CHAPTER XXIV
Louis Scatcherd
When Dr Thorne reached Boxall Hill he found Mr Rerechild fromBarchester there before him. Poor Lady Scatcherd, when her husbandwas stricken by the fit, hardly knew in her dismay what adequatesteps 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 noone man could suffice. It was, she knew, quite out of the questionfor her to invoke the aid of Dr Fillgrave, whom no earthly persuasionwould have brought to Boxall Hill; and as Mr Rerechild was supposedin the Barchester world to be second--though at a long interval--tothat 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 doctoras sure light from the lamp of Aesculapius. He could not therefore beother than an enemy of Dr Thorne. But he was a prudent, discreet man,with a long family, averse to professional hostilities, as knowingthat he could make more by medical friends than medical foes, andnot 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 beenput upon his friend, as had all the "medical world"--all themedical world at least of Barsetshire; and he had often expressedhis sympathy with Dr Fillgrave and his abhorrence of Dr Thorne'santi-professional practices. But now that he found himself about tobe brought in contact with Dr Thorne, he reflected that the Galenof Greshamsbury was at any rate equal in reputation to him ofBarchester; that the one was probably on the rise, whereas the otherwas already considered by some as rather antiquated; and he thereforewisely resolved that the present would be an excellent opportunityfor him to make a friend of Dr Thorne.
Poor Lady Scatcherd had an inkling that Dr Fillgrave and Mr Rerechildwere accustomed to row in the same boat, and she was not altogetherfree from fear that there might be an outbreak. She therefore tookan opportunity before Dr Thorne's arrival to deprecate any wrathfultendency.
"Oh, Lady Scatcherd! I have the greatest respect for Dr Thorne,"said he; "the greatest possible respect; a most skilfulpractitioner--something brusque certainly, and perhaps a littleobstinate. 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 anythingof that sort. Now I think he's wrong; and so I tell him." MrRerechild was in error here; for he had never yet ventured to tell DrFillgrave 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 visitto his patient: what steps were immediately taken for the relief ofthe sufferer we need not describe. They were doubtless well intended,and were, perhaps, as well adapted to stave off the coming evil dayas any that Dr Fillgrave, or even the great Sir Omicron Pie mighthave used.
And then Dr Thorne arrived.
"Oh, doctor! doctor!" exclaimed Lady Scatcherd, almost hanging roundhis neck in the hall. "What are we to do? What are we to do? He'svery 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! hehas never been like this before."
It was easy to see where Lady Scatcherd placed any such faith as shemight still have in the healing art. "Mr Rerechild is here and hasseen him," she continued. "I thought it best to send for two, forfear 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 literallycomplied with Lady Scatcherd's request, he might have told her atonce that there was no hope. As, however, he had not the heart to dothis, he mystified the case as doctors so well know how to do, andtold her that "there was cause to fear, great cause for fear; he wassorry to say, very great cause for much fear."
Dr Thorne promised to stay the night there, and, if possible, thefollowing night also; and then Lady Scatcherd became troubled in hermind as to what she should do with Mr Rerechild. He also declared,with much medical humanity, that, let the inconvenience be what itmight, he too would stay the night. "The loss," he said, "of such aman as Sir Roger Scatcherd was of such paramount importance as tomake other matters trivial. He would certainly not allow the wholeweight to fall on the shoulders of his friend Dr Thorne: he alsowould stay at any rate that night by the sick man's bedside. By thefollowing morning some change might be expected."
"I say, Dr Thorne," said her ladyship, calling the doctor into thehousekeeping-room, in which she and Hannah spent any time that theywere not required upstairs; "just come in, doctor: you couldn't tellhim 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 hepleased; but that it would by no means be proper for one doctor totell another to leave the house. And so Mr Rerechild was allowed toshare the glories of the night.
In the meantime the patient remained speechless; but it soon becameevident that Nature was using all her efforts to make one finalrally. From time to time he moaned and muttered as though he wasconscious, and it seemed as though he strove to speak. He graduallybecame awake, at any rate to suffering, and Dr Thorne began to thinkthat the last scene would be postponed for yet a while longer.
"Wonderful strong constitution--eh, Dr Thorne? wonderful!" said MrRerechild.
"Yes; he has been a strong man."
"Strong as a horse, Dr Thorne. Lord, what that man would have been ifhe 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 leftto the stomach; and yet what a struggle he makes--an interestingcase, 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 haveseen this case. He is a clever man, is Fillgrave--in his way, youknow."
"I'm sure he is," said Dr Thorne.
"Not that he'd make anything of a case like this now--he's not, youknow, quite--quite--perhaps not quite up to the new time of day, ifone 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 ofmoney to put by in a little town like Barchester."
"Yes, indeed."
"What I say to Fillgrave is this--keep your eyes open; one shouldnever be too old to learn--there's always something new worth pickingup. But, no--he won't believe that. He can't believe that any newideas can be worth anything. You know a man must go to the wall inthat 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 tohope he'll rally; fair ground, is there not, doctor?"
"Yes; he'll rally; but how long that may last, that we can hardlysay."
"Oh, no, certainly not, certainly not--that is not with anycertainty; but still he's doing finely, Lady Scatcherd, consideringeverything."
"How long will you give him, doctor?" said Mr Rerechild to his newfriend, 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 onten days."
"Perhaps so," said the doctor. "I should not like to say exactly toa day."
"No, certainly not. We cannot say exactly to a day; but I say tendays; 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 clea
n gone, you know;brain destroyed: did you observe the periporollida? I never sawthem so swelled before: now when the periporollida are swollen likethat--"
"Yes, very much; it's always the case when paralysis has been broughtabout by intemperance."
"Always, always; I have remarked that always; the periporollida insuch cases are always extended; most interesting case, isn't it? I dowish Fillgrave could have seen it. But, I believe you and Fillgravedon't quite--eh?"
"No, not quite," said Dr Thorne; who, as he thought of his lastinterview with Dr Fillgrave, and of that gentleman's exceeding angeras 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 doctorsagreed to lie down, each in a room on one side of the patient. Howwas it possible that anything but good should come to him, being soguarded? "He is going on finely, Lady Scatcherd, quite finely," werethe last words Mr Rerechild said as he left the room.
And then Dr Thorne, taking Lady Scatcherd's hand and leading her outinto another chamber, told her the truth.
"Lady Scatcherd," said he, in his tenderest voice--and his voicecould be very tender when occasion required it--"Lady Scatcherd, donot 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 hercompanion's face, though she hardly yet realised the meaning of whathe said, although her senses were half stunned by the blow.
"Dear Lady Scatcherd, is it not better that I should tell you thetruth?"
"Oh, I suppose so; oh yes, oh yes; ah me! ah me! ah me!" And then shebegan rocking herself backwards and forwards on her chair, with herapron up to her eyes. "What shall I do? what shall I do?"
"Look to Him, Lady Scatcherd, who only can make such griefendurable."
"Yes, yes, yes; I suppose so. Ah me! ah me! But, Dr Thorne, theremust be some chance--isn't there any chance? That man says he's goingon so well."
"I fear there is no chance--as far as my knowledge goes there is nochance."
"Then why does that chattering magpie tell such lies to a woman? Ahme! ah me! ah me! oh, doctor! doctor! what shall I do? what shall Ido?" and poor Lady Scatcherd, fairly overcome by her sorrow, burstout crying like a great school-girl.
And yet what had her husband done for her that she should thus weepfor him? Would not her life be much more blessed when this cause ofall her troubles should be removed from her? Would she not then be afree woman instead of a slave? Might she not then expect to begin totaste the comforts of life? What had that harsh tyrant of hers donethat was good or serviceable for her? Why should she thus weep forhim in paroxysms of truest grief?
We hear a good deal of jolly widows; and the slanderous raillery ofthe world tells much of conjugal disturbances as a cure for whichwomen will look forward to a state of widowhood with not unwillingeyes. The raillery of the world is very slanderous. In our dailyjests we attribute to each other vices of which neither we, nor ourneighbours, nor our friends, nor even our enemies are ever guilty.It is our favourite parlance to talk of the family troubles of MrsGreen on our right, and to tell how Mrs Young on our left is stronglysuspected of having raised her hand to her lord and master. Whatright have we to make these charges? What have we seen in our ownpersonal walks through life to make us believe that women are devils?There may possibly have been a Xantippe here and there, but Imogenesare to be found under every bush. Lady Scatcherd, in spite of thelife 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 to-day--we sent up a telegraph. Ohme! oh me! poor boy, what will he do? I shall never know what to dowith him, never! never!" And with such sorrowful wailings she satrocking herself through the long night, every now and then comfortingherself by the performance of some menial service in the sick man'sroom.
Sir Roger passed the night much as he had passed the day, exceptthat he appeared gradually to be growing nearer to a state ofconsciousness. On the following morning they succeeded at last inmaking Mr Rerechild understand that they were not desirous of keepinghim longer from his Barchester practice; and at about twelve o'clockDr 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 hissenses, and when he did so his son was standing at his bedside. LouisPhilippe Scatcherd--or as it may be more convenient to call him,Louis--was a young man just of the age of Frank Gresham. But therecould hardly be two youths more different in their appearance. Louis,though his father and mother were both robust persons, was short andslight, and now of a sickly frame. Frank was a picture of healthand strength; but, though manly in disposition, was by no meansprecocious either in appearance or manners. Louis Scatcherd lookedas though he was four years the other's senior. He had been sent toEton when he was fifteen, his father being under the impression thatthis was the most ready and best-recognised method of making him agentleman. Here he did not altogether fail as regarded the covetedobject of his becoming the companion of gentlemen. He had morepocket-money than any other lad in the school, and was possessed alsoof a certain effrontery which carried him ahead among boys of his ownage. He gained, therefore, a degree of eclat, even among those whoknew, and very frequently said to each other, that young Scatcherdwas not fit to be their companion except on such open occasions asthose of cricket-matches and boat-races. Boys, in this respect, areat least as exclusive as men, and understand as well the differencebetween an inner and an outer circle. Scatcherd had many companionsat school who were glad enough to go up to Maidenhead with him in hisboat; but there was not one among them who would have talked to himof his sister.
Sir Roger was vastly proud of his son's success, and did his bestto stimulate it by lavish expenditure at the Christopher, wheneverhe could manage to run down to Eton. But this practice, thoughsufficiently unexceptionable to the boys, was not held in equaldelight by the masters. To tell the truth, neither Sir Roger nor hisson were favourites with these stern custodians. At last it was feltnecessary to get rid of them both; and Louis was not long in givingthem an opportunity, by getting tipsy twice in one week. On thesecond occasion he was sent away, and he and Sir Roger, though longtalked of, were seen no more at Eton.
But the universities were still open to Louis Philippe, and before hewas eighteen he was entered as a gentleman-commoner at Trinity. As hewas, moreover, the eldest son of a baronet, and had almost unlimitedcommand of money, here also he was enabled for a while to shine.
To shine! but very fitfully; and one may say almost with a ghastlyglare. The very lads who had eaten his father's dinners at Eton, andshared his four-oar at Eton, knew much better than to associate withhim at Cambridge now that they had put on the _toga virilis_. Theywere still as prone as ever to fun, frolic, and devilry--perhaps moreso than ever, seeing that more was in their power; but they acquiredan idea that it behoved them to be somewhat circumspect as to the menwith whom their pranks were perpetrated. So, in those days, LouisScatcherd was coldly looked on by his whilom Eton friends.
But young Scatcherd did not fail to find companions at Cambridgealso. There are few places indeed in which a rich man cannot buycompanionship. But the set with whom he lived at Cambridge were theworst of the place. They were fast, slang men, who were fast andslang, and nothing else--men who imitated grooms in more than theirdress, and who looked on the customary heroes of race-courses as thehighest lords of the ascendant upon earth. Among those at collegeyoung Scatcherd did shine as long as such lustre was permitted him.Here, indeed, his father, who had striven only to encourage him atEton, did strive somewhat to control him. But that was not now easy.If he limited his son's allowance, he only drove him to do hisdebauchery on credit. There were plenty to lend money to the son ofthe great millionaire; and so, after eighteen months' trial of auniversity education,
Sir Roger had no alternative but to withdrawhis son from his _alma mater_.
What was he then to do with him? Unluckily it was considered quiteunnecessary to take any steps towards enabling him to earn hisbread. Now nothing on earth can be more difficult than bringing upwell a young man who has not to earn his own bread, and who has norecognised station among other men similarly circumstanced. Juveniledukes, and sprouting earls, find their duties and their places aseasily as embryo clergymen and sucking barristers. Provision ismade for their peculiar positions: and, though they may possibly goastray, they have a fair chance given to them of running within theposts. The same may be said of such youths as Frank Gresham. Thereare enough of them in the community to have made it necessary thattheir well-being should be a matter of care and forethought. Butthere are but few men turned out in the world in the position ofLouis Scatcherd; and, of those few, but very few enter the realbattle of life under good auspices.
Poor Sir Roger, though he had hardly time with all his multitudinousrailways to look into this thoroughly, had a glimmering of it. Whenhe saw his son's pale face, and paid his wine bills, and heard of hisdoings in horse-flesh, he did know that things were not going well;he did understand that the heir to a baronetcy and a fortune of someten thousand a year might be doing better. But what was he to do? Hecould not watch over his boy himself; so he took a tutor for him andsent him abroad.
Louis and the tutor got as far as Berlin, with what mutualsatisfaction to each other need not be specially described. But fromBerlin Sir Roger received a letter in which the tutor declined to goany further in the task which he had undertaken. He found that hehad no influence over his pupil, and he could not reconcile it tohis conscience to be the spectator of such a life as that which MrScatcherd led. He had no power in inducing Mr Scatcherd to leaveBerlin; but he would remain there himself till he should hear fromSir Roger. So Sir Roger had to leave the huge Government works whichhe was then erecting on the southern coast, and hurry off to Berlinto see what could be done with young Hopeful.
The young Hopeful was by no means a fool; and in some matters wasmore than a match for his father. Sir Roger, in his anger, threatenedto cast him off without a shilling. Louis, with mixed penitence andeffrontery, reminded him that he could not change the descent of thetitle; promised amendment; declared that he had done only as do otheryoung men of fortune; and hinted that the tutor was a strait-lacedass. The father and the son returned together to Boxall Hill, andthree months afterwards Mr Scatcherd set up for himself in London.
And now his life, if not more virtuous, was more crafty than it hadbeen. He had no tutor to watch his doings and complain of them, andhe had sufficient sense to keep himself from absolute pecuniary ruin.He lived, it is true, where sharpers and blacklegs had too oftenopportunities of plucking him; but, young as he was, he had beensufficiently long about the world to take care he was not openlyrobbed; and as he was not openly robbed, his father, in a certainsense, was proud of him.
Tidings, however, came--came at least in those last days--which cutSir Roger to the quick; tidings of vice in the son which the fathercould not but attribute to his own example. Twice the mother wascalled up to the sick-bed of her only child, while he lay raving inthat horrid madness by which the outraged mind avenges itself on thebody! Twice he was found raging in delirium tremens, and twice thefather was told that a continuance of such life must end in an earlydeath.
It may easily be conceived that Sir Roger was not a happy man. Lyingthere with that brandy bottle beneath his pillow, reflecting in hismoments of rest that that son of his had his brandy bottle beneathhis pillow, he could hardly have been happy. But he was not a man tosay much about his misery. Though he could restrain neither himselfnor his heir, he could endure in silence; and in silence he didendure, till, opening his eyes to the consciousness of death, he atlast spoke a few words to the only friend he knew.
Louis Scatcherd was not a fool, nor was he naturally, perhaps, of adepraved disposition but he had to reap the fruits of the worsteducation which England was able to give him. There were moments inhis life when he felt that a better, a higher, nay, a much happiercareer was open to him than that which he had prepared himself tolead. Now and then he would reflect what money and rank might havedone for him; he would look with wishful eyes to the proud doings ofothers of his age; would dream of quiet joys, of a sweet wife, of ahouse to which might be asked friends who were neither jockeys nordrunkards; he would dream of such things in his short intervals ofconstrained sobriety; but the dream would only serve to make himmoody.
This was the best side of his character; the worst, probably, wasthat which was brought into play by the fact that he was not a fool.He would have a better chance of redemption in this world--perhapsalso in another--had he been a fool. As it was, he was no fool: hewas not to be done, not he; he knew, no one better, the value ofa shilling; he knew, also, how to keep his shillings, and how tospend them. He consorted much with blacklegs and such-like, becauseblacklegs were to his taste. But he boasted daily, nay, hourly tohimself, and frequently to those around him, that the leeches whowere stuck round him could draw but little blood from him. He couldspend his money freely; but he would so spend it that he himselfmight reap the gratification of the expenditure. He was acute,crafty, knowing, and up to every damnable dodge practised by men ofthe class with whom he lived. At one-and-twenty he was that mostodious of all odious characters--a close-fisted reprobate.
He was a small man, not ill-made by Nature, but reduced to unnaturaltenuity by dissipation--a corporeal attribute of which he was aptto boast, as it enabled him, as he said, to put himself up at 7 st.7 lb. without any "d---- nonsense of not eating and drinking." Thepower, however, was one of which he did not often avail himself, ashis nerves were seldom in a fit state for riding. His hair was darkred, and he wore red moustaches, and a great deal of red beardbeneath his chin, cut in a manner to make him look like an American.His voice also had a Yankee twang, being a cross between that of anAmerican trader and an English groom; and his eyes were keen andfixed, and cold and knowing.
Such was the son whom Sir Roger saw standing at his bedside whenfirst he awoke to consciousness. It must not be supposed that SirRoger looked at him with our eyes. To him he was an only child,the heir of his wealth, the future bearer of his title; the mostheart-stirring remembrancer of those other days, when he had beenso much a poorer, and so much a happier man. Let that boy be bador good, he was all Sir Roger had; and the father was still ableto hope, when others thought that all ground for hope was gone.
The mother also loved her son with a mother's natural love; but Louishad ever been ashamed of his mother, and had, as far as possible,estranged himself from her. Her heart, perhaps, fixed itselfwith almost a warmer love on Frank Gresham, her foster-son. Frankshe saw but seldom, but when she did see him he never refused herembrace. There was, too, a joyous, genial lustre about Frank's facewhich always endeared him to women, and made his former nurse regardhim as the pet creation of the age. Though she but seldom interferedwith any monetary arrangement of her husband's, yet once or twice shehad ventured to hint that a legacy left to the young squire wouldmake her a happy woman. Sir Roger, however, on these occasions hadnot appeared very desirous of making his wife happy.
"Ah, Louis! is that you?" ejaculated Sir Roger, in tones hardly morethan half-formed: afterwards, in a day or two that is, he fullyrecovered his voice; but just then he could hardly open his jaws, andspoke almost through his teeth. He managed, however, to put out hishand and lay it on the counterpane, so that his son could take it.
"Why, that's well, governor," said the son "you'll be as right as atrivet in a day or two--eh, governor?"
The "governor" smiled with a ghastly smile. He already pretty wellknew that he would never again be "right," as his son called it, onthat side of the grave. It did not, moreover, suit him to say muchjust at that moment, so he contented himself with holding his son'shand. He lay still in this position for a moment, and then, turninground painfully on his s
ide, endeavoured to put his hand to the placewhere his dire enemy usually was concealed. Sir Roger, however, wastoo weak now to be his own master; he was at length, though too late,a captive in the hands of nurses and doctors, and the bottle had nowbeen removed.
Then Lady Scatcherd came in, and seeing that her husband was nolonger unconscious, she could not but believe that Dr Thorne had beenwrong; she could not but think that there must be some ground forhope. She threw herself on her knees at the bedside, bursting intotears as she did so, and taking Sir Roger's hand in hers covered itwith kisses.
"Bother!" said Sir Roger.
She did not, however, long occupy herself with the indulgence of herfeelings; but going speedily to work, produced such sustenance asthe doctors had ordered to be given when the patient might awake. Abreakfast-cup was brought to him, and a few drops were put into hismouth; but he soon made it manifest that he would take nothing moreof a description so perfectly innocent.
"A drop of brandy--just a little drop," said he, half-ordering, andhalf-entreating.
"Ah, Roger!" said Lady Scatcherd.
"Just a little drop, Louis," said the sick man, appealing to his son.
"A little will be good for him; bring the bottle, mother," said theson.
After some altercation the brandy bottle was brought, and Louis, withwhat he thought a very sparing hand, proceeded to pour about half awine-glassful into the cup. As he did so, Sir Roger, weak as he was,contrived to shake his son's arm, so as greatly to increase the dose.
"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed the sick man, and then greedily swallowed thedose.