The Chronicles of Barsetshire

by Anthony Trollope

  “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 will it 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 anyone will so argue, or so think.

  Dinner-graces are, probably, the last remaining relic of certain daily services [1] 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?

  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 everyone 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 everyone 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; in
deed 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 by 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 has 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.”