Doctor Thorne - Anthony Trollope (historical books to read .txt) 📗
- Author: Anthony Trollope
- Performer: -
Book online «Doctor Thorne - Anthony Trollope (historical books to read .txt) 📗». Author Anthony Trollope
“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
Comments (0)