But what could these circumstances be to which her uncle had alluded? "I do think that circumstances will admit of your marriage." Such was his opinion, and she had never known him to be wrong. Circumstances! What circumstances? Did he perhaps mean that Mr Gresham's affairs were not so bad as they had been thought to be? If so, that alone would hardly alter the matter, for what could she give in return? "I would 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 heart must be that speculates on such gifts as those!"
But there was her uncle's opinion: he still thought that they might be married. Oh, why had she sent her letter? and why had she made it so cold? With such a letter as that before him, Frank could not do other than consent to her proposal. And then, why did he not at least answer it?
On the Sunday afternoon there arrived at Greshamsbury a man and a horse from Boxall Hill, bearing a letter from Lady Scatcherd to Dr Thorne, earnestly requesting the doctor's immediate attendance. "I fear 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"—she meant Dr Fillgrave—"comes every day, and I dare say he is all very well, but he has never done much good. He has not had spirit enough to keep the bottle from him; and it was that, and that only, that most behoved to be done. I doubt you won't find him in this world when you arrive here."
Dr Thorne started immediately. Even though he might have to meet Dr Fillgrave, he could not hesitate, for he went not as a doctor to the dying man, but as the trustee under Sir Roger's will. Moreover, as Lady Scatcherd had said, he was her only friend, and he could not desert her at such a moment for an army of Fillgraves. He told Mary he should not return that night; and taking with him a small saddle-bag, he started at once for Boxall Hill.
As he rode up to the hall door, Dr Fillgrave was getting into his carriage. They had never met so as to speak to each other since that memorable day, when they had their famous passage of arms in the hall of that very house before which they both now stood. But, at the present moment, neither of them was disposed to renew the fight.
"What news of your patient, Dr Fillgrave?" said our doctor, still seated on his sweating horse, and putting his hand lightly to his hat.
Dr Fillgrave could not refrain from one moment of supercilious disdain: he gave one little chuck to his head, one little twist to his neck, one little squeeze to his lips, and then the man within him overcame 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." And then Dr Fillgrave, thinking that even the present circumstances required no further condescension, ensconced himself in the carriage.
"His last days have been very dreadful! Ah, me, poor fellow! Dr Fillgrave, before you go, allow me to say this: I am quite aware that when he fell into your hands, no medical skill in the world could save him."