'Yes, yes; I think all.'
'And thoroughly?'
'Yes; thoroughly, I think. But I am very tired, and so are you too, darling, with waiting for me.'
'Oh, no, I am not tired,' said she, as she went on continually filling his cup; 'but I am so happy to have you home again. You have been away so much lately.'
'Ah, yes; well I suppose I shall not go away any more now. It will be somebody else's turn now.'
'Uncle, I think you are going to take up writing mystery romances, like Mrs Radciffe's.'
'Yes; and I'll begin to-morrow, certainly with--But, Mary, I will not say another word to-night. Give me a kiss, dearest, and I'll go.'
Mary did kiss him, and he did go. But as she was still lingering in the room, putting away a book, or a reel of thread, and then sitting down to think what the morrow would bring forth, the doctor again came into the room in his dressing-gown, and with the slippers on.
'What, not gone yet?' said he.
'No, not yet; I'm going now.'
'You and I, Mary, have always affected a good deal of indifference as to money, and all that sort of thing.'
'I won't acknowledge that it has been an affectation at all,' she answered.
'Perhaps not; but we have often expressed it, have we not?'
'I suppose, uncle, you think that we are like the fox that lost his tail, or rather some unfortunate fox that might be born without one.'
'I wonder how we should either of us bear it if we found ourselves suddenly rich. It would be a great temptation--a sore temptation. I fear, Mary, that when poor people talk disdainfully of money, they often are like your fox, born without a tail. If nature suddenly should give that beast a tail, would he not be prouder of it than all the other foxes in the wood?'
'Well, I suppose he would. That's the very meaning of the story. But how moral you've become all of a sudden, at twelve o'clock at night!
Instead of being Mrs Radcliffe, I shall think you're Mr Aesop.'
He took up the article which he had come to seek, and kissing her again on the forehead, went away to his bed-room without further speech. 'What can he mean by all this about money?' said Mary to herself. 'It cannot be that by Sir Louis's death he will get any of all this property;' and then she began to bethink herself whether, after all, she would wish him to be a rich man. 'If he were very rich, he might do something to assist Frank; and then--'
There never was a fox yet without a tail who would not be delighted to find himself suddenly possessed of that appendage. Never; let the untailed fox have been ever so sincere in his advice to his friends! We are all of us, the good and the bad, looking for tails--for one tail, or for more than one; we do so too often by ways that are mean enough: but perhaps there is no tail-seeker more mean, more sneakingly mean than he who looks out to adorn his bare back by a tail by marriage.
The doctor was up very early the next morning, long before Mary was ready with her teacups. He was up, and in his own study behind the shop, arranging dingy papers, pulling about tin boxes which he had brought down with him from London, and piling on his writing-table one set of documents in one place, and one in another. 'I think I understand it all,' said he; 'but yet I know I shall be bothered. Well, I never will be anyone's trustee again. Let me see!' and then he sat down, and with bewildered look recapitulated to himself sundry heavy items. 'What those shares are really worth I cannot understand, and nobody seems to be able to tell one. They must make it out among them as best they can. Let me see; that's Boxall Hill, and this is Greshamsbury. I'll put a newspaper over Greshamsbury, or the squire will know it!' and then, having made his arrangements, he went to his breakfast.
I know I am wrong, my much and truly honoured critic, about these title-deeds and documents. But when we've got a barrister in hand, then if I go wrong after that, let the blame be on my own shoulders--or on his.
The doctor ate his breakfast quickly; and did not talk much to his niece. But what he did say was of a nature to make her feel strangely happy. She could not analyse her own feelings, or give a reason for her own confidence; but she certainly did feel, and even trust, that something was going to happen after breakfast which would make her more happy than she had been for many months.
'Janet,' said he, looking at his watch, 'if Mr Gresham and Mr Frank call, show them into my study. What are you going to do with yourself, my dear?'
'I don't know, uncle; you are so mysterious, and I am in such a twitter, that I don't know what to do. Why is Mr Gresham coming here--that is, the squire?'
'Because I have business with him about the Scatcherd property. You know that he owed Sir Louis money. But don't go out, Mary. I want you to be in the way if I should have to call for you. You can stay in the drawing-room, can't you?'
'Oh, yes, uncle; or here.'
'No, dearest; go into the drawing-room.' Mary obediently did as she was bid; and there she sat, for the next three hours, wondering, wondering, wondering. During the greater part of that time, however, she well knew that Mr Gresham, senior, and Mr Gresham, junior, were both with her uncle, below.
At eleven the doctor's visitors came. he had expected them somewhat earlier, and was beginning to become fidgety. He had so much on his hands that he could not sit still for a moment till he had, at any rate, commenced it. The expected footsteps were at last heard on the gravel-path, and moment or two afterwards Janet ushered the father and son into the room.
The squire did not look very well. He was worn and sorrowful, and rather pale. The death of his young creditor might be supposed to have given him some relief from his more pressing cares, but the necessity of yielding to Frank's wishes had almost more than balanced this. When a man has daily to reflect that he is poorer than he was the day before, he soon becomes worn and sorrowful.
