Dr Thorne (54 page)

The doctor was of course often at Boxall Hill, and never left it without an urgent request from Lady Scatcherd that he would bring his niece over to see her. Now Lady Scatcherd was no fit companion for Mary Thorne, and though Mary had often asked to be taken to Boxall Hill, certain considerations had hitherto induced the doctor to refuse the request; but there was that about Lady Scatcherd – a kind of homely honesty of purpose, an absence of all conceit as to her own position, and a strength of womanly confidence in the doctor as her friend, which by degrees won upon his heart. When, therefore, both he and Mary felt that it would be better for her again to absent herself for a while from Greshamsbury, it was, after much deliberation, agreed that she should go on a visit to Boxall Hill.

To Boxall Hill, accordingly, she went, and was received almost as a princess. Mary had all her life been accustomed to women of rank, and had never habituated herself to feel much trepidation in the presence of titled grandees; but she had prepared herself to be more than ordinarily submissive to Lady Scatcherd. Her hostess was a widow, was not a woman of high birth, was a woman of whom her uncle spoke well; and, for all these reasons, Mary was determined to respect her, and pay to her every consideration. But when she was settled down in the house she found it almost impossible to do so. Lady Scatcherd treated her as a farmer's wife might have treated some convalescent young lady who had been sent to her charge for a few weeks, in order that she might benefit by the country air. Her ladyship could hardly bring herself to sit still and eat her dinner tranquilly in her guest's presence. And then nothing was good enough for Mary. Lady Scatcherd besought her, almost with tears, to say what she liked best to eat and drink; and was in despair when Mary declared she didn't care, that she liked anything, and that she was in nowise particular in such matters.

‘A roast fowl, Miss Thorne?'

‘Very nice, Lady Scatcherd.'

‘And bread sauce?'

‘Brcad sauce – yes; oh, yes – I like bread sauce,' – and poor Mary tried hard to show a little interest.

‘And just a few sausages. We make them all in the house, Miss Thorne; we know what they are. And mashed potatoes – do you like them best mashed or baked?'

Mary, finding herself obliged to vote, voted for mashed potatoes.

‘Very well. But, Miss Thorne, if you would like boiled fowl better, with a little bit of ham, you know, I do hope you'll say so. And there's lamb in the house, quite beautiful; now do 'ee say something; do 'ee, Miss Thorne.'

So invoked, Mary felt herself obliged to say something, and declared for the roast fowl and sausages; but she found it very difficult to pay much outward respect to a person who would pay so much outward respect to her. A day or two after her arrival it was decided that she should ride about the place on a donkey; she was accustomed to riding, the doctor having generally taken care that one of his own horses should, when required, consent to carry a lady; but there was no steed at Boxall Hill that she could mount; and when Lady Scatcherd had offered to get a pony for her, she had willingly compromised matters by expressing the delight she would have in making a campaign on a donkey. Upon this, Lady Scatcherd had herself set off in quest of the desired animal, much to Mary's horror; and did not return till the necessary purchase had been effected. Then she came back with the donkey close at her heels, almost holding its collar, and stood there at the hall-door till Mary came to approve.

‘I hope she'll do. I don't think she'll kick,' said Lady Scatcherd, patting the head of her purchase quite triumphantly.

‘Oh, you are so kind, Lady Scatcherd. I'm sure she'll do quite nicely; she seems to be very quiet,' said Mary.

‘Please, my lady, it's a he,' said the boy who held the halter.

‘Oh! a he, is it?' said her ladyship; ‘but the he-donkeys are quite as quiet as the shes, ain't they?'

‘Oh, yes, my lady; a deal quieter, all the world over, and twice as useful.'

‘I'm so glad of that, Miss Thorne,' said Lady Scatcherd, her eyes bright with joy.

And so Mary was established with her donkey, who did all that could be expected from an animal in his position.

‘But, dear Lady Scatcherd,' said Mary, as they sat together at the open drawing-room window the same evening, ‘you must not go on calling me Miss Thorne; my name is Mary, you know. Won't you call me Mary?' and she came and knelt at Lady Scatcherd's feet, and took hold of her, looking up into her face.

Lady Scatcherd's cheeks became rather red, as though she was somewhat ashamed of her position.

‘You are so very kind to me,' continued Mary, ‘and it seems so cold to hear you call me Miss Thorne.'

‘Well, Miss Thorne, I'm sure I'd call you anything to please you. Only I didn't know whether you'd like it from me. Else I do think Mary is the prettiest name in all the language.'

‘I should like it very much.'

‘My dear Roger always loved that name better than any other; ten times better. I used to wish sometimes that I'd been called Mary.'

‘Did he! Why?'

‘He once had a sister called Mary; such a beautiful creature! I declare I sometimes think you are like her.'

‘Oh, dear! then she must have been beautiful indeed,' said Mary, laughing.

‘She was very beautiful. I just remember her – oh, so beautiful! she was quite a poor girl, you know; and so was I then. Isn't it odd that I should have to be called “my lady” now? Do you know, Miss Thorne –'

‘Mary! Mary!' said her guest.

‘Ah, yes; but somehow, I hardly like to make so free; but, as I was saying, I do so dislike being called “my lady”: I always think that people are laughing at me; and so they are.'

‘Oh, nonsense!'

‘Yes, they are though: poor dear Roger, he used to call me “my lady” just to make fun of me; I didn't mind it so much from him. But, Miss Thorne –'

‘Mary, Mary, Mary.'

‘Ah, well! I shall do it in time. But, Miss – Mary, ha! ha! ha! never mind, let me alone. But what I want to say is this: do you think I could drop it? Hannah says, that if I go the right way about it she is sure I can.'

‘Oh! but, Lady Scatcherd, you shouldn't think of such a thing.'

‘Shouldn't I now?'

‘Oh, no; for your husband's sake you should be proud of it. He gained great honour, you know.'

‘Ah, well,' said she, sighing after a short pause; ‘if you think it will do him any good, of course I'll put up with it. And then I
know Louis would be mad if I talked of such a thing. But, Miss Thorne, dear, a woman like me don't like to have to be made a fool of all the days of her life if she can help it.'

‘But Lady Scatcherd,' said Mary, when this question of the title had been duly settled, and her ladyship made to understand that she must bear the burden for the rest of her life, ‘but, Lady Scatcherd, you were speaking of Sir Roger's sister; what became of her?'

‘Oh, she did very well at last, as Sir Roger did himself; but in early life she was very unfortunate – just at the time of my marriage with dear Roger –' and then, just as she was about to commence so much as she knew of the history of Mary Scatcherd, she remembered that the author of her sister-in-law's misery had been a Thorne, a brother of the doctor; and, therefore, as she presumed, a relative of her guest; and suddenly she became mute.

‘Well,' said Mary; ‘just as you were married, Lady Scatcherd?'

Poor Lady Scatcherd had very little worldly knowledge, and did not in the least know how to turn the conversation or escape from the trouble into which she had fallen. All manner of reflections began to crowd upon her. In her early days she had known very little of the Thornes, nor had she thought much of them since, except as regarded her friend the doctor; but at this moment she began for the first time to remember that she had never heard of more than two brothers in the family. Who then could have been Mary's father? She felt at once that it would be improper for her to say anything as to Henry Thorne's terrible faults and sudden fate; – improper, also, to say more about Mary Scatcherd; but she was quite unable to drop the matter otherwise than abruptly, and with a start.

‘She was very unfortunate, you say, Lady Scatcherd?'

‘Yes, Miss Thorne; Mary, I mean – never mind me – I shall do it in time. Yes, she was; but now I think of it, I had better say nothing more about it. There are reasons, and I ought not to have spoken of it. You won't be provoked with me, will you?'

Mary assured her that she would not be provoked, and of course asked no more questions about Mary Scatcherd: nor did she think much more about it. It was not so, however, with her ladyship, who could not keep herself from reflecting that the old clergyman in the Close at Barchester certainly had but two sons,
one of whom was now the doctor at Greshamsbury, and the other of whom had perished so wretchedly at the gate of that farmyard. Who then was the father of Mary Thorne?

The days passed very quietly at Boxall Hill. Every morning Mary went out on her donkey, who justified by his demeanour all that had been said in his praise; then she would read or draw, then walk with Lady Scatcherd, then dine, then walk again; and so the days passed quietly away. Once or twice a week the doctor would come over and drink his tea there, riding home in the cool of the evening. Mary also received one visit from her friend Patience.

So the days passed quietly away till the tranquillity of the house was suddenly broken by tidings from London. Lady Scatcherd received a letter from her son, contained in three lines, in which he intimated that on the following day he meant to honour her with a visit. He had intended, he said, to have gone to Brighton with some friends; but as he felt himself a little out of sorts, he would postpone his marine trip and do his mother the grace of spending a few days with her.

This news was not very pleasant to Mary, by whom it had been understood, as it had also by her uncle, that Lady Scatcherd would have had the house to herself; but as there were no means of preventing the evil, Mary could only inform the doctor, and prepare herself to meet Sir Louis Scatcherd.

S
IR LOUIS SCATCHERD
had told his mother that he was rather out of sorts, and when he reached Boxall Hill it certainly did not appear that he had given any exaggerated statement of his own maladies. He certainly was a good deal out of sorts. He had had more than one attack of delirium tremens since his father's death, and had almost been at death's door.

Nothing had been said about this by Dr Thorne at Boxall Hill; but he was by no means ignorant of his ward's state. Twice he had gone up to London to visit him; twice he had begged him to go down into the country and place himself under his mother's care. On the last occasion, the doctor had threatened him with all manner of pains and penalties: with pains, as to his speedy departure from this world and all its joys; and with penalties, in the shape of poverty if that departure should by any chance be retarded. But these threats had at the moment been in vain, and the doctor had compromised matters by inducing Sir Louis to promise that he would go to Brighton. The baronet, however, who was at length frightened by some renewed attack, gave up his Brighton scheme, and, without any notice to the doctor, hurried down to Boxall Hill.

Mary did not see him on the first day of his coming, but the doctor did. He received such intimation of the visit as enabled him to be at the house soon after the young man's arrival; and, knowing that his assistance might be necessary, he rode over to Boxall Hill. It was a dreadful task to him, this of making the same fruitless endeavour for the son that he had made for the father, and in the same house. But he was bound by every consideration to perform the task. He had promised the father that he would do for the son all that was in his power; and he had, moreover, the
consciousness, that should Sir Louis succeed in destroying himself, the next heir to all the property was his own niece, Mary Thorne.

He found Sir Louis in a low, wretched, miserable state. Though he was a drunkard as his father was, he was not at all such a drunkard as was his father. The physical capacities of the men were very different. The daily amount of alcohol which the father had consumed would have burnt up the son in a week; whereas, though the son was continually tipsy, what he swallowed would hardly have had an injurious effect upon the father.

‘You are all wrong, quite wrong,' said Sir Louis, petulantly; ‘it isn't that at all. I have taken nothing this week past – literally nothing. I think it's the liver.'

Dr Thorne wanted no one to tell him what was the matter with his ward. It was his liver; his liver, and his head, and his stomach, and his heart. Every organ in his body had been destroyed, or was in course of destruction. His father had killed himself with brandy; the son, more elevated in his tastes, was doing the same thing with curacoa, maraschino, and cherry-bounce.
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