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

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—an 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