They Hanged My Saintly Billy (12 page)

'Her moral welfare cannot be nearer to your heart, Sir, than it is to my own.'

'Mr Palmer, I will not venture to call you a liar or a hypocrite, because my opinion of your morals is formed from hearsay alone; but there's a great deal of talk current which is most unfavourable to you. I took the precaution, when Annie mentioned a Mr Palmer some weeks ago, to consult her fellow-guardian, Dr Knight, as to your antecedents. He gave me Dr Tylecote's report upon you . . .'

'Dr Tylecote, Sir, is prejudiced. He took no trouble to teach me his trade, and not only used me as an errand-boy, but also set his assistant Smirke to spy on my actions. I finally quarrelled with Dr Tylecote about a loan of five pounds, for which a rascally farmer demanded payment twice over . . .'

'Pray be silent! Dr Knight then recommended me to consult Tom Masters of The Talbot Arms Hotel.'

'Ha, ha! That's very good! I warrant old Tom had nothing to say in my favour? He hates each and every Palmer, dead or alive, ever since my father won a suit against him for trespass on our property.'

"That may be as you say,' Mr Dawson continued unperturbed. 'Nevertheless, I have heard enough discreditable talk to warrant my forbidding you the house, and to restrain Miss Brookes from seeking you out again, either in this park or elsewhere.'

William exchanged a quick loving glance with Annie, who appeared much distressed and ready to faint. Then he said: 'You, Sir, are Annie's guardian, but not her father; and there must come a time when you will be unable to oppose your ward's marrying the man of her choice. I would gladly take a wager that I can count on Annie singling me out, and holding by this choice. Therefore, unless you are prepared to lose her altogether when your guardianship expires, you would be wise to show me greater consideration. Annie, will you marry me some happy day?'

Annie looked miserably from one to the other of
the
two men whom she loved best in the world. 'Dear Will,' she said, turning very pale, 'I cannot give you that promise while Mr Dawson entertains such a bad opinion of you, however mistaken he may be. It would make life wretched both for him and me. I don't know what these ugly stories about you are, and I don't want to know. Perhaps you have been foolish. But if you love me truly, you won't be offended by Mr Dawson's anxiety on my behalf. You can see how much store he sets by my virtue and discretion; and I do blame myself a little for having hidden my true feelings from him. So now, you had best apply yourself seriously to the medical profession and secure the necessary diploma. Then you'll be a full-fledged surgeon; you'll soon earn the respect of the world as well as Mr Dawson's, and give the He to all those disagreeable stories. I won't forget you; pray count on that.'

'You may say good-bye now, my girl,' said Mr Dawson.

'Papa, may I kiss my friend?' she pleaded.

'No, you may not!' came Mr Dawson's gruff reply.

William, looking very sulky, said to Annie: 'Very well, then; let's leave it at that, my dear! I had thought better of you. Good-bye!'

He did not deign to take his leave of Mr Dawson; but turned his back and strode away towards the park gates.

The above account was given by Mrs Remington of Rugeley, at whose cottage William Palmer lodged on his return from London, to avoid a clash with his brothers George and Walter, then staying at The Yard. Mrs Remington is a frail old body with a pink, unlined face and the whitest of hair, who dresses in a fashion that had been no longer new in the year of Trafalgar. She heard the
tale from William Palmer's own li
ps, and declares that love for Annie Brookes was the greatest thing in his life and that, though he may have been a wild young scamp before, he now decided to reform for her sake.

We then questioned Mrs Remington about his bad behaviour at Stafford Infirmary.

MRS
REMINGTON

Ah, that was just it! Annie's refusal to offer him any sure hope of marriage so cast him down, and conditions in the wards were so shocking, that he does seem to have behaved pretty ill. However, he and she continued to correspond secretly, and he pressed his suit with such fervour, representing himself as a lost soul who would go straight to the Devil unless she held out a hand to rescue him, th
at Annie at last gave in. But thi
s was conditional on his working hard, gaining his diploma, and loving no other woman beside herself—as she would love no other man. And they both kept their word, you may be sure! Whilst at my cottage, which was nearly a twelvemonth, Dr Palmer was as good a young fellow as ever walked. 'I'll marry that girl,' he used to say to me, 'or know the reason why!'

Only the other day I came across some of his letters, left behind in a drawer when he went off, and here they are. The first is from her to him, immediately after that sad scene in Bagot's Park:

Tuesday

My own dear William:

Why did you sulk when you bade me good-bye in the park this morning? Mr Dawson is always very kind to me, and I should ill requi
te his goodness by acting directl
y contrary to his wishes. Come, put on one of your best smiles and write me a real sunshiny note, for you have made me very unhappy. I shall expect a letter on Thursday.

Ever yours, Dearest,

Annie Brookes

He always wrote to her, at this time, in care of Mr Dawson's gardener; and made it very much worth the man's while. This next letter was sent him in London, about a month before he gained his diploma:

Abbot's Bromley, Sept.
13, 1846
9
a.m.

Dearest William,

I think it was your turn to write, and I fancy that if you will only try and recollect you will think so too. But never mind, although I have not written, you know quite well that I am
always
thinking of you.

Mr Dawson went to London on Monday last and yesterday Miss Salt came over to see us. We gathered ferns together. I hope you will continue your botanical studies, and allow me the opportunity of puzzling you. I have two secrets to tell you, but these I must reserve for Saturday. I don't mind telling you that I think it is your friend Masters who is trying to prejudice Dr Knight. Miss Salt says she kn
ows it is that very crabbed gentl
eman—whom, of course, you will now love dearer than ever.

I have got a present for you, but as it is intended as a surprise, I must not spoil it by telling you what it is. Suppose, instead, that I tell you something you will not care to hear half so well, namely that I am ever, my very dearest William,

Your affectionate

Annie

The present she gave him was a pair of bed-socks knitted in scarlet wool, because he had complained of the coldness of his bed. What the other two secrets were, I'm sure I don't know.

Then here's a letter which he wrote, but never sent. Perhaps it's what he called a 'trial gallop'. He used to write his letters at night, then sleep on them, and polish them up in the morning. This one is dated 'Rugeley, May
16th',
of the next year, which was the very day he had hopefully fixed for their marriage. He asked me once when my own wedding-day had been. 'May
16th,'
I answered. 'Well, th
en, Mamma,' he said—he always called me 'Mamma'—'it shall be mine, too.' But though Annie Brookes had given him her solemn promise, and informed Mr Dawson that she was satisfied as to the young man's reformation, both Mr Dawson and Dr Knight still strongly opposed the union. It was only because of Mr Weaver's writing to the Court of Chancery on her behalf, and vouching for Dr Palmer's respectability, as being now a qualified surgeon and a man of substance, that the Lord Chancellor made out an order permitting the marriage. It was to take place in the September of that year, when Annie turned eighteen; or sooner, if her guardians would let her. Here, read this:

Rugeley, May
16th, 1847

My Dear Little Annie,

It was not the rain that prevented me from joining you at Stafford, as you wished. I sprained my foot and it was so painful that I could not keep it on the ground. I slid off the pathway as I was turning the corner of The Yard, past Bonney's. Now you know the reason, I am sure you will forgive me.

Oh, Annie! You cannot tell how dull I have found the last few days; I sit and think over my miserable bachelor life, and feel so dull and lonesome, I really cannot explain. I resolved, yesterday, to write again to Mr Dawson, but you forbid me doing this, so I must wait the other four months. My dear Annie, I cannot tell you how much I love you, and how I long to call you mine for ever.

Yours most affectionately, W.P.

P.S. Did Dr Knight get the game I sent? Did he mention anything about it?

There's no more letters, Sir, but when he left this cottage on the occasion of his marriage—the wedding dinner was provided for forty at Abbot's Bromley, and he invited my husband and me—

Dr Palmer declared that he had spent the happiest days of his life in my cottage. I felt rather hurt when I found my rooms let by him to a friend of his without my consent; but he says: 'Never mind, Mamma, I have let them to a very respectable man, and have got you two shillings a week more rent. I'm sure you deserve it, you're so very kind.'

He had leased a nice house from Lord Litchfield. You'll find it immediately opposite The Talbot Arms Hotel—he chose the situation, I dunk, to spite Mr Tom Masters, the landlord; and there, at the entrance, he set up his brass plate. I should have mentioned that, while lodging with me, he worked regularly at his profession, helping old Dr Bamford, the Palmers' family physician, with patients who lived in remote farms and hamlets. That gave him good experience for, as he used to say: 'A diploma's not everything. Dr Bamford may have no diploma nor medical degree, but experience he has, and that's what counts in doctoring.' I dunk that Dr Bamford, who had always liked Master William, came to feci great gratitude for him, especially as he demanded no fee for his assistance, but only out-of-pocket expenses.

No, there's little more to tell you, except that one night he came home intoxicated from a party.' Mamma,' he said,' I'm very ill. But it's not that I drank a deal of wine: as you know, I'm very abstemious. Someone seems to have played a trick on me, by drugging my drink. Serves me right for doing the same, as a lark, once or twice last year when I was at Stafford.' He began telling me of his love for Annie Brookes, right poetical he was, too. Then suddenly he stops and says: 'I'll tell you the truth, Mamma, because you're so good and truthful yourself. One of the reasons I love Annie is that she's like a sweet, pure lily-of-the-valley sprung from black, stinking mud. Her father was a poor coward, the laughing-stock of Stafford, and a suicide; her mother a greedy, spiteful, foul-mouthed strumpet, from whom she had to be rescued by the Court of Chancery. If Annie can be virtuous and hold up her head despite all the misfortunes of her birth—for you know, Mamma, that she's illegitimate into the bargain—why, then so can I! Need I drag out my own family history, Mamma? Surely you'll know it, including the dirty new scandals which my mother's behaviour has caused in the town. You'll have heard of them, no doubt?'

I nodded sadly, for everyone said that, to begin with, Dr Palmer's real father, like the elder brother's, was Hodson, the
Marquess of Anglesey's steward, to whom his mother had been leased in return for a few loads of stolen timber.

"Well,' he goes on, 'Mr Weaver did very wisely when he sponsored the match. Annie and I are birds of a feather, and neither of us can cast faults of parentage in the other's teeth. Together, we'll make a clean new home, and raise healthy children, and live in love and truth until death do us part.'

His words were so beautiful that I hugged him to me, and called him my poor lamb.

Chapter VIII

THE NURSERY

W
HEN Dr Palmer married Annie Brookes on October
7th, 1847,
he could count himself tolerably well off. His house, rented at only twenty-five pounds a year, was furnished with elegance; he had a handsome carriage for going his rounds, and although three or four surgeons were already pr
actising in Ruge
ley, the town boasts four thousand five
hundred inhabitants, and the outl
ying villages another couple of thousand. Consequently Dr Palmer did not lack for patients; indeed, he made quite a reputation, during the December Fair that year, from his skilful setting of broken bones, and soon had more work in hand than pleased him. Benjamin Thirlby was employed at this time by Dr Salt, Rugeley's leading surgeon, to make up medicines and dress wounds; and two years before this had opened the chemist's shop already mentioned in our sketch of the town. One day, according to the account most usually heard, Thirlby felt aggrieved because Dr Salt had reprimanded him sharply for an oversight in the matter of some prescription, and poured out his woes to Dr Palmer when he next visited the shop.

' Nay, Ben,' said Dr Palmer,' this trouble is soon remedied: why don't you cut your stick and come to me? I'll pay you better than Salt.'

'I'll come with all my heart,' cried Thirlby, still very angry. 'The nineteen years I worked for that ill-mannered old skinflint have been nineteen too many!'

Dr Palmer stretched out his hand for Thirlby's, to shake on the bargain; and Thirlby grasped it firmly.