The doctor entered the room where she was lying on her sofa, and walking up to her with a gentle, but yet not constrained step, took the seat beside her little table, just as he had always been accustomed to do, and as though there had been no break in their intercourse.
“Well, doctor, you see that I have come back to you,” she said, with a faint smile.
“Or, rather, I have come back to you. And, believe me, Lady Arabella, I am very happy to do so. There need be no excuses. You were, doubtless, right to try what other skill could do; and I hope it has not been tried in vain.”
She had meant to have been so condescending; but now all that was put quite beyond her power. It was not easy to be condescending to the doctor: she had been trying all her life, and had never succeeded.
“I have had Sir Omicron Pie,” she said.
“So I was glad to hear. Sir Omicron is a clever man, and has a good name. I always recommend Sir Omicron myself.”
“And Sir Omicron returns the compliment,” said she, smiling gracefully, “for he recommends you. He told Mr. Gresham that I was very foolish to quarrel with my best friend. So now we are friends again, are we not? You see how selfish I am.” And she put out her hand to him.
The doctor took her hand cordially, and assured her that he bore her no ill-will; that he fully understood her conduct—and that he had never accused her of selfishness. This was all very well and very gracious; but, nevertheless, Lady Arabella felt that the doctor kept the upper hand in those sweet forgivenesses. Whereas, she had intended to keep the upper hand, at least for a while, so that her humiliation might be more effective when it did come.
And then the doctor used his surgical lore, as he well knew how to use it. There was an assured confidence about him, an air which seemed to declare that he really knew what he was doing. These were very comfortable to his patients, but they were wanting in Dr. Fillgrave. When he had completed his examinations and questions, and she had completed her little details and made her answer, she certainly was more at ease than she had been since the doctor had last left her.
“Don’t go yet for a moment,” she said. “I have one word to say to you.”
He declared that he was not the least in a hurry. He desired nothing better, he said, than to sit there and talk to her. “And I owe you a most sincere apology, Lady Arabella.”
“A sincere apology!” said she, becoming a little red. Was he going to say anything about Mary? Was he going to own that he, and Mary, and Frank had all been wrong?
“Yes, indeed. I ought not to have brought Sir Louis Scatcherd here: I ought to have known that he would have disgraced himself.”
“Oh! it does not signify,” said her ladyship in a tone almost of disappointment. “I had forgotten it. Mr. Gresham and you had more inconvenience than we had.”
“He is an unfortunate, wretched man—most unfortunate; with an immense fortune which he can never live to possess.”
“And who will the money go to, doctor?”
This was a question for which Dr. Thorne was hardly prepared. “Go to?” he repeated. “Oh, some member of the family, I believe. There are plenty of nephews and nieces.”
“Yes; but will it be divided, or all go to one?”
“Probably to one, I think. Sir Roger had a strong idea of leaving it all in one hand.” If it should happen to be a girl, thought Lady Arabella, what an excellent opportunity would that be for Frank to marry money!
“And now, doctor, I want to say one word to you; considering the very long time that we have known each other, it is better that I should be open with you. This estrangement between us and dear Mary has given us all so much pain. Cannot we do anything to put an end to it?”
“Well, what can I say, Lady Arabella? That depends so wholly on yourself.”
“If it depends on me, it shall be done at once.”
The doctor bowed. And though he could hardly be said to do so stiffly, he did it coldly. His bow seemed to say, “Certainly; if you choose to make a proper amende it can be done. But I think it is very unlikely that you will do so.”
“Beatrice is just going to be married, you know that, doctor.” The doctor said that he did know it. “And it will be so pleasant that Mary should make one of us. Poor Beatrice; you don’t know what she has suffered.”
“Yes,” said the doctor, “there has been suffering, I am sure; suffering on both sides.”
“You cannot wonder that we should be so anxious about Frank, Dr. Thorne; an only son, and the heir to an estate that has been so very long in the family:” and Lady Arabella put her handkerchief to her eyes, as though these facts were in themselves melancholy, and not to be thought of by a mother without some soft tears. “Now I wish you could tell me what your views are, in a friendly manner, between ourselves. You won’t find me unreasonable.”
“My views, Lady Arabella?”
“Yes, doctor; about your niece, you know: you must have views of some sort; that’s of course. It occurs to me, that perhaps we are all in the dark together. If so, a little candid speaking between you and me may set it all right.”
Lady Arabella’s career had not hitherto been conspicuous for candour, as far as Dr. Thorne had been able to judge of it; but that was no reason why he should not respond to so very becoming an invitation on her part. He had no objection to a little candid speaking; at least, so he declared. As to his views with regard to Mary, they were merely these: that he would make her as happy and comfortable as he could while she remained with him; and that he would give her his blessing—for he had nothing else to give her—when she left him—if ever she should do so.
Now, it will be said that the doctor was not very candid in this; not more so, perhaps, than was Lady Arabella herself. But when one is specially invited to be candid, one is naturally set upon one’s guard. Those who by disposition are most open, are apt to become crafty when so admonished. When a man says to you, “Let us be candid with each other,” you feel instinctively that he desires to squeeze you without giving a drop of water himself.
“Yes; but about Frank,” said Lady Arabella.
“About Frank!” said the doctor, with an innocent look, which her ladyship could hardly interpret.
“What I mean is this: can you give me your word that these young people do not intend to do anything rash? One word like that from you will set my mind quite at rest. And then we could be so happy together again.”
“Ah! who is to answer for what rash things a young man will do?” said the doctor, smiling.
Lady Arabella got up from the sofa, and pushed away the little table. The man was false, hypocritical, and cunning. Nothing could be made of him. They were all in a conspiracy together to rob her of her son; to make him marry without money! What should she do? Where should she turn for advice or counsel? She had nothing more to say to the doctor; and he, perceiving that this was the case, took his leave. This little attempt to achieve candour had not succeeded.
Dr. Thorne had answered Lady Arabella as had seemed best to him on the spur of the moment; but he was by no means satisfied with himself. As he walked away through the gardens, he bethought himself whether it would be better for all parties if he could bring himself to be really candid. Would it not be better for him at once to tell the squire what were the future prospects of his niece, and let the father agree to the marriage, or not agree to it, as he might think fit. But then, if so, if he did do this, would he not in fact say, “There is my niece, there is this girl of whom you have been talking for the last twelvemonth, indifferent to what agony of mind you may have occasioned to her; there she is, a probable heiress! It may be worth your son’s while to wait a little time, and not cast her off till he shall know whether she be an heiress or no. If it shall turn out that she is rich, let him take her; if not, why, he can desert her then as well as now.” He could not bring himself to put his niece into such a position as this. He was anxious enough that she should be Frank Gresham’s wife, for he loved Frank Gresham; he was anxious enou
gh, also, that she should give to her husband the means of saving the property of his family. But Frank, though he might find her rich, was bound to take her while she was poor.
Then, also, he doubted whether he would be justified in speaking of this will at all. He almost hated the will for the trouble and vexation it had given him, and the constant stress it had laid on his conscience. He had spoken of it as yet to no one, and he thought that he was resolved not to do so while Sir Louis should yet be in the land of the living.
On reaching home, he found a note from Lady Scatcherd, informing him that Dr. Fillgrave had once more been at Boxall Hill, and that, on this occasion, he had left the house without anger.
“I don’t know what he has said about Louis,” she added, “for, to tell the truth, doctor, I was afraid to see him. But he comes again to-morrow, and then I shall be braver. But I fear that my poor boy is in a bad way.”
CHAPTER XLI
Doctor Thorne Won’t Interfere
At this period there was, as it were, a truce to the ordinary little skirmishes which had been so customary between Lady Arabella and the squire. Things had so fallen out, that they neither of them had much spirit for a contest; and, moreover, on that point which at the present moment was most thought of by both of them, they were strangely in unison. For each of them was anxious to prevent the threatened marriage of their only son.
It must, moreover, be remembered, that Lady Arabella had carried a great point in ousting Mr. Yates Umbleby and putting the management of the estate into the hands of her own partisan. But then the squire had not done less in getting rid of Fillgrave and reinstating Dr. Thorne in possession of the family invalids. The losses, therefore, had been equal; the victories equal; and there was a mutual object.
And it must be confessed, also, that Lady Arabella’s taste for grandeur was on the decline. Misfortune was coming too near to her to leave her much anxiety for the gaieties of a London season. Things were not faring well with her. When her eldest daughter was going to marry a man of fortune, and a member of Parliament, she had thought nothing of demanding a thousand pounds or so for the extraordinary expenses incident to such an occasion. But now, Beatrice was to become the wife of a parish parson, and even that was thought to be a fortunate event; she had, therefore, no heart for splendour.
“The quieter we can do it the better,” she wrote to her countess-sister. “Her father wanted to give him at least a thousand pounds; but Mr. Gazebee has told me confidentially that it literally cannot be done at the present moment! Ah, my dear Rosina! how things have been managed! If one or two of the girls will come over, we shall all take it as a favour. Beatrice would think it very kind of them. But I don’t think of asking you or Amelia.” Amelia was always the grandest of the De Courcy family, being almost on an equality with—nay, in some respect superior to—the countess herself. But this, of course, was before the days of the nice place in Surrey.
Such, and so humble being the present temper of the lady of Greshamsbury, it will not be thought surprising that she and Mr. Gresham should at last come together in their efforts to reclaim their son.
At first Lady Arabella urged upon the squire the duty of being very peremptory and very angry. “Do as other fathers do in such cases. Make him understand that he will have no allowance to live on.”
“He understands that well enough,” said Mr. Gresham.
“Threaten to cut him off with a shilling,” said her ladyship, with spirit.
“I haven’t a shilling to cut him off with,” answered the squire, bitterly.
But Lady Arabella herself soon perceived, that this line would not do. As Mr. Gresham himself confessed, his own sins against his son had been too great to allow of his taking a high hand with him. Besides, Mr. Gresham was not a man who could ever be severe with a son whose individual conduct had been so good as Frank’s. This marriage was, in his view, a misfortune to be averted if possible—to be averted by any possible means; but, as far as Frank was concerned, it was to be regarded rather as a monomania than a crime.
“I did feel so certain that he would have succeeded with Miss Dunstable,” said the mother, almost crying.
“I thought it impossible but that at his age a twelvemonth’s knocking about the world would cure him,” said the father.
“I never heard of a boy being so obstinate about a girl,” said the mother. “I’m sure he didn’t get it from the De Courcys:” and then, again, they talked it over in all its bearings.
“But what are they to live upon?” said Lady Arabella, appealing, as it were, to some impersonation of reason. “That’s what I want him to tell me. What are they to live upon?”
“I wonder whether De Courcy could get him into some embassy?” said the father. “He does talk of a profession.”
“What! with the girl and all?” asked Lady Arabella with horror, alarmed at the idea of such an appeal being made to her noble brother.
“No; but before he marries. He might be broken of it that way.”
“Nothing will break him,” said the wretched mother; “nothing—nothing. For my part, I think that he is possessed. Why was she brought here? Oh, dear! oh, dear! Why was she ever brought into this house?”
This last question Mr. Gresham did not think it necessary to answer. That evil had been done, and it would be useless to dispute it. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” said he. “I’ll speak to the doctor himself.”
“It’s not the slightest use,” said Lady Arabella. “He will not assist us. Indeed, I firmly believe it’s all his own doing.”
“Oh, nonsense! that really is nonsense, my love.”
“Very well, Mr. Gresham. What I say is always nonsense, I know; you have always told me so. But yet, see how things have turned out. I knew how it would be when she was first brought into the house.” This assertion was rather a stretch on the part of Lady Arabella.
“Well, it is nonsense to say that Frank is in love with the girl at the doctor’s bidding.”
“I think you know, Mr. Gresham, that I don’t mean that. What I say is this, that Dr. Thorne, finding what an easy fool Frank is—”
“I don’t think he’s at all easy, my love; and he certainly is not a fool.”
“Very well, have it your own way. I’ll not say a word more. I’m struggling to do my best, and I’m browbeaten on every side. God knows I am not in a state of health to bear it!” And Lady Arabella bowed her head into her pocket-handkerchief.
“I think, my dear, if you were to see Mary herself it might do some good,” said the squire, when the violence of his wife’s grief had somewhat subsided.
“What! go and call upon this girl?”
“Yes; you can send Beatrice to give her notice, you know. She never was unreasonable, and I do not think that you would find her so. You should tell her, you know—”
“Oh, I should know very well what to tell her, Mr. Gresham.”
“Yes, my love; I’m sure you would; nobody better. But what I mean is, that if you are to do any good, you should be kind in your manner. Mary Thorne has a spirit that you cannot break. You may perhaps lead, but nobody can drive her.”
As this scheme originated with her husband, Lady Arabella could not, of course, confess that there was much in it. But, nevertheless, she determined to attempt it, thinking that if anything could be efficacious for good in their present misfortunes, it would be her own diplomatic powers. It was, therefore, at last settled between them, that he should endeavour to talk over the doctor, and that she would do the same with Mary.
“And then I will speak to Frank,” said Lady Arabella. “As yet he has never had the audacity to open his mouth to me about Mary Thorne, though I believe he declares his love openly to everyone else in the house.”
“And I will get Oriel to speak to him,” said the squire.
“I think Patience might do more good. I did once think he was getting fond of Patience, and I was quite unhappy about it then. Ah, dear! I should be almost pleased at that now.”
It may be imagined that the squire would have less scruple in addressing the doctor on this matter than his wife would feel; and that his part of their present joint undertaking was less difficult than hers. For he and the doctor had ever been friends at heart. But, nevertheless, he did feel much scruple, as, with his stick in hand, he walked down to the little gate which opened out near the doctor’s house.
This feeling was so strong, that he walked on beyond this door to the entrance, thinking of what he was going to do, and then back again. It seemed to be his fate to be depending always on the clemency or consideration of Dr. Thorne. At this moment the doctor was imposing the only obstacle which was offered to the sale of a great part of his estate. Sir Louis, through his lawyer, was pressing the doctor to sell, and the lawyer was loudly accusing the doctor of delaying to do so. “He has the management of your property,” said Mr. Finnie; “but he manages it in the interest of his own friend. It is quite clear, and we will expose it.” “By all means,” said Sir Louis. “It is a d—— shame, and it shall be exposed.” Of all this the squire was aware.
When he reached the doctor’s house, he was shown into the drawing-room, and found Mary there alone. It had always been his habit to kiss her forehead when he chanced to meet her about the house at Greshamsbury. She had been younger and more childish then; but even now she was but a child to him, so he kissed her as he had been wont to do. She blushed slightly as she looked up into his face, and said: “Oh, Mr. Gresham, I am so glad to see you here again.”
The Chronicles of Barsetshire Page 133
