And so she went; and the doctor, getting to his other horse, started again for Silverbridge, wearily enough. 'She's happy now where she is,' said he to himself, as he rode along. 'They all treat her there as an equal at Greshamsbury. What though she be no cousin to the Thornes of Ullathorne. She has found her place there among them all, and keeps it on equal terms with the best of them. There is Miss Oriel; her family is high; she is rich, fashionable, a beauty, courted by every one; but yet she does not look down on Mary. They are equal friends together. But how would it be if she were taken to Boxall Hill, even as a recognized niece of the rich man there? Would Patience Oriel and Beatrice Gresham go there after her? Could she be happy there as she is in my house here, poor though it be? It would kill her to pass a month with Lady Scatcherd and put up with that man's humours, to see his mode of life, to be dependent on him, to belong to him.' And then the doctor, hurrying on to Silverbridge, again met Dr Century at the old lady's bedside, and having made his endeavours to stave off the inexorable coming of the grim visitor, again returned to his own niece and his own drawing-room.
'You must be dead, uncle,' said Mary, as she poured out his tea for him, and prepared the comforts of that most comfortable meal-tea, dinner, and supper, all in one. 'I wish Silverbridge was fifty miles off.'
'That would only make the journey worse; but I am not dead yet, and, what is more to the purpose, neither is my patient.' And as he spoke he contrived to swallow a jorum of scalding tea, containing in measure somewhat near a pint. Mary, not a whit amazed at this feat, merely refilled the jorum without any observation; and the doctor went on stirring the mixture with his spoon, evidently oblivious that any ceremony had been performed by either of them since the first supply had been administered to him.
When the clatter of knives and forks was over, the doctor turned himself to the hearthrug, and putting one leg over the other, he began to nurse it as he looked with complacency at his third cup of tea, which stood untasted beside him. The fragments of the solid banquet had been removed, 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 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,' he said 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 foot-stool close at his knee.
