CHAPTER XI
The Doctor Drinks His Tea
The doctor got on his cob and went his way, returning duly toGreshamsbury. But, in truth, as he went he hardly knew whither he wasgoing, or what he was doing. Sir Roger had hinted that the cob wouldbe compelled to make up for lost time by extra exertion on the road;but the cob had never been permitted to have his own way as to pacemore satisfactorily than on the present occasion. The doctor, indeed,hardly knew that he was on horseback, so completely was he envelopedin the cloud of his own thoughts.
In the first place, that alternative which it had become him to putbefore the baronet as one unlikely to occur--that of the speedy deathof both father and son--was one which he felt in his heart of heartsmight very probably come to pass.
"The chances are ten to one that such a clause will never be broughtto bear." This he had said partly to himself, so as to ease thethoughts which came crowding on his brain; partly, also, in pity forthe patient and the father. But now that he thought the matter over,he felt that there were no such odds. Were not the odds the otherway? Was it not almost probable that both these men might be gatheredto their long account within the next four years? One, the elder, wasa strong man, indeed; one who might yet live for years to come if hewould but give himself fair play. But then, he himself protested,and protested with a truth too surely grounded, that fair play tohimself was beyond his own power to give. The other, the younger,had everything against him. Not only was he a poor, puny creature,without physical strength, one of whose life a friend could neverfeel sure under any circumstances, but he also was already addictedto his father's vices; he also was already killing himself withalcohol.
And then, if these two men did die within the prescribed period, ifthis clause in Sir Roger's will were brought to bear, if it shouldbecome his, Dr Thorne's, duty to see that clause carried out, howwould he be bound to act? That woman's eldest child was his ownniece, his adopted bairn, his darling, the pride of his heart, thecynosure of his eye, his child also, his own Mary. Of all his dutieson this earth, next to that one great duty to his God and conscience,was his duty to her. What, under these circumstances, did his duty toher require of him?
But then, that one great duty, that duty which she would be the firstto expect from him; what did that demand of him? Had Scatcherd madehis will without saying what its clauses were, it seemed to Thornethat Mary must have been the heiress, should that clause becomenecessarily operative. Whether she were so or not would at any ratebe for lawyers to decide. But now the case was very different.This rich man had confided in him, and would it not be a breach ofconfidence, an act of absolute dishonesty--an act of dishonesty bothto Scatcherd and to that far-distant American family, to that father,who, in former days, had behaved so nobly, and to that eldest childof his, would it not be gross dishonesty to them all if he allowedthis man to leave a will by which his property might go to a personnever intended to be his heir?
Long before he had arrived at Greshamsbury his mind on this pointhad been made up. Indeed, it had been made up while sitting there byScatcherd's bedside. It had not been difficult to make up his mind toso much; but then, his way out of this dishonesty was not so easy forhim to find. How should he set this matter right so as to inflict noinjury on his niece, and no sorrow to himself--if that indeed couldbe avoided?
And then other thoughts crowded on his brain. He had alwaysprofessed--professed at any rate to himself and to her--that of allthe vile objects of a man's ambition, wealth, wealth merely for itsown sake, was the vilest. They, in their joint school of inherentphilosophy, had progressed to ideas which they might find it not easyto carry out, should they be called on by events to do so. And ifthis would have been difficult to either when acting on behalf ofself alone, how much more difficult when one might have to act forthe other! This difficulty had now come to the uncle. Should he, inthis emergency, take upon himself to fling away the golden chancewhich might accrue to his niece if Scatcherd should be encouraged tomake her partly his heir?
"He'd want her to go and live there--to live with him and his wife.All the money in the Bank of England would not pay her for suchmisery," said the doctor to himself, as he slowly rode into his ownyard.
On one point, and one only, had he definitely made up his mind. Onthe following day he would go over again to Boxall Hill, and wouldtell Scatcherd the whole truth. Come what might, the truth must bethe best. And so, with some gleam of comfort, he went into the house,and found his niece in the drawing-room with Patience Oriel.
"Mary and I have been quarrelling," said Patience. "She says thedoctor is the greatest man in a village; and I say the parson is, ofcourse."
"I only say that the doctor is the most looked after," said Mary."There's another horrid message for you to go to Silverbridge, uncle.Why can't that Dr Century manage his own people?"
"She says," continued Miss Oriel, "that if a parson was away for amonth, no one would miss him; but that a doctor is so precious thathis very minutes are counted."
"I am sure uncle's are. They begrudge him his meals. Mr Oriel nevergets called away to Silverbridge."
"No; we in the Church manage our parish arrangements better than youdo. We don't let strange practitioners in among our flocks becausethe sheep may chance to fancy them. Our sheep have to put up with ourspiritual doses whether they like them or not. In that respect we aremuch the best off. I advise you, Mary, to marry a clergyman, by allmeans."
"I will when you marry a doctor," said she.
"I am sure nothing on earth would give me greater pleasure," saidMiss Oriel, getting up and curtseying very low to Dr Thorne; "but Iam not quite prepared for the agitation of an offer this morning, soI'll run away."
And so she went; and the doctor, getting on his other horse, startedagain for Silverbridge, wearily enough. "She's happy now where sheis," said he to himself, as he rode along. "They all treat her thereas an equal at Greshamsbury. What though she be no cousin to theThornes of Ullathorne. She has found her place there among them all,and keeps it on equal terms with the best of them. There is MissOriel; her family is high; she is rich, fashionable, a beauty,courted by every one; but yet she does not look down on Mary. Theyare equal friends together. But how would it be if she were taken toBoxall Hill, even as a recognised niece of the rich man there? WouldPatience Oriel and Beatrice Gresham go there after her? Could she behappy there as she is in my house here, poor though it be? It wouldkill her to pass a month with Lady Scatcherd and put up with thatman's humours, to see his mode of life, to be dependent on him, tobelong to him." And then the doctor, hurrying on to Silverbridge,again met Dr Century at the old lady's bedside, and having made hisendeavours to stave off the inexorable coming of the grim visitor,again returned to his own niece and his own drawing-room.
"You must be dead, uncle," said Mary, as she poured out his tea forhim, and prepared the comforts of that most comfortable meal--tea,dinner, and supper, all in one. "I wish Silverbridge was fifty milesoff."
"That would only make the journey worse; but I am not dead yet, and,what is more to the purpose, neither is my patient." And as he spokehe contrived to swallow a jorum of scalding tea, containing inmeasure somewhat near a pint. Mary, not a whit amazed at this feat,merely refilled the jorum without any observation and the doctorwent on stirring the mixture with his spoon, evidently oblivious thatany ceremony had been performed by either of them since the firstsupply had been administered to him.
When the clatter of knives and forks was over, the doctor turnedhimself to the hearthrug, and putting one leg over the other, hebegan to nurse it as he looked with complacency at his third cup oftea, which stood untasted beside him. The fragments of the solidbanquet had been removed, but no sacrilegious hand had been laid onthe teapot and the cream-jug.
"Mary," said he, "suppose you were to find out to-morrow morningthat, by some accident, you had become a great heiress, would you beable to suppress your exultation?"
"The first thing I'd do, would be to pronounce a positive edict thatyo
u should never go to Silverbridge again; at least without a day'snotice."
"Well, and what next? what would you do next?"
"The next thing--the next thing would be to send to Paris for aFrench bonnet exactly like the one Patience Oriel had on. Did you seeit?"
"Well I can't say I did; bonnets are invisible now; besides I neverremark anybody's clothes, except yours."
"Oh! do look at Miss Oriel's bonnet the next time you see her. Icannot understand why it should be so, but I am sure of this--noEnglish fingers could put together such a bonnet as that; and I amnearly sure that no French fingers could do it in England."
"But you don't care so much about bonnets, Mary!" This the doctorsaid as an assertion but there was, nevertheless, somewhat of aquestion involved in it.
"Don't I, though?" said she. "I do care very much about bonnets;especially since I saw Patience this morning. I asked how much itcost--guess."
"Oh! I don't know--a pound?"
"A pound, uncle!"
"What! a great deal more? Ten pounds?"
"Oh, uncle."
"What! more than ten pounds? Then I don't think even Patience Orielought to give it."
"No, of course she would not; but, uncle, it really cost a hundredfrancs!"
"Oh! a hundred francs; that's four pounds, isn't it? Well, and howmuch did your last new bonnet cost?"
"Mine! oh, nothing--five and ninepence, perhaps; I trimmed it myself.If I were left a great fortune, I'd send to Paris to-morrow; no,I'd go myself to Paris to buy a bonnet, and I'd take you with me tochoose it."
The doctor sat silent for a while meditating about this, duringwhich he unconsciously absorbed the tea beside him; and Mary againreplenished his cup.
"Come, Mary," said he at last, "I'm in a generous mood; and as I amrather more rich than usual, we'll send to Paris for a French bonnet.The going for it must wait a while longer I am afraid."
"You're joking."
"No, indeed. If you know the way to send--that I must confess wouldpuzzle me; but if you'll manage the sending, I'll manage the paying;and you shall have a French bonnet."
"Uncle!" said she, looking up at him.
"Oh, I'm not joking; I owe you a present, and I'll give you that."
"And if you do, I'll tell you what I'll do with it. I'll cut it intofragments, and burn them before your face. Why, uncle, what do youtake me for? You're not a bit nice to-night to make such an offer asthat to me; not a bit, not a bit." And then she came over from herseat at the tea-tray and sat down on a foot-stool close at his knee."Because I'd have a French bonnet if I had a large fortune, is that areason why I should like one now? if you were to pay four pounds fora bonnet for me, it would scorch my head every time I put it on."
"I don't see that: four pounds would not ruin me. However, I don'tthink you'd look a bit better if you had it; and, certainly, I shouldnot like to scorch these locks," and putting his hand upon hershoulders, he played with her hair.
"Patience has a pony-phaeton, and I'd have one if I were rich; andI'd have all my books bound as she does; and, perhaps, I'd give fiftyguineas for a dressing-case."
"Fifty guineas!"
"Patience did not tell me; but so Beatrice says. Patience showed itto me once, and it is a darling. I think I'd have the dressing-casebefore the bonnet. But, uncle--"
"Well?"
"You don't suppose I want such things?"
"Not improperly. I am sure you do not."
"Not properly, or improperly; not much, or little. I covet manythings; but nothing of that sort. You know, or should know, that I donot. Why did you talk of buying a French bonnet for me?"
Dr Thorne did not answer this question, but went on nursing his leg.
"After all," said he, "money is a fine thing."
"Very fine, when it is well come by," she answered; "that is, withoutdetriment to the heart or soul."
"I should be a happier man if you were provided for as is Miss Oriel.Suppose, now, I could give you up to a rich man who would be able toinsure you against all wants?"
"Insure me against all wants! Oh, that would be a man. That would beselling me, wouldn't it, uncle? Yes, selling me; and the price youwould receive would be freedom from future apprehensions as regardsme. It would be a cowardly sale for you to make; and then, as tome--me the victim. No, uncle; you must bear the misery of having toprovide for me--bonnets and all. We are in the same boat, and youshan't turn me overboard."
"But if I were to die, what would you do then?"
"And if I were to die, what would you do? People must be boundtogether. They must depend on each other. Of course, misfortunes maycome; but it is cowardly to be afraid of them beforehand. You and Iare bound together, uncle; and though you say these things to teaseme, I know you do not wish to get rid of me."
"Well, well; we shall win through, doubtless; if not in one way, thenin another."
"Win through! Of course we shall; who doubts our winning? but,uncle--"
"But, Mary."
"Well?"
"You haven't got another cup of tea, have you?"
"Oh, uncle! you have had five."
"No, my dear! not five; only four--only four, I assure you; I havebeen very particular to count. I had one while I was--"
"Five uncle; indeed and indeed."
"Well, then, as I hate the prejudice which attaches luck to an oddnumber, I'll have a sixth to show that I am not superstitious."
While Mary was preparing the sixth jorum, there came a knock at thedoor. Those late summonses were hateful to Mary's ear, for they wereusually the forerunners of a midnight ride through the dark lanes tosome farmer's house. The doctor had been in the saddle all day, and,as Janet brought the note into the room, Mary stood up as though todefend her uncle from any further invasion on his rest.
"A note from the house, miss," said Janet: now "the house," inGreshamsbury parlance, always meant the squire's mansion.
"No one ill at the house, I hope," said the doctor, taking the notefrom Mary's hand. "Oh--ah--yes; it's from the squire--there's nobodyill: wait a minute, Janet, and I'll write a line. Mary, lend me yourdesk."
The squire, anxious as usual for money, had written to ask whatsuccess the doctor had had in negotiating the new loan with SirRoger. The fact, however, was, that in his visit at Boxall Hill, thedoctor had been altogether unable to bring on the carpet the matterof this loan. Subjects had crowded themselves in too quickly duringthat interview--those two interviews at Sir Roger's bedside; and hehad been obliged to leave without even alluding to the question.
"I must at any rate go back now," said he to himself. So he wrote tothe squire, saying that he was to be at Boxall Hill again on thefollowing day, and that he would call at the house on his return.
"That's settled, at any rate," said he.
"What's settled?" said Mary.
"Why, I must go to Boxall Hill again to-morrow. I must go early, too,so we'd better both be off to bed. Tell Janet I must breakfast athalf-past seven."
"You couldn't take me, could you? I should so like to see that SirRoger."
"To see Sir Roger! Why, he's ill in bed."
"That's an objection, certainly; but some day, when he's well, couldnot you take me over? I have the greatest desire to see a man likethat; a man who began with nothing and now has more than enough tobuy the whole parish of Greshamsbury."
"I don't think you'd like him at all."
"Why not? I am sure I should; I am sure I should like him, and LadyScatcherd, too. I've heard you say that she is an excellent woman."
"Yes, in her way; and he, too, is good in his way; but they areneither of them in your way: they are extremely vulgar--"
"Oh! I don't mind that; that would make them more amusing; onedoesn't go to those sort of people for polished manners."
"I don't think you'd find the Scatcherds pleasant acquaintances atall," said the doctor, taking his bed-candle, and kissing his niece'sforehead as he left the room.
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