He did not, however, do this till he had been in a measure provoked by it by the sharp-tongued cautions and blunted irony of his mother.  It was not enough for her that she had banished Mary out of the parish, and made Dr Thorne’s life miserable; not enough that she harassed her husband with harangues on the constant subject of Frank’s marrying money, and dismayed Beatrice with invectives against the iniquity of her friend.  The snake was so but scotched; to kill it outright she must induce Frank utterly to renounce Miss Thorne.

This task she essayed, but not exactly with success.  ‘Well, mother,’ said Frank, at last turning very red, partly with shame, and partly with indignation, as he made the frank avowal, ’since you press me about it, I tell you fairly that my mind is made up to marry Mary sooner or later, if—­’

’Oh, Frank! good heavens! you wicked boy; you are saying this purposely to drive me distracted.’

‘If,’ continued Frank, not attending to his mother’s interjections, ’if she will consent.’

‘Consent!’ said Lady Arabella.  ‘Oh, heavens!’ and falling into the corner of her sofa, she buried her face in her handkerchief.

’Yes, mother, if she will consent.  And now that I have told you so much, it is only just that I should tell you this also; that as far as I can see at present I have no reason to hope that she will do so.’

‘Oh, Frank, the girl is doing all she can to catch you,’ said Lady Arabella,—­not prudently.

‘No, mother; there you wrong her altogether; wrong her most cruelly.’

‘You ungracious, wicked boy! you call me cruel!’

’I don’t call you cruel; but you wrong her cruelly, most cruelly.  When I have spoken to her about this—­for I have spoken to her—­she has behaved exactly as you would have wanted her to do; but not at all as I wished her.  She has given me no encouragement.  You have turned her out among you’—­Frank was beginning to be very bitter now—­’but she has done nothing to deserve it.  If there has been any fault it has been mine.  But it is well now that we should understand each other.  My intention is to marry Mary if I can.’  And, so speaking, certainly without due filial respect, he turned towards the door.

‘Frank,’ said his mother, raising herself up with energy to make one last appeal.  ‘Frank, do you wish to see me die of a broken heart?’

‘You know, mother, I would wish to make you happy, if I could.’

’If you wish to see me ever happy again, if you do not wish to see me sink broken-hearted to my grave, you must give up this mad idea, Frank,’—­and now all Lady Arabella’s energy came out.  ’Frank there is but one course left open to you.  You must marry money.’  And then Lady Arabella stood up before her son as Lady Macbeth might have stood, had Lady Macbeth lived to have a son of Frank’s years.

‘Miss Dunstable, I suppose,’ said Frank, scornfully.  ’No, mother; I made an ass and worse than an ass of myself once in that way, and I won’t do it again.  I hate money.’