 Chapter 10 of Dr. Thorn, by Antony Trollop, this LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Nick Whitley, Perley, United Kingdom. Chapter 10 Sir Roger's Will Dr. Thorn left the room, and went downstairs, being fully aware that he could not leave the house without having some communication with Lady Scatchard. He was not sooner within the passage than he heard the sick man's bell ring violently, and then the servant, passing him on the staircase, received orders to send a mounted messenger immediately to Barchester. Dr. Philgrave was to be summoned to come as quickly as possible to the sick man's room, and Mr. Winterbones was to be sent up to write the note. Sir Roger was quite right in supposing that there would be some words between the doctor and her ladyship. How, indeed, was the doctor to get out of the house without such. Let him wish it ever so much. There were words, and these were protracted, while the doctor's cob was being ordered round, till very many were uttered which the contractor would probably have regarded as nonsense. Lady Scatchard was no fit associate for the wives of English baronettes. Was no doubt by education and manners much better fitted to sit in their servants' halls. But not on that account was she a bad wife or a bad woman. She was painfully, fearfully anxious for that husband of hers whom she honoured and worshiped, as it behoved her to do, above all other men. She was fearfully anxious as to his life, unfaithfully believed that if any man could prolong it, it was that old and faithful friend whom she had known to be true to her Lord since their early married troubles. When therefore she found that he had been dismissed, and that a stranger was to be sent for in his place, her heart sank low within her. But doctor, she said with her apron up to her eyes, you ain't going to leave him, are you? Doctor Thorn did not find it easy to explain to her ladyship that medical etiquette would not permit him to remain at attendance on her husband, after he had been dismissed, and another physician called in his place. Etiquette! said she, crying, what's etiquette to do with it when a man is a-killing herself with Brandy? Phil Grave will forbid that, quite as strongly as I can do. Phil Grave! said she, fiddle-sticks, Phil Grave indeed! Doctor Thorn could almost have embraced her for the strong feeling of thorough confidence on the one side, and thorough distrust on the other, which she can try to throw into those few words. I'll tell you what, doctor, I won't let the messenger go. I'll bear the brunt of it. He can't do much, now he ain't up, you know. I'll start the boy. We won't have no Phil Graves here. This, however, was a step to which Dr. Thorn would not ascend. He endeavoured to explain to the anxious wife that after what had passed he could not tender his medical services till they were again asked for. But you can slip in as a friend, you know, and then by degrees you can come round him, eh? Can't you now, doctor? And as to the payment, all that Dr. Thorn said on the subject may easily be imagined. And in this way, and in partaking of the lunch which was forced upon him, an hour had nearly passed between his leaving Sir Roger's bedroom and putting his foot in the stirrup. But no sooner had the cob begun to move on the gravel sweep before the house than one of the upper windows opened, and the doctor was summoned to another conference with the sick man. He says you are to come back, wither or no, said Mr. Winterbones, screeching out of the window and putting all his emphasis on the last words. Thorn! Thorn! Thorn! shouted the sick man from his sick bed so loudly that the doctor heard him seated as he was on horseback out before the house. You are to come back, wither or no, repeated Winterbones with more emphasis, evidently conceiving that there was a strength of injunction in that, wither or no, which would be found quite invincible, whether actuated by these magic words or by some internal process of thought we will not say. But the doctor did slowly and, as though unwillingly, dismount again from his steed, and slowly retrace his steps into the house. It's no use, he said to himself, for that messenger has already gone to Barchester. I have sent for Dr. Philgrave, were the first words which the contractor said to him when he again found himself by the bedside. Did you call me back to tell me that? said Thorn, who now really felt angry at the impertinent petulance of the man before him. You should consider, that my time may be of value to others, if not to you. Now, don't be angry, old fellow, said Scatchard, turning to him and looking at him with accountants quite different from any that he had shown that day, accountants in which there was a show of manhood, some show also of affection. You ain't angry now, because I've sent for Philgrave. Not in the least, said the doctor very complacently. Not in the least. Philgrave will do as much good as I can do you. And that's none at all, I suppose, eh, Thorn? That depends on yourself. He will do you good, if you will tell him the truth, and will then be guided by him. Your wife, your servant, any one can be as good a doctor to you as either he or I, as good that is in the main point. But you have sent for Philgrave now, and of course you must see him. I have much to do, and you must let me go. Scatchard, however, would not let him go, but held his hand fast. Thorn, said he, if you like it, I'll make them put Philgrave under the pump directly he comes here. I will indeed, and pay all the damage myself. This was another proposition to which the doctor could not consent, but he was utterly unable to refrain from laughing. There was an earnest look of entreaty about Sir Roger's face, as he made the suggestion, and joined to this there was a gleam of comic satisfaction in his eye which seemed to promise that if he received the least encouragement he would put his threat into execution. Now our doctor was not inclined to take any steps towards subjecting his learned brother to pump discipline, but he could not but admit to himself that the idea was not a bad one. I'll have it done, I will by heavens, if you'll only say the word, protested Sir Roger. But the doctor did not say the word, and so the idea was passed off. You shouldn't be so testy with a man when he is ill, said Scatchard, still holding the doctor's hand, of which he had again got possession, especially not an old friend, and especially again when you've been a blowing of him up. It was not worth the doctor's while to aver that the testiness had all been on the other side, and that he had never lost his good humour. So he merely smiled, and asked Sir Roger if he could do anything further for him. Indeed you can, doctor, and that's why I sent for you, why I sent for you yesterday. Get out of the room, winter-bones! he then said, gruffly, as though he were dismissing from his chamber a dirty dog. Winter-bones, not a whit offended, again hit his carp under his coat-tail, and vanished. Sit down, thorn! sit down! said the contractor, speaking quite in a different manner from any that he had yet assumed. I know you're in a hurry, but you must give me half an hour. I may be dead before you can give me another, who knows? The doctor, of course, declared that he hoped to have many a half-hour's chat with him for many a year to come. Well, that's as maybe. You must stop now at any rate. You can make the cob pay for it, you know. The doctor took a chair and sat down. Thus then treated to stop he had hardly any alternative but to do so. It wasn't because I'm ill that I sent for you, or rather let her ladyship send for you. Lord bless you, thorn! do you think I don't know what it is that makes me like this? When I see that poor wretch Winter-bones killing himself with gin, do you think I don't know what's coming to myself, as well as him? Why do you take it, then? Why do you do it? Your life is not like his. Oh, Scatchard! Scatchard! and the doctor prepared to pour out the flood of his eloquence in beseeching this singular man to abstain from his well-known poison. Is that all you know of human nature, doctor? Abstain! Can you abstain from breathing and live like a fish does under water, that nature has not ordered you to drink, Scatchard? It is second nature, man, and a stronger nature than the first. And why should I not drink? What else has the world given me for all that I have done for it? What other resource have I? What other gratification? Oh, my God! Have you not unbounded wealth? Can you not do anything you wish? Be anything you choose. No! and the sick man shrieked with an energy that made him audible all through the house. I can do nothing that I would choose to do. Be nothing that I would wish to be. What can I do? What can I be? What gratification can I have, except the brandy-buttle? If I go among gentlemen, can I talk to them? If they have anything to say about a railway, they will ask me a question. If they speak to me beyond that, I must be dumb. If I go among my workmen, can they talk to me? No, I am their master and a stern master. They bob their heads and shake in their shoes when they see me. Where are my friends? Here, said he, and he dragged a bottle from under his very pillow. Where are my amusements? Here! and he brandished the bottle almost in the doctor's face. Where is my one resource, my one gratification, my only comfort after all my toils? Here, doctor! Here! here! here! And so, saying, he replaced his treasure beneath his pillow, there was something so horrifying in this that Dr. Thorn shrank back amazed, and was for a moment unable to speak. But scattered, he said at last, surely you would not die for such a passion as that? Die for it? I would I live for it while I can live, and die for it when I can live no longer. Die for it? What is that for a man to do? Do not men die for a shilling a day? What is a man the worst for dying? What can I be the worst for dying? A man can die, but once, you said just now, I'd die ten times for this. You are speaking now either in madness, or else in folly to startle me. Folly enough, perhaps, and madness enough also. Such a life as mine makes a man a fool, and makes him mad too. What have I about me that I should be afraid to die? I'm worth three hundred thousand pounds, and I'd give it all to be able to go to work to morrow with a haunt and mortar, and have a fellow clap his hand upon my shoulder, and say, Well, Roger, shall us have that ear of the raft pint this morning? I'll tell you what, Thorn, when a man has made three hundred thousand pounds, there's nothing left for him but to die. It's all he's good for, then. When money's been made, the next thing is to spend it, and the man who makes it has not the heart to do that. The doctor, of course, in hearing all this, said something of a tendency to comfort and console the mind of his patient. Not that anything he could say would comfort or console the man, but that it was impossible to sit there and hear such fearful truths, for as regarded, sketchered, they were truths, without making some answer. This is as good as a play, isn't it, doctor? said the maronette. You didn't know how I could come out like one of those actor-fellows. Well, now, come. At last I'll tell you why I have sent for you. Before that last burst of mine I made my will. You had a will made before that. Yes, I had. That will is destroyed. I'd burnt it with my own hand so that there should be no mistake about it. In that will I had named two executors, you and Jackson. I was then partner with Jackson in the York and Yorvel Grand Central. I thought a deal of Jackson, then, is not worth a shilling now. Well, I'm exactly in the same category. No, you're not. Jackson is nothing without money. But money'll never make you. No, nor I shan't make money, said the doctor. No, you never will. Nevertheless, there's my other will. There, under that desk there. And I've put you in as sole executor. You must alter that, sketchered. You must indeed, with three hundred thousand pounds to be disposed of, the trust is far too much for any one man. Besides, you must name a younger man. You and I are of the same age, and I may die the first. Now, doctor, doctor, no ombug, let's have no ombug from you. Remember this, if you're not true, you're nothing. Well, but, sketchered. Well, but, doctor, there's the will. It's already made. I don't want to consult you about that. You are named as executor, and if you have the heart to refuse to act when I'm dead, why, of course, you can do so. The doctor was no lawyer, and hardly knew whether he had any means of extricating himself from this position, in which his friend was determined to place him. You'll have to see that will carried out, Thorne. Now, I'll tell you what I have done. You're not going to tell me how you have disposed of your property. Not exactly, at least not all of it. One hundred thousand I've left in legacies, including you know what Lady Sketchered will have. Have you not left the house to Lady Sketchered? No. What the devil would she do with a house like this? She doesn't know how to live in it now she has got it. I have provided for her. It matters not how. The house and the estate and the remainder of my money I have left till Louis Philippe. What, two hundred thousand pounds? said the doctor. And why shouldn't I leave two hundred thousand pounds to my son, even to my eldest son if I had more than one? Does not Mr. Gresham leave all his property to his heir? Why should not I make an eldest son, as well as Lord Decorsi, for the Duke of Omnium? I suppose a railway contractor ought not to be allowed an eldest son by act of parliament. Won't my son have a title to keep up? And that's more than the Gresham's have among them. The doctor explained away what he said as well as he could. He could not explain that what he had really meant was this, that Sir Roger Sketchered's son was not a man fit to be trusted, with the entire control of an enormous fortune. Sir Roger Sketchered had but one child, that child which had been born in the days of his early troubles, and had been dismissed from his mother's breast in order that the mother's milk might nourish the young heir of Greshamsbury. The boy had grown up, but had become strong neither in mind nor body. His father had determined to make a gentleman of him, and had sent to Eaton and to Cambridge. But even this receipt, generally as it is recognized, will not make a gentleman. It is hard, indeed, to define what receipt will do so. Though people do have in their own minds some certain undefined but yet tolerably correct ideas on the subject. Be that as it may, two years at Eaton and three terms at Cambridge did not make a gentleman of Louis Philippe Sketchered. Yes, he was christened Louis Philippe after the King of the French. If one wishes to look out in the world for royal nomenclature, to find children who have been christened after kings and queens, or the uncles and aunts of kings and queens, the search should be made in the families of Democrats. None have so servile a deference for the very nail-pairings of royalty. None feel so wondering an oar at the exultation of a crowned head. None are so anxious to secure themselves some shred or fragment that has been consecrated by the royal touch. It is the distance which they feel to exist between themselves and the throne which makes them covet the crumbs of majesty, the odds and ends and chance splinters of royalty. There was nothing royal about Louis Philippe Sketchered but his name. He had now come to man's estate, and his father, finding the Cambridge receipt to be inefficacious, had sent him abroad to travel with a tutor. The doctor had from time to time heard tidings of this youth. He knew that he had already shown symptoms of his father's vices, but no symptoms of his father's talents. He knew that he had begun life by being dissipated without being generous, and that at the age of twenty-one he had already suffered from delirium tremens. It was on this account that he had expressed disapprobation, rather than surprise, when he heard that his father intended to bequeath the bulk of his large fortune to the uncontrolled will of this unfortunate boy. I have dialed for my money hard, and I have a right to do as I like with it. What other satisfaction can it give me? The doctor assured him that he did not at all mean to dispute this. Louis Philippe will do well enough, you'll find, continued the baronet, understanding what was passing within his companion's breast. Let a young fellow sow his wild oats while he is young, and he'll be steady enough when he grows old. But what if he never lives to get through the sowing, thought the doctor to himself? What if the wild oats operation is carried on in so violent a manner as to leave no strength in the soil for the product of a more valuable crop? It was of no use saying this, however. So he allowed Scratchard to continue. If I'd had a free fling when I was a youngster, I shouldn't have been so fond of the brandy-bottle now. But anyway, my son shall be my heir. I've had the gumption to make the money, but I haven't the gumption to spend it. My son, however, shall be able to ruffle it with the best of them. I'll go bail, he shall hold his head higher than ever young Gresham will be able to hold his. They are much of the same age as well I have cause to remember, and so is her ladyship there. Now the fact was that Sir Roger Scratchard felt in his heart no special love for the young Gresham, but with her ladyship it might almost be a question whether she did not love the youth whom she had nursed almost as well as that other one who was her own proper offspring. And will you not put any check on thoughtless expenditure? If you live ten or twenty years, as we hope you may, it will become unnecessary. But in making a will a man should always remember he may go off suddenly, especially if he goes to bed with a brandy-buttle under his head, eh, doctor? But mind that's a medical secret, you know, not a word of that out of the bedroom. Dr. Thorn could but sigh. What could he say on such a subject to such a man as this? Yes, I have put a check on his expenditure. I will not let his daily bread depend on any man. I have therefore left him five hundred a year at his own disposal from the day of my death. Let him make what ducks and drakes of that he can. Five hundred a year certainly is not much, said the doctor. No, nor do I want to keep into that. Let him have whatever he wants if he sets about spending it properly. But the bulk of the property, this estate of Boxall Hill and the Gresham's Bray mortgage and those other mortgages, I have tied up in this way. They shall be all his at twenty-five. And up to that age it shall be in your power to give him what he wants. If he shall die without children before he shall be twenty-five years of age, they are all to go to Mary's eldest child. Now, Mary was Sir Roger's sister, the mother, therefore, of Miss Thorn, and consequently the wife of the respectable ironmonger who went to America, and the mother of a family there. Mary's eldest child, said the doctor, feeling that the perspiration had nearly broken out on his forehead, and that he could hardly control his feelings. Mary's eldest child, scattered, you should be more particular in your description, or you will leave your best legacy to the lawyers. I don't know and never heard the name of one of them, but do you mean a boy or a girl? They may be all girls for what I know, or all boys. Besides, I don't care which it is. A girl would probably do best with it. Only you'd have to see that she married some decent fellow. You'd be a guardian. Nonsense, said the doctor. Louis will be five and twenty in a year or two, in about four years. And for all that's come and gone yet scattered, you are not going to leave us yourself quite so soon as all that. Not if I can help it, doctor, but that says maybe the chances are ten to one that such a clause in your will will never come to bear. Quite so, quite so. If I die, Louis Philippe won't. But I thought it right to put in something to prevent his squandering it all before he comes to his senses. Oh, quite right, quite right. I think I would have named a later age than twenty-five. So would not I. Louis Philippe will be all right by that time. That's my look out. And now, doctor, you know my will. And if I die tomorrow, you will know what I want you to do for me. You have merely said the eldest child, Scatchard. That's all. Give it here, and I'll read it to you. No, no, never mind. The eldest child. You should be more particular, Scatchard. You should indeed consider what an enormous interest may have to depend on those words. Why, what the devil could I say? I don't know their names. Never even heard them. But the eldest is the eldest all the world over. Perhaps I ought to say the youngest, seeing that I am only a railway contractor. Scatchard began to think that the doctor might now as well go away and leave him to the society of winter-bones and the brandy. But much as our friend had before expressed himself in a hurry, he now seemed inclined to move very leisurely. He sat there by the bedside, resting his hands on his knees and gazing unconsciously at the counter-pane. At last he gave a deep sigh. And then he said, Oh, Scatchard, you must be more particular in this if I am to have anything to do with it. You must indeed be more explicit. Why, how the deuce can I be more explicit? Isn't her eldest living-child plain enough, whether he be Jack or she be Jill? What did your lawyer say to this, Scatchard? Lawyer, you don't suppose I let my lawyer know what I was putting. No, I got the form and the paper and all that from him, and had him here in one room while winter-bones and I did it in another. It's all right enough. Though winter-bones wrote it, he did it in such a way he did not know what he was writing. The doctor sat a while longer, still looking at the counter-pane, and then got up to depart. I'll see you again soon, said he, tomorrow, probably. Tomorrow, said Sir Roger, not at all understanding why Dr. Thorn should talk of returning so soon. Tomorrow? Why, I ain't so bad as that, man, am I? If you come so often as that, you'll ruin me. Oh, not as a medical man, not as that. But about this will, Scatchard, I must think it over. I must indeed. You need not give yourself the least trouble in the world about my will till I'm dead, not the least. And who knows, maybe I may be settling your affairs yet, eh, Doctor? Looking after your niece when you're dead and gone, and getting a husband for her, eh? And then, without further speech, the doctor went his way. All Librivox recordings are in the public domain, recording by Nick Whitley, Perley, United Kingdom. Chapter 11 The Doctor Drinks His Tea The doctor got on his cob, and went his way, returning duly to Greshamsbury. But in truth, as he went he hardly knew whether 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 as 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 son, was one which he felt in his heart of hearts might very probably come to pass, that chances are, tend 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 a 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 Sir Roger's will were brought to bear, if it should become his, Dr. Thorne'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 man, his darling, the pride of his heart, the sinusure of his eye, his child also, his own Mary, of all his duties on this earth, next to that one great duty to his guard and conscience was his duty to her. What, under these circumstances, did his duty to her require of him? But then, that one great duty, that duty which she would be the first to expect from him, what did that demand of him? Had Scatchard made his will without saying what its clauses were, it seemed to Thorne that Mary must have been the heiress. Should that clause become necessarily operative, whether she were so or not, would at any rate be for lawyers to decide. But now the case was very different. This rich man had confided in him, and would it not be a breach of confidence, an act of absolute dishonesty, an act of dishonesty both to Scatchard 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 Greshamsbury, his mind on this point had been made up. Indeed, it had been made up while sitting there by Scatchard'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, wealth merely for its own sake, was the vileist. They and their joint school of inherent philosophy had progressed to ideas which they might find it not 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, it Scatchard 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 Oriole. Mary and I have been quarrelling, said patience. She says the doctor is the greatest man in a 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 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 am 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 may 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 of. 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 is happy now where she is, said he to himself as he rode along. They all treat her there as an equal at Greshamsbury. 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 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 jurum of scalding tea, containing in measure somewhat near a pint. Mary, not a whit amazed at this feat, merely refilled the jurum 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 the 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 the next thing would be to send to Paris for a French bonnet, exactly like the one patients Oriole 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 Oriole'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, as an assertion, but there was nevertheless somewhat 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. Guess. Oh, I don't know. A pound. A pound, Uncle. What a great deal more. Ten pounds. Oh, Uncle. What more than ten pounds. Then I don't think even patients Oriole 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 nine pounds, perhaps. I trimmed it myself. If I were left a great fortune, I'd send to Paris tomorrow. 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 am 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 tray, and sat down on a footstool, close at 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 faton, 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. Oh, 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 forerunners 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, mess, said Janet. Now the house in Gresham's pre-parmise 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, ah, 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 Boxall 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 was to be at Boxall 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 Boxall Hill again tomorrow. 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 Greshensbury. I don't think you'd like him at all. Why not? I am sure I should like him. And Lady Scattered, too. I've heard you say that she is an excellent woman. Yes, in her way. And she, 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. One doesn't go to those sort of people for polished manners. I don't think you'd find the Scattered's pleasant acquaintances at all, said the doctor, taking his bed-candle, and kissing his nieces forehead as he left the room. End of Chapter 11, Recording by Nick Whitley, Pearly, United Kingdom. Chapter 12 of Doctor Thorn by Anthony Troller. This Librivox recording is in the public domain, recording by Nick Whitley, Pearly, United Kingdom. Chapter 12, When Greek Meets Greek, Then Comes the Tug of War. The doctor, that is, our doctor, had sought nothing more of the message which had been sent to that other doctor, Dr. Philgrave. Nor in truth did the baronet. Lady Scattered 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. Philgrave should show himself. It was well that Sir Roger was not dying for want of his assistance. For, when the message reached Barchester, Dr. Philgrave was some five or six miles out of town, but plumpstered, and as he did not get back till late in the evening, he felt himself necessitated to put off his visit to Boxall Hill till next morning. Had he chance to have been made acquainted with that little conversation about the pump, he would probably have postponed it even yet a while longer. He was, however, by no means sorry to be summoned to the bedside of Sir Roger Scattered. It was well known at Barchester, and very well known to Dr. Philgrave, 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 Boxall Hill, he could not but think that some pure light had broken in upon Sir Roger's darkness, and 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-shave which was to carry him to Boxall Hill. Dr. Phil Grave's professional advancement had been sufficient to justify the establishment of a brawn in which he paid his ordinary visits round Barchester, that 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 yet 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 Boxall Hill House. Old Trull Boyleidy, said the servant, showing him into the grand dining-room, and there for some fifteen minutes or twenty minutes Dr. Phil Grave walked up and down the lengths 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 usually 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 at his ease. There was, however, a personal dignity in his demeanour, a propriety in his gait, and an air of authority in his gestures, which should prohibit one from stigmatising those efforts 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 behoved 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 attuned 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 neck-tie, his hair was grey, not grizzled nor white, but properly grey, 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 grey 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 shortsighted, 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 will, assume any shade of difference between the two, and produce any mixture of sentiment. When Dr. Philgrave was first shown into Sir Rogers' 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 suffuse 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. "'Oh, 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 Scatchard was at present a great and rich man, Dr. Philgrave had remembered him a very small and a very poor man. He now began to think of Sir Roger as a stone-mason, and to 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. Philgrave 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 in the serious detriment, perhaps fatal injury of his other expectant patience. 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 the 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, Anna, what shall we do? Sanding up at once to master, my lady, that John taken up. There'll be such a row in the house, Hannah. I know there will. But surely didn't he send for an let-the-master-up-the-row-himself, then? That's what I do, my lady, had it Hannah, seeing that her ladyship still stood trembling in 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 afraid 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 Raja, 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, Raja. 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 dashed if I do, my lady. All the people about Boxall Hill called poor ladyscatchard, 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 yet take nothing he sends. And I'll tell him not to come no more. Now do we see him, Raja? But there was no coaxing Raja over now, or indeed ever. He was a willful, headstrong masterful man, a tyrant always, though never a cruel one, and accustomed to rule his wife and householders 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 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 once more I won't have him. Winter-borns, lock the door. So Winter-Bones, 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 good 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 himself 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 himself so much himself this morning, that he almost thinks it would 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 demeanour, 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 himself, and 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 Manchester at some considerable inconvenience, at 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 a compression of his lips, which almost made the poor woman sink into the ground, moved towards the door. Then Lady Scatchard thought 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 assented 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 worse 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, 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. Sure'd 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 both chains. But, doctor, you'll take the money. You must take the money. Indeed, you'll take the money, said Lady Scatchard, who had 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. No, doctor, do we, 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 we take it, do we, pressed Lady Scatchard, utterly out of the question, said Dr. Phil Gray, 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 Gray's glare at his foe from Greshansbury, 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. He had made no effort to ingratiate himself into the sheepfold of that other shepherd dog. It was not by his saking 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 sketchards. Dr. Thorn might have sent every mother's son at Boxall Hill to his long account, and Dr. Phil Gray 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 sketchards. 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-shave, 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, where the want of the fee was not the lesser grievance, from the fact of its having been tendered and refused, fee-less, dishonoured, and in Dungeon, he encountered this other doctor, this very rival whom he had been sent to supplant. He encountered him in the very act of going to the sick man's room. What mad fanatic burly, what god-suckered, insolent Achilles, ever had such cause to swell with Ross as at that moment had Dr. Phil Grave. Had I the pen of Mollier, 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 Ross was added to his natural proportions, he loomed gigantic before the eyes of the surrounding followers of Sir Roger. Dr. Thorne stepped back three steps, and took his hat from his head, having in the passage from the hall-door to the dining-room hitherto omitted 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. Thorne 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. Thorne, 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-ad 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 a 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 mercy to the vile minded. He swelled with noble anger till he would have burst had it not been for the opportune padding of his frock coat. Sa! said he, sa! 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 a dressing lady sketchered 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. He is Dr. Phil Grave and a taking, and I'm quite ready to pay him quite. 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, ladies catchered, 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 have hardly said what. Ladies catchered'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 ladies catchered, I was never before treated in such a way in any house in Barchester. Never, never! Good heavens, Dr. Phil Grave, said he of Gresham Street, what is the matter? I'll let you know what is the matter, sir, said he turning round again as quickly as before. I'll let you know what is the matter. I'll publish this, sir, to the medical world. As he shrieked out the words of the threat he stood on tiptoes, and brandished his eyeglasses up almost into his enemy's face. Don't be angry with Dr. Thorne, said ladies catchered. 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 dummy 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 ladies catchered, 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 the whole of this transaction to the medical world, Dr. Thorne, the whole of it. And if that is not the effect of rescuing the people of Greshamsbury out of your hands then, then, then, I don't know what will. Is my carriage that is post-shays there? Dr. Phil Grave, speaking very loudly, turned majestically to one of the serpents. What have I done to you, Dr. Phil Grave, said Dr. Thorne, now absolutely laughing, but you should determine 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-shays 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-shays 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 whole 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 anyone went in search of the post-shays. 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. There were no signs whatever that cold water had been thrown upon Dr. Phil Grave. My post-shays! Is my post-shays there? The medical world shall know all, you may be sure, sir. The medical world shall know it all. And thus, ordering his post-shays and threatening Dr. Thorn with the medical world, Dr. Phil Grave made his way to the door. But the moment he put on his hat, he returned. No, madame! 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-shays 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 while he was in his tantrum, said Lady Scatchard, and I thought that perhaps he would not find it till he got to Barchester. Well, 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.