 Chapter 8 of Dr. Thorn by Anthony Trollop. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Nick Whitley, Pearlie, United Kingdom. Chapter 8 Matrimonial Prospects. It will, of course, be remembered that Mary's interview with the other girls at Greshamsbury took place some two or three days subsequently to Frank's generous offer of his hand and heart. Mary had quite made up her mind that the whole thing was to be regarded as a folly, and that it was not to be spoken of to any one. But yet her heart was sore enough. She was full of pride, and yet she knew she must bow her neck to the pride of others. Being as she was herself nameless, she could not but feel a stern, unflinching antagonism, the antagonism of a Democrat, to the pretensions of others who were blessed with that of which she had been deprived. She had this feeling. And yet of all the things that she coveted, she most coveted that for glorying in which she was determined to heapscorn on others. She said to herself proudly that God's handiwork was the inner man, the inner woman, the naked creature animated by a living soul, that all other adjuncts were but man's clothing for the creature, all others whether stitched by tailors or contrived by kings. Was it not within her capacity to do as nobly, to love as truly, to worship her God in heaven with as perfect a faith, and her God on earth was as leal a troth, as though blood had descended to her purely through scores of purely born progenitors. So to herself she spoke. And yet as she said it, she knew that were she a man, such a man as the heir of Greshamsbury should be, nothing would tempt her to sully her children's blood by mating herself with any one that was base-born. She felt that were she an Augusta Gresham, no Mr. Moffat, let his wealth be what it might, should win her hand, unless he too could tell of family honors and a line of ancestors. And so with a mind at war with itself she came forth armed to do battle against the world's prejudices, those prejudices. She herself loved so well. And was she to give up her old affections, her feminine loves, because she found that she was a cousin to nobody? Was she no longer to pour out her heart to Beatrice Gresham, with all the girlish volubility of an equal? Was she to be severed from patience aureol, and banished, or rather, was she to banish herself from the free place she had maintained in the various youthful female conclaves held within that parish of Greshamsbury? Hitherto what Mary Thorn would say, what Miss Thorn suggested in such or such a matter, was quite as frequently asked as any opinion from Augusta Gresham, quite as frequently, unless when it chanced that any of the decorcy girls were at the house, was this to be given up? These feelings had grown up among them since they were children, and had not hitherto been questioned among them. Now they were questioned by Mary Thorn. Was she in fact to find that her position had been a false one, and must be changed? Such had been her feelings when she protested that she would not be Augusta Gresham's bridesmaid, and offered to put her neck beneath Beatrice's foot, when she drove the Lady Margaretta out of the room, and gave her own opinion as to the proper grammatical construction of the word humble. Such also had been her feelings when she kept her hand so rigidly to herself, while Frank held the dining-room door open for her to pass through. Patience Oriole, said she to herself, can talk to him of her father and mother, let patience take his hand, let her talk to him, and then not long afterwards she saw that patience did talk to him, and seeing it she walked along silent among some of the old people, and with much effort did prevent a tear from falling down her cheek. But why was the tear in her eye? Had she not proudly told Frank that his love-making was nothing but a boy's silly rhapsody? Had she not said so, while she had yet reason to hope that her blood was as good as his own? Had she not seen at a glance that his love-tire-aid was worthy of ridicule and of no other notice? And yet there was a tear now in her eye, because this boy, whom she had scolded from her, whose hand offered in pure friendship, she had just refused, because he, so rebuffed by her, had carried his fun and gallantry to one who would be less cross to him, she could hear, as she was walking, that while Lady Margareta was with them, their voices were loud and merry, and her sharp ear could also hear, when Lady Margareta left them, that Frank's voice became low and tender. So she walked on saying nothing looking straight before her, and by degrees separating herself from all the others. The Greshamsbury grounds were on one side, somewhat too closely hemmed in by the village. On this side was a path running the lengths of one of the streets of the village, and far down the path, near to the extremity of the gardens, and near also to a wicked gate which led out into the village, and which could be opened from the inside, was a seat under a big yew-tree, from which, through a breach in the houses, might be seen the parish church standing in the park on the other side. Hither Mary walked alone, and here she seated herself determined to get rid of her tears and their traces, before she again showed herself to the world. I shall never be happy here again," said she to herself. Never! I am no longer one of them, and I cannot live among them unless I am so. And then an idea came across her mind that she hated patience Oriole, and then instantly another idea followed it. Quick as such thoughts are quick, that she did not hate patience Oriole at all, that she liked her, nay, loved her, that patience Oriole was a sweet girl, and that she hoped the time would come when she might see her the lady of Greshamsbury. And then the tear, which had been no wit controlled, which indeed had now made itself master of her, came to her head, and bursting through the flood-gates of the eye came rolling down, and in its fall wetted her hand as it lay on her lap. What a fool! What an idiot! What an empty-headed, cowardly fool I am! said she, springing up from the bench on her feet. As she did so, she heard voices close to her at the little gate. They were those of her uncle and Frank Gresham. God bless you, Frank, said the doctor. As he passed out of the grounds, you will excuse a lecture, won't you, from so old a friend? There you are, a man now, and discreet, of course, by act of parliament. Indeed I will, doctor, said Frank. I will excuse a longer lecture than that from you. At any rate, it won't be tonight, said the doctor, as he disappeared. And, if you see Mary, tell her that I am obliged to go, and that I will send Janet down to fetch her. Now Janet was the doctor's ancient maid servant. Mary could not move on without being perceived. She therefore stood still, till she heard the click of the door, and then began walking rapidly back to the house by the path which had brought her thither. The moment, however, that she did so, she found that she was followed. And in a very few moments Frank was alongside of her. Oh, Mary! said he, calling to her, but not loudly, before he quite overtook her. How odd that I should come across you just when I have a message for you. And why are you all alone? Mary's first impulse was to reiterate her command to him to call her no more by her Christian name. But her second impulse told her that such an injunction at the present moment would not be prudent on her part. The traces of her tears were still there, and she well knew that a very little, the slightest show of tenderness on his part, the slightest effort on her own to appear indifferent, would bring down more than one other such intruder. It would, moreover, be better for her to drop all outward sign that she remembered what had taken place. So long then, as he and she would at Gresham's Brie together, he should call her Mary if he pleased. He would soon be gone, and while he remained, she would keep out of his way. Your uncle has been obliged to go away to see an old woman at Silverbridge. At Silverbridge? Why, he won't be back all night. Why could not the old woman send for Dr. Century? I suppose she thought two old women could not get on well together. Mary could not help smiling. She did not like her uncle going off so late on such a journey, but it was always felt as a triumph when he was invited into the strongholds of his enemies. And Janet is to come over for you. However, I told him it was quite unnecessary to disturb another old woman, for that I should, of course, see you home. Oh, no, Mr. Gresham, indeed you'll not do that. Indeed, and indeed I shall. What? On this great day when every lady is looking for you and talking of you, I suppose you want to set the countess against me forever. Think too how angry Lady Arabella will be if you are absent on such an errand as this. To hear you talk, Mary, one would think that you were going to Silverbridge yourself. Perhaps I am. If I did not go with you, some of the other fellows would. John or George. Good gracious Frank! fancy either of them is to do courses walking home with me. She had forgotten herself and the strict propriety on which she had resolved, in the impossibility of forgoing her little joke against the do-coursey grandeur. She had forgotten herself and called him Frank in her old former eager free turn of voice. And then, remembering she had done so, she drew herself up, bit her lips, and determined to be doubly on her guard in the future. Well, it shall be either one of them or I, said Frank. Perhaps you would prefer my cousin George to me. I should prefer Janet to either, seeing that with her I should not suffer the extreme nuisance of knowing that I was a bore. A bore, Mary, to me? Yes, Mr. Gresham, a bore to you. Having to walk home through the mud with village young ladies is boring. All gentlemen feel it to be so. There is no mud. If there were, you would not be allowed to walk at all. Oh, village young ladies never care for such things, though fashionable gentlemen do. I would carry you home, Mary, if it would do you a service, said Frank, with considerable pathos in his voice. Oh, dear me, pray do not, Mr. Gresham. I should not like it at all, said she. A wheel-barrow would be preferable to that. Of course, anything would be preferable to my arm. I know. Certainly anything in the way of a conveyance. If I were to act baby and you were to act nurse, it really would not be comfortable for either of us. Frank Gresham felt disconcerted, though he hardly knew why. He was striving to say something tender to his lady-love, but every word that he spoke she turned into joke. Mary did not answer him coldly or unkindly. But nevertheless he was displeased. One does not like to have one's little offerings of sentimental service turned into burlesque when one is in love in earnest. Mary's jokes had appeared so easy, too. They seemed to come from a heart so little troubled. This also was a cause of vexation to Frank. If he could but have known all, he would perhaps have been better pleased. He determined not to be absolutely laughed out of his tenderness. When three days ago he had been repulsed, he had gone away owning to himself that he had been beaten, owning so much, but owning it with great sorrow and much shame. Since that he had come of age. Since that he had made speeches, and speeches had been made to him. Since that he had gained courage by flirting with Patience Oriole. No faint heart ever won a fair lady, as he was well aware. He resolved therefore that his heart should not be faint, and that he would see whether the fair lady might not be won by becoming audacity. Mary said he's stopping in the path, but they were now near the spot where it broke out upon the lawn, and they could already hear the voices of the guests. Mary, you are unkind to me. I am not aware of it, Mr. Gresham, but if I am, do not you retaliate. I am weaker than you and in your power. Do not you therefore be unkind to me. You refused my hand just now, continuity, of all the people here at Greshamsbury. You are the only one that has not wished me joy. The only one? I do wish you joy. I will wish you joy. There is my hand, and she frankly put out her ungloved hand. You are quite man enough to understand me. There is my hand. I trust you use it only as it is meant to be used. He took it in his, and pressed it cordially, as he might have done that of any other friend in such a case. And then did not drop it, as he should have done. He was not a St. Anthony, and it was most imprudent in Miss Thorn to subject him to such a temptation. Mary said he, Dear Mary, dearest Mary, if you did but know how I love you. As he said this, holding Miss Thorn's hand, he stored on the pathway with his back towards the lawn and house, and therefore did not at first see his sister Augusta, who had just at that moment come upon them. Mary blushed up to her straw hat, and with a quick jerk recovered her hand. Augusta saw the motion, and Mary saw that Augusta had seen it. From my tedious way of telling it, the reader will be led to imagine that the hand-squeezing had been protracted to a duration quite incompatible with any objection to such an arrangement on the part of the lady, but the fault is mine in no part hers. Were I possessed of a quick spasmodic style of narrative, I should have been able to include it all. Frank's misbehaviour, Mary's immediate anger, Augusta's arrival, and keen Argoside inspection, and then Mary's subsequent misery. In five words and half a dozen dashes and inverted commas, the thing should have been so told, for to do Mary justice, she did not leave her hand in Frank's a moment longer than she could help herself. Frank, feeling the hand withdrawn, and hearing, when it was too late, the step on the gravel, turned sharply round. Oh! it's you, is it, Augusta? Well, what do you want? Augusta was not naturally very ill-natured, seeing that in her veins the hide-a-courcy blood was somewhat tempered by an admixture of the Gresham attributes, nor was she predisposed to make her brother her enemy by publishing to the world any of his little tender peccadillos. But she could not but be think herself of what her aunt had been saying as to the danger of any such encounters, as that she just now had beheld. She could not but start at seeing her brother thus on the very brink of the precipice of which the Countess had specially forewarned her mother. She, Augusta, was, as she well knew, doing her duty by her family, by marrying a tailor's son, for whom she did not care a chip, seeing the tailor's son was possessed of untold wealth. Now, when one member of a household is making a struggle for a family, it is painful to see the benefit of that struggle, negative by the folly of another member. The future Mrs. Moffat did feel aggrieved by the fertility of the young heir, and consequently took upon herself to look as much like her aunt D'Corsi as she could do. Well, what is it? said Frank, looking rather disgusted. What makes you stick your chin up and look in that way? Frank had hitherto been rather a despot among his sisters, and forgot that the eldest of them was now passing altogether from under his sway to that of the tailor's son. Frank, said Augusta, in a tone of voice which did honour to the great lessons she had lately received. Aunt D'Corsi wants to see you immediately in the small drawing-room, and, as she said so, she resolved to say a few words of advice to Miss Thorn, as soon as her brother should have left them. In the small drawing-room, does she? Well, Mary, we may as well go together, for I suppose it is tea time now. You had better go at once, Frank, said Augusta. The Countess will be angry if you keep her waiting. She has been expecting you these twenty minutes. Mary Thorn and I can return together. There was something in the tone in which the words Mary Thorn were uttered, which made Mary at once draw herself up. I hope, said she, that Mary Thorn will never be any hindrance to either of you. Frank's ear had also perceived that there was something in the tone of his sister's voice not boding comfort to Mary. He perceived that the D'Corsi blood in Augusta's veins was already rebelling against the doctor's niece on his part, though it had condescended to submit itself to the tailor's son on her own part. Well, I am going, said he. But look here, Augusta, if you say one word of Mary. Oh, Frank, Frank, you boy, you very boy, you goose, you silly goose! Is that the way you make love, desiring one girl not to tell of another, as though you were three children, tearing your frocks and trousers in getting through the same hedge together? Oh, Frank, Frank, you the full-blown heir of Greshamsbury, you a man already endowed with a man's discretion, you the forward rider, that did but now threaten young Harry Baker and the honorable John to eclipse them by prowess in the field, you of age! Why, thou canst not as yet have left thy mother's apron string. If you say one word of Mary, so far had he got in his injunction to his sister, but further than that, in such a case, was he never destined to proceed. Mary's indignation flashed upon him, striking him dumb long before the sound of her voice reached his ears, and yet she spoke as quick as the words would come to her call, and somewhat loudly too. Say one word of Mary, Mr. Gresham, and why should she not say as many words of Mary as she may please? I must tell you all now, Augusta, and I must also beg you not to be silent for my sake. As far as I am concerned, tell it to whom you please. This was the second time your brother, Mary, Mary, said Frank, deprecating her locustity. I beg your pardon, Mr. Gresham, you have made it necessary that I should tell your sister all. He has now twice thought it well to amuse himself by saying to me words which it was ill-natured in him to speak, and ill-natured, Mary, ill-natured in him to speak, continued Mary, and to which it would be absurd for me to listen. He probably does the same to others, she added, being unable in heart to forget that sharpest of her wounds, that flirtation of his with patience aureol, but to me it is almost cruel. Another girl might laugh at him, or listen to him as she would choose, but I can do neither. I shall now keep away from Gresham's brie, at any rate till he has left it. And Augusta, I can only beg you to understand that as far as I am concerned there is nothing which may not be told to all the world, and so saying she walked on a little in advance of them, as proud as a queen, had Lady de Coursy herself met her at this moment, she would almost have felt herself forced to shrink out of the pathway. Not say a word of me, she repeated to herself, but still out loud. No word need be left unsaid on my account. None, none! Augusta followed her. Dum founded at her indignation. And Frank also followed, but not in silence. When his first surprise at Mary's great anger was over, he felt himself called upon to say some word that might tend to exonerate his lady-love, and some word also of protestation as to his own purpose. There is nothing to be told, nothing at least of Mary, he said, speaking to his sister, but of me you may tell this, if you choose to disoblige your brother, that I love Mary Thorn with all my heart, and that I will never love any one else. By this time they had reached the lawn, and Mary was able to turn away from the path which led up to the house. As she left them, she said in a voice now low enough, I cannot prevent him from talking nonsense, Augusta, but you will bear me witness that I do not willingly hear it, and so saying she started off almost in a run towards the distant part of the gardens in which she saw Beatrice. Frank, as he walked up to the house with his sister, endeavored to induce her to give him a promise that she would tell no tales as to what she had heard and seen. Of course, Frank, it must be all nonsense, she had said, and you shouldn't amuse yourself in such a way. Well, but, Gus, come, we have always been friends, don't let us quarrel just when you are going to be married. But Augusta would make no promise. Frank, when he reached the house, found the Countess waiting for him, sitting in the little drawing room by herself, somewhat impatiently. As he entered, he became aware that there was some peculiar gravity attached to the coming interview. Three persons, his mother, one of his younger sisters, and the Lady Amelia, each stopped him to let him know that the Countess was waiting, and he perceived that a sort of guard was kept upon the door to save her ladyship from any undesirable intrusion. The Countess frowned at the moment of his entrance, but soon smoothed her brow and invited him to take a chair ready prepared for him opposite to the elbow of the sofa on which she was leaning. She had a small table before her, on which was her tea-cup, so that she was able to preach at him nearly as well as though she had been ensconced in a pulpit. My dear Frank, said she, in a voice thoroughly suitable to the importance of the communication, you have today come of age. Frank remarked that he understood that such was the case, and added that that was the reason for all the fuss. Yes, you have today come of age. Perhaps I should have been glad to see such an occasion noticed at Greshamsbury with some more suitable signs of rejoicing. Oh, Aunt, I think we did it all very well. Greshamsbury, Frank, is, or at any rate, ought to be, the seat of the first commoner in Barceture. Well, so it is. I am quite sure there isn't a better fellow than father anywhere in the county. The Countess sighed. Her opinion of the poor squire was very different from Frank's. It is no use now, said she, looking back to that which cannot be cured. The first commoner in Barceture should hold a position. I will not, of course, say equal to that of a peer. Oh, dear, no, of course not, said Frank, and a bystander might have thought that there was a touch of satire in his tone. No, not equal to that of a peer, but still of very paramount importance. Of course my first ambition is bound up in Pollock. Of course, said Frank, thinking how very weak was the staff on which his aunt's ambition rested. The Lord Pollock's youthful career had not been such as to give unmitigated satisfaction to his parents. It is bound up in Pollock. And then the Countess plumed herself, but the mother sighed. And next to Pollock, Frank, my anxiety is about you. Upon my honourant I am very much obliged. I shall be all right, you'll see. Greshamsbury, my dear boy, is not now what it used to be. Isn't it? asked Frank. No, Frank, by no means. I do not wish to say a word against your father. It may perhaps have been his misfortune, rather than his fault. She is always down on the governor, always, said Frank to himself, resolving to stick bravely to the side of the house to which he had elected to belong. But there is the fact, Frank, too plain to us all, Greshamsbury is not what it was. It is your duty to restore it to its former importance. My duty, said Frank, rather puzzled. Yes, Frank, your duty, it all depends on you now. Of course you know that your father owes a great deal of money. Frank muttered something. Tidings had in some shape reached his ear that his father was not comfortably circumcised, as regarded money. And then he has sold Boxall Hill. It cannot be expected that Boxall Hill shall be repurchased, as some horrid man, a railway maker, I believe. Yes, that's scattered. Well, he has built a house there, I am told, so I presume that it cannot be bought back. But it will be your duty, Frank, to pay all the debts that there are on the property, and to purchase what at any rate will be equal to Boxall Hill. Frank opened his eyes wide, and stared at his aunt, as though doubting much whether or no she were in her right mind. He pay off the family debts. He buy up property of four thousand pounds a year. He remained, however, quite quiet, waiting the elucidation of the mystery. Frank, of course, you understand me. Frank was obliged to declare that, just at the present moment, he did not find his aunt so clear as usual. You have but one line of conduct left you, Frank. Your position, as heir to Greshamsbury, is a good one. But your father has unfortunately so hampered you with regard to money, that unless you set the matter right yourself, you can never enjoy that position. Of course, you must marry money. Marry money, said he, considering for the first time that in all probability Mary Thorn's fortune would not be extensive. Marry money? Yes, Frank, I know no man whose position so imperatively demands it, and luckily for you no man can have more facility for doing so. In the first place, you are very handsome, Frank blushed, like a girl of sixteen, and then, as the matter is made plain to you at so early an age, you are not, of course, hampered by any indiscreet tie, by any absurd engagement, Frank blushed again, and then, saying to himself, how much the old girl knows about it, felt a little proud of his passion for Mary Thorn, and of the declaration he had made to her, and your connection with Coorsie Castle, continued the countess, now carrying up the list of Frank's advantages to its great climax, will make the matter so easy for you that rarely you will hardly have any difficulty. Frank could not but say how much obliged he felt to Coorsie Castle and its inmates. Of course I would not wish to interfere with you in any underhand way, Frank, but I will tell you what has occurred to me. You have heard probably of Miss Dunstable, the daughter of the ointment of Lebanon man, and, of course, you know that her fortune is immense, continued the countess, not daining to notice her nephew's allusion to the ointment, quite immense when compared with the wants and position of any commoner. Now she is coming to Coorsie Castle, and I wish you to come and meet her, but aren't just this moment I have to read for my degree like anything. I go up, you know, in October. Degree, said the countess, why, Frank, I am talking to you of your prospects in life, of your future position, of that on which everything hangs. And you tell me of your degree. Frank, however, obstinately persisted that he must take his degree, and that he should commence reading hard at six a.m. tomorrow morning. You can read just as well at Coorsie Castle. Miss Dunstable will not interfere with that, said his aunt, who knew the expediency of yielding occasionally. But I must beg you will come over and meet her. You will find her the most charming young woman, remarkably well educated, I am told, and how old is she, asked Frank. I really cannot say exactly, said the countess, but it is not, I imagine, matter of much moment. Is she thirty, asked Frank, who looked upon an unmarried woman of that age as quite an old maid? Nay, dare say she may be about that age, said the countess, who regarded the subject from a very different point of view. Thirty, said Frank out loud, but speaking nevertheless as though to himself. It is a matter of no moment, said his aunt almost angrily. When the subject itself is of such vital importance objections of no real weight should not be brought into view. If you wish to hold up your head in the country, if you wish to represent your county and parliament, as has been done by your father, your grandfather, and your great-grandfathers, if you wish to keep a house over your head and to leave Greshamsbury to your son after you, you must marry money. What does it signify whether Ms. Dunstable be twenty-eight or thirty? She has got money, and if you marry her, you may then consider that your position in life is made. Frank was astonished at his aunt's eloquence, but in spite of that eloquence he made up his mind that he would not marry Ms. Dunstable. How could he indeed, seeing that his truth was already plighted to marry Thorn in the presence of his sister? This circumstance, however, he did not choose to plead to his aunt, so he recapitulated any other objections that presented themselves to his mind. In the first place he was so anxious about his degree that he could not think of marrying at present. Then he suggested that it might be better to postpone the question till the season's hunting should be over. He declared that he could not visit Corsi Castle till he got a new suit of clothes home from the tailor, and ultimately remembered that he had a particular engagement to go fly-fishing with Mr. Oriole on that day week. None, however, of these valid reasons were sufficiently potent to turn the countess from her point. Nonsense, Frank, said she, I wonder that you can talk of fly-fishing when the property of Greshamsbury is at stake. You will go with Augusta and myself to Corsi Castle tomorrow. Tomorrow, aunt? He said in the tone in which a condemned criminal might make his ejaculation on hearing that a very near day had been named for his execution. Tomorrow. Yes, we return to Morrow, and shall be happy to have your company. My friends, including Miss Dunstable, come on Thursday. I am quite sure you will like Miss Dunstable. I have settled all that with your mother, so we need say nothing further about it. And now, good night, Frank. Frank, finding that there was nothing more to be said, took his departure, and went out to look for Mary. But Mary had gone home with Janet half an hour since, so he but took himself to his sister Beatrice. Beatrice, said he, I am to go to Corsi Castle tomorrow. So I heard Mamasse. Well, I only came of age to-day, and I will not begin by running counter to them. But I tell you what, I won't stay above a week at Corsi Castle for all the two courses in Barsonshire. Tell me, Beatrice, did you ever hear of a Miss Dunstable? Sir Roger Scatchard. Enough has been said in this narrative to explain to the reader that Roger Scatchard, who was while on a drunken stonemason in Barchester, and who had been so prompt to avenge the injury done to his sister, had become a great man in the world. He had become a contractor, first for little things such as half a mile or so of a railway embankment, or three or four canal bridges, and then a contractor for great things such as government hospitals, locks, docks, and keys, and had latterly had in his hands the making of whole lines of railway. He had been occasionally in partnership with one man for one thing and then with another for another, but had on the whole kept his interests to himself. And now, at the time of our story, he was a very rich man, and he had acquired more than wealth. There had been a time when the government wanted the immediate performance of some extraordinary piece of work, and Roger Scatchard had been the man to do it. There had been some extremely necessary bit of a railway to be made in half the time that such work would properly demand. Some speculation to be incurred requiring great means and courage as well, and Roger Scatchard had been found to be the man for the time. He was then elevated for the moment to the dizzy pinnacle of a newspaper hero, and became one of those whom the king delighteth to honour. He went up one day to kiss Her Majesty's hand, and come down to his new grand house at Boxall Hill, Sir Roger Scatchard Bart. And now, my lady, said he when he explained to his wife the high state to which she had been called by his exertions and the Queen's prerogative, let's have a bit of dinner and a drop of summit hot. Now the drop of summit hot signified a dose of alcohol sufficient to send three ordinary men very drunk to bed. While conquering the world, Roger Scatchard had not conquered his old bad habits. Indeed, he was the same man at all points that he had been when formerly seen about the streets of Barchester with his stonemason's apron tucked up round his waist. The apron he had abandoned, but not the heavy prominent thoughtful brow with the wildly flashing eye beneath it. He was still the same good companion, and still also the same hard-working hero. In this only had he changed that now he would work, and some said equally well, whether he were drunk or sober. Those who were mostly inclined to make a miracle of him, and there was a school of worshipers ready to adore him as their idea of a divine, superhuman, miracle-moving, inspired prophet, declared that his wondrous work was best done, his calculations most quickly and most truly made, that he saw with most accurate eye into the far distant balance of profit and loss, when he was under the influence of the Rosie God. To these worshipers his breakings out, as his periods of intemperance were called in his own set, were his moments of peculiar inspiration, his divine friendsies in which he communicated most closely with those deities who preside over trade transactions, his Alusinian mysteries, to approach him in which was permitted only to a few of the most favored. Scattered has been drunk this week past, they would say one to another when the moment came at which it was to be decided whose offer should be accepted for constructing a harbour to hold all the commerce of Lancashire, or to make a railway from Bombay to Canton. Scattered has been drunk this week past, I am told that he has taken over three gallons of brandy, and then they felt sure that none but Scattered would be called upon to construct the dock, or make the railway. But be this as it may, be it true or false that Sir Roger was most efficacious when in his cups, there can be no doubt that he could not wallow for a week in brandy six or seven times every year without in a great measure injuring, and permanently injuring, the outward man. Whatever immediate effect such symposiums might have on the inner mind, symposiums indeed they were not. Posiums, I will call them, if I may be allowed, but in latter life when he drank heavily he drank alone. However little for evil, or however much for good the working of his brain might be affected, his body suffered greatly. It was not that he became feeble or emaciated, old-looking or inactive, that his hand shook, or that his eye was watery, but that in the moments of his intemperance his life was often not worth a day's purchase. The frame which God had given to him was powerful beyond the power of ordinary men, powerful to act in spite of these violent perturbations, powerful to repress and conquer the qualms and headaches and inward sicknesses to which the votaries of Bacchus are ordinarily subject. But this power was not without its limit. If encroached on too far it would break and fall and come asunder, and then the strong man would at once become a corpse. Scatured had but one friend in the world, and indeed this friend was no friend in the ordinary acceptance of the word. He neither ate with him nor drank with him, nor even frequently talked with him. Their pursuits in life were wide asunder, their tastes were all different. The society in which each moved, very seldom, came together. Scatured had nothing in unison with this solitary friend, but he trusted him, and he trusted no other living creature on God's earth. He trusted this man, but even him he did not trust thoroughly, not at least as one friend should trust another. He believed that this man would not rob him, would probably not lie to him, would not endeavour to make money of him, would not count him up or speculate on him and make out a balance of profit and loss, and therefore he determined to use him. But he put no trust whatever in his friend's counsel, in his modes of thought, none in his theory, and none in his practice. He disliked his friend's counsel, and in fact disliked his society, for his friend was somewhat apt to speak to him in a manner approaching to severity. Now Roger Scatured had done many things in the world and made much money, whereas his friend had done but few things and made no money. It was not to be endured that the practical, efficient man should be taken to task by the man who proved himself to be neither practical nor efficient, not to be endured, certainly, by Roger Scatured, who looked on men at his own class as the men of the day, and on himself as by no means the least among them. The friend was our friend Dr. Thorn. The doctor's first acquaintance with Scatured has already been explained. He was necessarily thrown into communication with the man at the time of the trial, and Scatured then had not only sufficient sense, but sufficient feeling also, to know that the doctor behaved very well. This communication had in different ways been kept up between them. Soon after the trial Scatured had begun to rise, and his first savings had been entrusted to the doctor's care. This had been the beginning of a pecuniary connection which had never wholly ceased, and which had led to the purchase of Boxall Hill, and to the loan of large sums of money to the squire. In another way also there had been a close alliance between them, and one not always of a very pleasant description. The doctor was, and long had been, Sir Roger's medical attendant, and in his unceasing attempts to rescue the drunkard from the fate which was so much to be dreaded, he not unfrequently was driven into a quarrel with his patient. One thing further must be told of Sir Roger. In politics he was as violent a radical as ever, and was very anxious to obtain a position in which he could bring his violence to bear. With this view he was about to contest his native borough of Barchester in the hope of being returned in opposition to the decorcy candidate, and with this object he had now come down to Boxall Hill. Nor were his claims to sit for Barchester such as could be despised, if money were to be overveiled he had plenty of it, and was prepared to spend it, whereas rumour said that Mr. Moffat was equally determined to do nothing so foolish. Then again Sir Roger had a sort of rough eloquence, and was able to address the men of Barchester in language that would come home to their hearts, in words that would endear him to one party, while they made him offensively odious to the other, but Mr. Moffat could make neither friends nor enemies by his eloquence. The Barchester roughs called him dumb dog that could not bark, and sometimes sarcastically added that neither could he bite. The decorcy interest, however, was at his back, and he had also the advantage of possession. The Roger therefore knew that the battle was not to be won without a struggle. Dr. Thorn got safely back from Silverbridge that evening, and found Mary waiting to give him his tea. He had been called there to a consultation with Dr. Century, that amiable old gentleman, having so far fallen away from the high Philgrave tenants, as to consent to the occasional endurance of such degradation. The next morning he breakfasted early, and having mounted his strong iron-grey cob, started for Boxall Hill. Not only had he there to negotiate the squire's further loan, but also to exercise his medical skill, so Roger, having been declared contractor for cutting a canal from sea to sea through the isthmus of Panama, had been making a week of it. And the result was that Lady Scatchard had written rather peremptorily to her husband's medical friend. The doctor consequently trotted off to Boxall Hill on his iron-grey cob. Among his other merits was that of being a good horseman, and he did much of his work on horseback. The fact that he occasionally took a day with the East Barsitchers, and that when he did so he thoroughly enjoyed it, had probably not failed to add something to the strength of the squire's friendship. Well, my lady, how is he? Not much the matter, I hope, said the doctor Assy Shork Hans with the titled Mistress of Boxall Hill in a small breakfast parlour in the rear of the house. The showrooms of Boxall Hill were furnished most magnificently, but they were set apart for company, and as the company never came, seeing that they were never invited, the grand rooms and the grand furniture were not of much material use to Lady Scatchard. Indeed, then, doctor, he's just bad enough, said her ladyship, not in a very happy tone of voice, just bad enough. There's been some at the back of his head rapping and rapping and rapping, and if you don't do something, I'm thinking it will rap him too hard yet. Is he in bed? Why, yes, he is in bed, for when he was first took he couldn't very well help himself, so he put him to bed, and then he don't seem to be quite right yet about the legs, so he hasn't got up, but he's got that winter bones with him to write for him, and when winter bones is there, Scatchard might as well be up for any good that bed'll do him. Mr. Winter-Bones was confidential clerk to Sir Roger. That is to say he was a writing machine, of which Sir Roger made use to do certain work which could not well be adjusted without some contrivance. He was a little, withered, dissipated, broken down man whom gin and poverty had nearly burnt to a cinder, and dried to an ash. Mind he had none left, nor care for earthly things, except the smallest modicum of substantial food, and the largest allowance of liquid sustenance. All that he had ever known he had forgotten, except how to count up figures, and to write. The results of his counting and his writing never stayed with him from one hour to another. Nay, not from one folio to another. Let him, however, be adequately screwed up with gin, and adequately screwed down by the presence of his master, and then no amount of counting and writing would be too much for him. This was Mr. Winter-Bones, confidential clerk to the great Sir Roger, Scatchard. We must send Winter-Bones away, I take it, said the Doctor. Indeed, Doctor, I wish you would. I wish you'd send him to Bath, or anywhere else out of the way. There is Scatchard, he takes Brandy, and there is Winter-Bones, he takes gin, and it had puzzled a woman to say which is worst, master or man. It will seem from this that Lady Scatchard and the Doctor were on very familiar terms as regarded her little domestic inconveniences. Tell Sir Roger I am here, will you, said the Doctor. You'll take a drop of sherry before you go up, said the Lady. Not a drop, thank you, said the Doctor. Or perhaps a little cordial. Not a drop of anything, thank you. I never do, you know. Just a symbol full of this, said the Lady, producing from some recess under a sideboard a bottle of Brandy, just a symbol full, it's what he takes himself. When Lady Scatchard found that even this argument failed, she led the way to the great man's bedroom. Well, Doctor, well, Doctor, well, Doctor, was the greeting with which our son of Galen was saluted some time before he entered the sick-room. His approaching step was heard, and thus the cedivant barchester stonemason saluted his coming friend. The voice was loud and powerful, but not clear and sonorous. What voice that is nurtured on Brandy can ever be clear. It had about it a peculiar huskiness, a dissipated guttural tone, which Thorn immediately recognized, and recognized as being more marked, more guttural, and more husky than here to fore. So you smelt me out of you, and come for your fee. Well, I have had a sharpish bout of it, as her Ladyship there no doubt has told you. Let her alone to make the worst of it. But you see, you're too late, man. I've built the old gentleman again without troubling you. Anyway, I'm glad you're something better, Scatchard. Something? I don't know what you call something. I never was better in my life. Ask Winterbones there. Indeed, now, Scatchard, you ain't. You're bad enough, if you only knew it. And as for Winterbones, he has no business up here in your bedroom, which stinks of gin so it does. Don't you believe him, Doctor? He ain't well, nor yet nigh well. Winterbones, when the above ill-natured allusion was made to the aroma coming from his libations, might be seen to deposit surreptitiously beneath the little table at which he sat, the cup with which he had performed them. The Doctor, in the meantime, had taken Sir Roger's hand on the pretext of feeling his pulse, but was drawing quite as much information from the touch of the sick man's skin, and the look of the sick man's eye. I think Mr. Winterbones had better go back to the London office, said he. Lady Scatchard will be your best clerk for some time, Sir Roger. Then I'll be dashed if Mr. Winterbones does anything of the kind, said he. So there's an end of that. Very well, said the Doctor, a man can die but once. It is my duty to suggest measures for putting off the ceremony as long as possible. Perhaps, however, you may wish to hasten it. Well, I am not very anxious about it one way or the other, said Scatchard, and as he spoke there came a fierce gleam from his eye, which seemed to say, if that's the bugbear with which you wish to frighten me, you will find that you are mistaken. No, Doctor, don't let him talk that way, don't, said Lady Scatchard, with her handkerchief to her eyes. Ah, my lady, do you cut it? Good at once, said Sir Roger, turning hastily round to his better half, and his better half, knowing that the province of a woman is to obey, did cut it. But as she went she gave the Doctor a pull by the coat's sleeve, so that thereby his healing faculties might be sharpened to the very utmost. A best woman in the world, Doctor. The very best, said he as the door closed behind the wife of his bosom. I'm sure of it, said the Doctor. Yes, till you find a better one, said Scatchard. But good or bad, there are some things which a woman can't understand. And some things which he ought not to be let to understand. It's natural she should be anxious about your health, you know. I don't know that, said the contractor. She'll be very well off. All that whining won't keep a man alive at any rate. There was a pause, during which the Doctor continued his medical examination. To this the patient submitted, with a bad grace. But still he did submit. We must turn over a new leaf, Sir Roger. Indeed we must. Bother, said Sir Roger. Well, Scatchard, I must do my duty to you, whether you like it or not. That is to say I am to pay you for trying to frighten me. No human nature can stand such shocks as these much longer. Winterbones, said the contractor, turning to his clerk. Go down, go down, I say, but don't be out of the way. If you go to the public house by g— You may stay there for me. When I take a drop, that is, if I ever do, it does not stand in the way of work. So Mr. Winterbones, picking up his cup again and concealing it in some way beneath his coat flap, retreated out of the room, and the two friends were alone. Scatchard, said the Doctor, you have been as near your God as any man ever was, who afterwards ate and drank in this world. Have I now? said the railway hero, apparently somewhat startled. Indeed, you have. Indeed, you have. And now I'm all right again. All right. How can you be all right when you know that your limbs refuse to carry you? All right. Why, the blood is still beating round your brain with a violence that would destroy any other brain but yours. Ah! laughed Scatchard. He was very proud of thinking himself to be differently organised from other men. Well, and what am I to do now? The whole of the Doctor's prescription we will not give at length. To some of his ordinances Sir Roger promised obedience. To others he objected violently. And to one or two he flatly refused to listen. The great stumbling block was this. The total abstinence from business for two weeks was enjoined. And that it was impossible, so Sir Roger said, that he should abstain for two days. If you work, said the Doctor, in your present state, you will certainly have recourse to the stimulus of drink. And if you drink most assuredly, you will die. Stimulus, why do you think I can't work without Dutch courage? Scatchard, I know that there is brandy in the room at this moment, and that you have been taking it within these two hours. You smell that fellow's gin, said Scatchard. I feel the alcohol working within your veins. Said the Doctor, who still had his hand on his patient's arm. Sir Roger turned himself roughly in the bed, so as to get away from his mentor, and then he began to threaten in his turn. I'll tell you what it is, Doctor. I've made up my mind, and I'll do it. I'll send for Philgrave. Very well, said he of Greshamsbury, send for Philgrave. Your case is one in which even he can hardly go wrong. You think you can hack to me and do as you like, because you had me under your thumb in other days. You're a very good fellow, Thorn, but I ain't sure that you are the best Doctor in all England. You may be sure I am not. You may take me for the worst, if you will. But while I am here as your medical adviser, I can only tell you the truth to the best of my thinking. Now, the truth is this, that another bout of drinking will in all probability kill you, and any recourse to stimulus in your present condition may do so. I'll send for Philgrave. Well, send for Philgrave. Only do it at once. Believe me, at any rate in this, that whatever you do, you should do at once. Oblige me in this. Let Lady Scatchard take away that brandy bottle till Doctor Philgrave comes. I'm dashed if I do. Do you think I can't have a bottle of brandy in my room without swinging? I think you'll be less likely to swig it, if you can't get at it. So Roger made another angry turn in his bed, as well as his half-paralyzed limbs would let him, and then, after a few moments' peace, renewed his threats with increased violence. Yes, I'll have Philgrave over here. If a man be ill, really ill, he should have the best advice he can get. I'll have Philgrave, and I'll have that other fellow from Silverbridge to meet him. What's his name? Century. The Doctor turned his head away. For though the occasion was serious, he could not help smiling at the malicious vengeance with which his friend proposed to gratify himself. I will. I'm rear-child, too. What's the expense? I suppose five or six pound a piece will do it, eh, Thorn? Oh, yes, that will be liberal, I should say. But, Sir Roger, will you allow me to suggest what you ought to do? I don't know how far you may be joking. JOKING! shouted the baronet. You teller money is dying and joking in the same breath. You'll find I'm not joking. Well, I dare say not. But if you have not full confidence in me, I have no confidence in you at all, then why not send to London? Expense is no object to you. It is an object, a great object, nonsense. Send to London for Sir Omicron Pie. Send for some man whom you will really trust when you see him. There's not one of the lot I'd trust as soon as Phil Grave. I've known Phil Grave all my life, and I trust him. I'll send for Phil Grave and put my case in his hands. If anyone can do anything for me, Phil Grave is the man. Then, in God's name, send for Phil Grave, said the doctor. And now, goodbye, is captured. And as you do send for him, give him a fair chance. Do not destroy yourself by more brandy before he comes. That's my affair, and his, not yours, said the patient. So be it. Give me your hand at any rate before I go. I wish you well through it. And when you are well, I'll come and see you. Goodbye, goodbye. And look here, Thorn. You'll be talking to Lady Scatchard downstairs, I know. Now, no nonsense. You understand me, eh? No nonsense, you know. End of Chapter 9 Recording by Nick Whitley, Perley, United Kingdom Chapter 13 Of Dr. Thorn by Anthony Trollop This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Nick Whitley, Perley, United Kingdom Chapter 13 The Two Uncles Laughed Sir Roger lustily as Dr. Thorn entered the room. Well, if that ain't rich, I don't know what is. But why did they not put him under the pump, Doctor? The Doctor, however, had too much tact, and too many things of importance to say, to allow of his giving up much time to the discussion of Dr. Phil Graves Roth. He had come determined to open the 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 be possible. Dr. Thorn therefore began about the loan, that being the easier subject, and found that Sir Roger was quite clear-headed as to his money concerns in spite of his illness. Sir Roger was willing enough to lend Mr. Gresham more money. Six, eight, ten, twenty thousand. But then, in doing so, he should insist on obtaining possession of the title deeds. What, the title deeds of Gresham's Bray for a few thousand pounds, said the Doctor? I don't know whether you call ninety thousand pounds a few thousands, 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 weakens my 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 he wants further accommodation, he must part with his deeds, Doctor. The point was argued backwards and forwards for some time, without a veil, and the Doctor then thought it well to introduce the other subject. Well, Sir Roger, you're a hard man. No, I ain't, said Sir Roger. Not a bit hard. That is not a bit too hard. Money is always hard. I know I found it hard to come by, and there is no reason why Squire Gresham should expect to find me so very soft. Very well, there is an end of that. I thought you would have done as much 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 at all, 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 overheadingly is in debt by way of obligeing you, why, it's a little too much. Well, there's an end of it. Now, I've something to say to you about that will of yours. Oh, that's settled. No, Scatchard, it isn't settled. It must be a great deal more settled before we have done with it, as you'll find when you hear what I have to tell you. What you have to tell me, said Sir Roger, sitting up in bed. And what 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 he is 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, Scatchard. It is a strange story, and maybe it will make you angry. I cannot help it if it does so. I should not tell you this, if I could avoid it. But as I do tell you, for your sake, as you will see, and not for my own, I must implore you not to tell my secret to others. Sir Roger now looked at him with an altered countenance. There was something in his voice of the authoritative tone of other days, something in the doctor's look, which had on the baronet the same effect, which in former days it had sometimes had on the stone mason. Can you give me a promise, Scatchard, that what I am about to tell you shall not be repeated? A promise? Well, I don't know what it's about, you know. I don't like promises in the dark. Then I must leave it to your honour, for what I have to say must be said. You remember my brother, Scatchard? Remember his brother, thought the rich man to himself? The name of the doctor's brother had not been alluded to between them since the days of that trial, but still it was impossible but that Scatchard should well remember him. Yes, yes, certainly. I remember your brother, said he. I remember him well, there's no doubt about that. Well, Scatchard, and as he spoke the doctor laid his hand with kindness on the other's arm. Mary's eldest child was my brother's child as well. But there is no such child living, said Sir Roger, and in his violence as he spoke he threw from off him the bed-clothes, and tried to stand upon the floor. He found, however, that he had no strength for such an effort, and was obliged to remain leaning on the bed and resting on the doctor's arm. There was no such child ever lived, said he. What do you mean by this? Dr. Thorn would say nothing further till he had got the man into bed again. This he had last effected, and then he went on with the story in his own way. Yes, Scatchard, that child is alive, and for fear that you should unintentionally make her your heir, I have thought it right to tell you this. A girl, is it? Yes, a girl. And why should you want to spite her? If she is Mary's child, she is your brother's child also. If she is my niece, she must be your niece, too. Why should you want to spite her? Why should you try to do her such 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 made up 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 circumstances of her history. He was not even yet quite aware whether it would be necessary to say that this foundling orphan was the cherished darling of his own house. Such a child is at any rate living, said he. Of that I give you my assurance. And under your will, as now worded, it might come to pass that that child should be your heir. I do not want to spite her, but I should be wrong to let you make your will without such knowledge, 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 Thorn, Thorn, now that I remember it, now that I can think of things, it was—was it 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, Thorn. Then, when I was a poor, broken-down day labourer, lying in jail, rotting there. But I tell you fairly, I do not believe you now. You have some scheme in this. Whatever scheme I may have, you can frustrate by making another will. What can I gain by telling you this? I only do so to induce you to be more explicit in naming your heir. They both remained silent for a while, during which the baronet poured out from his hidden resource a glass of brandy, and swallowed it. When a man is taken aback suddenly by such tidings as these, he must take a drop of something, eh, doctor? Dr. Thorn did not see the necessity, but the present he felt was no time for arguing the point. Come, Thorn, where is the girl? You must tell me that. She is my niece, and I have a right to know. She shall come here, and I will do something for her. By the Lord, I would as soon she had the money as any one else, if she is anything of a goodon. Some of it, that is. Is she a goodon? Good, said the doctor, turning away his face. Yes, she is good enough. 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. He could hardly trust himself to say much on this point. Mary was a good girl, a very good girl, till, and so Roger raised himself up in his bed with his fist clenched, as though he were again about to strike that fatal blow at the farmyard gate. But come, 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 was silence for a while. What do you call her doctor? Her name is Mary. The prettiest woman's name going. There's no name like it, said the contractor with an unusual tenderness in his voice. Mary. Yes. But Mary what? What other name does she go by? Here the doctor hesitated. Mary sketchered, eh? No, not Mary sketchered. Not Mary sketchered. Mary what, then? You, with your dashed pride, wouldn't let her be called Mary Thorne, I know. This was too much for the doctor. He felt that there were tears in his eyes. So he walked away to the window to dry them, unseen. Had he had fifty names, each more sacred than the other, the most sacred of them all would hardly have been good enough for her. Mary what, doctor? Come, if the girl is to belong to me, if I am to provide for her I must know what to call her, and where to look for her. Who talked of your providing for her? said the doctor, turning round 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 you may not leave your money to her without knowing it. She is provided for. That is, she wants nothing. She will do well enough. You need not trouble yourself about her. But if she's Mary's child, Mary's child in real truth, I will trouble myself about her. Who else should do so? For the matter of that, I'd as soon say her as any of those others in America. But do I care about blood? I shan't mind her being a bastard. That is to say, of course, if she's decently good. Did she ever get any kind of teaching, book learning, or anything of that sort? Dr. Thorn at this moment hated his friend the baronet with almost a deadly hatred, that he, rough brute as he was, for he was a rough brute, that he should speak in such language of the angel who gave to that home in Greshamsbury so many of the joys of paradise, that he should speak of her as in some degree his own, that he should inquire doubtingly as to her attributes and her virtues. And then the doctor thought of her Italian and French readings, of her music, of her nice books and sweet lady ways, of her happy companionship with Patience Oriel, and her dear bosom friendship with Beatrice Gresham. He thought of her grace and winning manners and soft polished feminine beauty, and as he did so he hated Sir Roger Scatchard and regarded him with loathing as he might have regarded a wallowing hog. At last a light seemed to break in upon Sir Roger's mind. Dr. Thorn, 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 Scatchard's child moved him so deeply? Sir Roger had never been at the doctor's house at Greshamsbury, had never seen Mary Thorn, but he had heard that there lived with the doctor some young female relative, and thus a glimmering light seemed to come in upon Sir Roger's bed. He had twitted the doctor with his pride, had said that it was impossible that the girl should be called Mary Thorn. What if she were so cold? What if she were now warming herself at the doctor's house? Well, come, Thorn, 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, a deal more than ever I did yet. Come, Thorn, I'm her uncle too. I have a right to know. She is Mary Thorn, isn't she? The doctor had not the hardy-hood, 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. I have heard of that. She lives with me, and belongs to me, and is as my daughter. She shall come over here. Lady Scatchard shall have her to stay with her. She shall come to us, and as for my will, I'll make another. Oh, yes, make another will, or else alter that one. But as to Miss Thorn coming here, what? Mary? Well, Mary. As to Mary Thorn coming here, that, I fear, will not be possible. She cannot have two homes. She has cast her lot with one of her 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 not like new faces. You have enough depending on you. I have but her. Enough! Why, I have only Louis-Philippe. I could provide for a dozen girls. Well, well, well, we will not talk about that. Ah, but Thorn, you have told me of this girl now, and I cannot but talk of her. If you wished to keep the matter dark, you should have said nothing about it. She is my niece as much as yours. And Thorn, I loved my sister. Mary, quite as well as you loved your brother. Quite as well. Anyone who might now have heard and seen the contractor would have hardly thought him to be the same man who a few hours before was urging that the barchester physician should be put under the pump. You have your son sketched. I have no one but that girl. I don't want to take her from you. I don't want to take her. But surely there can be no harm in her coming here to see us. I can provide for a Thorn. Remember that. I can provide for her without reference to Louis-Philippe. What a ten or fifteen thousand pounds to me. Remember that Thorn. Dr. Thorn did remember it. In that interview he remembered many things, and much passed through his mind, on which he felt himself compelled to resolve, somewhat too suddenly. Would he be justified in rejecting, on behalf of Mary, the offer of pecuniary provision which this rich relative seemed so well inclined to make? Or if he accepted it, would he in truth be studying her interests? Scatchard was a self-willed obstinate man, now indeed touched by unwanted tenderness, but he was one to whose lasting tenderness Dr. Thorn would be very unwilling to trust his darling. He did resolve that on the whole he should best discharge his duty, even to her, by keeping her to himself, and rejecting on her behalf any participation in the baronet's wealth. As Mary herself had said, some people must be bound together, and their destiny, that of himself and his niece, seemed to have so bound them. She had found her place at Greshamsbury, her place in the world, and it would be better for her now to keep it, than to go forth and seek another that would be richer, but at the same time less suited to her. No, Scatchard, he said at last. She cannot come here. She would not be happy here, and to tell the truth I do not wish her to know that she has other relatives. Ah! she would be ashamed of her mother, you mean, and of her mother's brother, too, eh? She's too fine a lady, I suppose, to take me by the hand and give me a kiss and call me her uncle. I and Lady Scatchard would not be grand enough for her, eh? You may say what you please, Scatchard. I, of course, cannot stop you. But I don't know how you'll reconcile what you are doing to your conscience. 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 Thorn, 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 Thorn, 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 do for her. I tell you fairly, I will. You shall not keep her away from those who belong to her, and can do her a good turn. Mary's daughter, another Mary Scatchard, I almost wish she were called Mary Scatchard. Is she like her Thorn? 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 in Barchester anyhow. That was given up to her. Well, I didn't think to be talking of her again. Thorn, you cannot but expect that I shall go over and see Mary's child. Now, Scatchard, look here! And the doctor, coming away from the window 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, Scatchard. I do not want to praise myself in any way, but when that girl was an infant, six months old, she was like to be a thorough obstacle to her mother's fortune in life. Domlinson was willing 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 to her 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 my own 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 in earnest to be in the least afraid of offending his companion. I have not said so, but I do say that you and she are unlike in your way of living. 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 connection between you. Of that I wish to keep her in ignorance. I never knew any one yet who was ashamed of a rich connection. How do you mean to get a husband for her, eh? I have told you of her existence, continued the doctor, not appearing to notice what the baronet had last said, because I found it necessary that you should know the fact of your sister having left this child behind her. You would otherwise have made a will different from that intended. There might have been a lawsuit, and mischief, and misery, when we are gone. You must perceive that I have done this in honesty to you, and you yourself are too honest to repay me by taking advantage of this knowledge to make me unhappy. Oh, very well, doctor. At any rate, you are a brick, I will say that. But I'll think of all this. I'll think of it. But it does startle me to find that poor Mary has a child living so near to me. And now, sketchered, I will say good-bye. We part as friends, don't we? Oh, but, doctor, you ain't going to leave me so. What am I to do? What dorsies shall I take? How much brandy may I drink? May I have a grill for dinner? Dash me, doctor, you have turned Philgrave out of the house. You mustn't go and desert me. Dr. Thorn 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 no brandy, 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. Thorn! Thorn! About that money for Mr. Gresham. Do what you like. Do just what you like. Ten thousand is it? Well, he shall have it. I'll make winter bones right about it at once. Five percent, isn't it? No. Four and a half. Well, he shall have ten thousand more. Thank you, Scatchard. Thank you. I am really very much obliged to you. I am indeed. I wouldn't ask it if I was not sure your money is safe. Goodbye, old fellow. Get rid of that bed-fellow of yours. And again, he was at the door. Thorn! said Sir Roger once more. Thorn! Just come back for a minute. You wouldn't let me send a present, would you? Fifty pounds, also, just to buy a few flounces. The doctor contrived to escape without giving a definite answer to this question, and then, having paid his compliments to Lady Scatchard, remounted his cob, and rode back to Gresham's Brie.