 CHAPTER XXIII. It was declared in the early pages of this work that Dr. Thorn was to be our hero, but it would appear very much as though he had latterly been forgotten. Since that evening when he retired to rest, without letting Mary share the grievous wait which was on his mind, we have neither seen nor heard ought of him. It was then full mid-summer, and it is now early spring, and during the intervening months the doctor had not had a happy time of it. On that night, as we have before told, he took his niece to his heart, but he could not then bring himself to tell her that which it was so imperative that she should know. Like a coward he would put off the evil hour till the next morning, and thus robbed himself of his night's sleep. But when the morning came the duty could not be postponed. Lady Arabella had given him to understand that his niece would no longer be a guest at Greshamsbury, and it was quite out of the question that Mary, after this, should be allowed to put her foot within the gate of the domain without having learnt what Lady Arabella had said. So he told it her before breakfast, walking round their little garden, she with her hand in his. He was perfectly thunderstruck by the collected, nay, cool way in which she received his tidings. She turned pale indeed, he felt also that her hand somewhat trembled in his own, and he perceived that for a moment her voice shook, but no angry word escaped her lip, nor did she even deign to repudiate the charge which was as it were conveyed in Lady Arabella's request. The doctor knew, or thought he knew, nay, he did know, that Mary was wholly blameless in the matter, that she had at least given no encouragement to any love on the part of the young heir, but nevertheless he had expected that she would avouch her own innocence. This, however, she by no means did. Lady Arabella is quite right, she said, quite right. If she has any fear of that kind, she cannot be too careful. She is a selfish, proud woman, said the doctor, quite indifferent to the feelings of others, quite careless how deeply she may hurt her neighbours, if in doing so she may possibly benefit herself. She will not hurt me, uncle, nor yet you. I can live without going to Greshamsbury. But it is not to be endured that she should dare to cast an imputation on my darling. On me, uncle, she casts no imputation on me. Frank has been foolish, I have said nothing of it, for it was not worthwhile to trouble you. But as Lady Arabella chooses to interfere, I have no right to blame her. He has said what he should not have said. He has been foolish. Uncle, you know, I could not prevent it. Let her send him away, then, not you. Let her banish him. Uncle, he is her son. A mother can hardly send her son away so easily. Could you send me away, uncle? He merely answered by twining his arm round her waist and pressing her to his side. He was well sure that she was badly treated, and yet now that she so unaccountably took Lady Arabella's part, he hardly knew how to make this out plainly to be the case. Besides, uncle, Gresham Sree is in a manner his own. How can he be banished from his father's house? No, uncle, there is an end of my visits there. They shall find that I will not thrust myself in their way. And then Mary, with a calm brow and steady gait, went in and made the tea. And what might be the feelings of her heart when she so sententiously told her uncle that Frank had been foolish? She was of the same age with him, as impressionable, though more powerful in hiding such impressions. As all women should be, her heart was as warm, her blood as full of life, her innate desire for the companionship of some much-loved object as strong as his. Frank had been foolish in avowing his passion. No such folly as that could be laid at her door. But had she been proof against the other folly? Had she been able to walk heart-whole by his side while he chatted as common places about love? Yes, they are common places when we read of them in novels, common enough too to some of us when we write them. But they are by no means common place when first heard by a young girl in the rich, balmy fragrance of a July evening stroll. Nor are they common places when so uttered for the first or second time, at least, or perhaps the third. There's a pity that so heavenly a pleasure should pawl upon the senses. If it was so that Frank's folly had been listened to with a certain amount of pleasure, Mary did not even admit so much to herself. But why should it have been otherwise? Why should she have been less prone to love than he was? Had he not everything which girls do love, which girls should love, which God created noble, beautiful, all but God-like, in order that women, all but God-is-like, might love? To love thoroughly, truly, heartily, with their whole body, soul, and heart, and strength, should not that be counted for a merit in a woman? And yet we are wont to make a disgrace of it. We do so most unnaturally, most unreasonably, for we expect our daughters to get themselves married off our hands. When the period of that step comes, then love is proper enough, but up to that, before that, as regards all those preliminary passages, which must, we suppose, be necessary, in all those it becomes a young lady to be icy-hearted as a river-god in winter. O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad, O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad, though father and mither and I should go mad, O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad. This is the kind of love which a girl should feel before she puts her hand proudly in that of her lover, and consents that they, too, shall be made one flesh. Mary felt no such love as this. She, too, had some inner perception of that dread destiny by which it behooved Frank Gresham to be forewarned. She, too, though she had never heard so much said in words, had an almost instinctive knowledge that his fate required him to marry money. Thinking over this in her own way, she was not slow to convince herself that it was out of the question that she should allow herself to love Frank Gresham. However well her heart might be inclined to such a feeling, it was her duty to repress it. She resolved, therefore, to do so, and she sometimes flattered herself that she had kept her resolution. These were bad times for the doctor, and bad times for Mary, too. She had declared that she could live without going to Gresham's free, but she did not find it so easy. She had been going to Gresham's free all her life, and it was as customary with her to be there as at home. Such old customs are not broken without pain. Had she left the place it would have been far different, but as it was, she daily passed the gates, daily saw and spoke to some of the servants who knew her as well as they did the young ladies of the family. It was an hourly contact, as it were, with Gresham's free. It was not only that she did not go there, but that everyone knew she had suddenly discontinued doing so. Yes, she could live without going to Gresham's free, but for some time she had but a poor life of it. She felt, nay, almost heard, that every man and woman, boy and girl in the village was telling his and her neighbour that Mary Thorn no longer went to the house because of Lady Arabella and the young squire. But Beatrice, of course, came to her. What was she to say to Beatrice? The truth. Nay, but it is not always so easy to say the truth, even to one's dearest friends. But you'll come up now, he is gone, said Beatrice. No indeed, said Mary, that would hardly be pleasant to Lady Arabella, nor to me either. No tritchy dearest, to my visits to dear old Gresham's free are done, done. Perhaps in some twenty years' time I may be walking down the lawn with your brother and discussing our childish days. That is, always, if the then Mrs. Gresham shall have invited me. How can Frank have been so wrong, so unkind, so cruel, said Beatrice? This, however, was a light in which Miss Thorn did not take any pleasure in discussing the matter. Her ideas of Frank's fault, and unkindness and cruelty, were doubtless different from those of his sister. Such cruelty was not unnaturally excused in her eyes by many circumstances which Beatrice did not fully understand. Mary was quite ready to go hand in hand with Lady Arabella, and the rest of the Gresham's refold in putting an end, if possible, to Frank's passion. She would give no one a right to accuse her of assisting to ruin the young heir. But she could hardly bring herself to admit that he was so very wrong, no, nor even yet so very cruel. And then the squire came to see her, and this was a yet harder trial than the visit of Beatrice. It was so difficult for her to speak to him that she could not but wish him away, and yet had he not come, had he altogether neglected her, she would have felt it to be unkind. She had ever been his pet, had always received kindness from him. I am sorry for all this, Mary. Very sorry, said he, standing up and holding both her hands in his. It can't be helped, sir, said she, smiling. I don't know, said he. I don't know. It ought to be helped somehow. I am quite sure you have not been to blame. No, she said very quietly, as though the position was one quite a matter, of course. I don't think I have been very much to blame. There will be misfortune sometimes when nobody is to blame. I do not quite understand it all, said the squire. But if Frank—oh, we will not talk about him, said she, still laughing gently. You can understand, Mary, how dear he must be to me, but if Mr. Gresham I would not for worlds be the cause of any unpleasantness between you and him. But I cannot bear to think that we have banished you, Mary. It cannot be helped. Things will all come right in time. But you will be so lonely here. Oh, I shall get over all that. Here you know, Mr. Gresham, I am monarch of all I survey, and there is a great deal in that. The squire did not quite catch her meaning, but a glimmering of it did reach him. It was competent to lay the hourabella to banish her from Gresham's pre. It was within the sphere of the squire's duties to prohibit his son from an imprudent match. It was for the Greshams to guard their Gresham's pre-treasure as best they could within their own territories, but let them beware that they did not attack her on hers. In obedience to the first expression of their wishes she had submitted herself to this public mark of their disapproval because she had seen at once with her clear intellect that they were only doing that which her conscience must approve. Without her murmur, therefore, she consented to be pointed at as the young lady who had been turned out of Gresham's pre because of the young squire. She had no help for it, but let them take care that they did not go beyond that. Outside those Gresham's pre gates, she and Frank Gresham, she and Lady Arabella met on equal terms, let them each fight their own battle. The squire kissed her forward affectionately and took his leave, feeling somehow that he had been excused and pitted and made much of, whereas he had called on his young neighbour with the intention of excusing and pitting and making much of her. He was not quite comfortable as he left the house, but nevertheless he was sufficiently honest-hearted to own to himself that Mary Thorn was a fine girl. Only that it was so absolutely necessary that Frank should marry money, and only also that poor Mary was such a birthless foundling in this world's esteem, only but for these things what a wife she would have made for that son of his. To one person only did she talk freely on the subject, and that one was patience orial, and even with her the freedom was rather of the mind than of the heart. She never said a word of her feeling with reference to Frank, but she said much of her position in the village, and of the necessity she was under to keep out of the way. "'It is very hard,' said Patience, that the offence should be all with him and the punishment all with you.' "'Oh, as for that,' said Mary, laughing, I will not confess to any offence, nor yet to any punishment, certainly not to any punishment.' It comes to the same thing in the end. "'No, not so, Patience. There is always some little sting of disgrace and punishment. Now I am not going to hold myself in the least disgraced.' "'But Mary, you must meet the Gresham sometimes.' "'Meet them. I have not the slightest objection on earth to meet all or any of them. They are not a wit dangerous to me, my dear. "'Tis I that have the wild beast, and is they that must avoid me?' And then she added, after a pause, slightly blushing, "'I have not the slightest objection even to meet him, if chance brings him in my way. Let them look to that. My undertating goes no further than this, that I will not be seen within their gates.' But the girls so far understood each other that Patience undertook, rather than promised, to give Mary what assistance she could, and despite Mary's bravado, she was in such a position that she much wanted the assistance of a friend such as Miss Oriole. After an absence of some six weeks, Frank, as we have seen, returned home. Nothing was said to him except by Beatrice, as to these new Gresham's free arrangements, and he, when he found Mary was not at the place, went boldly to the doctor's house to seek her. But it has been seen also that she discreetly kept out of his way. This she had thought fit to do when the time came, although she had been so ready with her boast that she had no objection on earth to meet him. After that there had been the Christmas vacation, and Mary had again found discretion to be the better part of Valor. This was doubtless disagreeable enough. She had no particular wish to spend her Christmas with Miss Oriole's aunt, instead of at her uncle's fireside. Indeed her Christmas festivities had hitherto been kept at Gresham's free, the doctor and herself having made a part of the family circle there assembled. This was out of the question now, and perhaps the absolute change to old Miss Oriole's house was better for her than the lesser change to her uncle's drawing-room. Besides, how could she have demeaned herself when she met Frank in their parish church? All this had been fully understood by patience, and, therefore, had this Christmas visit been planned. And then this affair of Frank and Mary Thorn ceased for a while to be talked of at Gresham's free, for that other affair of Mr. Moffat and Augusta monopolized the rural attention. Augusta, as we have said, bore it well, and sustained the public gaze without much flinching. Her period of martyrdom, however, did not last long, for soon the news arrived of Frank's exploit in Powell-Mowell. And then the Gresham's free heights forgot to think much more of Augusta, being fully occupied in thinking of what Frank had done. The tale, as it was first told, declared that Frank had followed Mr. Moffat up into his club, had dragged him thence into the middle of Powell-Mowell, and had then slotted him on the spot. This was by degrees modified till a sobered fiction became generally prevalent, that Mr. Moffat was lying somewhere still alive, but with all his bones in a general state of compound fracture. This adventure again brought Frank into the Ascendant, and restored to Mary her former position as the Gresham's free heroine. One cannot wonder it as being very angry, said Beartress, discussing the matter with Mary, very imprudently. Wonder, no, the wonder would have been if he had not been angry. One might have been quite sure that he would have been angry enough. I suppose it was not absolutely right for him to beat Mr. Moffat, said Beartress, apologetically. Not right, Tritchie. I think he was very right. Not to beat him so very much, Mary. Oh, I suppose a man can't exactly stand in measuring how much he does these things. I like your brother for what he has done, and I say so frankly, though I suppose I ought to eat my tongue out before I should say such a thing, eh, Tritchie? I don't know that there's any harm in that, said Beartress, demurely. If you both liked each other, there would be no harm in that, if that were all. Wouldn't there, said Mary, in a low tone of bantering satire, that is so kind, Tritchie, coming from you, from one of the family, you know? You are well aware, Mary, that if I could have my wishes—yes, I am well aware what a paragon of goodness you are. If you could have your way, I should be admitted into heaven again, shouldn't I? Only with this proviso, that if a stray angel should ever whisper to me with bated breath, mistaking me for chance for one of his own class, I should be bound to close my ears to his whispering and remind him humbly that I was only a poor mortal. You would trust me so far, wouldn't you, Tritchie? I would trust you in any way, Mary, but I think you are unkind in saying such things to me. Into whatever heaven I am admitted, I will go only on this understanding that I am to be as good an angel as any of those around me. But, Mary, dear, why do you say this to me? Because, because, because, ah, me. Why, indeed, but because I have no one else to say it to, certainly not because you have deserved it. It seems as though you were finding fault with me. And so I am. How can I do other than find fault? How can I help being sore? Tritchie, you hardly realize my position. You hardly see how I am treated, how I am forced to allow myself to be treated without a sign of complaint. You don't see it all. If you did, you would not wonder that I should be sore. Beatrice did not quite see it all. But she saw enough of it to know that Mary was to be pitied. So instead of scolding her friend for being so cross, she threw her arms round her and kissed her affectionately. But the doctor all this time suffered much more than his niece did. He could not complain out loudly. He could not avert that his pet lamb had been ill-treated. He could not even have the pleasure of openly quarreling with Lady Arabella. But not the less did he feel it to be most cruel that Mary should have to live before the world as an outcast, because it had pleased Frank Gresham to fall in love with her. But his bitterness was not chiefly against Frank. The Frank had been very foolish. She could not but acknowledge. But it was a kind of folly for which the doctor was able to find excuse. For Lady Arabella's cold propriety he could find no excuse. With the squire he had spoken no word on the subject up to this period of which we are now writing. With her ladyship he had never spoken on it since the day when she had told him that Mary was to come no more to Gresham'sbury. He never now dined or spent his evenings at Gresham'sbury, and seldom was to be seen at the house, except when called in professionally. The squire, indeed, he frequently met. But he either did so in the village, or out on horseback, or at his own house. When the doctor first heard that Sir Roger had lost his seat and had returned to Boxall Hill he resolved to go over and see him. But the visit was postponed from day to day as visits are postponed which may be made any day, and he did not, in fact, go till he was summoned there somewhat peremptorily. A message was brought to him one evening to say that Sir Roger had been struck by paralysis and that not a moment was to be lost. It always happens at night, said Mary, who had more sympathy for the living uncle whom she did know than for the other dying uncle whom she did not know. What matters? There, just give me my scarf. In all probability I may not be home to-night. Perhaps not till late to-morrow. God bless you, Mary. And away the doctor went on his cold, bleak ride to Boxall Hill. Who will be his heir? As the doctor rode along he could not quite rid his mind of this question. The poor man now about to die had wealth enough to make many heirs. What of his heart should have softened towards his sister's child? What if Mary should be found in a few days to be possessed of such wealth that the Greshams should be again happy to welcome her at Greshamsbury? The doctor was not a lover of money, and he did his best to get rid of such pernicious thoughts. But his longings, perhaps, were not so much that Mary should be rich as that she should have the power of heaping coals of fire upon the heads of those people who had so injured her. CHAPTER XXXIV Louis Scatchard When Dr. Thorn reached Boxall Hill he found a Mr. Rear child from Barchester there before him. Poor Lady Scatchard, when her husband was stricken by the fit, hardly knew in her dismay what adequate steps to take. She had, as a matter of course, sent for Dr. Thorn, but she had thought that in so grave a peril the medical skill of no one man could suffice. It was, she knew, quite out of the question for her to invoke the aid of Dr. Phil Grave, whom no earthly persuasion would have brought to Boxall Hill, and as Mr. Rear child was supposed in the Barchester world to be second, though at a long interval, to that great man, she had applied for his assistance. Now Mr. Rear child was a follower and humble friend of Dr. Phil Grave, and it was want to regard anything that came from the Barchester doctor as sure light from the lamp of Esculapius. He could not therefore be other than an enemy of Dr. Thorn, but he was a prudent, discreet man, with a long family, a verse to professional hostilities, as knowing that he could make more by medical friends than medical foes, and not at all inclined to take up any man's cudgel to his own detriment. He had, of course, heard of that dreadful affront which had been put upon his friend, as had all the medical world, all the medical world at least of Barchester. They were doubtless well intended, and were perhaps as well adapted to stave off the coming evil day, as any that Dr. Phil Grave, or even the great Sir Omicron Pie might have used. And then Dr. Thorn arrived. Oh, doctor, doctor! exclaimed Lady Scatchard, almost hanging round his neck in the hall. What are we to do? What are we to do? He's very bad. Has he spoken? No, nothing like a word. He has made one or two muttered sounds, but poor soul. You could make nothing of it. Doctor, doctor, he has never been like this before. It was easy to see where Lady Scatchard placed any such faith, as she might still have in the healing art. Mr. Rearchild is here, and has seen him, she continued. I thought it best to send for two for fear of accidents. He has done something. I don't know what. But, doctor, do tell the truth now. I look to you to tell me the truth. Dr. Thorn then went up and saw his patient. And had he literally complied with Lady Scatchard's request, he might have told her at once that there was no hope. As, however, he had not the heart to do this, he mystified the case, as doctors so well know how to do, and told her that there was great cause to fear, great cause for fear. He was sorry to say, very great cause for much fear. Dr. Thorn promised to stay the night there, and if possible the following night also. And then Lady Scatchard became troubled in her mind as to what she should do with Mr. Rearchild. He also declared, with much medical humanity, that let the inconvenience be what it might, he too would stay the night. The loss, he said, of such a man as Sir Roger Scatchard was of such paramount importance as to make other matters trivial. He would certainly not allow the whole weight to fall on the shoulders of his friend Dr. Thorn. He also would stay at any rate that night by the sick man's bedside. By the following morning some change might be expected. I say Dr. Thorn, said her ladyship, calling the doctor into the housekeeping room, in which she and Hannah spent any time that they were not required upstairs. Just come in, doctor. You couldn't tell him we don't want him any more, could you? Well whom, said the doctor? Why, Mr. Rearchild, might any go away, do you think? Dr. Thorn explained that Mr. Rearchild certainly might go away if he pleased, but that it would be by no means proper for one doctor to tell another to leave the house. And so Mr. Rearchild was allowed to share the glories of the night. In the meantime the patient remained speechless, but it soon became evident that nature was using all her efforts to make one final rally. From time to time he moaned and muttered as though he were conscious, and it seemed as though he strove to speak. He gradually became awake at any rate to suffering, and Dr. Thorn began to think that the last scene would be postponed for yet a while longer. Wonderful, strong constitution. Hey, Dr. Thorn, wonderful, said Mr. Rearchild. Yes, he has been a strong man. Strong as a horse, Dr. Thorn. Lord, what that man would have been if he had given himself a chance. You know his constitution, of course. Yes, pretty well. I've attended him for many years. Always drinking, I suppose, always at a day. He has not been a temperate man, certainly. The brain, you see, clean, gone, and not a particle of coating left to the stomach, and yet what a struggle he makes. An interesting case, isn't it? It's very sad to see such an intellect so destroyed. Very sad, very sad indeed. How Phil Grave would have liked to have seen this case. He is a clever man, is Phil Grave, in his way, you know. I'm sure he is, said Dr. Thorn. Not that he'd make anything of a case like this now. He's not, you know, quite, quite, perhaps not quite up to the new time of day, if one may say so. He has had a very extensive provincial practice, said Dr. Thorn. Oh, very, very, and made a tidy lot of money, too, has Phil Grave. He's worth six thousand pounds, I suppose. Now, that's a great deal of money to put by in a little town like Barchester. Yes, indeed. What I say to Phil Grave is this. Keep your eyes open. One should never be too old to learn. There's always something new worth picking up. But no, he won't believe that. He can't believe that any new ideas can be worth anything. You know a man must go to the wall in that way, eh, doctor? And then again they were called to their patient. He's doing finally, finally, said Mr. Rear-child to a lady scattered. There's fair ground to hope he'll rally. Fair ground, is there not, doctor? Yes, he'll rally. But how long that may last, that we can hardly say. Oh, no, certainly not, certainly not. That is not with any certainty. But still he's doing finally, lady scattered, considering everything. How long will you give him, doctor? said Mr. Rear-child to his new friend, when they were again alone. Ten days? I dare say ten days, or from that to a fortnight, not more. But I think he'll struggle on ten days. If so, said the doctor, I should not like to say exactly to a day. No, certainly not. We cannot say exactly to a day. But I say ten days, as for anything like a recovery, that, you know, is out of the question, said Dr. Thorn gravely. Quite so, quite so, coating of the stomach clean gone, you know, brain destroyed. Did you observe the periparolida? I never saw them so swell before. Now, when the periparolida are swollen like that. Yes, very much, it's always the case when paralysis has been brought about by intemperance. Always, always, I have remarked that always. The periparolida in such cases are always extended. Most interesting case, isn't it? I do wish Phil Grave could have seen it. But I believe you and Phil Grave don't quite, eh? No, not quite, said Dr. Thorn. Who was he thought of his last interview with Dr. Phil Grave, and of that gentleman's exceeding anger as he stood in the hall below, could not keep himself from smiling, sad as the occasion was. Nothing would induce Lady Scatrid to go to bed. But the two doctors agreed to lie down, each in a room on one side of the patient. How is it possible that anything but good should come to him, being so guarded? He is going on finally, Lady Scatrid, right finally, were the last words Mr. Rearchild said as he left the room. And then Dr. Thorn, taking Lady Scatrid's hand, and leading her out into another chamber, told her the truth. Lady Scatrid said he, in his tenderest voice, and his voice could be very tender when the occasion required it. Lady Scatrid, do not hope, you must not hope. It would be cruel to bid you to do so. Oh, doctor, oh, doctor! My dear friend, there is no hope. Oh, Dr. Thorn, said the wife, looking wildly up into her companion's face, though she hardly had realized the meaning of what he said, although her senses were half-stunned by the blow. Dear Lady Scatrid, is it not better that I should tell you the truth? Oh, I suppose so. Oh, yes. Oh, yes. Ah, me. Ah, me. Ah, me. And then she began rocking herself backwards and forwards on her chair, with her apron up to her eyes. What shall I do? What shall I do? Look to him, Lady Scatrid, who only can make such grief endureable. Yes, yes, yes. I suppose so. Ah, me. Ah, me. But Dr. Thorn, there must be some chance. Isn't there any chance? That man says he's going on so well. I fear there is no chance. As far as my knowledge goes, there is no chance. Then why does that chattering magpie tell such lies to a woman? Ah, me. Ah, me. Ah, me. Oh, doctor, doctor. What shall I do? What shall I do? And poor Lady Scatrid, fairly overcome by her sorrow, burst out crying like a great schoolgirl. Yet what had her husband done for her that she should thus weep for him? Would not her life be much more blessed when the cause of all her troubles should be removed from her? Would she not then be a free woman instead of a slave? Might she not then expect to begin to taste the comforts of life? What had that harsh tyrant of hers done that was good or serviceable for her? Why should she thus weep for him in paroxysms of truest grief? We hear a good deal of jolly widows, and the slanderous railway of the world tells much of conjugal disturbances as a cure for which women will look forward to a state of widowhood with not unwilling eyes. The railway of the world is very slanderous. In our daily jests we attribute to each other vices of which neither we, nor our neighbors, nor our friends, nor even our enemies are ever guilty. It is our favorite parlance to talk of the family troubles of Mrs. Green on our right, and to tell how Mrs. Young on our left is strongly suspected of having raised her hand to her lord and master. What right have we to make these charges? What have we seen in our own personal walks through life to make us believe that women are devils? There may possibly have been a zantippy here and there, but imagines are to be found under every bush. Lady Scatrin, in spite of the life she had led, was one of them. You should send a message up to London for Lewis, said the doctor. We did that, doctor. We did that today. We set up a telegraph. Oh, me, oh, me. Poor boy, what will he do? I shall never know what to do with him. Never, never. And with such sorrowful wailings she sat rocking herself through the long night, every now and then comforting herself by the performance of some menial service in the sick man's room. Sir Roger passed the night much as he had passed the day, except that he appeared gradually to be growing nearer to a state of consciousness. On the following morning, they succeeded at last in making Mr. Reartrial understand that they would not desire us of keeping him longer from his barchester practice. And at about 12 o'clock, Dr. Thorn also went, promising that he would return in the evening and again pass the night at Boxall Hill. In the course of the afternoon, Sir Roger once more awoke to his senses, and when he did so, his son was standing at his bedside. Louis-Philippe Scatchard, or as it may be more convenient to call them, Lewis, was a young man just of the age of Frank Gresham, but there could hardly be two youths more different in their appearance. Lewis, though his father and mother were both robust persons, was short and slight, and now of his sickly frame. Frank was a picture of health and strength, but though manly in disposition, was by no means precocious either in appearance or manners. Louis Scatchard looked as though he was four years the other senior. He had been sent to Eaton when he was fifteen, his father being under the impression that this was the most ready and best recognized method of making him a gentleman. Here he did not altogether fail, as regarded the coveted object of his becoming the companion of gentlemen. He had more pocket money than any other lad in the school, and was possessed also of a certain effrontery which carried him ahead among boys of his own age. He gained, therefore, a degree of éclat, even among those who knew, and very frequently said to each other, that young Scatchard was not fit to be their companion, except on such open occasions as those of cricket matches and boat races. Boys, in this respect, are at least as exclusive as men, and understand as well the difference between an inner and an outer circle. Scatchard had many companions at school who were glad enough to go up to Maiden had with him in his boat, but there was not one among them who would have talked to him of his sister. Sir Roger was vastly proud of his son's success, and did his best to stimulate it by lavish expenditure at the Christopher whenever he could manage to run down to Eaton. But this practice, though sufficiently unexceptionable to the boys, was not held in equal delight by the masters. To tell the truth, neither Sir Roger nor his son were favorites with these stern custodians. At last it was felt necessary to get rid of them both, and Lewis was not long in giving them an opportunity by getting tipsy twice in one week. On the second occasion he was set away, and he and Sir Roger, though long talked of, were seen no more at Eaton. But the universities were still open to Louis Philippe, and before he was eighteen he was entered as a gentleman commoner at Trinity. As he was, moreover, the eldest son of a marinet, and had almost unlimited command of money, here also he was enabled for a while to shine. To shine, but very fitfully, and one may say almost with a ghastly glare. The very lads who had eaten his father's dinners at Eaton, and shared his fore-or at Eaton, knew much better than to associate with him at Cambridge, now that they had put on the toga virilis. They were still as prone as ever to fun, frolic, and devilry, perhaps more so than ever, seeing that more was in their power. But they acquired an idea that it behooved them to be somewhat circumspect, as to the men with whom their pranks were perpetrated. So in those days Louis Scatchard was coldly looked on by his wilam Eaton friends. But young Scatchard did not fail to find companions at Cambridge also. There were few places, indeed, in which a rich man cannot buy companionship. But the set with whom he lived at Cambridge were the worst of the place. They were fast, slang men, who were fast and slang and nothing else, men who imitated grooms and more than their dress, and who looked on the customary heroes of race courses as the highest lords of the ascendant upon earth. Among those at college, young Scatchard did shine as long as such lust was permitted him. Here, indeed, his father, who had striven only to encourage him at Eaton, did strive somewhat to control him. But that was not now easy. If he limited his son's allowance, he only drove him to do his debauchery on credit. They were plenty to lend money to the son of the great millionaire. And so, after eighteen months' trial of a university education, Sir Roger had no alternative but to withdraw his son from his alma mater. What was he then to do with him? Unluckily, it was considered quite unnecessary to take any steps towards enabling him to earn his bread. Now nothing on earth can be more difficult than bringing up well a young man who was not to earn his own bread and who was no recognized station among other men similarly circumstanced. Juvenile dukes and sprouting earls find their duties in their places as easily as embryo clergymen and sucking barristers. Provision is made for their peculiar positions. And though they may possibly go astray, they have a fair chance given to them of running within the posts. The same may be said of such youths as Frank Gresham. There are enough of them in the community to have made it necessary that their well-being should be a matter of care and forethought. But there are but few men turned out in the world in the position of Lewis Scatchard, and of those few, but very few, entered the real battle of life under good auspices. Poor Sir Roger, though he had hardly time with all his multitudinous railways to look into this thoroughly, had a glimmering of it. When he saw his son's pale face and paid his wine bills and heard of his doings and horse flesh, he did know that things were not going well. He did understand that the air to a baronetcy and a fortune of some ten thousand a year might be doing better. But what was he to do? He could not watch over his boy himself. So he took a tutor for him and sent him abroad. Lewis and the tutor got as far as Berlin, with what mutual satisfaction to each other need not be specially described. But from Berlin Sir Roger received a letter in which the tutor declined to go any further in the task which he had undertaken. He found that he had no influence over his pupil, and he could not reconcile it to his conscience to be the spectator of such a life as that which Mr. Scatchard led. He had no power in inducing Mr. Scatchard to leave Berlin, but he would remain there himself till he should hear from Sir Roger. So Sir Roger had to leave the huge government works which he was then erecting on the southern coast, and hurry off to Berlin to see what could be done with young hopeful. The young hopeful was by no means a fool, and in some matters was more than a match for his father. Sir Roger, in his anger, threatened to cast him off without his shilling. Lewis, with mixed penitence and effrontery, reminded him that he could not change the descent of the title, promised amendment, declared that he had done only as do other young men of fortune, and hinted that the tutor was a straight-laced ass. The father and the son returned together to Boxhall Hill, and three months afterwards Mr. Scatchard set up for himself in London. And now his life, if not more virtuous, was more crafty than it had been. He had no tutor to watch his newings and complain of them, and he had sufficient sense to keep himself from absolute pecuniary ruin. He lived, it is true, where sharp as and black legs had too often opportunities of plucking him, but young as he was he had been sufficiently long about the world to take care he was not openly robbed, and as he was not openly robbed, his father, in a certain sense, was proud of him. Tidings, however, came, came at least in those last days, which cuts Sir Roger to the quick. Tidings of vice and the son, which the father could not but attribute to his own example. Twice the mother was called up to the sick bed of her only child, while he lay raving in that horrid madness by which the outraged mind avenges itself on the body. Twice he was found raging in delirium-tremens, and twice the father was told that a continuance of such life must end in an early death. It may easily be conceived that Sir Roger was not a happy man. Lying there with that brandy bottle beneath his pillow, reflecting on his moments of rest that his son of his had his brandy bottle beneath his pillow, he could hardly have been happy. But he was not a man to say much about his misery. Though he could restrain neither himself nor his heir, he could endure in silence, and in silence he did endure, till opening his eyes to the consciousness of death he at last spoke a few words to the only friend he knew. Louis Scatchit was not a fool, nor was he naturally, perhaps of a depraved disposition. But he had to reap the fruits of the worst education which England was able to give him. There were moments in his life when he felt that a better, a higher, nay, a much happier career was open to him than that which he had prepared himself to lead. Now and then he would reflect what money and rank might have done for him. He would look with wishful eyes to the proud doings of others of his age, would dream of quiet joys, of a sweet wife, of a house to which might be asked friends who were neither jockeys nor drunkards. He would dream of such things in his short intervals of constrained sobriety, but the dream would only serve to make him moody. 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 had 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 black legs and such like, because black legs were to his taste. But he boasted daily, 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 practiced by men of the class with whom he lived. At one and twenty he was at 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 seven stone, seven pounds, 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 he first 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, remembranceer 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 the mother's natural love, but Lewis 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 to embrace. There was, too, a joyous, genial luster 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 husbands, 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, Lewis, 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 more overshoot 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, endeavored 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 been removed. Then Lady Scatrid 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 at 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 bite 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 Scatrid. 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. Ah, ha, ha! laughed the sick man, and then greedily swallowed the dose. End of Chapter 24 Chapter 25 of Dr. Thorne This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Dr. Thorne, by Anthony Trollop. Chapter 25 Sir Roger Dies That night the doctor stayed at Vauxhall 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 Gresham Spree, 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. Rear Child 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 at 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 Scatrid, 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 Scatrid 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 assayed 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 favorable 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. Not since, Governor, never mind about that now. I shall do well enough, I daresay. 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 your 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 have before you if you can't avoid that accursed bottle. I'm all right, Governor, right as the 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 a 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 of 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 of 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 Scatchard was progressing favorably. 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. There 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 30th 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 over-task himself, and at length the body gave way, though the mind remained firm to the last. The subject of this memoir was only 59 when he was taken promise. 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 24 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 soon to inherit the wealth of the forest. But Dr. Thorn 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. Thorn. Thorn, 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 scattered, 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 Lewis? No, that is yes. I had done that before. I have said Mary's eldest child. I have not altered that. But scattered, you must alter it. Must? Well, then I won't, but I'll tell you what I have done. I have added a post-script, a codicell, 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 Lewis. 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, scattered? 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 Thorn solemnly, taking as he spoke the contract his 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 deathbed have no dread as I have as to the fate of those you will leave behind you. Dr. Thorn felt that he could not say much in answer to this. The future fate of Lewis, scattered, 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 Lewis's catcher to the angel who brightened his own hearthstone. How could he answer to such an appeal? He said nothing but merely tightened his grasp with 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, scattered. 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, Thorn. 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 Thorn, I should like to think that he would 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 into your hands. No, Scatchard, 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 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 a vigor in the energy of a moment. Gently, Scatchard, gently, he will listen to you yet, but do not be so unruly. Thorn, 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. Thorn 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, I, and worked all the day after it. You have been a wonderful man, sketched. Very wonderful. Ah, wonderful. Well, never mind. It's over now. But what was I saying about Lewis, doctor? You'll not desert him? Certainly not. He's not strong. I know that. How should he be strong, living as he is 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 Lewis had not as shelling 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. Thorn again expressed an opinion that no step would be so likely to perform the habits of the young heir as marriage, and repeat his advice to the father to implore his son to take a wife. I'll tell you what, Thorn, 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 Thorn 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 intended 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. Thorn, on one condition, I will put her name into it. I will alter it 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 the young wolf, even though he 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 Thorn and Louis Scatchard? I will alter it, 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. Say the word, Thorn, and she shall come here at once. I shall yet have time to see her. But Dr. Thorn did not say the word. Just at the moment he said nothing, but he slowly shook his head. Why not, Thorn? 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, Scatchard, that the son might make love to her while the father is so dangerously ill? Bid her come to look for her 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, Dr., 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, Scatchard. To have the spending of ten thousand a year and be a Baronet's lady? Well, Doctor, what is it you expect for this girl? Not much indeed. Not much. A quiet heart and a quiet home. Not much more. Thorn, 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, Scatchard, marriage is never answered that is 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, Doctor Thorn 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 at 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 again he 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 mastering 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, Scatchard, 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. While you know I always get it directly your back is turned. Come, I will not be bullied in my own house. Give me the bottle, I say. And Sir Roger assayed, vainly enough, to raise himself from the bed. Stop, Scatchard. I will give it to 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 poured out for him before, and still held the empty glass within his hand. This the doctor now took and filled nearly to the brim. Come, Thorn, 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, Scatchard. 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 Thorn, I do love a full glass. Ha, 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 and 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 and 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 Scatchard to you? Wait a while, doctor, just one minute longer. So you will do nothing for Lewis, then? I will do everything for him that I can do. Yes, everything but the one thing that will save him. Well, I will not ask you again. But remember, Thorn, 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 business attorney from London. If you will let me send, he will be here before to-morrow night. Thank you for nothing, Thorn. I can manage the 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, I, 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 and 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 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 Scatchard. 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 were the worst hand at describing I ever knew. If I had seen him for five minutes, I would be bound to make a portrait of him. And you, if you were describing a dog, you would only say what color his hair was. Well, he is a little man. Exactly, just as I should say that Mrs. Umbleby has a red-haired little dog. I wish I had known these Scatchards, 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 Scatchard 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 mentioned me to them. If you do, tell her from me how much I grieve for her. That same night Dr. Thorn 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 Thorn. But the doctor knew that winter bones 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 most of his important work by the hands of such tools as these, he did not doubt but that the will had been altered and remodeled. 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 daresay, Scatchard. 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, Scatchard. You need not think so. Yesterday you told Mr. Clark that you were comfortable in your mind. Mr. Clark 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 Thorn, 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 Scatchard? Lady Devil, if anything angers me now it is that ladieship, 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, Thorn. It was none of her doing. She never asked for such nonsense. She has been an excellent wife, Scatchard, and what is more she is an excellent woman. She is, and ever will be, one of my dearest friends. Thank you, doctor. Thank you. 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, Thorn? Dr. Thorn again assured him that as long as he lived, Lady Scatchard should never want one true friend. In making this promise, however, he managed to drop all allusion to the obnoxious title. You will 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 Lewis. 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 his teeth with it. When you see that Thorn, 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 Scatchard. 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. 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 rode 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 caudicelle 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 Scatchard. 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 Scatchard are always well-buried, and we have already seen that his glories were duly told to posterity in the graphic diction of his subpulchral monument. In a few days the doctor had returned to his quiet house, 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 orial, and also almost more than ever with Beatrice Gresham. As regarded Mary, she would doubtless have preferred the companionship of patients, though she loved Beatrice far the best, but she had no choice. When she went to the parsonage, Beatrice came there also, and when patients 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 sympathize with her, and endow her with heroic attributes, maker, in fact, as we are doing, their little heroine for the knots. This was perhaps not serviceable for Mary, but it was far from being disagreeable. The tendency to finding matter for hero worship and Mary's endurance was much stronger with Beatrice than with Miss Oriole. Miss Oriole 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 forever. She would always talk about Frank when she and Mary were alone, and to speak the truth Mary did not stop her, as perhaps she 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. Not since Tritchie. 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 Mama, that would have been so nice. Yes, and Mama too, that is, had you had a fortune, said the daughter, naively. 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 that a course he's 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 Oriole's pleasant, but less pecan 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 Gresham's free on any other than medical business, and it therefore became necessary that the squire should be a great deal at the doctor's house. Then the Lady Arabella became unhappy in her mind. Frank, it was true, was away in 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 Gresham's free. 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 Gresham's free 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 preeminently 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 pwistant 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 this, 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 skillful 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 Thorn 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 of Gresham's free, 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 Gresham's free 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 would have passed 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 honored 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 herself tita-tita with the doctor in his own study. She was no witless made 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 complementary greetings were over, speaking in her kindness, 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 to 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 Cambridge 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 it is energy, Dr. Thorn 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 is such dangerous to contend with. He is so warm and impulsive, that I fear that 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 agree with me, you know, that the two young people had been imprudent. I agreed 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 anyone 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 upset herself from Gresham Spree. Oh, no, no, no, said Lady Arabella. But you did, Lady Arabella, and as Gresham Spree 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 favors none but the brave. I make no complaint, Dr. Thorn, she said, after assuming a tone more befitting and decorcy 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 and prudent, 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 decorcy intonation, and your duty also, Dr. Thorn. 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 I 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 Gresham Street and spoke to you of your daughters in such language? What would my dear friend Mr. Gresham say if some neighbor'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. Thorn had never before dared thus to lower her to the level of common humanity and likened her to any other wife in the countryside. Moreover, she was not quite sure whether he, the Paris 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. Thorn, 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 Gresham Street. 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 dumbbells. 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. Thorn, but young people will be young. And old people must be old, I suppose. The more is 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 neighborly in his disposition. Dr. Thorn, 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 Ms. 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. Thorn, said her ladyship, now also rising from her chair, in a state of too evident perturbation. Why should I object? 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. Interfear, 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 imbutations, 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. Thorn. 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 that 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. Thorn, 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 Greshamspre. 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 offense 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 Mary 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. Thorn said she, I think you have forgotten yourself. You must excuse me if I say that after what has passed, 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 Umbulbee and her friend, Ms. Gushing, who lived close by.