 CHAPTER XI The Doctor got on his cob and went his way, returning duly to Gresham spree. But in truth, as he went, he hardly knew whither he was going or what he was doing. Sir Roger had hinted that the cob would be 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 pace more satisfactorily than on the present occasion. The Doctor indeed hardly knew that he was on horseback, so completely was he enveloped in the cloud of his own thoughts. In the first place, that alternative which it had become him to put before the baronet as one unlikely to occur, that of the speedy death of both father and the son, was one which he felt in his heart of hearts might very probably come to pass. The chances attend to one that such a clause will never be brought to bear. This he had said partly to himself, so as to ease the thoughts which came crowding on his brain, partly also in pity for the 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 other way, was it not almost probable that both these men might be gathered to their long account within the next four years? One, the elder, was a strong man indeed, one who might yet live for years to come if he would but give himself fair play. But then he himself protested and protested with the truth too surely grounded, that fair play to himself 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 never feel sure under any circumstances, but he also was already addicted to his father's vices. He also was already killing himself with alcohol. And then if these two men did die within the prescribed period, if this clause in Sirajah's will were brought to bear, if it should become his, Dr. Thorn's duty, to see that clause carried out, how would he be bound to act? That woman's eldest child was his own niece, his adopted bairn, his darling, the pride of his heart, the sinister of his eye, his child also, his own Mary, of all his duties on this earth, next to that one great duty to his God in conscience with his duty to her. What under these circumstances did his duty to her require of him? But then that one great duty, the duty which she would be the first to expect from him, what did that demand of him, had scattered made his will without saying what its clauses were, it seemed to Thorn that Mary must have been the heiress, could that clause become necessarily operative? Whether she were so or not would at any rate be for the lawyers to decide. But now the case was very different. This rich man had confided in him, and would it not be a breach of confidence, an act of absolute dishonesty, an act of dishonesty both to scattered and to that far distant American family, to that father who in former days had behaved so nobly, and to that eldest child of his, would it not be gross dishonesty to them all if he allowed this man to leave a will by which his property might go to a person never intended to be his heir? Long before he had arrived at Greshamshri, his mind on this point had been made up. Indeed it had been made up while sitting there by scattered's bedside. It had not been difficult to make up his mind to so much, but then his way out of this dishonesty was not so easy for him to find. How should he set this matter right so as to inflict no injury on his niece, and no sorrow to himself, if that indeed could be avoided? And then other thoughts crowded on his brain. He had always professed, professed at any rate to himself and to her, that of all the vile objects of a man's ambition, wealth merely for its own sake, was the vileist. They, in their joint school of inherent philosophy, had progressed to ideas which they might not find it so easy to carry out, should they be called on by events to do so? And if this would have been difficult to either when acting on behalf of self alone, how much more difficult when one might have to act for the other? This difficulty had now come to the uncle. Should he, in this emergency, take upon himself to fling away the golden chance which might accrue to his niece if scattered should be encouraged to make 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 such misery, said the doctor to himself, as he slowly rode into his own yard. On one point and one only had he definitely made up his mind. On the following day he would go over again to Boxall Hill, and would tell Scatchard the whole truth. Come what might, the truth must be the best. And so, with some gleam of comfort, he went into the house and found his niece in the drawing-room with patience orial. Mary and I have been quarrelling, said patience. She says the doctor is the greatest man in the village, and I say the parson is, of course. 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 doctor's century manage his own people? She says, continued Miss Oriole, that if a parson was away for a month no one would miss him, but that a doctor is so precious that his very minutes are counted. I'm sure uncles are. They begrudge him his meals. Mr. Oriole never gets called away to Silverbridge. No. We in the church manage our parish arrangements better than you do. We don't let strange practitioners in among our flocks, because the sheep make chance to fancy them. Our sheep have to put up with our spiritual doses whether they like them or not. In that respect we are much the best off. I advise you, Mary, to marry a clergyman by all means. I will, when you marry a doctor, said she. I am sure nothing on earth would give me greater pleasure, said Miss Oriole, getting up and curtsying very low to Dr. Thorn. But I am not quite prepared for the agitation of an offer this morning, so I'll run away. And so she went, and the doctor, getting on his other horse, started again for Silverbridge wearily enough. She's happy now where she is, said he to himself, as he wrote along. They all treat her there as an equal at Gresham spree. What though she be no cousin to the Thorns of Ullathorn, she has found her place there among them all, and keeps it on equal terms with the best of them. There is Miss Oriole, her family is high, she is rich, fashionable, a beauty, courted by everyone, but yet she does not look down on Mary. They are equal friends together. But how would it be if she were taken to Boxall Hill, even as a recognized niece of the rich man there? Would Patience Oriole and Beatrice Gresham go there after her? Could she be happy there, as she is in my house here, poor though it be? It would kill her to pass a month with Lady Scatchard, and to put up with that man's humours, to see his mode of life, to be dependent on him, to belong to him. And then the doctor, hurrying on to Silverbridge, again met Dr. Century at the old lady's bedside, and having made his endeavours 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 for him, and prepared the comforts of that most comfortable meal, tea, dinner, and supper all in one. I wish Silverbridge was fifty miles off. 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 spoke, he contrived to swallow a joram of scalding tea, containing in measure somewhat near a pint. Mary, not a witt amazed at this feat, merely refilled the joram without any observation, and the doctor went on stirring the mixture with his spoon, evidently oblivious that any ceremony had been performed by either of them, since the first supply had been administered to him. When the clatter of knives and forks was over, the doctor turned himself to the hearth-rug, and putting one leg over the other, he began to nurse it as he looked with complacency at his third cup of tea, which stood untasted beside him. The fragments of this solid banquet had been removed, but no sacrilegious hand had been laid on the teapot and the cream-jug. Mary, said he, suppose you were to find out tomorrow morning that by some accident you had become a great heiress, would you be able to suppress your exultation? The first thing I do would be to pronounce a positive edict that you should never go to Silverbridge again, at least without a day's notice. Well, and what next? What would you do next? The next thing would be to send to Paris for a French bonnet, exactly like the one patient's orial had on. Did you see it? Well, I can't say I did. Bonnets are invisible now. Besides, I never remark anybody's clothes except yours. Oh, do look at Miss Oriol's bonnet the next time you see her. I cannot understand why it should be so, but I am sure of this. No English fingers could put together such a bonnet as that, and I am nearly sure that no French fingers could do it in England. But you don't care so much about bonnets, Mary? This the doctor said is an assertion, but there was nevertheless something of a question involved in it. Don't I, though? said she. I do care very much about bonnets, especially since I saw patients this morning. I asked how much it cost. Yes. Oh, I don't know. A pound? A pound, uncle? What, a great deal more? Ten pounds? Oh, uncle. What, more than ten pounds? That I don't think even Patience Oriol ought to give it. No, of course she would not. But, uncle, it really cost a hundred francs. Oh, a hundred francs. That's four pounds, isn't it? Well, and how much 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 to choose it. The doctor sat silent for a while, meditating about this, during which he unconsciously absorbed the tea beside him, and Mary again replenished his cup. Come, Mary, said he at last. I'm in a generous mood, and as I am rather more rich than usual, we'll send to Paris for a French bonnet. The going for it must wait a while longer, I'm afraid. You're joking. No, indeed. If you know the way to send, that, I must confess, would puzzle 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 into fragments, and burn them before your face. Why, uncle, what do you take me for? You're not a bit nice tonight to make such an offer as that to me. Not a bit, not a bit. And then she came over from her seat at the tea-tree, and sat down on the footstool close to his knee. Because I'd have a French bonnet if I had a large fortune, is that a reason why I should like one now? If you were to pay four pounds for a 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't think you'd look a bit better if you had it, and certainly I should not like to scorch these locks, and putting his hand upon her shoulders, he played with her hair. Patience has a pony phaeton, and I'd have one if I were rich, and I'd have all my books bound as she does, and perhaps I'd give fifty guineas for a dressing-case. Fifty guineas? Patience did not tell me, but so Beatrice says. Patience showed it to me once, and it is a darling. I think I'd have the dressing-case before 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 many things, but nothing of that sort. You know, or should know, that I do not. Why did you talk of buying a French bonnet for me? Dr. Thorn 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, without detriment to the heart or soul. I should be a happier man if you were provided for, as is Miss Oriole. Suppose now I could give you up to a rich man who would be able to insure you against all wants. Insure me against all wants? Oh, that would be a man. That would be selling me, wouldn't it, uncle? Yes, selling me, and the price you would receive would be freedom from future apprehensions as regards me. It would be a cowardly sale for you to make. And then, as to me, me the victim. No, uncle, you must bear the misery of having to provide for me, bonnets and all. We are in the same boat, and you shan'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 bound together. They must depend on each other. Of course, misfortunes may come. But it is cowardly to be afraid of them beforehand. You and I are bound together, uncle, and though you say these things to tease me, I know you do not wish to get rid of me. Well, well, we shall win through, doubtless, if not in one way, then in 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 have been 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 odd number, I'll have a sixth to show that I am not superstitious. While Mary was preparing the sixth Joram, there came a knock at the door. Those late summonses were hateful to Mary's ear, for they were usually the four runners of a midnight ride through the dark lanes to some 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 to defend her uncle from any further invasion on his rest. A note from the house missed, said Janet. Now, the house, in Gresham's reparlance, always meant the squire's mansion. No one ill at the house, I hope, said the doctor, taking the note from Mary's hand. Oh, yes, it's from the squire. There's nobody ill. Wait a minute, Janet, and I'll write a line. Mary, lend me your desk. The squire, anxious as usual for money, had written to ask what success the doctor had had in negotiating the new loan with Sir Roger. The fact, however, was that in his visit at Boxhall Hill, the doctor had been altogether unable to bring on the carpet the matter of this loan. Subjects had crowded themselves in too quickly during that interview, those two interviews at Sir Roger's bedside, and he had 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 to the squire, saying that he would be at Boxhall Hill again on the following day, and that he would call at the house on his return. That settled at any rate, said he. What settled, said Mary? Why, I must go to Boxhall Hill again to-morrow. I must go early, too, so we'd better both be off to bed. Tell Janet I must breakfast at half-past seven. You couldn't take me, could you? I should so like to see that, Sir Roger. To see Sir Roger? Why, he's ill in bed. That's an objection, certainly. But some day, when he's well, could you not take me over? I have the greatest desire to see a man like that, a man who began with nothing and now has more than enough to buy the whole parish of Gresham spree. 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 Lady Scatcha, 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 are neither of them in your way. They are extremely vulgar. Oh, I don't mind that. That would make them more amusing, when doesn't go to those sort of people for polished manners. I don't think you'd find the Scatchard's pleasant acquaintances at all, said the doctor, taking his beg candle and kissing his nieces forward as he left the room. CHAPTER XII. When Greek meets Greek, then comes the tug of war. The doctor, that is, our doctor, had thought nothing more of the message which had been sent to that other doctor, Dr. Phil Grave. More in truth did the Baronet. Lady Scatchard had thought of it, but her husband, during the rest of the day, was not in a humour which allowed her to remind him that he would soon have a new physician on his hands. So she left the difficulty to arrange itself, waiting in some little trepidation till Dr. Phil Grave should show himself. It was well that Sir Roger was not dying for want of his assistance, for when the message reached Barchester, Dr. Phil Grave was some five or six miles out of town, at Plumstead, and as he did not get back till late in the evening, he felt himself necessitated to put off his visit to Waxall Hill till next morning. Had he chance to have been made acquainted with that little conversation about the pump, he would probably have postpone it even yet a little while longer. He was, however, by no means sorry to be summoned to the bedside of Sir Roger Scatchard. It was well known at Barchester and very well known to Dr. Phil Grave that Sir Roger and Dr. Thorn were old friends. It was very well known to him also that Sir Roger, in all his bodily ailments, had hitherto been contented to entrust his safety to the skill of his old friend. Sir Roger was in his way a great man and much talked of in Barchester, and rumour had already reached the ears of the Barchester Galen that the great railway contractor was ill. When, therefore, he received a peremptory summons to go over to Waxall Hill, he could not but think that some pure light had broken in upon Sir Roger's darkness and had taught him at last where to look for true medical accomplishment. And then also Sir Roger was the richest man in the county, and to county practitioners a new patient with large means is a godsend. How much greater a godsend when he be not only acquired but taken also from some rival practitioner need hardly be explained. Dr. Phil Grave, therefore, was somewhat elated when after a very early breakfast he stepped into the post-chase which was to carry him to Waxall Hill. Dr. Phil Grave's professional advancement had been sufficient to justify the establishment of a broom in which he paid his ordinary visits round Barchester, but this was a special occasion requiring special speed, and about to produce no doubt a special girdon, and therefore a pair of post-horses were put into request. It was hardly at nine when the post-boy somewhat loudly rang the bell at Sir Roger's door, and then Dr. Phil Grave, for the first time, found himself in the new grand hall of Waxall Hill House. I'll tell my lady, said the servant, showing him into the grand dining room, and there for some fifteen or twenty minutes Dr. Phil Grave walked up and down the length of the turkey carpet all alone. Dr. Phil Grave was not a tall man, and was perhaps rather more inclined to corpulence than became his height. In his stocking feet, according to the usual he received style of measurement, he was five feet five, and he had a little round abdominal protuberance, which an inch-and-a-half added to the heels of his boots, hardly enabled him to carry off as well as he himself would have wished. Of this he was apparently conscious, and it gave to him an air of not being entirely a disease. There was, however, a personal dignity in his demeanor, a propriety in his gait, and an air of authority in his gestures, which should prohibit one from stigmatizing those effects at altitude as a failure. No doubt he did achieve much, but nevertheless the effort would occasionally betray itself, and the story of the frog and the ox would irresistibly force itself into one's mind at those moments when it most behoove Dr. Phil Grave to be magnificent. But if the bulgy roundness of his person and the shortness of his legs, in any way detracted from his personal importance, these trifling defects were, he was well aware, more than atoned for by the peculiar dignity of his countenance. If his legs were short, his face was not. If there was any undue preponderance below the waistcoat, all was in due symmetry above the necktie. His hair was gray, not grizzled nor white, but properly gray, and stood up straight from off his temples on each side with an unbending determination of purpose. His whiskers, which were of an admirable shape, coming down and turning gracefully at the angle of his jaw, were gray also, but somewhat darker than his hair. His enemies in Barchester declared that their perfect shade was produced by a leaden comb. His eyes were not brilliant, but were very effective, and well under command. He was rather short-sighted, and a pair of eyeglasses was always on his nose or in his hand. His nose was long and well pronounced, and his chin also was sufficiently prominent, but the great feature of his face was his mouth. The amount of secret medical knowledge of which he could give assurance by the pressure of those lips was truly wonderful. By his lips also he could be most exquisitely courteous or most sternly forbidding, and not only could he be either the one or the other, but he could at his well assume any shade of difference between the two and produce any mixture of sentiment. When Dr. Filgrave was first shown into Sir Raj's dining-room, he walked up and down the room for a while with easy jaunty step, with his hands joined together behind his back, calculating the price of the furniture, and counting the heads which might be adequately entertained in a room of such noble proportions. But in seven or eight minutes an air of impatience might have been seen to diffuse his face. Why could he not be shown into the sick man's room? What necessity could there be for keeping him there as though he were some apothecary with a box of leeches in his pocket? He then rang the bell, perhaps a little violently. Does Sir Roger know that I am here? he said to the servant. I'll tell my lady, said the man, again vanishing. For five minutes more he walked up and down, calculating no longer the value of the furniture, but rather that of his own importance. He was not want to be kept waiting in this way, and though Sir Roger sketchered was at present a great and rich man, Dr. Filgrave had remembered him a very small and very poor man. He now began to think of Sir Roger as the stone mason, and a chafe somewhat more violently at being so kept by such a man. When one is impatient, five minutes is as the duration of all time, and a quarter of an hour is eternity. At the end of twenty minutes the step of Dr. Filgrave up and down the room had become very quick, and he had just made up his mind that he would not stay there all day to the serious detriment, perhaps fatal injury, of his other expectant patients. His hand was again on the bell, and was about to be used with vigor when the door opened and Lady Scatchard entered. The door opened, and Lady Scatchard entered, but she did so very slowly, as though she were afraid to come into her own dining-room. We must go back a little, and see how she had been employed during those twenty minutes. Oh, laws! such had been her first exclamation on hearing that the doctor was in the dining-room. She was standing at that time with her housekeeper in a small room in which she kept her linen and jam, and in which, in company with the same housekeeper, she spent the happiest moments of her life. Oh, laws! now, Hannah, what shall we do? Send it up at once to Master, my lady. Let John take it up. There'll be such a row in the house, Hannah. I know there will. But surely didn't he send for her? Let the Master have the row himself, then. That's what I'd do, my lady, added Hannah, seeing that her ladyship still stood trembling, no doubt, biting her thumbnail. You couldn't go up to the Master yourself, could you now, Hannah? said Lady Scatchard, in her most persuasive tone. Why, no, said Hannah, after a little deliberation. No, I'm a feared I couldn't. Then I must just face it myself. And up went the wife to tell her Lord that the physician for whom he had sent had come to attend his bidding. In the interview which then took place, the baronet had not indeed been violent, but he had been very determined. Nothing on earth, he said, should induce him to see Dr. Philgrave and offend his dear old friend, Dr. Thorn. But Roger, said her ladyship, half crying, or rather pretending to cry in her vexation, what shall I do with the man? How shall I get him out of the house? Put him under the pump, said the baronet, and he laughed his peculiar, low, guttural laugh, which told so plainly of the havoc which Brandy had made in his throat. That's nonsense, Roger. You know I can't put him under the pump. Now you are ill, and you'd better see him just for five minutes. I'll make it all right with Dr. Thorn. I'll be dup if I do, my lady. All the people about Boxall Hill called poor Lady Scatchard, my lady, as if there was some excellent joke in it, and so indeed there was. You know you needn't mind nothing he says, nor take nothing he sends, and I'll tell him not to come no more. Now do ye see him, Roger? But there was no coaxing Roger now, or indeed ever. He was a wilful, headstrong, masterful man, a tyrant, though never a cruel one, and accustomed to rule his wife and household as despotically as he did his gangs of workmen. Such men it is not easy to coax over. You go down and tell him I don't want him, and I won't see him, and that's the end of it. If he chose to earn his money, why didn't he come yesterday when he was sent for? I'm well now, and don't want him, and what's more, I won't have him. Winterbones, lock the door. So Winterbones, who during this interview had been at work at his little table, got up to lock the door, and Lady Scatchard had no alternative but to pass through it before the last edict was obeyed. Lady Scatchard, with slow step, went downstairs, and again sought counsel with Hannah, and the two putting their heads together, agreed that the only cure for the present evil was to be found in a handsome fee. So Lady Scatchard, with a five-pound note in her hand, and trembling in every limb, went forth to encounter the august presence of Dr. Philgrave. As the door opened, Dr. Philgrave dropped the bell-rope which was in his hand, and bowed low to the lady. Those who knew the Dr. Well would have known from his bow that he was not well pleased. It was as much as though he said, Lady Scatchard, I am your most obedient humble servant, at any rate it appears that it is your pleasure to treat me as such. Lady Scatchard did not understand all this, but she perceived at once that the man was angry. I hope Sir Roger does not find himself worse, said the doctor. The morning is getting on. Shall I step up and see him? Why, you see, Dr. Philgrave, Sir Roger finds his self vastly better this morning, vastly so. I am very glad to hear it. But as the morning is getting on, shall I step up to see, Sir Roger? Why, Dr. Philgrave, sir, you see, he finds his self so much his self this morning that he almost thinks it will be a shame to trouble you. A shame to trouble me? This was the sort of shame which Dr. Philgrave did not at all comprehend. A shame to trouble me? Why, Lady Scatchard—Lady Scatchard saw that she had nothing for it but to make the whole matter intelligible. Moreover, seeing that she appreciated more thoroughly the smallness of Dr. Philgrave's person than she did the peculiar greatness of his demeanor, she began to be a shade less afraid of him than she had thought she should have been. Yes, Dr. Philgrave, you see, when a man like he gets well, he can't abide the idea of doctors. Now yesterday he was all for sending for you, but today he comes to his self, and he don't seem to want no doctor at all. Then did Dr. Philgrave seem to grow out of his boots, so suddenly did he take upon himself sundry modes of expansive attitude, to grow out of his boots and to swell upwards till his angry eyes almost looked down on Lady Scatchard, and each erect hair bristled up towards the heavens. This is very singular, very singular, Lady Scatchard, very singular indeed, very singular, quite unusual. I have come here from Barchester at some considerable inconvenience, with some very considerable inconvenience, I may say, to my regular patients, and, and, and I don't know that anything so very singular ever occurred to me before. And then Dr. Philgrave, with the compression of his lips, which almost made the poor woman sink into the ground, moved towards the door. Then Lady Scatchard bethought her of her great panacea. It isn't about the money you know, doctor, said she. Of course, Sir Roger, don't expect you to come here with post-horses for nothing. In this, by the by, Lady Scatchard did not stick quite close to veracity. For Sir Roger had he known it, would by no means have ascended to any payment, and the note which her ladyship held in her hand was taken from her own private purse. It ain't at all about the money, doctor. And then she tended the banknote which she thought would immediately make all things smooth. Now Dr. Philgrave dearly loved a five-pound fee. What physician is so unnatural as not to love it? He dearly loved a five-pound fee, but he loved his dignity better. He was angry also, and like all angry men, he loved his grievance. He felt that he had been badly treated, but if he took the money he would throw away his right to indulge in any such feeling. At that moment his outraged dignity and his cherished anger were worth more than a five-pound note. He looked at it with wishful but still averted eyes, and then sternly refused the tender. No, madam, said he, no, no. And with his right hand raised with his eyeglasses in it he motioned away the tempting paper. No, I should have been happy to have given Sir Roger the benefit of any medical skill I may have, seeing that I was specially called in. But doctor, if the man's well, you know. Oh, of course, if he's well, and does not choose to see me, there's an end of it. Should he have any relapse, as my time is valuable, he will perhaps oblige me by sending elsewhere. Madam, good morning. I will, if you will allow me, ring for my carriage. That is, post-shays. But doctor, you'll take the money. You must take the money. Indeed you'll take the money, said Lady Scatchard, who would now become really unhappy at the idea that her husband's unpardonable whim had brought this man with post-horses all the way from Barchester, and that he was to be paid nothing for his time nor costs. No, madam, no. I could not think of it. Sir Roger, I have no doubt, will know better another time. It is not a question of money, not at all. But it is a question of money, doctor, and you really shall you must. And poor Lady Scatchard, in her anxiety to acquit herself at any rate of any pecuniary debt to the doctor, came to personal close quarters with him, with the view of forcing the note into his hands. Quite impossible, quite impossible, said the doctor, still cherishing his grievance, and valiantly rejecting the root of all evil. I shall not do anything of the kind, Lady Scatchard. Now, doctor, do ye to oblige me? Quite out of the question. And so, with his hands and hat behind his back, in token of his utter refusal to accept any pecuniary accommodation of his injury, he made his way backwards to the door, her ladyship perseveringly pressing him in front. So eager had been the attack on him that he had not waited to give his order about the post-chase, but made his way at once towards the hall. Now, do ye take it, do ye? pressed Lady Scatchard. Utterly out of the question, said Dr. Phil Grave, with great deliberation, as he backed his way into the hall, as he did so, of course, he turned round, and he found himself almost in the arms of Dr. Thorn. As Burley must have glared at Bothwell, when they rushed together in the dread encounter on the mountainside, as Achilles may have glared at Hector when at last they met, each resolved to test in fatal conflict the prowess of the other, so did Dr. Phil Grave glare at his foe from Greshamsbury, when, on turning round on his exalted heel, he found his nose on a level with the top button of Dr. Thorn's waistcoat. And here, if it be not too tedious, let us pause a while, to recapitulate and add up the undoubted grievances of the barchester practitioner. She had made no effort to ingratiate himself into the sheepfold of that other shepherd dog. It was not by his seeking that he was now at Boxall Hill. Much as he hated Dr. Thorn, full-sure as he felt of that man's utter ignorance, of his incapacity to administer properly even a black dose, of his murdering propensities and his low, mean, unprofessional style of practice, nevertheless he had done nothing to undermine him with these scatchards. Dr. Thorn might have sent every mother's son at Boxall Hill to his log-account, and Dr. Phil Grave would not have interfered, would not have interfered unless specially and duly called upon to do so. But he had been specially and duly called on. Before such a step was taken some words must undoubtedly have passed on the subject between Thorn and the scatchards. Thorn must have known what was to be done. Having been so called, Dr. Phil Grave had come, had come all the way in a post-chase, had been refused admittance to the sick man's room on the plea that the sick man was no longer sick, and, just as he was about to retire fee-less, for the want of the fee was not the less agreevence from the fact of its having been tendered and refused, fee-less, dishonored, and in-dudgeon. He encountered this other doctor, this very rival whom he had been sent to supplant. He encountered him at the very act of going into the sick man's room. What mad fanatic burly, what god-suckered, insolent Achilles ever had such cause to swell with wrath as at that moment had Dr. Phil Grave. Had I the pen of Molière I could fitly tell of such medical anger, but with no other pen can it be fitly told. He did swell, and when the huge bulk of his wrath was added to his natural proportions he loomed gigantic before the eyes of the surrounding followers of Sir Roger. Dr. Thorn stepped back three steps, and took his hat from his head, having in the passage from the hall door to the dining-room, hitherto admitted to do so. It must be borne in mind that he had no conception whatever that Sir Roger had declined to see the physician for whom he had sent, none whatever that the physician was now about to return fee-less to Barchester. Dr. Thorn and Dr. Phil Grave were doubtless well-known enemies. All the world of Barchester, and all that portion of the world of London, which is concerned with the Lancet and the scalping knife, were well aware of this. They were continually writing against each other, continually speaking against each other, but yet they had never hitherto come to that positive personal collision which is held to justify a cut direct they very rarely saw each other, and when they did meet it was in some casual way in the streets of Barchester or elsewhere, and on such occasions their habit had been to bow with very cold propriety. On the present occasion Dr. Thorn, of course, felt that Dr. Phil Grave had the whip-hand of him, and with a sort of manly feeling on such a point he conceived it to be most compatible with his own dignity to show, under such circumstances, more than his usual courtesy, something perhaps amounting almost to cordiality. He had been supplanted, co-odd, doctor, in the house of this rich, eccentric railway baronet, and he would show that he bore no malice on that account. So he smiled blandly as he took off his hat, and in a civil speech he expressed to hope that Dr. Phil Grave had not found his patient to be in any very unfavorable state. Here was an aggravation to the already lacerated feelings of the injured man. He had been brought thither to be scoffed at and scorned at, that he might be a laughing stock to his enemies and food for mirth to the vile-minded. He swelled with noble anger till he would have burst had it not been for the opportune padding of his frockcoat. Sir, said he, sir, and he could hardly get his lips open to give vent to the tumult of his heart. Perhaps he was not wrong, for it may be that his lips were more eloquent than would have been his words. What's the matter, said Dr. Thorn, opening his eyes wide, and addressing Lady Scatchard over the head and across the hairs of the irritated man below him. What on earth is the matter? Is anything wrong with Sir Roger? Oh, laws, doctor, said her ladyship. Oh, laws! I'm sure it ain't my fault. Here's Dr. Phil Grave in a taking, and I'm quite ready to pay him. If a man gets paid, what more can he want? And she again held out the five-pound note over Dr. Phil Grave's head. What more, indeed, Lady Scatchard, can any of us want if only we could keep our tempers and feelings a little in abeyance. Dr. Phil Grave, however, could not so keep his, and therefore he did want something more, though at the present moment he could hardly have said what. Lady Scatchard's courage was somewhat resuscitated by the presence of her ancient trusty ally, and moreover she began to conceive that the little man before her was unreasonable beyond all conscience in his anger, seeing that that for which he was ready to work had been offered to him without any work at all. Madam, said he, again turning round at Lady Scatchard, I was never before treated in such a way in any house in Barchester, never, never. Good heavens, Dr. Phil Grave, said he of Greshamsri. What is the matter? I'll let you know what is the matter, sir, said he, turning round as quickly as before. I'll let you know what is the matter. I'll publish this, sir, to the medical world, and as he shrieked out the words of the threat, he stood on tiptoes and brandished his eyeglasses almost up to his enemy's face. Don't be angry with Dr. Thorne, said Lady Scatchard. Anyways, you needn't be angry with him. If you must be angry with anybody, I shall be angry with him, Madam, ejaculated Dr. Phil Grave, making another sudden demi pirouette. I am angry with him, or rather, I despise him. And completing the circle, Dr. Phil Grave, again, brought himself round in full front of his foe. Dr. Thorne raised his eyebrows and looked inquiringly at Lady Scatchard. But there was a quiet, sarcastic motion round his mouth, which by no means had the effect of throwing oil on the troubled waters. I'll publish a whole of this transaction to the medical world, Dr. Thorne, the whole of it, and if that has not the effect of rescuing the people of Gressamsbury out of your hand, then I don't know what will. Is my carriage, that is, the post-chase there? And Dr. Phil Grave, speaking very loudly, turned majestically to one of the servants. What have I done to you, Dr. Phil Grave? said Dr. Thorne, now absolutely laughing, that you should be determined to take my bread out of my mouth. I am not interfering with your patient. I have come here simply with reference to money matters appertaining to Sir Roger. Money matters. Very well. Very well. Money matters. That is your idea of medical practice. Very well. Very well. Is my post-chase at the door? I'll publish it all to the medical world. Every word, every word of it, every word of it. Publish what, you unreasonable man? Man, sir, whom do you call a man? I'll let you know whether I'm a man. Post-chase there. Don't he call him names now, doctor? Don't he pray? Don't he? said Lady Scatchard. By this time they had all got somewhere nearer the hall door, but the Scatchard retainers were too fond of the row to absent themselves willingly at Dr. Phil Grave's bidding, and it did not appear that any one went in search of the post-chase. Man, sir, I'll let you know what it is to speak to me in that style. I think, sir, you hardly know who I am. All that I know of you at present is that you are my friend Sir Roger's physician, and I cannot conceive what has occurred to make you so angry. And as he spoke, Dr. Thorn looked carefully at him to see whether that pump discipline had, in truth, been applied. My post-chase. Is my post-chase there? The medical world shall know all. You may be sure, sir. The medical world shall know it all, and thus ordering his post-chase, and threatening Dr. Thorn with the medical world, Dr. Philgrave made his way to the door. But the moment he put on this hat he returned. No, madam, said he. No, it is quite out of the question. Such an affair is not to be arranged by such means. I'll publish it all to the medical world, post-chase there, and then using all his force he flung as far as he could into the hall a light bit of paper. It fell at Dr. Thorn's feet, who, raising it, found that it was a five-pound note. I put it into his hat just when he was in his tantrum, said Lady Scatchard, and I thought that perhaps he would not find it till he got to Barchester, while I wish he'd been paid, certainly, although Sir Roger wouldn't see him, and in this manner Dr. Thorn got some glimpse of understanding into the cause of the great offence. I wonder whether Sir Roger will see me, said he, laughing. CHAPTER XIII. THE TWO UNCLES. HA HA HA HA HA! laughed Sir Roger lustily, as Dr. Thorn entered the room. Well, if that ain't rich, I don't know what is, ha ha! 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. Philgrave's wrath. 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 free 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 shelling 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 avail, 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 enough 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's all. 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 ask me to go on lending money to a third party, and he overhead in ears and debt by way of obliging 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, Scatchit, 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 25. 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, Scatchit. 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, Scatchit, 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, Scatchit? Remember his brother, thought the rich man to himself. The name of the doctor's brother had not been eluded to between them since the days of that trial. But still it was impossible but that Scatchit should well remember him. Yes, yes, certainly I remember your brother, said he. I remember him well. There's no doubt about that. Well, Scatchit, 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's 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. Thorne would say nothing further till he had got the man at a bed again. This he had last effected, and then he went on with the story in his own way. Yes, Scatchit, 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 laborer 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 as she had the money as anyone else, if she is anything of a good on. Some of it, that is. Is she a good on? 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 Sir Roger raised himself up in his bed, with his fists 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 pride wouldn't let her be called Mary Thorn, 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. What 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 Marinette, with an almost 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 Gressemsbury 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 in sweet lady ways, of her happy companionship with patience orial, and her dear, bosom friendship with Beatrice Gressem. 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 the 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 the subject of Mary Scatchard's child moved him so deeply? Sir Roger had never been at the doctor's house at Gressemsbury, 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 called? What if she were now warming herself at the doctor's hearth? 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 great 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 Gressemsbury, 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, I'll—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 hardly have 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 scattered. 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 her, Thorn. Remember that. I can provide for her without reference to Louis Philippe. What are 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? Scattered was the self-willed, obstinate man, now indeed touched by unwanted tenderness, but he was one 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, Scattered, 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 Scattered would not be grand enough for her, eh? You may say what you please, Scattered, 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 the seer. But Thorn, I'll tell you what, I will seer. 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 who can do her a good turn. Mary's daughter, another Mary, Scattered, I almost wish she were called Mary, Scattered. Is she like her, Thorn? Don't 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, Scattered, 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, Scattered. 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. Tomlinson 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's just it. We are too vulgar for her. You may take it as you will, said the doctor, who is too much an 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 anyone 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, scattered, 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 dosage shall I take? How much brandy may I drink? May I have a grill for dinner? Deep 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. Good-bye, old fellow, and 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 or so, 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. CHAPTER XIV of Dr. Thorn. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Dr. Thorn by Anthony Trollop. CHAPTER XIV. SENTENCE OF EXCEL. Dr. Thorn did not at once go home to his own house. When he reached the Gresham's Brie Gates, he set his horse to its own stable by one of the people at the lodge, and then walked on to the mansion. He had to see the squire on the subject of the forthcoming loan, and he had also to see Lady Arabella. The Lady Arabella, though she was not personally attached to the doctor, with quite so much warmth as some others of her family, still had reasons of her own for not dispensing with his visits to the house. She was one of his patients, and a patient fearful of the disease with which she was threatened. Though she thought the doctor to be arrogant, deficient as to properly submissive demeanor towards herself, an instigator to marital parsimony in her lord, one altogether opposed to herself and her interest in Gresham's Brie politics, nevertheless she did feel trust in him as a medical man. She had no wish to be rescued out of his hands by any doctor Phil Grave, as regarded that complaint of hers, much as she may have desired, and did desire, to sever him from all Gresham's Brie councils in all matters not touching the healing art. Now the complaint of which the Lady Arabella was afraid was cancer, and her only present confidant in this matter was Dr. Thorn. The first of the Gresham's Brie circle whom he saw was Beatrice, and he met her in the garden. "'Oh, doctor,' said she, "'where has Mary been this age? She has not been up here since Frank's birthday.' "'Well, that was only three days ago. Why don't you go down and ferret her out in the village?' "'So I have done. I was there just now and found her out. She was out with patience orial. Patience is all and all with her now. Patience is all very well. But if they throw me over—' My dear Miss Gresham, patience is and always was a virtue. A poor, beggarly sneaking virtue after all, doctor. They should have come up, seeing how deserted I am here. There's absolutely nobody left.' "'Has Lady DeCorsi gone?' "'Oh, yes, all the DeCorsis have gone. I think between ourselves Mary stays away because she does not love them too well. They have all gone and taken Augusta and Frank with them.' "'Has Frank gone to Corsi Castle?' "'Oh, yes, did you not hear? There was rather a fight about it. Sir Frank wanted to get off and was as hard to catch as an eel, and then the Countess was offended, and Papa said he didn't see why Frank had to go if he didn't like it. Papa is very anxious about his degree, you know.' The doctor understood it all as well as though it had been described to him at full length. The Countess had claimed her prey in order that she might carry him off to Miss Dunstable's golden embrace. The prey, not yet old enough and wise enough to connect the worship of Plutus with that of Venus, had made sundry futile faints and dodges in the vain hope of escape. Then the anxious mother had enforced that DeCorsi behests with all the mother's authority. But the father, whose ideas on the subject of Miss Dunstable's wealth had probably not been consulted, had, as a matter of course, taken exactly the other side of the question. The doctor did not require to be told all this in order to know how the battle had raged. He had not yet heard of the great Dunstable scheme, but he was sufficiently acquainted with Gresham's free tactics to understand that the war had been carried on somewhat after this fashion. As a rule, when the squire took a point warmly to heart, he was wont to carry his way against the DeCorsi interest. He could be obstinate enough when it so pleased him, and had before now gone so far as to tell his wife that her thrice noble sister-in-law might remain at home at Corsi Castle, or at any rate not come to Gresham's free, if she could not do so without striving to rule him and everyone else when she got here. This had, of course, been repeated to the Countess, who had merely replied to it by a sisterly whisper in which she sorrowfully intimated that some men were born brutes and always would remain so. I think they all are, the Lady Arabella had replied, wishing perhaps to remind her sister-in-law that the breed of brutes was as rampart and west-barsature as in the eastern division of the county. The squire, however, had not fought on this occasion with all his vigor. There had, of course, been some passages between him and his son, and it had been agreed that Frank should go for a fortnight to Corsi Castle. We mustn't quarrel with them, you know, if we can help it, said the Father, and therefore you must go sooner or later. Well, I suppose so, but you don't know how dull it is, Governor. Don't I, said Gresham. There's a mistunstable to be there. Did you ever hear of her, sir? No, never. She's a girl whose father used to make ointment or something of that sort. Oh, yes, to be sure, the ointment of Lebedon. He used to cover all the walls in London. I haven't heard of him this year past. No, that's because he's dead. Well, she carries on the ointment now, I believe, at any rate she has got all the money. I wonder what she's like. You'd better go and see, said the Father, who now began to have some inkling of an idea why the two ladies were so anxious to carry off his son to Corsi Castle at this exact time. And so Frank had packed up his best clothes, given a last fond look at the new black horse, repeated his last special injunctions to Peter, and had then made one of the stately cortege which proceeded through the county from Greshamsbury to Corsi Castle. I'm very glad of that, very, said the squire, when he heard that the money was to be forthcoming. I shall get it on easier terms from him than elsewhere, and it kills me to have continual bother about such things. And Mr. Gresham, feeling that that difficulty was tided over for a time, and that the immediate pressure of little debts would be abated, stretched himself on his easy chair as though he were quite comfortable, one may almost say, elated. How frequent it is that men on their road to ruin feel elation such as this. A man signs away a moiety of his substance, nay, that were nothing, but a moiety of the substance of his children. He puts his pen to the paper that ruins him and them, but in doing so he frees himself from a score of immediate little pestering, stinging troubles, and therefore feels as though fortune has been almost kind to him. The doctor felt angry with himself for what he had done when he saw how easily the squire adapted himself to this new loan. It will make Scatchard's claim upon you very heavy, said he. Mr. Gresham at once read all that was passing through the doctor's mind. Well, what else can I do, said he. You wouldn't have me allow my daughter to lose this match for the sake of a few thousand pounds. It will be well at any rate to have one of them settled. Look at that letter from Moffat. The doctor took the letter and read it. It was a long, wordy, ill-written rigamarole in which that amorous gentleman spoke with much rapture of his love and devotion for Mr. Gresham, but at the same time declared, and most positively swore, that the adverse cruelty of his circumstances was such that it would not allow him to stand up like a man at the hymenial altar until six thousand pounds hard cash had been paid down at his bankers. It may be all right, said the squire, but in my time gentlemen were not used to write such letters as that to each other. The doctor shrugged his shoulders. He did not know how far he would be justified in saying much, even to his friend the squire, in dispraise of his future son-in-law. I told him that he should have the money, and one would have thought that that would have been enough for him. Well, I suppose Augusta likes him. I suppose she wishes the match. Otherwise I would give him such an answer to that letter as would startle him a little. What settlement is he to make, said Thorn? Oh, that's satisfactory enough. Couldn't be more so. A thousand a year in the house at Wimbledon for her. That's all very well. But such a lie, you know, Thorn. He's rolling in money, and yet he talks of this beggarly sum as though he couldn't possibly stir without it. If I might venture to speak by mind, said Thorn. Well, said the squire, looking at him earnestly. I should be inclined to say that Mr. Moffat wants to cry off himself. Oh, impossible, quite impossible. In the first place he was so very anxious for the match. In the next place it is such a great thing for him, and then he would never dare, you see, he is dependent on the decorcies for his seat. But suppose he loses his seat. But there is not much fear of that, I think. Skatchard may be a very fine fellow, but I think they'll hardly return him at Barchester. I don't understand much about it, said Thorn, but such things do happen. And you believe that this man absolutely wants to get off the match? Absolutely thinks of playing such a trick as that on my daughter, on me? I don't say he intends to do it, but it looks to me as though he were making a door for himself, or trying to make a door. If so, your having the money will stop him there. But Thorn, don't you think he loves the girl, if I thought not? The doctor stood silent for a moment, and then he said, I am not a love-making man myself, but I think that if I were much in love with a young lady I should not write such a letter as that to her father. By heavens, if I thought so, said the squire. But Thorn, we can't judge of those fellows as one does of gentlemen. They are so used to making money and seeing money made, that they have an eye to business and everything. Perhaps so, perhaps so, muttered the doctor, showing evidently that he still doubted the warmth of Mr. Moffat's affection. The match was none of my making, and I cannot interfere now to break it off. It will give her a good position in the world, for after all money goes a great way, and it is something to be in Parliament. I can only hope she likes him. I do truly hope she likes him. And the squire also showed, by the tone of his voice, that though he might hope that his daughter was in love with her intended husband, he hardly conceived it to be possible that she should be so. And what was the truth of the matter? Miss Grescher was no more in love with Mr. Moffat than you are. Oh, sweet young blooming beauty, not a Whitmore, not at least in your sense of the word, nor in mine. She had by no means resolved within her heart that of all men whom she had ever seen, or ever could see, he was far away the nicest and best. That is what you will do when you are in love, if you will be good for anything. She had no longing to sit near to him, the nearer the better. She had no thought of his taste and his choice when she bought her ribbons and bonnets. She had no indescribable desire that all her female friends should be ever talking to her about him. When she wrote to him, she did not copy her letters again and again, so that she might be, as it were, ever speaking to him. She took no special pride in herself because he had chosen her to be his life's partner. In point of fact, she did not care one straw about him. And yet she thought she loved him, was indeed quite confident that she did so, told her mother that she would sure Gustavus would wish this, she knew Gustavus would like that, and so on, but as for Gustavus himself, she did not care a chip for him. She was in love with her match just as far as her in love with wheat at eighty shillings a quarter, or shareholders, innocent gudgens, with seven-and-a-half percent interest on their paid-up capital. Eighty shillings a quarter and seven-and-a-half percent interest, such with the returns which she had been taught to look for in exchange for her young heart, and having obtained them, or being thus about to obtain them, why should not her young heart be satisfied? Had she not sat down herself obediently at the feet of her Lady Gamaliel, and should she not be rewarded? Yes indeed, she shall be rewarded. And then the doctor went to the lady. On their medical secrets we will not intrude, but there were other matters bearing on the course of our narrative, as to which Lady Arabella found it necessary to say a word or so to the doctor, and it is essential that we should know what was the tenor of those few words so spoken. How the aspirations and instincts and feelings of a household become changed as the young birds begin to flutter with feathered wings, and have half-formed thoughts of leaving the parental nest. A few months back Frank had reigned almost autocratic over the lesser subjects of the kingdom of Greshamsbury. The servants, for instance, always obeyed him, and his sisters never dreamed of telling anything which he directed should not be told. All his mischief, all his troubles, and all his loves were confided to them with a sure conviction that they would never be made to stand in evidence against him. Trusting to this well-assertained state of things, he had not hesitated to declare his love for Miss Thorn before his sister Augusta. But his sister Augusta had now, as it were, been received into the upper house, having duly received and duly profited by the lessons of her great instructress, she was now admitted to sit in conclave with the higher powers. Her sympathies, of course, became changed, and her confidence was removed from the young and giddy and given to the ancient and discreet. She was as a schoolboy, who, having finished his schooling and being fairly forced by necessity into the stern, bread-earning world, undertakes the new duties of tutoring. Yesterday he was taught and fought, of course, against the schoolmaster. Today he teaches and fights as keenly for him. So it was with Augusta Gresham, when with careful brow she whispered to her mother that there was something wrong between Frank and Mary Thorn. Stop it at once, Arabella. Stop it at once, the Countess had said. That indeed will be ruined. If he does not marry money he is lost. Good heavens! The doctor's niece! A girl that nobody knows where she comes from. He's going with you to-morrow, you know, said the anxious mother. Yes, and that is so far well. If he will be led by me the evil may be remedied before he returns. But it is very, very hard to lead young men. Arabella, you must forbid that girl to come to Gresham's again on any pretext whatever. The evil must be stopped at once. But she is here so much as a matter of course. Then she must be here as a matter of course no more. There has been folly, very great folly, in having her here. Of course she would turn out to be a designing creature with such temptation before her, with such surprise within her reach. How could she help it? I must say, and she answered him very properly, said Augusta. Nonsense, said the Countess. Before you, of course she did. Arabella, the matter must not be left to the girl's propriety. I never knew the propriety of a girl of that sort to be fit to be depended upon yet. If you wish to save the whole family from ruin you must take steps to keep her away from Gresham's room now at once. Now is the time. Now that Frank is to be away. There's so much, so very much depends on a young man's marrying money, not one day ought to be lost. Instigated in this manner, Lady Arabella resolved to open her mind to the doctor, and to make it intelligible to him that under present circumstances Mary's visits at Gresham's room had better be discontinued. She would have given much, however, to have escaped this business. She had in her time tried one or two falls with the doctor, and she was conscious that she had never yet got the better of him. And then she was, in a slight degree, afraid of Mary herself. She had a sentiment that it would not be so easy to banish Mary from Gresham's room. She was not sure that the young lady would not boldly assert her right to her place in the school room, appeal loudly to the squire, and perhaps declare her determination of marrying the heir out before them all. The squire would be sure to uphold her in that or in anything else. And then, too, there would be the greatest difficulty in wording her request to the doctor, and Lady Arabella was sufficiently conscious of her own weakness to know that she was not always very good at words. But the doctor, when hard pressed, was never a fault. He could say the bitterest things in the quietest tone, and Lady Arabella had a great dread of these bitter things. Not also if he should desert her himself, withdraw from her his skill and knowledge of her bodily wants and ailments, now that he was so necessary to her. She had once before taken that measure of sending to Barchester for Dr. Phil Grave, but it had answered with her hardly better than with Sir Roger and Lady Scatrid. When therefore Lady Arabella found herself alone with the doctor, and called upon to say out her say in what best language she could select for the occasion, she did not feel to be very much at her ease. There was that about the man before her which cowed her, in spite of her being the wife of the squire, the sister of an earl, a person quite acknowledged to be of the great world, and the mother of the very important young man whose affections were now to be called in question. Nevertheless there was the task to be done, and with the mother's courage she assayed it. Dr. Thorn, said she, as soon as their medical conference was at an end, I am very glad you came over to-day, for I had something special which I wanted to say to you. So far she got, and then stopped, but as the doctor did not seem inclined to give her any assistance, she was forced to flound her on as best she could. Something very particular indeed, you know what a respect and esteem, and I may say affection we all have for you. Here the doctor made a low bow, and I may say for Mary also, here the doctor bowed himself again. We have done what little we could to be pleasant neighbours, and I think you'll believe me when I say that I am a true friend to you and dear Mary. The doctor knew that something very unpleasant was coming, but he could not at all guess what might be its nature. He felt, however, that he must say something, so he expressed a hope that he was duly sensible of all the acts of kindness he had ever received from the squire and the family at large. I hope therefore, my dear doctor, you won't take amiss what I am going to say? Well, Lady Arabella, I'll endeavour not to do so. I am sure I would not give any pain if I could help it, much less to you. But there are occasions, doctor, in which duty must be paramount, to all other considerations you know, and certainly this occasion is one of them. But what is the occasion, Lady Arabella? I'll tell you, doctor, you know what Frank's position is. Frank's position as regards what? Why, his position in life, an only son, you know. Oh, yes, I know his position in that respect. An only son, and his father's heir, and a very fine fellow he is. You have but one son, Lady Arabella, and you may well be proud of him. Lady Arabella sighed. She did not wish at the present moment to express herself as being in any way proud of Frank. She was desirous, rather, on the other hand, of showing that she was a good deal ashamed of him, only not quite so much ashamed of him as it behooved the doctor to be of his niece. Well, perhaps so, yes, said Lady Arabella. He is, I believe, a very good young man, with an excellent disposition, but, doctor, his position is very precarious, and he is just at that time of life when every caution is necessary. To the doctor's ears Lady Arabella was now talking of her son, as the mother might of her infant when whooping cough was abroad, or croop imminent. There is nothing on earth the matter with him, I should say, said the doctor. He is every possible sign of perfect health. Oh, yes, his health. Yes, thank God his health is good. That is a great blessing. And Lady Arabella thought of her four flower-rats that had already faded. I am sure I am most thankful to see him growing up so strong, but that is not what I mean, doctor. Then what is it, Lady Arabella? Why, doctor, you know the squire's position with regard to money-matters? Now, the doctor undoubtedly did know the squire's position with regard to money-matters, knew it much better than did Lady Arabella, but he was by no means inclined to talk on that subject or her ladyship. He remained quite silent, therefore, although Lady Arabella's last speech had taken the form of a question. Lady Arabella was a little offended at this want of freedom on his part, and become somewhat sterner in her tone, a thought less condescending in her manner. The squire has unfortunately embarrassed the property, and Frank must look forward to inherit it with very heavy encumbrances. I fear very heavy indeed, though of what exact nature I am kept in ignorance. Looking at the doctor's face, she perceived that there was no probability whatever that her ignorance would be enlightened by him. And therefore it is highly necessary that Frank should be very careful. As to his private expenditure, you mean, said the doctor. No, not exactly that, though of course he must be careful as to that, too. That's of course. But that is not what I mean, doctor. His only hope of retrieving his circumstances is by marrying money. With every other conjugal blessing that a man can have, I hope he may have that also. So the doctor replied with imperturbable face. But not the less did he begin to have a shade of suspicion of what might be the coming subject of the conference. It would be untrue to say that he had ever thought it probable that the young heir should fall in love with his niece. That he had ever looked forward to such a chance, either with complacency or with fear. Nevertheless the idea had, of late, passed through his mind. Some word had fallen from Mary, some closely watched expression of her eye, or some quiver in her lip, when Frank's name was mentioned, had of late made him involuntarily think that such might not be impossible. And then, when the chance of Mary becoming the heiress to so large a fortune had been forced upon his consideration, he had been unable to prevent himself from building happy castles in the air as he rode slowly home from Boxall Hill. But not a whit the more on that account was he prepared to be untrue to the squire's interest, or to encourage a feeling which must be distasteful to all the squire's friends. Yes, doctor, he must marry money. And worth, Lady Arabella, and a pure feminine heart, and youth and beauty, I hope he will marry them all. Could it be possible that in speaking of a pure feminine heart, and youth and beauty, and such like you gauze, the doctor was thinking of his niece? Could it be that he had absolutely made up his mind to foster and encourage this odious match? The bear idea made Lady Arabella wrathful, and her wrath gave her courage. He must marry money, or he will be a ruined man. Now, doctor, I am informed that things, words, that is, have passed between him and Mary, which never ought to have been allowed. And now also the doctor was wrathful. What things? What words, said he, appearing to Lady Arabella, as though he rose in his anger nearly a foot in altitude before her eyes? What has passed between them, and who says so? Doctor, there have been love-makings. You may take my word for it. Love-makings of a very, very, very advanced description. This the doctor could not stand. No, not for Gresham's free in its air, not for the squire and all his misfortunes, not for Lady Arabella and all the blood of all the decorcies, could he stand quiet and hear Mary thus accused. He sprang up another foot in height, and expanded equally in width as he flung back the insinuation. Who says so? Whoever says so, whoever speaks of Miss Thorn in such language, says what is not true. I will pledge my word. My dear doctor, my dear doctor, what took place was quite clearly heard. There was no mistake about it indeed. What took place? What was heard? Well, then, I don't want you know to make more of it than can be helped. The thing must be stopped. That is all. What thing? Speak out, Lady Arabella. I will not have Mary's conduct impugned by innuendos. What is it that eavesdroppers have heard? To Thorn there have been no eavesdroppers. And no tail-bearers, either? Will your ladyship oblige me by letting me know what is the accusation which you bring against my niece? There has been most positively an offer made, Dr. Thorn. And who made it? Oh, of course I am not going to say but what Frank must have been very imprudent. Of course he has been to blame. There has been fault on both sides, no doubt. I utterly deny it. I positively deny it. I know nothing of the circumstances, have heard nothing about it. Then, of course you can't say, said Lady Arabella. I know nothing of the circumstance, have heard nothing about it, continued Dr. Thorn, but I do know my niece and am ready to assert that there has been no fault on both sides, whether there has been any fault on any side that I do not yet know. I can assure you, Dr. Thorn, that an offer was made by Frank, such an offer cannot be without its allurements to a young lady circumstance like your niece. Allurements, almost shouted the doctor, and as he did so, Lady Arabella stepped back a pace or two, retreating from the fire which shot out of his eyes. But the truth is, Lady Arabella, you do not know my niece. If you will have the goodness to let me understand what it is you desire, I will tell you whether I can comply with your wishes. Of course it will be very inexpedient that the young people should be thrown together again, for the present, I mean. Well? Frank has now gone to Corsi Castle, and he talks of going from thence to Cambridge. But he will doubtless be here, backwards and forwards, and perhaps it will be better for all parties, safer that is, Dr., if Miss Thorn were to discontinue her visits to Greshamsbury for a while. Very well, thundered out the doctor. Her visits to Greshamsbury shall be discontinued. Of course, Dr., this won't change the intercourse between us, between you and the family. Not change it, said he. Do you think that I will break bread in a house from whence she has been ignominiously banished? Do you think that I can sit down in friendship with those who have spoken of her as you have now spoken? You have many daughters. What would you say if I accused one of them as you have accused her? Please, Dr., no, I don't accuse her. But prudence, you know, does sometimes require us—very well—prudence requires you to look after those who belong to you, and prudence requires me to look after my one lamb. Good morning, Lady Arabella. But, Dr., you are not going to quarrel with us. You will come what we want you, eh? Won't you? Borrow. Quarrel with Greshamsbury? Angry as he was, the doctor felt that he could ill bear to quarrel with Greshamsbury. A man past fifty cannot easily throw over the ties which have taken twenty years to form, and wrench himself away from the various close ligatures with which in such a period he has become bound. He could not quarrel with the squire. He could ill bear to quarrel with Frank, though he now began to conceive that Frank had used him badly. He could not do so. He could not quarrel with the children, who had almost been born into his arms, nor even with the very walls and trees and grassy nose with which he was so dearly intimate. He could not proclaim himself an enemy to Greshamsbury. And yet he felt that field he to Mary required of him that for the present he should put on an enemy's guise. If you want me, Lady Arabella, and send for me, I will come to you. Otherwise I will, if you please, share the sentence which has been passed on Mary. I will now wish you good morning. And then, bowing low to her, he left the room and the house, and sauntered slowly away to his own home. What was he to say to Mary? He walked very slowly down the Greshamsbury Avenue, with his hands clasped behind his back, thinking over the whole matter, thinking of it, or rather trying to think of it. When a man's heart is warmly concerned in any matter, it is almost useless for him to endeavour to think of it. Instead of thinking, he gives play to his feelings, and feeds his passion by indulging it. Allurements, he said to himself, repeating Lady Arabella's words. A girl circumstance like my niece, how utterly incapable is such a woman as that to understand the mind and heart and soul of such a one as Mary Thorn. And then his thoughts recurred to Frank. It has been ill done of him, ill done of him, young as he is. He should have had feeling enough to have spared me this. A thoughtless word has been spoken which will now make her miserable. And then, as he walked on, he could not divest his mind of the remembrance of what had passed between him and Sir Roger. What if, after all, Mary should become the heiress to all that money? What if she should become, in fact, the owner of Greshamspray? For indeed it seemed too possible that Sir Roger's heir would be the owner of Greshamspray. The idea was one which he disliked to entertain, but would recur to him again and again. It might be that a marriage between his niece and the nominal heir to the estate might be of all the matches the best for young Gresham to make. How sweet would be the revenge! How glorious the retaliation on Lady Arabella! If after what had now been said it should come to pass that all the difficulties of Greshamspray should be made smooth by Mary's love and Mary's hand. It was a dangerous subject on which to ponder. And as he sauntered down the road the doctor did his best to banish it from his mind. Not altogether successfully. But as he went he again encountered Beatrice. Well, Mary, I went to her to-day, said she, and that I expect her up here to-morrow. If she does not come I shall be savage. Do not be savage, said he, putting out his hand, even though she should not come. Beatrice immediately saw that his manner with her was not playful and that his face was serious. I was only in joke, said she. Of course I was only joking, but is anything the matter? Is Mary ill? Oh no, not ill at all, but she will not be here to-morrow, nor probably for some time. But Miss Gresham, he must not be savage with her. Beatrice tried to interrogate him, but he would not wait to answer her questions. While she was speaking he bowed to her in his usual, old-fashioned, courteous way, and passed on out of hearing. She will not come up for some time, said Beatrice to herself. Then Mama must have quarrelled with her, and at once in her heart she acquitted her friend of all blame in the matter, whatever it might be, and condemned her mother unheard. The doctor, when he had arrived at his own house, had in no wise made up his mind as to the manner in which he would break the matter to Mary. But by the time that he had reached the drawing-room he had made up his mind to this, that he would put off the evil hour till the-morrow. He would sleep on the matter, lie awake on it more probably, and then at breakfast as best he could tell her what had been said of her. Mary that evening was more than usually inclined to be playful. She had not been quite certain till the morning whether Frank had absolutely left Gresham-sbury and had therefore preferred the company of Miss Oriole to going up to the house. There was a peculiar cheerfulness about her friend-patience, a feeling of satisfaction with the world and those in it, which Mary always shared with her, and now she had brought home to the doctor's fireside, in spite of her young troubles, a smiling face, if not a heart altogether happy. Uncle, she said at last, what makes you so sombre? Shall I read to you? No, not to-night, dearest. Why, Uncle, what is the matter? Nothing, nothing. Ah, but it is something, and you shall tell me. Getting up she came over to his arm-chair and lent over his shoulder. He looked at her for a minute in silence, then getting up from his chair past his arm round her waist and pressed her very closely to his heart. "'My darling,' he said almost convulsively, my best-owned truest darling, and Mary looking up into his face saw that big tears were running down his cheeks, but still he told her nothing that night. End of Chapter 14