But this is not true; and, as a matter of fact, there is never, or very rarely, such profound need in the world, without a great deal of kindness and much pity.  The three gentlemen all along had been entirely in Mary’s interest.  They had not expected legacies from the old lady, or any advantage to themselves.  It was of the girl that they had thought.  And when now they examined everything and inquired into all her ways and what she had done, it was of Mary they were thinking.  But Mr. Furnival was very certain of his point.  He knew that Lady Mary had made no will; time after time he had pressed it upon her.  He was very sure, even while he examined her writing-table, and turned out all the drawers, that nothing would be found.  The little Italian cabinet had chiffons in its drawers, fragments of old lace, pieces of ribbon, little nothings of all sorts.  Nobody thought of the secret drawer; and if they had thought of it, where could a place have been found less likely?  If she had ever made a will, she could have had no reason for concealing it.  To be sure, they did not reason in this way, being simply unaware of any place of concealment at all.  And Mary knew nothing about this search they were making.  She did not know how she was herself “left.”  When the first misery of grief was exhausted, she began, indeed, to have troubled thoughts in her own mind,—­to expect that the vicar would speak to her, or Mr. Furnival send for her, and tell her what she was to do.  But nothing was said to her.  The vicar’s wife had asked her to come for a long visit; and the anxious people, who were forever talking over this subject and consulting what was best for her, had come to no decision as yet, as to what must be said to the person chiefly concerned.  It was too heart-rending to have to put the real state of affairs before her.

The doctor had no wife; but he had an anxious mother, who, though she would not for the world have been unkind to the poor girl, yet was very anxious that she should be disposed of and out of her son’s way.  It is true that the doctor was forty and Mary only eighteen,—­but what then?  Matches of that kind were seen every day; and his heart was so soft to the child that his mother never knew from one day to another what might happen.  She had naturally no doubt at all that Mary would seize the first hand held out to her; and as time went on, held many an anxious consultation with the vicar’s wife on the subject.  “You cannot have her with you forever,” she said.  “She must know one time or another how she is left, and that she must learn to do something for herself.”

“Oh,” said the vicar’s wife, “how is she to be told?  It is heart-rending to look at her and to think,—­nothing but luxury all her life, and now, in a moment, destitution.  I am very glad to have her with me:  she is a dear little thing, and so nice with the children.  And if some good man would only step in—­”