Doctor Thorne by Anthony Trollope (interesting books to read TXT) 📖

but no sacrilegious hand had been laid on

the teapot and the cream-jug.

 

“Mary,” said he, “suppose you were to find out to-morrow morning

that, by some accident, you had become a great heiress, would you be

able to suppress your exultation?”

 

“The first thing I’d do, would be to pronounce a positive edict that

you should never go to Silverbridge again; at least without a day’s

notice.”

 

“Well, and what next? what would you do next?”

 

“The next thing—the next thing would be to send to Paris for a

French bonnet exactly like the one Patience Oriel had on. Did you see

it?”

 

“Well I can’t say I did; bonnets are invisible now; besides I never

remark anybody’s clothes, except yours.”

 

“Oh! do look at Miss Oriel’s bonnet the next time you see her. I

cannot understand why it should be so, but I am sure of this—no

English fingers could put together such a bonnet as that; and I am

nearly sure that no French fingers could do it in England.”

 

“But you don’t care so much about bonnets, Mary!” This the doctor

said as an assertion; but there was, nevertheless, somewhat of a

question involved in it.

 

“Don’t I, though?” said she. “I do care very much about bonnets;

especially since I saw Patience this morning. I asked how much it

cost—guess.”

 

“Oh! I don’t know—a pound?”

 

“A pound, uncle!”

 

“What! a great deal more? Ten pounds?”

 

“Oh, uncle.”

 

“What! more than ten pounds? Then I don’t think even Patience Oriel

ought to give it.”

 

“No, of course she would not; but, uncle, it really cost a hundred

francs!”

 

“Oh! a hundred francs; that’s four pounds, isn’t it? Well, and how

much did your last new bonnet cost?”

 

“Mine! oh, nothing—five and ninepence, perhaps; I trimmed it myself.

If I were left a great fortune, I’d send to Paris to-morrow; no,

I’d go myself to Paris to buy a bonnet, and I’d take you with me to

choose it.”

 

The doctor sat silent for a while meditating about this, during

which he unconsciously absorbed the tea beside him; and Mary again

replenished his cup.

 

“Come, Mary,” said he at last, “I’m in a generous mood; and as I am

rather more rich than usual, we’ll send to Paris for a French bonnet.

The going for it must wait a while longer I am afraid.”

 

“You’re joking.”

 

“No, indeed. If you know the way to send—that I must confess would

puzzle me; but if you’ll manage the sending, I’ll manage the paying;

and you shall have a French bonnet.”

 

“Uncle!” said she, looking up at him.

 

“Oh, I’m not joking; I owe you a present, and I’ll give you that.”

 

“And if you do, I’ll tell you what I’ll do with it. I’ll cut it into

fragments, and burn them before your face. Why, uncle, what do you

take me for? You’re not a bit nice to-night to make such an offer as

that to me; not a bit, not a bit.” And then she came over from her

seat at the tea-tray and sat down on a footstool close at his knee.

“Because I’d have a French bonnet if I had a large fortune, is that a

reason why I should like one now? if you were to pay four pounds for

a bonnet for me, it would scorch my head every time I put it on.”

 

“I don’t see that: four pounds would not ruin me. However, I don’t

think you’d look a bit better if you had it; and, certainly, I should

not like to scorch these locks,” and putting his hand upon her

shoulders, he played with her hair.

 

“Patience has a pony-phaeton, and I’d have one if I were rich; and

I’d have all my books bound as she does; and, perhaps, I’d give fifty

guineas for a dressing-case.”

 

“Fifty guineas!”

 

“Patience did not tell me; but so Beatrice says. Patience showed it

to me once, and it is a darling. I think I’d have the dressing-case

before the bonnet. But, uncle—”

 

“Well?”

 

“You don’t suppose I want such things?”

 

“Not improperly. I am sure you do not.”

 

“Not properly, or improperly; not much, or little. I covet many

things; but nothing of that sort. You know, or should know, that I do

not. Why did you talk of buying a French bonnet for me?”

 

Dr Thorne did not answer this question, but went on nursing his leg.

 

“After all,” said he, “money is a fine thing.”

 

“Very fine, when it is well come by,” she answered; “that is, without

detriment to the heart or soul.”

 

“I should be a happier man if you were provided for as is Miss Oriel.

Suppose, now, I could give you up to a rich man who would be able to

insure you against all wants?”

 

“Insure me against all wants! Oh, that would be a man. That would be

selling me, wouldn’t it, uncle? Yes, selling me; and the price you

would receive would be freedom from future apprehensions as regards

me. It would be a cowardly sale for you to make; and then, as to

me—me the victim. No, uncle; you must bear the misery of having to

provide for me—bonnets and all. We are in the same boat, and you

shan’t turn me overboard.”

 

“But if I were to die, what would you do then?”

 

“And if I were to die, what would you do? People must be bound

together. They must depend on each other. Of course, misfortunes may

come; but it is cowardly to be afraid of them beforehand. You and I

are bound together, uncle; and though you say these things to tease

me, I know you do not wish to get rid of me.”

 

“Well, well; we shall win through, doubtless; if not in one way, then

in another.”

 

“Win through! Of course we shall; who doubts our winning? but,

uncle—”

 

“But, Mary.”

 

“Well?”

 

“You haven’t got another cup of tea, have you?”

 

“Oh, uncle! you have had five.”

 

“No, my dear! not five; only four—only four, I assure you; I have

been very particular to count. I had one while I was—”

 

“Five uncle; indeed and indeed.”

 

“Well, then, as I hate the prejudice which attaches luck to an odd

number, I’ll have a sixth to show that I am not superstitious.”

 

While Mary was preparing the sixth jorum, there came a knock at the

door. Those late summonses were hateful to Mary’s ear, for they were

usually the forerunners of a midnight ride through the dark lanes to

some farmer’s house. The doctor had been in the saddle all day, and,

as Janet brought the note into the room, Mary stood up as though to

defend her uncle from any further invasion on his rest.

 

“A note from the house, miss,” said Janet: now “the house,” in

Greshamsbury parlance, always meant the squire’s mansion.

 

“No one ill at the house, I hope,” said the doctor, taking the note

from Mary’s hand. “Oh—ah—yes; it’s from the squire—there’s nobody

ill: wait a minute, Janet, and I’ll write a line. Mary, lend me your

desk.”

 

The squire, anxious as usual for money, had written to ask what

success the doctor had had in negotiating the new loan with Sir

Roger. The fact, however, was, that in his visit at Boxall Hill, the

doctor had been altogether unable to bring on the carpet the matter

of this loan. Subjects had crowded themselves in too quickly during

that interview—those two interviews at Sir Roger’s bedside; and he

had been obliged to leave without even alluding to the question.

 

“I must at any rate go back now,” said he to himself. So he wrote to

the squire, saying that he was to be at Boxall Hill again on the

following day, and that he would call at the house on his return.

 

“That’s settled, at any rate,” said he.

 

“What’s settled?” said Mary.

 

“Why, I must go to Boxall Hill again to-morrow. I must go early, too,

so we’d better both be off to bed. Tell Janet I must breakfast at

half-past seven.”

 

“You couldn’t take me, could you? I should so like to see that Sir

Roger.”

 

“To see Sir Roger! Why, he’s ill in bed.”

 

“That’s an objection, certainly; but some day, when he’s well, could

not you take me over? I have the greatest desire to see a man like

that; a man who began with nothing and now has more than enough to

buy the whole parish of Greshamsbury.”

 

“I don’t think you’d like him at all.”

 

“Why not? I am sure I should; I am sure I should like him, and Lady

Scatcherd, too. I’ve heard you say that she is an excellent woman.”

 

“Yes, in her way; and he, too, is good in his way; but they are

neither of them in your way: they are extremely vulgar—”

 

“Oh! I don’t mind that; that would make them more amusing; one

doesn’t go to those sort of people for polished manners.”

 

“I don’t think you’d find the Scatcherds pleasant acquaintances at

all,” said the doctor, taking his bed-candle, and kissing his niece’s

forehead as he left the room.