These were bad times for the doctor, and bad times for Mary too.  She had declared that she could live without going to Greshamsbury; but she did not find it so easy.  She had been going to Greshamsbury all her life, and it was customary with her to be there as at home.  Such old customs are not broken without pain.  Had she left the place it would have been far different; but, as it was, she daily passed the gates, daily saw and spoke to some of the servants, who knew her as well as they did the young ladies of the family—­was in hourly contact, as it were, with Greshamsbury.  It was not only that she did not go there, but that every one knew that she had suddenly discontinued doing so.  Yes, she could live without going to Greshamsbury; but for some time she had but a poor life of it.  She felt, nay, almost heard, that every man and woman, boy and girl in the village was telling his and her neighbour that Mary Thorne no longer went to the house because of Lady Arabella and the young squire.

But Beatrice, of course, came to her.  What was she to say to Beatrice?  The truth!  Nay, but it is not always so easy to say the truth, even to one’s dearest friends.

‘But you’ll come up now he has gone?’ said Beatrice.

‘No, indeed,’ said Mary; ’that would hardly be pleasant to Lady Arabella, nor to me either.  No, Trichy, dearest; my visits to dear old Greshamsbury are done, done, done:  perhaps in some twenty years’ time I may be walking down the lawn with your brother, and discussing the childish days—­that is, always, if the then Mrs Gresham shall have invited me.’

‘How can Frank have been so wrong, so unkind, so cruel?’ said Beatrice.

This, however, was a light in which Miss Thorne did not take any pleasure, in discussing the matter.  Her ideas of Frank’s fault, and unkindness and cruelty, were doubtless different from those of her sister.  Such cruelty was not unnaturally excused in her eyes by many circumstances which Beatrice did not fully understand.  Mary was quite ready to go hand in hand with Lady Arabella and the rest of Greshamsbury fold in putting an end, if possible, to Frank’s passion:  she would give not one a right to accuse her of assisting to ruin the young heir; but she could hardly bring herself to admit that he was so very wrong—­no, nor yet even so very cruel.

And then the squire came to see her, and this was a yet harder trial than the visit of Beatrice.  It was so difficult for her to speak to him that she could not but wish him away; and yet, had he not come, had he altogether neglected her, she would have felt it to be unkind.  She had ever been his pet, had always received kindness from him.

‘I am sorry for all this, Mary; very sorry,’ said he, standing up, and holding both her hands in his.

‘It can’t be helped, sir,’ said she, smiling.

‘I don’t know,’ said he; ’I don’t know—­it ought to be helped somehow—­I am quite sure you have not been to blame.’