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 it so grave a peril that 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 could 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 as light from the lamp of Aesculapius. 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’— and all the medical world at least of Barsetshire; and he had often expressed 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 have all our faults, Lady Scatcherd.’

‘Oh — yes; we all have, Mr Rerechild; that’s a 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 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 excpected.’

‘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 wouldn’t tell him we don’t want him no 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 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 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 very 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, one might 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 — 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.’

‘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 Dr 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’s 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 to 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 realized 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 herself backwards and forwards on her chair, with her apron up to her eyes.

‘Look to Him, Lady Scatcherd, who only can make such grief endurable.’

‘Yes, yes, yes; I suppose so. Ah me! ah me! But, Dr Thorne, there must be some chance — isn’t there any chance? That man says he’s going on so well.’

‘I fear there is no chance — as far as my knowledge goes there is no chance.’

‘Then why does that chattering magpie tell such lies to a woman? Ah me! ah me! oh, doctor! doctor! what shall I do? what shall I do?’ and poor Lady Scatcherd, fairly overcome by her sorrow, burst out crying like a great school-girl.

And yet what had her husband done for her that she should thus weep for him? Would not her life be much more blessed when this cause of all her troubles should be removed from her? Would she not then be a free woman instead of a slave? Might she not then expect to begin to taste the comforts of life? What had that harsh tyrant of hers done that was good or serviceable for her? Why should she thus weep for him in paroxysms of truest grief?

We hear a good deal of jolly widows; and the slanderous raillery of the world tell much of conjugal disturbances as a cure for which women will look forward to a state of widowhood with not unwilling eyes. The raillery of the world is very slanderous. In our daily jests we attribute to each other vices of which neither we, nor our neighbours, nor our friends, nor even our enemies are ever guilty. It is our favourite parlance to talk of the family troubles of Mrs Green on our right, and to tell now Mrs Young on our left is strongly suspected of having raised her hand to her lord and master. What right have we to make these charges? What have we seen in our own personal walks through life to make us believe that women are devils? There may possibly have been Xantippe here and there, but Imogenes are to be found in every bush. Lady Scatcherd, in spite of the life 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 today — we sent up a telegraph. Oh me! oh me! poor boy, what will he do? I shall never know what to do with him, never! never!’ And with such sorrowful wailings she sat rocking herself through the long night, every now and then comforting herself by the performance of some menial service in the sick man’s room.

Sir Roger passed the night much as he had passed the day, except that he appeared gradually to be growing nearer to a state of consciousness. On the following morning they succeeded at last in making Mr Rerechild understand that they were not desirous of keeping him longer from his Barchester practice; and at about twelve o’clock Dr 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 his senses, and when he did so his son was standing at his bedside. Louis Philippe Scatcherd — or as it may be more convenient to call him, Louis — was a young man just of the age of Frank Gresham. But there could hardly be ............