Dr Thorne, in the few words which he spoke to his niece before he left Boxall Hill, had called himself an old man; but he was as yet on the right side of sixty by five good years, and bore about with him less of the marks of age than most men of fifty-five do bear. One would have said, in looking at him, that there was no reason why he should not marry if he found that such a step seemed good to him; and, looking at the age of the proposed bride, there was nothing unsuitable in that respect. But nevertheless he felt almost ashamed of himself, in that he allowed himself even to think of the proposition which his niece had made. He mounted his horse that day at Boxall Hill — for he made all his journeys about the county on horseback — and rode slowly home to Greshambury, thinking not so much of the suggested marriage as of his own folly in thinking of it. How could he be such an ass at this time of life as to allow the even course of his way to be disturbed by any such ideas? Of course he could not propose to himself such a wife as Miss Dunstable without having some thoughts about her wealth; and it had been the pride of his life so to live that the world might know that he was indifferent about money. His profession was all in all to him; the air which he breathed as well as the bread which he ate; and how could he follow his profession if he made such a marriage as this? She would expect him to go to London with her; and what would he become, dangling at her heels there, known only to the world as the husband of the richest woman in the town? The kind of life was one which would be unsuitable to him; and yet, as he rode home, he could not resolve to rid himself of the idea. He went on thinking of it, though he still continued to condemn himself for keeping it in his thoughts. That night at home he would make up his mind, so he declared to himself; and would then write to his niece begging her to drop the subject. Having so far come to a resolution he went on meditating what course of life it might be well for him to pursue if he and Miss Dunstable should after all become man and wife.

There were two ladies whom it behoved him to see on the day of his arrival — whom, indeed, he generally saw every day except when absent from Greshambury. The first of these — first in the general consideration of the people of the place — was the wife of the squire, Lady Arabella Gresham, a very old patient of the doctor’s. Her it was his custom to visit early in the afternoon; and then, if he were able to escape the squire’s daily invitation to dinner, he customarily went to see the other, Lady Scatcherd, when the rapid meal in his own house was over. Such, at least, was his summer practice. ‘Well, doctor, how are they all at Boxall Hill?’ said the squire, waylaying him on the gravel sweep before the door. The squire was very hard set for occupation in these summer months.

‘Quite well, I believe.’

‘I don’t know what’s come to Frank. I think he hates this place now. He’s full of the election, I suppose.’

‘Oh, yes; he told me to say that he should be over here soon. Of course there’ll be no contest, so he need not trouble himself.’

‘Happy dog, isn’t he, doctor? to have it all before him instead of behind him. Well, well; he’s as good a lad as ever lived — as ever lived. And let me see; Mary’s time —’ And then there were a few very important words spoken on that subject.

‘I’ll just step up to Lady Arabella now,’ said the doctor.

‘She’s as fretful as possible,’ said the squire. ‘I’ve just left her.’

‘Nothing special the matter, I hope?’

‘No, I think not; nothing in your way, that is; only specially cross, which always comes in my way. You’ll stop and dine today, of course?’

‘Not today, squire.’

‘Nonsense; you will. I have been quite counting on you. I have a particular reason for wanting to have you today — a most particular reason.’ But the squire always had his particular reasons.

‘I’m very sorry, but it is impossible today. I shall have a letter to write that I must sit down to seriously. Shall I see you when I come down from her ladyship?’ The squire turned away sulkily, almost without answering him, for he now had no prospect of any alleviation to the tedium of the evening; and the doctor went upstairs to his patient. For Lady Arabella, though it cannot be said that she was ill, was always a patient. It must not be supposed that she kept her bed and swallowed daily doses, or was prevented from taking her share in such prosy gaieties as came from time to time in the way of her prosy life; but it suited her turn of mind to be an invalid and to have a doctor; and as the doctor whom her good fates had placed at her elbow thoroughly understood her case, no great harm was done.

‘It frets me dreadfully that I cannot get to see Mary,’ Lady Arabella said, as soon as the first ordinary question as to her ailments had been asked and answered.

‘She’s quite well, and will be over to see you before long.’

‘Now I beg that she won’t. She never thinks of coming when there can be no possible objection, and travelling at the present moment, would be —’ Whereupon the Lady Arabella shook her head very gravely. ‘Only think of the importance of it, doctor,’ she said. ‘Remember the enormous stake there is to be considered.

‘It would not do her a ha’porth of harm if the stake were twice as large.’

‘Nonsense, doctor, don’t tell me; as if I didn’t know myself. I was very much against her going to London this spring, but of course what I said was overruled. It always is. I do believe Mr Gresham went over to Boxall Hill on purpose to induce her to go. But what does he care? He’s fond of Frank; but he never thinks of looking beyond the present day. He never did, as you know well enough, doctor.’

‘The trip did her all the good in the world,’ said Dr Thorne, preferring anything to a conversation respecting the squire’s sins.

‘I very well remember that when I was in that way it wasn’t thought that such trips would do me any good. But, perhaps, things are altered since then.’

‘Yes, they are,’ said the doctor. ‘We don’t interfere so much nowadays.’

‘I know I never asked for such amusements when so much depended on quietness. I remember before Frank was born — and indeed, when all of them were born — But, as you say, things were different then; and I can easily believe that Mary is a person quite determined to have her own way.’

‘Why, Lady Arabella, she would have stayed at home without wishing to stir if Frank had done so much as hold up a little finger.’

‘So did I always. If Mr Gresham made the slightest hint I gave way. But I really don’t see what one gets in return for such implicit obedience. Now this year, doctor, of course I should have liked to been up in London for a week or two. You seemed to think yourself that I might as well see Sir Omicron.’

‘There could be no possible objection, I said.’

‘Well; no; exactly; and as Mr Gresham knew I wished it, I think he might as well have offered it. I suppose there can be no reason now about money.’

‘But I understood that Mary specially asked you and Augusta.’

‘Yes; Mary was very good. She did ask me. But I know very well that Mary wants all the room she has got in London. The house is not at all too large for herself. And, for the matter of that, my sister, the countess, was very anxious that I should be with her. But one does like to be independent if one can, and for one fortnight I do think that Mrs Gresham might have managed it. When I knew that he was so dreadfully out at elbows I never troubled him about it,— though goodness knows, all that was never my fault.’

‘The squire hates London. A fortnight there in warm weather would nearly be the death of him.’

‘He might at any rate have paid me the compliment of asking me. The chances are ten to one I should not have gone. It is that indifference that cuts me so. He was here just now, and would you believe it?—’

But the doctor was determined to avoid further complaint for the present day. ‘I wonder what you would feel, Lady Arabella, if the squire were to take it into his head to go away and amuse himself, leaving you at home. There are worse men than Mr Gresham, if you will believe me.’ All this was an allusion to Earl de Courcy, her ladyship’s brother, as Lady Arabella very well understood; and the argument was one which was very often used to silence her.

‘Upon my word, then, I should like it better than his hanging about here doing nothing but attend to those nasty dogs. I really sometimes think that he has no spirit left.’

‘You are mistaken there, Lady Arabella,’ said the doctor, rising with his hat in his hand, and making his escape without further parley. As he went home he could not but think that that phase of married life was not a very pleasant one. Mr Gresham and his wife were supposed by the world to live on the best of terms. They always inhabited the same house, went out together when they did go out, always sat in their respective corners in the family pew, and in their wildest dreams after the happiness of novelty never thought of Sir Cresswell Cresswell. In some respect — with regard for instance, to the continued duration of their joint domesticity at the family mansion at Greshambury — they might have been taken for a pattern couple. But yet, as far as the doctor could see, they did not seem to add much to the happiness of each other. They loved one another, doubtless, and had either of them been in real danger, that danger would have made the other miserable; but yet it might well be a question whether either would not be more comfortable without the other.

The doctor, as was his custom, dined at five, and at seven, went up to the cottage of his old friend Lady Scatcherd. Lady Scatcherd was not a refined woman, having in her early days been a labourer’s daughter, and having then married a labourer. But her husband had risen in the world — as has been told in these chronicles before mentioned — and his widow was now Lady Scatcherd with a pretty cottage and a good jointure. She was in all things the very opposite of Lady Arabella Gresham; nevertheless under the doctor’s auspices, the two ladies were in some measure acquainted with each other. Of her married life, also, Dr Thorne had seen something, and it may be questioned whether the memory of that was more alluring than the reality now existing at Greshambury. Of the two women Dr Thorne much preferred his humbler friend, and to her he made his visits not in the guise of a doctor, but as a neighbour. ‘Well, my lady,’ he said, as he sat down by her on a broad garden seat — all the world called Lady Scatcherd ‘my lady,’—‘and how do these long summer days agree with you? Your roses are twice better out than any I see up in the big house.’

‘You may well call them long, doctor. They’re long enough surely.’

‘But not too long. Come, now, I won’t have you complaining. You don’t mean to tell me that you have anything to make you wretched? You had better not, for I won’t believe you.’

‘Eh; well; wretched! I don’t know as I’m wretched. It’d be wicked to say that, and I with such comforts about me.’

‘I think it would, almost.’ The doctor did not say this harshly, but in a soft, friendly, tone, and pressing her hand gently as he spoke.

‘And I didn’t mean to be wicked. I’m very thankful for everything — leastways, I always try to be. But, doctor, it is so lonely like.’

‘Lonely! Not more lonely than I am.’

‘Oh, yes; you’re different. You can go everywheres. But what can a lone woman do? I’ll tell you what, doctor; I’d give it all up to have Roger back with his apron on and his pick in his hand. How well I mi............