Маргарет Олифант
Old Mr. Tredgold
CHAPTER XXV
It will perhaps be thought very unfeeling of Katherine to have received as she did this unlooked for elderly lover. All Sliplin, it is true, could have told her for some time past that the Rector was in love with her, and meant to make her an offer, and Miss Mildmay believed that she had been aware of it long before that. But it had never occurred to Katherine that the father of Charlotte and Gerard was occupied with herself in any way, or that such an idea could enter his mind. He had heard her say her catechism! He had given Charlotte in her presence the little sting of a reproof about making a noise, and other domestic sins which Katherine was very well aware she was intended to share. In the douceurs which, there was no denying, he had lately shed about, she had thought of nothing but a fatherly intention to console her in her changed circumstances; and to think that all the time this old middle-aged man, this father of a family, had it in his mind to make her his wife! Katherine let her flowers lie drooping, and paced up and down the room furious, angry even with herself. Forty-five is a tremendous age to three-and-twenty; and it was the first time she had ever received a proposal straight in the face, so to speak. Turny and Company had treated with her father, but had retreated from before her own severe aspect when she gave it to be seen how immovable she was. And to think that her first veritable proposal should be this—a thing that filled her with indignation! What! did the man suppose for a moment that she, his daughter’s friend, would marry him? Did all men think that a girl would do anything to be married?—or what did they think?
Katherine could not realise that Mr. Stanley to the Rector was not at all the same person that he was to her. The Rector thought himself in the prime of life, and so he was. The children belonged to him and he was accustomed to them, and did not, except now and then, think them a great burden; but himself was naturally the first person in his thoughts. He knew that he was a very personable man, that his voice was considered beautiful, and his aspect (in the pulpit) imposing. His features were good, his height was good, he was in full health and vigour. Why shouldn’t he have asked anybody to marry him? The idea that it was an insult to a girl never entered his mind. And it was no insult. He was not even poor or in pursuit of her wealth. No doubt her wealth would make a great difference, but that was not in the least his motive, for he had thought of her for years. And in his own person he was a man any woman might have been proud of. All this was very visible to him.
But to Katherine it only appeared that Mr. Stanley was forty-five, that he was the father of a girl as old as herself, and of a young man, whom she had laughed at, indeed, but who also had wished to make love to her. What would Gerard say? This was the first thing that changed Katherine’s mood, that made her laugh. It brought in a ludicrous element. What Charlotte would say was not half so funny. Charlotte would be horrified, but she would probably think that any woman might snatch at a man so admired as her father, and the fear of being put out of her place would occupy her and darken her understanding. But the thought of Gerard made Katherine laugh and restored her equilibrium. Strengthened by this new view she came down from her pinnacle of indignation and began to look after the things she had to do. The snow went on falling thickly, a white moving veil across every one of the windows; the great flickering flakes falling now quickly, now slowly, and everything growing whiter and whiter against the half-seen grey of the sky. This whiteness shut in the house, encircling it as with a flowing mantle. Nobody would come near the house that afternoon, nobody would come out that could help it—not even the midge was likely to appear along the white path. The snow made an end of visitors, and Katherine felt herself shut up within it, condemned not to hear any voice or meet with any incident for the rest of the day. It was not a cheering sensation. She finished her letter to Stella, and paused and wondered whether she should tell her what had happened; but she fortunately remembered that a high standard of honour forbade the disclosure of secrets like this, which were the secrets of others as well as her own. She had herself condemned from that high eminence with much indignation the way in which other girls blazoned such secrets. She would not be like one of them. And besides, Stella and her husband would laugh and make jokes in bad taste and hold up the Rector to the laughter of the regiment, which would not be fair though Katherine was so angry with him. When she had finished her letter she returned to the flowers, and finally arranged them as she had intended to do long ago. And then she went and stood for a long time at the window watching the snow falling. It was very dull to see nobody, to be alone, all alone, for all these hours. There was a new novel fresh from Mudie’s on the table, which was always something to look forward to; but even a novel is but a poor substitute for society when you have been so shaken and put out of your assiette as Katherine had been by a personal incident. Would she have told anyone if anyone had come? She said to herself, “No, certainly not.” But as she was still thrilling and throbbing all over, and felt it almost impossible to keep still, I cannot feel so sure as she was that she would not have followed a multitude to do evil, and betrayed her suitor’s secret by way of relieving her own mind. But I am sure that she would have felt very sorry had she done so as soon as the words were out of her mouth.
She had seated herself by the fire and taken up her novel, not with the content and pleasure which a well-conditioned girl ought to exhibit at the sight of a new story in three volumes (in which form it is always most welcome, according to my old-fashioned ideas) and a long afternoon to enjoy it in, but still with resignation and a pulse beating more quietly—when there arose sounds which indicated a visit after all. Katherine listened eagerly, then subsided as the footsteps and voices faded again, going off to the other end of the house.
“Dr. Burnet to see papa,” she said half with relief, half with expectation. She had no desire to see Dr. Burnet. She could not certainly to him breathe the faintest sigh of a revelation, or relieve her mind by the most distant hint of anything that had happened. Still, he was somebody. It was rather agreeable to give him tea. The bread and butter disappeared so quickly, and it had come to be such a familiar operation to watch those strong white teeth getting through it. Certainly he had wonderful teeth. Katherine gave but a half attention to her book, listening to the sounds in the house. Her father’s door closed, he had gone in, and then after a while the bell rang and the footsteps became audible once more in the corridor. She closed her book upon her hand wondering if he would come this way, or– He was coming this way! She pushed her chair away from the hearth, feeling that, what with the past excitement and the glow of the fire, her cheeks were ablaze.
But Dr. Burnet did not seem to see this when he came in. She had gone to the window by that time to look out again upon the falling snow. It was falling, falling, silent and white and soft, in large flakes like feathers, or rather like white swan’s down. He joined her there and they stood looking at it together, and saying to each other how it seemed to close round the house and wrap everything up as in a downy mantle.
“I like to see it,” the doctor said, “which is very babyish, I know. I like to see that flutter in the air and the great soft flakes dilating as they fall. But it puts a great stop to everything. You have had no visitors, I suppose, to-day?”
“Oh, yes, before it came on,” said Katherine; and then she added in a voice which she felt to be strange even while she spoke, “The Rector was here.”
That was all—not another word did she say; but Dr. Burnet gave her a quick look, and he knew as well as the reader knows what had happened. The Rector, then, had struck his blow. No doubt it was by deliberate purpose that he had chosen a day threatening snow, when nobody was likely to interrupt him. And he had made his explanation and it had not been well received. The doctor divined all this and his heart gave a jump of pleasure, though Katherine had not said a word, and indeed had not looked at him, but stood steadily with a blank countenance in which there was nothing to be read, gazing out upon the snow. Sometimes a blank countenance displays more than the frankest speech.
“He is a handsome man—for his time of life,” Dr. Burnet said, he could not tell why.
“Yes?” said Katherine, as if she were waiting for further evidence; and then she added, “It is droll to think of that as being a quality of the Rector—just as you would say it of a boy.”
“Do you think that handsome is as handsome does, Miss Katherine? I should not have expected that of you. I always thought you made a great point of good looks.”
“I like nice-looking people,” she said, and in spite of herself gave a glance aside at the doctor, who in spite of those fine teeth and very good eyes and other points of advantage, could not have been called handsome by the most partial of friends.
“You are looking at me,” he said with a laugh, “and the reflection is obvious, though perhaps it is only my vanity that imagines you to have made it. I am not much to brag of, I know it. I am very ’umble. A man who knows he is good-looking must have a great advantage in life to begin with. It must give him so much more confidence wherever he makes his appearance—at least for the first time.”
“Do you think so?” she said. “I should think one would forget it so quickly, both the possessor himself and those who look at him. If people are nice you think of that and not of their beauty, unless–”
“Unless what, Miss Katherine? You can’t think how interesting this talk is to me. Tell me something on which an ugly man can rest and take courage. You are thinking of John Wilkes’ famous saying that he only wanted half-an-hour’s start of the handsomest man–”
“Who was John Wilkes?” said Katherine with the serenest ignorance. “I suppose one of the men one ought to know; but then I know so little. After a year of the Mutual Improvement Society–”
“Don’t trouble about that,” cried the doctor, “but my ambulance classes are really of the greatest use. I do hope you will attend them. Suppose there was an accident before your eyes—on the lawn there, and nobody within reach—what should you do?”
“Tremble all over and be of use to nobody,” Katherine said with a shudder.
“That is just what I want to obviate—that is just what ought to be obviated. You, with your light touch and your kind heart and your quick eye–”
“Have I a quick eye and a light touch?” said Katherine with a laugh; “and how do you know? It is understood that every girl must have a kind heart. On the whole, I would rather write an essay, I think, than be called upon to render first aid. My hand is not at all steady if my touch is light.”
She lifted one of the vases as she spoke to change its position and her hand shook. He looked at it keenly, and she, not thinking of so sudden a test, put down the vase in a hurry with a wave of colour coming over her face.
“That’s not natural, that’s worry, that’s excitement,” Dr. Burnet said.
“The outlook is not very exciting, is it?” cried Katherine; “one does not come in the way of much excitement at Sliplin, and I have not even seen Miss Mildmay and Mrs. Shanks. No, it is natural, doctor. So you see how little use it would be to train me. Come to the fire and have some tea.”
“I must not give myself this pleasure too often,” he said. “I find myself going back to it in imagination when I am out in the wilds. It is precious cold in my dog-cart facing the wind, Miss Katherine. I say to myself, Now the tea is being brought in in the drawing-room on the Cliff, now it is being poured out. I smell the fragrance of it driving along the bitter downs; and then I go and order some poor wretch the beastliest draught that can be compounded to avenge myself for getting no tea.”
“You should give them nothing but nice things, then, when you do have tea—as now,” said Katherine.
He came after her to where the little tea-table shone and sparkled in the firelight, and took from her hand the cup of tea she offered him, and stood with his back to the fire holding it in his hand. His groom was driving his dog-cart round and round the snowy path, crossing the window from time to time, a dark apparition amid the falling of the snow. What the thoughts of the groom might be, looking in through the great window on this scene of comfort, the figure of Katherine in her pretty dress and colour stooping over the table, and his master behind standing against the firelight with his cup of tea, nobody asked. Perhaps he was making little comparisons as to his lot, perhaps only thinking of the time when he should be able to thrust his hands into his pockets and the doctor should have the reins. Yet Dr. Burnet did not ignore his groom. “There,” he said, “is fate awaiting me. This time she has assumed the innocent form of John Dobbs, my groom. I have got ten miles to drive, there and back, to see Mrs. Crumples, who could do perfectly well without me, and then to the Chine for a moment to ascertain if the new man there has digested his early dinner, and then to Steephill to look after the servants’ hall. I am not good enough, except on an emergency, for the family or Lady Jane.”
“I would not go more, then, if it is only for the servants’ hall,” cried Katherine.
“Why not?” he said. “I consider Mrs. Cole, the cook, is quite as valuable a member of society as Lady Jane. The world would not come to an end if Lady Jane were absent for a day, or laid up, but it would very nearly—at Steephill—if anything happened to the cook.”
“You said you were ’umble, Dr. Burnet, and I did not believe you. I see that you are really so, now.”
“Ah, there I disagree with you,” he said, a little flush on his face. “I am ’umble about my personal appearance, but I only don’t mind with Lady Jane. She thinks of me merely as the general practitioner from Sliplin, which shows she doesn’t know anything—for I am more than a general practitioner.”
“I know,” cried Katherine quickly, half with a generous desire not to leave him to sing his own praises, and half with a wondering scorn that he should think it worth the while; “you will be a great physician one of these days.”
“I hope so,” he said quietly. Then, after a while, “But I am still more than that; at least, what would seem more in Lady Jane’s eyes. I am not a doctor only, Miss Katherine. I have not such a bad little estate behind me. My uncle has it now, but I’m the man after him; and a family a good deal better known than the Uffingtons, who are not a century old.” He said this with a little excitement, and a flourish in his hand of the teaspoon with which he had been stirring his tea.
Jim Dobbs, driving past the window, white with snow, yet looking like a huge blackness in the solidity of the group, he and his high coat and his big horse amid the falling feathers, caught the gesture and wondered within himself what the doctor could be about; while Katherine, looking up at him from the tea-table, was scarcely less surprised. Why should he tell her this? Why at all? Why now? The faint wonder in her look made Dr. Burnet blush.
“What a fool I am! As if you cared about that,” he said with a stamp of his foot, in impatience with himself, and shame.
“Oh, yes, I care about it. I am glad to hear of it. But—Dr. Burnet, let me give you another cup of tea.”
“But,” he said, “you think what have I to do with the man’s antecedents? You see I want you to know that I can put my foot forward sometimes—like–” he paused for a moment and laughed, putting down his cup hastily. “No more! No more! I must tear myself from this enchanted cliff, or Jim Dobbs will mistake the window for the stable door—like my elderly friend, Miss Katherine,” he said over his shoulder as he went away.
Like—his elderly friend? Who was his elderly friend, and what did the doctor mean? Katherine watched from the window while Burnet got into his dog-cart and whirled away at a very different pace from that of his groom. She could not see this from her window, but listened till the sounds died away, looking out upon the snow. What a fascination that snow had, falling, falling, without any dark object now to disturb its absolute possession of the world! Katherine stood for a long time watching before she went back to her novel, which was only when the lamps were brought in, changing the aspect of the place. Did she care for Dr. Burnet’s revelations, or divine the object of them? In the first place not at all; in the second, I doubt whether she took the trouble to ask herself the question.
CHAPTER XXVI
But though Dr. Burnet had been ’umble about his position at Steephill, and considered himself only as the physician of the servants’ hall, he was not invariably left in that secondary position. On this particular snowy evening, when master and horse and man were all eager to get home in view of the drifting of the snow, which was already very deep, and the darkness of the night, which made it dangerous, Lady Jane—who was alone at Steephill, i.e. without any house party, and enjoying the sole society of Sir John, her spouse, which was not lively—bethought herself that she would like to consult the doctor. She did not pretend that she had more than a cold, but then a cold may develop into anything, as all the world knows. It was better to have a talk with Dr. Burnet than not to say a word to anybody, and to speak of her cold rather than not to speak at all. Besides, she did want to hear something of old Tredgold, and whether Katherine was behaving well, and what chance there might be for Stella. The point of behaviour in Katherine about which Lady Jane was anxious was whether or not she was keeping her sister’s claims before her father—her conduct in other respects was a matter of absolute indifference to her former patroness.
“I have not been in Sliplin for quite a long time,” she said. “It may be a deficiency in me, but, you know, I don’t very much affect your village, Dr. Burnet.”
“No; few people do; unless they want it, or something in it,” the doctor said as he made out his prescription, of which I think eau sucrée, or something like it, was the chief ingredient.
“I don’t know what I should want in it or with it,” said Lady Jane with a touch of impatience. And then she added, modifying her tone, “Tell me about the Tredgolds, Dr. Burnet. How is the old man? Not a very satisfactory patient, I should think—so fond of his own way; especially when you have not Stella at hand to make him amenable.”
“He is not a bad patient,” said Dr. Burnet. “He does not like his own way better than most old men. He allows himself to be taken good care of on the whole.”
“Oh, I am glad to hear so good an opinion of him. I thought he was very headstrong. Now, you know, I don’t want you to betray your patient’s secrets, Dr. Burnet.”
“No,” he said; “and it wouldn’t matter, I fear, if you did,” he continued after a pause; “but I know no secrets of the Tredgolds, so I am perfectly safe–”
“That’s rather rude,” said Lady Jane, “but of course it’s the right thing to say; and of course also you know all about Stella and her elopement and the dreadful disappointment. I confess, for my own part, I did not think he could stand out against her for a day.”
“He is a man who knows his own mind very clearly, Lady Jane.”
“So it appears. And will he hold out, do you think, till the bitter end? Can Katherine do nothing? Couldn’t she do something if she were to try? I mean for those poor Somers—they are great friends of mine. He is, you know, a kind of relation. And poor Stella! Do tell me, Dr. Burnet, do you think there is no hope? Couldn’t you do something yourself? A doctor at a man’s bedside has great power.”
“It is not a power I would ever care to exercise,” Dr. Burnet said.
“Oh, you are too scrupulous! And when you consider how poor they are, doctor!—really badly off. Why, they have next to nothing! The pay, of course, is doubled in India, but beyond that– Think of Charlie Somers living on his pay! And then there is, Stella the most expensive little person, accustomed to every luxury you can think of, and never used to deny herself anything. It is extremely hard lines for them, certain as they were that her father– Oh, I can’t help thinking, Dr. Burnet, that Katherine could do something if she chose.”
“Then you may be quite at ease, Lady Jane, for I am sure she will choose—to do a hardness to anyone, let alone her sister–”
“Ah, Dr. Burnet,” cried Lady Jane, shaking her head, “it is so difficult to tell in what subtle forms self-interest will get in. Now there is one thing that I wish I could see as a way of settling the matter. I should like to see Katherine Tredgold married to some excellent, honourable man. Oh, I am not without sources of information. I have heard a little bird here and there. What a good thing if there was such a man, who would do poor little Stella justice and give her her share! Half of Mr. Tredgold’s fortune would be a very handsome fortune. It would make all the difference to—say, a rising professional man.”
Dr. Burnet pretended to make a little change in the prescription he had been writing. His head was bent over the writing-table, which was an advantage.
“I have no doubt half of Mr. Tredgold’s fortune would be very nice to have,” he said, “but unfortunately Miss Katherine is not married, nor do I know who are the candidates for her hand.”
“I assure you,” said Lady Jane, “if there was such a person I should take care to do everything I could to further his views. I have not seen much of Katherine lately, but I should make a point of asking her and him to meet here. There is nothing I would not do to bring such a thing about, and—and secure her happiness, you know. You will scarcely believe it, but it is the truth, that Katherine was always the one I liked best.”
What a delightful, satisfactory, successful lie one can sometimes tell by telling the truth. Dr. Burnet, who loved Katherine Tredgold, was touched by this last speech—there was the ring of sincerity in the words; and though Lady Jane had not in the least the welfare of Katherine in her head at this moment, still, these words were undoubtedly true.
He sat for some time making marks with the pen on the paper before him, and Lady Jane was so much interested in his reply that she did not press for it, but sat quite still, letting him take his time.
“Have you any idea,” he said, making as though he were about to alter the prescription for the third time, “on what ground Mr. Tredgold refused Sir Charles Somers, who was not ineligible as marriages go?” His extreme coolness, and the slight respect with which he spoke had a quite subduing influence upon Lady Jane. “Was it—for his private character, perhaps?”
“Nothing of the sort,” cried Lady Jane. “Do you know Charlie Somers is a cousin of mine, Dr. Burnet?”
“That,” said the doctor, “though an inestimable advantage, would not save him from having had—various things said about him, Lady Jane.”
“No,” she said with a laugh. “I acknowledge it. Various things have been said of him. The reason given was simply ludicrous. I don’t know if Charlie invented it—but I don’t think he was clever enough to invent it. It was something about putting money down pound for pound, or shilling for shilling, or some nonsense, and that he would give Stella to nobody that couldn’t do that. On the face of it that is folly, you know.”
“I am not so sure that it is folly. I have heard him say something of the kind; meaning, I suppose, that any son-in-law he would accept would have to be as wealthy as himself.”
“But that is absolute madness, Dr. Burnet! Good heavens! who that was as rich as old Tredgold could desire to be old Tredgold’s son-in-law? It is against all reason. A man might forgive to the girls who are so nice in themselves that they had such a father; but what object could one as rich as himself– Oh! it is sheer idiocy, you know.”
“Not to him; and he, after all, is the person most concerned,” said Dr. Burnet, with his head cast down and rather a dejected look about him altogether. The thought was not cheerful to himself any more than to Lady Jane, and as a matter of fact he had not realised it before.
“But it cannot be,” she cried, “it cannot be; it is out of the question. Oh, you are a man of resource; you must find out some way to baffle this old curmudgeon. There must, there must,” she exclaimed, “be some way out of it, if you care to try.”
“Trying will not invent thousands of pounds, alas! nor can the man who has the greatest fund of resource but no money do it anyhow,” said Dr. Burnet sententiously. “There may be a dodge–”
“That is what I meant. There must be a dodge to—to get you out of it,” she cried.
“It is possible that the man whose existence you divine might not care to get a wife—if she would have him to begin with—by a dodge, Lady Jane.”
“Oh, rubbish!” cried the great lady, “we are not so high-minded as all that. I am of opinion that in that way anything, everything can be done. Charlie Somers is a fool and Stella another; but to a sensible pair with an understanding between them and plenty of time to work—and an old sick man,” Lady Jane laid an involuntary emphasis on the word sick—then stopped and reddened visibly, though her countenance was rather weather-beaten and did not easily show.
“A sick man—to be taken advantage of? No, I think that would scarcely do,” he said. “A sensible pair with an understanding, indeed—but then the understanding—there’s the difficulty.”
“No,” cried Lady Jane, anxiously cordial to wipe away the stain of her unfortunate suggestion. “Not at all—the most natural thing in the world—where there is real feeling, Dr. Burnet, on one side, and a lonely, sensitive girl on the other–”
“A lonely, sensitive girl,” he repeated. And then he looked up in Lady Jane’s face with a short laugh—but made no further remark.
Notwithstanding the safeguard of her complexion, Lady Jane this time grew very red indeed; but having nothing to say for herself, she was wise and made no attempt to say it. And he got up, having nothing further to add by any possibility to his prescription, and put it into her hand.
“I must make haste home,” he said, “the snow is very blinding, and the roads by this time will be scarcely distinguishable.”
“I am sorry to have kept you so long—with my ridiculous cold, which is really nothing. But Dr. Burnet,” she said, putting her hand on his sleeve, “you will think of what I have said. Let justice be done to those poor Somers. Their poverty is something tragic. They had so little expectation of anything of the kind.”
“It is most unlikely that I can be of any use to them, Lady Jane,” he said a little stiffly, as he accepted her outstretched hand.
Perhaps Lady Jane had more respect for him than ever before. She held his prescription in her hand and looked at it for a moment.
“I think I’ll take it,” she said to herself as if making a heroic resolution. She had really a little cold.
As for the doctor, he climbed up into his dog-cart and took the reins from the benumbed hands of Jim, who was one mass of whiteness now instead of the black form sprinkled over with flakes of white which he had appeared at the Cliff. It was a difficult thing to drive home between the hedges, which were no longer visible, and with the big snow-flakes melting into his eyes and confusing the atmosphere, and he had no time to think as long as he was still out in the open country, without even the lights of Sliplin to guide him. It was very cold, and his hands soon became as benumbed as Jim’s, with the reins not sensible at all through his big gloves to his chilled fingers.
“I think we should turn to the left, here?” he said to Jim, who answered “Yessir,” with his teeth chattering, “or do you think it should perhaps be to the right?”
Jim said “Yessir,” again, dull to all proprieties.
If Jim had been by himself he would probably have gone to sleep, and allowed the mare to find her own way home, which very likely she would have done; but Dr. Burnet could not trust to such a chance. To think much of what had been said to him was scarcely possible in these circumstances. But when the vague and confused glimmer of the Sliplin lights through the snow put his mind at rest, it cannot but be said that Dr. Burnet found a great many thoughts waiting to seize hold upon him. He was not perhaps surprised that Lady Jane should have divined his secret. He had no particular desire to conceal it, and though he did not receive Lady Jane’s offer with enthusiasm, he could not but feel that her friendship and assistance would be of great use to him—in fact, if not with Katherine, at least with other things. It would be good for him professionally, even this one visit, and the prescription for Lady Jane, not for Mrs. Cole, which must be made up at the chemist’s, would do him good. A man who held the position of medical attendant at Steephill received a kind of warrant of skill from the fact, which would bring other patients of distinction. When Dr. Burnet got home, and got into dry and comfortable clothes, and found no impatient messenger awaiting him, it was with a grateful sense of ease that he gave himself up to the study of this subject by the cheerful fire. His mind glanced over the different suggestions of Lady Jane, tabulating and classifying them as if they had been scientific facts. There was that hint about the old sick man, which she had herself blushed for before it was fully uttered, and at which Dr. Burnet now grinned in mingled wrath and ridicule. To take advantage of an old sick man—as being that old man’s medical attendant and desirous of marrying his daughter—was a suggestion at which Burnet could afford to laugh, though fiercely, and with an exclamation not complimentary to the intentions of Lady Jane. But there were other things which required more careful consideration.
