The Chronicles of Barsetshire

by Anthony Trollope

  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 anyone 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 who 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 la
id 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—”