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

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.”

 

Any one 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.

 

“No, Scatcherd,” he said at last, “she cannot come here; she would

not be happy here, and, to tell the truth, I do not wish her to know

that she has other relatives.”

 

“Ah! she would be ashamed of her mother, you mean, and of her

mother’s brother too, eh? She’s too fine a lady, I suppose, to take

me by the hand and give me a kiss, and call me her uncle? I and Lady

Scatcherd would not be grand enough for her, eh?”

 

“You may say what you please, Scatcherd: I of course cannot stop

you.”

 

“But I don’t know how you’ll reconcile what you are doing to your

conscience. What right can you have to throw away the girl’s chance,

now that she has a chance? What fortune can you give her?”

 

“I have done what little I could,” said Thorne, proudly.

 

“Well, well, well, well, I never heard such a thing in my life;

never. Mary’s child, my own Mary’s child, and I’m not to see her!

But, Thorne, I tell you what; I will see her. I’ll go over to her,

I’ll go to Greshamsbury, and tell her who I am, and what I can do

for her. I tell you fairly I will. You shall not keep her away from

those who belong to her, and can do her a good turn. Mary’s daughter;

another Mary Scatcherd! I almost wish she were called Mary Scatcherd.

Is she like her, Thorne? Come tell me that; is she like her mother.”

 

“I do not remember her mother; at least not in health.”

 

“Not remember her! ah, well. She was the handsomest girl in

Barchester, anyhow. That was given up to her. Well, I didn’t think to

be talking of her again. Thorne, you cannot but expect that I shall

go over and see Mary’s child?”

 

“Now, Scatcherd, look here,” and the doctor, coming away from the

window, where he had been standing, sat himself down by the bedside,

“you must not come over to Greshamsbury.”

 

“Oh! but I shall.”

 

“Listen to me, Scatcherd. I do not want to praise myself in any way;

but when that girl was an infant, six months old, she was like to be

a thorough obstacle to her mother’s fortune in life. Tomlinson was

willing to marry your sister, but he would not marry the child too.

Then I took the baby, and I promised her mother that I would be to

her as a father. I have kept my word as fairly as I have been able.

She has sat at my hearth, and drunk of my cup, and been to me as my

own child. After that, I have a right to judge what is best for her.

Her life is not like your life, and her ways are not as your ways—”

 

“Ah, that is just it; we are too vulgar for her.”

 

“You may take it as you will,” said the doctor, who was too much in

earnest to be in the least afraid of offending his companion. “I have

not said so; but I do say that you and she are unlike in your way of

living.”

 

“She wouldn’t like an uncle with a brandy bottle under his head, eh?”

 

“You could not see her without letting her know what is the connexion

between you; of that I wish to keep her in ignorance.”

 

“I never knew any one yet who was ashamed of a rich connexion. How do

you mean to get a husband for her, eh?”

 

“I have told you of her existence,” continued the doctor, not

appearing to notice what the baronet had last said, “because I found

it necessary that you should know the fact of your sister having left

this child behind her; you would otherwise have made a will different

from that intended, and there might have been a lawsuit, and mischief

and misery when we are gone. You must perceive that I have done this

in honesty to you; and you yourself are too honest to repay me by

taking advantage of this knowledge to make me unhappy.”

 

“Oh, very well, doctor. At any rate, you are a brick, I will say

that. But I’ll think of all this, I’ll think of it; but it does

startle me to find that poor Mary has a child living so near to me.”

 

“And now, Scatcherd, I will say good-bye. We part as friends, don’t

we?”

 

“Oh, but doctor, you ain’t going to leave me so. What am I