“Best chance? Why, d——, doctor! there are fellows have done ten times worse than I; and they are not going to kick. Come, now, I know you are trying to frighten me; ain’t you, now?”
“I am trying to do the best I can for you.”
“It’s very hard on a fellow like me; I have nobody to say a kind word to me; no, not one.” And Sir Louis, in his wretchedness, began to weep. “Come, doctor; if you’ll put me once more on my legs, I’ll let you draw on the estate for five hundred pounds; by G——, I will.”
The doctor went away to his dinner, and the baronet also had his in bed. He could not eat much, but he was allowed two glasses of wine, and also a little brandy in his coffee. This somewhat invigorated him, and when Dr. Thorne again went to him, in the evening, he did not find him so utterly prostrated in spirit. He had, indeed, made up his mind to a great resolve; and thus unfolded his final scheme for his own reformation—”Doctor,” he began again, “I believe you are an honest fellow; I do indeed.”
Dr. Thorne could not but thank him for his good opinion.
“You ain’t annoyed at what I said this morning, are you?”
The doctor had forgotten the particular annoyance to which Sir Louis alluded; and informed him that his mind might be at rest on any such matter.
“I do believe you’d be glad to see me well; wouldn’t you, now?”
The doctor assured him that such was in very truth the case.
“Well, now, I’ll tell you what: I’ve been thinking about it a great deal to-day; indeed, I have, and I want to do what’s right. Mightn’t I have a little drop more of that stuff, just in a cup of coffee?”
The doctor poured him out a cup of coffee, and put about a teaspoonful of brandy in it. Sir Louis took it with a disconsolate face, not having been accustomed to such measures in the use of his favourite beverage.
“I do wish to do what’s right—I do, indeed; only, you see, I’m so lonely. As to those fellows up in London, I don’t think that one of them cares a straw about me.”
Dr. Thorne was of the same way of thinking, and he said so. He could not but feel some sympathy with the unfortunate man as he thus spoke of his own lot. It was true that he had been thrown on the world without anyone to take care of him.
“My dear friend, I will do the best I can in every way; I will, indeed. I do believe that your companions in town have been too ready to lead you astray. Drop them, and you may yet do well.”
“May I though, doctor? Well, I will drop them. There’s Jenkins; he’s the best of them; but even he is always wanting to make money of me. Not but what I’m up to the best of them in that way.”
“You had better leave London, Sir Louis, and change your old mode of life. Go to Boxall Hill for a while; for two or three years or so; live with your mother there and take to farming.”
“What! farming?”
“Yes; that’s what all country gentlemen do: take the land there into your own hand, and occupy your mind upon it.”
“Well, doctor, I will—upon one condition.”
Dr. Thorne sat still and listened. He had no idea what the condition might be, but he was not prepared to promise acquiescence till he heard it.
“You know what I told you once before,” said the baronet.
“I don’t remember at this moment.”
“About my getting married, you know.”
The doctor’s brow grew black, and promised no help to the poor wretch. Bad in every way, wretched, selfish, sensual, unfeeling, purse-proud, ignorant as Sir Louis Scatcherd was, still, there was left to him the power of feeling something like sincere love. It may be presumed that he did love Mary Thorne, and that he was at the time earnest in declaring, that if she could be given to him, he would endeavour to live according to her uncle’s counsel. It was only a trifle he asked; but, alas! that trifle could not be vouchsafed.
“I should much approve of your getting married, but I do not know how I can help you.”
“Of course, I mean to Miss Mary: I do love her; I really do, Dr. Thorne.”
“It is quite impossible, Sir Louis; quite. You do my niece much honour; but I am able to answer for her, positively, that such a proposition is quite out of the question.”
“Look here now, Dr. Thorne; anything in the way of settlements—”
“I will not hear a word on the subject: you are very welcome to the use of my house as long as it may suit you to remain here; but I must insist that my niece shall not be troubled on this matter.”
“Do you mean to say she’s in love with that young Gresham?”
This was too much for the doctor’s patience. “Sir Louis,” said he, “I can forgive you much for your father’s sake. I can also forgive something on the score of your own ill-health. But you ought to know, you ought by this time to have learnt, that there are some things which a man cannot forgive. I will not talk to you about my niece; and remember this, also, I will not have her troubled by you:” and, so saying, the doctor left him.
On the next day the baronet was sufficiently recovered to be able to resume his braggadocio airs. He swore at Janet; insisted on being served by his own man; demanded in a loud voice, but in vain, that his liqueur-case should be restored to him; and desired that post-horses might be ready for him on the morrow. On that day he got up and ate his dinner in his bedroom. On the next morning he countermanded the horses, informing the doctor that he did so because he had a little bit of business to transact with Squire Gresham before he left the place! With some difficulty, the doctor made him understand that the squire would not see him on business; and it was at last decided, that Mr. Gazebee should be invited to call on him at the doctor’s house; and this Mr. Gazebee agreed to do, in order to prevent the annoyance of having the baronet up at Greshamsbury.
On this day, the evening before Mr. Gazebee’s visit, Sir Louis condescended to come down to dinner. He dined, however, tête-à-tête with the doctor. Mary was not there, nor was anything said as to her absence. Sir Louis Scatcherd never set eyes upon her again.
He bore himself very arrogantly on that evening, having resumed the airs and would-be dignity which he thought belonged to him as a man of rank and property. In his periods of low spirits, he was abject and humble enough; abject, and fearful of the lamentable destiny which at these moments he believed to be in store for him. But it was one of the peculiar symptoms of his state, that as he partially recovered his bodily health, the tone of his mind recovered itself also, and his fears for the time were relieved.
There was very little said between him and the doctor that evening. The doctor sat guarding the wine, and thinking when he should have his house to himself again. Sir Louis sat moody, every now and then uttering some impertinence as to the Greshams and the Greshamsbury property, and, at an early hour, allowed Joe to put him to bed.
The horses were ordered on the next day for three, and, as two, Mr. Gazebee came to the house. He had never been there before, nor had he ever met Dr. Thorne except at the squire’s dinner. On this occasion he asked only for the baronet.
“Ah! ah! I’m glad you’re come, Mr. Gazebee; very glad,” said Sir Louis; acting the part of the rich, great man with all the power he had. “I want to ask you a few questions so as to make it all clear sailing between us.”
“As you have asked to see me, I have come, Sir Louis,” said the other, putting on much dignity as he spoke. “But would it not be better that any business there may be should be done among the lawyers?”
“The lawyers are very well, I dare say; but when a man has so large a stake at interest as I have in this Greshamsbury property, why, you see, Mr. Gazebee, he feels a little inclined to look after it himself. Now, do you know, Mr. Gazebee, how much it is that Mr. Gresham owes me?”
Mr. Gazebee, of course, did know very well; but he was not going to discuss the subject with Sir Louis, if he could help it.
“Whatever claim your father’s estate may have on that of Mr. Gresham is, as far as I understand, vested in Dr. Thorne
’s hands as trustee. I am inclined to believe that you have not yourself at present any claim on Greshamsbury. The interest, as it becomes due, is paid to Dr. Thorne; and if I may be allowed to make a suggestion, I would say that it will not be expedient to make any change in that arrangement till the property shall come into your own hands.”
“I differ from you entirely, Mr. Gazebee; in toto, as we used to say at Eton. What you mean to say is—I can’t go to law with Mr. Gresham; I’m not so sure of that; but perhaps not. But I can compel Dr. Thorne to look after my interests. I can force him to foreclose. And, to tell you the truth, Gazebee, unless some arrangement is proposed to me which I shall think advantageous, I shall do so at once. There is near a hundred thousand pounds owing to me; yes to me. Thorne is only a name in the matter. The money is my money; and, by ——, I mean to look after it.”
“Have you any doubt, Sir Louis, as to the money being secure?”
“Yes, I have. It isn’t so easy to have a hundred thousand pounds secured. The squire is a poor man, and I don’t choose to allow a poor man to owe me such a sum as that. Besides, I mean to invest it in land. I tell you fairly, therefore, I shall foreclose.”
Mr. Gazebee, using all the perspicuity which his professional education had left to him, tried to make Sir Louis understand that he had no power to do anything of the kind.
“No power! Mr. Gresham shall see whether I have no power. When a man has a hundred thousand pounds owing to him he ought to have some power; and, as I take it, he has. But we will see. Perhaps you know Finnie, do you?”
Mr. Gazebee, with a good deal of scorn in his face, said that he had not that pleasure. Mr. Finnie was not in his line.
“Well, you will know him then, and you’ll find he’s sharp enough; that is, unless I have some offer made to me that I may choose to accept.” Mr. Gazebee declared that he was not instructed to make any offer, and so he took his leave.
On that afternoon, Sir Louis went off to Boxall Hill, transferring the miserable task of superintending his self-destruction from the shoulders of the doctor to those of his mother. Of Lady Scatcherd, the baronet took no account in his proposed sojourn in the country, nor did he take much of the doctor in leaving Greshamsbury. He again wrapped himself in his furs, and, with tottering steps, climbed up into the barouche which was to carry him away.
“Is my man up behind?” he said to Janet, while the doctor was standing at the little front garden-gate, making his adieux.
“No, sir, he’s not up yet,” said Janet, respectfully.
“Then send him out, will you? I can’t lose my time waiting here all day.”
“I shall come over to Boxall Hill and see you,” said the doctor, whose heart softened towards the man, in spite of his brutality, as the hour of his departure came.
“I shall be happy to see you if you like to come, of course; that is, in the way of visiting, and that sort of thing. As for doctoring, if I want any I shall send for Fillgrave.” Such were his last words as the carriage, with a rush, went off from the door.
The doctor, as he re-entered the house, could not avoid smiling, for he thought of Dr. Fillgrave’s last patient at Boxall Hill. “It’s a question to me,” said he to himself, “whether Dr. Fillgrave will ever be induced to make another visit to that house, even with the object of rescuing a baronet out of my hands.”
“He’s gone; isn’t he, uncle?” said Mary, coming out of her room.
“Yes, my dear; he’s gone, poor fellow.”
“He may be a poor fellow, uncle; but he’s a very disagreeable inmate in a house. I have not had any dinner these two days.”
“And I haven’t had what can be called a cup of tea since he’s been in the house. But I’ll make up for that to-night.”
CHAPTER XXXVIII
De Courcy Precepts and De Courcy Practice
There is a mode of novel-writing which used to be much in vogue, but which has now gone out of fashion. It is, nevertheless, one which is very expressive when in good hands, and which enables the author to tell his story, or some portion of his story, with more natural trust than any other, I mean that of familiar letters. I trust I shall be excused if I attempt it as regards this one chapter; though, it may be, that I shall break down and fall into the commonplace narrative, even before the one chapter be completed. The correspondents are the Lady Amelia de Courcy and Miss Gresham. I, of course, give precedence to the higher rank, but the first epistle originated with the latter-named young lady. Let me hope that they will explain themselves.
Miss Gresham to Lady Amelia de Courcy
GRESHAMSBURY HOUSE, June, 185—.
MY DEAREST AMELIA, I wish to consult you on a subject which, as you will perceive, is of a most momentous nature. You know how much reliance I place in your judgement and knowledge of what is proper, and, therefore, I write to you before speaking to any other living person on the subject: not even to mamma; for, although her judgement is good too, she has so many cares and troubles, that it is natural that it should be a little warped when the interests of her children are concerned. Now that it is all over, I feel that it may possibly have been so in the case of Mr. Moffat.
You are aware that Mr. Mortimer Gazebee is now staying here, and that he has been here for nearly two months. He is engaged in managing poor papa’s affairs, and mamma, who likes him very much, says that he is a most excellent man of business. Of course, you know that he is the junior partner in the very old firm of Gumption, Gazebee, & Gazebee, who, I understand, do not undertake any business at all, except what comes to them from peers, or commoners of the very highest class.
I soon perceived, dearest Amelia, that Mr. Gazebee paid me more than ordinary attention, and I immediately became very guarded in my manner. I certainly liked Mr. Gazebee from the first. His manners are quite excellent, his conduct to mamma is charming, and, as regards myself, I must say that there has been nothing in his behaviour of which even you could complain. He has never attempted the slightest familiarity, and I will do him the justice to say, that, though he has been very attentive, he has also been very respectful.
I must confess that, for the last three weeks, I have thought that he meant something. I might, perhaps, have done more to repel him; or I might have consulted you earlier as to the propriety of keeping altogether out of his way. But you know, Amelia, how often these things lead to nothing, and though I thought all along that Mr. Gazebee was in earnest, I hardly liked to say anything about it even to you till I was quite certain. If you had advised me, you know, to accept his offer, and if, after that, he had never made it, I should have felt so foolish.
But now he has made it. He came to me yesterday just before dinner, in the little drawing-room, and told me, in the most delicate manner, in words that even you could not have but approved, that his highest ambition was to be thought worthy of my regard, and that he felt for me the warmest love, and the most profound admiration, and the deepest respect. You may say, Amelia, that he is only an attorney, and I believe that he is an attorney; but I am sure you would have esteemed him had you heard the very delicate way in which he expressed his sentiments.
Something had given me a presentiment of what he was going to do when I saw him come into the room, so that I was on my guard. I tried very hard to show no emotion; but I suppose I was a little flurried, as I once detected myself calling him Mr. Mortimer: his name, you know, is Mortimer Gazebee. I ought not to have done so, certainly; but it was not so bad as if I had called him Mortimer without the Mr, was it? I don’t think there could possibly be a prettier Christian name than Mortimer. Well, Amelia, I allowed him to express himself without interruption. He once attempted to take my hand; but even this was done without any assumption of familiarity; and when he saw that I would not permit it, he drew back, and fixed his eyes on the ground as though he were ashamed even of that.
Of course, I had to give him an answer; and though I had expected that something of this sort would take place, I had not made up my mind on the subject. I would no
t, certainly, under any circumstances, accept him without consulting you. If I really disliked him, of course there would be no doubt; but I can’t say, dearest Amelia, that I do absolutely dislike him; and I really think that we would make each other very happy, if the marriage were suitable as regarded both our positions.
I collected myself as well as I could, and I really do think that you would have said that I did not behave badly, though the position was rather trying. I told him that, of course, I was flattered by his sentiments, though much surprised at hearing them; that since I knew him, I had esteemed and valued him as an acquaintance, but that, looking on him as a man of business, I had never expected anything more. I then endeavoured to explain to him, that I was not perhaps privileged, as some other girls might be, to indulge my own feelings altogether: perhaps that was saying too much, and might make him think that I was in love with him; but, from the way I said it, I don’t think he would, for I was very much guarded in my manner, and very collected; and then I told him, that in any proposal of marriage that might be made to me, it would be my duty to consult my family as much, if not more than myself.
He said, of course; and asked whether he might speak to papa. I tried to make him understand, that in talking of my family, I did not exactly mean papa, or even mamma. Of course I was thinking of what was due to the name of Gresham. I know very well what papa would say. He would give his consent in half a minute; he is so broken-hearted by these debts. And, to tell you the truth, Amelia, I think mamma would too. He did not seem quite to comprehend what I meant; but he did say that he knew it was a high ambition to marry into the family of the Greshams. I am sure you would confess that he has the most proper feelings; and as for expressing them no man could do it better.
He owned that it was ambition to ally himself with a family above his own rank in life, and that he looked to doing so as a means of advancing himself. Now this was at any rate honest. That was one of his motives, he said; though, of course, not his first: and then he declared how truly attached he was to me. In answer to this, I remarked, that he had known me only a very short time. This, perhaps, was giving him too much encouragement; but, at that moment, I hardly knew what to say, for I did not wish to hurt his feelings. He then spoke of his income. He has fifteen hundred a year from the business, and that will be greatly increased when his father leaves it; and his father is much older then Mr. Gumption, though he is only the second partner. Mortimer Gazebee will be the senior partner himself before very long; and perhaps that does alter his position a little.
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