Doctor Thorne, Anthony Trollope [best book reader .txt] 📗

and went downstairs, being fully aware that

he could not leave the house without having some communication with

Lady Scatcherd. He was not sooner within the passage than he heard

the sick man’s bell ring violently; and then the servant, passing

him on the staircase, received orders to send a mounted messenger

immediately to Barchester. Dr Fillgrave was to be summoned to come as

quickly as possible to the sick man’s room, and Mr Winterbones was to

be sent up to write the note.

 

Sir Roger was quite right in supposing that there would be some words

between the doctor and her ladyship. How, indeed, was the doctor to

get out of the house without such, let him wish it ever so much?

There were words; and these were protracted, while the doctor’s

cob was being ordered round, till very many were uttered which the

contractor would probably have regarded as nonsense.

 

Lady Scatcherd was no fit associate for the wives of English

baronets;—was no doubt by education and manners much better fitted

to sit in their servants’ halls; but not on that account was she a

bad wife or a bad woman. She was painfully, fearfully, anxious for

that husband of hers, whom she honoured and worshipped, as it behoved

her to do, above all other men. She was fearfully anxious as to his

life, and faithfully believed, that if any man could prolong it, it

was that old and faithful friend whom she had known to be true to her

lord since their early married troubles.

 

When, therefore, she found that he had been dismissed, and that a

stranger was to be sent for in his place, her heart sank low within

her.

 

“But, doctor,” she said, with her apron up to her eyes, “you ain’t

going to leave him, are you?”

 

Dr Thorne did not find it easy to explain to her ladyship that

medical etiquette would not permit him to remain in attendance on her

husband after he had been dismissed and another physician called in

his place.

 

“Etiquette!” said she, crying. “What’s etiquette to do with it when a

man is a-killing hisself with brandy?”

 

“Fillgrave will forbid that quite as strongly as I can do.”

 

“Fillgrave!” said she. “Fiddlesticks! Fillgrave, indeed!”

 

Dr Thorne could almost have embraced her for the strong feeling of

thorough confidence on the one side, and thorough distrust on the

other, which she contrived to throw into those few words.

 

“I’ll tell you what, doctor; I won’t let the messenger go. I’ll bear

the brunt of it. He can’t do much now he ain’t up, you know. I’ll

stop the boy; we won’t have no Fillgraves here.”

 

This, however, was a step to which Dr Thorne would not assent. He

endeavoured to explain to the anxious wife, that after what had

passed he could not tender his medical services till they were again

asked for.

 

“But you can slip in as a friend, you know; and then by degrees you

can come round him, eh? can’t you now, doctor? And as to the

payment—”

 

All that Dr Thorne said on the subject may easily be imagined. And in

this way, and in partaking of the lunch which was forced upon him, an

hour had nearly passed between his leaving Sir Roger’s bedroom and

putting his foot in the stirrup. But no sooner had the cob begun to

move on the gravel-sweep before the house, than one of the upper

windows opened, and the doctor was summoned to another conference

with the sick man.

 

“He says you are to come back, whether or no,” said Mr Winterbones,

screeching out of the window, and putting all his emphasis on the

last words.

 

“Thorne! Thorne! Thorne!” shouted the sick man from his sick-bed, so

loudly that the doctor heard him, seated as he was on horseback out

before the house.

 

“You’re to come back, whether or no,” repeated Winterbones, with

more emphasis, evidently conceiving that there was a strength of

injunction in that “whether or no” which would be found quite

invincible.

 

Whether actuated by these magic words, or by some internal process of

thought, we will not say; but the doctor did slowly, and as though

unwillingly, dismount again from his steed, and slowly retrace his

steps into the house.

 

“It is no use,” he said to himself, “for that messenger has already

gone to Barchester.”

 

“I have sent for Dr Fillgrave,” were the first words which the

contractor said to him when he again found himself by the bedside.

 

“Did you call me back to tell me that?” said Thorne, who now realy

felt angry at the impertinent petulance of the man before him: “you

should consider, Scatcherd, that my time may be of value to others,

if not to you.”

 

“Now don’t be angry, old fellow,” said Scatcherd, turning to him,

and looking at him with a countenance quite different from any that

he had shown that day; a countenance in which there was a show of

manhood,—some show also of affection. “You ain’t angry now because

I’ve sent for Fillgrave?”

 

“Not in the least,” said the doctor very complacently. “Not in the

least. Fillgrave will do as much good as I can do you.”

 

“And that’s none at all, I suppose; eh, Thorne?”

 

“That depends on yourself. He will do you good if you will tell him

the truth, and will then be guided by him. Your wife, your servant,

any one can be as good a doctor to you as either he or I; as good,

that is, in the main point. But you have sent for Fillgrave now; and

of course you must see him. I have much to do, and you must let me

go.”

 

Scatcherd, however, would not let him go, but held his hand fast.

“Thorne,” said he, “if you like it, I’ll make them put Fillgrave

under the pump directly he comes here. I will indeed, and pay all the

damage myself.”

 

This was another proposition to which the doctor could not consent;

but he was utterly unable to refrain from laughing. There was an

earnest look of entreaty about Sir Roger’s face as he made the

suggestion; and, joined to this, there was a gleam of comic

satisfaction in his eye which seemed to promise, that if he received

the least encouragement he would put his threat into execution. Now

our doctor was not inclined to taking any steps towards subjecting

his learned brother to pump discipline; but he could not but admit to

himself that the idea was not a bad one.

 

“I’ll have it done, I will, by heavens! if you’ll only say the word,”

protested Sir Roger.

 

But the doctor did not say the word, and so the idea was passed off.

 

“You shouldn’t be so testy with a man when he is ill,” said

Scatcherd, still holding the doctor’s hand, of which he had again got

possession; “specially not an old friend; and specially again when

you’re been a-blowing of him up.”

 

It was not worth the doctor’s while to aver that the testiness

had all been on the other side, and that he had never lost his

good-humour; so he merely smiled, and asked Sir Roger if he could do

anything further for him.

 

“Indeed you can, doctor; and that’s why I sent for you,—why I sent

for you yesterday. Get out of the room, Winterbones,” he then said,

gruffly, as though he were dismissing from his chamber a dirty

dog. Winterbones, not a whit offended, again hid his cup under his

coat-tail and vanished.

 

“Sit down, Thorne, sit down,” said the contractor, speaking quite in

a different manner from any that he had yet assumed. “I know you’re

in a hurry, but you must give me half an hour. I may be dead before

you can give me another; who knows?”

 

The doctor of course declared that he hoped to have many a

half-hour’s chat with him for many a year to come.

 

“Well, that’s as may be. You must stop now, at any rate. You can make

the cob pay for it, you know.”

 

The doctor took a chair and sat down. Thus entreated to stop, he had

hardly any alternative but to do so.

 

“It wasn’t because I’m ill that I sent for you, or rather let her

ladyship send for you. Lord bless you, Thorne; do you think I don’t

know what it is that makes me like this? When I see that poor wretch,

Winterbones, killing himself with gin, do you think I don’t know

what’s coming to myself as well as him?

 

“Why do you take it then? Why do you do it? Your life is not like

his. Oh, Scatcherd! Scatcherd!” and the doctor prepared to pour out

the flood of his eloquence in beseeching this singular man to abstain

from his well-known poison.

 

“Is that all you know of human nature, doctor? Abstain. Can you

abstain from breathing, and live like a fish does under water?”

 

“But Nature has not ordered you to drink, Scatcherd.”

 

“Habit is second nature, man; and a stronger nature than the first.

And why should I not drink? What else has the world given me for

all that I have done for it? What other resource have I? What other

gratification?”

 

“Oh, my God! Have you not unbounded wealth? Can you not do anything

you wish? be anything you choose?”

 

“No,” and the sick man shrieked with an energy that made him audible

all through the house. “I can do nothing that I would choose to do;

be nothing that I would wish to be! What can I do? What can I be?

What gratification can I have except the brandy bottle? If I go among

gentlemen, can I talk to them? If they have anything to say about

a railway, they will ask me a question: if they speak to me beyond

that, I must be dumb. If I go among my workmen, can they talk to me?

No; I am their master, and a stern master. They bob their heads and

shake in their shoes when they see me. Where are my friends? Here!”

said he, and he dragged a bottle from under his very pillow. “Where

are my amusements? Here!” and he brandished the bottle almost in the

doctor’s face. “Where is my one resource, my one gratification, my

only comfort after all my toils. Here, doctor; here, here, here!”

and, so saying, he replaced his treasure beneath his pillow.

 

There was something so horrifying in this, that Dr Thorne shrank back

amazed, and was for a moment unable to speak.

 

“But, Scatcherd,” he said at last; “surely you would not die for such

a passion as that?”

 

“Die for it? Aye, would I. Live for it while I can live; and die for

it when I can live no longer. Die for it! What is that for a man to

do? Do not men die for a shilling a day? What is a man the worse for

dying? What can I be the worse for dying? A man can die but once, you

said just now. I’d die ten times for this.”

 

“You are speaking now either in madness, or else in folly, to startle

me.”

 

“Folly enough, perhaps, and madness enough, also. Such a life as mine

makes a man a fool, and makes him mad too. What have I about me that

I should be afraid to die? I’m worth three hundred thousand pounds;

and I’d give it all to be able to go to work to-morrow with a hod and

mortar, and have a fellow clap his hand upon my