Doctor Thorne - Anthony Trollope (historical books to read .txt) 📗
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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!”
“Yes, we return to-morrow, and shall be happy to have your company.
My friends, including Miss Dunstable, come on Thursday. I am quite
sure you will like Miss Dunstable. I have settled all that with your
mother, so we need say nothing further about it. And now, good-night,
Frank.”
Frank, finding that there was nothing more to be said, took his
departure, and went out to look for Mary. But Mary had gone home with
Janet half an hour since, so he betook himself to his sister
Beatrice.
“Beatrice,” said he, “I am to go to Courcy Castle to-morrow.”
“So I heard mamma say.”
“Well; I only came of age to-day, and I will not begin by running
counter to them. But I tell you what, I won’t stay above a week
at Courcy Castle for all the de Courcys in Barsetshire. Tell me,
Beatrice, did you ever hear of a Miss Dunstable?”
Sir Roger Scatcherd
Enough has been said in this narrative to explain to the reader that
Roger Scatcherd, who was whilom a drunken stone-mason in Barchester,
and who had been so prompt to avenge the injury done to his sister,
had become a great man in the world. He had become a contractor,
first for little things, such as half a mile or so of a railway
embankment, or three or four canal bridges, and then a contractor for
great things, such as Government hospitals, locks, docks, and quays,
and had latterly had in his hands the making of whole lines of
railway.
He
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