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 any one.
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 an 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 he 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
any one 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."
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 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.