We must now go back a little and describe how Frank had been sent off on special business to London. The household at Greshamsbury was at this time in but a doleful state. It seemed to be pervaded, from the squire down to the scullery-maid, with a feeling that things were not going well; and men and women, in spite of Beatrice’s coming marriage, were grim-visaged, and dolorous. Mr Mortimer Gazebee, rejected though he had been, still, went and came, talking much to the squire, much also to her ladyship, as to the ill-doings which were in the course of projection by Sir Louis; and Frank went about the house with clouded brow, as though finally resolved to neglect his one great duty.

Poor Beatrice was robbed of half her joy; over and over again her brother asked her whether she had yet seen Mary, and she was obliged as often to answer that she had not. Indeed, she did not dare to visit her friend, for it was hardly possible that they should sympathize with each other. Mary was, to say the least, stubborn in her pride; and Beatrice, though she could forgive her friend for loving her brother, could not forgive the obstinacy with which Mary persisted in a course which, as Beatrice thought, she herself knew to be wrong.

And then Mr Gazebee came down from town, with an intimation that it behoved the squire himself to go up that he might see certain learned pundits, and be badgered in his own person at various dingy, dismal chambers in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, the Temple, and Gray’s Inn Lane. It was an invitation exactly of that sort which a good many years ago was given to a certain duck.

‘Will you, will you — will you, will you — come and be killed?’ Although Mr Gazebee urged the matter with such eloquence, the squire remained steady to his objection, and swam obstinately about his Greshamsbury pond in any direction save that which seemed to lead towards London.

This occurred on the very evening of that Friday which had witnessed the Lady Arabella’s last visit to Dr Thorne’s house. The question of the squire’s necessary journey to the great fountains of justice was, of course, discussed between Lady Arabella and Mr Gazebee; and it occurred to the former, full as she was of Frank’s iniquity and of Mary’s obstinacy, that if Frank were sent up in lieu of his father, it would separate them at least for a while. If she could only get Frank away without seeing his love, she might yet so work upon him, by means of the message which Mary had sent, as to postpone, if not break off, this hateful match. It was inconceivable that a youth of twenty-three, and such a youth as Frank, should be obstinately constant to a girl possessed of no great beauty — so argued Lady Arabella to herself — and who had neither wealth, birth, nor fashion to recommend her.

And this it was at last settled — the squire being a willing partner to the agreement — that Frank should go up and be badgered in lieu of his father. At his age it was possible to make a thing desirable, if not necessary — on account of the importance conveyed — to sit day after day in the chambers of Messrs Slow & Bideawhile, and hear musty law talk, and finger dusty law parchments. The squire had made many visits to Messrs Slow & Bideawhile, and he knew better. Frank had not hitherto been there on his own bottom, and thus he fell easily into the trap.

Mr Oriel was also going to London, and this was another reason for sending Frank. Mr Oriel had business of great importance, which it was quite necessary that he should execute before his marriage. How much of this business consisted in going to his tailor, buying a wedding-ring, and purchasing some other more costly present for Beatrice, we need not here inquire. But Mr Oriel was quite on Lady Arabella’s side with reference to this mad engagement, and as Frank and he were now fast friends, some good might be done in that way. ‘If we all caution him against it, he can hardly withstand us all!’ said Lady Arabella to herself.

The matter was broached to Frank on the Saturday evening, and settled between them all on the same night. Nothing, of course, was at that moment said about Mary; but Lady Arabella was too full of the subject to let him go to London without telling him that Mary was ready to recede if only he would allow her to do so. About eleven o’clock, Frank was sitting in his own room, coming over the difficulties of the situation — thinking of his father’s troubles, his own position — when he was roused from his reverie by a slight tap at the door.

‘Come in,’ he said somewhat loudly. He thought it was one of his sisters, who were apt to visit him at all hours and for all manner of reasons; and he, though he was usually gentle to them, was not at present exactly in a humour to be disturbed.

The door gently opened, and he saw his mother standing hesitating in the passage.

‘Can I come in, Frank?’ said she.

‘Oh, yes, mother; by all means:’ and then, with some surprise marked in his countenance, he prepared a seat for her. Such a visit as this from Lady Arabella was very unusual; so much so, that he had probably not seen her in his own room since the day when he first left school. He had nothing, however, to be ashamed of; nothing to conceal unless it were an open letter from Miss Dunstable which he had in his hand when she entered, and which he somewhat hurriedly thrust into his pocket.

‘I wanted to say a few words to you, Frank, before you start for London about this business.’ Frank signified by a gesture, that he was quite ready to listen to her.

‘I am so glad to see your father putting the matter into your hands. You are younger than he is; and then — I don’t know why, but somehow your father has never been a good man of business — everything has gone wrong with him.’

‘Oh, mother! do not say anything against him.’

‘No, Frank, I will not; I do not wish it. Things have been unfortunate, certainly. Ah me! I little thought when I married — but I don’t mean to complain — I have excellent children, and I ought to be thankful for that.’

Frank began to fear that no good would be coming when his mother spoke in that strain. ‘I will do the best I can,’ said he, ‘up in town. I can’t help thinking myself that Mr Gazebee might have done as well, but —’

‘Oh, dear no; by no means. In such cases the principal must show himself. Besides, it is right you should know how matters stand. Who is so much interested in it as you are? Poor Frank! I do so often feel for you when I think how the property has dwindled.’

‘Pray do not mind me, mother. Why should you talk of it as my matter while my father is not yet forty-five? His life, so to speak, is as good as mine. I can do very well without it; all I want is to be allowed to settle to something.’

‘You mean a profession.’

‘Yes; something of that sort.’

‘They are all so slow, dear Frank. You, who speak French so well — I should think my brother might get you in as an attache to some embassy.’

‘That wouldn’t suit me at all,’ said Frank.

‘Well, we’ll talk about that some other time. But I came about something else, and I do hope you will hear me.’

Frank’s brow again grew black, for he knew that his mother was about to say something which it would be disagreeable for him to hear.

‘I was with Mary, yesterday.’

‘Well, mother?’

‘Don’t be angry with me, Frank; you can’t but know that the fate of an only son must be a subject of anxiety to a mother.’ Ah! how singularly altered was Lady Arabella’s tone since first she had taken upon herself to discuss the marriage prospects of her son! Then how autocratic had she been as she went him away, bidding him, with full command, to throw himself into the golden embraces of Miss Dunstable! But now, how humble, as she came suppliantly to his room, craving that she might have leave to whisper into his ear a mother’s anxious fears! Frank had laughed at her stern behests, though he had half obeyed them; but he was touched to the heart by her humility.

He drew his chair nearer to her, and took her by the hand. But she, disengaging hers, parted the hair from off his forehead, and kissed his brow. ‘Oh, Frank,’ she said, ‘I have been so proud of you, am still so proud of you. It will send me to my grave if I see you sink below your proper position. Not that it will be your fault. I am sure it will not be your fault. Only circumstanced as you are, you should be doubly, trebly, careful. If your father had not —’

‘Do not speak against my father.’

‘No, Frank; I will not — no, I will not; not another word. And now, Frank —’

Before we go on we must say one word further as to Lady Arabella’s character. It will probably be said that she was a consummate hypocrite; but at the present moment she was not hypocritical. She did love her son; was anxious — very, very anxious for him; was proud of him, and almost admired the obstinacy which so vexed her inmost soul. No grief would be to her so great as that of seeing him sink below what she conceived to be his position. She was as genuinely motherly, in wishing that he should marry money, as another woman might be in wishing to see her son a bishop; or as the Spartan matron, who preferred that her offspring should return on his shield, to hearing that he had come back whole in limb but tainted in honour. When Frank spoke of a profession, she instantly thought of what Lord de Courcy might do for him. If he would not marry money, he might, at any rate, be attache at an embassy. A profession — hard work, as a doctor, or as an engineer — would, according to her ideas, degrade him; cause him to sink below his proper position; but to dangle at a foreign court, to make small talk at evening parties of a lady ambassadress, and occasionally, perhaps, to write demi-official notes containing demi-official tittle-tattle; this would be in proper accordance with the high honour of a Gresham of Greshamsbury.

We may not admire the direction taken by Lady Arabella’s energy on behalf of her son, but that energy was not hypocritical.

‘And now, Frank —’ She looked wistfully into his face as she addressed him, as though half afraid to go on, and begging that he would receive with complaisance whatever she found herself forced to say.

‘Well, mother?’

‘I was with Mary yesterday.’

‘Yes, yes; what then? I know what your feelings are with regard to her.’

‘No, Frank; you wrong me. I have no feelings against her — none, indeed; none but this: that she is not fit to be your wife.’

‘I think her fit.’

‘Ah, yes; but how fit? Think of your position, Frank, and what means you have of keeping her. Think of what you are. Your father’s only son; the heir to Greshamsbury. If Greshamsbury be ever again more than a name, it is you that must redeem it. Of all men living you are the least able to marry a girl like Mary Thorne.’

‘Mother, I will not sell myself for what you call my position.’

‘Who asks you? I do not ask you; nobody asks you. I do not want you to marry any one. I did think once — but let that pass. You are now twenty-three. In ten years’ time you will still be a young man. I only ask you to wait. If you marry now, that is, marry such a girl as Mary Thorne —’

‘Such a girl! Where shall I find another?’

‘I mean as regards money, Frank; you know I mean that; how are you to live? Where are you to go? And then, her birth. Oh, Frank, Frank!’

‘Birth! I hate such pretence. What was — but I won’t talk about it. Mother, I tell you my word is pledged, and on no account will I be induced to break it.’

‘Ah, that’s just it; that’s just the point. Now, Frank, listen to me. Pray listen to me patiently for one minute.’

Frank promised that he would listen patiently; but he looked anything but patient as he said so.

‘I have seen Mary, as it was certainly my duty to do. You cannot be angry with me for that.’

‘Who said that I was angry, mother?’

‘Well, I have seen her, and I must own, that though she was not disposed to be courteous to me, personally, she said much that marked her excellent good sense. But the gist of it was this; that as she had made you a promise, nothing should turn her from that promise but your permission.’

‘And do you think —’

‘Wait a moment, Frank, and listen to me. She confessed that this marriage was one which would necessarily bring distress on all your family; that it was one which would probably be ruinous to yourself; that it was a match which could not be approved of: she did, indeed; she confessed all that. “I have nothing”, she said — those were her own words —“I have nothing to say in favour of this engagement, except that he wishes it.” That is what she thinks of it herself. “His wishes are not a reason; but a law,” she said —’

‘And, mother, would you have me desert such a girl as that?’

‘It is not deserting, Frank: it would not be deserting: you would be doing that which she herself approves of. She feels the impropriety of going on; but she cannot draw back because of her promise to you. She thinks that she cannot do it, even though she wishes it.’

‘Wishes it! Oh, mother!’

‘I do believe she does, because she has sense to feel the truth of all that your friends say. Oh, Frank, I will go on my knees to you if you will listen to me.’

‘Oh, mother! mother! mother!’

‘You should think twice, Frank, before you refuse the only request yo............