"What was that one fault, Doctor Thorne?"
"He thought that clergymen should not marry. But you have cured that, and now he's perfect."
"Thank you, doctor. I declare that you say the prettiest things of all my friends."
"And none of your friends wish prettier things for you. I do congratulate you, Beatrice, and hope you may be happy with the man you have chosen;" and taking both her hands in his, he pressed them warmly, and bade God bless her.
"Oh, doctor! I do so hope the time will come when we shall all be friends again."
"I hope it as well, my dear. But let it come, or let it not come, my regard for you will be the same:" and then she parted from him also, and went her way.
Nothing was spoken of that evening between Dr Thorne and his niece excepting Beatrice's future happiness; nothing, at least, having reference to what had passed that morning. But on the following morning circumstances led to Frank Gresham's name being mentioned.
At the usual breakfast-hour the doctor entered the parlour with a harassed face. He had an open letter in his hand, and it was at once clear to Mary that he was going to speak on some subject that vexed him.
"That unfortunate fellow is again in trouble. Here is a letter from Greyson." Greyson was a London apothecary, who had been appointed as medical attendant to Sir Louis Scatcherd, and whose real business consisted in keeping a watch on the baronet, and reporting to Dr Thorne when anything was very much amiss. "Here is a letter from Greyson; he has been drunk for the last three days, and is now laid up in a terribly nervous state."
"You won't go up to town again; will you, uncle?"