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 must 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 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 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 myself.’
‘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 is certainly 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 loudly accusing 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.’
When he reached the doctor’s house, he was shown into the drawing-room, and found Mary there alone. It had always been the 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 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; and 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............