“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 anyone 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!”