Dr Thorne - Anthony Trollope [84]
‘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 tomorrow. 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 has now 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.
CHAPTER XII
When Greek meets Greek, then Comes the Tug-of-War1
THE doctor, that is our doctor, had thought nothing more of the message which had been sent to that other doctor, Dr Fillgrave; nor in truth did the baronet. Lady Scatcherd had thought of it, but her husband during the rest of the day was not in a humour which allowed her to remind him that he would soon have a new physician on his hands; so she left the difficulty to arrange itself, waiting in some little trepidation till Dr Fillgrave should show himself.
It was well that Sir Roger was not dying for want of his assistance, for when the message reached Barchester, Dr Fillgrave was some five or six miles out of town, at Plumstead; and as he did not get back till late in the evening, he felt himself necessitated to put off his visit to Boxall Hill till the next morning. Had he chanced to have been made acquainted with that little conversation about the pump, he would probably have postponed it even yet a while longer.
He was, however, by no means sorry to be summoned to the bedside of Sir Roger Scatcherd. It was well known at Barchester, and very well known to Dr Fillgrave, that Sir Roger and Dr Thorne were old friends. It was