Chronicles of Barsetshire: Book 1-6. Anthony TrollopeЧитать онлайн книгу.
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. tomorrow 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 tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow, 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. “Tomorrow!”
“Yes, we return tomorrow, 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, goodnight, 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 tomorrow.”
“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?”
CHAPTER IX.
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 had been occasionally in partnership with one man for one thing, and then with another for another; but had, on the whole, kept his interests to himself, and now at the time of our story, he was a very rich man.
And he had acquired more than wealth. There had been a time when the Government wanted the immediate performance of some extraordinary piece of work, and Roger Scatcherd had been the man to do it. There had been some extremely necessary bit of a railway to be made in half the time that such work would properly demand, some speculation to be incurred requiring great means and courage as well, and Roger Scatcherd had been found to be the man for the time. He was then elevated for the moment to the dizzy pinnacle of a newspaper hero, and became one of those “whom the king delighteth to honour.” He went up one day to kiss Her Majesty’s hand, and come down to his new grand house at Boxall Hill, Sir Roger Scatcherd, Bart.
“And now, my lady,” said he, when he explained to his wife the high state to which she had been called by his exertions and the Queen’s prerogative, “let’s have a bit of dinner, and a drop of som’at hot.” Now the drop of som’at hot signified a dose of alcohol sufficient to send three ordinary men very drunk to bed.
While conquering the world Roger Scatcherd had not conquered his old bad habits. Indeed, he was the same man at all points that he had been when formerly seen about the streets of Barchester with his stone-mason’s apron tucked up round his waist. The apron he had abandoned, but not the heavy prominent thoughtful brow, with the wildly flashing eye beneath it. He was still the same good companion, and still also the same hardworking hero. In this only had he changed, that now he would work, and some said equally well, whether he were drunk or sober. Those who were mostly inclined to make a miracle of him—and there was a school of worshippers ready to adore him as their idea of a divine, superhuman, miracle-moving, inspired prophet—declared that his wondrous work was best done, his calculations most quickly and most truly made, that he saw with most