Doctor Thorne, Anthony Trollope [an ebook reader .TXT] 📗

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 tonight⁠—perhaps not till late tomorrow. 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 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.

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 Aesculapius. 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