Doctor Thorne, Anthony Trollope [best book reader .txt] 📗

CHAPTER XI

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 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 son—was one which he felt in his heart of hearts

might very probably come to pass.

 

“The chances are ten 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 bairn, his darling, the pride of his heart, the

cynosure 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 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 Scatcherd 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 Scatcherd 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

Scatcherd’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 vilest. They, in 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 if Scatcherd 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 is 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 Scatcherd 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 Oriel.

 

“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 Dr Century manage his own people?”

 

“She says,” continued Miss Oriel, “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 uncle’s are. They begrudge him his meals. Mr Oriel 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 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 Oriel, getting up and curtseying very low to Dr Thorne; “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 rode along. “They all treat her there

as an equal at Greshamsbury. What though she be no cousin to the

Thornes of Ullathorne. She has found her place there among them all,

and keeps it on equal terms with the best of them. There is Miss

Oriel; her family is high; she is rich, fashionable, a beauty,

courted by every one; 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 recognised niece of the rich man there? Would

Patience Oriel 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 Scatcherd 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 jorum of scalding tea, containing in

measure somewhat near a pint. Mary, not a whit amazed at this feat,

merely refilled the jorum 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 hearthrug, 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,