Doctor Thorne by Anthony Trollope (interesting books to read TXT) 📖
- Author: Anthony Trollope
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‘Well, Roger, shall us have that ‘ere other half-pint this morning?’
I’ll tell you what, Thorne, when a man has made three hundred
thousand pounds, there’s nothing left for him but to die. It’s all
he’s good for then. When money’s been made, the next thing is to
spend it. Now the man who makes it has not the heart to do that.”
The doctor, of course, in hearing all this, said something of a
tendency to comfort and console the mind of his patient. Not that
anything he could say would comfort or console the man; but that it
was impossible to sit there and hear such fearful truths—for as
regarded Scatcherd they were truths—without making some answer.
“This is as good as a play, isn’t, doctor?” said the baronet. “You
didn’t know how I could come out like one of those actor fellows.
Well, now, come; at last I’ll tell you why I have sent for you.
Before that last burst of mine I made my will.”
“You had a will made before that.”
“Yes, I had. That will is destroyed. I burnt it with my own hand, so
that there should be no mistake about it. In that will I had named
two executors, you and Jackson. I was then partner with Jackson in
the York and Yeovil Grand Central. I thought a deal of Jackson then.
He’s not worth a shilling now.”
“Well, I’m exactly in the same category.”
“No, you’re not. Jackson is nothing without money; but money’ll never
make you.”
“No, nor I shan’t make money,” said the doctor.
“No, you never will. Nevertheless, there’s my other will, there,
under that desk there; and I’ve put you in as sole executor.”
“You must alter that, Scatcherd; you must indeed; with three hundred
thousand pounds to be disposed of, the trust is far too much for any
one man: besides you must name a younger man; you and I are of the
same age, and I may die the first.”
“Now, doctor, doctor, no humbug; let’s have no humbug from you.
Remember this; if you’re not true, you’re nothing.”
“Well, but, Scatcherd—”
“Well, but doctor, there’s the will, it’s already made. I don’t want
to consult you about that. You are named as executor, and if you have
the heart to refuse to act when I’m dead, why, of course, you can do
so.”
The doctor was no lawyer, and hardly knew whether he had any means
of extricating himself from this position in which his friend was
determined to place him.
“You’ll have to see that will carried out, Thorne. Now I’ll tell you
what I have done.”
“You’re not going to tell me how you have disposed of your property?”
“Not exactly; at least not all of it. One hundred thousand I’ve left
in legacies, including, you know, what Lady Scatcherd will have.”
“Have you not left the house to Lady Scatcherd?”
“No; what the devil would she do with a house like this? She doesn’t
know how to live in it now she has got it. I have provided for her;
it matters not how. The house and the estate, and the remainder of my
money, I have left to Louis Philippe.”
“What! two hundred thousand pounds?” said the doctor.
“And why shouldn’t I leave two hundred thousand pounds to my son,
even to my eldest son if I had more than one? Does not Mr Gresham
leave all his property to his heir? Why should not I make an eldest
son as well as Lord de Courcy or the Duke of Omnium? I suppose a
railway contractor ought not to be allowed an eldest son by Act of
Parliament! Won’t my son have a title to keep up? And that’s more
than the Greshams have among them.”
The doctor explained away what he said as well as he could. He could
not explain that what he had really meant was this, that Sir Roger
Scatcherd’s son was not a man fit to be trusted with the entire
control of an enormous fortune.
Sir Roger Scatcherd had but one child; that child which had been born
in the days of his early troubles, and had been dismissed from his
mother’s breast in order that the mother’s milk might nourish the
young heir of Greshamsbury. The boy had grown up, but had become
strong neither in mind nor body. His father had determined to make
a gentleman of him, and had sent to Eton and to Cambridge. But
even this receipt, generally as it is recognised, will not make a
gentleman. It is hard, indeed, to define what receipt will do so,
though people do have in their own minds some certain undefined, but
yet tolerably correct ideas on the subject. Be that as it may, two
years at Eton, and three terms at Cambridge, did not make a gentleman
of Louis Philippe Scatcherd.
Yes; he was christened Louis Philippe, after the King of the French.
If one wishes to look out in the world for royal nomenclature, to
find children who have been christened after kings and queens, or
the uncles and aunts of kings and queens, the search should be made
in the families of democrats. None have so servile a deference for
the very nail-parings of royalty; none feel so wondering an awe at
the exaltation of a crowned head; none are so anxious to secure
themselves some shred or fragment that has been consecrated by the
royal touch. It is the distance which they feel to exist between
themselves and the throne which makes them covet the crumbs of
majesty, the odds and ends and chance splinters of royalty.
There was nothing royal about Louis Philippe Scatcherd but his
name. He had now come to man’s estate, and his father, finding the
Cambridge receipt to be inefficacious, had sent him abroad to travel
with a tutor. The doctor had from time to time heard tidings of this
youth; he knew that he had already shown symptoms of his father’s
vices, but no symptoms of his father’s talents; he knew that he had
begun life by being dissipated, without being generous; and that at
the age of twenty-one he had already suffered from delirium tremens.
It was on this account that he had expressed disapprobation, rather
than surprise, when he heard that his father intended to bequeath
the bulk of his large fortune to the uncontrolled will of this
unfortunate boy.
“I have toiled for my money hard, and I have a right to do as I like
with it. What other satisfaction can it give me?”
The doctor assured him that he did not at all mean to dispute this.
“Louis Philippe will do well enough, you’ll find,” continued the
baronet, understanding what was passing within his companion’s
breast. “Let a young fellow sow his wild oats while he is young, and
he’ll be steady enough when he grows old.”
“But what if he never lives to get through the sowing?” thought the
doctor to himself. “What if the wild-oats operation is carried on
in so violent a manner as to leave no strength in the soil for the
product of a more valuable crop?” It was of no use saying this,
however, so he allowed Scatcherd to continue.
“If I’d had a free fling when I was a youngster, I shouldn’t have
been so fond of the brandy bottle now. But any way, my son shall be
my heir. I’ve had the gumption to make the money, but I haven’t the
gumption to spend it. My son, however, shall be able to ruffle it
with the best of them. I’ll go bail he shall hold his head higher
than ever young Gresham will be able to hold his. They are much of
the same age, as well I have cause to remember;—and so has her
ladyship there.”
Now the fact was, that Sir Roger Scatcherd felt in his heart no
special love for young Gresham; but with her ladyship it might almost
be a question whether she did not love the youth whom she had nursed
almost as well as that other one who was her own proper offspring.
“And will you not put any check on thoughtless expenditure? If
you live ten or twenty years, as we hope you may, it will become
unnecessary; but in making a will, a man should always remember he
may go off suddenly.”
“Especially if he goes to bed with a brandy bottle under his head;
eh, doctor? But, mind, that’s a medical secret, you know; not a word
of that out of the bedroom.”
Dr Thorne could but sigh. What could he say on such a subject to such
a man as this?
“Yes, I have put a check on his expenditure. I will not let his daily
bread depend on any man; I have therefore left him five hundred a
year at his own disposal, from the day of my death. Let him make what
ducks and drakes of that he can.”
“Five hundred a year certainly is not much,” said the doctor.
“No; nor do I want to keep him to that. Let him have whatever he
wants if he sets about spending it properly. But the bulk of the
property—this estate of Boxall Hill, and the Greshamsbury mortgage,
and those other mortgages—I have tied up in this way: they shall be
all his at twenty-five; and up to that age it shall be in your power
to give him what he wants. If he shall die without children before
he shall be twenty-five years of age, they are all to go to Mary’s
eldest child.”
Now Mary was Sir Roger’s sister, the mother, therefore, of Miss
Thorne, and, consequently, the wife of the respectable ironmonger who
went to America, and the mother of a family there.
“Mary’s eldest child!” said the doctor, feeling that the perspiration
had nearly broken out on his forehead, and that he could hardly
control his feelings. “Mary’s eldest child! Scatcherd, you should
be more particular in your description, or you will leave your best
legacy to the lawyers.”
“I don’t know, and never heard the name of one of them.”
“But do you mean a boy or a girl?”
“They may be all girls for what I know, or all boys; besides, I
don’t care which it is. A girl would probably do best with it. Only
you’d have to see that she married some decent fellow; you’d be her
guardian.”
“Pooh, nonsense,” said the doctor. “Louis will be five-and-twenty in
a year or two.”
“In about four years.”
“And for all that’s come and gone yet, Scatcherd, you are not going
to leave us yourself quite so soon as all that.”
“Not if I can help it, doctor; but that’s as may be.”
“The chances are ten to one that such a clause in your will will
never come to bear.”
“Quite so, quite so. If I die, Louis Philippe won’t; but I thought it
right to put in something to prevent his squandering it all before he
comes to his senses.”
“Oh! quite right, quite right. I think I would have named a later age
than twenty-five.”
“So would not I. Louis Philippe will be all right by that time.
That’s my lookout. And now, doctor, you know my will; and if I die
to-morrow, you will know what I want you to do for me.”
“You have merely said the eldest child, Scatcherd?”
“That’s all; give it here, and I’ll read it to you.”
“No, no; never mind. The eldest child! You should
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