Chronicles of Barsetshire: Book 1-6. Anthony Trollope

another bout of drinking will in all probability kill you; and any recourse to stimulus in your present condition may do so.”

      “I’ll send for Fillgrave—”

      “Well, send for Fillgrave, only do it at once. Believe me at any rate in this, that whatever you do, you should do at once. Oblige me in this; let Lady Scatcherd take away that brandy bottle till Dr Fillgrave comes.”

      “I’m d–––– if I do. Do you think I can’t have a bottle of brandy in my room without swigging?”

      “I think you’ll be less likely to swig it if you can’t get at it.”

      Sir Roger made another angry turn in his bed as well as his half-paralysed limbs would let him; and then, after a few moments’ peace, renewed his threats with increased violence.

      “Yes; I’ll have Fillgrave over here. If a man be ill, really ill, he should have the best advice he can get. I’ll have Fillgrave, and I’ll have that other fellow from Silverbridge to meet him. What’s his name?—Century.”

      The doctor turned his head away; for though the occasion was serious, he could not help smiling at the malicious vengeance with which his friend proposed to gratify himself.

      “I will; and Rerechild too. What’s the expense? I suppose five or six pound apiece will do it; eh, Thorne?”

      “Oh, yes; that will be liberal I should say. But, Sir Roger, will you allow me to suggest what you ought to do? I don’t know how far you may be joking—”

      “Joking!” shouted the baronet; “you tell a man he’s dying and joking in the same breath. You’ll find I’m not joking.”

      “Well I dare say not. But if you have not full confidence in me—”

      “I have no confidence in you at all.”

      “Then why not send to London? Expense is no object to you.”

      “It is an object; a great object.”

      “Nonsense! Send to London for Sir Omicron Pie: send for some man whom you will really trust when you see him.

      “There’s not one of the lot I’d trust as soon as Fillgrave. I’ve known Fillgrave all my life, and I trust him. I’ll send for Fillgrave and put my case in his hands. If any one can do anything for me, Fillgrave is the man.”

      “Then in God’s name send for Fillgrave,” said the doctor. “And now, goodbye, Scatcherd; and as you do send for him, give him a fair chance. Do not destroy yourself by more brandy before he comes.”

      “That’s my affair, and his; not yours,” said the patient.

      “So be it; give me your hand, at any rate, before I go. I wish you well through it, and when you are well, I’ll come and see you.”

      “Goodbye—goodbye; and look here, Thorne, you’ll be talking to Lady Scatcherd downstairs I know; now, no nonsense. You understand me, eh? no nonsense, you know.”

      CHAPTER X.

       SIR ROGER’S WILL

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      Dr Thorne left the room and went downstairs, being fully aware that he could not leave the house without having some communication with Lady Scatcherd. He was not sooner within the passage than he heard the sick man’s bell ring violently; and then the servant, passing him on the staircase, received orders to send a mounted messenger immediately to Barchester. Dr Fillgrave was to be summoned to come as quickly as possible to the sick man’s room, and Mr Winterbones was to be sent up to write the note.

      Sir Roger was quite right in supposing that there would be some words between the doctor and her ladyship. How, indeed, was the doctor to get out of the house without such, let him wish it ever so much? There were words; and these were protracted, while the doctor’s cob was being ordered round, till very many were uttered which the contractor would probably have regarded as nonsense.

      Lady Scatcherd was no fit associate for the wives of English baronets;—was no doubt by education and manners much better fitted to sit in their servants’ halls; but not on that account was she a bad wife or a bad woman. She was painfully, fearfully, anxious for that husband of hers, whom she honoured and worshipped, as it behoved her to do, above all other men. She was fearfully anxious as to his life, and faithfully believed, that if any man could prolong it, it was that old and faithful friend whom she had known to be true to her lord since their early married troubles.

      When, therefore, she found that he had been dismissed, and that a stranger was to be sent for in his place, her heart sank low within her.

      “But, doctor,” she said, with her apron up to her eyes, “you ain’t going to leave him, are you?”

      Dr Thorne did not find it easy to explain to her ladyship that medical etiquette would not permit him to remain in attendance on her husband after he had been dismissed and another physician called in his place.

      “Etiquette!” said she, crying. “What’s etiquette to do with it when a man is a-killing hisself with brandy?”

      “Fillgrave will forbid that quite as strongly as I can do.”

      “Fillgrave!” said she. “Fiddlesticks! Fillgrave, indeed!”

      Dr Thorne could almost have embraced her for the strong feeling of thorough confidence on the one side, and thorough distrust on the other, which she contrived to throw into those few words.

      “I’ll tell you what, doctor; I won’t let the messenger go. I’ll bear the brunt of it. He can’t do much now he ain’t up, you know. I’ll stop the boy; we won’t have no Fillgraves here.”

      This, however, was a step to which Dr Thorne would not assent. He endeavoured to explain to the anxious wife, that after what had passed he could not tender his medical services till they were again asked for.

      “But you can slip in as a friend, you know; and then by degrees you can come round him, eh? can’t you now, doctor? And as to the payment—”

      All that Dr Thorne said on the subject may easily be imagined. And in this way, and in partaking of the lunch which was forced upon him, an hour had nearly passed between his leaving Sir Roger’s bedroom and putting his foot in the stirrup. But no sooner had the cob begun to move on the gravel-sweep before the house, than one of the upper windows opened, and the doctor was summoned to another conference with the sick man.

      “He says you are to come back, whether or no,” said Mr Winterbones, screeching out of the window, and putting all his emphasis on the last words.

      “Thorne! Thorne! Thorne!” shouted the sick man from his sickbed, so loudly that the doctor heard him, seated as he was on horseback out before the house.

      “You’re to come back, whether or no,” repeated Winterbones, with more emphasis, evidently conceiving that there was a strength of injunction in that “whether or no” which would be found quite invincible.

      Whether actuated by these magic words, or by some internal process of thought, we will not say; but the doctor did slowly, and as though unwillingly, dismount again from his steed, and slowly retrace his steps into the house.

      “It is no use,” he said to himself, “for that messenger has already gone to Barchester.”

      “I have sent for Dr Fillgrave,” were the first words which the contractor said to him when he again found himself by the bedside.

      “Did you call me back to tell me that?” said Thorne, who now realy felt angry at the impertinent petulance of the man before him: “you should consider, Scatcherd, that my time may be of value to others, if not to you.”

      “Now don’t be angry, old fellow,” said Scatcherd, turning to him, and looking at him with a countenance