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 requite his goodness by acting directly 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
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 knows it is that very crabbed gentleman—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, then, 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.
THE NURSERY
WHEN 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 practising in Rugeley, the town boasts four thousand five hundred inhabitants, and the outlying 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.
