Doctor Thorne, Anthony Trollope [an ebook reader .TXT] 📗

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 the world 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 his kindness at such desolate moments are, to such minds as hers, some alleviation of grief. She hardly answered him, but sat there staring out before her, leaving her hand passively to him, and swaying her head backwards and forwards as though her grief were too heavy to be borne.

At last, her eye rested on an article which stood upon the table, and she started up impetuously from her chair. She did this so suddenly, that the doctor’s hand fell beside him before he knew that she had risen. The table was covered with all those implements which become so frequent about a house when severe illness is an inhabitant there. There were little boxes and apothecaries’ bottles, cups and saucers standing separate, and bowls, in which messes have been prepared with the hope of suiting a sick man’s failing appetite. There was a small saucepan standing on a plate, a curiously shaped glass utensil left by the doctor, and sundry pieces of flannel, which had been used in rubbing the sufferer’s limbs. But in the middle of the débris stood one black bottle, with head erect, unsuited to the companionship in which it was found.

“There,” she said, rising up, and seizing this in a manner that would have been ridiculous had it not been so truly tragic. “There, that has robbed me of everything⁠—of all that I ever possessed; of husband and child; of the father and son; that has swallowed them both⁠—murdered them both! Oh, doctor! that such a thing as that should 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 hand as though it were too heavy for her.

“This comes of their barro-niting,” she continued. “If they had let him 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 us should never meddle with them above us. See what has come of it; see what has come of it!”

The doctor could not remain with her long, as it was necessary that he should take upon himself the direction of the household, and give orders for the funeral. First of all, he had to undergo the sad duty of seeing the corpse of the deceased baronet. This, at any rate, may be spared to my readers. It was found to be necessary that the interment should be made very quickly, as the body was already nearly destroyed by alcohol. Having done all this, and sent back his horse to Greshamsbury, with directions that clothes for a journey might be sent 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 property which was now, for a short time, altogether in his own hands. His resolution was soon made to go at once to London and consult the best lawyer he could find⁠—or the best dozen lawyers should such be necessary⁠—as to the validity of Mary’s claims. This must be done before he said a word to her or to any of the Gresham family; but it must be done instantly, so that all suspense might be at an end as soon as possible. He must, of course, remain with Lady Scatcherd till the 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 had fortified himself with legal warranty, he made one exception. He thought it rational that he should explain to Lady Scatcherd who was now the heir under her husband’s will; and he was the more inclined to do so, from feeling that the news would probably be gratifying to her. With this view, he had once or twice endeavoured to induce her to talk about the property, but she had been unwilling to do so. She seemed to dislike all allusions to it, and it was not till she had incidentally mentioned the fact that she would have to look for a home, that he was able to fix her to the subject. This was on the evening before the funeral; on the afternoon of which day he intended to 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 to have any arrangements made. I would not be indebted to any of them for anything. Oh, dear! if money could make it all right, I should have enough of that.”

“Indebted to whom, Lady Scatcherd? Who do you think will be the owner of Boxall Hill?”

“Indeed, then, Dr. Thorne, I don’t much care: unless it be yourself, it won’t be any friend of mine, or anyone I shall care to make a friend of. It isn’t so easy for an old woman like me to make new friends.”

“Well, it certainly won’t belong to me.”

“I wish it did, with all my heart. But even then, I would not live here. I have had too many troubles here to wish to see more.”

“That shall be just as you like, Lady Scatcherd; but you will be surprised to hear that the place will⁠—at least I think it will⁠—belong to a friend of yours: to one to whom you have been very kind.”

“And who is he, doctor? Won’t it go to some of those Americans? I am sure I never did anything kind to them; though, indeed, I did