Dr Thorne (85 page)

But as the suggestion has not yet been carried out, and as there is at present no learned gentleman whose duty would induce him to set me right, I can only plead for mercy if I be wrong in allotting all Sir Roger's vast possessions in perpetuity to Miss Thorne, alleging also, in excuse, that the course of my narrative absolutely demands that she shall be ultimately recognised as Sir Roger's undoubted heiress.

Such, after a not immoderate delay, was the opinion expressed to Dr Thorne by his law advisers; and such, in fact, turned out to be the case.
¹
I will leave the matter so, hoping that my very absence of defence may serve to protect me from severe attack. If under such a will as that described as having been made by Sir Roger, Mary would not have been the heiress, that will must have been described wrongly.

But it was not quite at once that those tidings made themselves absolutely certain to Dr Thorne's mind; nor was he able to express any such opinion when he first met Frank in London. At that time Mary's letter was in Frank's pocket; and Frank, though his real business appertained much more to the fact of Sir Louis's death, and the effect that would immediately have on his father's affairs, was much more full of what so much more nearly concerned himself. ‘I will show it Dr Thorne himself,' said he, ‘and ask him what he thinks.'

Dr Thorne was stretched fast asleep on the comfortless horse-hair sofa in the dingy sitting-room at the Gray's Inn Coffee-house when Frank found him. The funeral, and his journey to London, and the lawyers had together conquered his energies, and he lay and snored, with nose upright, while heavy London summer flies settled on his head and face, and robbed his slumbers of half their charms.

‘I beg your pardon,' said he, jumping up as though he had been detected in some disgraceful act. ‘Upon my word, Frank, I beg your pardon; but – well, my dear fellow, all well at Greshamsbury – eh?' and as he shook himself, he made a lunge at one uncommonly disagreeable fly that had been at him for the last ten minutes. It is hardly necessary to say that he missed his enemy.

‘I should have been with you before, doctor, but I was down at Malvern.'

‘At Malvern, eh? Ah! so Oriel told me. The death of poor Sir Louis was very sudden – was it not?'

‘Very.'

‘Poor fellow – poor fellow! His fate has for some time been past hope. It is a madness, Frank; the worst of madness. Only think of it – father and son! And such a career as the father had – such a career as the son might have had!'

‘It has been very quickly run,' said Frank.

‘May it be all forgiven him! I sometimes cannot but believe in a special providence. That poor fellow was not able, never would have been able, to make proper use of the means which fortune had given him. I hope they may fall into better hands. There is no use in denying it, his death will be an immense relief to me, and a relief also to your father. All this law business will now, of course, be stopped. As for me, I hope I may never be a trustee again.'

Frank had put his hand four or five times into his breast-pocket, and had as often taken out and put back again Mary's letter before he could find himself able to bring Dr Thorne to the subject. At last there was a lull in the purely legal discussion, caused by the doctor intimating that he supposed Frank would now soon return to Greshamsbury.

‘Yes; I shall go tomorrow morning.'

‘What! so soon as that? I counted on having you one day in London with me.'

‘No, I shall go tomorrow. I'm not fit company for anyone. Nor am I fit for anything. Read that, doctor. It's no use putting it off any longer. I must get you to talk this over with me. Just read that, and tell me what you think about it. It was written a week ago, when I was there, but somehow I have only got it today.' And putting the letter into the doctor's hands, he turned away to the window, and looked out among the Holborn omnibuses. Dr Thorne took the letter and read it. Mary, after she had written it, had bewailed to herself that the letter was cold; but it had not seemed cold to her lover, nor did it appear so to her uncle. When Frank again turned round from the window, the doctor's handkerchief was up to his eyes; who, in order to hide the tears that were there, was obliged to go through a rather violent process of blowing his nose.

‘Well,' he said, as he gave back the letter to Frank.

Well!, what did well mean? Was it well? or would it be well, were he, Frank, to comply with the suggestion made to him by Mary?

‘It is impossible,' he said, ‘that matters should go on like that. Think what her sufferings must have been before she wrote that. I am sure she loves me.'

‘I think she does,' said the doctor.

‘And it is out of the question that she should be sacrificed; nor will I consent to sacrifice my own happiness. I am quite willing to work for my bread, and I am sure that I am able. I will not submit to – Doctor, what answer do you think I ought to give to that letter? There can be no person so anxious for her happiness as you are – except myself.' And, as he asked the question, he again put into the doctor's hand, almost unconsciously, the letter which he had still been holding in his own.

The doctor turned it over and over, and then opened it again.

‘What answer ought I to make to it?' demanded Frank, with energy.

‘You see, Frank, I have never interfered in this matter, otherwise than to tell you the whole truth about Mary's birth.'

‘Oh, but you must interfere: you should say what you think.'

‘Circumstanced as you are now – that is, just at the present moment – you could hardly marry immediately.'

‘Why not let me take a farm? My father could, at any rate, manage a couple of thousand pounds or so for me to stock it. That would not be asking much. If he could not give it me, I would not scruple to borrow so much elsewhere.' And Frank bethought him of all Miss Dunstable's offers.

‘Oh, yes; that could be managed.'

‘Then why not marry immediately; say in six months or so? I am not unreasonable; though, Heaven knows, I have been kept in suspense long enough. As for her, I am sure she must be suffering frightfully. You know her best, and, therefore, I ask you what answer I ought to make: as for myself, I have made up my own mind; I am not a child, nor will I let them treat me as such.'

Frank, as he spoke, was walking rapidly about the room; and he brought out his different propositions, one after the other, with a little pause, while waiting for the doctor's answer. The doctor was sitting, with the letter still in his hands, on the head of the sofa, turning over in his mind the apparent absurdity of Frank's desire to borrow two thousand pounds for a farm, when, in all human probability, he might in a few months be in possession of almost any sum he should choose to name. And yet he would not tell him of Sir Roger's will. ‘If it should turn out to be all wrong?' said he to himself.

‘Do you wish me to give her up?' said Frank, at last.

‘No. How can I wish it? How can I expect a better match for her? Besides, Frank, I love no man in the world so well as I do you.'

‘Then you will help me?'

‘What! against your father?'

‘Against! no, not against anybody. But will you tell Mary that she has your consent?'

‘I think she knows that.'

‘But you have never said anything to her.'

‘Look here, Frank; you ask me for my advice, and I will give it you: go home; though, indeed, I would rather you went anywhere else.'

‘No, I must go home; and I must see her.'

‘Very well, go home: as for seeing Mary, I think you had better put it off for a fortnight.'

‘Quite impossible.'

‘Well, that's my advice. But, at any rate, make up your mind to nothing for a fortnight. Wait for one fortnight, and I then will tell you plainly – you and her too – what I think you ought to do. At the end of a fortnight come to me, and tell the squire that I will take it as a great kindness if he will come with you. She has suffered, terribly, terribly; and it is necessary that something should be settled. But a fortnight more can make no great difference.'

‘And the letter?'

‘Oh! there's the letter.'

‘But what shall I say? Of course I shall write tonight.'

‘Tell her to wait a fortnight. And, Frank, mind you bring your father with you.'

Frank could draw nothing further from his friend save constant repetitions of this charge to him to wait a fortnight – just one other fortnight.

‘Well, I will come to you at any rate,' said Frank; ‘and, if possible, I will bring my father. But I shall write to Mary tonight.'

On the Saturday morning, Mary, who was then nearly broken-hearted at her lover's silence, received this short note:–

'M
Y OWN MARY

'I shall be home tomorrow. I will by no means release you from your promise. Of course you will perceive that I only got your letter today. – Your own dearest,

'F
RANK

‘P.S. – You will have to call me so hundreds and hundreds of times yet.'

Short as it was, this sufficed to Mary. It is one thing for a young
lady to make prudent, heart-breaking suggestions, but quite another to have them accepted. She did call him dearest Frank, even on that one day, almost as often as he had desired her.

F
RANK
returned home, and his immediate business was of course with his father, and with Mr Gazebee, who was still at Greshamsbury.

‘But who is the heir?' asked Mr Gazebee, when Frank had explained that the death of Sir Louis rendered unnecessary any immediate legal steps.

‘Upon my word I don't know,' said Frank.

‘You saw Dr Thorne,' said the squire. ‘He must have known.'

‘I never thought of asking him,' said Frank, naively.

Mr Gazebee looked rather solemn. ‘I wonder at that,' said he; ‘for everything now depends on the hands the property will go into. Let me see; I think Sir Roger had a married sister. Was not that so, Mr Gresham?' And then it occurred for the first time, both to the squire and to his son, that Mary Thorne was the eldest child of this sister. But it never occurred to either of them that Mary could be the baronet's heir.

Dr Thorne came down for a couple of days before the fortnight was over to see his patients, and then returned again to London. But during this short visit he was utterly dumb on the subject of the heir. He called at Greshamsbury to see Lady Arabella, and was even questioned by the squire on the subject. But he obstinately refused to say more than that nothing certain could be known for yet a few days.

Immediately after his return, Frank saw Mary, and told her all that happened. ‘I cannot understand my uncle,' said she, almost trembling as she stood close to him in her own drawing-room. ‘He usually hates mysteries, and yet now he is so mysterious. He told me, Frank – that was after I had written that unfortunate letter –'

‘Unfortunate, indeed! I wonder what you really thought of me when you were writing it?'

‘If you had heard what your mother said, you would not be surprised. But, after that, uncle said – '

‘Said what?'

‘He seemed to think – I don't remember what it was he said. But he said, he hoped that things might yet turn out well; and then I was almost sorry that I had written the letter.'

‘Of course you were sorry, and so you ought to have been. To say that you would never call me Frank again!'

‘I didn't exactly say that.'

‘I have told him I will wait a fortnight, and so I will. After that, I shall take the matter into my own hands.'

It may be well supposed that Lady Arabella was not well pleased to learn that Frank and Mary had been again together; and, in the agony of her spirit, she did say some ill-natured things before Augusta, who had now returned from Courcy Castle, as to the gross impropriety of Mary's conduct. But to Frank she said nothing.

Nor was there much said between Frank and Beatrice. If everything could really be settled at the end of that fortnight which was to witness the disclosure of the doctor's mystery, there would still be time to arrange that Mary should be at the wedding. ‘It shall be settled then,' said he to himself; ‘and if it be settled, my mother will hardly venture to exclude my affianced bride from the house.' It was now the beginning of August, and it wanted yet a month to the Oriel wedding.

But though he said nothing to his mother or to Beatrice, he did say much to his father. In the first place, he showed him Mary's letter. ‘If your heart be not made of stone it will be softened by that,' he said. Mr Gresham's heart was not of stone, and he did acknowledge that the letter was a very sweet letter. But we know how the drop of water hollows the stone. It was not by the violence of his appeal that Frank succeeded in obtaining from his father a sort of half-consent that he would no longer oppose the match; but by the assiduity with which the appeal was repeated. Frank, as we have said, had more stubbornness of will than his father; and so, before the fortnight was over, the squire had been talked over, and had promised to attend at the doctor's bidding.