Miss Thorne Goes on a Visit
And now began the unpleasant things at Greshamsbury of which we have
here told. When Lady Arabella walked away from the doctor's house
she resolved that, let it cost what it might, there should be war to
the knife between her and him. She had been insulted by him--so at
least she said to herself, and so she was prepared to say to others
also--and it was not to be borne that a de Courcy should allow her
parish doctor to insult her with impunity. She would tell her husband
with all the dignity that she could assume, that it had now become
absolutely necessary that he should protect his wife by breaking
entirely with his unmannered neighbour; and, as regarded the young
members of her family, she would use the authority of a mother, and
absolutely forbid them to hold any intercourse with Mary Thorne. So
resolving, she walked quickly back to her own house.
The doctor, when left alone, was not quite satisfied with the part he
had taken in the interview. He had spoken from impulse rather than
from judgement, and, as is generally the case with men who do so
speak, he had afterwards to acknowledge to himself that he had been
imprudent. He accused himself probably of more violence than he
had really used, and was therefore unhappy; but, nevertheless, his
indignation was not at rest. He was angry with himself; but not
on that account the less angry with Lady Arabella. She was cruel,
overbearing, and unreasonable; cruel in the most cruel of manners, so
he thought; but not on that account was he justified in forgetting
the forbearance due from a gentleman to a lady. Mary, moreover, had
owed much to the kindness of this woman, and, therefore, Dr Thorne
felt that he should have forgiven much.
Thus the doctor walked about his room, much disturbed; now accusing
himself for having been so angry with Lady Arabella, and then feeding
his own anger by thinking of her misconduct.
The only immediate conclusion at which he resolved was this, that it
was unnecessary that he should say anything to Mary on the subject
of her ladyship's visit. There was, no doubt, sorrow enough in store
for his darling; why should he aggravate it? Lady Arabella would
doubtless not stop now in her course; but why should he accelerate
the evil which she would doubtless be able to effect?
Lady Arabella, when she returned to the house, allowed no grass to
grow under her feet. As she entered the house she desired that Miss
Beatrice should be sent to her directly she returned; and she desired
also, that as soon as the squire should be in his room a message to
that effect might be immediately brought to her.
"Beatrice," she said, as soon as the young lady appeared before her,
and in speaking she assumed her firmest tone of authority, "Beatrice,
I am sorry, my dear, to say anything that is unpleasant to you, but I
must make it a positive request that you will for the future drop all
intercourse with Dr Thorne's family."
Beatrice, who had received Lady Arabella's message immediately on
entering the house, and had run upstairs imagining that some instant
haste was required, now stood before her mother rather out of breath,
holding her bonnet by the strings.
"Oh, mamma!" she exclaimed, "what on earth has happened?"
"My dear," said the mother, "I cannot really explain to you what has
happened; but I must ask you to give me your positive assurance that
you will comply with my request."
"You don't mean that I am not to see Mary any more?"
"Yes, I do, my dear; at any rate, for the present. When I tell you
that your brother's interest imperatively demands it, I am sure that
you will not refuse me."
Beatrice did not refuse, but she did not appear too willing to
comply. She stood silent, leaning against the end of a sofa and
twisting her bonnet-strings in her hand.
"Well, Beatrice--"
"But, mamma, I don't understand."
Lady Arabella had said that she could not exactly explain: but she
found it necessary to attempt to do so.
"Dr Thorne has openly declared to me that a marriage between poor
Frank and Mary is all he could desire for his niece. After such
unparalleled audacity as that, even your father will see the
necessity of breaking with him."
"Dr Thorne! Oh, mamma, you must have misunderstood him."
"My dear, I am not apt to misunderstand people; especially when I am
so much in earnest as I was in talking to Dr Thorne."
"But, mamma, I know so well what Mary herself thinks about it."
"And I know what Dr Thorne thinks about it; he, at any rate, has been
candid in what he said; there can be no doubt on earth that he has
spoken his true thoughts; there can be no reason to doubt him: of
course such a match would be all that he could wish."
"Mamma, I feel sure that there is some mistake."
"Very well, my dear. I know that you are infatuated about these
people, and that you are always inclined to contradict what I say to
you; but, remember, I expect that you will obey me when I tell you
not to go to Dr Thorne's house any more."
"But, mamma--"
"I expect you to obey me, Beatrice. Though you are so prone to
contradict, you have never disobeyed me; and I fully trust that you
will not do so now."
Lady Arabella had begun by exacting, or trying to exact a promise,
but as she found that this was not forthcoming, she thought it better
to give up the point without a dispute. It might be that Beatrice
would absolutely refuse to pay this respect to her mother's
authority, and then where would she have been?
At this moment a servant came up to say that the squire was in his
room, and Lady Arabella was opportunely saved the necessity of
discussing the matter further with her daughter. "I am now," she
said, "going to see your father on the same subject; you may be quite
sure, Beatrice, that I should not willingly speak to him on any
matter relating to Dr Thorne did I not find it absolutely necessary
to do so."
This Beatrice knew was true, and she did therefore feel convinced
that something terrible must have happened.
While Lady Arabella opened her budget the squire sat quite silent,
listening to her with apparent respect. She found it necessary that
her description to him should be much more elaborate than that which
she had vouchsafed to her daughter, and, in telling her grievance,
she insisted most especially on the personal insult which had been
offered to herself.
"After what has now happened," said she, not quite able to repress a
tone of triumph as she spoke, "I do expect, Mr Gresham, that you
will--will--"
"Will what, my dear?"
"Will at least protect me from the repetition of such treatment."
"You are not afraid that Dr Thorne will come here to attack you? As
far as I can understand, he never comes near the place, unless when
you send for him."
"No; I do not think that he will come to Greshamsbury any more. I
believe I have put a stop to that."
"Then what is it, my dear, that you want me to do?"
Lady Arabella paused a minute before she replied. The game which she
now had to play was not very easy; she knew, or thought she knew,
that her husband, in his heart of hearts, much preferred his friend
to the wife of his bosom, and that he would, if he could, shuffle out
of noticing the doctor's iniquities. It behoved her, therefore, to
put them forward in such a way that they must be noticed.
"I suppose, Mr Gresham, you do not wish that Frank should marry the
girl?"
"I do not think there is the slightest chance of such a thing; and I
am quite sure that Dr Thorne would not encourage it."
"But I tell you, Mr Gresham, that he says he will encourage it."
"Oh, you have misunderstood him."
"Of course; I always misunderstand everything. I know that. I
misunderstood it when I told you how you would distress yourself if
you took those nasty hounds."
"I have had other troubles more expensive than the hounds," said the
poor squire, sighing.
"Oh, yes; I know what you mean; a wife and family are expensive, of
course. It is a little too late now to complain of that."
"My dear, it is always too late to complain of any troubles when they
are no longer to be avoided. We need not, therefore, talk any more
about the hounds at present."
"I do not wish to speak of them, Mr Gresham."
"Nor I."
"But I hope you will not think me unreasonable if I am anxious to
know what you intend to do about Dr Thorne."
"To do?"
"Yes; I suppose you will do something: you do not wish to see your
son marry such a girl as Mary Thorne."
"As far as the girl herself is concerned," said the squire, turning
rather red, "I am not sure that he could do much better. I know
nothing whatever against Mary. Frank, however, cannot afford to make
such a match. It would be his ruin."
"Of course it would; utter ruin; he never could hold up his head
again. Therefore it is I ask, What do you intend to do?"
The squire was bothered. He had no intention whatever of doing
anything, and no belief in his wife's assertion as to Dr Thorne's
iniquity. But he did not know how to get her out of the room. She
asked him the same question over and over again, and on each occasion
urged on him the heinousness of the insult to which she personally
had been subjected; so that at last he was driven to ask her what it
was she wished him to do.
"Well, then, Mr Gresham, if you ask me, I must say, that I think you
should abstain from any intercourse with Dr Thorne whatever."
"Break off all intercourse with him?"
"Yes."
"What do you mean? He has been turned out of this house, and I'm not
to go to see him at his own."
"I certainly think that you ought to discontinue your visits to Dr
Thorne altogether."
"Nonsense, my dear; absolute nonsense."
"Nonsense! Mr Gresham; it is no nonsense. As you speak in that way,
I must let you know plainly what I feel. I am endeavouring to do
my duty by my son. As you justly observe, such a marriage as this
would be utter ruin to him. When I found that the young people were
actually talking of being in love with each other, making vows and
all that sort of thing, I did think it time to interfere. I did not,
however, turn them out of Greshamsbury as you accuse me of doing. In
the kindest possible manner--"
"Well--well--well; I know all that. There, they are gone, and that's
enough. I don't complain; surely that ought to be enough."
"Enough! Mr Gresham. No; it is not enough. I find that, in spite
of what has occurred, the closest intimacy exists between the two
families; that poor Beatrice, who is so very young, and not so
prudent as she should be, is made to act as a go-between; and when
I speak to the doctor, hoping that he will assist me in preventing
this, he not only tells me that he means to encourage Mary in her
plans, but positively insults me to my face, laughs at me for being
an earl's daughter, and tells me--yes, he absolutely told me--to get
out of his house."
Let it be told with some shame as to the squire's conduct, that his
first feeling on hearing this was one of envy--of envy and regret
that he could not make the same uncivil request. Not that he wished
to turn his wife absolutely out of his house; but he would have been
very glad to have had the power of dismissing her summarily from his
own room. This, however, was at present impossible; so he was obliged
to make some mild reply.
"You must have mistaken him, my dear. He could not have intended to
say that."
"Oh! of course, Mr Gresham. It is all a mistake, of course. It will
be a mistake, only a mistake when you find your son married to Mary
Thorne."
"Well, my dear, I cannot undertake to quarrel with Dr Thorne." This
was true; for the squire could hardly have quarrelled with Dr Thorne,
even had he wished it.
"Then I think it right to tell you that I shall. And, Mr Gresham, I
did not expect much co-operation from you; but I did think that you
would have shown some little anger when you heard that I had been so
ill-treated. I shall, however, know how to take care of myself; and
I shall continue to do the best I can to protect Frank from these
wicked intrigues."
So saying, her ladyship arose and left the room, having succeeded in
destroying the comfort of all our Greshamsbury friends. It was very
well for the squire to declare that he would not quarrel with Dr
Thorne, and of course he did not do so. But he, himself, had no wish
whatever that his son should marry Mary Thorne; and as a falling drop
will hollow a stone, so did the continual harping of his wife on the
subject give rise to some amount of suspicion in his own mind. Then
as to Beatrice, though she had made no promise that she would not
again visit Mary, she was by no means prepared to set her mother's
authority altogether at defiance; and she also was sufficiently
uncomfortable.
Dr Thorne said nothing of the matter to his niece, and she,
therefore, would have been absolutely bewildered by Beatrice's
absence, had she not received some tidings of what had taken place at
Greshamsbury through Patience Oriel. Beatrice and Patience discussed
the matter fully, and it was agreed between them that it would be
better that Mary should know what sterner orders respecting her
had gone forth from the tyrant at Greshamsbury, and that she might
understand that Beatrice's absence was compulsory. Patience was thus
placed in this position, that on one day she walked and talked with
Beatrice, and on the next with Mary; and so matters went on for a
while at Greshamsbury--not very pleasantly.
Very unpleasantly and very uncomfortably did the months of May and
June pass away. Beatrice and Mary occasionally met, drinking tea
together at the parsonage, or in some other of the ordinary meetings
of country society; but there were no more confidentially distressing
confidential discourses, no more whispering of Frank's name, no more
sweet allusions to the inexpediency of a passion, which, according
to Beatrice's views, would have been so delightful had it been
expedient.
The squire and the doctor also met constantly; there were
unfortunately many subjects on which they were obliged to meet. Louis
Philippe--or Sir Louis as we must call him--though he had no power
over his own property, was wide awake to all the coming privileges
of ownership, and he would constantly point out to his guardian the
manner in which, according to his ideas, the most should be made of
it. The young baronet's ideas of good taste were not of the most
refined description, and he did not hesitate to tell Dr Thorne that
his, the doctor's, friendship with Mr Gresham must be no bar to his,
the baronet's, interest. Sir Louis also had his own lawyer, who gave
Dr Thorne to understand that, according to his ideas, the sum due
on Mr Gresham's property was too large to be left on its present
footing; the title-deeds, he said, should be surrendered or the
mortgage foreclosed. All this added to the sadness which now seemed
to envelop the village of Greshamsbury.
Early in July, Frank was to come home. The manner in which the
comings and goings of "poor Frank" were allowed to disturb the
arrangements of all the ladies, and some of the gentlemen, of
Greshamsbury was most abominable. And yet it can hardly be said to
have been his fault. He would have been only too well pleased had
things been allowed to go on after their old fashion. Things were
not allowed so to go on. At Christmas Miss Oriel had submitted to be
exiled, in order that she might carry Mary away from the presence of
the young Bashaw, an arrangement by which all the winter festivities
of the poor doctor had been thoroughly sacrificed; and now it began
to be said that some similar plan for the summer must be suggested.
It must not be supposed that any direction to this effect was
conveyed either to Mary or to the doctor. The suggestion came from
them, and was mentioned only to Patience. But Patience, as a matter
of course, told Beatrice, and Beatrice told her mother, somewhat
triumphantly, hoping thereby to convince the she-dragon of Mary's
innocence. Alas! she-dragons are not easily convinced of the
innocence of any one. Lady Arabella quite coincided in the propriety
of Mary's being sent off,--whither she never inquired,--in order that
the coast might be clear for "poor Frank;" but she did not a whit the
more abstain from talking of the wicked intrigues of those Thornes.
As it turned out, Mary's absence caused her to talk all the more.
The Boxall Hill property, including the house and furniture, had been
left to the contractor's son; it being understood that the property
would not be at present in his own hands, but that he might inhabit
the house if he chose to do so. It would thus be necessary for Lady
Scatcherd to find a home for herself, unless she could remain at
Boxall Hill by her son's permission. In this position of affairs the
doctor had been obliged to make a bargain between them. Sir Louis did
wish to have the comfort, or perhaps the honour, of a country house;
but he did not wish to have the expense of keeping it up. He was
also willing to let his mother live at the house; but not without
a consideration. After a prolonged degree of haggling, terms were
agreed upon; and a few weeks after her husband's death, Lady
Scatcherd found herself alone at Boxall Hill--alone as regards
society in the ordinary sense, but not quite alone as concerned her
ladyship, for the faithful Hannah was still with her.
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 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?"
"Bread 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 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 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 the
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 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.