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 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 laid 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--"
"Oh, Frank, my darling Frank, don't think of it--it is madness; she
knows it is madness."
"Never mind; if she ever talks about me, tell her that the last word
I said was, that I would never forget her. She can do as she likes."
Beatrice made no promise, never hinted that she would give the
message; but it may be taken for granted that she had not been long
in company with Mary Thorne before she did give it.
And then there were other troubles at Greshamsbury. It had been
decided that Augusta's marriage was to take place in September; but
Mr Moffat had, unfortunately, been obliged to postpone the happy day.
He himself had told Augusta--not, of course, without protestations
as to his regret--and had written to this effect to Mr Gresham,
"Electioneering matters, and other troubles had," he said, "made this
peculiarly painful postponement absolutely necessary."
Augusta seemed to bear her misfortune with more equanimity than is,
we believe, usual with young ladies under such circumstances. She
spoke of it to her mother in a very matter-of-fact way, and seemed
almost contented at the idea of remaining at Greshamsbury till
February; which was the time now named for the marriage. But Lady
Arabella was not equally well satisfied, nor was the squire.
"I half believe that fellow is not honest," he had once said out loud
before Frank, and this set Frank a-thinking of what dishonesty in the
matter it was probable that Mr Moffat might be guilty, and what would
be the fitting punishment for such a crime. Nor did he think on the
subject in vain; especially after a conference on the matter which he
had with his friend Harry Baker. This conference took place during
the Christmas vacation.
It should be mentioned, that the time spent by Frank at Courcy Castle
had not done much to assist him in his views as to an early degree,
and that it had at last been settled that he should stay up at
Cambridge another year. When he came home at Christmas he found that
the house was not peculiarly lively. Mary was absent on a visit with
Miss Oriel. Both these young ladies were staying with Miss Oriel's
aunt, in the neighbourhood of London; and Frank soon learnt that
there was no chance that either of them would be home before his
return. No message had been left for him by Mary--none at least had
been left with Beatrice; and he began in his heart to accuse her of
coldness and perfidy;--not, certainly, with much justice, seeing that
she had never given him the slightest encouragement.
The absence of Patience Oriel added to the dullness of the place. It
was certainly hard upon Frank that all the attraction of the village
should be removed to make way and prepare for his return--harder,
perhaps, on them; for, to tell the truth, Miss Oriel's visit had been
entirely planned to enable her to give Mary a comfortable way of
leaving Greshamsbury during the time that Frank should remain at
home. Frank thought himself cruelly used. But what did Mr Oriel think
when doomed to eat his Christmas pudding alone, because the young
squire would be unreasonable in his love? What did the doctor think,
as he sat solitary by his deserted hearth--the doctor, who no
longer permitted himself to enjoy the comforts of the Greshamsbury
dining-table? Frank hinted and grumbled; talked to Beatrice of the
determined constancy of his love, and occasionally consoled himself
by a stray smile from some of the neighbouring belles. The black
horse was made perfect; the old grey pony was by no means discarded;
and much that was satisfactory was done in the sporting line. But
still the house was dull, and Frank felt that he was the cause of
its being so. Of the doctor he saw but little: he never came to
Greshamsbury unless to see Lady Arabella as doctor, or to be closeted
with the squire. There were no social evenings with him; no animated
confabulations at the doctor's house; no discourses between them,
as there had wont to be, about the merits of the different covers,
and the capacities of the different hounds. These were dull days on
the whole for Frank; and sad enough, we may say, for our friend the
doctor.
In February, Frank again went back to college; having settled with
Harry Baker certain affairs which weighed on his mind. He went back
to Cambridge, promising to be home on the 20th of the month, so as to
be present at his sister's wedding. A cold and chilling time had been
named for these hymeneal joys, but one not altogether unsuited to the
feelings of the happy pair. February is certainly not a warm month;
but with the rich it is generally a cosy, comfortable time. Good
fires, winter cheer, groaning tables, and warm blankets, make a
fictitious summer, which, to some tastes, is more delightful than
the long days and the hot sun. And some marriages are especially
winter matches. They depend for their charm on the same substantial
attractions: instead of heart beating to heart in sympathetic unison,
purse chinks to purse. The rich new furniture of the new abode is
looked to instead of the rapture of a pure embrace. The new carriage
is depended on rather than the new heart's companion; and the first
bright gloss, prepared by the upholsterer's hands, stands in lieu of
the rosy tints which young love lends to his true votaries.
Mr Moffat had not spent his Christmas at Greshamsbury. That eternal
election petition, those eternal lawyers, the eternal care of his
well-managed wealth, forbade him the enjoyment of any such pleasures.
He could not come to Greshamsbury for Christmas, nor yet for the
festivities of the new year; but now and then he wrote prettily
worded notes, sending occasionally a silver-gilt pencil-case, or a
small brooch, and informed Lady Arabella that he looked forward to
the 20th of February with great satisfaction. But, in the meanwhile,
the squire became anxious, and at last went up to London; and Frank,
who was at Cambridge, bought the heaviest cutting whip to be found in
that town, and wrote a confidential letter to Harry Baker.
Poor Mr Moffat! It is well known that none but the brave deserve the
fair; but thou, without much excuse for bravery, had secured for
thyself one who, at any rate, was fair enough for thee. Would it
not have been well hadst thou looked into thyself to see what real
bravery might be in thee, before thou hadst prepared to desert this
fair one thou hadst already won? That last achievement, one may say,
did require some special courage.
Poor Mr Moffat! It is wonderful that as he sat in that gig, going to
Gatherum Castle, planning how he would be off with Miss Gresham and
afterwards on with Miss Dunstable, it is wonderful that he should not
then have cast his eye behind him, and looked at that stalwart pair
of shoulders which were so close to his own back. As he afterwards
pondered on his scheme while sipping the duke's claret, it is odd
that he should not have observed the fiery pride of purpose and power
of wrath which was so plainly written on that young man's brow: or,
when he matured, and finished, and carried out his purpose, that he
did not think of that keen grasp which had already squeezed his own
hand with somewhat too warm a vigour, even in the way of friendship.
Poor Mr Moffat! it is probable that he forgot to think of Frank at
all as connected with his promised bride; it is probable that he
looked forward only to the squire's violence and the enmity of the
house of Courcy; and that he found from enquiry at his heart's
pulses, that he was man enough to meet these. Could he have guessed
what a whip Frank Gresham would have bought at Cambridge--could he
have divined what a letter would have been written to Harry Baker--it
is probable, nay, we think we may say certain, that Miss Gresham
would have become Mrs Moffat.
Miss Gresham, however, never did become Mrs Moffat. About two days
after Frank's departure for Cambridge--it is just possible that Mr
Moffat was so prudent as to make himself aware of the fact--but just
two days after Frank's departure, a very long, elaborate, and clearly
explanatory letter was received at Greshamsbury. Mr Moffat was quite
sure that Miss Gresham and her very excellent parents would do him
the justice to believe that he was not actuated, &c., &c., &c.
The long and the short of this was, that Mr Moffat signified his
intention of breaking off the match without offering any intelligible
reason.
Augusta again bore her disappointment well: not, indeed, without
sorrow and heartache, and inward, hidden tears; but still well. She
neither raved, nor fainted, nor walked about by moonlight alone. She
wrote no poetry, and never once thought of suicide. When, indeed, she
remembered the rosy-tinted lining, the unfathomable softness of that
Long-acre carriage, her spirit did for one moment give way; but, on
the whole, she bore it as a strong-minded woman and a de Courcy
should do.
But both Lady Arabella and the squire were greatly vexed. The former
had made the match, and the latter, having consented to it, had
incurred deeper responsibilities to enable him to bring it about.
The money which was to have been given to Mr Moffat was still to the
fore; but alas! how much, how much that he could ill spare, had been
thrown away on bridal preparations! It is, moreover, an unpleasant
thing for a gentleman to have his daughter jilted; perhaps peculiarly
so to have her jilted by a tailor's son.
Lady Arabella's woe was really piteous. It seemed to her as though
cruel fate were heaping misery after misery upon the wretched house
of Greshamsbury. A few weeks since things were going so well with
her! Frank then was all but the accepted husband of almost untold
wealth--so, at least, she was informed by her sister-in-law--whereas,
Augusta, was the accepted wife of wealth, not indeed untold, but of
dimensions quite sufficiently respectable to cause much joy in the
telling. Where now were her golden hopes? Where now the splendid
future of her poor duped children? Augusta was left to pine alone;
and Frank, in a still worse plight, insisted on maintaining his love
for a bastard and a pauper.
For Frank's affair she had received some poor consolation by laying
all the blame on the squire's shoulders. What she had then said
was now repaid to her with interest; for not only had she been the
maker of Augusta's match, but she had boasted of the deed with all a
mother's pride.
It was from Beatrice that Frank had obtained his tidings. This last
resolve on the part of Mr Moffat had not altogether been unsuspected
by some of the Greshams, though altogether unsuspected by the Lady
Arabella. Frank had spoken of it as a possibility to Beatrice,
and was not quite unprepared when the information reached him. He
consequently bought his big cutting whip, and wrote his confidential
letter to Harry Baker.
On the following day Frank and Harry might have been seen, with their
heads nearly close together, leaning over one of the tables in the
large breakfast-room at the Tavistock Hotel in Covent Garden. The
ominous whip, to the handle of which Frank had already made his hand
well accustomed, was lying on the table between them; and ever and
anon Harry Baker would take it up and feel its weight approvingly.
Oh, Mr Moffat! poor Mr Moffat! go not out into the fashionable world
to-day; above all, go not to that club of thine in Pall Mall; but,
oh! especially go not there, as is thy wont to do, at three o'clock
in the afternoon!
With much care did those two young generals lay their plans of
attack. Let it not for a moment be thought that it was ever in the
minds of either of them that two men should attack one. But it
was thought that Mr Moffat might be rather coy in coming out from
his seclusion to meet the proffered hand of his once intended
brother-in-law when he should see that hand armed with a heavy whip.
Baker, therefore, was content to act as a decoy duck, and remarked
that he might no doubt make himself useful in restraining the public
mercy, and, probably, in controlling the interference of policemen.
"It will be deuced hard if I can't get five or six shies at him,"
said Frank, again clutching his weapon almost spasmodically. Oh, Mr
Moffat! five or six shies with such a whip, and such an arm! For
myself, I would sooner join in a second Balaclava gallop than
encounter it.
At ten minutes before four these two heroes might be seen walking up
Pall Mall, towards the ---- Club. Young Baker walked with an eager
disengaged air. Mr Moffat did not know his appearance; he had,
therefore, no anxiety to pass along unnoticed. But Frank had in some
mysterious way drawn his hat very far over his forehead, and had
buttoned his shooting-coat up round his chin. Harry had recommended
to him a great-coat, in order that he might the better conceal his
face; but Frank had found that the great-coat was an encumbrance to
his arm. He put it on, and when thus clothed he had tried the whip,
he found that he cut the air with much less potency than in the
lighter garment. He contented himself, therefore, with looking down
on the pavement as he walked along, letting the long point of the
whip stick up from his pocket, and flattering himself that even Mr
Moffat would not recognise him at the first glance. Poor Mr Moffat!
If he had but had the chance!
And now, having arrived at the front of the club, the two friends for
a moment separate: Frank remains standing on the pavement, under the
shade of the high stone area-railing, while Harry jauntily skips up
three steps at a time, and with a very civil word of inquiry of the
hall porter, sends in his card to Mr Moffat--
MR HARRY BAKER
Mr Moffat, never having heard of such a gentleman in his life,
unwittingly comes out into the hall, and Harry, with the sweetest
smile, addresses him.
Now the plan of the campaign had been settled in this wise: Baker
was to send into the club for Mr Moffat, and invite that gentleman
down into the street. It was probable that the invitation might
be declined; and it had been calculated in such case that the two
gentlemen would retire for parley into the strangers' room, which was
known to be immediately opposite the hall door. Frank was to keep his
eye on the portals, and if he found that Mr Moffat did not appear
as readily as might be desired, he also was to ascend the steps and
hurry into the strangers' room. Then, whether he met Mr Moffat there
or elsewhere, or wherever he might meet him, he was to greet him with
all the friendly vigour in his power, while Harry disposed of the
club porters.
But fortune, who ever favours the brave, specially favoured Frank
Gresham on this occasion. Just as Harry Baker had put his card
into the servant's hand, Mr Moffat, with his hat on, prepared for
the street, appeared in the hall; Mr Baker addressed him with his
sweetest smile, and begged the pleasure of saying a word or two as
they descended into the street. Had not Mr Moffat been going thither
it would have been very improbable that he should have done so at
Harry's instance. But, as it was, he merely looked rather solemn
at his visitor--it was his wont to look solemn--and continued the
descent of the steps.
Frank, his heart leaping the while, saw his prey, and retreated two
steps behind the area-railing, the dread weapon already well poised
in his hand. Oh! Mr Moffat! Mr Moffat! if there be any goddess to
interfere in thy favour, let her come forward now without delay; let
her now bear thee off on a cloud if there be one to whom thou art
sufficiently dear! But there is no such goddess.
Harry smiled blandly till they were well on the pavement, saying some
nothing, and keeping the victim's face averted from the avenging
angel; and then, when the raised hand was sufficiently nigh, he
withdrew two steps towards the nearest lamp-post. Not for him was the
honour of the interview;--unless, indeed, succouring policemen might
give occasion for some gleam of glory.
But succouring policemen were no more to be come by than goddesses.
Where were ye, men, when that savage whip fell about the ears of the
poor ex-legislator? In Scotland Yard, sitting dozing on your benches,
or talking soft nothings to the housemaids round the corner; for ye
were not walking on your beats, nor standing at coign of vantage, to
watch the tumults of the day. But had ye been there what could ye
have done? Had Sir Richard himself been on the spot Frank Gresham
would still, we may say, have had his five shies at that unfortunate
one.
When Harry Baker quickly seceded from the way, Mr Moffat at once saw
the fate before him. His hair doubtless stood on end, and his voice
refused to give the loud screech with which he sought to invoke the
club. An ashy paleness suffused his cheeks, and his tottering steps
were unable to bear him away in flight. Once, and twice, the cutting
whip came well down across his back. Had he been wise enough to stand
still and take his thrashing in that attitude, it would have been
well for him. But men so circumstanced have never such prudence.
After two blows he made a dash at the steps, thinking to get back
into the club; but Harry, who had by no means reclined in idleness
against the lamp-post, here stopped him: "You had better go back into
the street," said Harry; "indeed you had," giving him a shove from
off the second step.
Then of course Frank could not do other than hit him anywhere. When a
gentleman is dancing about with much energy it is hardly possible to
strike him fairly on his back. The blows, therefore, came now on his
legs and now on his head; and Frank unfortunately got more than his
five or six shies before he was interrupted.
The interruption however came, all too soon for Frank's idea of
justice. Though there be no policeman to take part in a London row,
there are always others ready enough to do so; amateur policemen,
who generally sympathise with the wrong side, and, in nine cases
out of ten, expend their generous energy in protecting thieves and
pickpockets. When it was seen with what tremendous ardour that
dread weapon fell about the ears of the poor undefended gentleman,
interference there was at last, in spite of Harry Baker's best
endeavours, and loudest protestations.
"Do not interrupt them, sir," said he; "pray do not. It is a family
affair, and they will neither of them like it."
In the teeth, however, of these assurances, rude people did
interfere, and after some nine or ten shies Frank found himself
encompassed by the arms, and encumbered by the weight of a very stout
gentleman, who hung affectionately about his neck and shoulders;
whereas, Mr Moffat was already receiving consolation from two
motherly females, sitting in a state of syncope on the good-natured
knees of a fishmonger's apprentice.
Frank was thoroughly out of breath: nothing came from his lips but
half-muttered expletives and unintelligible denunciations of the
iniquity of his foe. But still he struggled to be at him again. We
all know how dangerous is the taste of blood; now cruelty will become
a custom even with the most tender-hearted. Frank felt that he had
hardly fleshed his virgin lash: he thought, almost with despair, that
he had not yet at all succeeded as became a man and a brother; his
memory told him of but one or two of the slightest touches that had
gone well home to the offender. He made a desperate effort to throw
off that incubus round his neck and rush again to the combat.
"Harry--Harry; don't let him go--don't let him go," he barely
articulated.
"Do you want to murder the man, sir; to murder him?" said the stout
gentleman over his shoulder, speaking solemnly into his very ear.
"I don't care," said Frank, struggling manfully but uselessly. "Let
me out, I say; I don't care--don't let him go, Harry, whatever you
do."
"He has got it prettily tidily," said Harry; "I think that will
perhaps do for the present."
By this time there was a considerable concourse. The club steps were
crowded with the members; among whom there were many of Mr Moffat's
acquaintance. Policemen also now flocked up, and the question arose
as to what should be done with the originators of the affray. Frank
and Harry found that they were to consider themselves under a gentle
arrest, and Mr Moffat, in a fainting state, was carried into the
interior of the club.
Frank, in his innocence, had intended to have celebrated this little
affair when it was over by a light repast and a bottle of claret
with his friend, and then to have gone back to Cambridge by the mail
train. He found, however, that his schemes in this respect were
frustrated. He had to get bail to attend at Marlborough Street
police-office should he be wanted within the next two or three days;
and was given to understand that he would be under the eye of the
police, at any rate until Mr Moffat should be out of danger.
"Out of danger!" said Frank to his friend with a startled look.
"Why I hardly got at him." Nevertheless, they did have their slight
repast, and also their bottle of claret.
On the second morning after this occurrence, Frank was again sitting
in that public room at the Tavistock, and Harry was again sitting
opposite to him. The whip was not now so conspicuously produced
between them, having been carefully packed up and put away among
Frank's other travelling properties. They were so sitting, rather
glum, when the door swung open, and a heavy, quick step was heard
advancing towards them. It was the squire; whose arrival there had
been momentarily expected.
"Frank," said he--"Frank, what on earth is all this?" and as he spoke
he stretched out both hands, the right to his son and the left to his
friend.
"He has given a blackguard a licking, that is all," said Harry.
Frank felt that his hand was held with a peculiarly warm grasp; and
he could not but think that his father's face, raised though his
eyebrows were--though there was on it an intended expression of
amazement and, perhaps, regret--nevertheless he could not but think
that his father's face looked kindly at him.
"God bless my soul, my dear boy! what have you done to the man?"
"He's not a ha'porth the worse, sir," said Frank, still holding his
father's hand.
"Oh, isn't he!" said Harry, shrugging his shoulders. "He must be made
of some very tough article then."
"But my dear boys, I hope there's no danger. I hope there's no
danger."
"Danger!" said Frank, who could not yet induce himself to believe
that he had been allowed a fair chance with Mr Moffat.
"Oh, Frank! Frank! how could you be so rash? In the middle of Pall
Mall, too. Well! well! well! All the women down at Greshamsbury will
have it that you have killed him."
"I almost wish I had," said Frank.
"Oh, Frank! Frank! But now tell me--"
And then the father sat well pleased while he heard, chiefly from
Harry Baker, the full story of his son's prowess. And then they did
not separate without another slight repast and another bottle of
claret.
Mr Moffat retired to the country for a while, and then went abroad;
having doubtless learnt that the petition was not likely to give him
a seat for the city of Barchester. And this was the end of the wooing
with Miss Gresham.