Dr Thorne (47 page)

Poor Lady Scatcherd had an inkling that Dr Fillgrave and Mr Rerechild were accustomed to row in the same boat, and she was not altogether free from fear that there might be an outbreak. She therefore took an opportunity before Dr Thorne's arrival to deprecate any wrathful tendency.

‘Oh, Lady Scatcherd! I have the greatest respect for Dr Thorne,' said he; ‘the greatest possible respect: a most skilful practitioner – something brusque certainly, and perhaps a little obstinate. But what then? we all have our faults, Lady Scatcherd.'

‘Oh – yes; we all have, Mr Rerechild; that's certain.'

‘There's my friend Fillgrave – Lady Scatcherd. He cannot bear anything of that sort. Now I think he's wrong; and so I tell him.' Mr Rerechild was in error here; for he had never yet ventured to tell Dr Fillgrave that he was wrong in anything. ‘We must bear and forbear, you know. Dr Thorne is an excellent man – in his way very excellent, Lady Scatcherd.'

This little conversation took place after Mr Rerechild's first visit to his patient: what steps were immediately taken for the relief of the sufferer we need not describe. They were doubtless well intended, and were, perhaps, as well adapted to stave off the coming evil day as any that Dr Fillgrave, or even the great Sir Omicron Pie might have used.

And then Dr Thorne arrived.

‘Oh, doctor! doctor!' exclaimed Lady Scatcherd, almost hanging round his neck in the hall. ‘What are we to do? What are we to do? He's very bad.'

‘Has he spoken?'

‘No; nothing like a word: he has made one or two muttered sounds; but, poor soul, you could make nothing of it – oh, doctor! doctor! he has never been like this before.'

It was easy to see where Lady Scatcherd placed any such faith as she might still have in the healing art. ‘Mr Rerechild is here and has seen him,' she continued. ‘I thought it best to send for two, for fear of accidents. He has done something – I don't know what. But, doctor, do tell me the truth now; I look to you to tell me the truth.'

Dr Thorne then went up and saw his patient; and had he literally complied with Lady Scatcherd's request, he might have told her at once that there was no hope. As, however, he had not
the heart to do this, he mystified the case as doctors so well know how to do, and told her that ‘there was cause to fear, great cause for fear; he was sorry to say, very great cause for much fear.'

Dr Thorne promised to stay that night there, and, if possible, the following night also; and then Lady Scatcherd became troubled in her mind as to what she should do with Mr Rerechild. He also declared, with much medical humanity, that, let the inconvenience be what it might, he too would stay the night. ‘The loss,' he said, ‘of such a man as Sir Roger Scatcherd was of such paramount importance as to make other matters trivial. He would certainly not allow the whole weight to fall on the shoulders of his friend Dr Thorne: he also would stay at any rate that night by the sick man's bedside. By the following morning some change might be expected.'

‘I say, Dr Thorne,' said her ladyship, calling the doctor into the housekeeping-room, in which she and Hannah spent any time that they were not required upstairs; ‘just come in, doctor: you couldn't tell him we don't want him any more, could you?'

‘Tell whom?' said the doctor.

‘Why – Mr Rerechild: mightn't he go away, do you think?'

Dr Thorne explained that Mr Rerechild certainly might go away if he pleased; but that it would by no means be proper for one doctor to tell another to leave the house. And so Mr Rerechild was allowed to share the glories of the night.

In the meantime the patient remained speechless; but it soon became evident that Nature was using all her efforts to make one final rally. From time to time he moaned and muttered as though he was conscious, and it seemed as though he strove to speak. He gradually became awake, at any rate to suffering, and Dr Thorne began to think that the last scene would be postponed for yet a while longer.

‘Wonderful strong constitution – eh, Dr Thorne? wonderful!' said Mr Rerechild.

‘Yes; he has been a strong man.'

‘Strong as a horse, Dr Thorne. Lord, what that man would have been if he had given himself a chance! You know his constitution of course.'

‘Yes; pretty well. I've attended him for many years.'

‘Always drinking, I suppose; always at it – eh?'

‘He has not been a temperate man, certainly.'

‘The brain, you see, clean gone – and not a particle of coating left to the stomach; and yet what a struggle he makes – interesting case, isn't it?'

‘It's very sad to see such an intellect so destroyed.'

‘Very sad, very sad indeed. How Fillgrave would have liked to have seen this case. He is a clever man, is Fillgrave – in his way, you know.'

‘I'm sure he is,' said Dr Thorne.

‘Not that he'd make anything of a case like this now – he's not, you know, quite – quite – perhaps not quite up to the new time of day, if one may say so.'

‘He has had a very extensive provincial practice,' said Dr Thorne.

‘Oh very – very; and made a tidy lot of money too, has Fillgrave. He's worth six thousand pounds, I suppose; now that's a good deal of money to put by in a little town like Bardies ter.'

‘Yes, indeed.'

‘What I say to Fillgrave is this – keep your eyes open; one should never be too old to learn – there's always something new worth picking up. But, no – he won't believe that. He can't believe that any new ideas can be worth anything. You know a man must go to the wall in that way – eh, doctor?'

And then again they were called to their patient. ‘He's doing finely, finely,' said Mr Rerechild to Lady Scatcherd. ‘There's fair ground to hope he'll rally; fair ground, is there not, doctor?'

‘Yes, he'll rally; but how long that may last, that we can hardly say.'

‘Oh, no, certainly not, certainly not – that is not with any certainty; but still he's doing finely, Lady Scatcherd, considering everything.'

‘How long will you give him, doctor?' said Mr Rerechild to his new friend when they were again alone. ‘Ten days? I say ten days, or from that to a fortnight, not more; but I think he'll struggle on ten days.'

‘Perhaps so,' said the doctor. ‘I should not like to say exactly to a day.'

‘No, certainly not. We cannot say exactly to a day; but I say ten days; as for anything like a recovery, that you know –'

‘Is out of the question,' said Dr Thorne, gravely.

‘Quite so, quite so; coating of the stomach clean gone, you know; brain destroyed: did you observe the periporollida?
¹
I never saw them so swelled before: now when the periporollida are swollen like that –'

‘Yes, very much; it's always the case when paralysis has been brought about by intemperance.'

‘Always, always; I have remarked that always; the periporollida in such cases are always extended; most interesting case, isn't it? I do wish Fillgrave could have seen it. But, I believe you and Fillgrave don't quite – eh?'

‘No, not quite,' said Dr Thorne; who, as he thought of his last interview with Dr Fillgrave, and of that gentleman's exceeding anger as he stood in the hall below, could not keep himself from smiling, sad as the occasion was.

Nothing would induce Lady Scatcherd to go to bed; but the two doctors agreed to lie down, each in a room on one side of the patient. How was it possible that anything but good should come to him, being so guarded? ‘He is going on finely, Lady Scatcherd, quite finely,' were the last words Mr Rerechild said as he left the room.

And then Dr Thorne, taking Lady Scatcherd's hand and leading her out into another chamber, told her the truth.

‘Lady Scatcherd,' said he, in his tenderest voice – and his voice could be very tender when occasion required it – ‘Lady Scatcherd, do not hope; you must not hope; it would be cruel to bid you do so.'

‘Oh, doctor! oh, doctor!'

‘My dear friend, there is no hope.'

‘Oh; Dr Thorne!' said the wife, looking wildly up into her companion's face, though she hardly yet realised the meaning of what he said, although her senses were half stunned by the blow.

‘Dear Lady Scatcherd, is it not better that I should tell you the truth?'

‘Oh, I suppose so; oh yes, oh yes; ah me! ah me! ah me!' And then she began rocking herself backwards and forwards on her chair, with her apron up to her eyes. ‘What shall I do? what shall I do?'

‘Look to Him, Lady Scatcherd, who only can make such grief endurable.'

‘Yes, yes, yes; I suppose so. Ah me! ah me! But, Dr Thorne, there must be some chance – isn't there any chance? That man says that he's going on so well.'

‘I fear there is no chance – as far as my knowledge goes there is no chance.'

‘Then why does that chattering magpie tell such lies to a woman? Ah me! ah me! ah me! oh, doctor! doctor! what shall I do? what shall I do?' and poor Lady Scatcherd, fairly overcome by her sorrow, burst out crying like a great school-girl.

And yet what had her husband done for her that she should thus weep for him? Would not her life be much more blessed when the cause of all her troubles should be removed from her! Would she not then be a free woman instead of a slave? Might she not then expect to begin to taste the comforts of life? What had that harsh tyrant of hers done that was good or serviceable for her? Why should she thus weep for him in paroxysms of truest grief?

We hear a good deal of jolly widows; and the slanderous raillery of the world tells much of conjugal disturbances as a cure for which women will look forward to a state of widowhood with not unwilling eyes. The raillery of the world is very slanderous. In our daily jests we attribute to each other vices of which neither we, nor our neighbours, nor our friends, nor even our enemies are ever guilty. It is our favourite parlance to talk of the family troubles of Mrs Green on our right, and to tell how Mrs Young on our left is strongly suspected of having raised her hand to her lord and master. What right have we to make these charges? What have we seen in our own personal walks through life to make us believe that women are devils? There may possibly have been a Xantippe
²
here and there, but Imogenes are to be found under every bush. Lady Scatcherd, in spite of the life she had led, was one of them.

‘You should send a message up to London for Louis,' said the doctor.

‘We did that, doctor; we did that today – we sent up a telegraph. Oh me! oh me! poor boy, what will he do? I shall never know what to do with him, never! never!' And with such sorrowful wailings she sat rocking herself through the long night, every now and then comforting herself by the performance of some menial service in the sick man's room.

Sir Roger passed the night much as he had passed the day,
except that he appeared gradually to be growing nearer to a state of consciousness. On the following morning they succeeded at last in making Mr Rerechild understand that they were not desirous of keeping him longer from his Barchester practice; and at about twelve o'clock Dr Thorne also went, promising that he would return in the evening, and again pass the night at Boxall Hill.

In the course of the afternoon Sir Roger once more awoke to his senses, and when he did so his son was standing at his bedside. Louis Philippe Scatcherd – or as it may be more convenient to call him, Louis – was a young man just of the age of Frank Gresham. But there could hardly be two youths more different in their appearance. Louis, though his father and mother were both robust persons, was short and slight, and now of a sickly frame. Frank was a picture of health and strength; but, though manly in disposition, was by no means precocious either in appearance or manners. Louis Scatcherd looked as though he was four years the other's senior. He had been sent to Eton when he was fifteen, his father being under the impression that this was the most ready and best-recognised method of making him a gentleman. Here he did not altogether fail as regarded the coveted object of his becoming the companion of gentlemen. He had more pocket-money than any other lad in the school, and was possessed also of a certain effrontery which carried him ahead among boys of his own age. He gained, therefore, a degree of éclat, even among those who knew, and very frequently said to each other, that young Scatcherd was not fit to be their companion except on such open occasions as those of cricket matches and boat races. Boys, in this respect are at least as exclusive as men, and understand as well the difference between an inner and an outer circle. Scatcherd had many companions at school who were glad enough to go up to Maidenhead with him in his boat; but there was not one among them who would have talked to him of his sister.

Sir Roger was vastly proud of his son's success, and did his best to stimulate it by lavish expenditure at the Christopher, whenever he could manage to run down to Eton. But this practice, though sufliciently unexceptionable to the boys, was not held in equal delight by the masters. To tell the truth, neither Sir Roger nor his son were favourites with these stern custodians. At last it was felt necessary to get rid of them both; and Louis was not long in giving
them an opportunity, by getting tipsy twice in one week. On the second occasion he was sent away, and he and Sir Roger, though long talked of, were seen no more at Eton.

But the universities were still open to Louis Philippe, and before he was eighteen he was entered as a gentleman-commoner at Trinity. As he was, moreover, the eldest son of a baronet, and had almost unlimited command of money, here also he was enabled for a while to shine.

To shine! but very fitfully; and one may say almost with a ghastly glare. The very lads who had eaten his father's dinners at Eton, and shared his four-oar at Eton, knew much better than to associate with him at Cambridge now that they had put on the
toga virilis
. They were still as prone as ever to fun, frolic, and devilry – perhaps more so even than ever, seeing that more was in their power; but they acquired an idea that it behoved them to be somewhat circumspect as to the men with whom their pranks were perpetrated. So, in those days, Louis Scatcherd was coldly looked on by his whilom Eton friends.