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 with 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 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 positive your 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 appropriate 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 and attack you? As far as I can understand, he never comes near the place, unless 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 misunderstand 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 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 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 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 the country society; but there were no more confidentially distressing confidential discourses, no more whispering of Frank’s name, no more sweet allusions to the inexpedienc............