GATHERUM CASTLE.
On the Tuesday morning Mark did receive his wife’s letter and the
ten-pound note, whereby a strong proof was given of the honesty of the
post-office people in Barsetshire. That letter, written as it had been in
a hurry, while Robin post-boy was drinking a single mug of beer,—well,
what of it if it was half filled a second time?—was nevertheless eloquent
of his wife’s love and of her great triumph.
“I have only half a moment to send you the money,” she said, “for the
postman is here waiting. When I see you I’ll explain why I am so hurried.
Let me know that you get it safe. It is all right now, and Lady Lufton
was here not a minute ago. She did not quite like it; about Gatherum
Castle I mean; but you’ll hear _nothing about it_. Only remember that
_you must dine_ at Framley Court on Wednesday week. _I have promised for
you._ You will: won’t you, dearest? I shall come and fetch you away if
you attempt to stay longer than you have said. But I’m sure you won’t.
God bless you, my own one! Mr. Jones gave us the same sermon he preached
the second Sunday after Easter. Twice in the same year is too often. God
bless you! The children _are quite well_. Mark sends a big kiss.—Your own
F.”
Robarts, as he read this letter and crumpled the note up into his pocket,
felt that it was much more satisfactory than he deserved. He knew that
there must have been a fight, and that his wife, fighting loyally on
his behalf, had got the best of it; and he knew also that her victory
had not been owing to the goodness of her cause. He frequently declared
to himself that he would not be afraid of Lady Lufton; but nevertheless
these tidings that no reproaches were to be made to him afforded him
great relief.
On the following Friday they all went to the duke’s, and found that the
bishop and Mrs. Proudie were there before them; as were also sundry other
people, mostly of some note, either in the estimation of the world at
large or of that of West Barsetshire. Lord Boanerges was there, an old
man who would have his own way in everything, and who was regarded by
all men—apparently even by the duke himself—as an intellectual king,
by no means of the constitutional kind,—as an intellectual emperor
rather, who took upon himself to rule all questions of mind without the
assistance of any ministers whatever. And Baron Brawl was of the party,
one of her Majesty’s puisne judges, as jovial a guest as ever entered a
country house; but given to be rather sharp withal in his jovialities.
And there was Mr. Green Walker, a young but rising man, the same who
lectured not long since on a popular subject to his constituents at the
Crewe Junction. Mr. Green Walker was a nephew of the Marchioness of
Hartletop, and the Marchioness of Hartletop was a friend of the Duke of
Omnium’s. Mr. Mark Robarts was certainly elated when he ascertained who
composed the company of which he had been so earnestly pressed to make a
portion. Would it have been wise in him to forego this on account of the
prejudices of Lady Lufton?
As the guests were so many and so great the huge front portals of
Gatherum Castle were thrown open, and the vast hall adorned with
trophies—with marble busts from Italy and armour from Wardour Street,—was
thronged with gentlemen and ladies, and gave forth unwonted echoes to
many a footstep. His grace himself, when Mark arrived there with Sowerby
and Miss Dunstable—for in this instance Miss Dunstable did travel in the
phaeton while Mark occupied a seat in the dicky—his grace himself was at
this moment in the drawing-room, and nothing could exceed his urbanity.
“O Miss Dunstable,” he said, taking that lady by the hand, and leading
her up to the fire, “now I feel for the first time that Gatherum Castle
has not been built for nothing.”
“Nobody ever supposed it was, your grace,” said Miss Dunstable. “I
am sure the architect did not think so when his bill was paid.” And
Miss Dunstable put her toes up on the fender to warm them with as much
self-possession as though her father had been a duke also, instead of a
quack doctor.
“We have given the strictest orders about the parrot,” said the duke—
“Ah! but I have not brought him after all,” said Miss Dunstable.
“And I have had an aviary built on purpose,—just such as parrots are used
to in their own country. Well, Miss Dunstable, I do call that unkind. Is
it too late to send for him?”
“He and Dr. Easyman are travelling together. The truth was, I could not
rob the doctor of his companion.”
“Why? I have had another aviary built for him. I declare, Miss Dunstable,
the honour you are doing me is shorn of half its glory. But the poodle—I
still trust in the poodle.”
“And your grace’s trust shall not in that respect be in vain. Where is
he, I wonder?” And Miss Dunstable looked round as though she expected
that somebody would certainly have brought her dog in after her. “I
declare I must go and look for him,—only think if they were to put him
among your grace’s dogs,—how his morals would be destroyed!”
“Miss Dunstable, is that intended to be personal?” But the lady had
turned away from the fire, and the duke was able to welcome his other
guests.
This he did with much courtesy. “Sowerby,” he said, “I am glad to find
that you have survived the lecture. I can assure you I had fears for you.”
“I was brought back to life after considerable delay by the
administration of tonics at the Dragon of Wantly. Will your grace allow
me to present to you Mr. Robarts, who on that occasion was not so
fortunate. It was found necessary to carry him off to the palace, where
he was obliged to undergo very vigorous treatment.”
And then the duke shook hands with Mr. Robarts, assuring him that he was
most happy to make his acquaintance. He had often heard of him since he
came into the county; and then he asked after Lord Lufton, regretting
that he had been unable to induce his lordship to come to Gatherum Castle.
“But you had a diversion at the lecture, I am told,” continued the duke.
“There was a second performer, was there not, who almost eclipsed poor
Harold Smith?” And then Mr. Sowerby gave an amusing sketch of the little
Proudie episode.
“It has, of course, ruined your brother-in-law for ever as a lecturer,”
said the duke, laughing.
“If so we shall feel ourselves under the deepest obligations to Mrs.
Proudie,” said Mr. Sowerby. And then Harold Smith himself came up, and
received the duke’s sincere and hearty congratulations on the success of
his enterprise at Barchester.
Mark Robarts had now turned away, and his attention was suddenly arrested
by the loud voice of Miss Dunstable who had stumbled across some very
dear friends in her passage through the rooms, and who by no means hid
from the public her delight upon the occasion.
“Well—well—well!” she exclaimed, and then she seized upon a very
quiet-looking, well-dressed, attractive young woman who was walking
towards her, in company with a gentleman. The gentleman and lady,
as it turned out, were husband and wife. “Well—well—well! I hardly
hoped for this.” And then she took hold of the lady and kissed her
enthusiastically, and after that grasped both the gentleman’s hands,
shaking them stoutly.
“And what a deal I shall have to say to you!” she went on. “You’ll upset
all my other plans. But, Mary my dear, how long are you going to stay
here? I go—let me see—I forget when, but it’s all put down in a book
upstairs. But the next stage is at Mrs. Proudie’s. I shan’t meet you
there, I suppose. And now, Frank, how’s the governor?”
The gentleman called Frank declared that the governor was all right—“mad
about the hounds, of course, you know.”
“Well, my dear, that’s better than the hounds being mad about him, like
the poor gentleman they’ve put into a statue. But talking of hounds,
Frank, how badly they manage their foxes at Chaldicotes! I was out
hunting all one day——”
“You out hunting!” said the lady called Mary.
“And why shouldn’t I go out hunting? I’ll tell you what, Mrs. Proudie was
out hunting, too. But they didn’t catch a single fox; and, if you must
have the truth, it seemed to me to be rather slow.”
“You were in the wrong division of the county,” said the gentleman called
Frank.
“Of course I was. When I really want to practise hunting I’ll go to
Greshamsbury; not a doubt about that.”
“Or to Boxall hill,” said the lady; “you’ll find quite as much zeal there
as at Greshamsbury.”
“And more discretion, you should add,” said the gentleman.
“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed Miss Dunstable; “your discretion indeed! But you
have not told me a word about Lady Arabella.”
“My mother is quite well,” said the gentleman.
“And the doctor? By-the-by, my dear, I’ve had such a letter from the
doctor; only two days ago. I’ll show it you upstairs to-morrow. But mind,
it must be a positive secret. If he goes on in this way he’ll get himself
into the Tower, or Coventry, or a blue-book, or some dreadful place.”
“Why; what has he said?”
“Never you mind, Master Frank: I don’t mean to show you the letter, you
may be sure of that. But if your wife will swear three times on a poker
and tongs that she won’t reveal, I’ll show it to her. And so you’re quite
settled at Boxall hill, are you?”
“Frank’s horses are settled; and the dogs nearly so,” said Frank’s wife;
“but I can’t boast much of anything else yet.”
“Well, there’s a good time coming. I must go and change my things now.
But Mary, mind you get near me this evening; I have such a deal to say to
you.” And then Miss Dunstable marched out of the room.
All this had been said in so loud a voice that it was, as a matter of
course, overheard by Mark Robarts—that part of the conversation of course
I mean which had come from Miss Dunstable. And then Mark learned that
this was young Frank Gresham of Boxall hill, son of old Mr. Gresham
of Greshamsbury. Frank had lately married a great heiress; a greater
heiress, men said, even than Miss Dunstable; and as the marriage was
hardly as yet more than six months old the Barsetshire world was still
full of it.
“The two heiresses seem to be very loving, don’t they?” said Mr.
Supplehouse. “Birds of a feather flock together, you know. But they did
say some little time ago that young Gresham was to have married Miss
Dunstable himself.”
“Miss Dunstable! why she might almost be his mother,” said Mark.
“That makes but little difference. He was obliged to marry money, and
I believe there is no doubt that he did at one time propose to Miss
Dunstable.”
“I have had a letter from Lufton,” Mr. Sowerby said to him the next
morning. “He declares that the delay was all your fault. You were to have
told Lady Lufton before he did anything, and he was waiting to write
about it till he heard from you. It seems that you never said a word to
her ladyship on the subject.”
“I never did, certainly. My commission from Lufton was to break the
matter to her when I found her in a proper humour for receiving it. If
you knew Lady Lufton as well as I do, you would know that it is not every
day that she would be in a humour for such tidings.”
“And so I was to be kept waiting indefinitely because you two between you
were afraid of an old woman! However I have not a word to say against
her, and the matter is settled now.”
“Has the farm been sold?”
“Not a bit of it. The dowager could not bring her mind to suffer such
profanation for the Lufton acres, and so she sold five thousand pounds
out of the funds and sent the money to Lufton as a present;—sent it to
him without saying a word, only hoping that it would suffice for his
wants. I wish I had a mother I know.”
Mark found it impossible at the moment to make any remark upon what had
been told him, but he felt a sudden qualm of conscience and a wish that
he was at Framley instead of at Gatherum Castle at the present moment. He
knew a good deal respecting Lady Lufton’s income and the manner in which
it was spent. It was very handsome for a single lady, but then she lived
in a free and open-handed style; her charities were noble; there was
no reason why she should save money, and her annual income was usually
spent within the year. Mark knew this, and he knew also that nothing
short of an impossibility to maintain them would induce her to lessen
her charities. She had now given away a portion of her principal to
save the property of her son—her son, who was so much more opulent than
herself,—upon whose means, too, the world made fewer effectual claims.
And Mark knew, too, something of the purpose for which this money had
gone. There had been unsettled gambling claims between Sowerby and
Lord Lufton, originating in affairs of the turf. It had now been going
on for four years, almost from the period when Lord Lufton had become
of age. He had before now spoken to Robarts on the matter with much
bitter anger, alleging that Mr. Sowerby was treating him unfairly, nay,
dishonestly—that he was claiming money that was not due to him; and then
he declared more than once that he would bring the matter before the
Jockey Club. But Mark, knowing that Lord Lufton was not clear-sighted
in these matters, and believing it to be impossible that Mr. Sowerby
should actually endeavour to defraud his friend, had smoothed down the
young lord’s anger, and recommended him to get the case referred to some
private arbiter. All this had afterwards been discussed between Robarts
and Mr. Sowerby himself, and hence had originated their intimacy. The
matter was so referred, Mr. Sowerby naming the referee; and Lord Lufton,
when the matter was given against him, took it easily. His anger was
over by that time. “I’ve been clean done among them,” he said to Mark,
laughing; “but it does not signify; a man must pay for his experience.
Of course, Sowerby thinks it all right; I am bound to suppose so.” And
then there had been some further delay as to the amount, and part of the
money had been paid to a third person, and a bill had been given, and
heaven and the Jews only know how much money Lord Lufton had paid in all;
and now it was ended by his handing over to some wretched villain of a
money-dealer, on behalf of Mr. Sowerby, the enormous sum of five thousand
pounds, which had been deducted from the means of his mother, Lady Lufton!
Mark, as he thought of all this, could not but feel a certain animosity
against Mr. Sowerby—could not but suspect that he was a bad man. Nay,
must he not have known that he was very bad? And yet he continued walking
with him through the duke’s grounds, still talking about Lord Lufton’s
affairs, and still listening with interest to what Sowerby told him of
his own.
“No man was ever robbed as I have been,” said he. “But I shall win
through yet, in spite of them all. But those Jews, Mark”—he had become
very intimate with him in these latter days—“whatever you do, keep clear
of them. Why, I could paper a room with their signatures; and yet I never
had a claim upon one of them, though they always have claims on me!”
I have said above that this affair of Lord Lufton’s was ended; but it
now appeared to Mark that it was not _quite_ ended. “Tell Lufton, you
know,” said Sowerby, “that every bit of paper with his name has been
taken up, except what that ruffian Tozer has. Tozer may have one bill, I
believe,—something that was not given up when it was renewed. But I’ll
make my lawyer Gumption get that up. It may cost ten pounds or twenty
pounds, not more. You’ll remember that when you see Lufton, will you?”
“You’ll see Lufton in all probability before I shall.”
“Oh, did I not tell you? He’s going to Framley Court at once; you’ll find
him there when you return.”
“Find him at Framley!”
“Yes; this little _cadeau_ from his mother has touched his filial heart.
He is rushing home to Framley to pay back the dowager’s hard moidores in
soft caresses. I wish I had a mother; I know that.”
And Mark still felt that he feared Mr. Sowerby, but he could not make up
his mind to break away from him.
And there was much talk of politics just then at the castle. Not that the
duke joined in it with any enthusiasm. He was a whig—a huge mountain of
a colossal whig—all the world knew that. No opponent would have dreamed
of tampering with his whiggery, nor would any brother whig have dreamed
of doubting it. But he was a whig who gave very little practical support
to any set of men, and very little practical opposition to any other set.
He was above troubling himself with such sublunar matters. At election
time he supported, and always carried, whig candidates; and in return he
had been appointed lord lieutenant of the county by one whig minister,
and had received the Garter from another. But these things were matters
of course to a Duke of Omnium. He was born to be a lord lieutenant and a
knight of the Garter.
But not the less on account of his apathy, or rather quiescence, was it
thought that Gatherum Castle was a fitting place in which politicians
might express to each other their present hopes and future aims, and
concoct together little plots in a half-serious and half-mocking way.
Indeed it was hinted that Mr. Supplehouse and Harold Smith, with one or
two others, were at Gatherum for this express purpose. Mr. Fothergill,
too, was a noted politician, and was supposed to know the duke’s mind
well; and Mr. Green Walker, the nephew of the marchioness, was a young
man whom the duke desired to have brought forward. Mr. Sowerby also
was the duke’s own member, and so the occasion suited well for the
interchange of a few ideas.
The then prime minister, angry as many men were with him, had not been
altogether unsuccessful. He had brought the Russian war to a close,
which, if not glorious, was at any rate much more so than Englishmen at
one time had ventured to hope. And he had had wonderful luck in that
Indian mutiny. It is true that many of those even who voted with him
would declare that this was in no way attributable to him. Great men had
risen in India and done all that. Even his minister there, the governor
whom he had sent out, was not allowed in those days any credit for the
success which was achieved under his orders. There was great reason to
doubt the man at the helm. But nevertheless he had been lucky. There is
no merit in a public man like success!
But now, when the evil days were well nigh over, came the question
whether he had not been too successful. When a man has nailed fortune to
his chariot-wheels he is apt to travel about in rather a proud fashion.
There are servants who think that their masters cannot do without them;
and the public also may occasionally have some such servant. What if this
too successful minister were one of them!
And then a discreet, commonplace, zealous member of the Lower House does
not like to be jeered at, when he does his duty by his constituents
and asks a few questions. An all-successful minister who cannot keep
his triumph to himself, but must needs drive about in a proud fashion,
laughing at commonplace zealous members—laughing even occasionally at
members who are by no means commonplace, which is outrageous!—may it not
be as well to ostracize him for awhile?
“Had we not better throw in our shells against him?” says Mr. Harold
Smith.
“Let us throw in our shells, by all means,” says Mr. Supplehouse, mindful
as Juno of his despised charms. And when Mr. Supplehouse declares himself
an enemy, men know how much it means. They know that that much-belaboured
head of affairs must succumb to the terrible blows which are now in
store for him. “Yes, we will throw in our shells.” And Mr. Supplehouse
rises from his chair with gleaming eyes. “Has not Greece as noble sons
as him? ay, and much nobler, traitor that he is. We must judge a man by
his friends,” says Mr. Supplehouse; and he points away to the East, where
our dear allies the French are supposed to live, and where our head of
affairs is supposed to have too close an intimacy.
They all understand this, even Mr. Green Walker. “I don’t know that he
is any good to any of us at all, now,” says the talented member for the
Crewe Junction. “He’s a great deal too uppish to suit my book; and I know
a great many people that think so too. There’s my uncle——”
“He’s the best fellow in the world,” said Mr. Fothergill, who felt,
perhaps, that that coming revelation about Mr. Green Walker’s uncle might
not be of use to them; “but the fact is one gets tired of the same man
always. One does not like partridge every day. As for me, I have nothing
to do with it myself; but I would certainly like to change the dish.”
“If we’re merely to do as we are bid, and have no voice of our own, I
don’t see what’s the good of going to the shop at all,” said Mr. Sowerby.
“Not the least use,” said Mr. Supplehouse. “We are false to our
constituents in submitting to such a dominion.”
“Let’s have a change, then,” said Mr. Sowerby. “The matter’s pretty much
in our own hands.”
“Altogether,” said Mr. Green Walker. “That’s what my uncle always says.”
“The Manchester men will only be too happy for the chance,” said Harold
Smith.
“And as for the high and dry gentlemen,” said Mr. Sowerby, “it’s not very
likely that they will object to pick up the fruit when we shake the tree.”
“As to picking up the fruit, that’s as may be,” said Mr. Supplehouse.
Was he not the man to save the nation; and if so, why should he not
pick up the fruit himself? Had not the greatest power in the country
pointed him out as such a saviour? What though the country at the present
moment needed no more saving, might there not nevertheless be a good
time coming? Were there not rumours of other wars still prevalent—if
indeed the actual war then going on was being brought to a close without
his assistance, by some other species of salvation? He thought of that
country to which he had pointed, and of that friend of his enemies, and
remembered that there might be still work for a mighty saviour. The
public mind was now awake, and understood what it was about. When a man
gets into his head an idea that the public voice calls for him, it is
astonishing how great becomes his trust in the wisdom of the public.
_Vox populi vox Dei_. “Has it not been so always?” he says to himself,
as he gets up and as he goes to bed. And then Mr. Supplehouse felt
that he was the master mind there at Gatherum Castle, and that those
there were all puppets in his hand. It is such a pleasant thing to feel
that one’s friends are puppets, and that the strings are in one’s own
possession. But what if Mr. Supplehouse himself were a puppet?
Some months afterwards, when the much-belaboured head of affairs was in
very truth made to retire, when unkind shells were thrown in against
him in great numbers, when he exclaimed, “_Et tu, Brute!_” till the
words were stereotyped upon his lips, all men in all places talked much
about the great Gatherum Castle confederation. The Duke of Omnium, the
world said, had taken into his high consideration the state of affairs,
and seeing with his eagle’s eye that the welfare of his countrymen at
large required that some great step should be initiated, he had at once
summoned to his mansion many members of the Lower House, and some also of
the House of Lords,—mention was here especially made of the all-venerable
and all-wise Lord Boanerges; and men went on to say that there, in deep
conclave, he had made known to them his views. It was thus agreed that
the head of affairs, whig as he was, must fall. The country required
it, and the duke did his duty. This was the beginning, the world said,
of that celebrated confederation, by which the ministry was overturned,
and—as the _Goody Twoshoes_ added,—the country saved. But the _Jupiter_
took all the credit to itself; and the _Jupiter_ was not far wrong. All
the credit was due to the _Jupiter_—in that, as in everything else.
In the meantime the Duke of Omnium entertained his guests in the quiet
princely style, but did not condescend to have much conversation on
politics either with Mr. Supplehouse or with Mr. Harold Smith. And as
for Lord Boanerges, he spent the morning on which the above-described
conversation took place in teaching Miss Dunstable to blow soap-bubbles
on scientific principles.
“Dear, dear!” said Miss Dunstable, as sparks of knowledge came flying in
upon her mind. “I always thought that a soap-bubble was a soap-bubble,
and I never asked the reason why. One doesn’t, you know, my lord.”
“Pardon me, Miss Dunstable,” said the old lord, “one does; but nine
hundred and ninety-nine do not.”
“And the nine hundred and ninety-nine have the best of it,” said Miss
Dunstable. “What pleasure can one have in a ghost after one has seen the
phosphorus rubbed on?”
“Quite true, my dear lady. ‘If ignorance be bliss, ’tis folly to be
wise.’ It all lies in the ‘if.’”
Then Miss Dunstable began to sing:—
“‘What tho’ I trace each herb and flower
That sips the morning dew—’
—you know the rest, my lord.”
Lord Boanerges did know almost everything, but he did not know that; and
so Miss Dunstable went on:—
“‘Did I not own Jehovah’s power
How vain were all I know.’”
“Exactly, exactly, Miss Dunstable,” said his lordship; “but why not own
the power and trace the flower as well? perhaps one might help the other.”
Upon the whole I am afraid that Lord Boanerges got the best of it. But
then that is his line. He has been getting the best of it all his life.
It was observed by all that the duke was especially attentive to young
Mr. Frank Gresham, the gentleman on whom and on whose wife Miss Dunstable
had seized so vehemently. This Mr. Gresham was the richest commoner in
the county, and it was rumoured that at the next election he would be one
of the members for the East Riding. Now the duke had little or nothing
to do with the East Riding, and it was well known that young Gresham
would be brought forward as a strong conservative. But nevertheless, his
acres were so extensive and his money so plentiful that he was worth a
duke’s notice. Mr. Sowerby also was almost more than civil to him, as was
natural, seeing that this very young man by a mere scratch of his pen
could turn a scrap of paper into a bank-note of almost fabulous value.
“So you have the East Barsetshire hounds at Boxall hill; have you not?”
said the duke.
“The hounds are there,” said Frank. “But I am not the master.”
“Oh! I understood——”
“My father has them. But he finds Boxall hill more centrical than
Greshamsbury. The dogs and horses have to go shorter distances.”
“Boxall hill is very centrical.”
“Oh, exactly!”
“And your young gorse coverts are doing well?”
“Pretty well—gorse won’t thrive everywhere I find. I wish it would.”
“That’s just what I say to Fothergill; and then where there’s much
woodland you can’t get the vermin to leave it.”
“But we haven’t a tree at Boxall hill,” said Mrs. Gresham.
“Ah, yes; you’re new there, certainly; you’ve enough of it at
Greshamsbury in all conscience. There’s a larger extent of wood there
than we have; isn’t there, Fothergill?”
Mr. Fothergill said that the Greshamsbury woods were very extensive, but
that, perhaps, he thought——
“Oh, ah! I know,” said the duke. “The Black Forest in its old days
was nothing to Gatherum woods, according to Fothergill. And then
again, nothing in East Barsetshire could be equal to anything in West
Barsetshire. Isn’t that it; eh, Fothergill?”
Mr. Fothergill professed that he had been brought up in that faith and
intended to die in it.
“Your exotics at Boxall hill are very fine, magnificent!” said Mr.
Sowerby.
“I’d sooner have one full-grown oak standing in its pride alone,” said
young Gresham, rather grandiloquently, “than all the exotics in the
world.”
“They’ll come in due time,” said the duke.
“But the due time won’t be in my days. And so they’re going to cut down
Chaldicotes forest; are they, Mr. Sowerby?”
“Well, I can’t tell you that. They are going to disforest it. I have been
ranger since I was twenty-two, and I don’t yet know whether that means
cutting down.”
“Not only cutting down, but rooting up,” said Mr. Fothergill.
“It’s a murderous shame,” said Frank Gresham; “and I will say one thing,
I don’t think any but a whig government would do it.”
“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed his grace. “At any rate I’m sure of this,” he said,
“that if a conservative government did do so, the whigs would be just as
indignant as you are now.”
“I’ll tell you what you ought to do, Mr. Gresham,” said Sowerby: “put in
an offer for the whole of the West Barsetshire crown property; they will
be very glad to sell it.”
“And we should be delighted to welcome you on this side of the border,”
said the duke.
Young Gresham did feel rather flattered. There were not many men in the
county to whom such an offer could be made without an absurdity. It
might be doubted whether the duke himself could purchase the Chase of
Chaldicotes with ready money; but that he, Gresham, could do so—he and
his wife between them—no man did doubt. And then Mr. Gresham thought
of a former day when he had once been at Gatherum Castle. He had been
poor enough then, and the duke had not treated him in the most courteous
manner in the world. How hard it is for a rich man not to lean upon his
riches! harder, indeed, than for a camel to go through the eye of a
needle.
All Barsetshire knew—at any rate all West Barsetshire—that Miss Dunstable
had been brought down in those parts in order that Mr. Sowerby might
marry her. It was not surmised that Miss Dunstable herself had had any
previous notice of this arrangement, but it was supposed that the thing
would turn out as a matter of course. Mr. Sowerby had no money, but then
he was witty, clever, good-looking, and a member of parliament. He lived
before the world, represented an old family, and had an old place. How
could Miss Dunstable possibly do better? She was not so young now, and it
was time that she should look about her.
The suggestion as regarded Mr. Sowerby was certainly true, and was not
the less so as regarded some of Mr. Sowerby’s friends. His sister, Mrs.
Harold Smith, had devoted herself to the work, and with this view had
run up a dear friendship with Miss Dunstable. The bishop had intimated,
nodding his head knowingly, that it would be a very good thing. Mrs.
Proudie had given in her adherence. Mr. Supplehouse had been made to
understand that it must be a case of “Paws off” with him, as long as he
remained in that part of the world; and even the duke himself had desired
Fothergill to manage it.
“He owes me an enormous sum of money,” said the duke who held all
Mr. Sowerby’s title-deeds, “and I doubt whether the security will be
sufficient.”
“Your grace will find the security quite sufficient,” said Mr.
Fothergill; “but nevertheless it would be a good match.”
“Very good,” said the duke. And then it became Mr. Fothergill’s duty to
see that Mr. Sowerby and Miss Dunstable became man and wife as speedily
as possible.
Some of the party, who were more wide awake than others, declared that he
had made the offer; others, that he was just going to do so; and one very
knowing lady went so far at one time as to say that he was making it at
that moment. Bets also were laid as to the lady’s answer, as to the terms
of the settlement, and as to the period of the marriage,—of all which
poor Miss Dunstable of course knew nothing.
Mr. Sowerby, in spite of the publicity of his proceedings, proceeded in
the matter very well. He said little about it to those who joked with
him, but carried on the fight with what best knowledge he had in such
matters. But so much it is given to us to declare with certainty, that
he had not proposed on the evening previous to the morning fixed for the
departure of Mark Robarts.
During the last two days Mr. Sowerby’s intimacy with Mark had grown
warmer and warmer. He had talked to the vicar confidentially about the
doings of these bigwigs now present at the castle, as though there were
no other guest there with whom he could speak in so free a manner. He
confided, it seemed, much more in Mark than in his brother-in-law, Harold
Smith, or in any of his brother members of parliament, and had altogether
opened his heart to him in this affair of his anticipated marriage. Now
Mr. Sowerby was a man of mark in the world, and all this flattered our
young clergyman not a little.
On that evening before Robarts went away Sowerby asked him to come up
into his bedroom when the whole party was breaking up, and there got him
into an easy-chair while he, Sowerby, walked up and down the room.
“You can hardly tell, my dear fellow,” said he, “the state of nervous
anxiety in which this puts me.”
“Why don’t you ask her and have done with it? She seems to me to be fond
of your society.”
“Ah, it is not that only; there are wheels within wheels;” and then he
walked once or twice up and down the room, during which Mark thought that
he might as well go to bed.
“Not that I mind telling you everything,” said Sowerby. “I am infernally
hard up for a little ready money just at the present moment. It may be,
and indeed I think it will be, the case that I shall be ruined in this
matter for the want of it.”
“Could not Harold Smith give it you?”
“Ha, ha, ha! you don’t know Harold Smith. Did you ever hear of his
lending a man a shilling in his life?”
“Or Supplehouse?”
“Lord love you! You see me and Supplehouse together here, and he comes
and stays at my house, and all that; but Supplehouse and I are no
friends. Look you here, Mark. I would do more for your little finger than
for his whole hand, including the pen which he holds in it. Fothergill
indeed might—but then I know Fothergill is pressed himself at the present
moment. It is deuced hard, isn’t it? I must give up the whole game if I
can’t put my hand upon 400_l._ within the next two days.”
“Ask her for it, herself.”
“What, the woman I wish to marry! No, Mark, I’m not quite come to that. I
would sooner lose her than that.”
Mark sat silent, gazing at the fire and wishing that he was in his own
bedroom. He had an idea that Mr. Sowerby wished him to produce this
400_l._; and he knew also that he had not 400_l._ in the world, and that
if he had he would be acting very foolishly to give it to Mr. Sowerby.
But nevertheless he felt half fascinated by the man, and half afraid of
him.
“Lufton owes it to me to do more than this,” continued Mr. Sowerby; “but
then Lufton is not here?”
“Why, he has just paid five thousand pounds for you.”
“Paid five thousand pounds for me! Indeed he has done no such thing: not
a sixpence of it came into my hands. Believe me, Mark, you don’t know
the whole of that yet. Not that I mean to say a word against Lufton. He
is the soul of honour; though so deucedly dilatory in money matters. He
thought he was right all through that affair, but no man was ever so
confoundedly wrong. Why, don’t you remember that that was the very view
you took of it yourself?”
“I remember saying that I thought he was mistaken.”
“Of course he was mistaken. And dearly the mistake cost me. I had to make
good the money for two or three years. And my property is not like his. I
wish it were.”
“Marry Miss Dunstable, and that will set it all right for you.”
“Ah! so I would if I had this money. At any rate I would bring it to the
point. Now, I tell you what, Mark; if you’ll assist me at this strait
I’ll never forget it. And the time will come round when I may be able to
do something for you.”
“I have not got a hundred, no, not fifty pounds by me in the world.”
“Of course you’ve not. Men don’t walk about the streets with 400_l._ in
their pockets. I don’t suppose there’s a single man here in the house
with such a sum at his bankers’, unless it be the duke.”
“What is it you want then?”
“Why, your name to be sure. Believe me, my dear follow, I would not ask
you really to put your hand into your pocket to such a tune as that.
Allow me to draw on you for that amount at three months. Long before that
time I shall be flush enough.” And then, before Mark could answer, he had
a bill stamp and pen and ink out on the table before him, and was filling
in the bill as though his friend had already given his consent.
“Upon my word, Sowerby, I had rather not do that.”
“Why! what are you afraid of?”—Mr. Sowerby asked this very sharply. “Did
you ever hear of my having neglected to take up a bill when it fell due?”
Robarts thought that he had heard of such a thing; but in his confusion
he was not exactly sure, and so he said nothing.
“No, my boy; I have not come to that. Look here: just you write,
‘Accepted, Mark Robarts,’ across that, and then you shall never hear of
the transaction again;—and you will have obliged me for ever.”
“As a clergyman it would be wrong of me,” said Robarts.
“As a clergyman! Come, Mark! If you don’t like to do as much as that for
a friend, say so; but don’t let us have that sort of humbug. If there be
one class of men whose names would be found more frequent on the backs
of bills in the provincial banks than another, clergymen are that class.
Come, old fellow, you won’t throw me over when I am so hard pushed.”
Mark Robarts took the pen and signed the bill. It was the first time
in his life that he had ever done such an act. Sowerby then shook him
cordially by the hand, and he walked off to his own bedroom a wretched
man.