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

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 schoolgirl.

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 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 sufficiently 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