“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 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. And 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 night, neither he or anyone 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 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 very 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.