But though Lady Jane had so fully made up her mind to it, and awaited the result with so much excitement, and though Katherine herself was thrilled with an uneasy consciousness, and Dr. Burnet’s looks gave every sanction to the idea, he did not on that evening under the tall aloe, which had begun to burst the innumerable wrappings of its husk, in the Steephill conservatory, declare his love or ask Katherine to be his wife. I cannot tell the reason why—I think there came over him a chill alarm as to how he should get back if by any accident his suit was unsuccessful. It was like the position which gave Mr. Puff so much trouble in the Critic. He could not “exit praying.” How was he to get off the stage? He caught the eyes of an old lady who was seated near the conservatory door. They were dull eyes, with little speculation in them, but they gave a faint glare as the two young people passed; and the doctor asked himself with a shudder, How could he meet their look when he came back if——? How indeed could he meet anybody’s look—Lady Jane’s, who was his accomplice, and who would be very severe upon him if he did not succeed, and jolly Sir John’s, who would slap him on the shoulder and shout at him in his big voice? His heart sank to his boots when he found himself alone with the object of his affections amid the rustling palms. He murmured something hurriedly about something he wanted to say to her, but could not here, where they were liable to interruption at any moment, and then he burst into a display of information about the aloe which was very astounding to Katherine. She listened, feeling the occasion manquÉ, with a sensation of relief. I think it quite probable that in the circumstances, and amid the tremor of sympathetic excitement derived from Lady Jane, and the general tendency of the atmosphere, Katherine might have accepted Dr. Burnet. She would probably have been sorry afterwards, and in all probability it would have led to no results, but I think she would have accepted him that evening had he had the courage to put it to the touch; and he, for his part, would certainly have done it had he not been seized with that tremor as to how he was to get off the stage.

He found it very difficult to explain this behaviour to Lady Jane afterwards, who, though she did not actually ask the question, pressed him considerably about the botanical lecture he had been giving.

“I have sat through a French cafÉ chantant song in your interests, with all the airs and graces,” she said with a look of disgust, “to give you time.”

“Yes, I know,” said Dr. Burnet—it was at the moment of taking his leave, and he knew that he must soon escape, which gave him a little courage—“you have done everything for me—you have been more than kind, Lady Jane.”

“But if it is all to come to nothing, after I had taken the trouble to arrange everything for you!”

“It was too abrupt,” he said, “and I funked it at the last. How was I to get back under everybody’s eyes if it had not come off?”

“It would have come off,” she said hurriedly, under her breath, with a glance at Katherine. Then, in her usual very audible voice, she said, “Must you go so early, Dr. Burnet? Then good-night; and if your mare is fresh take care of the turning at Eversfield Green.”

He did not know what this warning meant, and neither I believe did she, though it was a nasty turning. And then he drove away into the winter night, with a sense of having failed, failed to himself and his own expectations, as well as to Lady Jane’s. He had not certainly intended to take any decisive step when he drove to Steephill, but yet he felt when he left it that the occasion was manquÉ, and that he had perhaps risked everything by his lack of courage. This is not a pleasant thought to a man who is not generally at a loss in any circumstances, and whose ways have generally, on the whole, been prosperous and successful. He was a fool not to have put it to the touch, to be frightened by an old lady’s dull eyes which probably would have noticed nothing, or the stare of the company which was occupied by its own affairs and need not have suspected even that his were at a critical point. Had he been a little bolder he might have been carrying home with him a certainty which would have kept him warmer than any great-coat; but then, on the other hand, he might have been departing shamed and cast down, followed by the mocking glances of that assembly, and with Rumour following after him as it followed the exit of the Rector, breathing among all the gossips that he had been rejected; upon which he congratulated himself that he had been prudent, that he had not exposed himself at least so far. Finally he began to wonder, with a secret smile of superiority, how the Rector had got off the scene? Did he “exit praying”?—which would at least have been suitable to his profession. The doctor smiled grimly under his muffler; he would have laughed if it had not been for Jim by his side, who sat thinking of nothing, looking out for the Sliplin lights and that turning about which Lady Jane had warned his master. If it had not been for Jim, indeed, Dr. Burnet, though so good a driver, would have run the mare into the bank of stones and roadmakers’ materials which had been accumulated there for the repair of the road. “Exit praying”?—no, the Rector, to judge from his present aspect of irritated and wounded pride, could not have done that. “Exit cursing,” would have been more like it. The doctor did burst into a little laugh as he successfully steered round the Eversfield corner, thanks to the observation of his groom, and Jim thought this was the reason of the laugh. At all events, neither the praying nor the cursing had come yet for Dr. Burnet, and he was not in any hurry. He said to himself that he would go and pay old Tredgold a visit next morning, and tell him of the dinner party at Steephill and see how the land lay.

I cannot tell whether Mr. Tredgold had any suspicion of the motives which made his medical man so very attentive to him, but he was always glad to see the doctor, who amused him, and whose vigorous life and occupation it did the old gentleman good to see.

“Ah, doctor, you remind me of what I was when I was a young man—always at it night and day. I didn’t care not a ha’penny for pleasure; work was pleasure for me—and makin’ money,” said the old man with a chuckle and a slap on the pocket where, metaphorically, it was all stored.

“You had the advantage over me, then,” the doctor said.

“Why, you fellows must be coining money,” cried the patient; “a golden guinea for five minutes’ talk; rich as Creosote you doctors ought to grow—once you get to the top of the tree. Must be at the top o’ the tree first, I’ll allow—known on ‘Change, you know, and that sort of thing. You should go in for royalties, doctor; that’s the way to get known.”

“I should have no objection, Mr. Tredgold, you may be sure, if the royalties would go in for me; but there are two to be taken into account in such a bargain.”

“Oh, that’s easily done,” said the old man. “Stand by when there’s some accident, doctor—there’s always accidents; and be on the spot at the proper time.”

“Unless I were to hire someone to get up the accident—— Would you go so far as to recommend that?”

Old Tredgold laughed and resumed the former subject. “So you took my Katie in to dinner? Well, I’m glad of that. I don’t approve of young prodigals dangling about my girls; they may save themselves the trouble. I’ve let ’em know my principles, I hope, strong enough. If I would not give in to my little Stella, it stands to reason I won’t for Kate. So my Lady Jane had best keep her fine gentlemen to herself.”

“You may make your mind quite easy, sir,” said the doctor; “there were nothing but county people, and very heavy county people into the bargain.”

“County or town, I don’t think much of ’em,” said old Tredgold; “not unless they can table their money alongside of me; that’s my principle, Dr. Burnet—pound for pound, or you don’t get a daughter of mine. It’s the only safe principle. Girls are chiefly fools about money; though Stella wasn’t, mind you—that girl was always a chip o’ the old block. Led astray, she was, by not believing I meant what I said—thought she could turn me round her little finger. That’s what they all think,” he said with a chuckle, “till they try—till they try.”

“You see it is difficult to know until they do try,” said Dr. Burnet; “and if you will excuse me saying it, Mr. Tredgold, Miss Stella had every reason to think she could turn you round her little finger. She had only to express a wish——”

“I don’t deny it,” said the old man with another chuckle—“I don’t deny it. Everything they like—until they come to separatin’ me from my money. I’ll spend on them as much as any man; but when it comes to settlin’, pound by pound—you’ve heard it before.”

“Oh yes, I’ve heard it before,” the doctor said with a half groan, “and I suppose there are very few men under the circumstances——”

“Plenty of men! Why there’s young Fred Turny—fine young fellow—as flashy as you like with his rings and his pins, good cricketer and all that, though I think it’s nonsense, and keeps a young fellow off his business. Why, twice the man that Somers fellow was! Had him down for Stella to look at, and she as good as turned him out of the house. Oh, she was an impudent one! Came down again the other day, on spec, looking after Katie; and bless you, she’s just as bad, hankering after them military swells, too, without a copper. I’m glad to know my Lady Jane understands what’s what and kept her out of their way.”

“There were only county people—young Fortescue, who has a pretty estate, and myself.”

“Oh, you don’t count,” said old Mr. Tredgold; “we needn’t reckon you. Young Fortescue, eh? All land, no money. Land’s a very bad investment in these days. I think I’ll have nothing to do with young Fortescue. Far safer money on the table; then you run no risks.”

“Young Fortescue is not a candidate, I believe,” said Dr. Burnet with a smile much against the grain.

“A candidate for what?—the county? I don’t take any interest in politics except when they affect the market. Candidate, bless you, they’re all candidates for a rich girl! There’s not one of ’em, young or old, but thinks ‘That girl will have a lot of money.’ Why, they tell me old Stanley—old enough to be her father—has been after Katie, old fool!” the old man said.

Dr. Burnet felt himself a little out of countenance. He said, “I do not believe, sir, for a moment, that the Rector, if there is any truth in the rumour, was thinking of Miss Katherine’s money.”

“Oh, tell that to the—moon, doctor! I know a little better than that. Her money? why it’s her money everybody is thinking of. D’ye think my Lady Jane would pay her such attention if it wasn’t for her money? I thought it was all broken off along of Stella, but she thinks better luck next time, I suppose. By George!” cried the old man, smiting the table with his fist, “if she brings another young rake to me, and thinks she’ll get over me—— By George, doctor! I’ve left Stella to taste how she likes it, but I’d turn the other one—that little white proud Katie—out of my house.” There was a moment during which the doctor held himself ready for every emergency, for old Tredgold’s countenance was crimson and his eyes staring. He calmed down, however, quickly, having learned the lesson that agitation was dangerous for his health, and with a softened voice said, “You, now, doctor, why don’t you get married? Always better for a doctor to be married. The ladies like it, and you’d get on twice as well with a nice wife.”

“Probably I should,” said Dr. Burnet, “but perhaps, if the lady happened to have any money——”

“Don’t take one without,” the old man interrupted.

“I should be considered a fortune-hunter, and I shouldn’t like that.”

“Oh, you!” said Mr. Tredgold, “you don’t count—that’s another pair of shoes altogether. As for your young Fortescue, I should just like to see him fork out, down upon the table, thousand for thousand. If he can do that, he’s the man for me.”

“‘You don’t count!’ What did the old beggar mean by that?” Dr. Burnet asked himself as he took the reins out of Jim’s hand and drove away. Was it contempt, meaning that the doctor was totally out of the question? or was it by any possibility an encouragement with the signification that he as a privileged person might be permitted to come in on different grounds? In another man’s case Dr. Burnet would have rejected the latter hypothesis with scorn, but in his own he was not so sure. What was the meaning of that sudden softening of tone, the suggestion, “You, now, doctor, why don’t you get married?” almost in the same breath with his denunciation of any imaginary pretender? Why was he (Burnet) so distinctly put in a different category? He rejected the idea that this could mean anything favourable to himself, and then he took it back again and caressed it, and began to think it possible. You don’t count. Why shouldn’t he count? He was not a spendthrift like Charlie Somers; he was not all but bankrupt; on the contrary, he was well-to-do and had expectations. He was in a better position than the young military swells whom Mr. Tredgold denounced; he was far better off than the Rector. Why shouldn’t he count? unless it was meant that the rule about those pounds on the table, &c., did not count where he was concerned, that he was to be reckoned with from a different point of view. The reader may think this was great folly on Dr. Burnet’s part, but when you turn over anything a hundred times in your mind it is sure to take new aspects not seen at first. And then Mr. Tredgold’s words appeared to the doctor’s intelligence quite capable of a special interpretation. He was, as a matter of fact, a much more important person to Mr. Tredgold than any fashionable young swell who might demand Katherine in marriage. He, the doctor, held in his hands, in a measure, the thread of life and death. Old Tredgold’s life had not a very enjoyable aspect to the rest of the world, but he liked it, and did not want it to be shortened by a day. And the doctor had great power over that. The old man believed in him thoroughly—almost believed that so long as he was there there was no reason why he should die. Was not that an excellent reason for almost believing, certainly for allowing, that he might want to make so important a person a member of his family on terms very different from those which applied to other people, who could have no effect upon his life and comfort at all? “You don’t count!” Dr. Burnet had quite convinced himself that this really meant all that he could wish it to mean before he returned from his morning round. He took up the question À plusieurs reprises; after every visit working out again and again the same line of argument: You don’t count; I look to you to keep me in health, to prolong my life, to relieve me when I am in any pain, and build me up when I get low, as you have done for all these years; you don’t count as the strangers do, you have something to put down on the table opposite my gold—your skill, your science, your art of prolonging life. To a man like you things are dealt out by another measure. Was it very foolish, very ridiculous, almost childish of Dr. Burnet? Perhaps it was, but he did not see it in that light.

He passed the Rector as he returned home, very late for his hurried luncheon as doctors usually are, and he smiled with a mixed sense of ridicule and compassion at the handsome clergyman, who had not yet recovered his complacency or got over that rending asunder of his amour propre. Poor old fellow! But it was very absurd of him to think that Katherine would have anything to say to him with his grown-up children. And a little while after, as he drove through the High Street, he saw young Fortescue driving into the stables at the Thatched House Hotel, evidently with the intention of putting up there.

“Ah!” he said to himself, “young Fortescue, another candidate!” The doctor was no wiser than other people, and did not consider that young Fortescue had been introduced for the first time to Katherine on the previous night, and could not possibly by any rule of likelihood be on his way to make proposals to her father the next morning. This dawned upon him after a while, and he laughed again aloud to the great disturbance of the mind of Jim, who could not understand why his master should laugh right out about nothing at all twice on successive days. Was it possible that much learning had made the doctor mad, or at least made him a little wrong in the head? And, indeed, excessive thinking on one subject has, we all know, a tendency that way.