But Lady Scatcherd was now too much interested in the general tenor of the news which she had heard to care much about the house which she was to inhabit in future.  Mary Thorne, the heiress of Boxall Hill!  Mary Thorne, the still living child of that poor creature who had so nearly died when they were all afflicted with their early grief!  Well; there was consolation, there was comfort in this.  There were but three people left in the world that she could love:  her foster-child, Frank Gresham—­Mary Thorne, and the doctor.  If the money went to Mary, it would of course go to Frank, for she now knew that they loved each other; and if it went to them, would not the doctor have his share also; such share as he might want?  Could she have governed the matter, she would have given all to Frank; and now it would be as well bestowed.

Yes; there was consolation in this.  They both sat up more than half the night talking over it, and giving and receiving explanations.  If only the council of lawyers would not be adverse!  That was now the point of suspense.

The doctor, before he left her, bade her hold her peace, and say nothing of Mary’s fortune to any one till her rights have been absolutely acknowledged.  ‘It will be nothing not to have it,’ said the doctor; ’but it would be very bad to hear it was hers, and then to lose it.’

On the next morning, Dr Thorne deposited the remains of Sir Louis in the vault prepared for the family in the parish church.  He laid the son where a few months ago he had laid the father,—­and so the title of Scatcherd became extinct.  Their race of honour had not been long.

After the funeral, the doctor hurried up to London, and there we will leave him.

CHAPTER XLIV

SATURDAY EVENING AND SUNDAY MORNING

We must now go back a little and describe how Frank had been sent off on special business to London.  The household at Greshamsbury was at this time in but a doleful state.  It seemed to be pervaded, from the squire down to the scullery-maid, with a feeling that things were not going well; and men and women, in spite of Beatrice’s coming marriage, were grim-visaged, and dolorous.  Mr Mortimer Gazebee, rejected though he had been, still, went and came, talking much to the squire, much also to her ladyship, as to the ill-doings which were in the course of projection by Sir Louis; and Frank went about the house with clouded brow, as though finally resolved to neglect his one great duty.

Poor Beatrice was robbed of half her joy; over and over again her brother asked her whether she had yet seen Mary, and she was obliged as often to answer that she had not.  Indeed, she did not dare to visit her friend, for it was hardly possible that they should sympathize with each other.  Mary was, to say the least, stubborn in her pride; and Beatrice, though she could forgive her friend for loving her brother, could not forgive the obstinacy with which Mary persisted in a course which, as Beatrice thought, she herself knew to be wrong.