The Small End of the Wedge
Frank Gresham was absent from Greshamsbury twelve months and a day: a
day is always added to the period of such absences, as shown in the
history of Lord Bateman and other noble heroes. We need not detail
all the circumstances of his banishment, all the details of the
compact that was made. One detail of course was this, that there
should be no corresponding; a point to which the squire found some
difficulty in bringing his son to assent.
It must not be supposed that Mary Thorne or the doctor were in any
way parties to, or privy to these agreements. By no means. The
agreements were drawn out, and made, and signed, and sealed at
Greshamsbury, and were known of nowhere else. The reader must not
imagine that Lady Arabella was prepared to give up her son, if
only his love could remain constant for one year. Neither did Lady
Arabella consent to any such arrangement, nor did the squire. It was
settled rather in this wise: that Frank should be subjected to no
torturing process, pestered to give no promises, should in no way be
bullied about Mary--that is, not at present--if he would go away for
a year. Then, at the end of the year, the matter should again be
discussed. Agreeing to this, Frank took his departure, and was absent
as per agreement.
What were Mary's fortunes immediately after his departure must be
shortly told, and then we will again join some of our Greshamsbury
friends at a period about a month before Frank's return.
When Sir Louis saw Frank Gresham standing by Mary's donkey, with
his arms round Mary's knees, he began to fear that there must be
something in it. He had intended that very day to throw himself
at Mary's feet, and now it appeared to his inexperienced eyes as
though somebody else had been at the same work before him. This not
unnaturally made him cross; so, after having sullenly wished the
visitor good-bye, he betook himself to his room, and there drank
curaçoa alone, instead of coming down to dinner.
This he did for two or three days, and then, taking heart of grace,
he remembered that, after all, he had very many advantages over young
Gresham. In the first place, he was a baronet, and could make his
wife a "lady." In the next place, Frank's father was alive and like
to live, whereas his own was dead. He possessed Boxall Hill in his
own right, but his rival had neither house nor land of his own. After
all, might it not be possible for him also to put his arm round
Mary's knees;--her knees, or her waist, or, perhaps, even her neck?
Faint heart never won fair lady. At any rate, he would try.
And he did try. With what result, as regards Mary, need hardly be
told. He certainly did not get nearly so far as putting his hand even
upon her knee before he was made to understand that it "was no go,"
as he graphically described it to his mother. He tried once and
again. On the first time Mary was very civil, though very determined.
On the second, she was more determined, though less civil; and then
she told him, that if he pressed her further he would drive her from
his mother's house. There was something then about Mary's eye, a
fixed composure round her mouth, and an authority in her face, which
went far to quell him; and he did not press her again.
He immediately left Boxall Hill, and, returning to London, had more
violent recourse to the curaçoa. It was not long before the doctor
heard of him, and was obliged to follow him, and then again occurred
those frightful scenes in which the poor wretch had to expiate,
either in terrible delirium or more terrible prostration of spirits,
the vile sin which his father had so early taught him.
Then Mary returned to her uncle's home. Frank was gone, and she
therefore could resume her place at Greshamsbury. Yes, she came back
to Greshamsbury; but Greshamsbury was by no means the same place that
it was formerly. Almost all intercourse was now over between the
doctor and the Greshamsbury people. He rarely ever saw the squire,
and then only on business. Not that the squire had purposely
quarrelled with him; but Dr Thorne himself had chosen that it should
be so, since Frank had openly proposed for his niece. Frank was now
gone, and Lady Arabella was in arms against him. It should not be
said that he kept up any intimacy for the sake of aiding the lovers
in their love. No one should rightfully accuse him of inveigling the
heir to marry his niece.
Mary, therefore, found herself utterly separated from Beatrice. She
was not even able to learn what Beatrice would think, or did think,
of the engagement as it now stood. She could not even explain to
her friend that love had been too strong for her, and endeavour to
get some comfort from that friend's absolution from her sin. This
estrangement was now carried so far that she and Beatrice did not
even meet on neutral ground. Lady Arabella made it known to Miss
Oriel that her daughter could not meet Mary Thorne, even as strangers
meet; and it was made known to others also. Mrs Yates Umbleby, and
her dear friend Miss Gushing, to whose charming tea-parties none of
the Greshamsbury ladies went above once in a twelvemonth, talked
through the parish of this distressing difficulty. They would have
been so happy to have asked dear Mary Thorne, only the Greshamsbury
ladies did not approve.
Mary was thus tabooed from all society in the place in which a
twelvemonth since she had been, of all its denizens, perhaps the
most courted. In those days, no bevy of Greshamsbury young ladies
had fairly represented the Greshamsbury young ladyhood if Mary
Thorne was not there. Now she was excluded from all such bevies.
Patience did not quarrel with her, certainly;--came to see her
frequently;--invited her to walk;--invited her frequently to the
parsonage. But Mary was shy of acceding to such invitations, and at
last frankly told her friend Patience, that she would not again break
bread in Greshamsbury in any house in which she was not thought fit
to meet the other guests who habitually resorted there.
In truth, both the doctor and his niece were very sore, but they
were of that temperament that keeps all its soreness to itself. Mary
walked out by herself boldly, looking at least as though she were
indifferent to all the world. She was, indeed, hardly treated. Young
ladies' engagements are generally matters of profoundest secrecy, and
are hardly known of by their near friends till marriage is a thing
settled. But all the world knew of Mary's engagement within a month
of that day on which she had neglected to expel Frank's finger from
her hand; it had been told openly through the country-side that she
had confessed her love for the young squire. Now it is disagreeable
for a young lady to walk about under such circumstances, especially
so when she has no female friend to keep her in countenance,
more especially so when the gentleman is of such importance in the
neighbourhood as Frank was in that locality. It was a matter of
moment to every farmer, and every farmer's wife, which bride Frank
should marry of those bespoken for him; Mary, namely, or Money. Every
yokel about the place had been made to understand that, by some
feminine sleight of hand, the doctor's niece had managed to trap
Master Frank, and that Master Frank had been sent out of the way so
that he might, if yet possible, break through the trapping. All this
made life rather unpleasant for her.
One day, walking solitary in the lanes, she met that sturdy farmer to
whose daughter she had in former days been so serviceable. "God bless
'ee, Miss Mary," said he--he always did bid God bless her when he saw
her. "And, Miss Mary, to say my mind out freely, thee be quite gude
enough for un, quite gude enough; so thee be'st tho'f he were ten
squoires." There may, perhaps, have been something pleasant in the
heartiness of this; but it was not pleasant to have this heart affair
of hers thus publicly scanned and talked over: to have it known to
every one that she had set her heart on marrying Frank Gresham, and
that all the Greshams had set their hearts on preventing it. And yet
she could in nowise help it. No girl could have been more staid and
demure, less demonstrative and boastful about her love. She had never
yet spoken freely, out of her full heart, to one human being. "Oh,
Frank!" All her spoken sin had been contained in that.
But Lady Arabella had been very active. It suited her better that it
should be known, far and wide, that a nameless pauper--Lady Arabella
only surmised that her foe was nameless; but she did not scruple to
declare it--was intriguing to catch the heir of Greshamsbury. None of
the Greshams must meet Mary Thorne; that was the edict sent about the
country; and the edict was well understood. Those, therefore, were
bad days for Miss Thorne.
She had never yet spoken on the matter freely, out of her full heart
to one human being. Not to one? Not to him? Not to her uncle? No, not
even to him, fully and freely. She had told him that that had passed
between Frank and her which amounted, at any rate on his part, to a
proposal.
"Well, dearest, and what was your answer?" said her uncle, drawing
her close to him, and speaking in his kindest voice.
"I hardly made any answer, uncle."
"You did not reject him, Mary?"
"No, uncle," and then she paused;--he had never known her tremble as
she now trembled. "But if you say that I ought, I will," she added,
drawing every word from herself with difficulty.
"I say you ought, Mary! Nay; but this question you must answer
yourself."
"Must I?" said she, plaintively. And then she sat for the next
half hour with her head against his shoulder; but nothing more was
said about it. They both acquiesced in the sentence that had been
pronounced against them, and went on together more lovingly than
before.
The doctor was quite as weak as his niece; nay, weaker. She hesitated
fearfully as to what she ought to do: whether she should obey her
heart or the dictates of Greshamsbury. But he had other doubts than
hers, which nearly set him wild when he strove to bring his mind to
a decision. He himself was now in possession--of course as a trustee
only--of the title-deeds of the estate; more of the estate, much
more, belonged to the heirs under Sir Roger Scatcherd's will than to
the squire. It was now more than probable that that heir must be Mary
Thorne. His conviction became stronger and stronger that no human
efforts would keep Sir Louis in the land of the living till he
was twenty-five. Could he, therefore, wisely or honestly, in true
friendship to the squire, to Frank, or to his niece, take any steps
to separate two persons who loved each other, and whose marriage
would in all human probability be so suitable?
And yet he could not bring himself to encourage it then. The idea
of "looking after dead men's shoes" was abhorrent to his mind,
especially when the man whose death he contemplated had been so
trusted to him as had been Sir Louis Scatcherd. He could not speak
of the event, even to the squire, as being possible. So he kept his
peace from day to day, and gave no counsel to Mary in the matter.
And then he had his own individual annoyances, and very aggravating
annoyances they were. The carriage--or rather post-chaise--of Dr
Fillgrave was now frequent in Greshamsbury, passing him constantly
in the street, among the lanes, and on the high roads. It seemed as
though Dr Fillgrave could never get to his patients at the big house
without showing himself to his beaten rival, either on his way
thither or on his return. This alone would, perhaps, not have hurt
the doctor much; but it did hurt him to know that Dr Fillgrave was
attending the squire for a little incipient gout, and that dear Nina
was in measles under those unloving hands.
And then, also, the old-fashioned phaeton, of old-fashioned old
Dr Century was seen to rumble up to the big house, and it became
known that Lady Arabella was not very well. "Not very well," when
pronounced in a low, grave voice about Lady Arabella, always meant
something serious. And, in this case, something serious was meant.
Lady Arabella was not only ill, but frightened. It appeared, even to
her, that Dr Fillgrave himself hardly knew what he was about, that he
was not so sure in his opinion, so confident in himself, as Dr Thorne
used to be. How should he be, seeing that Dr Thorne had medically had
Lady Arabella in his hands for the last ten years?
If sitting with dignity in his hired carriage, and stepping with
authority up the big front steps, would have done anything, Dr
Fillgrave might have done much. Lady Arabella was greatly taken with
his looks when he first came to her, and it was only when she by
degrees perceived that the symptoms, which she knew so well, did not
yield to him that she began to doubt those looks.
After a while Dr Fillgrave himself suggested Dr Century. "Not that
I fear anything, Lady Arabella," said he,--lying hugely, for he did
fear; fear both for himself and for her. "But Dr Century has great
experience, and in such a matter, when the interests are so
important, one cannot be too safe."
So Dr Century came and toddled slowly into her ladyship's room. He
did not say much; he left the talking to his learned brother, who
certainly was able to do that part of the business. But Dr Century,
though he said very little, looked very grave, and by no means
quieted Lady Arabella's mind. She, as she saw the two putting their
heads together, already had misgivings that she had done wrong. She
knew that she could not be safe without Dr Thorne at her bedside, and
she already felt that she had exercised a most injudicious courage in
driving him away.
"Well, doctor?" said she, as soon as Dr Century had toddled
downstairs to see the squire.
"Oh! we shall be all right, Lady Arabella; all right, very soon. But
we must be careful, very careful; I am glad I've had Century here,
very; but there's nothing to alter; little or nothing."
There were but few words spoken between Dr Century and the squire;
but few as they were, they frightened Mr Gresham. When Dr Fillgrave
came down the grand stairs, a servant waited at the bottom to ask him
also to go to the squire. Now there never had been much cordiality
between the squire and Dr Fillgrave, though Mr Gresham had consented
to take a preventative pill from his hands, and the little man
therefore swelled himself out somewhat more than ordinarily as he
followed the servant.
"Dr Fillgrave," said the squire, at once beginning the conversation,
"Lady Arabella, is, I fear, in danger?"
"Well, no; I hope not in danger, Mr Gresham. I certainly believe I
may be justified in expressing a hope that she is not in danger. Her
state is, no doubt, rather serious--rather serious--as Dr Century has
probably told you;" and Dr Fillgrave made a bow to the old man, who
sat quiet in one of the dining-room arm-chairs.
"Well, doctor," said the squire, "I have not any grounds on which to
doubt your judgement."
Dr Fillgrave bowed, but with the stiffest, slightest inclination
which a head could possibly make. He rather thought that Mr Gresham
had no ground for doubting his judgement.
"Nor do I."
The doctor bowed, and a little, a very little less stiffly.
"But, doctor, I think that something ought to be done."
The doctor this time did his bowing merely with his eyes and mouth.
The former he closed for a moment, the latter he pressed; and then
decorously rubbed his hands one over the other.
"I am afraid, Dr Fillgrave, that you and my friend Thorne are not the
best friends in the world."
"No, Mr Gresham, no; I may go so far as to say we are not."
"Well, I am sorry for it--"
"Perhaps, Mr Gresham, we need hardly discuss it; but there have been
circumstances--"
"I am not going to discuss anything, Dr Fillgrave; I say I am sorry
for it, because I believe that prudence will imperatively require
Lady Arabella to have Doctor Thorne back again. Now, if you would not
object to meet him--"
"Mr Gresham, I beg pardon; I beg pardon, indeed; but you must really
excuse me. Doctor Thorne has, in my estimation--"
"But, Doctor Fillgrave--"
"Mr Gresham, you really must excuse me; you really must, indeed.
Anything else that I could do for Lady Arabella, I should be most
happy to do; but after what has passed, I cannot meet Doctor Thorne;
I really cannot. You must not ask me to do so; Mr Gresham. And, Mr
Gresham," continued the doctor, "I did understand from Lady Arabella
that his--that is, Dr Thorne's--conduct to her ladyship had been
such--so very outrageous, I may say, that--that--that--of course, Mr
Gresham, you know best; but I did think that Lady Arabella herself
was quite unwilling to see Doctor Thorne again;" and Dr Fillgrave
looked very big, and very dignified, and very exclusive.
The squire did not ask again. He had no warrant for supposing that
Lady Arabella would receive Dr Thorne if he did come; and he saw
that it was useless to attempt to overcome the rancour of a man so
pig-headed as the little Galen now before him. Other propositions
were then broached, and it was at last decided that assistance should
be sought for from London, in the person of the great Sir Omicron
Pie.
Sir Omicron came, and Drs Fillgrave and Century were there to meet
him. When they all assembled in Lady Arabella's room, the poor
woman's heart almost sank within her,--as well it might, at such
a sight. If she could only reconcile it with her honour, her
consistency, with her high de Courcy principles, to send once more
for Dr Thorne. Oh, Frank! Frank! to what misery your disobedience
brought your mother!
Sir Omicron and the lesser provincial lights had their consultation,
and the lesser lights went their way to Barchester and Silverbridge,
leaving Sir Omicron to enjoy the hospitality of Greshamsbury.
"You should have Thorne back here, Mr Gresham," said Sir Omicron,
almost in a whisper, when they were quite alone. "Doctor Fillgrave
is a very good man, and so is Dr Century; very good, I am sure. But
Thorne has known her ladyship so long." And then, on the following
morning, Sir Omicron also went his way.
And then there was a scene between the squire and her ladyship. Lady
Arabella had given herself credit for great good generalship when she
found that the squire had been induced to take that pill. We have
all heard of the little end of the wedge, and we have most of us an
idea that the little end is the difficulty. That pill had been the
little end of Lady Arabella's wedge. Up to that period she had been
struggling in vain to make a severance between her husband and her
enemy. That pill should do the business. She well knew how to make
the most of it; to have it published in Greshamsbury that the squire
had put his gouty toe into Dr Fillgrave's hands; how to let it
be known--especially at that humble house in the corner of the
street--that Fillgrave's prescriptions now ran current through the
whole establishment. Dr Thorne did hear of it, and did suffer. He had
been a true friend to the squire, and he thought the squire should
have stood to him more staunchly.
"After all," said he himself, "perhaps it's as well--perhaps it will
be best that I should leave this place altogether." And then he
thought of Sir Roger and his will, and of Mary and her lover. And
then of Mary's birth, and of his own theoretical doctrines as to pure
blood. And so his troubles multiplied, and he saw no present daylight
through them.
Such had been the way in which Lady Arabella had got in the little
end of the wedge. And she would have triumphed joyfully had not her
increased doubts and fears as to herself then come in to check her
triumph and destroy her joy. She had not yet confessed to any one
her secret regret for the friend she had driven away. She hardly yet
acknowledged to herself that she did regret him; but she was uneasy,
frightened, and in low spirits.
"My dear," said the squire, sitting down by her bedside, "I want to
tell you what Sir Omicron said as he went away."
"Well?" said her ladyship, sitting up and looking frightened.
"I don't know how you may take it, Bell; but I think it very good
news:" the squire never called his wife Bell, except when he wanted
her to be on particularly good terms with him.
"Well?" said she again. She was not over-anxious to be gracious, and
did not reciprocate his familiarity.
"Sir Omicron says that you should have Thorne back again, and upon my
honour, I cannot but agree with him. Now, Thorne is a clever man, a
very clever man; nobody denies that; and then, you know--"
"Why did not Sir Omicron say that to me?" said her ladyship, sharply,
all her disposition in Dr Thorne's favour becoming wonderfully damped
by her husband's advocacy.
"I suppose he thought it better to say it to me," said the squire,
rather curtly.
"He should have spoken to myself," said Lady Arabella, who, though
she did not absolutely doubt her husband's word, gave him credit
for having induced and led on Sir Omicron to the uttering of this
opinion. "Doctor Thorne has behaved to me in so gross, so indecent a
manner! And then, as I understand, he is absolutely encouraging that
girl--"
"Now, Bell, you are quite wrong--"
"Of course I am; I always am quite wrong."
"Quite wrong in mixing up two things; Doctor Thorne as an
acquaintance, and Dr Thorne as a doctor."
"It is dreadful to have him here, even standing in the room with me.
How can one talk to one's doctor openly and confidentially when one
looks upon him as one's worst enemy?" And Lady Arabella, softening,
almost melted into tears.
"My dear, you cannot wonder that I should be anxious for you."
Lady Arabella gave a little snuffle, which might be taken as a not
very eloquent expression of thanks for the squire's solicitude, or as
an ironical jeer at his want of sincerity.
"And, therefore, I have not lost a moment in telling you what Sir
Omicron said. 'You should have Thorne back here;' those were his very
words. You can think it over, my dear. And remember this, Bell; if he
is to do any good no time should be lost."
And then the squire left the room, and Lady Arabella remained alone,
perplexed by many doubts.