Doctor Thorne

by Anthony Trollope

  CHAPTER XIII

  The Two Uncles

  "Ha! ha! ha! Ha! ha! ha!" laughed Sir Roger, lustily, as Dr Thorneentered the room. "Well, if that ain't rich, I don't know what is.Ha! ha! ha! But why did they not put him under the pump, doctor?"

  The doctor, however, had too much tact, and too many things ofimportance to say, to allow of his giving up much time to thediscussion of Dr Fillgrave's wrath. He had come determined to openthe baronet's eyes as to what would be the real effect of his will,and he had also to negotiate a loan for Mr Gresham, if that might bepossible. Dr Thorne therefore began about the loan, that being theeasier subject, and found that Sir Roger was quite clear-headed as tohis money concerns, in spite of his illness. Sir Roger was willingenough to lend Mr Gresham more money--six, eight, ten, twentythousand; but then, in doing so, he should insist on obtainingpossession of the title-deeds.

  "What! the title-deeds of Greshamsbury for a few thousand pounds?"said the doctor.

  "I don't know whether you call ninety thousand pounds a fewthousands; but the debt will about amount to that."

  "Ah! that's the old debt."

  "Old and new together, of course; every shilling I lend more weakensmy security for what I have lent before."

  "But you have the first claim, Sir Roger."

  "It ought to be first and last to cover such a debt as that. If hewants further accommodation, he must part with his deeds, doctor."

  The point was argued backwards and forwards for some time withoutavail, and the doctor then thought it well to introduce the othersubject.

  "Well, Sir Roger, you're a hard man."

  "No I ain't," said Sir Roger; "not a bit hard; that is, not a bit toohard. Money is always hard. I know I found it hard to come by; andthere is no reason why Squire Gresham should expect to find me sovery soft."

  "Very well; there is an end of that. I thought you would have done asmuch to oblige me, that is all."

  "What! take bad security to oblige you?"

  "Well, there's an end of that."

  "I'll tell you what; I'll do as much to oblige a friend as any one.I'll lend you five thousand pounds, you yourself, without security atall, if you want it."

  "But you know I don't want it; or, at any rate, shan't take it."

  "But to ask me to go on lending money to a third party, and he overhead and ears in debt, by way of obliging you, why, it's a little toomuch."

  "Well, there's an end of it. Now I've something to say to you aboutthat will of yours."

  "Oh! that's settled."

  "No, Scatcherd; it isn't settled. It must be a great deal moresettled before we have done with it, as you'll find when you hearwhat I have to tell you."

  "What you have to tell me!" said Sir Roger, sitting up in bed; "andwhat have you to tell me?"

  "Your will says your sister's eldest child."

  "Yes; but that's only in the event of Louis Philippe dying before heis twenty-five."

  "Exactly; and now I know something about your sister's eldest child,and, therefore, I have come to tell you."

  "You know something about Mary's eldest child?"

  "I do, Scatcherd; it is a strange story, and maybe it will make youangry. I cannot help it if it does so. I should not tell you this ifI could avoid it; but as I do tell you, for your sake, as you willsee, and not for my own, I must implore you not to tell my secret toothers."

  Sir Roger now looked at him with an altered countenance. There wassomething in his voice of the authoritative tone of other days,something in the doctor's look which had on the baronet the sameeffect which in former days it had sometimes had on the stone-mason.

  "Can you give me a promise, Scatcherd, that what I am about to tellyou shall not be repeated?"

  "A promise! Well, I don't know what it's about, you know. I don'tlike promises in the dark."

  "Then I must leave it to your honour; for what I have to say must besaid. You remember my brother, Scatcherd?"

  Remember his brother! thought the rich man to himself. The name ofthe doctor's brother had not been alluded to between them since thedays of that trial; but still it was impossible but that Scatcherdshould well remember him.

  "Yes, yes; certainly. I remember your brother," said he. "I rememberhim well; there's no doubt about that."

  "Well, Scatcherd," and, as he spoke, the doctor laid his hand withkindness on the other's arm. "Mary's eldest child was my brother'schild as well.

  "But there is no such child living," said Sir Roger; and, in hisviolence, as he spoke he threw from off him the bedclothes, and triedto stand upon the floor. He found, however, that he had no strengthfor such an effort, and was obliged to remain leaning on the bed andresting on the doctor's arm.

  "There was no such child ever lived," said he. "What do you mean bythis?"

  Dr Thorne would say nothing further till he had got the man into bedagain. This he at last effected, and then he went on with the storyin his own way.

  "Yes, Scatcherd, that child is alive; and for fear that you shouldunintentionally make her your heir, I have thought it right to tellyou this."

  "A girl, is it?"

  "Yes, a girl."

  "And why should you want to spite her? If she is Mary's child, she isyour brother's child also. If she is my niece, she must be your niecetoo. Why should you want to spite her? Why should you try to do hersuch a terrible injury?"

  "I do not want to spite her."

  "Where is she? Who is she? What is she called? Where does she live?"

  The doctor did not at once answer all these questions. He had madeup his mind that he would tell Sir Roger that this child was living,but he had not as yet resolved to make known all the circumstancesof her history. He was not even yet quite aware whether it would benecessary to say that this foundling orphan was the cherished darlingof his own house.

  "Such a child, is, at any rate, living," said he; "of that I giveyou my assurance; and under your will, as now worded, it might cometo pass that that child should be your heir. I do not want to spiteher, but I should be wrong to let you make your will without suchknowledge, seeing that I am possessed of it myself."

  "But where is the girl?"

  "I do not know that that signifies."

  "Signifies! Yes; it does signify a great deal. But, Thorne, Thorne,now that I remember it, now that I can think of things, it was--wasit not you yourself who told me that the baby did not live?"

  "Very possibly."

  "And was it a lie that you told me?"

  "If so, yes. But it is no lie that I tell you now."

  "I believed you then, Thorne; then, when I was a poor, broken-downday-labourer, lying in jail, rotting there; but I tell you fairly, Ido not believe you now. You have some scheme in this."

  "Whatever scheme I may have, you can frustrate by making anotherwill. What can I gain by telling you this? I only do so to induce youto be more explicit in naming your heir."

  They both remained silent for a while, during which the baronetpoured out from his hidden resource a glass of brandy and swallowedit.

  "When a man is taken aback suddenly by such tidings as these, he musttake a drop of something, eh, doctor?"

  Dr Thorne did not see the necessity; but the present, he felt, was notime for arguing the point.

  "Come, Thorne, where is the girl? You must tell me that. She is myniece, and I have a right to know. She shall come here, and I will dosomething for her. By the Lord! I would as soon she had the money asany one else, if she is anything of a good 'un;--some of it, that is.Is she a good 'un?"

  "Good!" said the doctor, turning away his face. "Yes; she is goodenough."

  "She must be grown up by now. None of your light skirts, eh?"

  "She is a good girl," said the doctor somewhat loudly and sternly. Hecould hardly trust himself to say much on this point.

  "Mary was a good girl, a very good girl, till"--and Sir Roger raisedhimself up in his bed with his fist clenched, as though he were againabout to strike that fatal blow at the farm-yard gate. "But com
e,it's no good thinking of that; you behaved well and manly, always.And so poor Mary's child is alive; at least, you say so."

  "I say so, and you may believe it. Why should I deceive you?"

  "No, no; I don't see why. But then why did you deceive me before?"

  To this the doctor chose to make no answer, and again there wassilence for a while.

  "What do you call her, doctor?"

  "Her name is Mary."

  "The prettiest women's name going; there's no name like it," said thecontractor, with an unusual tenderness in his voice. "Mary--yes; butMary what? What other name does she go by?"

  Here the doctor hesitated.

  "Mary Scatcherd--eh?"

  "No. Not Mary Scatcherd."

  "Not Mary Scatcherd! Mary what, then? You, with your d---- pride,wouldn't let her be called Mary Thorne, I know."

  This was too much for the doctor. He felt that there were tears inhis eyes, so he walked away to the window to dry them, unseen. Had hehad fifty names, each more sacred than the other, the most sacred ofthem all would hardly have been good enough for her.

  "Mary what, doctor? Come, if the girl is to belong to me, if I am toprovide for her, I must know what to call her, and where to look forher."

  "Who talked of your providing for her?" said the doctor, turninground at the rival uncle. "Who said that she was to belong to you?She will be no burden to you; you are only told of this that youmay not leave your money to her without knowing it. She is providedfor--that is, she wants nothing; she will do well enough; you neednot trouble yourself about her."

  "But if she's Mary's child, Mary's child in real truth, I willtrouble myself about her. Who else should do so? For the matter ofthat, I'd as soon say her as any of those others in America. What doI care about blood? I shan't mind her being a bastard. That is tosay, of course, if she's decently good. Did she ever get any kind ofteaching; book-learning, or anything of that sort?"

  Dr Thorne at this moment hated his friend the baronet with almost adeadly hatred; that he, rough brute as he was--for he was a roughbrute--that he should speak in such language of the angel who gave tothat home in Greshamsbury so many of the joys of Paradise--that heshould speak of her as in some degree his own, that he should inquiredoubtingly as to her attributes and her virtues. And then the doctorthought of her Italian and French readings, of her music, of her nicebooks, and sweet lady ways, of her happy companionship with PatienceOriel, and her dear, bosom friendship with Beatrice Gresham. Hethought of her grace, and winning manners, and soft, polishedfeminine beauty; and, as he did so, he hated Sir Roger Scatcherd, andregarded him with loathing, as he might have regarded a wallowinghog.

  At last a light seemed to break in upon Sir Roger's mind. Dr Thorne,he perceived, did not answer his last question. He perceived, also,that the doctor was affected with some more than ordinary emotion.Why should it be that this subject of Mary Scatcherd's child movedhim so deeply? Sir Roger had never been at the doctor's house atGreshamsbury, had never seen Mary Thorne, but he had heard thatthere lived with the doctor some young female relative; and thus aglimmering light seemed to come in upon Sir Roger's bed.

  He had twitted the doctor with his pride; had said that it wasimpossible that the girl should be called Mary Thorne. What if shewere so called? What if she were now warming herself at the doctor'shearth?

  "Well, come, Thorne, what is it you call her? Tell it out, man. And,look you, if it's your name she bears, I shall think more of you, adeal more than ever I did yet. Come, Thorne, I'm her uncle too. Ihave a right to know. She is Mary Thorne, isn't she?"

  The doctor had not the hardihood nor the resolution to deny it."Yes," said he, "that is her name; she lives with me."

  "Yes, and lives with all those grand folks at Greshamsbury too. Ihave heard of that."

  "She lives with me, and belongs to me, and is as my daughter."

  "She shall come over here. Lady Scatcherd shall have her to stay withher. She shall come to us. And as for my will, I'll make another.I'll--"

  "Yes, make another will--or else alter that one. But as to MissThorne coming here--"

  "What! Mary--"

  "Well, Mary. As to Mary Thorne coming here, that I fear will not bepossible. She cannot have two homes. She has cast her lot with one ofher uncles, and she must remain with him now."

  "Do you mean to say that she must never have any relation but one?"

  "But one such as I am. She would not be happy over here. She does notlike new faces. You have enough depending on you; I have but her."

  "Enough! why, I have only Louis Philippe. I could provide for a dozengirls."

  "Well, well, well, we will not talk about that."

  "Ah! but, Thorne, you have told me of this girl now, and I cannot buttalk of her. If you wished to keep the matter dark, you should havesaid nothing about it. She is my niece as much as yours. And, Thorne,I loved my sister Mary quite as well as you loved your brother; quiteas well."

  Any one who might now have heard and seen the contractor would havehardly thought him to be the same man who, a few hours before, wasurging that the Barchester physician should be put under the pump.

  "You have your son, Scatcherd. I have no one but that girl."

  "I don't want to take her from you. I don't want to take her; butsurely there can be no harm in her coming here to see us? I canprovide for her, Thorne, remember that. I can provide for her withoutreference to Louis Philippe. What are ten or fifteen thousand poundsto me? Remember that, Thorne."

  Dr Thorne did remember it. In that interview he remembered manythings, and much passed through his mind on which he felt himselfcompelled to resolve somewhat too suddenly. Would he be justifiedin rejecting, on behalf of Mary, the offer of pecuniary provisionwhich this rich relative seemed so well inclined to make? Or, if heaccepted it, would he in truth be studying her interests? Scatcherdwas a self-willed, obstinate man--now indeed touched by unwontedtenderness; but he was one to whose lasting tenderness Dr Thornewould be very unwilling to trust his darling. He did resolve, that onthe whole he should best discharge his duty, even to her, by keepingher to himself, and rejecting, on her behalf, any participation inthe baronet's wealth. As Mary herself had said, "some people mustbe bound together;" and their destiny, that of himself and hisniece, seemed to have so bound them. She had found her place atGreshamsbury, her place in the world; and it would be better forher now to keep it, than to go forth and seek another that would bericher, but at the same time less suited to her.

  "No, Scatcherd," he said at last, "she cannot come here; she wouldnot be happy here, and, to tell the truth, I do not wish her to knowthat she has other relatives."

  "Ah! she would be ashamed of her mother, you mean, and of hermother's brother too, eh? She's too fine a lady, I suppose, to takeme by the hand and give me a kiss, and call me her uncle? I and LadyScatcherd would not be grand enough for her, eh?"

  "You may say what you please, Scatcherd: I of course cannot stopyou."

  "But I don't know how you'll reconcile what you are doing to yourconscience. What right can you have to throw away the girl's chance,now that she has a chance? What fortune can you give her?"

  "I have done what little I could," said Thorne, proudly.

  "Well, well, well, well, I never heard such a thing in my life;never. Mary's child, my own Mary's child, and I'm not to see her!But, Thorne, I tell you what; I will see her. I'll go over to her,I'll go to Greshamsbury, and tell her who I am, and what I can dofor her. I tell you fairly I will. You shall not keep her away fromthose who belong to her, and can do her a good turn. Mary's daughter;another Mary Scatcherd! I almost wish she were called Mary Scatcherd.Is she like her, Thorne? Come, tell me that, is she like her mother."

  "I do not remember her mother; at least not in health."

  "Not remember her! ah, well. She was the handsomest girl inBarchester, anyhow. That was given up to her. Well, I didn't think tobe talking of her again. Thorne, you cannot but expect that I shallgo over and see Mary's child?"

  "N
ow, Scatcherd, look here," and the doctor, coming away from thewindow, where he had been standing, sat himself down by the bedside,"you must not come over to Greshamsbury."

  "Oh! but I shall."

  "Listen to me, Scatcherd. I do not want to praise myself in any way;but when that girl was an infant, six months old, she was like to bea thorough obstacle to her mother's fortune in life. Tomlinson waswilling to marry your sister, but he would not marry the child too.Then I took the baby, and I promised her mother that I would be toher as a father. I have kept my word as fairly as I have been able.She has sat at my hearth, and drunk of my cup, and been to me as myown child. After that, I have a right to judge what is best for her.Her life is not like your life, and her ways are not as your ways--"

  "Ah, that is just it; we are too vulgar for her."

  "You may take it as you will," said the doctor, who was too much inearnest to be in the least afraid of offending his companion. "I havenot said so; but I do say that you and she are unlike in your way ofliving."

  "She wouldn't like an uncle with a brandy bottle under his head, eh?"

  "You could not see her without letting her know what is the connexionbetween you; of that I wish to keep her in ignorance."

  "I never knew any one yet who was ashamed of a rich connexion. How doyou mean to get a husband for her, eh?"

  "I have told you of her existence," continued the doctor, notappearing to notice what the baronet had last said, "because I foundit necessary that you should know the fact of your sister having leftthis child behind her; you would otherwise have made a will differentfrom that intended, and there might have been a lawsuit, and mischiefand misery when we are gone. You must perceive that I have done thisin honesty to you; and you yourself are too honest to repay me bytaking advantage of this knowledge to make me unhappy."

  "Oh, very well, doctor. At any rate, you are a brick, I will saythat. But I'll think of all this, I'll think of it; but it doesstartle me to find that poor Mary has a child living so near to me."

  "And now, Scatcherd, I will say good-bye. We part as friends, don'twe?"

  "Oh, but doctor, you ain't going to leave me so. What am I to do?What doses shall I take? How much brandy may I drink? May I have agrill for dinner? D---- me, doctor, you have turned Fillgrave out ofthe house. You mustn't go and desert me."

  Dr Thorne laughed, and then, sitting himself down to write medically,gave such prescriptions and ordinances as he found to be necessary.They amounted but to this: that the man was to drink, if possible, nobrandy; and if that were not possible, then as little as might be.

  This having been done, the doctor again proceeded to take his leave;but when he got to the door he was called back. "Thorne! Thorne!About that money for Mr Gresham; do what you like, do just whatyou like. Ten thousand, is it? Well, he shall have it. I'll makeWinterbones write about it at once. Five per cent., isn't it? No,four and a half. Well, he shall have ten thousand more."

  "Thank you, Scatcherd, thank you, I am really very much obliged toyou, I am indeed. I wouldn't ask it if I was not sure your money issafe. Good-bye, old fellow, and get rid of that bedfellow of yours,"and again he was at the door.

  "Thorne," said Sir Roger once more. "Thorne, just come back for aminute. You wouldn't let me send a present would you,--fifty poundsor so,--just to buy a few flounces?"

  The doctor contrived to escape without giving a definite answerto this question and then, having paid his compliments to LadyScatcherd, remounted his cob and rode back to Greshamsbury.