The Chronicles of Barsetshire

by Anthony Trollope

  “Mary and I have been quarrelling,” said Patience. “She says the doctor is the greatest man in a village; and I say the parson is, of course.”

  “I only say that the doctor is the most looked after,” said Mary. “There’s another horrid message for you to go to Silverbridge, uncle. Why can’t that Dr. Century manage his own people?”

  “She says,” continued Miss Oriel, “that if a parson was away for a month, no one would miss him; but that a doctor is so precious that his very minutes are counted.”

  “I am sure uncle’s are. They begrudge him his meals. Mr. Oriel never gets called away to Silverbridge.”

  “No; we in the Church manage our parish arrangements better than you do. We don’t let strange practitioners in among our flocks because the sheep may chance to fancy them. Our sheep have to put up with our spiritual doses whether they like them or not. In that respect we are much the best off. I advise you, Mary, to marry a clergyman, by all means.”

  “I will when you marry a doctor,” said she.

  “I am sure nothing on earth would give me greater pleasure,” said Miss Oriel, getting up and curtseying very low to Dr. Thorne; “but I am not quite prepared for the agitation of an offer this morning, so I’ll run away.”

  And so she went; and the doctor, getting on his other horse, started again for Silverbridge, wearily enough. “She’s happy now where she is,” said he to himself, as he rode along. “They all treat her there as an equal at Greshamsbury. What though she be no cousin to the Thornes of Ullathorne. She has found her place there among them all, and keeps it on equal terms with the best of them. There is Miss Oriel; her family is high; she is rich, fashionable, a beauty, courted by everyone; but yet she does not look down on Mary. They are equal friends together. But how would it be if she were taken to Boxall Hill, even as a recognised niece of the rich man there? Would Patience Oriel and Beatrice Gresham go there after her? Could she be happy there as she is in my house here, poor though it be? It would kill her to pass a month with Lady Scatcherd and put up with that man’s humours, to see his mode of life, to be dependent on him, to belong to him.” And then the doctor, hurrying on to Silverbridge, again met Dr. Century at the old lady’s bedside, and having made his endeavours to stave off the inexorable coming of the grim visitor, again returned to his own niece and his own drawing-room.

  “You must be dead, uncle,” said Mary, as she poured out his tea for him, and prepared the comforts of that most comfortable meal—tea, dinner, and supper, all in one. “I wish Silverbridge was fifty miles off.”

  “That would only make the journey worse; but I am not dead yet, and, what is more to the purpose, neither is my patient.” And as he spoke he contrived to swallow a jorum of scalding tea, containing in measure somewhat near a pint. Mary, not a whit amazed at this feat, merely refilled the jorum without any observation; and the doctor went on stirring the mixture with his spoon, evidently oblivious that any ceremony had been performed by either of them since the first supply had been administered to him.

  When the clatter of knives and forks was over, the doctor turned himself to the hearthrug, and putting one leg over the other, he began to nurse it as he looked with complacency at his third cup of tea, which stood untasted beside him. The fragments of the solid banquet had been removed, but no sacrilegious hand had been laid on the teapot and the cream-jug.

  “Mary,” said he, “suppose you were to find out to-morrow morning that, by some accident, you had become a great heiress, would you be able to suppress your exultation?”

  “The first thing I’d do, would be to pronounce a positive edict that you should never go to Silverbridge again; at least without a day’s notice.”

  “Well, and what next? what would you do next?”

  “The next thing—the next thing would be to send to Paris for a French bonnet exactly like the one Patience Oriel had on. Did you see it?”

  “Well I can’t say I did; bonnets are invisible now; besides I never remark anybody’s clothes, except yours.”

  “Oh! do look at Miss Oriel’s bonnet the next time you see her. I cannot understand why it should be so, but I am sure of this—no English fingers could put together such a bonnet as that; and I am nearly sure that no French fingers could do it in England.”

  “But you don’t care so much about bonnets, Mary!” This the doctor said as an assertion; but there was, nevertheless, somewhat of a question involved in it.

  “Don’t I, though?” said she. “I do care very much about bonnets; especially since I saw Patience this morning. I asked how much it cost—guess.”

  “Oh! I don’t know—a pound?”

  “A pound, uncle!”

  “What! a great deal more? Ten pounds?”

  “Oh, uncle.”

  “What! more than ten pounds? Then I don’t think even Patience Oriel ought to give it.”

  “No, of course she would not; but, uncle, it really cost a hundred francs!”

  “Oh! a hundred francs; that’s four pounds, isn’t it? Well, and how much did your last new bonnet cost?”

  “Mine! oh, nothing—five and ninepence, perhaps; I trimmed it myself. If I were left a great fortune, I’d send to Paris to-morrow; no, I’d go myself to Paris to buy a bonnet, and I’d take you with me to choose it.”

  The doctor sat silent for a while meditating about this, during which he unconsciously absorbed the tea beside him; and Mary again replenished his cup.

  “Come, Mary,” said he at last, “I’m in a generous mood; and as I am rather more rich than usual, we’ll send to Paris for a French bonnet. The going for it must wait a while longer I am afraid.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “No, indeed. If you know the way to send—that I must confess would puzzle me; but if you’ll manage the sending, I’ll manage the paying; and you shall have a French bonnet.”

  “Uncle!” said she, looking up at him.

  “Oh, I’m not joking; I owe you a present, and I’ll give you that.”

  “And if you do, I’ll tell you what I’ll do with it. I’ll cut it into fragments, and burn them before your face. Why, uncle, what do you take me for? You’re not a bit nice to-night to make such an offer as that to me; not a bit, not a bit.” And then she came over from her seat at the tea-tray and sat down on a foot-stool close at his knee. “Because I’d have a French bonnet if I had a large fortune, is that a reason why I should like one now? if you were to pay four pounds for a bonnet for me, it would scorch my head every time I put it on.”

  “I don’t see that: four pounds would not ruin me. However, I don’t think you’d look a bit better if you had it; and, certainly, I should not like to scorch these locks,” and putting his hand upon her shoulders, he played with her hair.

  “Patience has a pony-phaeton, and I’d have one if I were rich; and I’d have all my books bound as she does; and, perhaps, I’d give fifty guineas for a dressing-case.”

  “Fifty guineas!”

  “Patience did not tell me; but so Beatrice says. Patience showed it to me once, and it is a darling. I think I’d have the dressing-case before the bonnet. But, uncle—”

  “Well?”

  “You don’t suppose I want such things?”

  “Not improperly. I am sure you do not.”

  “Not properly, or improperly; not much, or little. I covet many things; but nothing of that sort. You know, or should know, that I do not. Why did you talk of buying a French bonnet for me?”

  Dr. Thorne did not answer this question, but went on nursing his leg.

  “After all,” said he, “money is a fine thing.”

  “Very fine, when it is well come by,” she answered; “that is, without detriment to the heart or soul.”

  “I should be a happier man if you were provided for as is Miss Oriel. Suppose, now, I could give you up to a rich man who would be able to insure you against all wants?”

  “Insure me against all wants! Oh, that would be a man. That would be selling me, wouldn’t it, uncle
? Yes, selling me; and the price you would receive would be freedom from future apprehensions as regards me. It would be a cowardly sale for you to make; and then, as to me—me the victim. No, uncle; you must bear the misery of having to provide for me—bonnets and all. We are in the same boat, and you shan’t turn me overboard.”

  “But if I were to die, what would you do then?”

  “And if I were to die, what would you do? People must be bound together. They must depend on each other. Of course, misfortunes may come; but it is cowardly to be afraid of them beforehand. You and I are bound together, uncle; and though you say these things to tease me, I know you do not wish to get rid of me.”

  “Well, well; we shall win through, doubtless; if not in one way, then in another.”

  “Win through! Of course we shall; who doubts our winning? but, uncle—”

  “But, Mary.”

  “Well?”

  “You haven’t got another cup of tea, have you?”

  “Oh, uncle! you have had five.”

  “No, my dear! not five; only four—only four, I assure you; I have been very particular to count. I had one while I was—”

  “Five uncle; indeed and indeed.”

  “Well, then, as I hate the prejudice which attaches luck to an odd number, I’ll have a sixth to show that I am not superstitious.”

  While Mary was preparing the sixth jorum, there came a knock at the door. Those late summonses were hateful to Mary’s ear, for they were usually the forerunners of a midnight ride through the dark lanes to some farmer’s house. The doctor had been in the saddle all day, and, as Janet brought the note into the room, Mary stood up as though to defend her uncle from any further invasion on his rest.

  “A note from the house, miss,” said Janet: now “the house,” in Greshamsbury parlance, always meant the squire’s mansion.

  “No one ill at the house, I hope,” said the doctor, taking the note from Mary’s hand. “Oh—ah—yes; it’s from the squire—there’s nobody ill: wait a minute, Janet, and I’ll write a line. Mary, lend me your desk.”

  The squire, anxious as usual for money, had written to ask what success the doctor had had in negotiating the new loan with Sir Roger. The fact, however, was, that in his visit at Boxall Hill, the doctor had been altogether unable to bring on the carpet the matter of this loan. Subjects had crowded themselves in too quickly during that interview—those two interviews at Sir Roger’s bedside; and he had been obliged to leave without even alluding to the question.

  “I must at any rate go back now,” said he to himself. So he wrote to the squire, saying that he was to be at Boxall Hill again on the following day, and that he would call at the house on his return.

  “That’s settled, at any rate,” said he.

  “What’s settled?” said Mary.

  “Why, I must go to Boxall Hill again to-morrow. I must go early, too, so we’d better both be off to bed. Tell Janet I must breakfast at half-past seven.”

  “You couldn’t take me, could you? I should so like to see that Sir Roger.”

  “To see Sir Roger! Why, he’s ill in bed.”

  “That’s an objection, certainly; but some day, when he’s well, could not you take me over? I have the greatest desire to see a man like that; a man who began with nothing and now has more than enough to buy the whole parish of Greshamsbury.”

  “I don’t think you’d like him at all.”

  “Why not? I am sure I should; I am sure I should like him, and Lady Scatcherd, too. I’ve heard you say that she is an excellent woman.”

  “Yes, in her way; and he, too, is good in his way; but they are neither of them in your way: they are extremely vulgar—”

  “Oh! I don’t mind that; that would make them more amusing; one doesn’t go to those sort of people for polished manners.”

  “I don’t think you’d find the Scatcherds pleasant acquaintances at all,” said the doctor, taking his bed-candle, and kissing his niece’s forehead as he left the room.

  CHAPTER XII

  When Greek Meets Greek, Then Comes the Tug of War

  The doctor, that is our doctor, had thought nothing more of the message which had been sent to that other doctor, Dr. Fillgrave; nor in truth did the baronet. Lady Scatcherd had thought of it, but her husband during the rest of the day was not in a humour which allowed her to remind him that he would soon have a new physician on his hands; so she left the difficulty to arrange itself, waiting in some little trepidation till Dr. Fillgrave should show himself.

  It was well that Sir Roger was not dying for want of his assistance, for when the message reached Barchester, Dr. Fillgrave was some five or six miles out of town, at Plumstead; and as he did not get back till late in the evening, he felt himself necessitated to put off his visit to Boxall Hill till next morning. Had he chanced to have been made acquainted with that little conversation about the pump, he would probably have postponed it even yet a while longer.

  He was, however, by no means sorry to be summoned to the bedside of Sir Roger Scatcherd. It was well known at Barchester, and very well known to Dr. Fillgrave, that Sir Roger and Dr. Thorne were old friends. It was very well known to him also, that Sir Roger, in all his bodily ailments, had hitherto been contented to entrust his safety to the skill of his old friend. Sir Roger was in his way a great man, and much talked of in Barchester, and rumour had already reached the ears of the Barchester Galen, that the great railway contractor was ill. When, therefore, he received a peremptory summons to go over to Boxall Hill, he could not but think that some pure light had broken in upon Sir Roger’s darkness, and taught him at last where to look for true medical accomplishment.

  And then, also, Sir Roger was the richest man in the county, and to county practitioners a new patient with large means is a godsend; how much greater a godsend when he be not only acquired, but taken also from some rival practitioner, need hardly be explained.

  Dr. Fillgrave, therefore, was somewhat elated when, after a very early breakfast, he stepped into the post-chaise which was to carry him to Boxall Hill. Dr. Fillgrave’s professional advancement had been sufficient to justify the establishment of a brougham, in which he paid his ordinary visits round Barchester; but this was a special occasion, requiring special speed, and about to produce no doubt a special guerdon, and therefore a pair of post-horses were put into request.

  It was hardly yet nine when the post-boy somewhat loudly rang the bell at Sir Roger’s door; and then Dr. Fillgrave, for the first time, found himself in the new grand hall of Boxall Hill house.

  “I’ll tell my lady,” said the servant, showing him into the grand dining-room; and there for some fifteen minutes or twenty minutes Dr. Fillgrave walked up and down the length of the Turkey carpet all alone.

  Dr. Fillgrave was not a tall man, and was perhaps rather more inclined to corpulence than became his height. In his stocking-feet, according to the usually received style of measurement, he was five feet five; and he had a little round abdominal protuberance, which an inch and a half added to the heels of his boots hardly enabled him to carry off as well as he himself would have wished. Of this he was apparently conscious, and it gave to him an air of not being entirely at his ease. There was, however, a personal dignity in his demeanour, a propriety in his gait, and an air of authority in his gestures which should prohibit one from stigmatizing those efforts at altitude as a failure. No doubt he did achieve much; but, nevertheless, the effort would occasionally betray itself, and the story of the frog and the ox would irresistibly force itself into one’s mind at those moments when it most behoved Dr. Fillgrave to be magnificent.

  But if the bulgy roundness of his person and the shortness of his legs in any way detracted from his personal importance, these trifling defects were, he was well aware, more than atoned for by the peculiar dignity of his countenance. If his legs were short, his face was not; if there was any undue preponderance below the waistcoat, all was in due symmetry above the necktie. His hair was grey, not grizzled nor white, but prope
rly grey; and stood up straight from off his temples on each side with an unbending determination of purpose. His whiskers, which were of an admirable shape, coming down and turning gracefully at the angle of his jaw, were grey also, but somewhat darker than his hair. His enemies in Barchester declared that their perfect shade was produced by a leaden comb. His eyes were not brilliant, but were very effective, and well under command. He was rather short-sighted, and a pair of eye-glasses was always on his nose, or in his hand. His nose was long, and well pronounced, and his chin, also, was sufficiently prominent; but the great feature of his face was his mouth. The amount of secret medical knowledge of which he could give assurance by the pressure of those lips was truly wonderful. By his lips, also, he could be most exquisitely courteous, or most sternly forbidding. And not only could he be either the one or the other; but he could at his will assume any shade of difference between the two, and produce any mixture of sentiment.

  When Dr. Fillgrave was first shown into Sir Roger’s dining-room, he walked up and down the room for a while with easy, jaunty step, with his hands joined together behind his back, calculating the price of the furniture, and counting the heads which might be adequately entertained in a room of such noble proportions; but in seven or eight minutes an air of impatience might have been seen to suffuse his face. Why could he not be shown into the sick man’s room? What necessity could there be for keeping him there, as though he were some apothecary with a box of leeches in his pocket? He then rang the bell, perhaps a little violently. “Does Sir Roger know that I am here?” he said to the servant. “I’ll tell my lady,” said the man, again vanishing.

  For five minutes more he walked up and down, calculating no longer the value of the furniture, but rather that of his own importance. He was not wont to be kept waiting in this way; and though Sir Roger Scatcherd was at present a great and rich man, Dr. Fillgrave had remembered him a very small and a very poor man. He now began to think of Sir Roger as the stone-mason, and to chafe somewhat more violently at being so kept by such a man.