Chronicles of Barsetshire: Book 1-6. Anthony Trollope
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his cousin for his hints, and though he did not feel that the trouble of his mind was completely cured, he began to hope that he might go through the ordeal without disgracing himself.
Nevertheless, he felt rather sick at heart when Mr Baker got up to propose the toast as soon as the servants were gone. The servants, that is, were gone officially; but they were there in a body, men and women, nurses, cooks, and ladies’ maids, coachmen, grooms, and footmen, standing in two doorways to hear what Master Frank would say. The old housekeeper headed the maids at one door, standing boldly inside the room; and the butler controlled the men at the other, marshalling them back with a drawn corkscrew.
Mr Baker did not say much; but what he did say, he said well. They had all seen Frank Gresham grow up from a child; and were now required to welcome as a man amongst them one who was well qualified to carry on the honour of that loved and respected family. His young friend, Frank, was every inch a Gresham. Mr Baker omitted to make mention of the infusion of de Courcy blood, and the countess, therefore, drew herself up on her chair and looked as though she were extremely bored. He then alluded tenderly to his own long friendship with the present squire, Francis Newbold Gresham the elder; and sat down, begging them to drink health, prosperity, long life, and an excellent wife to their dear young friend, Francis Newbold Gresham the younger.
There was a great jingling of glasses, of course; made the merrier and the louder by the fact that the ladies were still there as well as the gentlemen. Ladies don’t drink toasts frequently; and, therefore, the occasion coming rarely was the more enjoyed. “God bless you, Frank!” “Your good health, Frank!” “And especially a good wife, Frank!” “Two or three of them, Frank!” “Good health and prosperity to you, Mr Gresham!” “More power to you, Frank, my boy!” “May God bless you and preserve you, my dear boy!” and then a merry, sweet, eager voice from the far end of the table, “Frank! Frank! Do look at me, pray do Frank; I am drinking your health in real wine; ain’t I, papa?” Such were the addresses which greeted Mr Francis Newbold Gresham the younger as he essayed to rise up on his feet for the first time since he had come to man’s estate.
When the clatter was at an end, and he was fairly on his legs, he cast a glance before him on the table, to look for a decanter. He had not much liked his cousin’s theory of sticking to the bottle; nevertheless, in the difficulty of the moment, it was well to have any system to go by. But, as misfortune would have it, though the table was covered with bottles, his eye could not catch one. Indeed, his eye first could catch nothing, for the things swam before him, and the guests all seemed to dance in their chairs.
Up he got, however, and commenced his speech. As he could not follow his preceptor’s advice as touching the bottle, he adopted his own crude plan of “making a mark on some old covey’s head,” and therefore looked dead at the doctor.
“Upon my word, I am very much obliged to you, gentlemen and ladies, ladies and gentlemen, I should say, for drinking my health, and doing me so much honour, and all that sort of thing. Upon my word I am. Especially to Mr Baker. I don’t mean you, Harry, you’re not Mr Baker.”
“As much as you’re Mr Gresham, Master Frank.”
“But I am not Mr Gresham; and I don’t mean to be for many a long year if I can help it; not at any rate till we have had another coming of age here.”
“Bravo, Frank; and whose will that be?”
“That will be my son, and a very fine lad he will be; and I hope he’ll make a better speech than his father. Mr Baker said I was every inch a Gresham. Well, I hope I am.” Here the countess began to look cold and angry. “I hope the day will never come when my father won’t own me for one.”
“There’s no fear, no fear,” said the doctor, who was almost put out of countenance by the orator’s intense gaze. The countess looked colder and more angry, and muttered something to herself about a bear-garden.
“Gardez Gresham; eh? Harry! mind that when you’re sticking in a gap and I’m coming after you. Well, I am sure I am very obliged to you for the honour you have all done me, especially the ladies, who don’t do this sort of thing on ordinary occasions. I wish they did; don’t you, doctor? And talking of the ladies, my aunt and cousins have come all the way from London to hear me make this speech, which certainly is not worth the trouble; but, all the same I am very much obliged to them.” And he looked round and made a little bow at the countess. “And so I am to Mr and Mrs Jackson, and Mr and Mrs and Miss Bateson, and Mr Baker—I’m not at all obliged to you, Harry—and to Mr Oriel and Miss Oriel, and to Mr Umbleby, and to Dr Thorne, and to Mary—I beg her pardon, I mean Miss Thorne.” And then he sat down, amid the loud plaudits of the company, and a string of blessings which came from the servants behind him.
After this the ladies rose and departed. As she went, Lady Arabella, kissed her son’s forehead, and then his sisters kissed him, and one or two of his lady-cousins; and then Miss Bateson shook him by the hand. “Oh, Miss Bateson,” said he, “I thought the kissing was to go all round.” So Miss Bateson laughed and went her way; and Patience Oriel nodded at him, but Mary Thorne, as she quietly left the room, almost hidden among the extensive draperies of the grander ladies, hardly allowed her eyes to meet his.
He got up to hold the door for them as they passed; and as they went, he managed to take Patience by the hand; he took her hand and pressed it for a moment, but dropped it quickly, in order that he might go through the same ceremony with Mary, but Mary was too quick for him.
“Frank,” said Mr Gresham, as soon as the door was closed, “bring your glass here, my boy;” and the father made room for his son close beside himself. “The ceremony is now over, so you may have your place of dignity.” Frank sat himself down where he was told, and Mr Gresham put his hand on his son’s shoulder and half caressed him, while the tears stood in his eyes. “I think the doctor is right, Baker, I think he’ll never make us ashamed of him.”
“I am sure he never will,” said Mr Baker.
“I don’t think he ever will,” said Dr Thorne.
The tones of the men’s voices were very different. Mr Baker did not care a straw about it; why should he? He had an heir of his own as well as the squire; one also who was the apple of his eye. But the doctor,—he did care; he had a niece, to be sure, whom he loved, perhaps as well as these men loved their sons; but there was room in his heart also for young Frank Gresham.
After this small exposé of feeling they sat silent for a moment or two. But silence was not dear to the heart of the Honourable John, and so he took up the running.
“That’s a niceish nag you gave Frank this morning,” he said to his uncle. “I was looking at him before dinner. He is a Monsoon, isn’t he?”
“Well I can’t say I know how he was bred,” said the squire. “He shows a good deal of breeding.”
“He’s a Monsoon, I’m sure,” said the Honourable John. “They’ve all those ears, and that peculiar dip in the back. I suppose you gave a goodish figure for him?”
“Not so very much,” said the squire.
“He’s a trained hunter, I suppose?”
“If not, he soon will be,” said the squire.
“Let Frank alone for that,” said Harry Baker.
“He jumps beautifully, sir,” said Frank. “I haven’t tried him myself, but Peter made him go over the bar two or three times this morning.”
The Honourable John was determined to give his cousin a helping hand, as he considered it. He thought that Frank was very illused in being put off with so incomplete a stud, and thinking also that the son had not spirit enough to attack his father himself on the subject, the Honourable John determined to do it for him.
“He’s the making of a very nice horse, I don’t doubt. I wish you had a string like him, Frank.”
Frank felt the blood rush to his face. He would not for worlds have his father think that he was discontented, or otherwise than pleased with the present he had