“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 anyone 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 to do? What doses shall I take? How much brandy may I drink? May I have a grill for dinner? D—— me, doctor, you have turned Fillgrave out of the house. You mustn’t go and desert me.”
Dr. Thorne laughed, and then, sitting himself down to write medically, gave such prescriptions and ordinances as he found to be necessary. They amounted but to this: that the man was to drink, if possible, no brandy; and if that were not possible, then as little as might be.
This having been done, the doctor again proceeded to take his leave; but when he got to the door he was called back. “Thorne! Thorne! About that money for Mr. Gresham; do what you like, do just what you like. Ten thousand, is it? Well, he shall have it. I’ll make Winterbones write about it at once. Five per cent., isn’t it? No, four and a half. Well, he shall have ten thousand more.”
“Thank you, Scatcherd, thank you, I am really very much obliged to you, I am indeed. I wouldn’t ask it if I was not sure your money is safe. Good-bye, old fellow, and get rid of that bedfellow of yours,” and again he was at the door.
“Thorne,” said Sir Roger once more. “Thorne, just come back for a minute. You wouldn’t let me send a present would you—fifty pounds or so—just to buy a few flounces?”
The doctor contrived to escape without giving a definite answer to this question; and then, having paid his compliments to Lady Scatcherd, remounted his cob and rode back to Greshamsbury.
CHAPTER XIV
Sentence of Exile
Dr. Thorne did not at once go home to his own house. When he reached the Greshamsbury gates, he sent his horse to its own stable by one of the people at the lodge, and then walked on to the mansion. He had to see the squire on the subject of the forthcoming loan, and he had also to see Lady Arabella.
The Lady Arabella, though she was not personally attached to the doctor with quite so much warmth as some others of her family, still had reasons of her own for not dispensing with his visits to the house. She was one of his patients, and a patient fearful of the disease with which she was threatened. Though she thought the doctor to be arrogant, deficient as to properly submissive demeanour towards herself, an instigator to marital parsimony in her lord, one altogether opposed to herself and her interest in Greshamsbury politics, nevertheless, she did feel trust in him as a medical man. She had no wish to be rescued out of his hands by any Dr. Fillgrave, as regarded that complaint of hers, much as she may have desired, and did desire, to sever him from all Greshamsbury councils in all matters not touching the healing art.
Now the complaint of which the Lady Arabella was afraid, was cancer: and her only present confidant in this matter was Dr. Thorne.
The first of the Greshamsbury circle whom he saw was Beatrice, and he met her in the garden.
“Oh, doctor,” said she, “where has Mary been this age? She has not been up here since Frank’s birthday.”
“Well, that was only three days ago. Why don’t you go down and ferret her out in the village?”
“So I have done. I was there just now, and found her out. She was out with Patience Oriel. Patience is all and all with her now. Patience is all very well, but if they throw me over—”
“My dear Miss Gresham, Patience is and always was a virtue.”
“A poor, beggarly, sneaking virtue after all, doctor. They should have come up, seeing how deserted I am here. There’s absolutely nobody left.”
“Has Lady de Courcy gone?”
“Oh, yes! All the De Courcys have gone. I think, between ourselves, Mary stays away because she does not love them too well. They have all gone, and taken Augusta and Frank with them.”
“Has Frank gone to Courcy Castle?”
“Oh, yes; did you not hear? There was rather a fight about it. Master Frank wanted to get off, and was as hard to catch as an eel, and then the countess was offended; and papa said he didn’t see why Frank was to go if he didn’t like it. Papa is very anxious about his degree, you know.”
The doctor understood it all as well as though it had been described to him at full length. The countess had claimed her prey, in order that she might carry him off to Miss Dunstable’s golden embrace. The prey, not yet old enough and wise enough to connect the worship of Plutus with that of Venus, had made sundry futile feints and dodges in the vain hope of escape. Then the anxious mother had enforced the De Courcy behests with all a mother’s authority. But the father, whose ideas on the subject of Miss Dunstable’s wealth had probably not been consulted, had, as a matter of course, taken exactly the other side of the question. The doctor did not require to be told all this in order to know how the battle had raged. He had not yet heard of the great Dunstable scheme; but he was sufficiently acquainted with Greshamsbury tactics to understand that the war had been carried on somewhat after this fashion.
As a rule, when the squire took a point warmly to heart, he was wont to carry his way against the De Courcy interest. He could be obstinate enough when it so pleased him, and had before now gone so far as to tell his wife, that her thrice-noble sister-in-law might remain at home at Courcy Castle—or, at any rate, not come to Greshamsbury—if she could not do so without striving to rule him and everyone else when she got here. This had of course been repeated to the countess, who had merely replied to it by a sisterly whisper, in which she sorrowfully intimated that some men were born brutes, and always would remain so.
“I think they all are,” the Lady Arabella had replied; wishing, perhaps, to remind her sister-in-law that the breed of brutes was as rampant in West Barsetshire as in the eastern division of the county.
The squire, however, had not fought on this occasion with all his vigour. There had, of course, been some passages between him and his son, and it had been agreed that Frank should go for a fortnight to Courcy Castle.
“We mustn’t quarrel with them, you know, if we can help it,” said the father; “and, therefore, you must go sooner or later.”
“Well, I suppose so; but you don’t know how dull it is, governor.”
“Don’t I?” said Mr. Gresham.
“There’s a Miss Dunstable to be there; did you ever hear of her, sir?”
“No, never.”
“She’s a girl whose father used to make ointment, or something of that sort.”
“Oh, yes, to be sure; the ointment of Lebanon. He used to cover all the walls in London. I haven’t heard of him this year past.”
“No; that’s because he’s dead. Well, she carries on the ointment now, I believe; at any rate, she has got all the money. I wonder what she’s like.”
“You’d better go and see,” said the father, who now began to have some inkling of an idea why the two ladies were so anxious to carry his son off to Courcy Castle at this exact time. And so Frank had packed up his best clothes, given a last fond look at the new black horse, repeated his last special injunctions to Peter, and had then made one of the stately
cortège
which proceeded through the county from Greshamsbury to Courcy Castle.
“I am very glad of that, very,” said the squire, when he heard that the money was to be forthcoming. “I shall get it on easier terms from him than elsewhere; and it kills me to have continual bother about such things.” And Mr. Gresham, feeling that that difficulty was tided over for a time, and that the immediate pressure of little debts would be abated, stretched himself on his easy-chair as though he were quite comfortable—one may say almost elated.
How frequent it is that men on their road to ruin feel elation such as this! A man signs away a moiety of his substance; nay, that were nothing; but a moiety of the substance of his children; he puts his pen to the paper that ruins him and them; but in doing so he frees himself from a score of immediate little pestering, stinging troubles: and, therefore, feels as though fortune had been almost kind to him.
The doctor felt angry with himself for what he had done when he saw how easily the squire adapted himself to this new loan. “It will make Scatcherd’s claim upon you very heavy,” said he.
Mr. Gresham at once read all that was passing through the doctor’s mind. “Well, what else can I do?” said he. “You wouldn’t have me allow my daughter to lose this match for the sake of a few thousand pounds? It will be well at any rate to have one of them settled. Look at that letter from Moffat.”
The doctor took the letter and read it. It was a long, wordy, ill-written rigmarole, in which that amorous gentleman spoke with much rapture of his love and devotion for Miss Gresham; but at the same time declared, and most positively swore, that the adverse cruelty of his circumstances was such, that it would not allow him to stand up like a man at the hymeneal altar until six thousand pounds hard cash had been paid down at his banker’s.
“It may be all right,” said the squire; “but in my time gentlemen were not used to write such letters as that to each other.”
The doctor shrugged his shoulders. He did not know how far he would be justified in saying much, even to his friend the squire, in dispraise of his future son-in-law.
“I told him that he should have the money; and one would have thought that that would have been enough for him. Well: I suppose Augusta likes him. I suppose she wishes the match; otherwise, I would give him such an answer to that letter as would startle him a little.”
“What settlement is he to make?” said Thorne.
“Oh, that’s satisfactory enough; couldn’t be more so; a thousand a year and the house at Wimbledon for her; that’s all very well. But such a lie, you know, Thorne. He’s rolling in money, and yet he talks of this beggarly sum as though he couldn’t possibly stir without it.”
“If I might venture to speak my mind,” said Thorne.
“Well?” said the squire, looking at him earnestly.
“I should be inclined to say that Mr. Moffat wants to cry off, himself.”
“Oh, impossible; quite impossible. In the first place, he was so very anxious for the match. In the next place, it is such a great thing for him. And then, he would never dare; you see, he is dependent on the De Courcys for his seat.”
“But suppose he loses his seat?”
“But there is not much fear of that, I think. Scatcherd may be a very fine fellow, but I think they’ll hardly return him at Barchester.”
“I don’t understand much about it,” said Thorne; “but such things do happen.”
“And you believe that this man absolutely wants to get off the match; absolutely thinks of playing such a trick as that on my daughter—on me?”
“I don’t say he intends to do it; but it looks to me as though he were making a door for himself, or trying to make a door: if so, your having the money will stop him there.”
“But, Thorne, don’t you think he loves the girl? If I thought not—”
The doctor stood silent for a moment, and then he said, “I am not a love-making man myself, but I think that if I were much in love with a young lady I should not write such a letter as that to her father.”
“By heavens! If I thought so,” said the squire—”but, Thorne, we can’t judge of those fellows as one does of gentlemen; they are so used to making money, and seeing money made, that they have an eye to business in everything.”
“Perhaps so, perhaps so,” muttered the doctor, showing evidently that he still doubted the warmth of Mr. Moffat’s affection.
“The match was none of my making, and I cannot interfere now to break it off: it will give her a good position in the world; for, after all, money goes a great way, and it is something to be in Parliament. I can only hope she likes him. I do truly hope she likes him;” and the squire also showed by the tone of his voice that, though he might hope that his daughter was in love with her intended husband, he hardly conceived it to be possible that she should be so.
And what was the truth of the matter? Miss Gresham was no more in love with Mr. Moffat than you are—oh, sweet, young, blooming beauty! Not a whit more; not, at least, in your sense of the word, nor in mine. She had by no means resolved within her heart that of all the men whom she had ever seen, or ever could see, he was far away the nicest and best. That is what you will do when you are in love, if you be good for anything. She had no longing to sit near to him—the nearer the better; she had no thought of his taste and his choice when she bought her ribbons and bonnets; she had no indescribable desire that all her female friends should be ever talking to her about him. When she wrote to him, she did not copy her letters again and again, so that she might be, as it were, ever speaking to him; she took no special pride in herself because he had chosen her to be his life’s partner. In point of fact, she did not care one straw about him.
And yet she thought she loved him; was, indeed, quite confident that she did so; told her mother that she was sure Gustavus would wish this, she knew Gustavus would like that, and so on; but as for Gustavus himself, she did not care a chip for him.
She was in love with her match just as farmers are in love with wheat at eighty shillings a quarter; or shareholders—innocent gudgeons—with seven and a half per cent interest on their paid-up capital. Eighty shillings a quarter, and seven and a half per cent interest, such were the returns which she had been taught to look for in exchange for her young heart; and, having obtained them, or being thus about to obtain them, why should not her young heart be satisfied? Had she not sat herself down obediently at the feet of her lady Gamaliel, and should she not be rewarded? Yes, indeed, she shall be rewarded.
And then the doctor went to the lady. On their medical secrets we will not intrude; but there were other matters bearing on the course of our narrative, as to which Lady Arabella found it necessary to say a word or so to the doctor; and it is essential that we should know what was the tenor of those few words so spoken.
How the aspirations, and instincts, and feelings of a household become changed as the young birds begin to flutter with feathered wings, and have half-formed thoughts of leaving the parental nest! A few months back, Frank had reigned almost autocratic over the lesser subjects of the kingdom of Greshamsbury. The servants, for instance, always obeyed him, and his sisters never dreamed of telling anything which he directed should not be told. All his mischief, all his troubles, and all his loves were confided to them, with the sure conviction that they would never be made to stand in evidence against him.
Trusting to this well-ascertained state of things, he had not hesitated to declare his love for Miss Thorne before his sister Augusta. But his sister Augusta had now, as it were, been received into the upper house; having duly received, and duly profited by the lessons of her great instructress, she was now admitted to sit in conclave with the higher powers: her sympathies, of course, became changed, and her confidence was removed from the young and giddy and given to the ancient and discreet. She was as a schoolboy, who, having finished his schooling, and being fairly forced by necessity into the stern bread-earning world, undertakes the new duties of tutoring. Yesterday he was taught, and fought, of course, against the schoolmaster; to-day he teaches, and fights as keenly for him. So it was with Augusta Gresham, when, with careful brow, she whispered to her mother that there was something wrong between Frank and Mary Thorne.
“Stop it at once, Arabella: stop it at once,” the countess had said; “that, indeed, will be ruin. If he does not marry money, he is lost. Good heavens! the doctor’s niece! A girl that nobody knows where she comes from!”
“He’s going with you to-morrow, you know,” said the anxious mother.
“Yes; and that is so far well: if he will be led by me, the evil may be remedied before he returns; but it is very, very hard to lead young men. Arabella, you must forbid that girl to come to Greshamsbury again on any pretext whatever. The evil must be stopped at once.”