'You did not reject him, Mary?'
'No, uncle,' and then she paused;—he had never known her tremble as she now trembled. 'But if you say that I ought, I will,' she added, drawing every word from herself with difficulty.
'I say you ought, Mary! Nay; but this question you must answer yourself.'
'Must I?' said she, plaintively. And then she sat for the next half-hour with her head against his shoulder; but nothing more was said about it. They both acquiesced in the sentence that had been pronounced against them, and went on together more lovingly than before.
The doctor was quite as weak as his niece; nay, weaker. She hesitated fearfully as to what she ought to do: whether she should obey her heart or the dictates of Greshamsbury. But he had other doubts than hers, which nearly set him wild when he strove to bring his mind to a decision. He himself was now in possession—of course as trustee only—of the title-deeds of the estate; more of the estate, much more belonged to the heirs under Sir Roger Scatcherd's will than to the squire. It was now more than probable that that heir must be Mary Thorne. His conviction became stronger and stronger that no human efforts would keep Sir Louis in the land of the living till he was twenty-five. Could he, therefore, wisely or honestly, in true friendship to the squire, to Frank, or to his niece, take any steps to separate two persons who loved each other, and whose marriage would in all human probability be so suitable?
And yet he could not bring himself to encourage it then. The idea of 'looking after dead men's shoes' was abhorrent to his mind, especially when the man whose death he contemplated had been so trusted to him as had been Sir Louis Scatcherd. He could not speak of the event, even to the squire, as being possible. So he kept his peace from day to day, and gave no counsel to Mary in the matter.
And then he had his own individual annoyances, and very aggravating annoyances they were. The carriage—or rather post-chaise—of Dr. Fillgrave was now frequent in Greshamsbury, passing him constantly in the street, among the lanes, and on the high-roads. It seemed as though Dr. Fillgrave could never get to his patients at the big house without showing himself to his beaten rival, either on his way thither or on his return. This alone would, perhaps, not have hurt our doctor much; but it did hurt him to know that Dr. Fillgrave was attending the squire for a little incipient gout, and that dear Nina was in measles under those unloving hands.
