This was the best side of his character; the worst, probably, was that which was brought into play by the fact that he was not a fool. He would have a better chance of redemption in this world—perhaps also in another—had he been a fool. As it was, he was no fool: he was not to be done, not he; he knew, no one better, the value of a shilling; he knew, also, how to keep his shillings, and how to spend them. He consorted much with blacklegs and such-like, because blacklegs were to his taste. But he boasted daily, nay, hourly to himself, and frequently to those around him, that the leeches who were stuck round him could draw but little blood from him. He could spend his money freely; but he would so spend it that he himself might reap the gratification of the expenditure. He was acute, crafty, knowing, and up to every damnable dodge practised by men of the class with whom he lived. At one-and-twenty he was that most odious of all odious characters—a close-fisted reprobate.
He was a small man, not ill-made by Nature, but reduced to unnatural tenuity by dissipation—a corporeal attribute of which he was apt to boast, as it enabled him, as he said, to put himself up at 7 st. 7 lb. without any "d–––– nonsense of not eating and drinking." The power, however, was one of which he did not often avail himself, as his nerves were seldom in a fit state for riding. His hair was dark red, and he wore red moustaches, and a great deal of red beard beneath his chin, cut in a manner to make him look like an American. His voice also had a Yankee twang, being a cross between that of an American trader and an English groom; and his eyes were keen and fixed, and cold and knowing.
Such was the son whom Sir Roger saw standing at his bedside when first he awoke to consciousness. It must not be supposed that Sir Roger looked at him with our eyes. To him he was an only child, the heir of his wealth, the future bearer of his title; the most heart-stirring remembrancer of those other days, when he had been so much a poorer, and so much a happier man. Let that boy be bad or good, he was all Sir Roger had; and the father was still able to hope, when others thought that all ground for hope was gone.
The mother also loved her son with a mother's natural love; but Louis had ever been ashamed of his mother, and had, as far as possible, estranged himself from her. Her heart, perhaps, fixed itself with almost a warmer love on Frank Gresham, her foster-son. Frank she saw but seldom, but when she did see him he never refused her embrace. There was, too, a joyous, genial lustre about Frank's face which always endeared him to women, and made his former nurse regard him as the pet creation of the age. Though she but seldom interfered with any monetary arrangement of her husband's, yet once or twice she had ventured to hint that a legacy left to the young squire would make her a happy woman. Sir Roger, however, on these occasions had not appeared very desirous of making his wife happy.
"Ah, Louis! is that you?" ejaculated Sir Roger, in tones hardly more than half-formed: afterwards, in a day or two that is, he fully recovered his voice; but just then he could hardly open his jaws, and spoke almost through his teeth. He managed, however, to put out his hand and lay it on the counterpane, so that his son could take it.
"Why, that's well, governor," said the son; "you'll be as right as a trivet in a day or two—eh, governor?"
The "governor" smiled with a ghastly smile. He already pretty well knew that he would never again be "right," as his son called it, on that side of the grave. It did not, moreover, suit him to say much just at that moment, so he contented himself with holding his son's hand. He lay still in this position for a moment, and then, turning round painfully on his side, endeavoured to put his hand to the place where his dire enemy usually was concealed. Sir Roger, however, was too weak now to be his own master; he was at length, though too late, a captive in the hands of nurses and doctors, and the bottle had now been removed.
Then Lady Scatcherd came in, and seeing that her husband was no longer unconscious, she could not but believe that Dr Thorne had been wrong; she could not but think that there must be some ground for hope. She threw herself on her knees at the bedside, bursting into tears as she did so, and taking Sir Roger's hand in hers covered it with kisses.
"Bother!" said Sir Roger.
She did not, however, long occupy herself with the indulgence of her feelings; but going speedily to work, produced such sustenance as the doctors had ordered to be given when the patient might awake. A breakfast-cup was brought to him, and a few drops were put into his mouth; but he soon made it manifest that he would take nothing more of a description so perfectly innocent.
"A drop of brandy—just a little drop," said he, half-ordering, and half-entreating.
"Ah, Roger!" said Lady Scatcherd.
"Just a little drop, Louis," said the sick man, appealing to his son.
"A little will be good for him; bring the bottle, mother," said the son.
After some altercation the brandy bottle was brought, and Louis, with what he thought a very sparing hand, proceeded to pour about half a wine-glassful into the cup. As he did so, Sir Roger, weak as he was, contrived to shake his son's arm, so as greatly to increase the dose.
"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed the sick man, and then greedily swallowed the dose.
That night the doctor stayed at Boxall Hill, and the next night; so that it became a customary thing for him to sleep there during the latter part of Sir Roger's illness. He returned home daily to Greshamsbury; for he had his patients there, to whom he was as necessary as to Sir Roger, the foremost of whom was Lady Arabella. He had, therefore, no slight work on his hands, seeing that his nights were by no means wholly devoted to rest.
Mr Rerechild had not been much wrong as to the remaining space of life which he had allotted to the dying man. Once or twice Dr Thorne had thought that the great original strength of his patient would have enabled him to fight against death for a somewhat longer period; but Sir Roger would give himself no chance. Whenever he was strong enough to have a will of his own, he insisted on having his very medicine mixed with brandy; and in the hours of the doctor's absence, he was too often successful in his attempts.
"It does not much matter," Dr Thorne had said to Lady Scatcherd. "Do what you can to keep down the quantity, but do not irritate him by refusing to obey. It does not much signify now." So Lady Scatcherd still administered the alcohol, and he from day to day invented little schemes for increasing the amount, over which he chuckled with ghastly laughter.
Two or three times during these days Sir Roger essayed to speak seriously to his son; but Louis always frustrated him. He either got out of the room on some excuse, or made his mother interfere on the score that so much talking would be bad for his father. He already knew with tolerable accuracy what was the purport of his father's will, and by no means approved of it; but as he could not now hope to induce his father to alter it so as to make it more favourable to himself, he conceived that no conversation on matters of business could be of use to him.
"Louis," said Sir Roger, one afternoon to his son; "Louis, I have not done by you as I ought to have done—I know that now."
"Nonsense, governor; never mind about that now; I shall do well enough, I dare say. Besides, it isn't too late; you can make it twenty-three years instead of twenty-five, if you like it."
"I do not mean as to money, Louis. There are things besides money which a father ought to look to."
"Now, father, don't fret yourself—I'm all right; you may be sure of that."
"Louis, it's that accursed brandy—it's that that I'm afraid of: you see me here, my boy, how I'm lying here now."
"Don't you be annoying yourself, governor; I'm all right—quite right; and as for you, why, you'll be up and about yourself in another month or so."
"I shall never be off this bed, my boy, till I'm carried into my coffin, on those chairs there. But I'm not thinking of myself, Louis, but you; think what you may have before you if you can't avoid that accursed bottle."
"I'm all right, governor; right as a trivet. It's very little I take, except at an odd time or so."
"Oh, Louis! Louis!"
"Come, father, cheer up; this sort of thing isn't the thing for you at all. I wonder where mother is: she ought to be here with the broth; just let me go, and I'll see for her."
The father understood it all. He saw that it was now much beyond his faded powers to touch the heart or conscience of such a youth as his son had become. What now could he do for his boy except die? What else, what other benefit, did his son require of him but to die; to die so that his means of dissipation might be unbounded? He let go the unresisting hand which he held, and, as the young man crept out of the room, he turned his face to the wall. He turned his face to the wall and held bitter commune with his own heart. To what had he brought himself? To what had he brought his son? Oh, how happy would it have been for him could he have remained all his days a working stone-mason in Barchester! How happy could he have died as such, years ago! Such tears as those which wet that pillow are the bitterest which human eyes can shed.
But while they were dropping, the memoir of his life was in quick course of preparation. It was, indeed, nearly completed, with considerable detail. He had lingered on four days longer than might have been expected, and the author had thus had more than usual time for the work. In these days a man is nobody unless his biography is kept so far posted up that it may be ready for the national breakfast-table on the morning after his demise. When it chances that the dead hero is one who was taken in his prime of life, of whose departure from among us the most far-seeing biographical scribe can have no prophetic inkling, this must be difficult. Of great men, full of years, who are ripe for the sickle, who in the course of Nature must soon fall, it is of course comparatively easy for an active compiler to have his complete memoir ready in his desk. But in order that the idea of omnipresent and omniscient information may be kept up, the young must be chronicled as quickly as the old. In some cases this task must, one would say, be difficult. Nevertheless, it is done.
The memoir of Sir Roger Scatcherd was progressing favourably. In this it was told how fortunate had been his life; how, in his case, industry and genius combined had triumphed over the difficulties which humble birth and deficient education had thrown in his way; how he had made a name among England's great men; how the Queen had delighted to honour him, and nobles had been proud to have him for a guest at their mansions. Then followed a list of all the great works which he had achieved, of the railroads, canals, docks, harbours, jails, and hospitals which he had constructed. His name was held up as an example to the labouring classes of his countrymen, and he was pointed at as one who had lived and died happy—ever happy, said the biographer, because ever industrious. And so a great moral question was inculcated. A short paragraph was devoted to his appearance in Parliament; and unfortunate Mr Romer was again held up for disgrace, for the thirtieth time, as having been the means of depriving our legislative councils of the great assistance of Sir Roger's experience.
"Sir Roger," said the biographer in his concluding passage, "was possessed of an iron frame; but even iron will yield to the repeated blows of the hammer. In the latter years of his life he was known to overtask himself; and at length the body gave way, though the mind remained firm to thelast. The subject of this memoir was only fifty-nine when he was taken from us."
And thus Sir Roger's life was written, while the tears were yet falling on his pillow at Boxall Hill. It was a pity that a proof-sheet could not have been sent to him. No man was vainer of his reputation, and it would have greatly gratified him to know that posterity was about to speak of him in such terms—to speak of him with a voice that would be audible for twenty-four hours.
Sir Roger made no further attempt to give counsel to his son. It was too evidently useless. The old dying lion felt that the lion's power had already passed from him, and that he was helpless in the hands of the young cub who was so soon to inherit the wealth of the forest. But Dr Thorne was more kind to him. He had something yet to say as to his worldly hopes and worldly cares; and his old friend did not turn a deaf ear to him.
It was during the night that Sir Roger was most anxious to talk, and most capable of talking. He would lie through the day in a state half-comatose; but towards evening he would rouse himself, and by midnight he would be full of fitful energy. One night, as he lay wakeful and full of thought, he thus poured forth his whole heart to Dr Thorne.
"Thorne," said he, "I told you about my will, you know."
"Yes," said the other; "and I have blamed myself greatly that I have not again urged you to alter it. Your illness came too suddenly, Scatcherd; and then I was averse to speak of it."
"Why should I alter it? It is a good will; as good as I can make. Not but that I have altered it since I spoke to you. I did it that day after you left me."
"Have you definitely named your heir in default of Louis?"
"No—that is—yes—I had done that before; I have said Mary's eldest child: I have not altered that."
"But, Scatcherd, you must alter it."
"Must! well then I won't; but I'll tell you what I have done. I have added a postscript—a codicil they call it—saying that you, and you only, know who is her eldest child. Winterbones and Jack Martin have witnessed that."
Dr Thorne was going to explain how very injudicious such an arrangement appeared to be; but Sir Roger would not listen to him. It was not about that that he wished to speak to him. To him it was matter of but minor interest who might inherit his money if his son should die early; his care was solely for his son's welfare. At twenty-five the heir might make his own will—might bequeath all this wealth according to his own fancy. Sir Roger would not bring himself to believe that his son could follow him to the grave in so short a time.
"Never mind that, doctor, now; but about Louis; you will be his guardian, you know."
"Not his guardian. He is more than of age."
"Ah! but doctor, you will be his guardian. The property will not be his till he be twenty-five. You will not desert him?"
"I will not desert him; but I doubt whether I can do much for him—what can I do, Scatcherd?"
"Use the power that a strong man has over a weak one. Use the power that my will will give you. Do for him as you would for a son of your own if you saw him going in bad courses. Do as a friend should do for a friend that is dead and gone. I would do so for you, doctor, if our places were changed."
"What I can do, that I will do," said Thorne, solemnly, taking as he spoke the contractor's hand in his own with a tight grasp.
"I know you will; I know you will. Oh! doctor, may you never feel as I do now! May you on your death-bed have no dread as I have, as to the fate of those you will leave behind you!"
Doctor Thorne felt that he could not say much in answer to this. The future fate of Louis Scatcherd was, he could not but own to himself, greatly to be dreaded. What good, what happiness, could be presaged for such a one as he was? What comfort could he offer to the father? And then he was called on to compare, as it were, the prospects of this unfortunate with those of his own darling; to contrast all that was murky, foul, and disheartening, with all that was perfect—for to him she was all but perfect; to liken Louis Scatcherd to the angel who brightened his own hearthstone. How could he answer to such an appeal?
He said nothing; but merely tightened his grasp of the other's hand, to signify that he would do, as best he could, all that was asked of him. Sir Roger looked up sadly into the doctor's face, as though expecting some word of consolation. There was no comfort, no consolation to come to him!
"For three or four years he must greatly depend upon you," continued Sir Roger.
"I will do what I can," said the doctor. "What I can do I will do. But he is not a child, Scatcherd: at his age he must stand or fall mainly by his own conduct. The best thing for him will be to marry."
"Exactly; that's just it, Thorne: I was coming to that. If he would marry, I think he would do well yet, for all that has come and gone. If he married, of course you would let him have the command of his own income."
"I will be governed entirely by your wishes: under any circumstances his income will, as I understand, be quite sufficient for him, married or single."
"Ah!—but, Thorne, I should like to think he should shine with the best of them. For what have I made the money if not for that? Now if he marries—decently, that is—some woman you know that can assist him in the world, let him have what he wants. It is not to save the money that I put it into your hands."
"No, Scatcherd; not to save the money, but to save him. I think that while you are yet with him you should advise him to marry."
"He does not care a straw for what I advise, not one straw. Why should he? How can I tell him to be sober when I have been a beast all my life myself? How can I advise him? That's where it is! It is that that now kills me. Advise! Why, when I speak to him he treats me like a child."
"He fears that you are too weak, you know: he thinks that you should not be allowed to talk."
"Nonsense! he knows better; you know better. Too weak! what signifies? Would I not give all that I have of strength at one blow if I could open his eyes to see as I see but for one minute?" And the sick man raised himself up in his bed as though he were actually going to expend all that remained to him of vigour in the energy of a moment.
"Gently, Scatcherd; gently. He will listen to you yet; but do not be so unruly."
"Thorne, you see that bottle there? Give me half a glass of brandy."
The doctor turned round in his chair; but he hesitated in doing as he was desired.
"Do as I ask you, doctor. It can do no harm now; you know that well enough. Why torture me now?"
"No, I will not torture you; but you will have water with it?"
"Water! No; the brandy by itself. I tell you I cannot speak without it. What's the use of canting now? You know it can make no difference."
Sir Roger was right. It could make no difference; and Dr Thorne gave him the half glass of brandy.
"Ah, well; you've a stingy hand, doctor; confounded stingy. You don't measure your medicines out in such light doses."
"You will be wanting more before morning, you know."
"Before morning! indeed I shall; a pint or so before that. I remember the time, doctor, when I have drunk to my own cheek above two quarts between dinner and breakfast! aye, and worked all the day after it!"
"You have been a wonderful man, Scatcherd, very wonderful."
"Aye, wonderful! well, never mind. It's over now. But what was I saying?—about Louis, doctor; you'll not desert him?"
"Certainly not."
"He's not strong; I know that. How should he be strong, living as he has done? Not that it seemed to hurt me when I was his age."
"You had the advantage of hard work."
"That's it. Sometimes I wish that Louis had not a shilling in the world; that he had to trudge about with an apron round his waist as I did. But it's too late now to think of that. If he would only marry, doctor."
Dr Thorne again expressed an opinion that no step would be so likely to reform the habits of the young heir as marriage; and repeated his advice to the father to implore his son to take a wife.
"I'll tell you what, Thorne," said he. And then, after a pause, he went on. "I have not half told you as yet what is on my mind; and I'm nearly afraid to tell it; though, indeed, I don't know why I should be."
"I never knew you afraid of anything yet," said the doctor, smiling gently.
"Well, then, I'll not end by turning coward. Now, doctor, tell the truth to me; what do you expect me to do for that girl of yours that we were talking of—Mary's child?"
There was a pause for a moment, for Thorne was slow to answer him.
"You would not let me see her, you know, though she is my niece as truly as she is yours."
"Nothing," at last said the doctor, slowly. "I expect nothing. I would not let you see her, and therefore, I expect nothing."
"She will have it all if poor Louis should die," said Sir Roger.
"If you intend it so you should put her name into the will," said the other. "Not that I ask you or wish you to do so. Mary, thank God, can do without wealth."
"Thorne, on one condition I will put her name into it. I will alter it all on one condition. Let the two cousins be man and wife—let Louis marry poor Mary's child."
The proposition for a moment took away the doctor's breath, and he was unable to answer. Not for all the wealth of India would he have given up his lamb to that young wolf, even though he had had the power to do so. But that lamb—lamb though she was—had, as he well knew, a will of her own on such a matter. What alliance could be more impossible, thought he to himself, than one between Mary Thorne and Louis Scatcherd?
"I will alter it all if you will give me your hand upon it that you will do your best to bring about this marriage. Everything shall be his on the day he marries her; and should he die unmarried, it shall all then be hers by name. Say the word, Thorne, and she shall come here at once. I shall yet have time to see her."
But Dr Thorne did not say the word; just at the moment he said nothing, but he slowly shook his head.
"Why not, Thorne?"
"My friend, it is impossible."
"Why impossible?"
"Her hand is not mine to dispose of, nor is her heart."
"Then let her come over herself."
"What! Scatcherd, that the son might make love to her while the father is so dangerously ill! Bid her come to look for a rich husband! That would not be seemly, would it?"
"No; not for that: let her come merely that I may see her; that we may all know her. I will leave the matter then in your hands if you will promise me to do your best."
"But, my friend, in this matter I cannot do my best. I can do nothing. And, indeed, I may say at once, that it is altogether out of the question. I know—"
"What do you know?" said the baronet, turning on him almost angrily. "What can you know to make you say that it is impossible? Is she a pearl of such price that a man may not win her?"
"She is a pearl of great price."
"Believe me, doctor, money goes far in winning such pearls."
"Perhaps so; I know little about it. But this I do know, that money will not win her. Let us talk of something else; believe me it is useless for us to think of this."
"Yes; if you set your face against it obstinately. You must think very poorly of Louis if you suppose that no girl can fancy him."
"I have not said so, Scatcherd."
"To have the spending of ten thousand a year, and be a baronet's lady! Why, doctor, what is it you expect for this girl?"
"Not much, indeed; not much. A quiet heart and a quiet home; not much more."
"Thorne, if you will be ruled by me in this, she shall be the most topping woman in this county."
"My friend, my friend, why thus grieve me? Why should you thus harass yourself? I tell you it is impossible. They have never seen each other; they have nothing, and can have nothing in common; their tastes, and wishes, and pursuits are different. Besides, Scatcherd, marriages never answer that are so made; believe me, it is impossible."
The contractor threw himself back on his bed, and lay for some ten minutes perfectly quiet; so much so that the doctor began to think that he was sleeping. So thinking, and wearied by the watching, Dr Thorne was beginning to creep quietly from the room, when his companion again roused himself, almost with vehemence.
"You won't do this thing for me, then?" said he.
"Do it! It is not for you or me to do such things as that. Such things must be left to those concerned themselves."
"You will not even help me?"
"Not in this thing, Sir Roger."
"Then, by ––––, she shall not under any circumstances ever have a shilling of mine. Give me some of that stuff there," and he again pointed to the brandy bottle which stood ever within his sight.
The doctor poured out and handed to him another small modicum of spirit.
"Nonsense, man; fill the glass. I'll stand no nonsense now. I'll be master in my own house to the last. Give it here, I tell you. Ten thousand devils are tearing me within. You—you could have comforted me; but you would not. Fill the glass I tell you."
"I should be killing you were I to do it."
"Killing me! killing me! you are always talking of killing me. Do you suppose that I am afraid to die? Do not I know how soon it is coming? Give me the brandy, I say, or I will be out across the room to fetch it."
"No, Scatcherd. I cannot give it to you; not while I am here. Do you remember how you were engaged this morning?"—he had that morning taken the sacrament from the parish clergyman—"you would not wish to make me guilty of murder, would you?"
"Nonsense! You are talking nonsense; habit is second nature. I tell you I shall sink without it. Why, you know I always get it directly your back is turned. Come, I will not be bullied in my own house; give me that bottle, I say!"—and Sir Roger essayed, vainly enough, to raise himself from the bed.
"Stop, Scatcherd; I will give it you—I will help you. It may be that habit is second nature." Sir Roger in his determined energy had swallowed, without thinking of it, the small quantity which the doctor had before poured out for him, and still held the empty glass within his hand. This the doctor now took and filled nearly to the brim.
"Come, Thorne, a bumper; a bumper for this once. 'Whatever the drink, it a bumper must be.' You stingy fellow! I would not treat you so. Well—well."
"It's as full as you can hold it, Scatcherd."
"Try me; try me! my hand is a rock; at least at holding liquor." And then he drained the contents of the glass, which were sufficient in quantity to have taken away the breath from any ordinary man.
"Ah, I'm better now. But, Thorne, I do love a full glass, ha! ha! ha!"
There was something frightful, almost sickening, in the peculiar hoarse guttural tone of his voice. The sounds came from him as though steeped in brandy, and told, all too plainly, the havoc which the alcohol had made. There was a fire too about his eyes which contrasted with his sunken cheeks: his hanging jaw, unshorn beard, and haggard face were terrible to look at. His hands and arms were hot and clammy, but so thin and wasted! Of his lower limbs the lost use had not returned to him, so that in all his efforts at vehemence he was controlled by his own want of vitality. When he supported himself, half-sitting against the pillows, he was in a continual tremor; and yet, as he boasted, he could still lift his glass steadily to his mouth. Such now was the hero of whom that ready compiler of memoirs had just finished his correct and succinct account.
After he had had his brandy, he sat glaring a while at vacancy, as though he was dead to all around him, and was thinking—thinking—thinking of things in the infinite distance of the past.
"Shall I go now," said the doctor, "and send Lady Scatcherd to you?"
"Wait a while, doctor; just one minute longer. So you will do nothing for Louis, then?"
"I will do everything for him that I can do."
"Ah, yes! everything but the one thing that will save him. Well, I will not ask you again. But remember, Thorne, I shall alter my will to-morrow."
"Do so by all means; you may well alter it for the better. If I may advise you, you will have down your own business attorney from London. If you will let me send he will be here before to-morrow night."
"Thank you for nothing, Thorne: I can manage that matter myself. Now leave me; but remember, you have ruined that girl's fortune."
The doctor did leave him, and went not altogether happy to his room. He could not but confess to himself that he had, despite himself as it were, fed himself with hope that Mary's future might be made more secure, aye, and brighter too, by some small unheeded fraction broken off from the huge mass of her uncle's wealth. Such hope, if it had amounted to hope, was now all gone. But this was not all, nor was this the worst of it. That he had done right in utterly repudiating all idea of a marriage between Mary and her cousin—of that he was certain enough; that no earthly consideration would have induced Mary to plight her troth to such a man—that, with him, was as certain as doom. But how far had he done right in keeping her from the sight of her uncle? How could he justify it to himself if he had thus robbed her of her inheritance, seeing that he had done so from a selfish fear lest she, who was now all his own, should be known to the world as belonging to others rather than to him? He had taken upon him on her behalf to reject wealth as valueless; and yet he had no sooner done so than he began to consume his hours with reflecting how great to her would be the value of wealth. And thus, when Sir Roger told him, as he left the room, that he had ruined Mary's fortune, he was hardly able to bear the taunt with equanimity.
On the next morning, after paying his professional visit to his patient, and satisfying himself that the end was now drawing near with steps terribly quickened, he went down to Greshamsbury.
"How long is this to last, uncle?" said his niece, with sad voice, as he again prepared to return to Boxall Hill.
"Not long, Mary; do not begrudge him a few more hours of life."
"No, I do not, uncle. I will say nothing more about it. Is his son with him?" And then, perversely enough, she persisted in asking numerous questions about Louis Scatcherd.
"Is he likely to marry, uncle?"
"I hope so, my dear."
"Will he be so very rich?"
"Yes; ultimately he will be very rich."
"He will be a baronet, will he not?"
"Yes, my dear."
"What is he like, uncle?"
"Like—I never know what a young man is like. He is like a man with red hair."
"Uncle, you are the worst hand in describing I ever knew. If I'd seen him for five minutes, I'd be bound to make a portrait of him; and you, if you were describing a dog, you'd only say what colour his hair was."
"Well, he's a little man."
"Exactly, just as I should say that Mrs Umbleby had a red-haired little dog. I wish I had known these Scatcherds, uncle. I do so admire people that can push themselves in the world. I wish I had known Sir Roger."
"You will never know him now, Mary."
"I suppose not. I am so sorry for him. Is Lady Scatcherd nice?"
"She is an excellent woman."
"I hope I may know her some day. You are so much there now, uncle; I wonder whether you ever mention me to them. If you do, tell her from me how much I grieve for her."
That same night Dr Thorne again found himself alone with Sir Roger. The sick man was much more tranquil, and apparently more at ease than he had been on the preceding night. He said nothing about his will, and not a word about Mary Thorne; but the doctor knew that Winterbones and a notary's clerk from Barchester had been in the bedroom a great part of the day; and, as he knew also that the great man of business was accustomed to do his most important work by the hands of such tools as these, he did not doubt but that the will had been altered and remodelled. Indeed, he thought it more than probable, that when it was opened it would be found to be wholly different in its provisions from that which Sir Roger had already described.
"Louis is clever enough," he said, "sharp enough, I mean. He won't squander the property."
"He has good natural abilities," said the doctor.
"Excellent, excellent," said the father. "He may do well, very well, if he can only be kept from this;" and Sir Roger held up the empty wine-glass which stood by his bedside. "What a life he may have before him!—and to throw it away for this!" and as he spoke he took the glass and tossed it across the room. "Oh, doctor! would that it were all to begin again!"
"We all wish that, I dare say, Scatcherd."
"No, you don't wish it. You ain't worth a shilling, and yet you regret nothing. I am worth half a million in one way or the other, and I regret everything—everything—everything!"
"You should not think in that way, Scatcherd; you need not think so. Yesterday you told Mr Clarke that you were comfortable in your mind." Mr Clarke was the clergyman who had visited him.
"Of course I did. What else could I say when he asked me? It wouldn't have been civil to have told him that his time and words were all thrown away. But, Thorne, believe me, when a man's heart is sad—sad—sad to the core, a few words from a parson at the last moment will never make it all right."
"May He have mercy on you, my friend!—if you will think of Him, and look to Him, He will have mercy on you."
"Well—I will try, doctor; but would that it were all to do again. You'll see to the old woman for my sake, won't you?"
"What, Lady Scatcherd?"
"Lady Devil! If anything angers me now it is that 'ladyship'—her to be my lady! Why, when I came out of jail that time, the poor creature had hardly a shoe to her foot. But it wasn't her fault, Thorne; it was none of her doing. She never asked for such nonsense."
"She has been an excellent wife, Scatcherd; and what is more, she is an excellent woman. She is, and ever will be, one of my dearest friends."
"Thank'ee, doctor, thank'ee. Yes; she has been a good wife—better for a poor man than a rich one; but then, that was what she was born to. You won't let her be knocked about by them, will you, Thorne?"
Dr Thorne again assured him, that as long as he lived Lady Scatcherd should never want one true friend; in making this promise, however, he managed to drop all allusion to the obnoxious title.
"You'll be with him as much as possible, won't you?" again asked the baronet, after lying quite silent for a quarter of an hour.
"With whom?" said the doctor, who was then all but asleep.
"With my poor boy; with Louis."
"If he will let me, I will," said the doctor.
"And, doctor, when you see a glass at his mouth, dash it down; thrust it down, though you thrust out the teeth with it. When you see that, Thorne, tell him of his father—tell him what his father might have been but for that; tell him how his father died like a beast, because he could not keep himself from drink."
These, reader, were the last words spoken by Sir Roger Scatcherd. As he uttered them he rose up in bed with the same vehemence which he had shown on the former evening. But in the very act of doing so he was again struck by paralysis, and before nine on the following morning all was over.
"Oh, my man—my own, own man!" exclaimed the widow, remembering in the paroxysm of her grief nothing but the loves of their early days; "the best, the brightest, the cleverest of them all!"
Some weeks after this Sir Roger was buried, with much pomp and ceremony, within the precincts of Barchester Cathedral; and a monument was put up to him soon after, in which he was portrayed as smoothing a block of granite with a mallet and chisel; while his eagle eye, disdaining such humble work, was fixed upon some intricate mathematical instrument above him. Could Sir Roger have seen it himself, he would probably have declared, that no workman was ever worth his salt who looked one way while he rowed another.
Immediately after the funeral the will was opened, and Dr Thorne discovered that the clauses of it were exactly identical with those which his friend had described to him some months back. Nothing had been altered; nor had the document been unfolded since that strange codicil was added, in which it was declared that Dr Thorne knew—and only Dr Thorne—who was the eldest child of the testator's only sister. At the same time, however, a joint executor with Dr Thorne had been named—one Mr Stock, a man of railway fame—and Dr Thorne himself was made a legatee to the humble extent of a thousand pounds. A life income of a thousand pounds a year was left to Lady Scatcherd.
We need not follow Sir Roger to his grave, nor partake of the baked meats which were furnished for his funeral banquet. Such men as Sir Roger Scatcherd are always well buried, and we have already seen that his glories were duly told to posterity in the graphic diction of his sepulchral monument. In a few days the doctor had returned to his quiet home, and Sir Louis found himself reigning at Boxall Hill in his father's stead—with, however, a much diminished sway, and, as he thought it, but a poor exchequer. We must soon return to him and say something of his career as a baronet; but for the present, we may go back to our more pleasant friends at Greshamsbury.
But our friends at Greshamsbury had not been making themselves pleasant—not so pleasant to each other as circumstances would have admitted. In those days which the doctor had felt himself bound to pass, if not altogether at Boxall Hill, yet altogether away from his own home, so as to admit of his being as much as possible with his patient, Mary had been thrown more than ever with Patience Oriel, and, also, almost more than ever with Beatrice Gresham. As regarded Mary, she would doubtless have preferred the companionship of Patience, though she loved Beatrice far the best; but she had no choice. When she went to the parsonage Beatrice came there also, and when Patience came to the doctor's house Beatrice either accompanied or followed her. Mary could hardly have rejected their society, even had she felt it wise to do so. She would in such case have been all alone, and her severance from the Greshamsbury house and household, from the big family in which she had for so many years been almost at home, would have made such solitude almost unendurable.
And then these two girls both knew—not her secret: she had no secret—but the little history of her ill-treatment. They knew that though she had been blameless in this matter, yet she had been the one to bear the punishment; and, as girls and bosom friends, they could not but sympathise with her, and endow her with heroic attributes; make her, in fact, as we are doing, their little heroine for the nonce. This was, perhaps, not serviceable for Mary; but it was far from being disagreeable.
The tendency to finding matter for hero-worship in Mary's endurance was much stronger with Beatrice than with Miss Oriel. Miss Oriel was the elder, and naturally less afflicted with the sentimentation of romance. She had thrown herself into Mary's arms because she had seen that it was essentially necessary for Mary's comfort that she should do so. She was anxious to make her friend smile, and to smile with her. Beatrice was quite as true in her sympathy; but she rather wished that she and Mary might weep in unison, shed mutual tears, and break their hearts together.
Patience had spoken of Frank's love as a misfortune, of his conduct as erroneous, and to be excused only by his youth, and had never appeared to surmise that Mary also might be in love as well as he. But to Beatrice the affair was a tragic difficulty, admitting of no solution; a Gordian knot, not to be cut; a misery now and for ever. She would always talk about Frank when she and Mary were alone; and, to speak the truth, Mary did not stop her as she perhaps should have done. As for a marriage between them, that was impossible; Beatrice was well sure of that: it was Frank's unfortunate destiny that he must marry money—money, and, as Beatrice sometimes thoughtlessly added, cutting Mary to the quick,—money and family also. Under such circumstances a marriage between them was quite impossible; but not the less did Beatrice declare, that she would have loved Mary as her sister-in-law had it been possible; and how worthy Frank was of a girl's love, had such love been permissible.
"It is so cruel," Beatrice would say; "so very, very, cruel. You would have suited him in every way."
"Nonsense, Trichy; I should have suited him in no possible way at all; nor he me."
"Oh, but you would—exactly. Papa loves you so well."
"And mamma; that would have been so nice."
"Yes; and mamma, too—that is, had you had a fortune," said the daughter, naïvely. "She always liked you personally, always."
"Did she?"
"Always. And we all love you so."
"Especially Lady Alexandrina."
"That would not have signified, for Frank cannot endure the de Courcys himself."
"My dear, it does not matter one straw whom your brother can endure or not endure just at present. His character is to be formed, and his tastes, and his heart also."
"Oh, Mary!—his heart."
"Yes, his heart; not the fact of his having a heart. I think he has a heart; but he himself does not yet understand it."
"Oh, Mary! you do not know him."
Such conversations were not without danger to poor Mary's comfort. It came soon to be the case that she looked rather for this sort of sympathy from Beatrice, than for Miss Oriel's pleasant but less piquant gaiety.
So the days of the doctor's absence were passed, and so also the first week after his return. During this week it was almost daily necessary that the squire should be with him. The doctor was now the legal holder of Sir Roger's property, and, as such, the holder also of all the mortgages on Mr Gresham's property; and it was natural that they should be much together. The doctor would not, however, go up to Greshamsbury on any other than medical business; and it therefore became necessary that the squire should be a good deal at the doctor's house.
Then the Lady Arabella became unhappy in her mind. Frank, it was true, was away at Cambridge, and had been successfully kept out of Mary's way since the suspicion of danger had fallen upon Lady Arabella's mind. Frank was away, and Mary was systematically banished, with due acknowledgement from all the powers in Greshamsbury. But this was not enough for Lady Arabella as long as her daughter still habitually consorted with the female culprit, and as long as her husband consorted with the male culprit. It seemed to Lady Arabella at this moment as though, in banishing Mary from the house, she had in effect banished herself from the most intimate of the Greshamsbury social circles. She magnified in her own mind the importance of the conferences between the girls, and was not without some fear that the doctor might be talking the squire over into very dangerous compliance.
She resolved, therefore, on another duel with the doctor. In the first she had been pre-eminently and unexpectedly successful. No young sucking dove could have been more mild than that terrible enemy whom she had for years regarded as being too puissant for attack. In ten minutes she had vanquished him, and succeeded in banishing both him and his niece from the house without losing the value of his services. As is always the case with us, she had begun to despise the enemy she had conquered, and to think that the foe, once beaten, could never rally.
Her object was to break off all confidential intercourse between Beatrice and Mary, and to interrupt, as far as she could do it, that between the doctor and the squire. This, it may be said, could be more easily done by skilful management within her own household. She had, however, tried that and failed. She had said much to Beatrice as to the imprudence of her friendship with Mary, and she had done this purposely before the squire; injudiciously however,—for the squire had immediately taken Mary's part, and had declared that he had no wish to see a quarrel between his family and that of the doctor; that Mary Thorne was in every way a good girl, and an eligible friend for his own child; and had ended by declaring, that he would not have Mary persecuted for Frank's fault. This had not been the end, nor nearly the end of what had been said on the matter at Greshamsbury; but the end, when it came, came in this wise, that Lady Arabella determined to say a few words to the doctor as to the expediency of forbidding familiar intercourse between Mary and any of the Greshamsbury people.
With this view Lady Arabella absolutely bearded the lion in his den, the doctor in his shop. She had heard that both Mary and Beatrice were to pass a certain afternoon at the parsonage, and took that opportunity of calling at the doctor's house. A period of many years had passed since she had last so honoured that abode. Mary, indeed, had been so much one of her own family that the ceremony of calling on her had never been thought necessary; and thus, unless Mary had been absolutely ill, there would have been nothing to bring her ladyship to the house. All this she knew would add to the importance of the occasion, and she judged it prudent to make the occasion as important as it might well be.
She was so far successful that she soon found herselftête-à-têtewith the doctor in his own study. She was no whit dismayed by the pair of human thigh-bones which lay close to his hand, and which, when he was talking in that den of his own, he was in the constant habit of handling with much energy; nor was she frightened out of her propriety even by the little child's skull which grinned at her from off the chimney-piece.
"Doctor," she said, as soon as the first complimentary greetings were over, speaking in her kindest and most would-be-confidential tone, "Doctor, I am still uneasy about that boy of mine, and I have thought it best to come and see you at once, and tell you freely what I think."
The doctor bowed, and said that he was very sorry that she should have any cause for uneasiness about his young friend Frank.
"Indeed, I am very uneasy, doctor; and having, as I do have, such reliance on your prudence, and such perfect confidence in your friendship, I have thought it best to come and speak to you openly:" thereupon the Lady Arabella paused, and the doctor bowed again.
"Nobody knows so well as you do the dreadful state of the squire's affairs."
"Not so very dreadful; not so very dreadful," said the doctor, mildly: "that is, as far as I know."
"Yes they are, doctor; very dreadful; very dreadful indeed. You know how much he owes to this young man: I do not, for the squire never tells anything to me; but I know that it is a very large sum of money; enough to swamp the estate and ruin Frank. Now I call that very dreadful."
"No, no, not ruin him, Lady Arabella; not ruin him, I hope."
"However, I did not come to talk to you about that. As I said before, I know nothing of the squire's affairs, and, as a matter of course, I do not ask you to tell me. But I am sure you will agree with me in this, that, as a mother, I cannot but be interested about my only son," and Lady Arabella put her cambric handkerchief to her eyes.
"Of course you are; of course you are," said the doctor; "and, Lady Arabella, my opinion of Frank is such, that I feel sure that he will do well;" and, in his energy, Dr Thorne brandished one of the thigh-bones almost in the lady's face.
"I hope he will; I am sure I hope he will. But, doctor, he has such dangers to contend with; he is so warm and impulsive that I fear his heart will bring him into trouble. Now, you know, unless Frank marries money he is lost."
The doctor made no answer to this last appeal, but as he sat and listened a slight frown came across his brow.
"He must marry money, doctor. Now we have, you see, with your assistance, contrived to separate him from dear Mary—"
"With my assistance, Lady Arabella! I have given no assistance, nor have I meddled in the matter; nor will I."
"Well, doctor, perhaps not meddled; but you agreed with me, you know, that the two young people had been imprudent."
"I agreed to no such thing, Lady Arabella; never, never. I not only never agreed that Mary had been imprudent, but I will not agree to it now, and will not allow any one to assert it in my presence without contradicting it:" and then the doctor worked away at the thigh-bones in a manner that did rather alarm her ladyship.
"At any rate, you thought that the young people had better be kept apart."
"No; neither did I think that: my niece, I felt sure, was safe from danger. I knew that she would do nothing that would bring either her or me to shame."
"Not to shame," said the lady, apologetically, as it were, using the word perhaps not exactly in the doctor's sense.
"I felt no alarm for her," continued the doctor, "and desired no change. Frank is your son, and it is for you to look to him. You thought proper to do so by desiring Mary to absent herself from Greshamsbury."
"Oh, no, no, no!" said Lady Arabella.
"But you did, Lady Arabella; and as Greshamsbury is your home, neither I nor my niece had any ground of complaint. We acquiesced, not without much suffering, but we did acquiesce; and you, I think, can have no ground of complaint against us."
Lady Arabella had hardly expected that the doctor would reply to her mild and conciliatory exordium with so much sternness. He had yielded so easily to her on the former occasion. She did not comprehend that when she uttered her sentence of exile against Mary, she had given an order which she had the power of enforcing; but that obedience to that order had now placed Mary altogether beyond her jurisdiction. She was, therefore, a little surprised, and for a few moments overawed by the doctor's manner; but she soon recovered herself, remembering, doubtless, that fortune favours none but the brave.
"I make no complaint, Dr Thorne," she said, after assuming a tone more befitting a de Courcy than that hitherto used, "I make no complaint either as regards you or Mary."
"You are very kind, Lady Arabella."
"But I think that it is my duty to put a stop, a peremptory stop to anything like a love affair between my son and your niece."
"I have not the least objection in life. If there is such a love affair, put a stop to it—that is, if you have the power."
Here the doctor was doubtless imprudent. But he had begun to think that he had yielded sufficiently to the lady; and he had begun to resolve, also, that though it would not become him to encourage even the idea of such a marriage, he would make Lady Arabella understand that he thought his niece quite good enough for her son, and that the match, if regarded as imprudent, was to be regarded as equally imprudent on both sides. He would not suffer that Mary and her heart and feelings and interest should be altogether postponed to those of the young heir; and, perhaps, he was unconsciously encouraged in this determination by the reflection that Mary herself might perhaps become a young heiress.
"It is my duty," said Lady Arabella, repeating her words with even a stronger de Courcy intonation; "and your duty also, Dr Thorne."
"My duty!" said he, rising from his chair and leaning on the table with the two thigh-bones. "Lady Arabella, pray understand at once, that I repudiate any such duty, and will have nothing whatever to do with it."
"But you do not mean to say that you will encourage this unfortunate boy to marry your niece?"
"The unfortunate boy, Lady Arabella—whom, by the by, I regard as a very fortunate young man—is your son, not mine. I shall take no steps about his marriage, either one way or the other."
"You think it right, then, that your niece should throw herself in his way?"
"Throw herself in his way! What would you say if I came up to Greshamsbury, and spoke to you of your daughters in such language? What would my dear friend Mr Gresham say, if some neighbour's wife should come and so speak to him? I will tell you what he would say: he would quietly beg her to go back to her own home and meddle only with her own matters."
This was dreadful to Lady Arabella. Even Dr Thorne had never before dared thus to lower her to the level of common humanity, and liken her to any other wife in the country-side. Moreover, she was not quite sure whether he, the parish doctor, was not desiring her, the earl's daughter, to go home and mind her own business. On this first point, however, there seemed to be no room for doubt, of which she gave herself the benefit.
"It would not become me to argue with you, Dr Thorne," she said.
"Not at least on this subject," said he.
"I can only repeat that I mean nothing offensive to our dear Mary; for whom, I think I may say, I have always shown almost a mother's care."
"Neither am I, nor is Mary, ungrateful for the kindness she has received at Greshamsbury."
"But I must do my duty: my own children must be my first consideration."
"Of course they must, Lady Arabella; that's of course."
"And, therefore, I have called on you to say that I think it is imprudent that Beatrice and Mary should be so much together."
The doctor had been standing during the latter part of this conversation, but now he began to walk about, still holding the two bones like a pair of dumb-bells.
"God bless my soul!" he said; "God bless my soul! Why, Lady Arabella, do you suspect your own daughter as well as your own son? Do you think that Beatrice is assisting Mary in preparing this wicked clandestine marriage? I tell you fairly, Lady Arabella, the present tone of your mind is such that I cannot understand it."
"I suspect nobody, Dr Thorne; but young people will be young."
"And old people must be old, I suppose; the more's the pity. Lady Arabella, Mary is the same to me as my own daughter, and owes me the obedience of a child; but as I do not disapprove of your daughter Beatrice as an acquaintance for her, but rather, on the other hand, regard with pleasure their friendship, you cannot expect that I should take any steps to put an end to it."
"But suppose it should lead to renewed intercourse between Frank and Mary?"
"I have no objection. Frank is a very nice young fellow, gentleman-like in his manners, and neighbourly in his disposition."
"Dr Thorne—"
"Lady Arabella—"
"I cannot believe that you really intend to express a wish—"
"You are quite right. I have not intended to express any wish; nor do I intend to do so. Mary is at liberty, within certain bounds—which I am sure she will not pass—to choose her own friends. I think she has not chosen badly as regards Miss Beatrice Gresham; and should she even add Frank Gresham to the number—"
"Friends! why they were more than friends; they were declared lovers."
"I doubt that, Lady Arabella, because I have not heard of it from Mary. But even if it were so, I do not see why I should object."
"Not object!"
"As I said before, Frank is, to my thinking, an excellent young man. Why should I object?"
"Dr Thorne!" said her ladyship, now also rising from her chair in a state of too evident perturbation.
"Why shouldIobject? It is for you, Lady Arabella, to look after your lambs; for me to see that, if possible, no harm shall come to mine. If you think that Mary is an improper acquaintance for your children, it is for you to guide them; for you and their father. Say what you think fit to your own daughter; but pray understand, once for all, that I will allow no one to interfere with my niece."
"Interfere!" said Lady Arabella, now absolutely confused by the severity of the doctor's manner.
"I will allow no one to interfere with her; no one, Lady Arabella. She has suffered very greatly from imputations which you have most unjustly thrown on her. It was, however, your undoubted right to turn her out of your house if you thought fit;—though, as a woman who had known her for so many years, you might, I think, have treated her with more forbearance. That, however, was your right, and you exercised it. There your privilege stops; yes, and must stop, Lady Arabella. You shall not persecute her here, on the only spot of ground she can call her own."
"Persecute her, Dr Thorne! You do not mean to say that I have persecuted her?"
"Ah! but I do mean to say so. You do persecute her, and would continue to do so did I not defend her. It is not sufficient that she is forbidden to enter your domain—and so forbidden with the knowledge of all the country round—but you must come here also with the hope of interrupting all the innocent pleasures of her life. Fearing lest she should be allowed even to speak to your son, to hear a word of him through his own sister, you would put her in prison, tie her up, keep her from the light of day—"
"Dr Thorne! how can you—"
But the doctor was not to be interrupted.
"It never occurs to you to tie him up, to put him in prison. No; he is the heir of Greshamsbury; he is your son, an earl's grandson. It is only natural, after all, that he should throw a few foolish words at the doctor's niece. But she! it is an offence not to be forgiven on her part that she should, however, unwillingly, have been forced to listen to them! Now understand me, Lady Arabella; if any of your family come to my house I shall be delighted to welcome them: if Mary should meet any of them elsewhere I shall be delighted to hear of it. Should she tell me to-morrow that she was engaged to marry Frank, I should talk the matter over with her, quite coolly, solely with a view to her interest, as would be my duty; feeling, at the same time, that Frank would be lucky in having such a wife. Now you know my mind, Lady Arabella. It is so I should do my duty;—you can do yours as you may think fit."
Lady Arabella had by this time perceived that she was not destined on this occasion to gain any great victory. She, however, was angry as well as the doctor. It was not the man's vehemence that provoked her so much as his evident determination to break down the prestige of her rank, and place her on a footing in no respect superior to his own. He had never before been so audaciously arrogant; and, as she moved towards the door, she determined in her wrath that she would never again have confidential intercourse with him in any relation of life whatsoever.
"Dr Thorne," said she. "I think you have forgotten yourself. You must excuse me if I say that after what has passed I—I—I—"
"Certainly," said he, fully understanding what she meant; and bowing low as he opened first the study-door, then the front-door, then the garden-gate.
And then Lady Arabella stalked off, not without full observation from Mrs Yates Umbleby and her friend Miss Gushing, who lived close by.
And now began the unpleasant things at Greshamsbury of which we have here told. When Lady Arabella walked away from the doctor's house she resolved that, let it cost what it might, there should be war to the knife between her and him. She had been insulted by him—so at least she said to herself, and so she was prepared to say to others also—and it was not to be borne that a de Courcy should allow her parish doctor to insult her with impunity. She would tell her husband with all the dignity that she could assume, that it had now become absolutely necessary that he should protect his wife by breaking entirely with his unmannered neighbour; and, as regarded the young members of her family, she would use the authority of a mother, and absolutely forbid them to hold any intercourse with Mary Thorne. So resolving, she walked quickly back to her own house.
The doctor, when left alone, was not quite satisfied with the part he had taken in the interview. He had spoken from impulse rather than from judgement, and, as is generally the case with men who do so speak, he had afterwards to acknowledge to himself that he had been imprudent. He accused himself probably of more violence than he had really used, and was therefore unhappy; but, nevertheless, his indignation was not at rest. He was angry with himself; but not on that account the less angry with Lady Arabella. She was cruel, overbearing, and unreasonable; cruel in the most cruel of manners, so he thought; but not on that account was he justified in forgetting the forbearance due from a gentleman to a lady. Mary, moreover, had owed much to the kindness of this woman, and, therefore, Dr Thorne felt that he should have forgiven much.
Thus the doctor walked about his room, much disturbed; now accusing himself for having been so angry with Lady Arabella, and then feeding his own anger by thinking of her misconduct.
The only immediate conclusion at which he resolved was this, that it was unnecessary that he should say anything to Mary on the subject of her ladyship's visit. There was, no doubt, sorrow enough in store for his darling; why should he aggravate it? Lady Arabella would doubtless not stop now in her course; but why should he accelerate the evil which she would doubtless be able to effect?
Lady Arabella, when she returned to the house, allowed no grass to grow under her feet. As she entered the house she desired that Miss Beatrice should be sent to her directly she returned; and she desired also, that as soon as the squire should be in his room a message to that effect might be immediately brought to her.
"Beatrice," she said, as soon as the young lady appeared before her, and in speaking she assumed her firmest tone of authority, "Beatrice, I am sorry, my dear, to say anything that is unpleasant to you, but I must make it a positive request that you will for the future drop all intercourse with Dr Thorne's family."
Beatrice, who had received Lady Arabella's message immediately on entering the house, and had run upstairs imagining that some instant haste was required, now stood before her mother rather out of breath, holding her bonnet by the strings.
"Oh, mamma!" she exclaimed, "what on earth has happened?"
"My dear," said the mother, "I cannot really explain to you what has happened; but I must ask you to give me your positive assurance that you will comply with my request."
"You don't mean that I am not to see Mary any more?"
"Yes, I do, my dear; at any rate, for the present. When I tell you that your brother's interest imperatively demands it, I am sure that you will not refuse me."
Beatrice did not refuse, but she did not appear too willing to comply. She stood silent, leaning against the end of a sofa and twisting her bonnet-strings in her hand.
"Well, Beatrice—"
"But, mamma, I don't understand."
Lady Arabella had said that she could not exactly explain: but she found it necessary to attempt to do so.
"Dr Thorne has openly declared to me that a marriage between poor Frank and Mary is all he could desire for his niece. After such unparalleled audacity as that, even your father will see the necessity of breaking with him."
"Dr Thorne! Oh, mamma, you must have misunderstood him."
"My dear, I am not apt to misunderstand people; especially when I am so much in earnest as I was in talking to Dr Thorne."
"But, mamma, I know so well what Mary herself thinks about it."
"And I know what Dr Thorne thinks about it; he, at any rate, has been candid in what he said; there can be no doubt on earth that he has spoken his true thoughts; there can be no reason to doubt him: of course such a match would be all that he could wish."
"Mamma, I feel sure that there is some mistake."
"Very well, my dear. I know that you are infatuated about these people, and that you are always inclined to contradict what I say to you; but, remember, I expect that you will obey me when I tell you not to go to Dr Thorne's house any more."
"But, mamma—"
"I expect you to obey me, Beatrice. Though you are so prone to contradict, you have never disobeyed me; and I fully trust that you will not do so now."
Lady Arabella had begun by exacting, or trying to exact a promise, but as she found that this was not forthcoming, she thought it better to give up the point without a dispute. It might be that Beatrice would absolutely refuse to pay this respect to her mother's authority, and then where would she have been?
At this moment a servant came up to say that the squire was in his room, and Lady Arabella was opportunely saved the necessity of discussing the matter further with her daughter. "I am now," she said, "going to see your father on the same subject; you may be quite sure, Beatrice, that I should not willingly speak to him on any matter relating to Dr Thorne did I not find it absolutely necessary to do so."
This Beatrice knew was true, and she did therefore feel convinced that something terrible must have happened.
While Lady Arabella opened her budget the squire sat quite silent, listening to her with apparent respect. She found it necessary that her description to him should be much more elaborate than that which she had vouchsafed to her daughter, and, in telling her grievance, she insisted most especially on the personal insult which had been offered to herself.
"After what has now happened," said she, not quite able to repress a tone of triumph as she spoke, "I do expect, Mr Gresham, that you will—will—"
"Will what, my dear?"
"Will at least protect me from the repetition of such treatment."
"You are not afraid that Dr Thorne will come here to attack you? As far as I can understand, he never comes near the place, unless when you send for him."
"No; I do not think that he will come to Greshamsbury any more. I believe I have put a stop to that."
"Then what is it, my dear, that you want me to do?"
Lady Arabella paused a minute before she replied. The game which she now had to play was not very easy; she knew, or thought she knew, that her husband, in his heart of hearts, much preferred his friend to the wife of his bosom, and that he would, if he could, shuffle out of noticing the doctor's iniquities. It behoved her, therefore, to put them forward in such a way that they must be noticed.
"I suppose, Mr Gresham, you do not wish that Frank should marry the girl?"
"I do not think there is the slightest chance of such a thing; and I am quite sure that Dr Thorne would not encourage it."
"But I tell you, Mr Gresham, that he says he will encourage it."
"Oh, you have misunderstood him."
"Of course; I always misunderstand everything. I know that. I misunderstood it when I told you how you would distress yourself if you took those nasty hounds."
"I have had other troubles more expensive than the hounds," said the poor squire, sighing.
"Oh, yes; I know what you mean; a wife and family are expensive, of course. It is a little too late now to complain of that."
"My dear, it is always too late to complain of any troubles when they are no longer to be avoided. We need not, therefore, talk any more about the hounds at present."
"I do not wish to speak of them, Mr Gresham."
"Nor I."
"But I hope you will not think me unreasonable if I am anxious to know what you intend to do about Dr Thorne."
"To do?"
"Yes; I suppose you will do something: you do not wish to see your son marry such a girl as Mary Thorne."
"As far as the girl herself is concerned," said the squire, turning rather red, "I am not sure that he could do much better. I know nothing whatever against Mary. Frank, however, cannot afford to make such a match. It would be his ruin."