Doctor Thorne by Anthony Trollope (epub ebook reader .TXT) 📕

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—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 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