The Chronicles of Barsetshire (109 page)

And then this affair of Frank and Mary Thorne ceased for a while to be talked of at Greshamsbury, for that other affair of Mr. Moffat and Augusta monopolised the rural attention. Augusta, as we have said, bore it well, and sustained the public gaze without much flinching. Her period of martyrdom, however, did not last long, for soon the news arrived of Frank’s exploit in Pall Mall; and then the Greshamsburyites forgot to think much more of Augusta, being fully occupied in thinking of what Frank had done.

The tale, as it was first told, declared the Frank had followed Mr. Moffat up into his club; had dragged him thence into the middle of Pall Mall, and had then slaughtered him on the spot. This was by degrees modified till a sobered fiction became generally prevalent, that Mr. Moffat was lying somewhere, still alive, but with all his bones in a general state of compound fracture. This adventure again brought Frank into the ascendant, and restored to Mary her former position as the Greshamsbury heroine.

“One cannot wonder at his being very angry,” said Beatrice, discussing the matter with Mary—very imprudently.

“Wonder—no; the wonder would have been if he had not been angry. One might have been quite sure that he would have been angry enough.”

“I suppose it was not absolutely right for him to beat Mr. Moffat,” said Beatrice, apologetically.

“Not right, Trichy? I think it was very right.”

“Not to beat him so very much, Mary!”

“Oh, I suppose a man can’t exactly stand measuring how much he does these things. I like your brother for what he has done, and I say so frankly—though I suppose I ought to eat my tongue out before I should say such a thing, eh, Trichy?”

“I don’t know that there’s any harm in that,” said Beatrice, demurely. “If you both liked each other there would be no harm in that—if that were all.”

“Wouldn’t there?” said Mary, in a low tone of bantering satire; “that is so kind, Trichy, coming from you—from one of the family, you know.”

“You are well aware, Mary, that if I could have my wishes—”

“Yes: I am well aware what a paragon of goodness you are. If you could have your way I should be admitted into heaven again; shouldn’t I? Only with this proviso, that if a stray angel should ever whisper to me with bated breath, mistaking me, perchance, for one of his own class, I should be bound to close my ears to his whispering, and remind him humbly that I was only a poor mortal. You would trust me so far, wouldn’t you, Trichy?”

“I would trust you in any way, Mary. But I think you are unkind in saying such things to me.”

“Into whatever heaven I am admitted, I will go only on this understanding: that I am to be as good an angel as any of those around me.”

“But, Mary dear, why do you say this to me?”

“Because—because—because—ah me! Why, indeed, but because I have no one else to say it to. Certainly not because you have deserved it.”

“It seems as though you were finding fault with me.”

“And so I am; how can I do other than find fault? How can I help being sore? Trichy, you hardly realise my position; you hardly see how I am treated; how I am forced to allow myself to be treated without a sign of complaint. You don’t see it all. If you did, you would not wonder that I should be sore.”

Beatrice did not quite see it all; but she saw enough of it to know that Mary was to be pitied; so, instead of scolding her friend for being cross, she threw her arms round her and kissed her affectionately.

But the doctor all this time suffered much more than his niece did. He could not complain out loudly; he could not aver that his pet lamb had been ill-treated; he could not even have the pleasure of openly quarrelling with Lady Arabella; but not the less did he feel it to be most cruel that Mary should have to live before the world as an outcast, because it had pleased Frank Gresham to fall in love with her.

But his bitterness was not chiefly against Frank. That Frank had been very foolish he could not but acknowledge; but it was a kind of folly for which the doctor was able to find excuse. For Lady Arabella’s cold propriety he could find no excuse.

With the squire he had spoken no word on the subject up to this period of which we are now writing. With her ladyship he had never spoken on it since that day when she had told him that Mary was to come no more to Greshamsbury. He never now dined or spent his evenings at Greshamsbury, and seldom was to be seen at the house, except when called in professionally. The squire, indeed, he frequently met; but he either did so in the village, or out on horseback, or at his own house.

When the doctor first heard that Sir Roger had lost his seat, and had returned to Boxall Hill, he resolved to go over and see him. But the visit was postponed from day to day, as visits are postponed which may be made any day, and he did not in fact go till he was summoned there somewhat peremptorily. A message was brought to him one evening to say that Sir Roger had been struck by paralysis, and that not a moment was to be lost.

“It always happens at night,” said Mary, who had more sympathy for the living uncle whom she did know, than for the other dying uncle whom she did not know.

“What matters?—there—just give me my scarf. In all probability I may not be home to-night—perhaps not till late to-morrow. God bless you, Mary!” and away the doctor went on his cold bleak ride to Boxall Hill.

“Who will be his heir?” As the doctor rode along, he could not quite rid his mind of this question. The poor man now about to die had wealth enough to make many heirs. What if his heart should have softened towards his sister’s child! What if Mary should be found in a few days to be possessed of such wealth that the Greshams should be again be happy to welcome her at Greshamsbury!

The doctor was not a lover of money—and he did his best to get rid of such pernicious thoughts. But his longings, perhaps, were not so much that Mary should be rich, as that she should have the power of heaping coals of fire upon the heads of those people who had so injured her.

CHAPTER XXIV

Louis Scatcherd

When Dr. Thorne reached Boxall Hill he found Mr. Rerechild from Barchester there before him. Poor Lady Scatcherd, when her husband was stricken by the fit, hardly knew in her dismay what adequate steps to take. She had, as a matter of course, sent for Dr. Thorne; but she had thought that in so grave a peril the medical skill of no one man could suffice. It was, she knew, quite out of the question for her to invoke the aid of Dr. Fillgrave, whom no earthly persuasion would have brought to Boxall Hill; and as Mr. Rerechild was supposed in the Barchester world to be second—though at a long interval—to that great man, she had applied for his assistance.

Now Mr. Rerechild was a follower and humble friend of Dr. Fillgrave; and was wont to regard anything that came from the Barchester doctor as sure light from the lamp of Æsculapius. He could not therefore be other than an enemy of Dr. Thorne. But he was a prudent, discreet man, with a long family, averse to professional hostilities, as knowing that he could make more by medical friends than medical foes, and not at all inclined to take up any man’s cudgel to his own detriment. He had, of course, heard of that dreadful affront which had been put upon his friend, as had all the “medical world”—all the medical world at least of Barsetshire; and he had often expressed his sympathy with Dr. Fillgrave and his abhorrence of Dr. Thorne’s anti-professional practices. But now that he found himself about to be brought in contact with Dr. Thorne, he reflected that the Galen of Greshamsbury was at any rate equal in reputation to him of Barchester; that the one was probably on the rise, whereas the other was already considered by some as rather antiquated; and he therefore wisely resolved that the present would be an excellent opportunity for him to make a friend of Dr. Thorne.

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 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 the 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 Barchester.”

“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 dare 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? 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 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 this 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 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 to-day—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.