‘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 is 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 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—­’