was a new experience, for during her life with jason, marcia had been the oak--the one who consoled, sustained. for a few delicious moments, she let herself rest, weary and unresisting, within the shelter of stanley heath's grasp. then she drew away and, passing her hand across her forehead as if awaking from a dream murmured: "i'd better go down. sylvia will be coming." "very well. now keep a stiff upper lip. remember, i depend on you to see the apple-cart does not upset." "i will--i'll do my best." even as she spoke the outer door opened, then closed with a bang. "there's sylvia now. i must go." the girl came in, aglow from her walk. "i'm awfully sorry i banged the door," she apologized. "a gust of wind took it. i do hope i didn't wake up mr. heath. here's the marketing. i thought i should never get out of that store. everybody in the whole town was there for mail and i had to stop and tell each one all about mr. heath and his shipwreck, his boat and his health. i must have answered a million questions. people are dreadfully curious about him. "and marcia, what do you suppose? i had a letter from hortie fuller--that fellow back home that i've told you about. he's sent me a five-pound box of candy and he wants to come to wilton and spend his summer vacation." the girl's eyes were shining and she breathed quickly. "of course i don't care a button for hortie. still, it would be rather good fun to see him. he always dropped in every day when i was at home. it seems ages since i've laid eyes on him. you know how it is--you get used to a person who is always under foot. you have to think about him if only to avoid stepping on him. and after all, hortie isn't so bad. thinking him over from a distance, he really is rather nice. come and sample the candy. it's wonderful. he must have blown himself and sent to chicago for it, poor dear! i suppose eben snow read the address, because he called out 'guess you've got a beau out west, miss sylvia.' everybody heard him and i thought i should go through the floor. he looked the letter all over, too. i'll let you see the letter, all except the part which is too frightfully silly. you wouldn't care about that. i don't myself." sylvia shrugged her shoulders. alas, this was no moment to talk with her, and artfully draw from her the happenings of the previous day. inwardly distraught but outwardly calm, marcia took the letter and tried valiantly to focus her attention upon it. to her surprise, it was a manly, intelligent letter, filled with town gossip, to be sure, yet written in delightfully interesting fashion. "your mr. fuller sounds charming," she said as she gave it back. "oh, hortie is all right--in some ways." patronizingly slipping the letter into her pocket, sylvia shifted the subject. nevertheless, a betraying flush colored her cheeks. "now we must start dinner, mustn't we? see, it's noon already. i had no idea it was so late." she tossed her hat into a chair. "don't you want to ask mr. heath which way he prefers his eggs--poached or boiled? i suppose with a temperature, he isn't going to be allowed anything but simple food. and marcia, while you're there, do put a pair of fresh pillow-slips on his pillows. the ones he has are frightfully tumbled. i meant to do it this morning." as the door closed behind the elder woman, artful young sylvia smiled. "there! that will keep her busy for a few moments at least. i know those pillow-cases. they fit like a snake's skin and are terribly hard to get off and on." she crept into the hall and listened. yes, marcia and stanley heath were talking. she could hear her aunt's gentle insistence and the man's protests. that was all she wished to know. the pillow-cases were in process of being taken off. up the stairs flew sylvia, to return a second later, the jewel-case swathed in its loose wrappings. "if i can only scramble it in there before she comes," whispered she. "i shall draw the first long breath i've taken since last night. i wouldn't own those things if they were given me. they would worry me into my grave." an anxious interval elapsed before the brick was pried out and the case slipped beneath it. nevertheless the feat was accomplished and triumphant, relieved, happy sylvia set about preparing dinner. she even ventured to hum softly that when marcia returned she might find her entirely serene. "mr. heath, alas, will never know how becoming his jewelry was to me," she mused. "had a hollywood producer seen me, he would have snapped me up for a movie star within ten minutes. i certainly looked the part." what a long while marcia was staying upstairs! why, one could change a dozen pillow-slips in this time. "i guess they are tighter than i remembered them. i needn't have rushed as i did," pouted sylvia. "what can she be doing?" when at last marcia returned, something evidently was wrong. "what's the matter?" demanded sylvia. "is mr. heath worse?" "worse? no indeed. what made you think so?" "you look fussed." "do i? you'd be fussed had you wrestled with those pillow-slips as i have," was the reply. "either the pillows have swelled or the cases have shrunk frightfully. well, they are on now, anyway." "come and get dinner then. i'm starved. my walk has made me hungry as a bear. you must go out this afternoon, marcia. it is a glorious day and you need to be pepped up. i know what staying in the house means. didn't i sit in this kitchen all yesterday afternoon until i got so dopey i could scarcely keep my eyes open? not that i wasn't glad to," she added hastily. "i never mind staying in when there is a reason for doing it, and of course i want to do my bit toward taking care of mr. heath. still, indoors isn't the same as outdoors. we all need exercise. i've had my quota for the day. you must have yours." to her surprise, marcia demurred. "thank you, dear, but i think i won't go out today." "why not?" "i don't feel like it. i'd rather sit here and read." "nonsense, marcia! you're getting middle-aged and lazy. you'll lose your nice slim, hipless figure if you don't watch out." "i guess i shan't lose it today. soon mr. heath will be gone and we can both go." "but i can play nurse for the afternoon." "i'm too tired to go out." "the air would rest you." "not today, dear," marcia said with finality. "i have some mending to do and lots of other little things that i have been saving up for a long time. since i prefer to stay, why don't you tramp up the shore and see _my unknown lady_? she is beautiful and you haven't seen her yet." "i'd love to--if i cannot coax you to go out." "you can't. i'm adamant on not stirring out of this room." "well, if your mind is made up to that extent, i suppose there is no use in my trying to change it. i would like to see the boat." "i'm sure you would. stay as long as you like. there will be nothing to do here. somebody ought to enjoy the sunshine and blue sky. mr. heath will probably sleep and in the meantime i shall get my sewing done." as marcia spoke the words, her mind was busy. so sylvia had not stirred from the kitchen on the previous afternoon! the theft of the jewels must, then, have taken place during the night. nevertheless, she was puzzled, for she had no memory of finding anything awry when she came down at sunrise to lay the fire. moreover, she now recalled she had been in the kitchen several times during the night, heating soup and getting water for stanley heath. there had been nothing wrong then, at least she had noticed nothing. when had the gems been taken, and who had taken them? no wonder she craved solitude to ponder the conundrum! this, however, was not the paramount reason she desired to be alone. despite the enigma of the jewels; despite the mystery surrounding stanley heath, deep in her heart something that would not be stilled was singing--singing! chapter x in the meantime, the throng of neighbors sylvia had precipitately left in the village post office had received their mail and reached that anticipated interval for gossip which never failed to be stimulating. clustered about the counter loitered the standbys. zenas henry was speaking: "a mighty fine little girl--that sylvia," commented he. "a high stepper! we'd oughter tie her down to wilton so'st she won't go back west. she's too pretty to be spared from the cape." "i figger you'd have trouble keepin' her here," rejoined silas nickerson, the postmaster, sauntering out from his wicker cage. "she's got a beau in her home town. had a letter an' a box of candy from him today. same writin' an' same postmark on both of 'em, i noticed. she blushed red as a peony when i passed 'em out to her." "didn't by any chance see the name, did you, silas?" eleazer crocker inquired. "wal, come to think of it, it did catch my eye. you know how such things will. fuller, he's called. horatio fuller." "horatio fuller, eh?" eleazer repeated. "kinder high soundin'. wonder who he is? from alton city, you say." silas nodded. "that was the address." "never heard of the place," captain benjamin todd put in. "that don't in no way prevent its existin', ben," answered zenas henry with his customary drawl. "if we had a map handy we might look it up," suggested captain phineas taylor. "i'd like to see just where it's located." "i tried doin' that," the postmaster admitted. "i got out my map, but the place warn't on it." "no wonder i never heard of it!" blustered benjamin todd. "that don't prove nothin', benjamin," his friend phineas taylor expostulated. "silas's map was drawed before the flood. even wilton ain't on it." "it ain't?" a simultaneous gasp rose from the assembly. "then all i can say is it's a darn poor map," enoch morton sniffed. "a map that ain't got wilton on it might as well be burned. 'tain't worth botherin' with." "it's all the map i've got," silas apologized. "you'd oughter ask the government for another. why don't you write to washington, explainin' that neither wilton nor alton city are on this one an' ask 'em for a better one?" "'fore you start complainin', you might make sure belleport's down," suggested lemuel gill, a resident of the adjoining village. "last i knew, that warn't on this map, neither." "'twarn't?" "who makes these maps, i wonder?" bristled zenas henry. "some numskull who ain't traveled none, i'll bet a hat. why don't he go round an' see what places there is 'fore he starts map-makin'? why, any one of us knows more 'bout the job already than he does. we know there's belleport, an' wilton, an' alton city." "bet you couldn't tell what state alton city is in, though, zenas henry," silas challenged. "alton city? let me think! alton city!" thoughtfully he stroked his chin. "'tain't my business to know where 'tis," he presently sputtered. "if everybody knew where all the blasted places in the country were, what use would they have for maps? 'twould put the map-makin' folks clean out of business." "if map-makers don't know where wilton an' belleport are they'd better be out of business, in my opinion," countered benjamin todd. "say, ephraim," he exclaimed, inspired by a bright idea, "you're the mail carrier. you'd oughter be primed on the location of places. where's alton city?" "alton city? hanged if i know. to hear you talk, anybody'd think 'twas my job to tote round the country deliverin' letters in person at the doors of every house in the united states." "but you must have some notion 'bout geography. ain't you got no pocket atlas nor nothin'?" "i may have a small map somewheres; i carry most everything," ephraim grinned. with deliberation, he began to disgorge upon the counter the contents of his many pockets. there was a tangle of pink string; two stumpy pencils without points; a fragment of fish-line; a soiled scrap of court-plaster; a box of matches; a plug of tobacco; a red bandanna handkerchief; three cough-drops, moist and sticky; several screws; a worn tube of paste; a jack-knife. "my soul, eph!" ejaculated zenas henry. "you're a reg'lar travelin' junk shop, ain't you?" "i have to have things by me." "was you robinson crusoe, you'd never have call for any such mess of truck as this. where's the map?" "must be in my breast pocket," replied the mail-carrier, thrusting his hand inside his pea-coat. "my eye! if i ain't forgot that telegram!" he abruptly exclaimed. "the station-master at sawyer falls gave it to me when he handed out the mail. it clean went out of my mind." "a telegram!" came in chorus from his audience. "who for?" "it's for that chap heath who's stayin' over at the widder's." "hadn't you been wool-gatherin' you might 'a' given it to sylvia to take back with her. she was here only a little while ago," silas nickerson said. "i know it." "s'pose i was to take it over," elisha winslow suggested eagerly. "i'm willin' to." "fur's that goes, i can carry it," captain phineas taylor piped. "give it to me, eph, an' i'll see it's landed there within half an hour," proposed benjamin todd, elbowing his way forward. "now there's no use in all you fellers volunteerin'," eleazer crocker asserted. "i'm goin' straight over to marcia's, as it happens, soon's i've et my dinner, an' i'll take the telegram." with an air of authority, he held out his hand. the crowd fell back. yet notwithstanding their acquiescence, zenas henry, not to be awed into subjection, had the temerity to add: "remember, though, eleazer, you ain't to go off the mainland without leavin' the key to the engine-house where we can get it. we've no hankerin' to be burnt alive while you're philanderin' at the widder's." "hang it on the peg inside benjamin todd's fish shanty as you go by," called another voice. "i'll do that," eleazer agreed as he pocketed the telegram. * * * * * early afternoon found marcia alone in the homestead sitting-room. a driftwood fire flickered upon the hearth, for although spring was on the way, the large, high-studded rooms were not yet entirely free of winter's chill and dampness. sylvia had gone up the beach. stanley heath was asleep; and at last the delicious interval of solitude which the woman coveted was here. the basket at her elbow overflowed with mending, but she had not yet taken up her needle. instead she sat motionless before the blaze, dreamily watching the vivid blues and greens as they flared up into the glow of the flame there to blend with its splendor, and afterwards melt into embers of scarlet and orange. she could not work. try as she would, her mind wandered off into by-ways too fascinating to be resisted--by-ways which no matter how remote their windings, invariably led her back to stanley heath. in retrospect she lived over again every incident, every word, every look that had passed between them until she came to the barrier of the unknown which her fancy bridged with intricate rainbow-hued imaginings. while the fire crackled and flashes of sapphire and emerald shot up and died away, she twisted possible explanations this way and that and would contentedly have continued the pastime had not eleazer crocker knocked at the door. eleazer could not have chosen a more inopportune moment to drag her back to earth. with a frown and a deep sigh, marcia went reluctantly to let him in. "wal, now ain't it nice to find you by yourself!" was his greeting. "the kitchen looks cozy as can be. spring may be comin' but for all that cool weather still hangs on. where was you settin'?" "i was in the front room, but perhaps we better drop down here so i can listen in case mr. heath should call." "anywhere you say. wherever you are suits me." "i'll just run in and put the screen round the fire and get my mending," marcia replied a trifle uneasily. "let me go." "no, indeed. you wait here. i'll be right back." left to himself, eleazer smiled a smile of satisfaction. the kitchen was warm, marcia was alone and apparently not busy. could circumstances be more propitious? fortune certainly was with him. today, this very afternoon, he would take his future in his hands and put to her the question he had so often determined to put. times without number he had mentally rehearsed what he meant to say. in fact he habitually fell into this intriguing dialogue whenever he had nothing else to occupy him. it commenced with a few preliminary observations concerning the weather, the springtime, the birds--the birds who would soon be mating. that was the keynote--mating. the rest followed very naturally. it was, eleazer felt, a neat, in fact quite a poetic proposal. he cleared his throat in preparation. when marcia came back, he was primed and ready to begin his declaration. "weather's been fine, ain't it?" he started out. marcia took up her sewing. "do you think so?" questioned she, raising her brows. "seems to me we've had lots of rain and fog." "wal, yes, now you mention it i do recall a few thick days. still, spring is comin'." "i'd like to shingle the south ell this spring," announced marcia, giving a disconcertingly practical twist to the conversation. "how many shingles do you suppose it would take?" eleazer frowned. the dialogue was not proceeding along the lines he had mapped out. determined to fetter it and bring it back into the prescribed channels, he answered: "i'd have to reckon that out. it's a good notion, though, to make the ell tight. that's what the birds are doin'." astonished, marcia glanced up from her work. "i mean," floundered on eleazer, "they're gettin' their nests built an' kinder pickin' out their mates. pickin' the right mate's quite a job for some folks." he saw marcia turn scarlet. mercy! what a slip! she thought he was twitting her about jason. "what i set out to say was that when you get the wrong mate you know it," he countered hastily. no sooner, however, were the words out of his mouth than he saw they were no better. perhaps it would be well to abandon the mating question and start on a new tack. he had tried the spring. suppose he took summer as his theme? "summer's a nice season, ain't it?" ventured he. "yes, although i never enjoy it as much as the other months. i don't like the heat and i detest the summer boarders." eleazer swallowed hard. he would better have clung to the spring. he saw that now. he would retrace his steps. "spring is nice," he agreed. "with the birds a-buildin' their nests, an'--" at last he was back on familiar ground. "i did not realize you were so much interested in birds, eleazer," marcia exclaimed. "i have a fine bird book i must lend you. it's in the other room. i'll fetch it." springing up, she disappeared. "drat it!" murmured eleazer. "could anything be more exasperatin'? an' me neither knowin' nor carin' a hang whether a bird's a robin or a sparrow. just when i was gettin' the way paved so nice, too." he wandered to the window. "oh, heavens, who's this comin'? if it ain't 'lish winslow! now what in thunder does he want, buttin' in? he's walkin' like as if the evil one was at his heels." eleazer threw open the door. before he could speak, however, elisha puffing and out of breath bawled: "where in the name of goodness did you put the engine-house key, eleazer? whipple's hen house is afire an' we've hunted high an' low for it." eleazer purpled. "my soul an' body," he gasped. "i clean forgot to leave it. must be here in my pocket." wildly he began to search. "you're a fine head of the fire department, you are!" roared elisha. "if you'd put your mind on town business 'stead of on marcia howe, we'd all be better off. traipsing over here to see her in the middle of the day, palmin' off that telegram as an excuse--" if eleazer had been purple before, he was livid now. "well, you better go straight back to the village fast as you can leg it an' carry the key with you," went on the accuser. "don't wait for nothin'. i'll explain matters to marcia." "but i've got to see her. i've got to speak to her private," protested the wretched official. "private? ain't you been talkin' to her private an' hour or more? what else have you got to say to her?" "i want to give her somethin'." "give it to me. i'll hand it to her." elisha's extended palm was not to be ignored. "this--this--telegram," quavered eleazer. "i ain't had a chance to--" "do you mean to say you ain't given her that telegram yet?" "i was intendin' to. i was just about to when--" "wal, of all the--" words failed elisha. "here, give it to me," he commanded. "i can be depended on to deliver messages if you can't. i'll see she has it. in the meantime, the best thing you can do is to hoof it to town quick's ever you can. if the whole place ain't burned to the ground an' if they don't tar an' feather you when you put in your appearance, you'll be lucky." "ain't you comin'?" "i? no. fire's ain't in my line. long's marcia's here by herself an' ain't busy, i'm goin' to pay her a call," elisha grinned. "i've got to deliver the telegram." "still, you don't need to stay," pleaded eleazer, facing his triumphant rival. "mebbe i do," was elisha's hectoring retort. "mebbe this is the very time for me to linger behind. the coast's clear. why shouldn't i stay?" "you might be needed at the fire." "i shan't be," was the calm reply. "not unless there's somethin' criminal about it." "it might be arson." "i'll take a chance on it startin' from dan whipple's cigarette. in fact he owned as much. dan's terrible careless with his cigarettes. now, hop along, eleazer, else the whole conflagration will be out 'fore you get there." the unlucky fire-chief had no choice. "drat it!" raged he, as he strode off across the sand. "drat it! ain't that just my luck!" chapter xi either the book for which marcia searched was not to be found or she was in no haste to return to her awaiting suitor. whatever the explanation, her absence lengthened from a few moments into a quarter of an hour. in the meantime elisha, like his predecessor, was formulating his mode of attack. eleazer, apparently, had not been successful. might not this be his own golden opportunity? before another snatched the prize from him; before heath with his yacht and his monogrammed silken garments recovered his strength, he would put his fate to the test. women were unaccountable creatures. you never could predict what they might do. smoothing a man's pillow and feeding broth to him sometimes brought about surprising results. furthermore, thus far no one had been able to find out how well marcia really knew this stanley heath. perhaps a romance of long standing, of which the village was ignorant, existed between them. who could tell? in any case, it behooved an aspirant for the hand of this matchless creature to put in his claim without delay. elisha wandered about the empty kitchen, mentally summing up the situation. he had a small deposit in the bank which, added to marcia's larger fortune, would provide sumptuously for his old age. in addition, if she became his wife she would, of course, do the cooking and housework and he could dismiss may ellen howard, his housekeeper, thereby saving her salary. as to a house, he could not quite decide whether it would be wiser to take up residence in the homestead or continue to live in his own smaller abode in wilton. the homestead undoubtedly was finer and more pretentious, but it was large and probably expensive to heat. furthermore, its location was breezy and draughts always aggravated his rheumatism. if it could be sold, it should net a neat sum. well, he need not decide these questions now. there would be time enough to smooth out all such trivial details after the wedding. he strolled up to the stove and, standing on the hearth with his back to the fire, rocked back and forth on his heels reflectively. as he did so, a brick beneath his feet rocked with him. elisha looked down. he saw it was quite loose. "that thing's goin' to trip up somebody some fine day," commented he. "it oughter be cemented." he stooped to investigate. it was then he noticed for the first time an edge of linen projecting above the masonry. "marcia must 'a' stuffed a rag in there to keep the thing from wobblin'," he mused. "ain't that like a woman? she ain't helped matters none, neither. it wobbles just the same. i can fix it better'n that." producing his knife, elisha pried the brick from its place. as he lifted it out, a handkerchief came with it disgorging at his feet a flat, blue leather case. if the sheriff's eyes bulged when he caught sight of it, they all but popped from his head when, egged on by curiosity, he pressed the catch on the box. quick as a flash the whole situation clarified in his mind. these were the widely heralded long island jewels; and the thief who had stolen them was here beneath this roof! it was plain as a pikestaff. hidden by fog he had escaped in his boat and inadvertently run aground at the mouth of wilton harbor. of course marcia did not know. even though a friendship existed between herself and heath, she was unquestionably ignorant of the nefarious means by which he earned his living. far from cherishing anger or resentment toward the person who exposed his villainy and prevented her from sacrificing herself to such an unprincipled adventurer, would she not regard her rescuer with deepest gratitude? elisha's head whirled. nevertheless, confused though he was, it was clear to him he must not make a misstep and neglect to perform his official duty with dignity. heath was ill. there would be no danger of his leaving the homestead at present, especially as he had no suspicion the jewels had been discovered. the best plan was for him to return to the mainland; get his badge and handcuffs; find out what formalities such a momentous event as an arrest demanded; and return later and round up the criminal. he did not dally. carefully putting the gems back where he had found them, he placed the telegram upon the table and went out, softly closing the door behind him. it flashed into his mind that as the tide was coming in it might be well to borrow marcia's boat and row back to shore. this would serve two purposes. he would reach home sooner; and heath, cut off by the sweep of the channel, would in the meantime be unable to escape. elisha rubbed his hands. he was pretty farsighted--pretty cute. in fact, his management of this affair was going to put a big feather in his cap. he could see now his name emblazoned on the front pages of the papers: _elisha winslow, wilton sheriff, makes daring arrest! cape official rounds up gem thief!_ all over the country people would read that it was he who had tracked down this notorious criminal. and the police--those brass-buttoned city men who rated themselves so high and looked down on village constables and sheriffs as if they were the dirt beneath their feet--they would be given a lesson they would remember! they would be pretty sore about it, too, when they found the glory of making this capture going to a small-town deputy. never had elisha rowed as he rowed that day! the dory fairly leaped through the water. reaching shore, he sprang from it and dragged it up on the sand. then, trembling with excitement, he set out for home. everything must be done in ship-shape fashion. there must be no bungling--no slips that would detract from the dignity of the event. he was almost at his gate when to his consternation he saw eleazer puffing after him. "you didn't make much of a stop at the widder's, i see," jeered he. "no. had other business," came crisply from elisha. "you don't say! i can't imagine your havin' business important enough to cut short a call on marcia howe. mebbe she didn't urge you to loiter." "i didn't see marcia. i come away 'fore she got back," snapped the sheriff. unbelievingly, eleazer scanned his countenance. "you 'pear to be kinder stirred up, 'lish," he commented. "what's the matter?" elisha determined upon a sudden and bold move. "say, eleazer," began he cautiously, "was you ever at an arrest?" "an arrest!" "yes. did you ever see a man arrested?" "wal, i dunno as i ever did--not really. i've seen it done, though, in the movies." "that oughter be up-to-date an' proper. just how was the proceedin' put through?" thoughtfully eleazer regarded the toes of his boots. "wal, near's i can recollect, the policeman went up to the criminal an' grabbin' him by the arm says: 'you villain! i've got you now. scram!' i ain't exactly positive he says scram at that precise minute, but in all such scenes, somebody always says scram to somebody else 'fore the mix-up is through. that, in the main, is what happens." "i s'pose the policeman wore a badge an' carried handcuffs." "oh, law, yes. but what's the game? what do you want to know for?" furtively elisha glanced up and down the empty road and after peering over his shoulder, he dropped his voice to a confidential whisper and hissed: "'cause i'm goin' to make an arrest--a big arrest! i've tracked down the thief that committed the long island burglary. moreover, i know this very second where the jewels are." eleazer's jaw dropped. "i'm goin' to 'phone the new york police i've got their man," he concluded, drawing himself to his full height and expanding his chest until the buttons on his coat threatened to burst off. "you be? my soul an' body!" "yes, i'm goin' to call long distance straight away." eleazer's cunning mind worked quickly. "i don't know, 'lish, as i'd do that," he cautioned. "why not?" "wal, in the first place, you might be mistook in your calculations an' not only get yourself into hot water but make the town a laughin' stock. furthermore, was you wrong, you might get sued for defamin' the accused's character." "i ain't wrong. i'm right." "wal, even so, i'd move careful," urged his companion. "most likely there's a reward out for this criminal. why split it with a host of others? why don't you an' me divide it? i'll help you land your man, since you're a bit--" eleazer, fearing to offend, hesitated, "--a bit out of practice 'bout arrestin'." the advice was good. elisha, shrewd in his dealings, instantly saw the advantages of the plan proposed. "wal, mebbe 'twould be better if i didn't let too many ignorant city chaps in on a big thing like this," he conceded pompously. "you an' me know what we're about. i figger we could handle it." "sure we could. we can put it through in first-class shape. first you must change your ole clothes for your sunday ones. a black frock coat's what you really oughter wear. i wish we dared borrow the minister's. still, i reckon your sunday suit'll do. then you must pin your sheriff's badge on your chest where it'll show good an' plain. be sure to bring along your handcuffs, 'cause you're certain to need 'em with an experienced criminal such as this. he won't have no mind to be took up. he'll have a gun an' put up a fight." "have a gun?" "sure he'll have a gun! in fact he'll prob'ly have several of 'em." elisha paled and a tremor twitched his lips. "that needn't concern you none, though. all you'll have to do will be to steal up behind him, put your pistol 'twixt his shoulder-blades an' shout: 'stick 'em up!'" "stick 'em up?" "yes." "stick what up?" "his hands, man--his hands," explained eleazer impatiently. "i ain't got no pistol." "for the land's sake! you ain't got a pistol? you--a sheriff?" "somehow i never got round to purchasin' a pistol," elisha apologized. "i ain't fond of fire-arms. in fact, i don't know's i ever shot off a revolver in my life." "wal, i have. i've shot dozens of skunks." "you might lend me yours." "i s'pose i might. it ain't, though, workin' very well right now. it's kinder rusty. furthermore, i'm out of ammunition." "that wouldn't matter. i ain't calculatin' to fire it." "but you'll have to." elisha's mounting disapproval changed to consternation. turning, he faced eleazer. "say, eleazer," he faltered, "s'pose we was to make a deal on this thing. s'pose, for the time bein' i was to take over your job an' you was to take over mine. s'pose you did the arrestin'? this affair's a big one an' oughter be given all the frills a city policeman would give it. that's due the town. now you seem to know a sight more 'bout how to manage it than i do." "you put on the badge; you tell the thief to stick 'em up; you put the pistol 'twixt his shoulders, or wherever you think 'twill do the most good; an' you snap the handcuffs on him. i'll see you get full credit for it. meanwhile, if there's a fire or an undertakin' job, i'll manage 'em somehow." eleazer shook his head. "that wouldn't do, 'lish, no way in the world," he objected. "we can't go swappin' offices voted us by the town. folks wouldn't like it. was i, a common citizen, to shoot the criminal, i'd likely be hauled up for murder. i'm willin' to stand by you to the extent of goin' along an' keepin' you company; but you must be the one that bears the brunt of the job." "i could resign my office." "when?" "right now. in fact, i've had a notion to do so, off an' on, for some time. you see, i never did want to be sheriff. the office was foisted on me. i'm findin' it pretty wearin'." "man alive! bein' sheriff in wilton can't be wearin'." "u--m. wal, mebbe it don't 'pear to be to an onlooker. still, it's an almighty big responsibility for all that," elisha insisted. "besides, 'twas kinder understood when i took the office there'd be no arrestin' nor shootin'. jewel robberies warn't in the contract." "but man alive, you ain't been burdened with jewel robberies. 'tain't as if they come every day in the week." "they're wearin' when they do come," elisha persisted. "everything's wearin' when it comes--fires an' all such things. did they happen seven days in the week, we'd all be wore to the bone. but they don't." "n--o." "wal, then, what you wailin' about? i should think you'd kinder welcome a break in the monotony instead of groanin' over it. 'twill give you a chance to show folks what you can do. the feller can't do more'n shoot you an' should you be shot at the post of duty, why the town would give you a big funeral an' i myself would lay you out in just the style you'd hanker to be laid out in." "but--but--i don't hanker to be laid out," whimpered elisha in an aggrieved tone. "i don't s'pose you do. none of us does. still, you might display a measure of gratitude for the offer." "oh, i appreciate your kindness," amended the wretched sheriff, fearful of losing his solitary prop. "i appreciate it very much indeed." eleazer appeared mollified. "you ain't told me yet none of the details of this business," he suddenly remarked. "if i'm goin' to help you, i'd oughter be told everything about it. who is the criminal? an' where is he? an' how'd you come to get track of him?" alas, the questions were the very ones elisha had hoped to escape answering. he had no mind to lay his cards on the table. nevertheless, he knew of no way to evade his confederate's curiosity. eleazer was touchy. it would not do to risk offending him a second time. reluctantly, cautiously, elisha poured out his story and was rewarded to see the other town official gape at him, open-mouthed. "bless my soul," he reiterated. "bless my soul! who would 'a' drempt it?" he burst out when he could contain himself no longer. "wal, i never did like that feller heath. i suspected from the first there was somethin' wrong about him. prob'ly he has queer eyes. you can always spot a criminal by his eye. kinder shifty an' fishy." "i didn't notice he had fishy eyes," mildly rejoined elisha. "you ain't seen as much of the world as i have, 'lish," was the patronizing retort. "i don't know why," bristled the sheriff. "you ain't never been twenty miles beyond wilton." "possibly i ain't. possibly i ain't," grudgingly confessed eleazer. "travelin' ain't all there is to life, though. i'm observin', i am. i understand human nature. this heath feller, now. i understand him." "then p'raps you can foretell what he's likely to do when i arrest him," put in elisha eagerly. "i can," eleazer nodded. "i can prophesy just about what he'll do." "what?" "it's better i shouldn't tell you. 'twouldn't be wise. we must do our duty no matter what comes of it." again elisha's knees weakened beneath him. "seems to me," went on eleazer, "that 'stead of loiterin' here discussin' the calamities of the future you'd better be gettin' on to your house. you've got to put on your other clothes. the press, most likely, will want to photograph you. then you must hunt up your badge, your handcuffs an' all your paraphernalia. i'd better cut across the field, meantime, an' oil up my pistol. mebbe i can fix it so'st it'll go off. i'll try an' find you some cartridges, too. i wouldn't want to stand by an' see you struck down without your havin' some slight defense, poor as 'tis." with this dubious farewell, eleazer bustled off across the dingle and was lost to sight. chapter xii left alone, elisha gloomily pursued his way to his own cottage and entering it by the side door passed through the back hall and upstairs. from the shed he could hear may ellen, his housekeeper, singing lustily as she mopped the floor to the refrain of _smile, smile, smile_. the sentiment jarred on him. he could not smile. going to the closet, he took out his sunday suit, shook it, and with the air of one making ready his shroud, spread it upon the bed. it exhaled a pungent, funereal mustiness, particularly disagreeable at the moment. next he produced a boiled shirt, a collar, and a black tie. it took him some time to assemble these infrequently used accessories, and he was dismayed to find no collar-button. nervously he searched the drawers, tossing their contents upside down in fruitless quest for this indispensable article. a collar-button was the corner-stone of his toilet--the object on which everything else depended. should it fail to be forthcoming, the game was up. he could not administer the law without it. perhaps, viewing the matter from every angle, its disappearance was a fortunate, rather than an unfortunate, omen. now that he had had time for sober reflection, the enterprise on which he had embarked appeared a foolhardy--almost mad undertaking. to grapple with an experienced criminal was suicidal. it was bad enough to do so if forced into the dilemma by chance. but to seek out such an issue deliberately! he wondered what he had been thinking of. excitement had swept him off his feet and put to rout both his caution and his common sense. he wished with all his heart he had never mentioned the matter to eleazer. but for that, he could pull out of it and no one would be the wiser. suppose the criminal did escape? were not lawbreakers doing so every day? one more at large could make little difference in the general moral tone of society. anyway, no criminal--no matter what a rascal he might be, was worth the sacrifice of a man's life--particularly his life, argued elisha. but, alas, there was eleazer to whom he had precipitately confided the entire story! no, there was no possibility of his backing out of the affair now and washing his hands of it. he must go through with it. nevertheless, he would postpone the moment for action as long as he was able. therefore, instead of donning his official garb, he went down stairs to hunt up his badge and handcuffs. these he kept in the drawer of the tall secretary in the sitting-room and although he had not seen them for months, he felt certain they would still be there. in order to make no noise and arouse may ellen's phenomenal curiosity, he took off his shoes. to his consternation, the drawer was empty! and not only was it empty but it had been left open as if a marauder possessed of sticky hands had hastily abandoned it. elisha paused, confounded. who could have taken these symbols of the law? who would wish to take them? certainly not may ellen. even if her inquiring mind had prompted her to ransack his property, she was far too honest a person to make off with it. furthermore, what use could a peaceable woman have for a sheriff's badge and a pair of handcuffs? unwilling to believe the articles were gone, elisha peered feverishly into every corner the piece of furniture contained. he even hauled out the books and ran his hand along the grimy shelves behind them. but beyond a thick coating of dust, nothing rewarded his search. at length, as a last resort, he reluctantly shouted for may ellen. she came, a drab woman--thin-haired, hollow-chested with a wiry, hipless figure and protruding teeth. "wal, sir?" "may ellen, who's been explorin' this secretary of mine? some of the things that oughter be in it, ain't," blustered he. "what things?" the woman's eye was faded, but it held a quality that warned the sheriff she was not, perhaps, as spiritless as she looked. "oh--oh, just some little things i was huntin' for," he amended, adopting a more conciliatory tone. "if i knew what they was, i could tell you better where they might be lurkin'." alas, there was no help for it! "i'm lookin' for my handcuffs an' sheriff's badge," answered elisha. "there ain't been a crime? you ain't goin' to arrest somebody?" "i ain't at liberty to answer that question just now," replied elisha with importance. "mercy on us! you don't tell me a crime's been committed in wilton! i guess it's the first time in all the town's history. won't folks be agog? it'll stir up the whole community." the sentiment held for elisha a vaguely familiar ring. as he speculated why, he recalled with dismay that it was he himself who, not a week ago, had brazenly willed the very calamity that had now befallen the village. to be sure, he spoke in jest. still it behooved a man to be careful what he wished for. providence sometimes took folks at their word and answered prayers--even idle ones. "you mustn't peep about this outside, may ellen," he cautioned. "was you to, no end of harm might be done. the criminal, you see, is still at large an' we want to trap him 'fore he suspects we're after him." "i see," replied the woman with an understanding nod. "i won't breathe a breath of it to a soul. but while we're mentionin' it, i would dearly like to know who the wretch is." "that's a secret of the law. i ain't free to publish it. you shall be told it, though, soon's the arrest is made. now 'bout the badge an' handcuffs. you see how important 'tis i should have 'em. they was in the drawer an' they'd oughter be there now. instead, the whole place is messed up an' sticky as if some person who had no business meddlin' had overhauled it." he saw may ellen's faded eyes dilate with sudden terror. "it's that miserable tommy cahoon!" interrupted she. "his mother left him an' willie here with me a week ago when she went to sawyer falls shoppin'. i saw 'em playin' policeman out in the back yard, an' noticed one of 'em was wearin' a badge, but i thought nothin' of it, supposin' they'd brought it with 'em. the little monkeys must 'a' sneaked indoors when i wasn't lookin' an' took that an' the handcuffs. i'm dretful sorry. still, boys will be boys, i reckon," concluded she with a deprecatory smile and a shrug of her angular shoulders. "but--but--good heavens--" sputtered elisha. "i'm sure we can find the missin' articles, unless the children took 'em home--which i doubt," went on the woman serenely. "last i saw of the imps they was out yonder under the apple trees. s'pose we have a look there." almost beside himself with an indignation he dared not voice, elisha followed may ellen out of doors. yes, trampled into the sodden ground lay the badge--its gleaming metal surface defaced by mud, and its fastening broken. there, too, lay the handcuffs, tightly snapped together and without a trace of a key to unlock them. elisha, livid with rage, opened his lips prepared to consign to the lower regions not only tommy and willie cahoon, but their mother and may ellen as well. before he could get the words out of his mouth, however, the suave voice of his housekeeper fell gently on his ear. "'course you can't lay this mishap up against me, elisha," she was saying. "i ain't no more responsible for the children's thievin' than you are for the crime of the criminal you're preparin' to arrest. the actions of others are beyond our control. all we can do is to live moral lives ourselves." "but--but--" "if you do feel i'm to blame, you'll just have to get somebody else to do your work. i wouldn't stay in no situation an' be regarded as--" "i ain't blamin' you a mite, may ellen," elisha hurriedly broke in, panic-stricken lest his domestic tranquillity trembling so delicately on the brink of cataclysm topple into the void and be swallowed up. "as you say, the doin's of others are somethin' we can't take on our shoulders. thank you for helpin' me hunt up these things." as he spoke, he dubiously eyed the muddy objects in his hand. well, at least, thought he, everything was not lost. he had gained time. to wear his badge until a new pin was soddered to it was out of the question. in addition, the handcuffs were of no use at all unless a key could be found to unlock them. he felt like a doomed man who had been granted an unlooked-for reprieve. eleazer would be nettled. when he came steaming back with the revolver he would storm and rage like a bluefish in a net. nevertheless, accidents were unavoidable and in the meantime, while the emblems of the law were being repaired, who could tell what might happen? stanley heath might escape and take the jewels with him--escape to some other part of the world and pass on to a larger and more competent party of criminal investigators the unenviable task of arresting him. elisha was quite willing to forego the honor. no longer did he desire to see his picture emblazoned on the front pages of the papers or behold his name in print. if he could shrink back into being merely a humble, insignificant citizen of cape cod, it was all he asked. as he turned to reënter the house, eleazer hailed him. "i've had the devil of a time with this revolver," announced he, puffing into the yard and jauntily flourishing the weapon. "take care, eleazer! don't you go pointin' that thing at me!" elisha yelled. "i ain't pointin' it at you. even if i was, there'd be no chance of it hurtin' you. 'tain't loaded." "that's the kind that always goes off," the sheriff insisted. "for heaven's sake, wheel it the other way, can't you? or else aim it at the ground." "wal, since you're so 'fraid of it, i will. but for all that, there ain't an atom of danger." then regarding his comrade's greenish countenance, he remarked abruptly, "say, what's the matter with you, 'lish? you ain't got on your other suit, nor your badge, nor nothin'. what in thunder have you been doin' all this time? i've been gone 'most an hour." elisha told his story. "wal, if that ain't the ole harry!" fumed eleazer. "that's goin' to ball us all up. there's no use doin' this thing if it ain't done in bang-up style. we don't want a lot of city cops jeerin' at us. we got to get that badge soddered an' them handcuffs unlocked 'fore another move can be made. i s'pose mebbe nate harlow over to belleport could help us out." "an' go blabbin' all over town the predicament the wilton sheriff was in? no--sir--ee! not if i know it. i wouldn't turn to a belleport man for aid was the criminal to rush from hidin' an' go free. the only thing to do is to motor to sawyer falls an' hunt up pete mcgrath, the blacksmith. he's a wizard with tools. i never knew no job to stump him yet. he'll know what to do. the notion of goin' over there ain't such a bad one, neither, 'cause artie nickerson, the station-master's, got a relation on the chicago police force an' had oughter be able to give us a few pointers 'bout how folks is arrested." accordingly the two men set forth on their errand. as the shabby ford rattled over the sandy thoroughfare, elisha's strained countenance began gradually to relax. "nice day for a ride," remarked he glancing toward the sea. "fine weather's certainly on the way. air's mild as summer. 'fore long we'll be havin' days worth noticin'." "so we will. april's 'bout over an' may'll be on us 'fore we know it. then june'll come--the month of brides an' roses." the allusion was an unfortunate one. elisha stiffened in his seat. amid the whirlwind happenings of the day, he had forgotten that the man at his elbow was his rival. "you plannin' to wed in june, eleazer?" asked he disagreeably. "that's my present intention." "it's mine, too," said elisha. "humph! expectin' to live at the homestead?" elisha nodded. "so'm i," grinned eleazer. "hope you'll invite me over, now and then," elisha drawled sarcastically. "hope you'll do the same," came from eleazer. for an interval they rode on in uncomfortable silence. "them boats is pretty heavy loaded," eleazer presently volunteered, gazing off towards the horizon where a string of dull red coal barges trailed along in the wake of a blackened tug. "makin' for new york, i reckon," elisha responded, thawing a little. "wouldn't be s'prised if that heath chap came from new york," ruminated eleazer. "confound heath! i wish i'd never laid eyes on him!" exploded elisha. "oh, i dunno as i'd go so fur as to say that," came mildly from his companion. "ain't heath's comin' goin' to put wilton on the map? bad's he is, we've got him to thank for that. with him safely handed over to the authorities, our fortune's made. what you plannin' to do with your half of the reward?" here was a delightful topic for conversation! elisha's eyes brightened. "i ain't decided yet," smiled he. "wonder how much 'twill be? oughter come to quite a sum, considerin' the risk one takes to get it." elisha's newly captured good-humor vanished. lapsing into moody silence, he did not speak again until the white spire of the sawyer falls church appeared and, rounding the bend of the road, the car rolled into the town. compared to the villages of wilton or belleport, this railroad terminus was quite a metropolis. it boasted two dry-goods stores, an a & p, a drug store, a coal office, a hardware shop, and a grain shed. around its shabby station clustered a group of motor cars, a truck or two, and the usual knot of loitering men and boys. in spite of his depression, elisha's spirits took another upward turn. it was interesting to see something different, something more bustling and novel than his home town. "s'pose we drop in an' get a moxie," he suggested. "'twould go kinder good. i want to buy a roll of lozengers, too, an' some cough drops now i'm here." "come ahead." "don't you s'pose we'd oughter go to the smithy first an' leave the badge? it may take some little time to get it mended," eleazer said. the badge! would the man never cease dangling before his vision the wretched memories elisha was struggling so valiantly to forget? with an ungracious, wordless grunt, he grudgingly turned the nose of the car toward the railroad. the small shed where the forge stood was close by the tracks and as he pulled up before it, he espied through its doorway not only peter mcgrath, the blacksmith, but also the rotund figure of artie nickerson, the sawyer falls station agent. "art's inside! ain't that luck?" he remarked, clambering out of the car. "the station must be closed an' he's come across the road to neighbor with pete." they went in and after the usual greetings, elisha stated his errand. mcgrath took the handcuffs and badge to the light and examined them. "humph! looks as if you'd been in some sort of a scrimmage," he commented. "i ain't. things get weared out in time. the pin on that badge warn't never right. 'twouldn't clasp. as for the handcuffs, i reckon they're o.k. 'cept for the key bein' gone. think you can make me one?" "sure. that ain't no trick at all. i can hammer you out a skeleton key which, though 'twon't take no prize as to beauty, will do what you want it to. i can sodder some sort of a pin an' catch on the badge, too. s'pose you ain't in no 'special hurry for 'em. there don't 'pear to be a cryin' need round here for such articles," he concluded with a chuckle. "nevertheless, i would like 'em," elisha demurred. "you see i'm plannin' to take 'em back with me. i don't often get over here an' you never can tell these days when such things may be wanted." "just as you say. i'll start on 'em straight away. i ain't busy on nothin' that can't be put aside." elisha strolled over to a box and sat down to wait. "how are you, art?" he inquired. "tol'able. havin' some rheumatism, though. reckon we've all got to expect aches an' pains at our age." "that's right. speakin' of handcuffs an' badges, didn't you have a nephew or a cousin 'sociated with a police force somewheres?" "bennie, you mean? oh, yes. he's a policeman out in chicago." "how's he gettin' on?" "fine! fine! just now he's laid up in the hospital, but he 'spects to be out again 'fore long. got shot through the arm a couple of weeks ago." "you don't say? huntin'?" elisha queried pleasantly. "huntin'? mercy, no! he got winged by a stray bullet while chasin' up a guy that had broke into a store. the shrimp hit him. luckily he didn't kill him. ben thought he got off pretty easy." elisha's smile faded. "these fellers that's at large now don't give a hang who they murder," went on the station agent affably. "they're a desperate crew. they'd as soon kill you as not. bennie landed his man, though, 'spite of bein' hurt. 'twill, most likely, mean a promotion for him. he'd oughter be promoted, too, for he's done great work on the force. been shot three or four times while on duty. 'tain't a callin' i myself would choose, but he seems to get a big kick out of it." elisha, pale to the lips, suddenly decided he had heard enough of bennie and shifted the subject. "s'pose you're still goin' round in the same ole treadmill over at the station, art," he observed. "yep. same ole rut. two trains a day as usual. i've had, though, a bit more telegraphin' to do of late than formerly. it's all come from your part of the world, too. know a feller over to wilton named heath? he's sent off several wires." both elisha, perched on the box, and eleazer astride a keg straightened up. "heath? yes, indeed. he's stoppin' in town for a while." "so i gathered. lives in new york at one of them big hotels." "who told you that?" eleazer demanded. "he sent a wire to his wife. leastways, i figger 'twas his wife. he signed himself _lovingly, stanley_, an' addressed it to mrs. stanley heath." "you don't say! that's news to me," elisha cried. he darted a glance at eleazer. artie, gratified at seeing he had created a sensation, beamed broadly. "'course i ain't permitted to divulge messages that go through my hands. they're confidential. but for that i could tell you somethin' that would make your eyes pop outer their sockets." "somethin' about heath?" "somethin' he said in a telegram." "you might give us a hint," eleazer suggested. "i couldn't. was i to, i might lose my job." "oh, i ain't askin' you to repeat no private wire." "i couldn't even if you did." emphatically artie shook his head. then elisha had an inspiration. "s'pose i was to ask you officially?" he suggested. "s'pose it's important for me to know what was in that message? s'pose i demanded you tell me in the name of the law?" "shucks, 'lish. you don't get round me that way," the station agent laughed. "i ain't attemptin' to get round you. i'm askin' you seriously as sheriff of the town of wilton." "are you in earnest? what do you want to know for?" artie asked. "never you mind. that's my business. i've a right to the information." "oh, that's different. still, i reckon it's as well i shouldn't repeat what heath said word for word. 'twouldn't interest you, anyhow. the wire was just sent to a friend. the part that astonished me was its beginnin'. it ran somethin' like this: "'_safe on cape with my lady. shall return with her later._'" simultaneously elisha shot up from the box on which he was sitting and eleazer sprang from the keg of nails. "what interested me," droned on artie, "was who this lady could be. heath, apparently, is a married man. what business has he taggin' after some wilton woman an' totin' her back to new york with him when he goes?" "he ain't got no business doin' it," eleazer shouted. "he's a blackguard--that's what he is! but don't you worry, artie. he ain't goin' to put no such scurvy trick over on any wilton woman. me an' 'lish'll see to that. we're onto him an' his doin's, we are. how much more tinkerin' have you got to do on them trinkets, pete? the sheriff an' me is in a hurry to get home." "you'll have to give me a good half hour more." "the deuce we will!" "can't do it in less." "that'll mean we won't fetch up at wilton 'til after dark," eleazer fretted. "sorry. i'm workin' at top speed. i can't go no faster. you've set me quite a chore." "there's no use goin' up in the air an' rilin' pete all up, eleazer," elisha intervened. "we'll just have to be patient an' put off what we was plannin' to do until tomorrow. i reckon mornin'll be a better time, anyway. certainly 'twill do just as well." "mebbe," eleazer grumbled. "still, i'm disappointed. wal, that bein' the case, s'pose you an' me step over to the drug store while we're hangin' round an' do them errands we mentioned." elisha agreed. a faint flush had crept back into his cheeks and his eyes had regained their light of hope. chance was on his side. he had wrested from fate another twelve hours of life, and life was sweet. chapter xiii dawn was breaking over wilton and the first shafts of sunlight transforming its pearly sands into sparkling splendor and its sea into spangled gold, when a trim motor car, bearing a new york number plate, slipped quietly into the village and drew up at the town garage. from it stepped a man, small and somewhat bent, with rosy cheeks, kindly brown eyes, a countenance schooled to stolidity rather than naturally so, and hair touched with grey. "may i leave my car here?" he inquired of the lad who was sweeping out the building. "sure!" "fill her up for me, please. and you might clean her a bit. some of the roads were pretty soft." "they always are at this season of the year, sir. you are astir early. i thought i was, but i reckon you've beaten me. come far?" "new york." "been riding all night?" the stranger nodded. "i like traveling at night," he volunteered. "less traffic. can you tell me where a mr. heath is staying?" "heath? the chap who ran aground on the crocker cove sand bar?" "he came in a boat," replied the other cautiously. "then he's your party. he's over to the widder's." "the widow's?" "u--h--aah." "where's that?" "new round here, ain't you? if you warn't, you wouldn't be askin' that question. the widder lives out yonder at the homestead." "how does one get there?" "wal, there are several ways. when the tide's low, folks walk. it's even possible to motor round by the shore if you've a light car. the quickest way, though, an' the only way to reach the house when the tide's full, as 'tis now, is to row." although the keen eyes of his listener narrowed, they expressed no surprise. apparently he was accustomed to obstacles, and the surmounting of them was all in the day's work. "where'll i find a boat?" "that i couldn't say. the widder keeps hers t'other side of the channel. mebbe, though, if you was to go down to the beach some fisherman would give you a lift across. 'most any of 'em would admire to if you're a friend of marcia howe's." the stranger bowed but offered no comment. if curiosity stirred within him concerning the information the lad vouchsafed, at least he gave no sign. "thank you," he replied briefly. "you'll see the car is put in good shape?" "the very best." "much obliged. will this road take me to the beach?" "straight as an arrow. pity you have to tote that suit-case." "i'm used to carrying luggage. it never bothers me. good morning." without wasting additional words or time, the stranger nodded and started off briskly in the direction indicated. nevertheless, swiftly as he moved, his eyes missed none of the panorama stretched before him. the swelling expanse of sea, rising and falling to the rhythm of its own whispered music, caught his ear; he noted the circling gulls that dipped to the crests of the incoming waves or drifted in snowy serenity upon the tide; saw the opalescent flash of the mica-studded sands. twice he stopped to fill his lungs with the fresh morning air, breathing deeply as if such crystalline draughts were an infrequent and appreciated luxury. when he reached the beach he halted, glancing up and down its solitary crescent and scanning eagerly the silvered house beyond the channel. discovering no one in sight, he dragged from the shore a yellow dory, clambered into it, and catching up the oars began to row toward the dwelling silhouetted against the water and the glory of the morning sky. * * * * * in the meantime, both marcia and sylvia had wakened early and were astir. the kitchen fire was already snapping merrily in the stove, however, and the table was spread before the latter made her appearance. she came in, sweater and beret in hand, and carrying a thick envelope with its dashingly scrawled address still wet. "why, sylvia, how you startled me!" marcia exclaimed. "i did not hear you come down stairs. why are you up so early?" "i'm going to town to catch the morning mail." "the mail? but, my dear child, why such haste?" sylvia colored. "i have to get off this letter." "have to?" "yes--to hortie. you see, if i didn't answer promptly he might think the candy had gone astray," explained the girl stepping to the mirror and arranging a curl that rippled distractingly above her forehead. "oh, of course, you must thank him for the candy," marcia agreed. "still, is it necessary to do so in such a rush--to walk to the village this morning?" "i mean to row over." "i'm afraid you can't, dear. i discovered last night the boat was gone. eleazer crocker must have appropriated it when he was here yesterday." "how horrid of him! what earthly right had he to take it?" "none at all." "didn't he ask if he might?" "no. to tell the truth, i went to find a book for him and was gone so long he apparently became either peeved or impatient at my delay and like a silly small boy went home mad, taking the boat with him--at least that's my version of the story." "perhaps he did it to punish you." "perhaps. anyway, whether he took it as a joke or as a reprisal, i shall give him a good lecture when i see him. it is a serious thing to be left out here with no way of getting to land. we might have needed the dory sorely. in fact, here we are with this tremendously important letter that must be posted immediately--willy-nilly." with eyes brimming with laughter, marcia shot a mischievous glance at her companion. "it isn't just to thank hortie for the candy that i'm writing," that young lady replied sedately. "you see, he asked if he might come to wilton for his summer vacation. he has to know so he can make his plans." "but it is only the last of april, beloved." "men need to know such things well in advance. they have to adjust their business," returned sylvia magnificently. "i see," smiled marcia. "under such conditions, i suppose the sooner the letter is sent the better." she did not say precisely what conditions were in her mind, but evidently the comment mollified sylvia who, after wriggling her mop of curls through the neck of her blue sweater, tossed beret and letter into a chair and began, in high spirits, to help with the breakfast. yet notwithstanding she did so graciously, it was quite obvious her eyes were on the clock and that she was fidgeting to be off; so as soon as the coffee and toast were ready, marcia begged her not to delay. the girl needed no urging. "the sooner i start, the sooner i shall be back, i suppose," she answered with feigned reluctance. "men are so unreasonable. it's a perfect nuisance to trot to wilton with this letter at this hour of the morning, especially if i must go the long way round. still, there's no other way to get it there. any errands?" "not today, thanks. just the mail." "i'll wait for it." the eagerness betrayed by the reply left not the slightest doubt that sylvia would wait, and gladly. as the door closed behind her, marcia smiled whimsically. she continued to smile, even to hum softly to herself while she prepared heath's breakfast tray, and she was just about to take it upstairs when there was a gentle knock at the kitchen door. a stranger stood upon the threshold. "is mr. stanley heath staying here?" inquired he. "yes." "i am currier. mr. heath sent for me." "of course! come in, won't you? mr. heath is expecting you. i'll tell him you are here." "you needn't do that, madam. mr. heath is quite accustomed to my coming to his room at all hours. if you will just show me where he is--" "at the head of the stairs." "very good. thank you, madam. i will go up." "tell him i am bringing his breakfast very soon." "i will, madam." "have you breakfasted yourself?" "i? no, madam. but i beg you will not--" "i'll bring coffee and toast enough for both of you." "please--" "it is no trouble." "i will come back and fetch mr. heath's breakfast, madam. afterward, if i may have a snack here in the kitchen, i shall be grateful." "any way that you prefer." marcia saw rather than heard the stranger mount the staircase. his step was like velvet. so noiseless was it, it made not a sound either on the broad creaking staircase, or on the floor overhead. nevertheless, he must have entered stanley heath's room, for soon she detected the invalid's voice, imperative and eager, each sentence ending with an interrogation. the lapses of silence which intervened and which at first she took to be pauses, she presently decided represented the inaudible and subdued replies of currier. to judge from the sounds, heath was pouring out an avalanche of questions. sometimes he choked as if words came faster than he could utter them; and once he broke into peals of hearty laughter, followed by a paroxysm of coughing. still, currier failed to return for the waiting tray. "he has forgotten all about it," murmured marcia. "the coffee will be stone cold and the toast ruined. i'll carry them up myself." she mounted the stairs softly that her coming might break in as little as possible upon the conversation of her two guests. "she was alone in the library when i went in," heath was saying, "and turned so white i feared she might faint or scream. luckily she did neither. steadying herself against the table, she faced me. "'you know what i'm after,' i said--'the jewels.' "she hedged a moment. "'what makes you think i have them?' "'i know. come, hand them over.' "at that, she began to cry. "'quickly,' i repeated. 'someone may come.' "with that, she fumbled under her skirt and produced the jewel-case, pouring out a torrent of explanations. "i stopped no longer than i had to, i assure you. with the jewels in my hand, i slipped through the french window and made for the landing where i had left the boat. in no time i had made my get-away. every detail of my plan would have gone smoothly but for the fog. i lost my bearings completely. imagine my amazement at finding myself here." marcia waited to hear no more. her knees trembled beneath her. so heath really had taken the jewels--taken them from the resisting woman who owned them--taken them against her will and made off with them! he owned it! nay, more! far from regretting what he had done, in his tone rang a note of satisfaction in his accomplishment. she had never believed him guilty. even with the gems spread out before her and every evidence of crime apparent, she had not believed it. not until she heard the bitter, irrevocable confession from his own lips did she waver, and even then she battled against the truth, refusing to be convinced. there must be some explanation, she told herself. nevertheless, the shock of what she had learned was overwhelming. it seemed as if every ounce of strength left her body. her head swam. her heart beat wildly. "i must not give way!" she reiterated to herself. "i must put on a brave front. he must not suspect i know." it took a few moments for her to regain her grip on herself, to quiet her throbbing heart, to drag back her ebbing strength. then she knocked at the door. "here is your coffee, mr. heath," she called. she hoped his friend would open the door and relieve her of the tray that she might immediately withdraw, but instead, heath himself responded: "come in, mrs. howe. i'm afraid we've delayed you. i had entirely forgotten about breakfast and so, i'll be bound, had currier. you met my right-hand man down stairs, i take it. by traveling all night, he made very good time." "he must be tired after his trip!" "oh, currier is used to traveling at all hours. night or day are both alike to him," laughed heath. "you found the house without trouble?" marcia inquired, making an effort to address the newcomer in a natural, off-hand manner. "yes, mrs. howe. a young man at the garage directed me to the beach and there i discovered a yellow dory which i appropriated. i don't know as i should have taken it, but as i needed a boat, i pressed it into service." "the boat happens to be mine." "indeed. then perhaps you will pardon my using it." "certainly. in fact, i am glad you did. it was left on the mainland by mistake." as marcia turned to go, her unfailing courtesy prompted her to add: "mr. currier is welcome to stay if he wishes to, mr. heath. we can put him up perfectly well." "oh, no. he is returning directly. it seems wiser for him to go back in the boat and leave the car for me to use here. nevertheless, i greatly appreciate your kindness." "mrs. heath is anxious," put in currier. "she begged me to come home as soon as possible that she might know how mr. heath was. naturally she has been much worried." "there, there, currier--that will do," broke in stanley heath, flushing. "and now, since mrs. howe is here and is in our secret, i may as well break to you something i have not yet had the chance to tell you. part of the mission on which you came cannot be accomplished. you cannot take the gems back with you to new york. a calamity has befallen them." "a calamity, sir?" the small, grey-haired man looked from stanley heath to marcia, and for the first time, his imperturbable countenance betrayed mingled amazement and distress. presently, however, he had it under control and as if he had donned a mask, it became as expressionless as the sphinx while he waited for the rest of the story. "mrs. howe helped me conceal the jewels downstairs in a hiding-place under the kitchen floor," continued stanley heath. "when she went to get them, they were gone." "you don't tell me so, sir!" "it is all very mysterious," broke in marcia, taking up the tale. "i cannot in any way account for their disappearance and am much distressed." "naturally so, madam--naturally so," responded currier politely. "and you have searched the place carefully? sometimes such things get misplaced." "i've looked everywhere. they are not there." "have you any theory as to who could have taken them?" inquired currier with more animation than he had up to the moment displayed. "absolutely none. i cannot even see how anybody had the chance to take them. no one knew they were there." "would you be willing to show me where they were hidden and allow me to investigate?" "certainly. i fear, however, search will be useless." "still i should like to look." "i'll take you downstairs then, while we have the opportunity. you must have something to eat, too, for you must be hungry after your long ride." "i could do with a cup of coffee, if convenient." "you shall have more than that--a hearty breakfast. i am sure you need it. when do you start back?" "that is for mr. heath to decide." "right off. as soon as you can get under way," stanley heath said decisively. "it is a fine day and you had better make the most of the tide." "that certainly would be wise, sir." "go down now with mrs. howe, since she is so gracious, and have your breakfast. examine, too, the place where we concealed the jewel-case. you may discover a clue she has missed." "that is extremely unlikely, i fear, sir," was the man's modest answer. "still, i will look." "i am sick at heart about all this," marcia murmured as the two descended the stairs. "you see, it was i who suggested to mr. heath where to hide the gems. we were hurried and had no time to think up a place. i had used this hide-out before and as it had always proved safe, i thought it would be so now. i feel responsible--as if this loss was my fault." "it is a great pity," was currier's ambiguous reply. preceding him into the kitchen, marcia went straight to the hearth and pointed to the brick at her feet. "it was here we put the jewel-case," she said. "i think, with your permission, i will take up the brick," the little man at her elbow quietly announced. "certainly," acquiesced marcia wearily. "there might be some crevice, some opening--" "i fear there isn't. still you can try." taking out his knife, currier knelt and soon had the brick out of its hole. beneath it lay the jewel-case, wrapped as before in stanley heath's monogrammed handkerchief. marcia could not believe her eyes. "but--but--it wasn't there when i looked. i could swear it wasn't." "who could have taken it out? and if someone did why return anything so valuable?" currier inquired. "i don't know. i do not understand it at all," the woman replied, passing a hand across her forehead in complete bewilderment. "there is something uncanny about the whole affair." "well, at any rate, the gems are here now," said currier in a matter-of-fact tone. "mr. heath will be much relieved. their loss must, i am sure, have distressed him deeply. shall i go up and--" "i'll go," marcia cried. "it won't take me a minute. i'll be right back." "as you prefer, madam." off flew marcia. her haste, the radiance of her face must have suggested to the stranger a thought that had not occurred to him before, for after she had gone, he stood immovable in the middle of the floor looking after her. then a slow, shadowy smile passed across his features. thrusting his hands into his pockets, he took two or three meditative strides up and down the room. "so--ho!" he muttered. "so--ho!" it happened he had quite an opportunity for thought before his hostess returned and he employed it to the utmost. he was still absorbed in reverie when marcia, breathless and flushed, rejoined him. she made no apology for her absence. perhaps she did not realize the length of time she had been gone. "well," queried she, "what conclusion have you arrived at?" "a very interesting one," currier returned promptly. "really? what is it?" the man appeared taken aback. "i misunderstood your question," he faltered. "i had something else in mind." "i don't see how you could have. i can think of nothing but the jewels and their recovery. i am so happy i had completely forgotten your breakfast. forgive me. you shall have it right away." "if you would allow me, i can prepare it myself. i am accustomed to doing such things." "no, indeed. scrambled eggs take only a few moments; and bacon. you might run up to see mr. heath while i am getting them ready." "i will do that. i shall be leaving at once and he may have final orders for me, or perhaps a letter for mrs. heath." "mrs. heath!" marcia repeated, as if the name suddenly brought before her consciousness something hitherto forgotten. "yes, yes! of course!" then turning her head aside, she inquired with studied carelessness: "how long, i wonder, does mr. heath plan to remain in wilton?" "i could not say, madam." "i think," hurried on the woman, "that as soon as he is able to make the journey he would better go home. this climate is--is--damp and he will, perhaps, pick up faster away from the sea. if you have any influence with him, won't you please advise it?" the man's small, grey eyes narrowed. "i have no influence with mr. heath," replied he. "mrs. heath has, however. shall i tell her?" "i wish you would." * * * * * an hour later _my unknown lady_ weighed anchor and on the breast of the high tide, rounded the point and disappeared out to sea, carrying with her currier and the jewels. marcia watched until the last snowy ripple foaming in her wake had disappeared. when the infinitesimal, bobbing craft was no longer visible, she sank into a chair and brushed her hand across her eyes. the lips which but a short time before had curled into smiles were now set and determined. "and that's the end of that foolishness!" she muttered. "the end!" chapter xiv in spite of elisha's indignation toward stanley heath, and his resolve to go to the homestead with the break of dawn, it was noon before he and eleazer got under way. in the first place, the two men disagreed as to the proper method of arresting the alleged criminal. "you can't take him on no warrant, 'lish," eleazer objected, "'cause you ain't actually got proof he's guilty." "proof? ain't i got a clear case? ain't i roundin' him up with the loot on him?" blustered elisha. "mebbe. still, it's my opinion you can't do more'n take him on suspicion." "suspicion!" elisha repeated scornfully. "suspicion! would you call a fistful of diamonds suspicion? i wouldn't." "p'raps--p'raps you didn't really see the jewels," eleazer quavered. "sometimes folks get to imaginin' things--seein' what ain't there. are you plumb certain you saw them things?" "certain?" "come, come! don't go up in the air, 'lish. i ain't doubtin' your word. nothin' of the sort. i just want to make sure we don't take no missteps an' make jackasses of ourselves," eleazer explained. "this is a big affair. we've got to move careful." "humph! you're shifty as the sands. you didn't talk like this yesterday." "no, i didn't. but after sleepin' on the matter, i've thought more 'bout it." "sleepin' on it! you were lucky if you could sleep on it. i didn't. i never closed my eyes from the time i went to bed 'till mornin'. heard the clock strike every hour. you can't 'cuse me of not thinkin'. i'll bet i've done full as much thinkin' as you--mebbe more. had you the prospect of bein' shot ahead of you, you'd think--think pretty hard, i figger," elisha growled. "no doubt i would," conceded eleazer mildly. "wal, 'long's we've both chewed the matter over, i reckon there's nothin' more to be done now but go ahead." "take heath on suspicion, you mean? humph! seems an awful cheap sort of way to do it, in my opinion. kinder meechin'. there ain't no dignity to it." "what's the use of standin' here bickerin' half the mornin', 'lish?" eleazer said fretfully. "let's get started. next we know heath may get wind of what we're up to an' light out." "no danger of that with the homestead dory on this side of the channel," elisha sniffed. "for all that, no purpose is served by puttin' off the evil hour. i say we get under way," eleazer urged. "have you got everythin'?" "i--i--guess so," elisha said weakly. "pete fixed up your badge in great shape, didn't he?" was eleazer's cheerful comment. "it's bright as a new dollar. anybody could see it a mile away." elisha offered no reply. "an' the handcuffs, too--they look grand. why don't you kinder dangle 'em so'st they show? why stuff 'em in your pocket? was i in your place, i'd stalk into the homestead with the handcuffs in one hand an' the pistol in the other." "you ain't in my place!" elisha snapped. "i wish to heaven you were." "no, i ain't," his confederate returned promptly. "i'm only playin' second fiddle on this job. the whole responsibility's yours." "don't i know it? why rub it in?" "i ain't rubbin' it in. i'm just sorter cautionin' myself. you see when i'm mixed up in a job, i get so interested i'm liable to forget an' go ahead as if the whole enterprise was my own." "you're welcome to shoulder this one if you want to. i give you permission," elisha said eagerly. "oh, i wouldn't think of doin' that, 'lish. i wouldn't want to steal the glory from you. you're the big shot on this occasion," cajoled eleazer. "wal, what do you say to our settin' out?" elisha did not move. "don't it 'most seem as if we'd oughter eat somethin' 'fore we go? i might turn faint doin' arrestin' on an empty stomach." "but man alive, you et your breakfast, didn't you?" "that was some little while ago," argued elisha. "i'm feelin' a wee mite gone a'ready. i'd oughter have a lunch or somethin'." "wal, since you mention it, i could do with a couple of doughnuts an' slab of cheese myself," eleazer confessed. this information delighted elisha. "we might put off goin' 'til after dinner," he suggested. "then we'd be primed by a good square meal an' be braced for it." "oh, we can't wait that long," his comrade immediately objected. "n--o, i s'pose we can't. wal, anyhow, i'll go hunt up a snack of somethin'." "don't bring nothin' but doughnuts an' cheese," eleazer bellowed after him. "we can munch on them while walkin' to the beach." the stroll to crocker's cove was not a hilarious one, even may ellen's twisted crullers failing to stimulate elisha's rapidly ebbing strength. with each successive step his spirits dropped lower and lower. "you walk like as if you was chief mourner at your own funeral, 'lish," eleazer fretted. "we'll never make the cove if you don't brace up." "my shoes kinder pinch me." "walk on your toes." "it's my toes that hurt." "walk on your heels then. walk anywhere that's most comfortable, only come along." "i am comin'." "at a snail's pace," eleazer retorted. "soon folks will be comin' from the noon mail an' what we're doin' will get noised abroad." reluctantly elisha quickened his steps. at last they came within sight of the bay. "where'd you leave the boat?" eleazer questioned. "i pulled her up opposite the fish-shanty." "she ain't here." "ain't here!" "no. look for yourself." "my soul an' body!" "i told you you hadn't oughter dally. what's to be done now?" "i reckon we'll just have to give it all up," the sheriff responded with a sickly grin. "call it off." "call it off? but you can't call it off. officers of the law have got to do their duty no matter what." "yes--yes! of course. i only meant we'd call it off for the present--for today, p'raps." "an' let the thief escape? no sir--ee! we've got to go through with this thing now we've started if it takes a leg. we'll walk round by the shore." "it's too far. my feet would never carry me that distance." "they've got to. come along." "i can't walk in all these clothes. this collar is murderin' me." "oh, shut up, 'lish. quit whinin'." "i ain't whinin'. can't a man make a remark without your snappin' him up, i'd like to know? who's sheriff anyhow--me or you?" eleazer vouchsafed no reply. in high dudgeon the two men plodded through the sand, its grit seeping into their shoes with every step. it was not until they came within sight of the homestead that the silence between them was broken. "wal, here we are!" eleazer announced more genially. "yes--here--here we are!" his comrade panted. "s'pose we set down a minute an' ketch our breath. my soul an' body--what a tramp! there's blisters on both my heels. i can hardly rest 'em on the ground." "you do look sorter winded." "i'm worse'n winded. i'm near dead! it's this infernal collar. it's most sawed the head off me," groaned elisha. "i don't see how it could. every mite of starch is out of it. it's limp as a pocket handkerchief." "mebbe. still, for all that, it's sand-papered my skin down to the raw. collars are the devil's own invention. nobody oughter wear 'em. nobody oughter be made to wear 'em," raged elisha. "had i known when i was made sheriff i'd got to wear a collar, i'd never have took the job--never. 'twarn't fair play not to tell me. in fact, there was nothin' fair 'bout any of it. this arrestin', now! i warn't justly warned 'bout that." "mebbe not," eleazer agreed. "still, i don't see's there's anything to be done 'bout all that now. you're sheriff an' your duty lies straight ahead of you. you've got to do it. come along." "wait a minute, eleazer. just hold on a second. let's take 'count of stock an' decide how we're goin' to proceed. we've got to make a plan," pleaded elisha. "but we've made a plan a'ready." "no, we ain't--not a real plan. we've got to decide 'xactly how we'll go 'bout the affair," contradicted his companion. "after you've knocked at the door an' gone in--" "i knocked an' gone in?" "yes, yes," elisha repeated. "after that, you'll sorter state the case to marcia, 'xplainin' why we've come an' everythin'--" "an' what'll you be doin' meantime?" eleazer inquired, wheeling sharply. "me? why, i'll be waitin' outside, kinder loiterin' 'til it's time for me to go in--don't you see?" "i don't. the time for you to go in is straight after the door is opened. it's you that'll enter first an' you who'll do the explainin'." "but--but--s'pose heath was to put up a fight an' rush past me?" "then i'll be outside to stop him," eleazer cut in. "that's where i'm goin' to be--outside." "you promised you'd stand by me," reproached elisha with an injured air. "wal, ain't i? if i stay outside ready to trip up the criminal should he make a dash for freedom, ain't that standin' by you? what more do you want?" "i think 'twould be better was you to go ahead an' pave the way for me. that's how it's done in plays. some kinder unimportant person goes first an' afterward the hero comes in." "so you consider yourself the hero of this show, do you?" commented eleazer sarcastically. "ain't i?" "wal, you don't 'pear to me to be. where'd you 'a' got that pistol but for me? who egged you on an' marched you here--answer me that? you'd 'a' given up beat hadn't i took you by the scruff of the neck an' hauled you here," eleazer burst out indignantly. "if you ain't the most ungrateful cuss alive! i've a big half mind to go back home an' leave you to do your arrestin' alone." "there, there, eleazer, don't misunderstand me," elisha implored. "i was only jokin'. 'course it's you an' not me that's the hero of the day. don't i know it? that's why i was sayin' 'twas you should go into the house first. in that way you'll get all the attention an'--" "an' all the bullets!" supplemented eleazer grimly. "no--sir--ee! you don't pull the wool over my eyes that way, 'lish winslow. you're goin' to be the first one inside that door an' the last one out. see? you're to do the arrestin'. if there's undertakin' to be done afterwards, i 'tend to do it. you get that clear in your head. otherwise, i go home." "don't do that, eleazer, don't do that!" elisha begged. "don't go home an' leave me--now--at the last minute." "you'll do the knockin' at the door? the announcin' of our errand?" "yes. yes. i swear i will." "very well," eleazer agreed magnificently. "then i'll remain an' give you my moral support." "i hope you'll do more'n that," urged elisha timidly. "i may. i'll see how matters work out," eleazer returned pompously. with lagging feet, the sheriff approached the door of the big grey house. "there's the dory," observed eleazer, pointing in the direction of the float. "somebody's rowed it over." "i wonder who?" "p'raps an accomplice has arrived to aid heath. what's the matter? you ain't sick, are you?" "i dunno. i feel kinder--kinder queer." "indigestion! them doughnuts most likely. you et 'em in a hurry," was eleazer's tranquil reply. "want a soda mint? i most generally carry some in my pocket." "no. i--i--i think it's my heart." "heart--nothin'. it's just plain indigestion--that's what it is. i often have it. don't think 'bout it an' 'twill go away. put your mind on somethin' pleasanter--the arrestin' of heath." "that ain't pleasanter." "wal, think of somethin' that is then. anything. an' while you're thinkin', be walkin' towards the house. you can think as well walkin' as settin' still, i reckon." "i don't believe i can." "wal, try it, anyhow." eleazer had a compelling personality. under the force of his will, elisha found his own weaker one yielding. he got up and, dragging one foot after the other, moved toward the house. "now knock," commanded the dictator. twice the sheriff reached forth his hand, wavered and withdrew it. "why don't you knock, man?" eleazer demanded. "i'm goin' to." tremulously he tapped on the door. no answer came. "knock, i tell you! that ain't knockin'. give the door a good smart thump so'st folks'll hear it an' be made aware somethin' important's goin' on. i'll show you." eleazer gave the door a spirited bang. "law, eleazer! a rap like that would wake the dead," elisha protested. "i want it should--or at any rate wake the livin'," eleazer frowned. "i hear somebody. stand by me, eleazer. where are you goin'? come back here, can't you? you promised--" "i didn't promise to go in first, remember. we had that out an' settled it for good an' all. you was to do that," eleazer called from his vantage ground round the corner. "but--but--" elisha whimpered. there was no more time for argument. the door swung open and marcia stood upon the sill. chapter xv "why, elisha!" exclaimed marcia. "how you startled me. come in. you're all dressed up, aren't you? have you been to a funeral?" "no. i--we--" the sheriff cleared his throat. "me an' eleazer--" he began. "eleazer? did he come with you?" elisha nodded. "where is he?" "outside." "isn't he coming in?" "yes--yes. he's comin' presently." "perhaps he doesn't dare," marcia remarked with spirit. "i don't wonder he hesitates. he ran off with my dory yesterday." "that warn't eleazer. that was me." "you? but i didn't know you were here." "i was. i took the boat on official business," elisha explained. marcia's laughter, crystalline as a mountain stream, musical as its melody, rippled through the room. "official business!" she repeated derisively. "official business indeed! when, i'd like to know, did wilton ever have any official business? don't joke, elisha. this taking my boat is no joking matter. it is a serious thing to leave me here with no way of getting ashore quickly. i didn't like it at all." "i'm sorry," apologized the sheriff uncomfortably. "you see, an emergency arose--" "no emergency is important enough for you to take my boat without asking. please remember that." "i will," squeaked the offender, coloring under the reprimand like a chastened schoolboy. "i won't do it again, i promise you." "all right. you're forgiven this time. now sit down and tell me the news." his dignity, his pomposity put to rout elisha, feeling very small indeed, backed into the nearest chair. instead of making the rafters of the homestead quake at his presence; instead of humbling heath, reducing marcia to trembling admiration, here he sat cowed and apologetic. it was not at all the sort of entrance he had mapped out. it would not do. he had got a wrong start. before eleazer put in an appearance, he must right himself. with a preliminary ahem, he hitched forward in the rocking chair. "you won't mind if i go on with my baking, will you?" marcia said, bustling toward the stove. "i'm makin' dried apple turnovers. they'll be done in a second and you shall have one." "i thought i smelled pie crust," elisha murmured vaguely. "you thought right." kneeling, marcia opened the door of the oven. "isn't that a sight for sore eyes?" inquired she as she drew out a pan of spicy brown pastries and placed them, hot and fragrant, on the table. "now, i'll get you a plate, fork and some cheese." "i don't need no fork," elisha protested. "i can take it in my fingers." "oh, you better not do that. it's sticky and you might get a spot on your sunday clothes." his sunday clothes! elisha came to himself. he rose up. "i oughtn't to be eatin', anyhow," he called after marcia as she retreated into the pantry. "you see, i come here this mornin' to--" "i guess a nice hot apple turnover won't go amiss no matter what you came for," interrupted the woman, returning with the plate, fork and cheese. with deftness she whisked the triangle of flaky pastry onto the plate and extended it toward her guest. its warm, insidious perfume was too much for elisha. he sat down with the plate in his lap. he had taken only an introductory mouthful, however, when the door parted a crack and eleazer crept cautiously through the opening. for a moment he stood transfixed, viewing the scene with amazement; then he burst out in a torrent of reproach. "'lish winslow, what on earth are you doin'? here i've been waitin' outside in the wind, ketchin' my death of cold an' worryin' lest you was dead--hearin' neither word nor sign of you--an' you settin' here by the stove rockin' an' eatin' pie! what do you think you come for, anyhow?" "i know, eleazer, i know," elisha stammered, ducking his head before the accusing finger of his colleague. "it may, mebbe, seem queer to you. i just hadn't got round to the business in hand, that's all. i'm comin' to it." "comin' to it? you don't look as if you was." "i am," protested the sheriff, cramming the turnover into his mouth and drawing his hand hurriedly across his lips. "i'm comin' to it in time. be patient, eleazer! be patient, can't you?" "i've been patient half an hour a'ready an' you ain't, apparently, even made a beginnin'." "yes i have, eleazer. i've made a start. the pie's et. that's done an' over." "but you had no right to stop an' eat. you had no business eatin' pie, anyhow. ain't you got indigestion?" "i--wal, yes. i do recall havin' a qualm or two of dyspepsia," elisha owned in a conciliatory tone. "that's gone, though. i reckon the fresh air kinder scat it off. i'd clean forgot about it." "mebbe you'd clean forgot what you come here to do, too," derided eleazer. "no. oh, no. i didn't forget that. i was just leadin' up to it in a sorter tactful way." "there ain't no way of bein' tactful when you're arrestin' folks. you've got the thing to do an' you have to go straight to it." a fork clattered from marcia's shaking hand to the floor. "arresting folks?" she repeated, looking from one man to the other. "yes. since 'lish is so spineless at his job, i may's well tell you what we come for. he don't 'pear to have no notion of doin' so," eleazer sneered. "pretty kind of a sheriff he is! you'd think to see him he was at an afternoon tea." "you better look out, eleazer crocker, how you insult an officer of the law," elisha bawled angrily. "say a word more an' i'll hail you into court." "if you don't land me there faster'n you do heath i shan't worry," jeered eleazer. "heath? mr. heath?" marcia repeated. "yes. we come over here this mornin' to place mr. stanley heath under arrest," eleazer announced. the woman caught at the edge of the table. "place him under arrest? what for?" so they knew the truth! in some way they had found it out and the net of the law was closing in. her mind worked rapidly. she must gain time--worm out of them how much they know. "of what are you accusing mr. heath?" she demanded, drawing herself to her full height and unconsciously moving until her back was against the door leading to the stairway. "of the long island robbery," eleazer answered. "you mean to say you think him a thief?" "we know he's one--leastways elisha does." "don't go foistin' it all on me," snarled elisha. "but you do know, don't you? you said you did." "i--yes! i'm tol'able sure. i have evidence," elisha replied. "at least i figger i have." "shucks, 'lish!" eleazer cried. "where's your backbone? you figger you have! don't you know it? ain't you beheld the loot with your own eyes?" elisha nodded. "then why on earth don't you stand up in your boots an' say so?" the door opened and sylvia entered then stopped, arrested on the threshold by the sound of angry voices. inquiringly she looked from marcia to the men, and back again. no one, however, heeded her presence. marcia, with whitened lips but with face grave and determined, remained with her back to the stairway door, her arms stretched across its broad panels, her eyes never leaving elisha winslow's. there was something in her face sylvia had never seen there--a light of battle; a fierceness as of a mother fighting for her child; a puzzling quality to which no name could be given. suddenly, as the girl studied her, recognition of this new characteristic flashed upon her understanding. it was love! anger, perhaps terror, had forced marcia into betraying a secret no other power could have dragged from her. sylvia marveled that the men whose gaze was riveted upon her did not also read her involuntary confession. apparently they failed to do so. "ain't i said a'ready i had proof? what more do you want me to do, eleazer?" elisha fumed. "what proof have you?" marcia interposed. elisha shifted from one foot to the other. "i've seen the jewels," he whispered. "they're here--in this room. don't think i'm blamin' you, marcia. 'course heath bein' what he is, is nothin' against you," he hurried on breathlessly. "we're all aware you wouldn't shelter no criminal did you know he was a criminal; nor would you furnish a hidin' place for his stolen goods. what i'm sayin' is news to you an' a shock. i can see that. naturally it's hard to find our friends ain't what we thought 'em. when faced with the evidence, though, you'll see the truth same's eleazer an' me see it. "heath, the feller overhead, is the long island jewel robber. "the jewels he stole are under that brick. i've seen 'em." with finger pointing dramatically toward the hearth, elisha strode forward. sylvia, however, sprang before him, standing 'twixt him and his goal. "what a ridiculous story, mr. winslow!" she cried. "what a fantastic yarn! do you imagine for one moment there could be anything hidden under those bricks and marcia and i not know it? why, one or the other of us has been in this room every instant since mr. heath arrived. when could he get the chance to hide anything? didn't you and doctor stetson get here almost as soon as he did? wasn't it you who undressed him? had he brought jewels with him you would have found them inside his clothing. you took off every rag he wore. did you discover any such thing?" "n--o." "well, then, don't you see how absurd such an accusation is? how could the gems get here?" "i don't know how they got here. all i know is they're here," elisha repeated stubbornly. sylvia's brain was busy. that elisha by some means or other had stumbled upon the truth there could be no doubt. how was she to prevent it if he insisted upon searching as it was obvious he intended to do? not only was marcia ignorant of heath's true character but also that the jewels lay concealed close at hand. she would receive an overwhelming shock if the proof of his guilt came upon her in this brutal fashion. did she not believe in him? love him? it was for marcia sylvia was fighting, not heath--marcia whom she adored and whom she was determined to save from elisha's power at any cost. if after the two meddling officials had gone she could be convinced that the hero on whom her heart was set was unworthy, that was matter for later discussion. all that was of import now was to defend him; shield him from discovery; give him the chance for escape. it was at the moment she reached this decision that marcia's voice, calm and unwavering, broke upon the stillness: "if you are so certain about the jewels, elisha, why don't you produce them?" she was saying. "no--no, marcia!" sylvia protested. "there is nothing here, mr. winslow, truly there is nothing. i swear it." "nevertheless, let him look, sylvia." "but marcia--" begged the girl. "step aside, dear, and let him look. let them both look." "please--please, marcia--!" sylvia was upon her knees now on the hearth, and the men, hesitating to remove her by force, halted awkwardly. her face, drawn with terror, was upturned to marcia and was pitiful in its pleading. marcia regarded her first with startled incredulity--then with coldness. so sylvia loved heath, too! she was fighting for him--fighting with all her feeble strength. a pang wrenched the older woman's heart. what if heath had played a double game--made love to sylvia as he had made love to her? convinced her of the depths of his affection with an ardor so compelling that against all odds she, too, believed in it? if so--if the man were a mountebank the sooner they both found it out--the sooner all the world knew it, the better. if, on the other hand, he was innocent, he should have his chance. the older woman went to the side of the pleading figure. the surprise of her discovery crisped her voice so that it was short and commanding. "get up, sylvia," she said. "the sheriff must search. he must do his duty. we have no right to prevent it." obedient to the authoritative tone, the girl arose. "now, gentlemen, you may search," marcia said. neither elisha winslow nor his companion had cause now to complain of any lack of dignity in the law's fulfillment. as if she were a magistrate seeing justice done, marcia, magnificent in silence, towered above them while they stooped to perform their task. her face was pale, her lips tightly set. the brick was lifted out. a smothered cry escaped sylvia and was echoed by elisha. "why--land alive--there's nothin' here!" gasped the sheriff. "i told you there was nothing!" sylvia taunted, beginning to laugh hysterically. "i told you so--but you would not believe me." tears were rolling down her cheeks and she wiped them away, strangling a convulsive sob. "wal, 'lish, all i can say is you must either 'a' been wool gatherin' or dreamin' when you conceived this yarn," eleazer jeered. "i warn't," hissed elisha, stung to the quick. "i warn't dreamin'. them jewels was there. i saw 'em with my own eyes. i swear to heaven i did." then as if a new idea flashed into his mind, he confronted sylvia. "they was there, young lady, warn't they? you know they was. that's why you was so scairt for me to look. you've seen 'em, too." "i?" "yes, you. deny it if you dare." "of course i deny it." "humph! but marcia won't. you can lie if you want to to save the skin of that good-for-nothin' critter upstairs--though what purpose is served by your doin' it i can't see. but marcia won't. she'll speak the truth same's she always has an' always will. no lie will cross her lips. if she says them jewels warn't here i'll believe it. come now, marcia. mebbe you've evidence that'll hist me out of the idiot class. was there ever diamonds an' things under this brick or warn't there?" "yes." "you saw 'em?" as if the admission was dragged from her, marcia formed, but did not utter, the word: "yes." "they was under this brick, warn't they?" "yes." "there! then i ain't gone daffy! what i said was true," elisha acclaimed, rising in triumph and snapping his finger at eleazer. "the jewels were mr. heath's. he hid them for safe keeping." "he told you that?" "yes." "a likely story! he stole 'em--that's what he did." "i don't believe it." "i do," leered the sheriff. "prove it then," challenged marcia, with sudden spirit, a spot of crimson burning on either cheek. "prove it?" elisha was taken aback. "wal, i can't at the moment do that. i can't prove it. but even if i can't, i can make out a good enough case against him to arrest him on suspicion. that's what i mean to do--that's what i come for an' what i'll do 'fore i leave this house." marcia swept across the floor. once again she was poised, back against the door leading to the stairs. "mr. heath is sick." "i guess he ain't so sick but what i can go up an' cross-examine him." "i ask you not go to. i forbid it." "law, marcia!" "i forbid it," repeated the woman. "drop this matter for a day or two, elisha. mr. heath shall not leave the house. i promise you that. i will give you my bond. leave him here in peace until he is well again. when he is able to--to--go with you i will telephone. you can trust me. when have i ever been false to my word?" "never, marcia! never in all the years i've known you." "then go and leave the affair in my hands." "i don't know--mebbe--i wonder if i'd oughter," ruminated elisha. "'tain't legal." "no matter." "i don't see why the mischief you're so crazy to stand 'twixt this heath chap an' justice, marcia. the feller's a scoundrel. that's what he is--an out an' out scoundrel. not only is he a thief but he's a married man who's plottin' behind your back to betray you--boastin' openly in telegrams he is." "what do you mean?" "i wouldn't like to tell you. in fact i couldn't. 'twould be repeatin' what was told me in confidence," hedged elisha, frightened by the expression of the woman's face. "you must tell me." "mebbe--mebbe--there warn't no truth in what i heard." "i must judge of that." "i ain't got no right to tell you. things are often told me in confidence, 'cause of my bein' sheriff, that it ain't expected i'll pass on." "i have a right to know about the telegram you mention. will you tell me or shall i call up the sawyer falls operator?" "oh, for heaven's sake don't do that," elisha pleaded. "artie nickerson would be ragin' mad did he find i'd told you. if you must know what the message was, i can repeat it near 'nough, i reckon. it ran somethin' like this: "_safe on cape with my lady. shall return with her later._" "and that was all?" inquired marcia calmly. "all! ain't that enough?" elisha demanded. "there was a word or two more 'bout clothes bein' sent here, but nothin' of any note. the first of the message was the important part," concluded the sheriff. as she vouchsafed no reply and the ticking of the clock beat out an embarrassing silence, he presently continued: "i don't want you should think i told you this, marcia, with any unfriendly motive. it's only that those of us who've seen you marry one worthless villain don't want you should marry another. jason was a low down cuss. you know that well's i." the woman raised her hand to check him. "i'm aware 'tain't pleasant to hear me say so out loud, but it's god's truth. every man an' woman in wilton knows 'tis. folks is fond of you, marcia. we don't want you made miserable a second time." "marcia!" sylvia burst out. "marcia!" "hush, dear. we'll talk of this later. elisha, i think i must ask you and eleazer to go now. i will let you know when mr. heath is able to take up this affair with you." "you ain't goin' to tell me where the jewels are?" "i don't know where they are." "nor nothin' 'bout--'bout the telegram." "nothing except to thank you for your kind intentions and say you quoted it quite correctly. i sent it for mr. heath myself." "but--but--" "_my lady_, as you have apparently forgotten, is the name of mr. heath's boat--the boat you yourself helped pull off the shoals." "my land! so 'tis," faltered elisha. "i'm almighty sorry, marcia--i ask your pardon." "me, too! we come with the best of intentions--" rejoined eleazer, fumbling for his cap. "honest we did." "it's all right. just leave us now, please." as the two men shuffled across the kitchen, a heavy object dropped to the floor, interrupting their jumbled apologies. "pick up them handcuffs, 'lish, an' come along double-quick," eleazer muttered beneath his breath. "you've made a big enough fool of yourself as 'tis. don't put your foot in any deeper." "and here's your hat," added sylvia, handing the bewildered sheriff his property with an impish bow. "take it and scram--both of you." as the door banged behind the discomfited officials, clear as a bell on the quiet air came the twitting voice of eleazer: "wal, scram got said, didn't it, 'lish, even if 'twarn't you said it? that gal is an up-to-date little piece. she knows what's what. i told you no shindy of this sort was complete unless somebody said: scram!" chapter xvi left alone, marcia, weary and spent, collapsed into a chair and closed her eyes, appearing to forget the presence of the girl who, with parted lips, hovered impatiently at her elbow. something in the woman's aloofness not only discouraged speech but rendered any interruption an intrusion. at length, however, she roused herself and sighing deeply looked about, and taking the gesture as permission to break the silence, the torrent of words sylvia had until now held in check, broke from her: "was it true, marcia--what they said about uncle jason i mean? was it true?" "i'm afraid so, dear." "but you never told me; and you never told mother, either. of course i see why. you didn't want her to know because it would have broken her heart. so you kept it all to yourself. you did not mean i should find it out, did you?" "not if i could help it." sylvia knelt, taking the cold hands in hers. "i hate him!" cried she fiercely. "i hate him for making you unhappy and spoiling your life!" "hush, child. jason has not spoiled my life," contradicted marcia with a grave, sad smile. "but he has scarred it--dashed to pieces all the dreams you started out with--those beautiful dreams a girl has when she is young. i know what they are, for i dream them myself sometimes. they are lovely, delicate things. we never quite expect they will come true; yet for all that we believe in them. i know you had such fancies once, for you are the sort who would. and jason came and trampled on them--" "he made me see life as it was. perhaps it was better i should." "we all have to see life as it is sooner or later. but there are plenty of years ahead in which to do it. the man who destroys the world of illusion in which a girl lives destroys something no one can ever give back to her." "i don't know that i should say that," returned marcia with a faint, shadowy smile as if pursuing some secret, intriguing fancy. "but it's never the same again, i mean--never the same." "no, it's never the same," agreed the woman soberly. "was jason as bad as they said, marcia? ah, you don't have to answer. there is no need for you to try to reconcile your desire to spare me--spare him--with the truth. he was as bad--probably much worse. dear, dear marcia." impulsively sylvia bent her lips to the hands so tightly clasped in hers. "i cannot imagine," she rushed on, "why, when one of my family had made you as wretched as he did, you should have wanted another in the house. had i suffered so i should never have wished to lay eyes on any more howes as long as i lived." "but jason had nothing to do with you, sylvia." "the same blood ran in our veins." "perhaps that was the reason." "because you could forgive, you mean?" whispered sylvia. "you are a better christian than i, my dear. i could never have forgiven." "i have tried not only to forgive but to forget. i have closed the door on the past and begun a new life." "and now into it has come this stanley heath," the girl said. for the fraction of a second marcia did not reply; then almost inaudibly she murmured: "yes." sylvia slipped one of her strong young arms about the bowed shoulders. "it just seems as if i could not bear it," she burst out passionately. "sylvia, look at me. tell me the truth. do you, too, love stanley heath?" "i?" "was that the reason you fought against elisha's finding the jewels? tell me. i must know." "no," she answered without hesitation. "at first he did fascinate me. he is a fascinating person. an older man always fascinates a younger girl if he has charm. i changed my mind, though, later on. not because on acquaintance he became less charming. it wasn't that. if anything, he became more so. i just--just--changed my mind," she repeated, avoiding marcia's eyes. "as for the jewels, i could not bear to let that little runt of a sheriff win out. you see, i thought the gems were there under the brick and that when you urged him to search, you did not know it. "i had known all along they were in the house, for i stumbled upon them by accident one day when i was here alone; but i had no idea you had. i truly believed mr. heath had hidden them beneath the hearth, and i was determined elisha should not find them." "i knew they weren't there." "you'd moved them? put them somewhere else?" "no, indeed. didn't you hear me tell elisha i did not know where they were?" "oh, of course. but you'd have said that anyway," smiled sylvia, dimpling. "why--why, sylvia!" "you certainly wouldn't have let those men find them," she added comfortably. "on the contrary, if the jewels had been in the house and i had been compelled to tell what i knew, i should have told the truth." "you would? you would have showed those two miserable blood-hounds where they were?" asked the girl incredulously. "certainly." "i wouldn't," flashed sylvia, clinching her small hands. "i would have fought that sheriff tooth and nail. i'd have lied--stooped to any means to prevent him from unearthing the evidence he was after." "but the law, sylvia--the law." "i wouldn't give a rap for the law. you love stanley heath. that's enough for me. besides, he is being tracked down--trapped. i want him to go free." "you think he took the jewels?" asked marcia, slowly. "certainly i do. don't you?" "no." "but, marcia, can't you see how plain it all is? i know it is terrible for you, dear. it almost breaks my heart. it is an awful thing to believe of anybody--harder still of a person one loves. nevertheless, we must face the facts. people do not carry such things about with them--especially men. he came by them in no honest way, you may be sure of that. hasn't he told you anything?--haven't you asked him?" "i wouldn't think of asking him," marcia replied with a lift of her chin. "and he has not volunteered any information?" "no." "most men, if honest and caught in such an odd situation, would explain," continued sylvia. "the very fact that mr. heath has not is suspicious in itself. he is guilty, marcia--guilty." "i do not believe it," was the stubborn protest. "i realize, dear, it is hard for you to own it," soothed sylvia. "we hate to admit the faults of those we--we--care for. still, nothing is to be gained by remaining blind to them." "you speak as if such a sin were a mere trivial flaw of character, sylvia. why, it is fundamental--a crime." "how can we measure sins and decide which ones are big and which little? perhaps mr. heath was horribly tempted to commit this one. we do not know. we are not his judges. the thing for us to do is to help him out of the mess he is in." "help him?" "get him off. aid him to escape." "believing him guilty--you would do that?" "surely i would." "you mean you would help him to evade the law? the punishment such wrongdoing merits?" emphatically, sylvia nodded her curls. "i'd help him to get away from those who are tracking him down just as i'd help a fox to escape from the hunters." "regardless of right or wrong?" "yes. to give him a sporting chance, the start of those who are after him. you love stanley heath. don't you want to see him go free?" "not if he is guilty." "marcia! you mean you would deliver him over to the law?" "i would have him deliver himself over." "as if he would! as if any criminal would." "a criminal who thought of his soul might." "but criminals don't think of their souls, dear. they think only of their bodies--that's probably why they are criminals." marcia made no answer. "well, anyway, nobody is going to round up mr. heath if i can prevent it," asserted sylvia, throwing back her head. "if you won't help him get away, i will. he must go in the boat--now--today." "the boat has gone." "gone!" "mr. currier arrived this morning after you had gone and took the boat back to new york with him." "and the jewels?" "yes, the jewels, too." "humph! so that's where they are!" "yes." "pretty cute of him to make so neat a get-away!" commented the girl with admiration. "currier is, of course, the understudy--the accomplice." marcia started. "what sort of man was he? a gentleman, like mr. heath?" the older woman colored. "well, no. at least he--he--. oh, he was polite and had a nice manner--a quiet voice--" "but he was different from mr. heath--an inferior--one who took orders," interrupted sylvia. "i hardly know. i saw very little of him," marcia replied guardedly. "but mr. heath did tell him what to do. currier did as he said." "i suppose so--yes." "in other words, he is the hands and mr. heath the brains of the team." "how can you, sylvia?" quivering, marcia shrunk into her chair as if she had been struck. "because i must, marcia--because we must both look this affair in the face. confess the circumstances are suspicious." "they seem to be," she owned with reluctance. "they are suspicious." "that proves nothing." "perhaps not. nevertheless it is all we have to go by and we should be fools not to take them at their face value, shouldn't we? we should at least consider them." "of course we should do that," evaded the woman. "have you considered them?" sylvia suddenly inquired. marcia drew her hand across her forehead. "i--i--yes. i have thought them over." "and what conclusion have you arrived at?" "i don't understand them at all. nevertheless, i do not believe stanley heath is guilty," was the proud retort. "that is because you don't want to--because you won't." "leave it at that, then, and say i won't," cried marcia, leaping defiantly to her feet. "you are making a great mistake, if you will pardon me for saying so," sylvia responded gently. "you are deliberately closing your eyes and mind to facts that later are bound to cause you bitter unhappiness. let alone the man's guilt. he has a wife. you seem to forget that. as elisha winslow remarked, you have already been miserable once. why be so a second time? help stanley heath to get out of wilton and forget him." "i cannot do either of those things. in the first place, i have given my word to hand mr. heath over to the authorities. as for forgetting him--why ask the impossible?" sylvia's patience gave way. "go your own way then," she snapped. "go your own way and if by and by you regret it--as you surely will--do not blame me. don't blame me, either, if i do not agree with you. stanley heath shall never remain here and be betrayed to the law. i've enough mercy in me to prevent that if you haven't. stick to your grim old puritanism if you must. i'll beat it by a more charitable creed. i'll help him get away." she started toward the stairway. "sylvia, come back here!" marcia cried. "i shall not come back." "i beg you! insist!" the command fell on deaf ears. marcia rushed after her, but it was too late. sylvia was gone. chapter xvii stanley heath was lying with expectant face turned toward the door when sylvia entered. "what's the rumpus?" he demanded. "you heard?" "heard? certainly i heard," he laughed. "i could not hear what was said, of course, but anyone within five miles could have heard those men roaring at one another. what's the trouble?" "the trouble is you," answered the girl. "me?" "yes. didn't you expect trouble sometime?" "we all must expect trouble sooner or later, i suppose," was the enigmatic answer. "to just what particular variety of trouble did you refer?" "i guess you know. there is no use mincing matters or beating about the bush. we haven't the time to waste. the jewels have gone and you must go, too." the man looked dumbfounded. "don't misunderstand me, please," sylvia rushed on. "i'm not blaming you--nor judging you. i don't know why you took them. you may have been tempted beyond your strength. you may have needed money sorely. all that is none of my business." "you believe i stole them?" "certainly i do." "suppose i didn't?" "i expected you'd say that," was the calm retort. "let it go that way if you prefer. i don't mind. what i want to do is to help you to get away." "even if i am guilty." "yes." "but why?" "because you're sick and in a trap; because i--i--well--" she faltered, her lips trembling, "i just can't bear to have that mean little sheriff who's after you catch you." "what's that?" startled, heath sat up. "that wretched elisha winslow who came here this morning with eleazer crocker tagging at his heels. in some way they had found out about the jewels and where you had hidden them. prying into other people's affairs, no doubt, when they would have much better minded their own business. well, it doesn't matter how they found out. they know the truth, which is the important thing. they even attempted to come upstairs and arrest you post haste; but marcia wouldn't allow it." "marcia!" he spoke the name softly. "she heard the story, too?" "of course." "poor marcia!" "you may well say poor marcia," sylvia echoed sarcastically. "you have made her most unhappy. oh, mr. heath, marcia has not had the sort of life that i told you she had. she has been wretched--miserable. go away before you heap more suffering upon her. she is fighting to make something of her wrecked life. leave her and let her make it. i'll help you get out of town. i am sure we can devise a plan. i'll row you across to the mainland and contrive somehow to get you safely aboard a train. if we only had a car--" "my car is at the wilton garage." "oh, then it will be easy," exclaimed she with evident relief. "not so easy as it seems." heath held up his bandaged hand. "i doubt if i could drive any distance with this wrist," he said. "of course it is on the mend. nevertheless, it is still stiff from disuse, and pretty clumsy." "couldn't i drive? i've driven quite a lot. what make is your car?" "a buick." "i've never driven one of those. i wonder if i'd dare try? how i wish hortie were here! he could drive it. he can drive anything." "hortie?" "horatio fuller--a man i know out west. if only he wasn't so far away! he'd help us in a minute. he'd do it and ask no questions. that's what we need--someone who'll ask no questions." she frowned, thoughtfully. "well, no matter. we can find somebody, i am sure--especially if we pay them liberally. i'll see what i can do." "wait just a moment. what does marcia say?" "marcia? oh, you must not listen to marcia. she is too much upset to be depended on. she cannot see the case at all as it is. her advice wouldn't be worth twopence. trust me in this, please. trust me, mr. heath. i promise you i'll stand by you to the last ditch. i'm not afraid." "i think i'd better talk with marcia first." "don't! it will only be a waste of time." "still, i must hear what she has to say." "you won't like it. marcia is hard, merciless. her conscience drives her to extremes. even should you get her opinion, you would not follow it." "what makes you so sure i wouldn't?" "because it would be madness, sheer madness. you'll realize that, as i do," insisted sylvia with an impatient tapping of her foot. "marcia stubbornly shuts her mind to the truth and will only look on one side. she just repeats the same words over and over again." "what words?" "i shall not tell you." "then she must tell me herself. will you ask her to come up, please?" "i'd rather not." "you prefer i should call her?" baffled, the girl turned away. "no. i'll send her to you--if i must. but remember, i warned you." "i shall not soon forget that, sylvia, nor the splendid loyalty you've shown today. i shall always remember it. whatever happens, please realize that i am grateful," heath said earnestly. then in less serious vein he added: "i never dreamed you were such a valiant little fighter." his smile, irresistible in brightness, brought a faint, involuntary reflection into sylvia's clouded countenance. "oh. i can fight for people--when i care," cried she, impulsively. did the artless confession, the blush that accompanied it, soften the voice of the man so observantly watching until it unconsciously took on the fond, caressing tone one uses toward a child? "so i see. run along now, little girl, and fetch marcia." "i wish i could make you promise not to listen to her," coaxed sylvia, making one last wistful appeal. "i cannot promise that." "i'm sorry. you'd be wiser if you did." * * * * * it was some moments before marcia answered the summons and when at last she came, it was with downcast eyes and evident reluctance. "you sent for me?" she said, halting stiffly at the foot of the bed. "won't you please sit down?" heath replied. "i've only a few moments. i'd rather stand." "but i cannot say what i wish to say while you flutter there as if poised for flight," urged the man, annoyance discernible in his husky voice. unwillingly marcia slipped into the chair beside him. "that's better," he said, smiling. "now tell me exactly what happened down stairs." "didn't sylvia tell you?" "she told me something. i want your version of the story." as if realizing the futility, both of protest and evasion, the woman let her gaze travel to the dim purple line where sea met sky and began to speak. she related the incident tersely; without comment; and in a dull, impersonal manner. stanley heath, scrutinizing her with keen, appraising eyes, could not but note the pallor of her cheeks, the unsteadiness of her lips, the nervous clasping and unclasping of her hands. the narrative concluded, her glance dropped to the floor and silence fell between them. "and that is all?" he inquired when convinced she had no intention of speaking further. "that is all." "thank you. now what had i better do?" she made no answer. "what do you think it best for me to do?" he repeated. "best? how do you mean--best? best for your body or best for your soul?" "for both." "but suppose the two should not coincide?" "then i must reconcile them or choose between them." "you cannot reconcile them." "choose between them then--compromise." at the word, he saw her shiver. "well, you are not advising me," he persisted when she offered no reply. "how can i? you know your own affairs--know the truth and yourself far better than i." "granting all that, nevertheless, i should like your opinion." "you will not thank me for it," cautioned she, bitterly. "sylvia says i am quixotic, impractical." "never mind sylvia. tell me what you think." "but how can i give a just opinion? i cannot judge," she burst out as if goaded beyond her patience. "i know none of the facts. to judge the conduct of another, one must know every influence that contributed to the final catastrophe. no person but god himself can know that." a radiance, swift as the passage of a meteor, flashed across stanley heath's face and was gone. "suppose you yourself had taken these jewels and were placed in this dilemma?" pressed he. "that would be entirely different." "why?" "the case would not be similar at all." "why not?" heath reiterated. "because--because i should be guilty." "you mean--you think--" "i do not believe you took the jewels," was the quiet answer. "marcia! marcia!" he reached for her hand, then sharply checked the gesture. "why don't you believe i took them?" "it isn't like you." "the evidence is against me--every whit of it." "i cannot help that." "have i ever told you i did not take them? ever led you to suppose me innocent?" "you have never told me anything about it." "you have never asked." "as if i should put to you a question like that," she said proudly. "you had the right to inquire." "i did not need to." once again the man restrained an impulse to imprison her hands in his. "suppose i did take them?" he went on in an even, coolly modulated voice. "suppose the case stands exactly as this shrewd-eyed wilton sheriff suspects it does? what am i to do?" he saw the color drain from her face. "i only know what i should do, were i in your place." "tell me that." "i should go through with it--clear my soul of guilt." "and afterward?" "start over again." "that would be very difficult. the stigma of crime clings to a man. its stamp remains on him, try as he will to shake it off. my life would be ruined were i to pursue such a course." "not your real life. you would, of course, lose standing among your supposed friends; but you would not lose it among those whose regard went deeper. even if you did--what would it matter?" "but to be alone, friendless! who would help me piece together the mangled fragments of such a past--for i should need help; i could not do it alone? do you imagine that in all the world there would be even one person whose loyalty and affection would survive so acid a test?" "there might be," she murmured, turning away her head. "even so, would i have the presumption to accept such a service? the right to impose on a devotion so self-effacing?" "the person might be glad, proud to help you--consider it a privilege." "who would, marcia? do you know of anyone?" she leaped to her feet. "why do you ask me?" she demanded, the gentleness of her voice chilling to curtness. "you have such a helpmate near you--or should have." "i don't understand," pleaded the man, puzzled by her change of mood. "perhaps we'd better not go into that now," was her response. "it is beside the point." "on the contrary it is the point." "i don't see how. what happens after the penalty has been paid has nothing to do with the paying of it." "in this case it has everything." "i cannot stay," she whispered, frightened by his insistence. "i must go." "wait just a moment." "i cannot. i must get dinner." "never mind the dinner!" she looked at him then for the first time. "we have to eat," she declared making an attempt at lightness. "not always. sometimes there are things more important." "to think of a man saying that!" the ring of the telephone chimed in with her silvery laughter. "i'll go, sylvia," she called with a promptness that indicated the interruption was a welcome one. "yes. yes, this is mrs. howe at wilton. "it's long distance," she called to heath. "new york is on the line. "yes, he is here. he can speak with you himself. "mrs. heath wishes to speak with you," she announced formally. "slip on your bathrobe and come." heath took the receiver from her hand. "joan? this certainly is good of you, dear. yes, i am much better, thank you. bless your precious heart, you needn't have worried. currier will be back late tonight or early tomorrow morning and he will tell you how well i am progressing. yes, he has the jewels. put them in the safe right away, won't you? "i can't say when i shall be home. something has come up that may keep me here some time. i cannot explain just now. it is the thing you have always predicted would happen to me sometime. well, it has happened. do you get that? yes, i am caught--hard and fast. it is a bit ironic to have traveled all over the world and then be taken captive in a small cape cod village. i guess i believe in fate, destiny--whatever you call it. "i'm in something of a tangle just at present. i may even have to call on you to help me straighten it out. that's sweet of you, dear. you've never failed me. oh, i can talk--it doesn't hurt me. you mustn't mind my croak. i'm not so badly off as i sound. i'll let you know the first minute i have anything definite to tell. "goodbye, dear. take care of yourself. it's done me a world of good to hear your voice." heath returned the receiver to its hook and in high spirits strode back into his room. if, however, he hoped there to take up the threads of the conversation so unexpectedly broken off, he was disappointed. marcia's chair was empty. she was nowhere to be seen. chapter xviii the days immediately following were like an armed truce. marcia watched sylvia. sylvia watched marcia. heath watched them both. when, however, no further reference to the events of the past week was made, the tension slowly began to lessen, and life at the howe homestead took on again its customary aspect. one agency in this return to normal was the physical improvement of the invalid, who as a result of rest, fresh air, sleep, and good nursing now became well enough to come down stairs and join the family group. an additional, and by no means unimportant contributory factor, was the sudden onrush of fine weather. never had there been such a spring--at least never within the memory of the owner of the house on the point. the soft breath of the south wind; the radiance of the sunshine; the gentle lapping of the waves on the spangled shore; the stillness; the vivid beauty of the ocean's changing colors--all these blended to make a world that caught the breath and subordinated every mood save one of exuberant joy. against a heaven gentian blue, snowy gulls wheeled and dipped, and far beyond them, miniature white sails cut the penciled indigo of the horizon. the old grey house with its fan-light and beaded doorway stood out in colonial simplicity from the background of sea and sky like a dim, silvered picture, every angle of it soft in relief against the splendors that flanked it. marcia sang at her work--sang not so much because there was peace in her heart as because the gladness about her forced her to forget her pain. sylvia sang, too, or rather whistled in a gay, boyish fashion and in company with prince hal raced like a young colt up the beach. only a day or two more passed before it was possible to get stanley heath, warmly wrapped in rugs, out on the sheltered veranda where, like the others, he reveled in the sunshine. his cheeks bronzed, his eyes became clear and bright, laughter curled his lips. if just around the corner the spectre of trouble loitered, its presence was not, apparently, able to put to flight his lightheartedness. over and over again he declared that every hour spent in this lotus-eaters' country was worth a miser's fortune. sometimes when he lay motionless in the steamer-chair looking seaward beneath the rim of his soft felt hat, or following the circling gulls with preoccupied gaze marcia, peeping at him from the window wondered of what he was thinking. that the fancies which intrigued him were pleasant and that he enjoyed his own company there could be no question. no attitude he might have assumed could have been better calculated to dispel awkwardness and force into the background the seriousness of the two women, whose interests were so inextricably entangled with his own, than the merry, bantering one he adopted when with them. even marcia, who at first had avoided all tête-à-têtes, quivering with dread whenever she found herself alone with him, gradually, beneath the spell of his new self, gained sufficient confidence to perch hatless on the piazza rail beside him in an unoccupied moment and spar with him, verbally. for he was a brilliant talker--one who gave unexpected, original twists to the conversation--twists that taxed one's power of repartee. the challenge to keep pace with his wit was to her like scouring a long disused rapier and seeing it clash against the deft blade of a master fencer. here indeed was a hitherto undreamed-of stanley heath, a man whose dangerous charms had multiplied a hundredfold and who, if he had captivated her before now riveted her fetters with every word he spoke, every glance he gave her. she struggled to escape from the snare closing in on her, then finding combat useless, ceased to struggle and let herself drift with the tide. after all, why not enjoy the present? soon, all too soon, its glamorous delights would be gone and she would be back once more in the uneventful past which had satisfied her and kept her happy until heath had crossed her path, bringing with him the bewildering adventures that had destroyed her tranquillity. would she ever find that former peace, she frequently asked herself. would her world ever be the same after this magician who had touched it with the spell of his enchantment had left it? for he would leave it. a time must come, and soon now--when like a scene from a fairy play the mystic lights would fade, the haunting music cease, the glitter of the whole dreamlike pageant give place to reality. it was too beautiful, too ephemeral an idyll to last. in loving this stranger of whom she knew so little, she had set her heart upon a phantom that she knew must vanish. the future, grim with foreboding, was constantly drawing nearer. in her path stood a presence that said: thou shalt not! there were, alas, but two ways of life--the way of right and the way of wrong, and between them lay no neutral zone. this she acknowledged with her mind. but her rebel heart would play her false, flouting her puritan codes and defying the creeds that conscience dictated. meantime while she thus wrestled with the angel of her best self, sylvia accepted the situation with characteristic lightness. her life in this vast world and wide had been of short duration, but during its brief span she had learned a surprising amount about the earth and the human beings that peopled it. she knew more already about men than did marcia--much more. long ago they had ceased to be gods to her. she was accustomed to them and their ways, and was never at a loss to give back to each as good as he sent--frequently better. her sophistication in the present instance greatly relieved the strain. she jested fearlessly with heath, speaking a language with which he was familiar and one that amused him no end. often he would sit watching her furtively, his glance moving from the gold of her hair to the blue of her eyes, the fine poise of her fair white throat, the slender lines of her girlish figure. often, too, in such moments he would think of the possibilities that lay in the prodigal beauty she so heedlessly ignored. that he took pleasure in being with her and treating her with half playful, half affectionate admiration was incontestable. yet notwithstanding this, his fondness was nicely restrained and never slipped into familiarity or license. it was the sort of delicately poised relation in which the girl was thoroughly at home and with which she knew well how to cope. today heath was taking his first walk and the two had strolled down to the water's edge where deep in a conversation more serious than usual they sat in the sun on the over-turned yellow dory. to marcia, watching from the porch, they appeared to be arguing--sylvia pleadingly, heath with stern resistance. the woman could not but speculate as to the subject that engrossed them. not that she was spying. she would have scorned to do that. she had merely stepped outside to shake a duster and they had caught her eye. it seemed, too, that she had chosen an inopportune moment for observation, for just at that instant sylvia placed her hand entreatingly on heath's arm and though he continued to talk, he caught and held it. the fact that sylvia neither evinced surprise, nor withdrew it forced her to the disconcerting conclusion that the thing was no unusual happening. marcia turned aside, jealousy clutching at her heart. when, later in the day, the pair reëntered the house heath, with a few pleasant words, caught up his overcoat and went out onto the steps to smoke, while sylvia hurried to her room. marcia, passing through the hall, could see her golden head bent over the table as intent with pen and paper she dashed off page after page of a closely written letter. it was a pity the elder woman could not have read that letter, for had she been able to, it would not only have astonished but also have enlightened her and perhaps quieted the beating of her troubled heart. it was a letter that astonished sylvia herself. nevertheless, much as it surprised her, her amazement in no way approached that of young horatio fuller when he read it. so completely did it scatter to the winds of heaven every other thought his youthful head contained that he posted two important business documents--one without a stamp, and the other without an address. after that he decided he was unfit to cope with commercial duties and pleading a headache hastened home to his mother. now horatio's mother, far from possessing the appearance of a tower of strength to which one might flee in time of trouble, was a woman of colorless, vaguely defined personality indicative of little guile and still less determination. she listened well and gave the impression she could listen, with her hands passively folded in her lap, forever if necessary. she never interrupted; never offered comment or advice; never promised anything; and yet when she said, as she invariably did, "i'll talk with your father, dear," there was always infinite comfort in the observation. that was what she said today to horatio junior. accordingly that evening after horatio senior had dined, and dined well; after he had smoked a good cigar and with no small measure of pride in his own skill put into place all the pieces of a jig-saw puzzle that had defied his prowess the night before--his wife artfully slipping them beneath his nose where he could not fail to find them--then and not until then did mrs. horatio take out the pink afghan she had been making and while she knit two and purled two, she gently imparted to alton city's leading citizen the intelligence that his son, horatio junior, wished to go east; that he was in love; that, in short, he wished to marry. up into the air like a whizzing rocket soared horatio senior! he raged; he tramped the floor; he heaped on the head of the absent horatio junior every epithet of reproach his wrath could devise, the phrases driveling idiot and audacious puppy appearing to afford him the greatest measure of relief. continuing his harangue, he threatened to disinherit his son; he smoked four cigarettes in succession; he tipped over the boston fern. the rest of the things horatio senior said and what he did would not only be too gross to write down in the chronicles of the kings of judah, but also would be improper to record here. in the meantime, mrs. horatio knitted on. at last when breathless and panting horatio senior, like an alarm clock ran down and sank exhausted into his chair, mrs. horatio began the second row of knit two, purl two and ventured the irrefutable observation that after all horatio junior was their only child. as this could not be denied, it passed without challenge and gaining confidence to venture farther, she presently added, quite casually that a wife was a steadying influence in a young man's career. horatio senior vouchsafed no reply. perhaps he had no breath left to demur. at any rate his wife, considering silence a favorable symptom, followed up her previous comments with the declaration that sylvia hayden was a nice little thing. this drew fire. horatio senior sputtered something about "nothing but a penniless school-teacher--a nobody." very deliberately then mrs. horatio began the fourth row of her knitting and as her needles clicked off the stitches, she murmured pleasantly that if she remembered rightly this had been the very objection horatio senior's father had made to their own marriage. at this horatio senior flushed scarlet and said promptly that fathers did not know anything about choosing wives for their sons; that his marriage had been ideal; that his jennie had been the one wife in the world for him; that time had proved it--even to his parents; that she was the only person on earth who really understood him--which latter statement unquestionably demonstrated that all that proceeded out of the mouth of horatio senior was not vanity and vexation of spirit. after this nothing was simpler than to complete the pink stripe and discuss just when horatio junior had better start east. * * * * * had sylvia dreamed when she licked the envelope's flap with her small red tongue and smoothed it down with her pretty white finger she was thus loosing alton city's thunderbolts, she might, perhaps, have hesitated to send the letter she had penned and perhaps would not have started off so jauntily late that afternoon to post it. as it was, she was ignorant of the future consequences of her act and went skipping across the wee azure pools the tide had left behind as gaily as if she were not making history. and not only did she go swinging off in this carefree fashion, but toward six o'clock she telephoned she was at the doanes and henry and his mother--the little old lady she had met on the train the day she arrived--wanted her to stay to supper. he would bring her home early in the evening. there would be a moon--marcia need not worry. marcia had not thought of worrying until that minute, but now, in spite of knowing sylvia was safe and in good hands she began, paradoxically enough, to worry madly. her heart would palpitate, her hand tremble while she spread the cloth and prepared the supper; and when she could not put off the dreaded and yet anticipated moment any longer, timidly as a girl she summoned stanley heath to the small, round table. "sylvia isn't coming," she explained, all blushes. "she telephoned she was going to stay over in town." they seated themselves. it was the first time they had ever been alone at a meal and the novelty of finding themselves opposite one another awed them into silence. "would you--do you care for cheese soufflé?" stammered marcia. "thank you." "perhaps you don't like cheese." "i do--very much." "i hope it is done." "it is perfect." "it's hard to get it out of the oven at the right moment. sometimes it falls." "this one hasn't," beamed stanley. "i don't know. perhaps i might have left it in a second or two longer." "it's wonderful!" "i'm glad you like it. rolls?" "rather! my, but you are a marvelous cook." "oh, not really. you're hungry--that's all. things taste good when you are." "it isn't that. everything you put your hand to is well done." "nonsense!" "it isn't nonsense and you know it. you're a marvelous person, marcia." "there is nothing marvelous about me." "there is--your eyes, for one thing. don't drop them, dear. i want to look at them." "you are talking foolishness." "every man talks foolishness once in his life, i suppose. perhaps i am talking it tonight because our time together is so short. i am leaving here tomorrow morning." "stanley!" across the table he caught her hand. "i am well now and have no further excuse for imposing on your hospitality." "as if it were imposing!" "it is. i have accepted every manner of kindness from you--" "don't call it that," she interrupted. "what else can i call it? i was a stranger and you took me in. it was sweet of you--especially when you knew nothing about me. now the time has come for me to go. tomorrow morning i am giving myself up to the wilton sheriff." "oh, no--no!" "but you said you wanted me to. it is the only square thing to do, isn't it?" she made no answer. he rose and came to her side, slipping an arm about her. "marcia. dearest! i am doing what you wish, am i not?" "i cannot bear it." the words were sharp with pain. "you wanted me to go through with it." she covered her face and he felt a shudder pass over her. "yes. but that was then," she whispered. at the words, he drew her to her feet and into his arms. "marcia, beloved! oh, my dear one, do i need to tell you i love you--love you with all my heart--my soul--all that is in me? you know it--know that every moment we have been together has been heaven. tell me you love me, dear--for you do love me. don't deny it--not tonight--our last night together. say that you love me." "you--know," she faltered, her arms creeping about his neck. he kissed her then--her hair, her eyes, her neck, her lips--long, burning kisses that left her quivering beneath the rush of them. their passion brought her to herself and she drew away. "what is it, dear?" he asked. "we can't. we must not. i had forgotten." "forgotten?" "something stands between us--we have no right. forgive me." "but my dear--" "we have no right," she repeated. "you are thinking of the past," he challenged. "marcia, the past is dead. it is the present only in which we live--the present--just us two--who love." "we must not love." "but we do, sweetheart," was his triumphant cry. "we do!" "we must forget." "can you forget?" he reproached. "i--i--can try." "ah, your tongue is too honest, marcia. you cannot forget. neither can i. our pledge is given. we belong to one another. i shall not surrender what is mine--never." "tomorrow--" "let us not talk of tomorrow." "we must. we shall be parted then." "only for a little while. i shall come back to you. our love will hold. absence, distance, nothing can part us--not really." "no." "then tell me you love me so i may leave knowing the truth from your own sweet lips." "i love you, stanley--god help me!" "ah, now i can go! it will not be for long." "it must be for forever, dear heart. you must not come back. tonight must be--the end." "marcia!" "tonight must be the end," she repeated, turning away. "you mean you cannot face tomorrow--the disgrace--" "i mean tonight must be the end," she reiterated. through narrowed lids, he looked at her, scanning her averted face. then she heard him laugh bitterly, discordantly. "so we have come to the great divide, have we?" he said. "i have, apparently, expected too much of you. i might have known it would be so. all women are alike. they desert a man when he needs them most. their affection has no toughness of fibre. it snaps under the first severe strain. the prospect of sharing my shame is more than you can bear." again he laughed. "well, tonight shall be the end--tonight--now. don't think i blame you. it is not your fault. i merely rated you too high, marcia--believed you a bigger woman than you are, that's all. i have asked more than you were capable of giving. the mistake was mine--not yours." he left her then. stunned by the torrent of his reproach, she stood motionless, watching while, without a backward glance, he passed into the hall and up the stairs. his receding footsteps grew fainter. even after he was out of sight, she remained immovable, her frightened eyes riveted on the doorway through which he had disappeared. prince hal raised his head and sensing all was not well came uneasily to her side and, thrusting his nose into her inert hand, whined. at his touch, something within her gave way. she swayed, caught at a chair and shrank into it, her body shaking and her breath coming in gasping, hysterical sobs. the clock ticked on, the surf broke in muffled undertone, the light faded; the candles burned lower, flickered and overflowed the old pewter candle sticks; and still she sat there, her tearless, dilated eyes fixed straight before her and the setter crouching unnoticed at her feet. chapter xix sylvia, bubbling over with sociability after her evening at the doanes', was surprised, on reaching the homestead, to find a lamp set in the window and the living-room empty. ten o'clock was not late and yet both occupants of the house had gone upstairs. this was unusual. she wondered at it. certainly marcia could not be asleep at so early an hour; nor heath, either. in fact, beneath the latter's door she could see a streak of light, and could hear him moving about inside. marcia's room, on the other hand, was still. once, as she paused listening, wondering whether she dared knock and go in for a bedtime chat, she thought she detected a stifled sound and thus encouraged whispered the woman's name. no response came, however, and deciding she must have been mistaken she tiptoed away. having, therefore, no inkling of a change in the delightful relations that had for the past week prevailed, the atmosphere that greeted her when she came down the next morning was a shock. stanley heath stood at the telephone talking to elisha winslow and on the porch outside were grouped his suit-case, overcoat and traveling rug. he himself was civil--nay, courteous--but was plainly ill at ease and had little except the most commonplace remarks to offer in way of conversation. marcia had not slept, as her pallor and the violet shadows beneath her eyes attested. sylvia could see that her duties as hostess of the breakfast table taxed her self-control almost to the breaking point and that only her pride and strong will-power prevented her from going to pieces. although the girl did not understand, she sensed marcia's need of her and rushed valiantly into the breach--filling every awkward pause with her customary sparkling chatter. her impulse was to cry out: "what under the sun is the matter with you two?" she might have done so had not a dynamic quality vibrant in the air warned her not to meddle. when at length the meal was cut short by the arrival of elisha winslow, all three of the group rose with unconcealed relief. even elisha's presence, hateful as it would ordinarily have been, came now as a welcome interruption. "wal, mr. heath, i see you're expectin' me," grinned the sheriff, pointing toward the luggage beside the door. "i am, mr. winslow." "i've got my boat. are you ready to come right along?" "quite ready." heath went to sylvia and took her hand. "thank you very much," murmured he formally, "for all you've done for me. i appreciate it more than i can say. and you, too, mrs. howe. your kindness has placed me deeply in your debt." "i wish you luck, mr. heath," called sylvia. "thanks." "and i, too," marcia rejoined in a voice scarcely audible. to this the man offered no reply. perhaps he did not hear the words. they followed him to the door. it was then that marcia sprang forward and caught elisha's arm. "where are you taking him, elisha?" she demanded, a catch in her voice. "where are you taking him? remember, mr. heath has been ill. you must not risk his getting cold or suffering any discomfort. promise me you will not." "you need have no worries on that score, marcia," replied the sheriff kindly, noticing the distress in her face. "you don't, naturally, want all you've done for mr. heath thrown away. no more do i. i'll look out for him." "where is he going?" "to my house for the present," elisha answered. "you see, the town ain't ever needed to make provision for a criminal. i can't lock him up in the church 'cause he could get out had he the mind; an' out of the school-house, too. besides, them buildin's are kinder chilly. so after weighin' the matter, i decided to take him 'long home with me. i've a comfortable spare room an' i figger to put him in it 'til i've questioned him an' verified his story. "meantime, nobody in town will be the wiser. i ain't even tellin' may ellen why mr. heath's at the house. if i choose to harbor comp'ny, that's my business. not a soul 'cept eleazer's in on this affair an' he's keepin' mum. when him an' me decide we've got the truth, we'll act--not before." "that relieves my mind very much. mr. heath is--you see he--" "he's a friend of yours--i ain't forgettin' that. i shall treat him 'cordin'ly, marcia." "thank you, elisha--thank you a hundred times." there was nothing more to be said. heath bowed once again and the two men walked down to the float where they clambered with the luggage into elisha's dory and put out into the channel. sylvia loitered to wave her hand and watch them row away, but marcia, as if unable to bear the sight, waited for no further farewell. even after the girl had followed her indoors and during the interval they washed the breakfast dishes together, sylvia did not venture to ask any explanations. if marcia preferred to exclude her from her confidence, she resolved not to intrude. instead, she began to talk of her evening with the doanes and although well aware marcia scarcely listened, her gossip bridged the gulf of silence and gave the elder woman opportunity to recover her poise. by noon marcia was, to outward appearances, entirely herself. she had not been able, to be sure, to banish her pallor or the traces of sleeplessness; but she had her emotions sufficiently under control to talk pleasantly, if not gaily so that only an understanding, lynx-eyed observer like sylvia would have suspected she was still keyed to too high a pitch to put heart in what she mechanically said and did. that day and the next passed in much the same strained fashion. that the woman was grateful for her niece's forbearance was evident in a score of trivial ways. that she also sensed sylvia's solicitude and appreciated her loyalty and impulsive outbursts of affection was also obvious. it was not until the third morning, however, that the barriers between the two collapsed. marcia had gone into the living-room to write a letter--a duty she especially detested and one which it was her habit to shunt into the future whenever possible. today, alas, there was no escape. a business communication had come that must be answered. she sat down before the infrequently used desk and started to take up her pen when sylvia heard her utter a cry. "what's the matter, dear?" called the girl, hurrying into the other room. no answer came. marcia was sitting fingering a slip of green paper she had taken from a long envelope. with wild, despairing eyes she regarded it. then, as sylvia came nearer, she bowed her head upon the desk and began to sob as if her heart would break. "marcia, dear--marcia--what is it?" cried sylvia, rushing to her and clasping the shaking figure in her arms. "tell me what it is, dear." "oh, how could he!" moaned the woman. "how could he be so cruel!" "what has happened. marcia?" "stanley--he has left a check--money--thrown it in my face! and i did it so gladly--because i loved him. he knew that. yet he could leave this--pay me--as if i were a common servant. i had rather he struck me--a hundred times rather." the girl took the check. it was filled out in stanley heath's clear, strong hand and was for the sum of a hundred dollars. "how detestable of him!" she exclaimed. "tell me, marcia--what happened between you and mr. heath? you quarreled--of course i know that. but why--why? i have not wanted to ask, but now--" "i'll tell you everything, sylvia. i'd rather you knew. i thought at first i could keep it to myself, but i cannot. i need you to help me, dear." "if i only could!" murmured sylvia, drawing her closer. as if quieted by the warmth of her embrace, marcia wiped her eyes and began to speak, tremulously. she unfolded the story of her blind faith in stanley heath; her love for him--a love she could neither resist nor control--a love she had known from the first to be hopeless. she confessed how she had fought against his magnetic power; how she had struggled to conceal her feelings; how he himself had resisted a similar attraction in her; how at last he had discovered her secret and forced her to betray it. slowly, reluctantly she went on to tell of the final scene between them--his insistence on coming back to her. "of course i realized we could not go on," she explained bravely. "that we loved one another was calamity enough. all that remained was for him to go away and forget me--return to his wife, his home, and the interests and obligations of his former life. soon, if he honestly tries, this infatuation will pass and everything will be as before. men forget more easily than women. absence, too, will help." "and you, marcia?" "i am free. there is no law forbidding me to remember. i can go on caring, so long as he does not know. it will do no harm if here, far away, where he will never suspect it, i continue to love him." "oh, my dear, my dear!" "i cannot give up my love. it is all i have now. oh, i do not mean to mourn over it, pity myself, make life unhappy. instead, i shall be glad, thankful. you will see. this experience will make every day of living richer. you need have no fears for me, sylvia. you warned me, you know," concluded she with a pathetic little smile. "i was a brute! i ought to have shielded you more," the girl cried. "i could have, had i realized. well, i can yet do something, thank heaven. give me that check." "what do you mean to do?" "return it, of course--return it before stanley heath leaves town. isn't that what you want done? surely you do not wish to keep it." "no! no!" "i'll take it over to elisha winslow's now, this minute." "i wonder--yes, probably that will be best. you won't, i suppose, be allowed to see stanley," speculated she timidly. "i don't suppose so." "if you should--" "well?" "don't say anything harsh, sylvia. please do not blame him, or--" "i'll wring his neck!" was the emphatic retort. "oh, please--please dear--for my sake! i can't let you go if you go in that spirit," pleaded marcia in alarm. "there, there--you need not worry for fear i shall maltreat your romeo, richly as he deserves it," was the response. "i could kill him--but i won't--because of you. nevertheless, i warn you that if i get the chance i shall tell him what i think of him. no power on earth can keep me from doing that. he is terribly to blame and ought to realize it. no married man has any business playing round with another woman. he may get by with it in new york, but on cape cod or in alton city," she drew herself up, "it just isn't done and the sooner stanley heath understands that, the better. that's that! now i'll get my hat and go." "i am half afraid to let you, sylvia." "you don't trust me? don't you believe i love you?" "i am afraid you love me too much, dear." "i do love you, marcia. i never dreamed i could care so intensely for anyone i have known for so short a time. what you did for my mother alone would make me love you. but aside from gratitude there are other reasons. i love you for your own splendid self, dear. please do not fear to trust me. i promise you i will neither be unjust nor bitter. the fact that you care for stanley heath shall protect him and make me merciful." "take the check then and go. i wish i were to see him." "well, you're not! rowing across that channel and hurrying to his side after the way he's treated you! not a bit of it! i'd tie you to your own bedpost first," snapped sylvia. "let him do the explaining and apologizing. let him cross the channel and grovel at your feet. that's what he ought to do!" "you won't tell him that." "i don't know what i shall tell him." "please, sylvia! you promised, remember." "don't fret. some of the mad will be taken out of me before i see mr. heath. the tide is running strong and it will be a pull to get the boat across to the mainland. kiss me and wish me luck, marcia. you do believe i will try to be wise, don't you?" "yes, dear. yes!" "that's right. you really can trust me, you know. i'm not so bad as i sound." tucking the check into the wee pocket of her sweater, sylvia caught up her pert beret and perched it upon her curls. "so long!" she called, looking back over her shoulder as she opened the door. "so long, marcia! i'll be back as soon as ever i can." the haste with which she disappeared, suddenly precipitated her into the arms of a young man who stood upon the steps preparing to knock. "hortie fuller," cried sylvia breathlessly. "hortie! where on earth did you come from?" her arms closed about his neck and he had kissed her twice before she swiftly withdrew, rearranging her curls and saying coldly: "i cannot imagine what brought you here, horatio." chapter xx "i can't imagine," repeated sylvia, still very rosy and flustered, but with her most magnificent air, "what brought you to wilton--i really cannot." "can't you?" grinned horatio cheerfully. "no, i cannot." from his superior height of six-feet-two, he looked down at her meager five feet, amusement twinkling in his eyes. sylvia, however, was too intent on patting her curls into place to heed his glance. "you wrote me to come, didn't you?" he presently inquired. "i wrote you to come!" "well, at least you led me to suppose you'd like it if i were here," persisted horatio. "toward the bottom of page two you said: 'i am positively homesick'; and in the middle of the back of page three you wrote: 'it seems years since i've seen you.'" "what if i did?" answered the girl with a disdainful shrug. nevertheless the dimples showed in her cheeks. "and that isn't all," horatio went on. "at the end of page five you wrote: 'would that you were here'!" sylvia bit her lip. "that was only a figure of speech--what is called poetic license. writers are always would-ing things: would i were a bird; would i were a ring upon that hand; would i were--were--well, almost anything. but it doesn't mean at all that they would really like to be those things." "then you didn't mean it when you said you wished i was here." horatio was obviously disappointed. "why, of course i am pleased to see you, hortie. it is very nice of you to come to the cape to meet my aunt and--" "darn your aunt!" he scowled. "i didn't come to see her." "hush! she's just inside." "i don't care." "but you will when you know her. she's darling." "i am not interested in aunts." "take care! i happen to be very keen on this aunt of mine. if she didn't like you, you might get sent home. don't be horrid, hortie. i truly am glad you've come. you must make allowance for my being surprised. i haven't got over it yet. how in the world did you contrive to get away at this season? and what sort of a trip did you have?" "swell! i stopped overnight in new york at the gardeners. mother wanted me to deliver a birthday cake to estelle who, you may remember, is the mater's god-daughter. she's a pippin, too. i hadn't seen her since she graduated from vassar." sylvia listened. she did not need to be told about the gardeners. they had visited horatio's family more than once and rumor had it the elders of both families would be delighted were the young people to make a match of it. "i'm surprised you did not stay longer in new york," sylvia observed, gazing reflectively at her white shoe. "new york wasn't my objective. i came on business, you see." "oh!" this was not so flattering. "yes," continued horatio, "dad gave me two months off so i could get married." this time he got the reaction for which he had been waiting. sylvia jumped. "i was not aware you were engaged," murmured she in a formal, far-away tone. "i'm not," came frankly from horatio junior. "but i'm going to be. in fact i chance to have the ring with me this minute. want to see it?" "i always enjoy looking at jewels," was her cautious retort. horatio felt of his many pockets. "where on earth did i put that thing?" he muttered. "hope i haven't lost it. oh, here it is." he took out a tiny velvet case and sprang the catch. "oh, hortie! isn't it beautiful!" sylvia cried. "it fairly takes away my breath." "like it?" "it is perfectly lovely!" "try it on." she shook her head. "it wouldn't fit me. my hands are too small." "it's a small ring. here. put it on," he urged, holding it toward her. "well, i suppose i might try it to please you. but i know it will be too large." she slipped it on her finger. "why, it does fit. how odd!" "very odd indeed," he answered drily, as she reached her hand out into the sun and turned the diamonds so that they caught the light. "looks rather well on, doesn't it?" was his comment. "it is a beautiful ring." horatio, standing behind her, twice extended his arms as if to gather her into them and twice withdrew them, deciding the action to be premature. at length with a determined squaring of his shoulders, he locked his hands behind him and stood looking on while she continued to twist the ring this way and that. "well," yawned he after an interval, "i suppose i may as well put it back in the box." "don't you think it would be wiser if i took care of it for you, hortie?" suggested she demurely. "you are dreadfully careless. only a moment ago you had no idea where the ring was. if it is on my finger you'll know exactly." "bully idea! so i shall! now tell me where you're off to. you were in a frightful hurry when you burst through that door." "so i was," agreed sylvia. "and here i am loitering and almost forgetting my errand. come! we must hurry. i've got to go to town. want to row me over?" "you bet your life!" "it may be quite a pull. the tide is running out and that means you will have to row against it." "show me the boat." still she hesitated. "i don't know how nautical you are." she thought she heard him chuckle. leading the way to the yellow dory, she took her place opposite him and he pushed off. as they sat facing one another, her eyes roamed over his brown suit; his matching tie, handkerchief and socks; his immaculate linen; his general air of careful grooming, and she could not but admit he wore his clothes well. she was so accustomed to seeing him that she never before had stopped to analyze his appearance. now after weeks of separation she regarded him from a fresh viewpoint and realized with something of a shock how very good-looking he was. he had the appearance of being scrubbed inside and out--of being not only clean but wholesome and upstanding; of knowing what he wanted and going after it. he was not a small town product. three years in an eastern preparatory school, followed by four years of college life had knocked all that might have been provincial out of horatio junior. nevertheless these reflections, interesting though they were, proved nothing about his knowledge of the water. then she suddenly became aware that the boat was being guided by a master hand. "why, hortie fuller, i had no idea you could row like this!" exclaimed she with admiration. horatio deigned no response. "wherever did you learn to pull such an oar?" "varsity crew." "of course. i had forgotten," she apologized, her eyes following as with each splendid stroke the craft shot forward. although the oarsman ignored her approbation he was not unmindful of it. "where do we land?" he asked. "anywhere." he bent forward and with one final magnificent sweep sent the nose of the dory out of the channel. "come on," he called, leaping to the beach. "but--but, hortie--i can't get ashore here. i'll wet my white shoes." "jump." "it's too far. pull the boat higher on the sand." "not on your life. jump, darling! i'll catch you." she stood up in the bow. "i can't. it's too far." "nonsense! where's your sporting blood? don't be afraid. i'm right here." "suppose you shouldn't catch me?" "but i shall." he would. she was certain of it. still she wavered. "i don't want to jump," she pouted. "you'll have to. come on, beautiful. you're wasting time." "i think you are perfectly horrid," she flung out as she sprang forward. an instant later she was in his arms and tight in a grip she knew herself powerless to loosen. "let me go, hortie! let me go!" she pleaded. "i shall, sweetheart. all in good time. before i set you free, though, we must settle one trivial point. are we engaged or are we not?" she made no answer. "if we're not," he went on, "i intend to duck you in the water. if we are, you shall tell me you love me and go free." "don't be idiotic, hortie. please, please let me go. somebody may come along and see us." "i don't mind if they do. there are other considerations more important." a swift, shy smile illuminated her face. "i--i--don't want to be ducked, hortie," she murmured, raising her arms to his neck. "you precious thing! you shan't be. now the rest of it. say you love me." "i guess you know that." "but i wish to hear you say it." "i--i--think i do." "that's a half-hearted statement." "i--i--know i do, hortie." "ah, that is better. and i love you, sylvia. loving you is an old, old story with me--a sort of habit. i shall never change. you are too much a part of me, sylvia. now pay the boatman and you shall go. one is too cheap. two is miserly. the fare is three. i won't take less." "i consider your methods despicable," announced the girl when at last he reluctantly put her down on her feet. "a warrior must study his adversary and plan his attack accordingly." "you blackmailed me." "i know my sylvia," he countered. "just the same you had no right to take advantage." "perhaps you'd rather i trundled back to new york tomorrow and offered the ring to estelle." "silly! i was only fooling," she protested quickly, linking her arm in his. "this ring would never fit estelle, dearest. her hands are tremendous. didn't you ever notice them? they are almost as large as a man's. i never saw such hands." "she's an awful nice girl just the same." "i don't doubt that. come. we must quit fooling now and hurry or we shall never get home. marcia will be frantic." "marcia?" "my aunt. i have so much to tell you i hardly know where to begin," sighed sylvia. "do listen carefully, for i need your advice." "what about?" "a lot of things. it is a long story. you see marcia has fallen in love with a robber." "a robber? your aunt?" "uh-huh. i know it sounds odd, but you will understand it better after you have heard the details," nodded sylvia. "this man, a jewel thief, came to our house one day shipwrecked and hurt, so we took him in." "a thief?" again she nodded. "yes. we didn't know then, of course, that he was a thief. afterward, when we did, he was sick and we hadn't the heart to turn him out. in fact we couldn't have done it anyway. he was too fascinating. he was one of the most fascinating men you ever saw." "he must have been," horatio growled. "oh, he was. i myself almost lost my heart to him," confessed sylvia earnestly. "don't jeer. i am speaking the truth. i did not quite fall in love with him, but i came near it. marcia did." "your aunt?" "yes. don't look so horrified, hortie. i realize it seems queer, unconventional; but you'll understand better when you see marcia. she is no ordinary person." "i shouldn't think she was." sylvia ignored the comment. "well, anyway, the robber hid the loot and of course marcia and i did all we could to protect him." "why of course?" "i just told you--because he was so fascinating--because marcia did not or would not believe he had stolen it. i knew better. still i helped shield him just the same. then one day the wilton sheriff heard over the radio there had been a jewel robbery on long island, and stumbling upon the hidden gems, arrested mr. heath." "mr. heath?" "the thief, hortie! the thief! how can you be so stupid?" ejaculated sylvia sharply, squeezing his arm. "i get you now. you must admit, though, this is some story to understand." "i know it sounds confused, but in reality it is perfectly simple if you'll just pay attention. well," the girl hurried on, "i cannot stop to explain all the twists and turns but anyway, the sheriff brought the burglar to wilton and marcia is broken-hearted." "broken-hearted! i should think she'd be thankful to be rid of him." "but you keep forgetting she's in love with him." "well, do you wonder i do? what kind of a woman is your aunt? what sort of a gang have you got in with anyhow?" "hush, hortie! you mustn't talk like that," sylvia declared. "this affair is too serious. marcia and the--the--she and mr. heath love one another. it is terrible because, you see, he has a wife." "i should call that a stroke of providence, myself." "horatio, i think you are being very nasty. you are joking about something that is no joking matter." "i beg your pardon, dear. i wasn't really joking. don't be angry. but this yarn is unbelievable--preposterous," explained the man, taking her hand and gently caressing it. "i realize it sounds--unusual." "unusual is mild." "well--perhaps a little theatrical. yet, for all that, it isn't. now do stop interrupting and let me finish. when mr. heath went away from the homestead, he left behind him a hundred dollars in payment for what marcia had done for him. it almost killed her." "she--she--thought she ought to have had more, you mean?" "horatio!" "but--a hundred dollars is quite a sum in these days. she would better have grabbed it tight and been thankful. my respect for this bandit chap is rising. i should call him an honest gentleman." "it is useless to talk with you, horatio--i can see that," sylvia said, stiffening. "a delicate affair like this is evidently beyond your comprehension. you can't seem to understand it. all you do is to make light of every word i say." "i'm not making light. on the contrary i guess i am taking the situation far more seriously than you are. i don't like the moral tone of this place at all. it looks to me as if you had got into most undesirable surroundings. it is high time i came and took you out of them. thieves, and jewel-robberies, and sheriffs, and bandits with wives--heavens! alton city is a garden of eden compared with this town. the sooner you are married to me, young woman, and out of here the better. as for this remarkable aunt of yours--" "stop, horatio! stop right where you are," bridled sylvia. "one more word against marcia and back home you go so fast you won't be able to see for dust. i'm in earnest, so watch your step." "the woman has bewitched you," frowned horatio. "she has. she bewitches everybody. she'll bewitch you." "not on your life!" "wait and see. mr. heath will bewitch you, too." "the--the--?" "yes, the burglar, bandit, thief--whatever you choose to call him. you'll admit it when you meet him. we are going there now." "to--to--call?" "to return the check i just told you about. you're the stupidest man i was ever engaged to, horatio. why can't you listen?" "i am listening with all my ears." "then the trouble is with your imagination," sylvia said in her loftiest tone. they walked on in silence until presently the girl stopped before the gate of a small, weather-beaten cottage. "well, here we are at elisha's," she remarked, turning in at the gate. "what's he got to do with it?" "mercy, hortie. you'll wear me to a shred. elisha is the sheriff. i'm going to coax him to let us see the prisoner." "you don't mean the chap is jailed here! my--!" he clapped his hand over his mouth. "why, any red-blooded man could knock the whole house flat to the ground with a single blow of his fist. i'll bet i could." "there wasn't any other place to put him." "well, if he stays incarcerated in a detention pen like this, he's a noble-minded convict--that's all i have to say." they walked up the narrow clam-shell path, bordered by iris and thrifty perennials. as they did so, the sound of a radio drifted through the open window. sylvia peeped in. elisha, too intent on the music to hear her step, was sitting before the loud speaker, smoking. "i've come to see mr. heath," she shouted above the wails of a crooning orchestra. "you can't. 'tain't allowed." "nonsense! prisoners are always permitted to see visitors. where is he?" "i ain't sure as i'd oughter let you see him," hesitated elisha. "i'll take the responsibility." "wal--mebbe on second thought, 'twill do no harm," he drawled. "he's round on the back porch. i'd come with you warn't i waitin' for the news flashes." "that's all right. i can find him." "say, who you got with you?" called the sheriff over his shoulder. "a friend from my home town." "don't know 'bout his goin'." "oh, he won't do any harm. he's nobody--just my fiancé." "your what?" "the man i am going to marry." "you don't tell me! so you're gettin' married, are you? good lookin' feller! i heard at the post office you had some chap in the offin'. but to let him see mr. heath--i dunno as 'twould be just--" "where i go horatio goes," sylvia retorted. elisha weakened. "wal, in that case--" he began. she waited to hear no more. "come on, hortie," she called. leaving elisha absorbed in a saxophone solo, the two rounded the corner of the cottage and found themselves in the presence of stanley heath. chapter xxi he was looking very fit and comfortable, lying at full length in a gloucester hammock with cushions beneath his head, a book in his hand, and a package of cigarettes within reach. "sylvia!" he cried, springing up and advancing toward her with outstretched hand. "sylvia! what a brick you are to come!" angry as she was, when face to face with him she could not resist the contagion of his smile. "i'm glad to see you so well," she said. "this is mr. horatio fuller of alton city." horatio looked heath up and down and then stepped forward and gripped his hand with unmistakable cordiality. "mighty glad to know you, sir," was his greeting. "you seem to have got yourself into a jam. if there is anything i can do--any way i can be of service--" "horatio, you forget we are not here to make a social call," interrupted sylvia, who had by this time regained her routed chilliness and indignation. "on the contrary, mr. heath, we have come on a very painful errand. we are returning this check to you." she extended it toward him, gingerly holding its corner in the tips of her fingers as if it were too foul a thing to touch. "it was outrageous of you, insulting to leave a thing of this sort for marcia--to attempt to pay in cash--kindness such as hers." "i'm--sorry," heath stammered. "sorry! you couldn't have been very sorry, or you would have sensed such an act would hurt her terribly." horatio fuller fumbled nervously with his tie. "you deserve," swept on young sylvia with rising spirit, "to be thrashed. hortie and i both think so--don't we, hortie?" horatio junior turned crimson. "oh, i say, sylvia, go easy!" he protested. "don't drag me into this. i don't know one darn thing about it." "but i've explained everything to you." "you've tried to. nevertheless, the whole affair is beyond me. i can't make head or tail out of it," shrugged horatio. "suppose i just step inside and listen to the news flashes while you and mr. heath transact your business. it will be less awkward all round. if you want me you can speak." nodding courteously in heath's direction, horatio junior disappeared. "your mr. fuller is a man of nice feeling," stanley heath declared looking after him. "i congratulate you." "thank you." "everything is settled then?" she nodded. "i hope you will be very happy." she did not reply at once. when she did, it was to say with a humility new and appealing: "i shall be. i never appreciated hortie until now. i was too silly." "perhaps you were merely young." "it wasn't that. i was vain--feather-headed. i have realized it since knowing marcia." "we all want to be different after we have seen marcia," stanley heath said gently. "we don't just want to be--we set about it," was the girl's grave reply. "sit down, sylvia, and let us talk of marcia," ventured heath after a pause. "i am deeply sorry if i have wounded her--indeed i am." the girl searched his face. "i cannot understand you, mr. heath," she said. "what has marcia done that you should have left her as you did? hasn't she believed in you through thick and thin? stood up for you against everybody--going it blind at that? few women would have had such faith in a stranger." "i realize that. you do not need to tell me," he answered. "it is precisely because she has gone so far i believed her capable of going farther yet--the whole way." "what do you mean by the whole way?" "to the end." "well, hasn't she?" he shook his head. "no. she has fallen short--disappointed me cruelly. when it came to the final test, her affection collapsed. oh, she has been wonderful," he added quickly. "do not think i fail to appreciate that. she has far out-distanced every other woman i ever have known. i simply expected too much of her, doubtless the impossible. human nature is frail--a woman's heart the frailest thing of all. i have always said so." "you wrong marcia," cried sylvia hotly. "her heart is not frail. neither is she the weak sort of person you have pictured. in all the world you could not match her loyalty or the depth of her affection. i owe marcia a great debt. i could tell you things she has done that would make you thoroughly ashamed of your superficial rating of her. but why go into that? if after the experience we three have lived through together you have not discovered what she is, it is futile for me to attempt to show you. "you came into our lives like a meteor--entirely detached from everything. we knew nothing about you and in the face of damaging evidence you offered neither marcia nor me one word of explanation. marcia asked none. without rhyme or reason she believed in you. i had not her faith. i freely confess i thought you guilty. oh, i liked you sufficiently well to be ready to help you save your skin. but marcia cared enough for you to want you to save your soul. "there is a difference in that sort of caring, mr. heath--a big difference. when you were taken ill, we both nursed you--i willingly, she devotedly. here lay another difference had you been able to detect it. what happened as a result of this enforced intimacy? you know--know far better than i." "i fell in love with marcia," replied the man without an instant's hesitation. "you fell in love!" sylvia repeated, her lip curling. "you call it love--the poor thing you offered her! why, marcia would have gone to the world's end with you, stanley heath, had she the right. she would have faced any humiliation for your sake. if prison doors closed upon you, she would have remained faithful until they swung open and afterward followed you to any corner of the earth in which you chose to begin a new life." "that's where you're wrong, sylvia," contradicted heath. "marcia was not ready to do that. i tried her out and she refused. when i told her i should return to her, and asked her in so many words whether she was willing to face shame and public scorn for my sake she turned her back on me. she could not go to that length." "are you sure she understood?" asked sylvia, stepping nearer and looking fearlessly into his eyes. "there is a shame marcia never in this world would face for any man; but it is not the shame you have just described. "it is the shame of wronging another woman; destroying a home. i know that sounds old-fashioned in days like these. perhaps marcia is old-fashioned. perhaps i am. in the villages where we have been brought up, we do not go in for the new standards sponsored by more up-to-date communities. we believe in marriage as a sacred, enduring sacrament--not a bond to be lightly broken. when you offered marcia less than that--" "i never offered marcia any such shameful position, sylvia," cried stanley heath. "i would not so far insult her." "but you are married." "that is a lie. who told you so?" "the--the wire to mrs. stanley heath--the telephone message. i heard you call her joan." "but, sylvia, mrs. stanley heath is not my wife. she is my young step-mother, my father's widow. i always have called her joan." "oh! i beg your pardon." "i see it all now," the man exclaimed. "you have entirely misunderstood the situation. i'm a junior. since my father's death, however, people have got out of the way of using the term. sometimes i myself am careless about it. so marcia thought--" "of course she did. we both did. so did elisha winslow and eleazer crocker. so did lots of other people in wilton." "heavens!" "well, how were we to know?" sylvia demanded. "how, indeed? if an innocent citizen cannot visit a town without being arrested as a criminal within a week of his arrival, why shouldn't he be married without his knowledge? circumstantial evidence can, apparently, work wonders." then suddenly he threw back his head and laughed. "bless you, little sylvia--bless you for setting me right. i told you you were a brick and you've proved it. thanks to you, everything is now straightened out." "not quite everything, i am afraid," the girl protested. "everything that is of importance," he amended. "the rest will untangle itself in time. i am not worrying about it. here, give me your hand. how am i to thank you for what you have done? i only hope that young horatio fuller of yours realizes what a treasure he is getting." "he does, mr. heath--he does," observed that gentleman, strolling at the same instant through the door and encircling his tiny bride-to-be with his arm. "haven't i traveled half way across this big country of ours to marry her?" "oh, we're not going to be married yet, hortie," demurred the girl trying to wrench herself free of the big fellow's hold. "certainly we are, my dear. didn't you know that? i'm surprised how many things there are that you don't know," he went on teasingly. "i thought i explained exactly what brought me east. didn't i tell you this morning i came to get married? i was perfectly serious. dad gave me two months vacation with that understanding. i must either produce a wife when i get home or lose my job. he'll never give me another furlough if i don't." "looks to me as if you had mr. fuller's future prosperity in your hands, sylvia," heath said. "she has. she can make or break me. a big responsibility, eh, little sylvia?" "i know it, hortie," retorted the girl seriously. "she is equal to it, fuller--never fear," stanley heath asserted. "i'm not doing any worrying," smiled horatio. "i--" the sentence was cut short by the radio's loudspeaker: _the much sought long island gem thief was captured this morning at his lodgings in jersey city. harris chalmers, alias jimmie o'hara, a paroled prisoner, was taken by the police at his room on k-- street. a quantity of loot, together with firearms and the missing jewels were found concealed in the apartment. the man readily admitted the theft. he has a long prison record._ for a second nobody spoke. then as if prompted by common impulse, the three on the piazza rushed indoors. elisha was sitting limply before the radio. "did you hear that?" he gasped. "well, rather!" horatio fuller shouted with a triumphant wave of his hand. "ain't it the beateree?" exploded the astonished sheriff. "that sends the whole case up in the air. all that's needed now to make me out the darndest fool on god's earth is for eleazer's young nephew-lawyer in new york, who's checking up heath's story, to wire everything there is o.k. if he does, i'll go bury my head. there goes the telephone! that's him! that's eleazer--i'll bet a hat." "_hello!--yes, i heard it.--you ain't surprised? wal, i am. i'm took off my feet.--oh, your nephew wired, did he, an' everything's o.k.? that bein' the case, i reckon there's no more to be said. i feel like a shrimp. how do you feel?_----" elisha hung up the receiver. "wal, mr. heath, the story you told eleazer an' me is straight as a string in every particular," he announced. "you're free! there ain't nothin' i can say. to tell you i'm sorry ain't in no way adequate. i shan't offer you my hand neither, 'cause i know you wouldn't take it--leastways i wouldn't, was i in your place. there's some insults nothin' can wipe out an' this blunder of mine is one of 'em. you'll just have to set me down as one of them puddin'-headed idiots that was over-ambitious to do his duty. i ain't got no other explanation or excuse to make." "i shall not let it go at that, mr. winslow," stanley heath acclaimed, stepping to the old man's side and seizing his palm in a strong grip. "we all make errors. forget it. i'm going to. besides, you have treated me like a prince since i've been your guest." "you are the prince, sir. livin' with you has shown me that. had i knowed you 'fore i arrested you as well as i do now the thing wouldn't 'a' happened. wal, anyhow, all ain't been lost. at least i've met a thoroughbred an' that ain't none too frequent an occurrence in these days." "what i can't understand, mr. winslow, is why you didn't recognize he was a thoroughbred from the beginning," horatio fuller remarked. "you've a right to berate me, young man--a perfect right. i ain't goin' to put up no defense. 'twas the circumstances that blinded me. besides, i had only a single glimpse of mr. heath. remember that. after he was took sick i never saw him again. had we got acquainted, as we have now, everything would 'a' been different. findin' them jewels--" "great hat, man! i had a diamond ring in my pocket when i came to wilton, but that didn't prove i'd stolen it." "i know! i know!" acquiesced the sheriff. "eleazer an' me lost our bearin's entirely. we got completely turned round." "a thief with a phi beta kappa key!" jeered horatio. "godfrey!" then turning to sylvia, he added in an undertone: "well, so far as i can see the only person who has kept her head through this affair is our aunt marcia." elisha overheard the final clause. "that's right!" he agreed with cordiality. "you're 'xactly right, mr. fuller. the widder's head-piece can always be relied upon to stay steady." "whose head-piece?" inquired stanley heath, puzzled by the term. "marcia's. here in town we call her the widder." "well, you'll not have the opportunity to call her that much longer," heath laughed. "you don't tell me!" elisha regarded him, open-mouthed. "humph! so that's how the wind blows, is it? wal, i can see this mix-up would 'a' ended my chances anyway. marcia'd never have had me after this. disappointed as i am, though, there's a sight of comfort in knowin' she won't have eleazer neither. he don't come out of the shindy a whit better'n me. that's somethin'. in fact it's a heap!" chapter xxii intense as was the joy of the three persons, who a little later set out toward the homestead in the old yellow dory, they were a silent trio. too much of seriousness had happened during the morning for them to dispel its aftermath lightly. horatio, pulling at the oars, was unusually earnest, sylvia turned the ring on her finger reflectively and stanley heath looked far out over the water, too deep in thought to be conscious of either of them. when, however, the boat swung into the channel, sylvia spoke. "hortie and i are not coming with you, mr. heath," she said. "we will stay behind. only do, please, promise me one thing. do not tell marcia the whole story before we have a chance to hear it. there are ever so many connecting links i am curious beyond words to have you supply." "such as--?" "the jewels in the first place. i can hardly wait to have that mystery solved." stanley laughed. "the jewels are no mystery at all. i can satisfy your mind about those here and now. they were joan's--mrs. heath's. her maid, corinne, took them and disappeared. soon afterward, purely by accident, i met paul latimer, a friend who lives on long island, and played squash with him at the club and during the course of our conversation, he asked if i knew of a good man servant, saying that julien, their butler, had just given notice that he was to be married shortly to corinne, the new parlor-maid, and return with her to france. "the woman's name instantly caught my attention. "why shouldn't i do a bit of sleuthing on my own account? "thus far the detectives joan and i had hired had made no headway at locating the jewels. "why shouldn't i have a try at it myself? it chanced i had ordered a power-boat built in rhode island and had for some time been awaiting an opportunity to test her out. why not combine the two errands? "i got the boat and used her a couple of days, and finding her satisfactory cruised along to the latimers' at whose house i had frequently stayed, and with the habits of whose household i was familiar. my plan was to arrive early in the morning before the family was astir and catch the parlor-maid alone at her work. "should she prove to be our corinne, i would boldly confront her with the theft and demand the jewels; if, on the other hand, she turned out to be another person altogether, it would be perfectly easy to explain my presence by falling back on my acquaintance with paul. "it seemed, on thinking the matter over, that this would be a far more considerate course anyway than to drag in the detectives, not only because i had no real evidence to present to them, but also because of my friendship for the latimers and for julien, who had been in their employ many years. i knew they esteemed him very highly and would be dreadfully cut up should they find him involved in an affair as unpleasant as this one. beside, i felt practically certain he had had nothing to do with the crime. he was too fine--one of the old-fashioned, devoted type of servant. "to shame such a man and throw suspicion on him if he were blameless would be a pity, especially just on the eve of his resigning from service. it might mean that instead of leaving with the gratitude and good-will of his employers, he might be sent away under a cloud. i did not wish that to happen. "well, my scheme worked to a dot. "i reached the latimers' unobserved; found corinne alone straightening up the library; faced her and demanded the jewels. "the instant she saw me she knew the game was up. nevertheless, she made a pretense of denying the crime until i threatened to send for julien, at which suggestion she broke down and, without more ado, produced the gems from her pocket, shouldering all the blame. "julien, she protested, knew nothing of the theft. he was a self-respecting, honest man. should he be told of what she had done it would end everything between them. she loved him. indeed it was because of him she had committed the crime. "it proved they had been engaged some time and long before had agreed to save their money and sometime pool it so they might be married and buy a little home in france. "julien had saved conscientiously; but corinne had been extravagant and let the major part of her earnings slip through her fingers. he was now asking how much she had laid aside and to her consternation she found she had almost nothing. "she was ashamed to face him. "what could she say? "she did not know what impulse prompted her to take the jewels. she had never stolen before in all her life. the diamonds had been constantly in her care and it had never occurred to her to appropriate them. it had been a sudden, mad temptation created by the need of money and she had yielded to it without thought. scarcely were the gems in her possession before she regretted her action and longed to undo it. she would have taken them back had she not feared the consequences. she begged julien should not be told what she had done. if her crime could be concealed from him she was willing to make any restitution i demanded. "perhaps i was a sentimental fool. anyway i simply could not see it my duty to hand the unhappy creature over to the authorities; destroy julien's faith in her; wipe out the future she had set her heart upon. she was young, with life before her. i felt sure if given a chance she would make good. "promising i would remain silent, i pocketed the gems and came away. "whether i acted rightly or wrongly i do not know. "i suppose by this time the two are married and on their way to france. i believe corinne told the truth and that under other influences she will become an excellent wife and mother. at least she has the opportunity. "the other half of my tale--the half i neither foresaw nor planned--is familiar to you. "the fog that drove me out of my course; my subsequent shipwreck and illness; the coming of currier, our old family servant; the chain of circumstances that brought upon me the calamities from which i have just extricated myself--these are an old story. the only thing that now remains to clear my sky is for me to right myself with marcia." "that will be easy," smiled sylvia. "i wish i thought so," was heath's moody answer. "marcia is no ordinary woman. her understanding and love are measureless. love, mr. heath, forgives a great deal." "i know it does. in that lies my only hope." * * * * * she was not in the house when at last stanley heath overtook her, but far up the beach tossing driftwood into the surf for prince hal to retrieve. the man paused, watching them. hatless, her splendid body aglow with exercise, marcia had the freedom and wholesomeness of a young athlete. she threw the sticks with the overhand swing of a boy pitching a ball. yet with all her strength and muscular ease, there was a grace unmistakably feminine in her every movement. feminine, too, and very beautiful was her finely poised head, her blowing hair, her glorious color, and her sparkling eyes. when she turned and saw him, she uttered a faint cry, but she did not advance to meet him. prince hal did that, racing up the beach, uttering shrill yelps of welcome as he came. a second and the dog was again at marcia's side, and in this ecstasy of delight he continued to run back and forth until stanley heath had covered the sandy curve that intervened and himself stood beside her. "marcia--dearest--i have come back--come to ask your forgiveness. i misjudged you cruelly the night we parted and in anger spoke words i had no right to speak. forgive me, dear! forgive me! can you?" "i forgave you long ago--before you asked," she whispered. "forgave without understanding--how like you! but you must not do that. you have more to forgive in me than you know, marcia. i have been proud, unbelieving, unworthy of a love like yours. i have made you suffer--suffer needlessly. listen to what i have to tell and then see if you can still forgive." turning, they walked slowly along the shore. "i could have told you about the jewels and how i came by them at the outset had i not suddenly conceived the idea of teasing you. the plan to conceal my story came to me as a form of sport--a subtle, psychological game. here i was pitched without ceremony into a strange environment among persons who knew nothing of my background. what would they make of me? how rate me when cut off from my real setting? i resolved to try out the experiment. women are said to be inquisitive, particularly those living in isolation. my advent could not but stimulate questions. i thought it would be an amusing adventure to circumvent not only your curiosity but also that of the village. "i placed scant dependence on feminine discernment and constancy. "when i went to the war, i left behind a girl who pledged herself to love and wait for me. when i came back it was to find her married to my best friend. the discovery shook my confidence in human nature, and especially in women, to its foundations. i derided love, vowing i never would marry and be made a puppet of a second time. "the remainder of the story you know. "i stumbled, a stranger, into your home and instantly you set at naught all my preconceived theories of womanhood by believing in me with an unreasoning faith. you asked no questions. you did not even exhibit a legitimate curiosity in the peculiar network of circumstances that entangled me. you were a new type of being and i regarded you with wonder. "still, i was not satisfied. i felt sure that if pressed too far your trust in me would crumble and, therefore, i tried deliberately to break it down by throwing obstacles in its pathway. when suspicion closed in upon me i put you to further tests by withholding the explanations i could easily have made. it was a contemptible piece of egoism--selfish and cruel--and dearly have i paid for it. but at least remember that if i caused you suffering i have suffered also. "for, marcia, through it all i loved you. i recognized from the moment i first looked into your eyes that a force mightier than ourselves drew us together--a force not to be denied. nevertheless, so bitter had been my experience i dared not yield to this strange new power. instead i opposed it with all my strength, giving my love reluctantly, fighting inch by inch the surrender i sensed to be inevitable. "you, on the other hand, had like myself known betrayal, but you had taken the larger view and not allowed it to warp or mar your outlook on life. when love came knocking a second time, you were neither too proud nor too cowardly to answer it, but freely gave your affection with the gladness and sincerity so characteristic of you. "i do not deserve such a love. "beside the largeness of your nature my own shows itself childish--a small, poor thing for which i blush. "help me to erase the past. "i love you with my whole soul, dear. everything in me loves you. my life is worth nothing unless you share it. "will you? "ah, you need not fear, marcia. sylvia has told me everything. beloved, there is not and never has been a barrier to our marriage. we have misunderstood one another. let us do so no longer. "i am a free man--acquitted. "i also am free of any claim that would hinder our wedding. come to me and let us begin life afresh." she came then, swiftly. as he held her in his arms, the last shadow that separated them melted away. * * * * * under the glow of the noonday sun, they walked back toward the homestead, hand in hand. sylvia came running to meet them and, throwing her arms about marcia, kissed her. "everything is all right--i can see that," she cried. "oh, i am so glad--so glad for both of you! i believe i just could not stand it if you were not happy, because i am so happy myself. hortie is here, you know. didn't stanley tell you? why, stanley heath, aren't you ashamed to forget all about hortie and me? yes, hortie came this morning. we're engaged. see my ring!" "ring!" repeated heath. "mercy on us, marcia, you must have a ring. i cannot allow this young sprite of a niece to outdo you. i am afraid i was not as foresighted as mr. fuller, however. still, i can produce a ring, such as it is. here, dear, you shall wear this until i can get something better." he slipped from his little finger the wrought-gold ring with its beautifully cut diamond. "i picked this up in india," he said. "i am sure it will fit. try it, marcia." "i--i--do not need a ring," murmured she, drawing back and putting her hands nervously behind her. "of course you do," interposed sylvia. "how absurd! a ring is part of being engaged." "a very, very small part," marcia answered. "nevertheless, it is a part," the girl insisted. "come, don't be silly. let stanley put it on." playfully she caught marcia's hands and imprisoning them, drew them forward. on the left one glistened a narrow gold band. "jason's!" cried sylvia. "jason's! take it off and give it to me. you owe nothing to jason. even i, a howe, would not have you preserve longer that worn out allegiance, neither would my mother. the past is dead. you have closed the door upon it. you said so yourself. never think of it again. you belong to stanley now--to stanley and to no one else." as she spoke, sylvia took the ring from the older woman's hand and held it high in the air. "the past is dead," she repeated, "and the last reminder of it--is--gone." there was a gleam as the golden band spun aloft and catching an instant the sunlight's glory, disappeared beneath the foam that marked the line of incoming breakers. "now, stanley, put your ring upon her finger. it is a symbol of a new life, of hope, of happier things. isn't it so, marcia?" "yes! yes!" sylvia drew a long breath. "there! now we'll not be serious a minute longer. this is the greatest day of our four lives. there must not be even a shadow in our heaven. kiss me, marcia, and come and meet hortie. poor dear! he is paralyzed with fright at the thought of appearing into your presence. i left him hiding behind the door. i could not coax him out of the house." "how ridiculous! you must have made me out an ogre." "on the contrary, i made you out an enchantress. i told him you would bewitch him. that's why he became panic-stricken. do be nice to him--for my sake. he really is a lamb." sylvia stepped to the piazza. "horatio," called she imperiously. "come out here right away and meet your aunt marcia. and please, stanley, forgive me for mistaking you for a bandit. i'm dreadfully mortified. still, you must admit circumstantial evidence was strong against you. all of which proves on what shifting sands rest our moral characters!" "say rather our reputations, dear child," heath corrected. transcriber's note: every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as possible. inconsistent hyphenation is as in the original. the following is a list of changes made to the original. page : ensconsed changed to ensconced page : s-pose changed to s'pose page & : villian changed to villain page : housekeper changed to housekeeper