The Chronicles of Barsetshire (94 page)

“But, doctor, you’ll take the money; you must take the money; indeed you’ll take the money,” said Lady Scatcherd, 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 Scatcherd, 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 Scatcherd.”

“Now doctor, do ‘ee; 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-chaise, but made his way at once towards the hall.

“Now, do ‘ee take it, do ‘ee,” pressed Lady Scatcherd.

“Utterly out of the question,” said Dr. Fillgrave, 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. Thorne.

As Burley must have glared at Bothwell when they rushed together in the dread encounter on the mountain side; 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. Fillgrave 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. Thorne’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 seeking that he was now at Boxall Hill; much as he hated Dr. Thorne, 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 Scatcherds. Dr. Thorne might have sent every mother’s son at Boxall Hill to his long account, and Dr. Fillgrave 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 Thorne and the Scatcherds. Thorne must have known what was to be done. Having been so called, Dr. Fillgrave had come—had come all the way in a post-chaise—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 a grievance from the fact of its having been tendered and refused—fee-less, dishonoured, and in dudgeon, 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 Burley, what god-succoured insolent Achilles, ever had such cause to swell with wrath as at that moment had Dr. Fillgrave? 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. 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. Fillgrave 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. Fillgrave 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,
quoad
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. Fillgrave had not found his patient to be in any very unfavourable 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 frock-coat.

“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. Thorne, opening his eyes wide, and addressing Lady Scatcherd 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. Fillgrave in 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. Fillgrave’s head.

What more, indeed, Lady Scatcherd, can any of us want, if only we could keep our tempers and feelings a little in abeyance? Dr. Fillgrave, however, could not so keep his; and, therefore, he did want something more, though at the present moment he could have hardly said what.

Lady Scatcherd’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 Scatcherd, “I was never before treated in such a way in any house in Barchester—never—never.”

“Good heavens, Dr. Fillgrave!” said he of Greshamsbury, “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;” and as he shrieked out the words of the threat, he stood on tiptoes and brandished his eye-glasses up almost into his enemy’s face.

“Don’t be angry with Dr. Thorne,” said Lady Scatcherd. “Any ways, you needn’t be angry with him. If you must be angry with anybody—”

“I shall be angry with him, madam,” ejaculated Dr. Fillgrave, making another sudden demi-pirouette. “I am angry with him—or, rather, I despise him;” and completing the circle, Dr. Fillgrave again brought himself round in full front of his foe.

Dr. Thorne raised his eyebrows and looked inquiringly at Lady Scatcherd; 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 has 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-chaise there?” and Dr. Fillgrave, speaking very loudly, turned majestically to one of the servants.

“What have I done to you, Dr. Fillgrave,” said Dr. Thorne, now absolutely laughing, “that you should 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-chaise 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-chaise there!”

“Don’t ‘ee call him names now, doctor; don’t ‘ee, pray don’t ‘ee,” said Lady Scatcherd.

By this time they had all got somewhere nearer the hall-door; but the Scatcherd retainers were too fond of the row to absent themselves willingly at Dr. Fillgrave’s bidding, and it did not appear that anyone went in search of the post-chaise.

“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. Thorne 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. Fillgrave.

“My post-chaise—is my post-chaise there? The medical world shall know all; you may be sure, sir, the medical world shall know it all;” and thus, ordering his post-chaise, and threatening Dr. Thorne with the medical world, Dr. Fillgrave made his way to the door.

But the moment he put on his 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-chaise 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. Thorne’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 Scatcherd. “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. Thorne 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! ha!” laughed Sir Roger, lustily, as Dr. Thorne entered the room. “Well, if that ain’t rich, I don’t know what is. Ha! ha! ha! But why did they not put him under the pump, doctor?”

The doctor, however, had too much tact, and too many things of importance to say, to allow of his giving up much time to the discussion of Dr. Fillgrave’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. Thorne 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 Greshamsbury for a few thousand pounds?” said the doctor.

“I don’t know whether you call ninety thousand pounds a few thousands; but the debt will about amount to that.”

“Ah! that’s the old debt.”

“Old and new together, of course; every shilling I lend more weakens my security for what I have lent before.”

“But you have the first claim, Sir Roger.”

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

The point was argued backwards and forwards for some time without 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 to come by; and there is no reason why Squire Gresham should expect to find me so very soft.”

“Very well; there is an end of that. I thought you would have done as much to oblige me, that is all.”

“What! take bad security to oblige you?”

“Well, there’s an end of that.”

“I’ll tell you what; I’ll do as much to oblige a friend as anyone. I’ll lend you five thousand pounds, you yourself, without security at all, if you want it.”

“But you know I don’t want it; or, at any rate, shan’t take it.”

“But to ask me to go on lending money to a third party, and he over head and ears in debt, by way of obliging you, why, it’s a little too much.”

“Well, there’s and end of it. Now I’ve something to say to you about that will of yours.”

“Oh! that’s settled.”

“No, Scatcherd; it isn’t settled. It must be a great deal more settled before we have done with it, as you’ll find when you hear what I have to tell you.”

“What you have to tell me!” said Sir Roger, sitting up in bed; “and what have you to tell me?”

“Your will says your sister’s eldest child.”

“Yes; but that’s only in the event of Louis Philippe dying before he is twenty-five.”

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

“You know something about Mary’s eldest child?”

“I do, Scatcherd; 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, Scatcherd, 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, Scatcherd?”

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

“Yes, yes; certainly. I remember your brother,” said he. “I remember him well; there’s no doubt about that.”

“Well, Scatcherd,” and, as he spoke, the doctor laid his hand with kindness on the other’s arm. “Mary’s eldest child was my brother’s child as well.

“But there is no such child living,” said Sir Roger; and, in his violence, as he spoke he threw from off him the bedclothes, 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 into bed again. This he at last effected, and then went on with the story in his own way.

“Yes, Scatcherd, 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, Thorne, Thorne, 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, Thorne; then, when I was a poor, broken-down day-labourer, lying in jail, rotting there; but I tell you fairly, I do not believe you now. You have some scheme in this.”

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

They both remained silent for a while, during which the baronet poured out from his hidden resource a glass of brandy and swallowed it.

“When a man is taken aback suddenly by such tidings as these, he must take a drop of something, eh, doctor?”

Dr. Thorne did not see the necessity; but the present, he felt, was no time for arguing the point.

“Come, Thorne, where is the girl? You must tell me that. She is my niece, and I have a right to know. She shall come here, and I will do something for her. By the Lord! I would as soon she had the money as anyone else, if she is anything of a good ‘un—some of it, that is. Is she a good ‘un?”

“Good!” said the doctor, turning away his face. “Yes; she is 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 fist clenched, as though he were again about to strike that fatal blow at the farm-yard 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 women’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 Scatcherd—eh?”

“No. Not Mary Scatcherd.”

“Not Mary Scatcherd! Mary what, then? You, with your d—— pride, wouldn’t let her be called Mary Thorne, I know.”

This was too much for the doctor. He felt that there were tears 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. Thorne at this moment hated his friend the baronet with almost a deadly hatred; that he, rough brute as he was—for he was a rough brute—that he should speak in such language of the angel who gave to that home in Greshamsbury so many of the joys of Paradise—that he should speak of her as in some degree his own, that he should inquire doubtingly as to her attributes and her virtues. And then the doctor thought of her Italian and French readings, of her music, of her nice books, and sweet lady ways, of her happy companionship with Patience Oriel, and her dear, bosom friendship with Beatrice Gresham. He thought of her grace, and winning manners, and soft, polished feminine beauty; and, as he did so, he hated Sir Roger Scatcherd, and regarded him with loathing, as he might have regarded a wallowing hog.

At last a light seemed to break in upon Sir Roger’s mind. Dr. Thorne, he perceived, did not answer his last question. He perceived, also, that the doctor was affected with some more than ordinary emotion. Why should it be that this subject of Mary Scatcherd’s child moved him so deeply? Sir Roger had never been at the doctor’s house at Greshamsbury, had never seen Mary Thorne, 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 Thorne. What if she were so called? What if she were now warming herself at the doctor’s hearth?

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

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

“Yes, and lives with all those grand folks at Greshamsbury too. I have heard of that.”

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

“She shall come over here. Lady Scatcherd shall have her to stay 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 Thorne coming here—”

“What! Mary—”

“Well, Mary. As to Mary Thorne 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, Thorne, 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, Thorne, I loved my sister Mary quite as well as you loved your brother; quite as well.”

Anyone who might now have heard and seen the contractor would have hardly thought him to be the same man who, a few hours before, was urging that the Barchester physician should be put under the pump.

“You have your son, Scatcherd. 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, Thorne, remember that. I can provide for her without reference to Louis Philippe. What are ten or fifteen thousand pounds to me? Remember that, Thorne.”

Dr. Thorne 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? Scatcherd was a self-willed, obstinate man—now indeed touched by unwonted tenderness; but he was one to whose lasting tenderness Dr. Thorne 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.