More Sport for our Neighbours

by Ronald McGowan

  “Be so good, my dear, as to permit me to answer for myself.”

  “I am sure I should never dream of putting words into your mouth, my love, but I am so anxious for you, and for my daughters, and you will never take these things seriously and I wish to hear what the doctor has to say, and hope he will give you something to set you up and ease all our minds, for what should we do without you, you know?”

  “Perhaps, my dear, we might have more chance of hearing what the doctor has to say if you permitted him a moment in which to open his mouth? No, not a word more, my dear. I too wish to hear what the doctor has to say, and desire you to remain silent until he has said it, whatever it may be. Now, doctor, pray give us the benefit of your professional opinion.”

  The young man needed no further urging.

  “Your condition has improved since yesterday, Mr. Bennet, and I believe there is no immediate danger. However, all the signs are that you are suffering from nervous exhaustion. You need fresh air and moderate exercise, mental relaxation as much as physical.”

  “Very well, Doctor, I shall walk into Meryton and back every day. And while I am there I shall look in at the circulating library.”

  “I fear that is not precisely what I had in mind, sir. You need a complete change from your normal pursuits, a change of scenery to somewhere where you will not continually be tempted to resume your customary work, a complete change of regime and of air. Sea air would be best, and sea bathing. Have you never considered taking your family to a seaside watering place for a stay away from your domestic worries? It need not be for long. Three months would suffice, I should think.”

  “Hurrah!” cried Kitty, “We shall go to Brighton at last!”

  “We shall not go to Brighton, Miss, nor yet to Eastbourne, even, nor Hastings nor Lyme nor Weymouth, nor any of those haunts of the foolish and dissipated along that coast. Were money no object, I might consider Scarborough, or Cromer, but the subject does not arise, for I fear this advice may perhaps be not entirely disinterested.”

  “Forgive me, Doctor, but may I enquire whether it is true, as gossip would have it, that you formerly practiced in a seaside watering place, and that your wife still has relatives in the neighbourhood? Relatives who would, perhaps, be not unhappy to receive another guest there?”

  He half-rose from his chair, but mastered himself with a visible effort, and sat down again.

  “You are not a well man, Mr. Bennet, he replied. “I strongly suspect, although you will not admit it, that you are in constant pain from your ailment. In that state we all say and do things we neither mean nor intend, so I will choose not to resent your enquiry. I came here, it is true, from the seaside town of Shingleton, if a dozen houses with only half of them occupied can be called a town. It is being developed, if that is the word, by Sir John Middleton, a distant relative of my wife’s, who was persuaded to do so by – I will not say a charlatan, but certainly a projector – he met in London. Sir John was very urgent that there should be a physician in his new town to attract visitors in search of the health-giving properties of sea air and sea bathing and every aspect of the water cure. At his urging I set up there at the corner of the Crescent – for every one of these would-be watering places must have its Crescent, you know – and waited a twelvemonth for the patients I was promised would flood in. In the meantime, the promised deluge of visitors barely amounted to a trickle, for the most part disgustingly healthy, and in the course of a whole year I had but one consultation.”

  “Such a way of life could hardly be expected to endure, and it was only by relying on my wife’s fortune, something I was and still am, extremely loth to do, that we were able to survive without coming upon the parish. When I represented to Sir John that I must look elsewhere for employment words passed that had perhaps better have been left unsaid.”

  “He said that he had looked for more loyalty from me, and offered to pay me to stay on in the resort. I said that I did not choose to serve any man for wages, and our discussion only became more heated after that.”

  “I was then, of course, obliged to look for a practice elsewhere, as far away from Shingleton as may be. Fortunately, my good friend Doctor Foster, who was practicing at Exeter at the time, and had come there from St Alban’s, mentioned to me that he had always thought Meryton would be an ideal place for a young man to start up a practice. With his assistance, it was quickly done. I had looked to him for more support and assistance after we had removed from Devonshire, but he has now gone back to Gloucester, where he has family connections, and we are now quite alone in Hertfordshire. That, sir, is I why I came to Meryton, and why I should never recommend any seaside resort in particular, and especially not Shingleton. And let me say, sir, that I have never in my life recommended a particular regime to a patient that I did not honestly believe to be necessary, or at least desirable, and I never shall. You have my advice. I cannot force you to take it, but what I can do, I will, and what I can take is my leave, sir.”

  He was so obviously sincere in all he said that I was quite persuaded.

  “Stay, Doctor,” I cried, “and allow me to make my apologies. I am quite persuaded of both the honesty and value of your advice, and wish only to enquire how I may best take it.”

  “You have been very frank with me as to your motives, and I will be equally frank with you in explaining my reluctance to set off immediately for the coast.”

  “Brighton, in particular, has unhappy memories associated with it. You may have heard my youngest daughter’s name mentioned in connection with it. I am aware that she has been the subject of gossip in the neighbourhood. I am also reluctant to undertake the expense. I know such things are not supposed to concern a gentleman, but I am bound to concern myself with them. It is well-known in the neighbourhood that my estate is entailed and that my wife and children will receive not a penny when I die save what I may amass in my personal fortune. It is only since three of my daughters were married, last year, that I have been able to start saving for that eventuality, and I am reluctant to jeopardise my daughters’ future for the sake of a present indisposition which may clear itself up without the expense.”

  “You see, sir, that I have been quite as frank with you about my finances as you have been with me about yours, and I think we must understand each other. I only ask whether you can think of a more economical alternative.”

  “The ideal treatment would combine sea bathing with a course of taking the waters at a spa resort. The place that first suggests itself to me as suitable is Scarborough. The northern resorts are in any case more economical. If you wish to reduce the expense still further perhaps you have friends or relatives in the vicinity with whom you could combine a visit with taking the waters?”

  Mrs. Bennet had been silent for too long.

  “Scarborough!” she cried, “Is not that near Newcastle? I have a daughter, you see, doctor, a married daughter who resides in Newcastle, where her husband’s regiment is quartered. That would be just the thing, would it not, Mr. Bennet? We can visit my darling Lydia, at last.”

  “Scarborough is as near to Newcastle as Meryton is to Bath,” I replied, “and the air at Newcastle is scarcely noted for its salubrity, is it, Doctor?”

  “Certainly not, sir. There are other northern cities far more filthy and pestilential, but I think you would find the air there quite uncongenial, filled with the fumes of coal and other foul vapours.”

  “There is sea bathing, and a spa, of sorts, at Sunderland, some dozen miles away, but it is a very small affair, not much regarded. Is there nowhere else you might consider?”

  “Our two eldest daughters both live in Derbyshire, somewhere to the west of Bakewell. We have no other relatives who might welcome us save in London.”

  “Bakewell? Is not that near Buxton? There is an established spa there, whose waters are known to be restorative. And mountain air could well be as beneficial as sea air, if we substitute long walks and the hot and cold baths for sea bathing. Yes, I think Buxton might
well answer.”

  “Thank you, doctor, I will think upon it. I believe Pemberley, my daughter’s house, is almost as near Buxton as it is to Bakewell, and I confess it would give me pleasure to see her again. Perhaps you would do us the honour of taking dinner with us tomorrow? I look forward to making your further acquaintance, and that of your, no doubt, charming wife. We should have extended the invitation sooner, or at least called upon you after you came into our town, but I fear I am a sad recluse these days, and forget all else when I am at my study. Meanwhile I will write to my daughter and look into the travelling arrangements, and we can discuss the course of treatment you prescribe when we meet again.”

  “The honour is all mine, sir, and I shall be delighted to accept your invitation.”

  There followed the usual civilities upon his departure, whereafter I turned to my wife, saying,

  “Well, Mrs. Bennet, does that satisfy you?”

  “Oh, Mr. Bennet,” she replied, “it will be all very well to see Lizzie again, although I fear I shall never quite warm to that solemn Mr. Darcy, and I dare say we might take in Jane, too. But why will you not visit Lydia, too, when you are so very near?”

  Never attempt to explain the constraints of geography to a woman, and certainly never attempt to explain them to Mrs. Bennet. You are writing on water.

  Chapter Five : Dinner at Longbourn

  Doctor Morland brought his wife to dinner the following day as arranged. Mrs. Morland turned out to be a young lady of not yet one and twenty, of striking appearance, not quite classically beautiful, perhaps, but with something about her that more than made up for the slight – the very slight- - want.

  Where her husband was solid and steady, she was vivacious, witty, and charming. She certainly charmed Kitty, who was much taken by her gown in the Grecian fashion, and Mrs. Bennet, who was even more taken by the string of emeralds about her neck.

  She was complimentary about the house and grounds, and about the ladies’ outfits, and, in short, everything that met her eye, but without being in any way either effusive or patronizing. When Mary made some deprecatory comment in Latin – a verse of Catullus, if I remember aright – she instantly capped it by quoting the response from the original Sappho, which caused Mary to blink and blush profusely.

  In short, she was the perfect lady withal, and not at all what we had expected from the wife of a mere physician. In many ways, in fact, she reminded me of Lizzie at that age. I longed to enquire after her family and background, but, naturally, such a thing could not be done.

  It all came out over dinner, however, when we were risking accusations of ‘talking shop’ by discussing the water cure which Doctor Morland was prescribing for me.

  “I take it that you have never engaged in such a practice before, Mr. Bennet?” the doctor enquired.

  “I have had the great good fortune,” I replied, “of having enjoyed near perfect health, until the late mishap, that is, and have never even visited any sort of watering place. There was a scheme at one time to send me to Bath, in search of a wife, but providence – and Mrs. Bennet, Miss Gardner as she was then – happily intervened, and saved me from such a fate.”

  For this little speech I was rewarded by such a look of gratification from Mrs. Bennet as I had rarely seen, and I resolved to try the effect of more such in future.

  “Then it would appear,” said the doctor, “that the person here who can speak most knowledgeably upon the subject is Mrs. Morland, who had the benefit of a whole season in Bath before we were married.”

  “I blush to admit it,” allowed his wife, “considering what such a thing is usually taken to imply for a young female, but it is true. Colonel Brandon took us there, to help mama recover herself from her great illness. I did not like it much, although the Middletons came from Barton with us as far as Delaford, and Mrs. Jennings was there to greet us. With Mrs. Jennings one is never without acquaintance, wherever one may be, and it helped to pass the time, especially when the Tilneys came, with news of James.”

  “But I had counted on seeing more of my own particular friend, Miss Sharples, who had lived in Bath for some years, and had taught me all I know about painting when she came to us at Delaford. But her family were in the process of removing back to America, and I saw very little of her. And now she is, I dare say, painting Mr. Jefferson’s portrait, or General Washington’s, and we shall never meet again.”

  There was obviously some tale there, but all thoughts of enquiry were forestalled by Kitty, with,

  “And so you have been to Bath, Mrs. Morland. How exciting! Did you go in the baths? Did you take the waters? And are the balls there so grand as they are made out to be?”

  “I assisted my mother in the hot baths, Miss Bennet, and I believe they did her some good. But you need not trouble yourself to be scandalized, Miss Bennet. It is not like in our grandparents’ day, with nymphs and their swains sporting naked in the waters. You sit in an alcove, wrapped in a sheet, or rather a thin, scratchy blanket, from head to toe, and stare at each other for the allotted time. Then you are pummelled dry by the attendants and turned loose to take your turn at the pump. I believe that those who like that sort of thing find it to be the sort of thing they like, but I found it all a colossal bore. You are not permitted to talk, or read, or pass the time in any way but in breathing the steam and wishing for the hour to pass. And this is in the hot baths. I shudder to think what the cold baths must be like. As for the waters, imagine a mixture, bad eggs, cabbage and brimstone, swirled up in tepid water and drained through a rusty sieve and that will give you some idea of the famous Bath waters. I am told those of Tunbridge and Cheltenham are little better, and Harrogate far worse, but I never encountered anyone who had been to Buxton, where I believe you are destined, although there is no shortage of spa tourists to be met with at any of them, I believe.”

  All this had given me time to think of what Mrs. Morland had said before being accosted by my daughter.

  “Excuse me, Mrs. Morland,” I said, “did I hear you aright just now? That you went to Bath with Colonel Brandon? Colonel Brandon of Delaford? In Somerset? The hero of Conjeevaram? And that you met the Tilneys there? Would that by any chance be General Tilney, of Northanger Abbey?”

  “It was his son, Henry, to tell the truth,” answered Mr. Morland, “and my sister Catherine, whom he married several years ago, when I was quite an infant. It would be ambitious to imply that we are great friends of the General, but there is that connection. As for my beloved Margaret’s strange, semi-detached upbringing between Delaford and Barton, I confess it is sometimes a puzzle to explain.”

  “It is perfectly simple,” said Mrs. Morland, “although to enlarge upon it tends to involve the story of my life, which I am reluctant to impose upon innocent persons. My father died some ten years ago, and left his estate at Norland, in Sussex, entirely to the son of his first marriage, who lost no time in turning out my mother and her three daughters from their home. Had we not been offered a house upon his estate by my mother’s cousin, Sir William Middleton, of Barton Park, in Devonshire, we should have been at a loss what to do next. Colonel Brandon was at that time much at Barton – in fact, he still is – and it was there that we met him. During the course of the following twelve months, we had good cause for considering Colonel Brandon a hero, of which I will say no more for now, but we have never heard him called the ‘Hero of – where did you say – Conjibaram? We know he served in India, but he will never speak of it.”

  “But I will weary you no more with ancient history. My sister Marianne married Colonel Brandon, who had more than proved that he deserved her, at almost the same time that my sister Elinor married her old sweetheart, Edward Ferrars, to whom Colonel Brandon, making us doubly grateful, offered the living of Delaford.”

  “Since then I have been living a kind of tri-partite existence, dividing my time between my mother at Barton Cottage, Delaford Parsonage and Delaford Court. I first met dear James at my coming out ball at Delaford, and later we wer
e much thrown together in nursing my mother through her great illness, and discovered a fondness for each other which led – not without its vicissitudes - to matrimony. And there you have the whole story of my life, make of it what you will.”

  “A story of exceeding great interest my dear Mrs. Morland” I replied, “and I thank you for sharing it with us. It would appear that you have connections quite as exalted as our own, and yet you have been ignored by the people of Meryton since you arrived. I am quite ashamed when I hear of it.”

  “I thank you for your concern, sir, but we do not choose to go shouting such things about the streets” was Doctor Morland’s response.

  “But such things ought to be known, sir, and they shall be known, you may count on it. Whatever Mrs. Bennet hears, Mrs. Phillips and Lady Lucas will know before the day is done, and whatever those two ladies hear will be all round the town before the next day closes. You may be sure you will not lack for patients for long, sir, nor for invitations, especially once it is known that you have dined at Longbourn. And may I say that I can think of very few things that would please me more than to see the pair of you meet with the respect and consideration that you deserve? Do you not agree, Mrs. Bennet?”

  “Naturally, my dear, but now that you two gentlemen have concluded your mutual admiration, may I point out that the good roast beef is getting cold?”

  Wherever can Mrs. Bennet have picked up that ironic, almost sarcastic manner?

  Chapter Six : Breakfast at Longbourn, Dinner at Derby

  The dinner ended early, and there was no lingering over the port, as we had to be up betimes the next morning to catch the coach from St Albans’ to Derby.

  Doctor Morland had left me a sheaf of notes as to the regime to be followed, and promised to call as soon as we returned. The promise I expected to be honoured. The notes, I should consult as and when I felt the need. It was bad enough having to venture upon this needless journey without being bound to some inflexible regime.