“There,” said she, rising up, and seizing this in a manner that would have been ridiculous had it not been so truly tragic. “There, that has robbed me of everything—of all that I ever possessed; of husband and child; of the father and son; that has swallowed them both—murdered them both! Oh, doctor! that such a thing as that should cause such bitter sorrow! I have hated it always, but now—Oh, woe is me! weary me!” And then she let the bottle drop from her hand as though it were too heavy for her.
“This comes of their barro-niting,” she continued. “If they had let him alone, he would have been here now, and so would the other one. Why did they do it? why did they do it? Ah, doctor! people such as us should never meddle with them above us. See what has come of it; see what has come of it!”
The doctor could not remain with her long, as it was necessary that he should take upon himself the direction of the household, and give orders for the funeral. First of all, he had to undergo the sad duty of seeing the corpse of the deceased baronet. This, at any rate, may be spared to my readers. It was found to be necessary that the interment should be made very quickly, as the body was already nearly destroyed by alcohol. Having done all this, and sent back his horse to Greshamsbury, with directions that clothes for a journey might be sent to him, and a notice that he should not be home for some days, he again returned to Lady Scatcherd.
Of course he could not but think much of the immense property which was now, for a short time, altogether in his own hands. His resolution was soon made to go at once to London and consult the best lawyer he could find—or the best dozen lawyers should such be necessary—as to the validity of Mary’s claims. This must be done before he said a word to her or to any of the Gresham family; but it must be done instantly, so that all suspense might be at an end as soon as possible. He must, of course, remain with Lady Scatcherd till the funeral should be over; but when that office should be complete, he would start instantly for London.
In resolving to tell no one as to Mary’s fortune till after he had fortified himself with legal warranty, he made one exception. He thought it rational that he should explain to Lady Scatcherd who was now the heir under her husband’s will; and he was the more inclined to do so, from feeling that the news would probably be gratifying to her. With this view, he had once or twice endeavoured to induce her to talk about the property, but she had been unwilling to do so. She seemed to dislike all allusions to it, and it was not till she had incidentally mentioned the fact that she would have to look for a home, that he was able to fix her to the subject. This was on the evening before the funeral; on the afternoon of which day he intended to proceed to London.
“It may probably be arranged that you may continue to live here,” said the doctor.
“I don’t wish it at all,” said she, rather sharply. “I don’t wish to have any arrangements made. I would not be indebted to any of them for anything. Oh, dear! if money could make it all right, I should have enough of that.”
“Indebted to whom, Lady Scatcherd? Who do you think will be the owner of Boxall Hill?”
“Indeed, then, Dr. Thorne, I don’t much care: unless it be yourself, it won’t be any friend of mine, or anyone I shall care to make a friend of. It isn’t so easy for an old woman like me to make new friends.”
“Well, it certainly won’t belong to me.”
“I wish it did, with all my heart. But even then, I would not live here. I have had too many troubles here to wish to see more.”
“That shall be just as you like, Lady Scatcherd; but you will be surprised to hear that the place will—at least I think it will—belong to a friend of yours: to one to whom you have been very kind.”
“And who is he, doctor? Won’t it go to some of those Americans? I am sure I never did anything kind to them; though, indeed, I did love poor Mary Scatcherd. But that’s years upon years ago, and she is dead and gone now. Well, I begrudge nothing to Mary’s children. As I have none of my own, it is right they should have the money. It has not made me happy; I hope it may do so to them.”
“The property will, I think, go to Mary Scatcherd’s eldest child. It is she whom you have known as Mary Thorne.”
“Doctor!” And then Lady Scatcherd, as she made the exclamation, put both her hands down to hold her chair, as though she feared the weight of her surprise would topple her off her seat.
“Yes; Mary Thorne—my Mary—to whom you have been so good, who loves you so well; she, I believe, will be Sir Roger’s heiress. And it was so that Sir Roger intended on his deathbed, in the event of poor Louis’s life being cut short. If this be so, will you be ashamed to stay here as the guest of Mary Thorne? She has not been ashamed to be your guest.”
But Lady Scatcherd was now too much interested in the general tenor of the news which she had heard to care much about the house which she was to inhabit in future. Mary Thorne, the heiress of Boxall Hill! Mary Thorne, the still living child of that poor creature who had so nearly died when they were all afflicted with their early grief! Well; there was consolation, there was comfort in this. There were but three people left in the world that she could love: her foster-child, Frank Gresham—Mary Thorne, and the doctor. If the money went to Mary, it would of course go to Frank, for she now knew that they loved each other; and if it went to them, would not the doctor have his share also; such share as he might want? Could she have governed the matter, she would have given it all to Frank; and now it would be as well bestowed.
Yes; there was consolation in this. They both sat up more than half the night talking over it, and giving and receiving explanations. If only the council of lawyers would not be adverse! That was now the point of suspense.
The doctor, before he left her, bade her hold her peace, and say nothing of Mary’s fortune to anyone till her rights had been absolutely acknowledged. “It will be nothing not to have it,” said the doctor; “but it would be very bad to hear it was hers, and then to lose it.”
On the next morning, Dr. Thorne deposited the remains of Sir Louis in the vault prepared for the family in the parish church. He laid the son where a few months ago he had laid the father—and so the title of Scatcherd became extinct. Their race of honour had not been long.
After the funeral, the doctor hurried up to London, and there we will leave him.
CHAPTER XLIV
Saturday Evening and Sunday Morning
We must now go back a little and describe how Frank had been sent off on special business to London. The household at Greshamsbury was at this time in but a doleful state. It seemed to be pervaded, from the squire down to the scullery-maid, with a feeling that things were not going well; and men and women, in spite of Beatrice’s coming marriage, were grim-visaged, and dolorous. Mr. Mortimer Gazebee, rejected though he had been, still went and came, talking much to the squire, much also to her ladyship, as to the ill-doings which were in the course of projection by Sir Louis; and Frank went about the house with clouded brow, as though finally resolved to neglect his one great duty.
Poor Beatrice was robbed of half her joy: over and over again her brother asked her whether she had yet seen Mary, and she was obliged as often to answer that she had not. Indeed, she did not dare to visit her friend, for it was hardly possible that they should sympathise with each other. Mary was, to say the least, stubborn in her pride; and Beatrice, though she could forgive her friend for loving her brother, could not forgive the obstinacy with which Mary persisted in a course which, as Beatrice thought, she herself knew to be wrong.
And then Mr. Gazebee came down from town, with an intimation that it behoved the squire himself to go up that he might see certain learned pundits, and be badgered in his own person at various dingy, dismal chambers in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, the Temple, and Gray’s Inn Lane. It was an invitation exactly of that sort which a good many years ago was given to a certain duck.
“Will you, will you—will you, will you—come and be killed?” Although Mr. Gazebee urged the matter with such eloquence, the squire remained steady to his objection, and swam obstinately about his Greshamsbury pond in any direction save that which seemed to lead towards London.
This occurred on the very evening of that Friday which had witnessed the Lady Arabella’s last visit to Dr. Thorne’s house. The question of the squire’s necessary journey to the great fountains of justice was, of course, discussed between Lady Arabella and Mr. Gazebee; and it occurred to the former, full as she was of Frank’s iniquity and of Mary’s obstinacy, that if Frank were sent up in lieu of his father, it would separate them at least for a while. If she could only get Frank away without seeing his love, she might yet so work upon him, by means of the message which Mary had sent, as to postpone, if not break off, this hateful match. It was inconceivable that a youth of twenty-three, and such a youth as Frank, should be obstinately constant to a girl possessed of no great beauty—so argued Lady Arabella to herself—and who had neither wealth, birth, nor fashion to recommend her.
And thus it was at last settled—the squire being a willing party to the agreement—that Frank should go up and be badgered in lieu of his father. At his age it was possible to make it appear a thing desirable, if not necessary—on account of the importance conveyed—to sit day after day in the chambers of Messrs. Slow & Bideawhile, and hear musty law talk, and finger dusty law parchments. The squire had made many visits to Messrs. Slow & Bideawhile, and he knew better. Frank had not hitherto been there on his own bottom, and thus he fell easily into the trap.
Mr. Oriel was also going to London, and this was another reason for sending Frank. Mr. Oriel had business of great importance, which it was quite necessary that he should execute before his marriage. How much of this business consisted in going to his tailor, buying a wedding-ring, and purchasing some other more costly present for Beatrice, we need not here inquire. But Mr. Oriel was quite on Lady Arabella’s side with reference to this mad engagement, and as Frank and he were now fast friends, some good might be done in that way. “If we all caution him against it, he can hardly withstand us all!” said Lady Arabella to herself.
The matter was broached to Frank on the Saturday evening, and settled between them all the same night. Nothing, of course, was at that moment said about Mary; but Lady Arabella was too full of the subject to let him go to London without telling him that Mary was ready to recede if only he would allow her to do so. About eleven o’clock, Frank was sitting in his own room, conning over the difficulties of the situation—thinking of his father’s troubles, and his own position—when he was roused from his reverie by a slight tap at the door.
“Come in,” said he, somewhat loudly. He thought it was one of his sisters, who were apt to visit him at all hours and for all manner of reasons; and he, though he was usually gentle to them, was not at present exactly in a humour to be disturbed.
The door gently opened, and he saw his mother standing hesitating in the passage.
“Can I come in, Frank?” said she.
“Oh, yes, mother; by all means:” and then, with some surprise marked in his countenance, he prepared a seat for her. Such a visit as this from Lady Arabella was very unusual; so much so, that he had probably not seen her in his own room since the day when he first left school. He had nothing, however, to be ashamed of; nothing to conceal, unless it were an open letter from Miss Dunstable which he had in his hand when she entered, and which he somewhat hurriedly thrust into his pocket.
“I wanted to say a few words to you, Frank, before you start for London about this business.” Frank signified by a gesture, that he was quite ready to listen to her.
“I am so glad to see your father putting the matter into your hands. You are younger than he is; and then—I don’t know why, but somehow your father has never been a good man of business—everything has gone wrong with him.”
“Oh, mother! do not say anything against him.”
“No, Frank, I will not; I do not wish it. Things have been unfortunate, certainly. Ah me! I little thought when I married—but I don’t mean to complain—I have excellent children, and I ought to be thankful for that.”
Frank began to fear that no good could be coming when his mother spoke in that strain. “I will do the best I can,” said he, “up in town. I can’t help thinking myself that Mr. Gazebee might have done as well, but—”
“Oh, dear, no; by no means. In such cases the principal must show himself. Besides, it is right you should know how matters stand. Who is so much interested in it as you are? Poor Frank! I so often feel for you when I think how the property has dwindled.”
“Pray do not mind me, mother. Why should you talk of it as my matter while my father is not yet forty-five? His life, so to speak, is as good as mine. I can do very well without it; all I want is to be allowed to settle to something.”
“You mean a profession.”
“Yes; something of that sort.”
“They are so slow, dear Frank. You, who speak French so well—I should think my brother might get you in as attaché to some embassy.”
“That wouldn’t suit me at all,” said Frank.
“Well, we’ll talk about that some other time. But I came about something else, and I do hope you will hear me.”
Frank’s brow again grew black, for he knew that his mother was about to say something which it would be disagreeable for him to hear.
“I was with Mary, yesterday.”
“Well, mother?”
“Don’t be angry with me, Frank; you can’t but know that the fate of an only son must be a subject of anxiety to a mother.” Ah! how singularly altered was Lady Arabella’s tone since first she had taken upon herself to discuss the marriage prospects of her son! Then how autocratic had she been as she sent him away, bidding him, with full command, to throw himself into the golden embraces of Miss Dunstable! But now, how humble, as she came suppliantly to his room, craving that she might have leave to whisper into his ears a mother’s anxious fears! Frank had laughed at her stern behests, though he had half obeyed them; but he was touched to the heart by her humility.
He drew his chair nearer to her, and took her by the hand. But she, disengaging hers, parted the hair from off his forehead, and kissed his brow. “Oh, Frank,” she said, “I have been so proud of you, am still so proud of you. It will send me to my grave if I see you sink below your proper position. Not that it will be your fault. I am sure it will not be your fault. Only circumstanced as you are, you should be doubly, trebly, careful. If your father had not—”
“Do not speak against my father.”
“No, Frank; I will not—no, I will not; not another word. And now, Frank—”
Before we go on we must say one word further as to Lady Arabella’s character. It will probably be said that she was a consummate hypocrite; but at the present moment she was not hypocritical. She did love her son; was anxious—very, very anxious for him; was proud of him, and almost admired the very obstinacy which so vexed her to her inmost soul. No grief would be to her so great as that of seeing him sink below what she conceived to be his position. She was as genuinely motherly, in wishing that he should marry money, as another woman might be in wishing to see her son a bishop; or as the Spartan matron, who preferred that her offspring should return on his shield, to hearing that he had come back whole in limb but tainted in honour. When Frank spoke of a profession, she instantly thought of what Lord de Courcy might do for him. If he would not marry money, he might, at any rate, be an attaché at an embassy. A profession—hard work, as a doctor, or as an engineer—would, according to her ideas, degrade him; cause him to sink below his proper position; but to dangle at a foreign court, to make small talk at the evening parties of a lady ambassadress, and occasionally, perhaps, to write demi-official notes containing demi-official tittle-tattle; this would be in proper accordance with the high honour of a Gresham of Greshamsbury.
We may not admire the direction taken by Lady Arabella’s energy on behalf of her son, but that energy was not hypocritical.
“And now, Frank—” She looked wistfully into his face as she addressed him, as though half afraid to go on, and begging that he would receive with complaisance whatever she found herself forced to say.
“Well, mother?”
“I was with Mary, yesterday.”
“Yes, yes; what then? I know what your feelings are with regard to her.”
“No, Frank; you wrong me. I have no feelings against her—none, indeed; none but this: that she is not fit to be your wife.”
“I think her fit.”
“Ah, yes; but how fit? Think of your position, Frank, and what means you have of keeping her. Think what you are. Your father’s only son; the heir to Greshamsbury. If Greshamsbury be ever again more than a name, it is you that must redeem it. Of all men living you are the least able to marry a girl like Mary Thorne.”
“Mother, I will not sell myself for what you call my position.”
“Who asks you? I do not ask you; nobody asks you. I do not want you to marry anyone. I did think once—but let that pass. You are now twenty-three. In ten years’ time you will still be a young man. I only ask you to wait. If you marry now, that is, marry such a girl as Mary Thorne—”
“Such a girl! Where shall I find such another?”
“I mean as regards money, Frank; you know I mean that; how are you to live? Where are you to go? And then, her birth. Oh, Frank, Frank!”
“Birth! I hate such pretence. What was—but I won’t talk about it. Mother, I tell you my word is pledged, and on no account will I be induced to break it.”
“Ah, that’s just it; that’s just the point. Now, Frank, listen to me. Pray listen to me patiently for one minute. I do not ask much of you.”
Frank promised that he would listen patiently; but he looked anything but patient as he said so.
“I have seen Mary, as it was certainly my duty to do. You cannot be angry with me for that.”
“Who said that I was angry, mother?”
“Well, I have seen her, and I must own, that though she was not disposed to be courteous to me, personally, she said much that marked her excellent good sense. But the gist of it was this; that as she had made you a promise, nothing should turn her from that promise but your permission.”
“And do you think—”
“Wait a moment, Frank, and listen to me. She confessed that this marriage was one which would necessarily bring distress on all your family; that it was one which would probably be ruinous to yourself; that it was a match which could not be approved of: she did, indeed; she confessed all that. ‘I have nothing’, she said—those were her own words—’I have nothing to say in favour of this engagement, except that he wishes it.’ That is what she thinks of it herself. ‘His wishes are not a reason; but a law,’ she said—”
“And, mother, would you have me desert such a girl as that?”
“It is not deserting, Frank: it would not be deserting: you would be doing that which she herself approves of. She feels the impropriety of going on; but she cannot draw back because of her promise to you. She thinks that she cannot do it, even though she wishes it.”
“Wishes it! Oh, mother!”
“I do believe she does, because she has sense to feel the truth of all that your friends say. Oh, Frank, I will go on my knees to you if you will listen to me.”
“Oh, mother! mother! mother!”
“You should think twice, Frank, before you refuse the only request your mother ever made you. And why do I ask you? why do I come to you thus? Is it for my own sake? Oh, my boy! my darling boy! will you lose everything in life, because you love the child with whom you have played as a child?”
“Whose fault is it that we were together as children? She is now more than a child. I look on her already as my wife.”
“But she is not your wife, Frank; and she knows that she ought not to be. It is only because you hold her to it that she consents to be so.”
“Do you mean to say that she does not love me?”
Lady Arabella would probably have said this, also, had she dared; but she felt, that in so doing, she would be going too far. It was useless for her to say anything that would be utterly contradicted by an appeal to Mary herself.
“No, Frank; I do not mean to say that you do not love her. What I do mean is this: that it is not becoming in you to give up everything—not only yourself, but all your family—for such a love as this; and that she, Mary herself, acknowledges this. Everyone is of the same opinion. Ask your father: I need not say that he would agree with you about everything if he could. I will not say the De Courcys.”