Doctor Thorne | Page 5

wan, worn cheeks, and skeleton, white arms,
were awaiting permission to leave it.
Such was the family when, in the year 1854, the eldest son came of age.
He had been educated at Harrow, and was now still at Cambridge; but,
of course, on such a day as this he was at home. That coming of age
must be a delightful time to a young man born to inherit broad acres
and wide wealth. Those full-mouthed congratulations; those warm
prayers with which his manhood is welcomed by the grey-haired
seniors of the county; the affectionate, all but motherly caresses of
neighbouring mothers who have seen him grow up from his cradle, of
mothers who have daughters, perhaps, fair enough, and good enough,
and sweet enough even for him; the soft-spoken, half-bashful, but
tender greetings of the girls, who now, perhaps for the first time, call
him by his stern family name, instructed by instinct rather than precept
that the time has come when the familiar Charles or familiar John must
by them be laid aside; the 'lucky dogs', and hints of silver spoons which
are poured into his ears as each young compeer slaps his back and bids
him live a thousand years and then never die; the shouting of the
tenantry, the good wishes of the old farmers who come up to wring his
hand, the kisses which he gets from the farmers' wives, and the kisses

which he gives to the farmers' daughters; all these things must make the
twenty-first birthday pleasant enough to a young heir. To a youth,
however, who feels that he is now liable to arrest, and that he inherits
no other privilege, the pleasure may very possibly not be quite so keen.
The case with young Frank Gresham may be supposed to much nearer
the former than the latter; but yet the ceremony of his coming of age
was by no means like that which fate had accorded to his father. Mr
Gresham was not an embarrassed man, and though the world did not
know it, or, at any rate, did not know that he was deeply embarrassed,
he had not the heart to throw open his mansion and receive the county
with a free hand as though all things were going well for him.
Nothing was going well with him. Lady Arabella would allow nothing
near him or around him to be well. Everything with him was now
turned to vexation; he was no longer a joyous, happy man, and the
people of East Barsetshire did not look for gala doings on a grand scale
when young Gresham came of age.
Gala doings, to a certain extent, there were there. It was in July, and
tables were spread under the oaks for the tenants. Tables were spread,
and meat and beer, and wine were there, and Frank, as he walked round
and shook his guests by the hand, expressed a hope that their relations
with each other might be long, close, and mutually advantageous.
We must say a few words now about the place itself. Greshamsbury
Park was a fine old Englishman's seat--was and is; but we can assert it
more easily in past tense, as we are speaking of it with reference to a
past time. We have spoken of Greshamsbury Park; there was a park so
called, but the mansion itself was generally known as Greshamsbury
House, and did not stand in the park. We may perhaps best describe it
by saying that the village of Greshamsbury consisted of one long,
straggling street, a mile in length, which in the centre turned sharp
round, so that one half of the street lay directly at right angles to the
other. In this angle stood Greshamsbury House, and the gardens and
grounds around it filled up the space so made. There was an entrance
with large gates at each end of the village, and each gate was guarded
by the effigies of two huge pagans with clubs, such being the crest

borne by the family; from each entrance a broad road, quite straight,
running through a majestic avenue of limes, led up to the house. This
was built in the richest, perhaps we should rather say in the purest, style
of Tudor architecture; so much so that, though Greshamsbury is less
complete than Longleat, less magnificent than Hatfield, it may in some
sense be said to be the finest specimen of Tudor architecture of which
the country can boast.
It stands amid a multitude of trim gardens and stone-built terraces,
divided one from another: these to our eyes are not so attractive as that
broad expanse of lawn by which our country houses are generally
surrounded; but the gardens of Greshamsbury have been celebrated for
two centuries, and any Gresham who would have altered