CHAPTER XLIII
The Race of Scatcherd Becomes Extinct
It will not be imagined, at any rate by feminine readers, that Mary'sletter was written off at once, without alterations and changes, orthe necessity for a fair copy. Letters from one young lady to anotherare doubtless written in this manner, and even with them it mightsometimes be better if more patience had been taken; but with Mary'sfirst letter to her lover--her first love-letter, if love-letter itcan be called--much more care was used. It was copied and re-copied,and when she returned from posting it, it was read and re-read.
"It is very cold," she said to herself; "he will think I have noheart, that I have never loved him!" And then she all but resolved torun down to the baker's wife, and get back her letter, that she mightalter it. "But it will be better so," she said again. "If I touchedhis feelings now, he would never bring himself to leave me. It isright that I should be cold to him. I should be false to myself ifI tried to move his love--I, who have nothing to give him in returnfor it." And so she made no further visit to the post-office, and theletter went on its way.
We will now follow its fortunes for a short while, and explain howit was that Mary received no answer for a week; a week, it may wellbe imagined, of terrible suspense to her. When she took it to thepost-office, she doubtless thought that the baker's wife had nothingto do but to send it up to the house at Greshamsbury, and that Frankwould receive it that evening, or, at latest, early on the followingmorning. But this was by no means so. The epistle was posted on aFriday afternoon, and it behoved the baker's wife to send it intoSilverbridge--Silverbridge being the post-town--so that all dueformalities, as ordered by the Queen's Government, might there beperfected. Now, unfortunately, the post-boy had taken his departurebefore Mary reached the shop, and it was not, therefore, dispatchedtill Saturday. Sunday was always a _dies non_ with the GreshamsburyMercury, and, consequently, Frank's letter was not delivered at thehouse till Monday morning; at which time Mary had for two long daysbeen waiting with weary heart for the expected answer.
Now Frank had on that morning gone up to London by the early train,with his future brother-in-law, Mr Oriel. In order to accomplishthis, they had left Greshamsbury for Barchester exactly as thepostboy was leaving Silverbridge for Greshamsbury.
"I should like to wait for my letters," Mr Oriel had said, when thejourney was being discussed.
"Nonsense," Frank had answered. "Who ever got a letter that was worthwaiting for?" and so Mary was doomed to a week of misery.
When the post-bag arrived at the house on Monday morning, it wasopened as usual by the squire himself at the breakfast-table. "Hereis a letter for Frank," said he, "posted in the village. You hadbetter send it to him:" and he threw the letter across the table toBeatrice.
"It's from Mary," said Beatrice, out loud, taking the letter up andexamining the address. And having said so, she repented what she haddone, as she looked first at her father and then at her mother.
A cloud came over the squire's brow as for a minute he went onturning over the letters and newspapers. "Oh, from Mary Thorne, isit?" he said. "Well, you had better send it to him."
"Frank said that if any letters came they were to be kept," said hissister Sophy. "He told me so particularly. I don't think he likeshaving letters sent after him."
"You had better send that one," said the squire.
"Mr Oriel is to have all his letters addressed to Long's Hotel, BondStreet, and this one can very well be sent with them," said Beatrice,who knew all about it, and intended herself to make a free use of theaddress.
"Yes, you had better send it," said the squire; and then nothingfurther was said at the table. But Lady Arabella, though she saidnothing, had not failed to mark what had passed. Had she asked forthe letter before the squire, he would probably have taken possessionof it himself; but as soon as she was alone with Beatrice, she diddemand it. "I shall be writing to Frank myself," she said, "and willsend it to him." And so, Beatrice, with a heavy heart, gave it up.
The letter lay before Lady Arabella's eyes all that day, and many awistful glance was cast at it. She turned it over and over, and muchshe desired to know its contents; but she did not dare to break theseal of her son's letter. All that day it lay upon her desk, and allthe next, for she could hardly bring herself to part with it; but onthe Wednesday it was sent--sent with these lines from herself:--
"Dearest, dearest Frank, I send you a letter which has come by thepost from Mary Thorne. I do not know what it may contain; but beforeyou correspond with her, pray, pray think of what I said to you. Formy sake, for your father's, for your own, pray think of it."
That was all, but it was enough to make her word to Beatrice true.She did send it to Frank enclosed in a letter from herself. We mustreserve to the next chapter what had taken place between Frank andhis mother; but, for the present, we will return to the doctor'shouse.
Mary said not a word to him about the letter; but, keeping silent onthe subject, she felt wretchedly estranged from him. "Is anything thematter, Mary?" he said to her on the Sunday afternoon.
"No, uncle," she answered, turning away her head to hide her tears.
"Ah, but there is something; what is it, dearest?"
"Nothing--that is, nothing that one can talk about."
"What Mary! Be unhappy and not to talk about it to me? That'ssomething new, is it not?"
"One has presentiments sometimes, and is unhappy without knowing why.Besides, you know--"
"I know! What do I know? Do I know anything that will make my pethappier?" and he took her in his arms as they sat together on thesofa. Her tears were now falling fast, and she no longer made aneffort to hide them. "Speak to me, Mary; this is more than apresentiment. What is it?"
"Oh, uncle--"
"Come, love, speak to me; tell me why you are grieving."
"Oh, uncle, why have you not spoken to me? Why have you not toldme what to do? Why have you not advised me? Why are you always sosilent?"
"Silent about what?"
"You know, uncle, you know; silent about him; silent about Frank."
Why, indeed? What was he to say to this? It was true that he hadnever counselled her; never shown her what course she should take;had never even spoken to her about her lover. And it was equally truethat he was not now prepared to do so, even in answer to such anappeal as this. He had a hope, a strong hope, more than a hope, thatMary's love would yet be happy; but he could not express or explainhis hope; nor could he even acknowledge to himself a wish that wouldseem to be based on the death of him whose life he was bound, ifpossible, to preserve.
"My love," he said, "it is a matter in which you must judge foryourself. Did I doubt your conduct, I should interfere; but I donot."
"Conduct! Is conduct everything? One may conduct oneself excellently,and yet break one's heart."
This was too much for the doctor; his sternness and firmnessinstantly deserted him. "Mary," he said, "I will do anything that youwould have me. If you wish it, I will make arrangements for leavingthis place at once."
"Oh, no," she said, plaintively.
"When you tell me of a broken heart, you almost break my own. Cometo me, darling; do not leave me so. I will say all that I can say. Ihave thought, do still think, that circumstances will admit of yourmarriage with Frank if you both love each other, and can both bepatient."
"You think so," said she, unconsciously sliding her hand into his,as though to thank him by its pressure for the comfort he was givingher.
"I do think so now more than ever. But I only think so; I have beenunable to assure you. There, darling, I must not say more; only thatI cannot bear to see you grieving, I would not have said this:" andthen he left her, and nothing more was spoken on the subject.
If you can be patient! Why, a patience of ten years would be asnothing to her. Could she but live with the knowledge that she wasfirst in his estimation, dearest in his heart; could it be alsogranted to her to feel that she was regarded as his equal, she couldbe patient for ever
. What more did she want than to know and feelthis? Patient, indeed!
But what could these circumstances be to which her uncle had alluded?"I do think that circumstances will admit of your marriage." Such washis opinion, and she had never known him to be wrong. Circumstances!What circumstances? Did he perhaps mean that Mr Gresham's affairswere not so bad as they had been thought to be? If so, that alonewould hardly alter the matter, for what could she give in return? "Iwould give him the world for one word of love," she said to herself,"and never think that he was my debtor. Ah! how beggarly the heartmust be that speculates on such gifts as those!"
But there was her uncle's opinion: he still thought that they mightbe married. Oh, why had she sent her letter? and why had she made itso cold? With such a letter as that before him, Frank could not doother than consent to her proposal. And then, why did he not at leastanswer it?
On the Sunday afternoon there arrived at Greshamsbury a man and ahorse from Boxall Hill, bearing a letter from Lady Scatcherd to DrThorne, earnestly requesting the doctor's immediate attendance. "Ifear everything is over with poor Louis," wrote the unhappy mother."It has been very dreadful. Do come to me; I have no other friend,and I am nearly worn through with it. The man from the city"--shemeant Dr Fillgrave--"comes every day, and I dare say he is all verywell, but he has never done much good. He has not had spirit enoughto keep the bottle from him; and it was that, and that only, thatmost behoved to be done. I doubt you won't find him in this worldwhen you arrive here."
Dr Thorne started immediately. Even though he might have to meet DrFillgrave, he could not hesitate, for he went not as a doctor to thedying man, but as the trustee under Sir Roger's will. Moreover, asLady Scatcherd had said, he was her only friend, and he could notdesert her at such a moment for an army of Fillgraves. He toldMary he should not return that night; and taking with him a smallsaddle-bag, he started at once for Boxall Hill.
As he rode up to the hall door, Dr Fillgrave was getting into hiscarriage. They had never met so as to speak to each other since thatmemorable day, when they had their famous passage of arms in the hallof that very house before which they both now stood. But, at thepresent moment, neither of them was disposed to renew the fight.
"What news of your patient, Dr Fillgrave?" said our doctor, stillseated on his sweating horse, and putting his hand lightly to hishat.
Dr Fillgrave could not refrain from one moment of superciliousdisdain: he gave one little chuck to his head, one little twist tohis neck, one little squeeze to his lips, and then the man within himovercame the doctor. "Sir Louis is no more," he said.
"God's will be done!" said Dr Thorne.
"His death is a release; for his last days have been very frightful.Your coming, Dr Thorne, will be a comfort to Lady Scatcherd." Andthen Dr Fillgrave, thinking that even the present circumstancesrequired no further condescension, ensconced himself in the carriage.
"His last days have been very dreadful! Ah, me, poor fellow! DrFillgrave, before you go, allow me to say this: I am quite aware thatwhen he fell into your hands, no medical skill in the world couldsave him."
Dr Fillgrave bowed low from the carriage, and after this unwontedexchange of courtesies, the two doctors parted, not to meet again--atany rate, in the pages of this novel. Of Dr Fillgrave, let it now besaid, that he grows in dignity as he grows in years, and that he isuniversally regarded as one of the celebrities of the city ofBarchester.
Lady Scatcherd was found sitting alone in her little room on theground-floor. Even Hannah was not with her, for Hannah was nowoccupied upstairs. When the doctor entered the room, which he didunannounced, he found her seated on a chair, with her back againstone of the presses, her hands clasped together over her knees, gazinginto vacancy. She did not ever hear him or see him as he approached,and his hand had slightly touched her shoulder before she knew thatshe was not alone. Then, she looked up at him with a face so full ofsorrow, so worn with suffering, that his own heart was racked to seeher.
"It is all over, my friend," said he. "It is better so; much betterso."
She seemed at first hardly to understand him, but still regarding himwith that wan face, shook her head slowly and sadly. One might havethought that she was twenty years older than when Dr Thorne last sawher.
He drew a chair to her side, and sitting by her, took her hand inhis. "It is better so, Lady Scatcherd; better so," he repeated. "Thepoor lad's doom had been spoken, and it is well for him, and for you,that it should be over."
"They are both gone now," said she, speaking very low; "both gonenow. Oh, doctor! To be left alone here, all alone!"
He said some few words trying to comfort her; but who can comforta widow bereaved of her child? Who can console a heart that haslost all that it possessed? Sir Roger had not been to her a tenderhusband; but still he had been the husband of her love. Sir Louis hadnot been to her an affectionate son but still he had been her child,her only child. Now they were both gone. Who can wonder that theworld should be a blank to her?
Still the doctor spoke soothing words, and still he held her hand.He knew that his words could not console her; but the sounds of hiskindness at such desolate moments are, to such minds as hers, somealleviation of grief. She hardly answered him, but sat there staringout before her, leaving her hand passively to him, and swaying herhead backwards and forwards as though her grief were too heavy to beborne.
At last, her eye rested on an article which stood upon the table, andshe started up impetuously from her chair. She did this so suddenly,that the doctor's hand fell beside him before he knew that she hadrisen. The table was covered with all those implements which becomeso frequent about a house when severe illness is an inhabitant there.There were little boxes and apothecaries' bottles, cups and saucersstanding separate, and bowls, in which messes have been prepared withthe hope of suiting a sick man's failing appetite. There was a smallsaucepan standing on a plate, a curiously shaped glass utensil leftby the doctor, and sundry pieces of flannel, which had been used inrubbing the sufferer's limbs. But in the middle of the debris stoodone black bottle, with head erect, unsuited to the companionship inwhich it was found.
"There," she said, rising up, and seizing this in a manner thatwould have been ridiculous had it not been so truly tragic. "There,that has robbed me of everything--of all that I ever possessed; ofhusband and child; of the father and son that has swallowed themboth--murdered them both! Oh, doctor! that such a thing as thatshould cause such bitter sorrow! I have hated it always, but now--Oh,woe is me! weary me!" And then she let the bottle drop from her handas though it were too heavy for her.
"This comes of their barro-niting," she continued. "If they had lethim alone, he would have been here now, and so would the other one.Why did they do it? why did they do it? Ah, doctor! people such as usshould never meddle with them above us. See what has come of it; seewhat has come of it!"
The doctor could not remain with her long, as it was necessary thathe should take upon himself the direction of the household, and giveorders for the funeral. First of all, he had to undergo the sad dutyof seeing the corpse of the deceased baronet. This, at any rate,may be spared to my readers. It was found to be necessary that theinterment should be made very quickly, as the body was already nearlydestroyed by alcohol. Having done all this, and sent back his horseto Greshamsbury, with directions that clothes for a journey might besent to him, and a notice that he should not be home for some days,he again returned to Lady Scatcherd.
Of course he could not but think much of the immense propertywhich was now, for a short time, altogether in his own hands. Hisresolution was soon made to go at once to London and consult thebest lawyer he could find--or the best dozen lawyers should such benecessary--as to the validity of Mary's claims. This must be donebefore he said a word to her or to any of the Gresham family; but itmust be done instantly, so that all suspense might be at an end assoon as possible. He must, of course, remain with Lady Scatcherd tillthe funeral should be over; but when that office should be complete,he would start
instantly for London.
In resolving to tell no one as to Mary's fortune till after he hadfortified himself with legal warranty, he made one exception. Hethought it rational that he should explain to Lady Scatcherd who wasnow the heir under her husband's will; and he was the more inclinedto do so, from feeling that the news would probably be gratifying toher. With this view, he had once or twice endeavoured to induce herto talk about the property, but she had been unwilling to do so. Sheseemed to dislike all allusions to it, and it was not till she hadincidentally mentioned the fact that she would have to look for ahome, that he was able to fix her to the subject. This was on theevening before the funeral; on the afternoon of which day he intendedto proceed to London.
"It may probably be arranged that you may continue to live here,"said the doctor.
"I don't wish it at all," said she, rather sharply. "I don't wish tohave any arrangements made. I would not be indebted to any of themfor anything. Oh, dear! if money could make it all right, I shouldhave enough of that."
"Indebted to whom, Lady Scatcherd? Who do you think will be the ownerof Boxall Hill?"
"Indeed, then, Dr Thorne, I don't much care: unless it be yourself,it won't be any friend of mine, or any one I shall care to make afriend of. It isn't so easy for an old woman like me to make newfriends."
"Well, it certainly won't belong to me."
"I wish it did, with all my heart. But even then, I would not livehere. I have had too many troubles here to wish to see more."
"That shall be just as you like, Lady Scatcherd; but you willbe surprised to hear that the place will--at least I think itwill--belong to a friend of yours: to one to whom you have been verykind."
"And who is he, doctor? Won't it go to some of those Americans? I amsure I never did anything kind to them; though, indeed, I did lovepoor Mary Scatcherd. But that's years upon years ago, and she is deadand gone now. Well, I begrudge nothing to Mary's children. As I havenone of my own, it is right they should have the money. It has notmade me happy; I hope it may do so to them."
"The property will, I think, go to Mary Scatcherd's eldest child. Itis she whom you have known as Mary Thorne."
"Doctor!" And then Lady Scatcherd, as she made the exclamation, putboth her hands down to hold her chair, as though she feared theweight of her surprise would topple her off her seat.
"Yes; Mary Thorne--my Mary--to whom you have been so good, who lovesyou so well; she, I believe, will be Sir Roger's heiress. And it wasso that Sir Roger intended on his deathbed, in the event of poorLouis's life being cut short. If this be so, will you be ashamed tostay here as the guest of Mary Thorne? She has not been ashamed to beyour guest."
But Lady Scatcherd was now too much interested in the general tenorof the news which she had heard to care much about the house whichshe was to inhabit in future. Mary Thorne, the heiress of BoxallHill! Mary Thorne, the still living child of that poor creature whohad so nearly died when they were all afflicted with their earlygrief! Well; there was consolation, there was comfort in this. Therewere but three people left in the world that she could love: herfoster-child, Frank Gresham--Mary Thorne, and the doctor. If themoney went to Mary, it would of course go to Frank, for she now knewthat they loved each other; and if it went to them, would not thedoctor have his share also; such share as he might want? Could shehave governed the matter, she would have given it all to Frank; andnow it would be as well bestowed.
Yes; there was consolation in this. They both sat up more than halfthe night talking over it, and giving and receiving explanations. Ifonly the council of lawyers would not be adverse! That was now thepoint of suspense.
The doctor, before he left her, bade her hold her peace, and saynothing of Mary's fortune to any one till her rights had beenabsolutely acknowledged. "It will be nothing not to have it," saidthe doctor; "but it would be very bad to hear it was hers, and thento lose it."
On the next morning, Dr Thorne deposited the remains of Sir Louis inthe vault prepared for the family in the parish church. He laid theson where a few months ago he had laid the father,--and so the titleof Scatcherd became extinct. Their race of honour had not been long.
After the funeral, the doctor hurried up to London, and there we willleave him.