Doctor Thorne by Anthony Trollope (interesting books to read TXT) 📖

happy man. Lying

there with that brandy bottle beneath his pillow, reflecting in his

moments of rest that that son of his had his brandy bottle beneath

his pillow, he could hardly have been happy. But he was not a man to

say much about his misery. Though he could restrain neither himself

nor his heir, he could endure in silence; and in silence he did

endure, till, opening his eyes to the consciousness of death, he at

last spoke a few words to the only friend he knew.

 

Louis Scatcherd was not a fool, nor was he naturally, perhaps, of a

depraved disposition; but he had to reap the fruits of the worst

education which England was able to give him. There were moments in

his life when he felt that a better, a higher, nay, a much happier

career was open to him than that which he had prepared himself to

lead. Now and then he would reflect what money and rank might have

done for him; he would look with wishful eyes to the proud doings of

others of his age; would dream of quiet joys, of a sweet wife, of a

house to which might be asked friends who were neither jockeys nor

drunkards; he would dream of such things in his short intervals of

constrained sobriety; but the dream would only serve to make him

moody.

 

This was the best side of his character; the worst, probably, was

that which was brought into play by the fact that he was not a fool.

He would have a better chance of redemption in this world—perhaps

also in another—had he been a fool. As it was, he was no fool: he

was not to be done, not he; he knew, no one better, the value of

a shilling; he knew, also, how to keep his shillings, and how to

spend them. He consorted much with blacklegs and such-like, because

blacklegs were to his taste. But he boasted daily, nay, hourly to

himself, and frequently to those around him, that the leeches who

were stuck round him could draw but little blood from him. He could

spend his money freely; but he would so spend it that he himself

might reap the gratification of the expenditure. He was acute,

crafty, knowing, and up to every damnable dodge practised by men of

the class with whom he lived. At one-and-twenty he was that most

odious of all odious characters—a close-fisted reprobate.

 

He was a small man, not ill-made by Nature, but reduced to unnatural

tenuity by dissipation—a corporeal attribute of which he was apt

to boast, as it enabled him, as he said, to put himself up at 7 st.

7 lb. without any “d–- nonsense of not eating and drinking.” The

power, however, was one of which he did not often avail himself, as

his nerves were seldom in a fit state for riding. His hair was dark

red, and he wore red moustaches, and a great deal of red beard

beneath his chin, cut in a manner to make him look like an American.

His voice also had a Yankee twang, being a cross between that of an

American trader and an English groom; and his eyes were keen and

fixed, and cold and knowing.

 

Such was the son whom Sir Roger saw standing at his bedside when

first he awoke to consciousness. It must not be supposed that Sir

Roger looked at him with our eyes. To him he was an only child,

the heir of his wealth, the future bearer of his title; the most

heart-stirring remembrancer of those other days, when he had been

so much a poorer, and so much a happier man. Let that boy be bad

or good, he was all Sir Roger had; and the father was still able

to hope, when others thought that all ground for hope was gone.

 

The mother also loved her son with a mother’s natural love; but Louis

had ever been ashamed of his mother, and had, as far as possible,

estranged himself from her. Her heart, perhaps, fixed itself

with almost a warmer love on Frank Gresham, her foster-son. Frank

she saw but seldom, but when she did see him he never refused her

embrace. There was, too, a joyous, genial lustre about Frank’s face

which always endeared him to women, and made his former nurse regard

him as the pet creation of the age. Though she but seldom interfered

with any monetary arrangement of her husband’s, yet once or twice she

had ventured to hint that a legacy left to the young squire would

make her a happy woman. Sir Roger, however, on these occasions had

not appeared very desirous of making his wife happy.

 

“Ah, Louis! is that you?” ejaculated Sir Roger, in tones hardly more

than half-formed: afterwards, in a day or two that is, he fully

recovered his voice; but just then he could hardly open his jaws, and

spoke almost through his teeth. He managed, however, to put out his

hand and lay it on the counterpane, so that his son could take it.

 

“Why, that’s well, governor,” said the son; “you’ll be as right as a

trivet in a day or two—eh, governor?”

 

The “governor” smiled with a ghastly smile. He already pretty well

knew that he would never again be “right,” as his son called it, on

that side of the grave. It did not, moreover, suit him to say much

just at that moment, so he contented himself with holding his son’s

hand. He lay still in this position for a moment, and then, turning

round painfully on his side, endeavoured to put his hand to the place

where his dire enemy usually was concealed. Sir Roger, however, was

too weak now to be his own master; he was at length, though too late,

a captive in the hands of nurses and doctors, and the bottle had now

been removed.

 

Then Lady Scatcherd came in, and seeing that her husband was no

longer unconscious, she could not but believe that Dr Thorne had been

wrong; she could not but think that there must be some ground for

hope. She threw herself on her knees at the bedside, bursting into

tears as she did so, and taking Sir Roger’s hand in hers covered it

with kisses.

 

“Bother!” said Sir Roger.

 

She did not, however, long occupy herself with the indulgence of her

feelings; but going speedily to work, produced such sustenance as

the doctors had ordered to be given when the patient might awake. A

breakfast-cup was brought to him, and a few drops were put into his

mouth; but he soon made it manifest that he would take nothing more

of a description so perfectly innocent.

 

“A drop of brandy—just a little drop,” said he, half-ordering, and

half-entreating.

 

“Ah, Roger!” said Lady Scatcherd.

 

“Just a little drop, Louis,” said the sick man, appealing to his son.

 

“A little will be good for him; bring the bottle, mother,” said the

son.

 

After some altercation the brandy bottle was brought, and Louis, with

what he thought a very sparing hand, proceeded to pour about half a

wine-glassful into the cup. As he did so, Sir Roger, weak as he was,

contrived to shake his son’s arm, so as greatly to increase the dose.

 

“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed the sick man, and then greedily swallowed the

dose.