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Read books online » Fiction » Doctor Thorne by Anthony Trollope (interesting books to read TXT) 📖

Book online «Doctor Thorne by Anthony Trollope (interesting books to read TXT) 📖». Author Anthony Trollope



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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.

CHAPTER XXV

Sir Roger Dies

 

That night the doctor stayed at Boxall Hill, and the next night;

so that it became a customary thing for him to sleep there during

the latter part of Sir Roger’s illness. He returned home daily to

Greshamsbury; for he had his patients there, to whom he was as

necessary as to Sir Roger, the foremost of whom was Lady Arabella. He

had, therefore, no slight work on his hands, seeing that his nights

were by no means wholly devoted to rest.

 

Mr Rerechild had not been much wrong as to the remaining space of

life which he had allotted to the dying man. Once or twice Dr Thorne

had thought that the great original strength of his patient would

have enabled him to fight against death for a somewhat longer period;

but Sir Roger would give himself no chance. Whenever he was strong

enough to have a will of his own, he insisted on having his very

medicine mixed with brandy; and in the hours of the doctor’s absence,

he was too often successful in his attempts.

 

“It does not much matter,” Dr Thorne had said to Lady Scatcherd. “Do

what you can to keep down the quantity, but do not irritate him by

refusing to obey. It does not much signify now.” So Lady Scatcherd

still administered the alcohol, and he from day to day invented

little schemes for increasing the amount, over which he chuckled with

ghastly laughter.

 

Two or three times during these days Sir Roger essayed to speak

seriously to his son; but Louis always frustrated him. He either got

out of the room on some excuse, or made his mother interfere on the

score that so much talking would be bad for his father. He already

knew with tolerable accuracy what was the purport of his father’s

will, and by no means approved of it; but as he could not now hope

to induce his father to alter it so as to make it more favourable to

himself, he conceived that no conversation on matters of business

could be of use to him.

 

“Louis,” said Sir Roger, one afternoon to his son; “Louis, I have not

done by you as I ought to have done—I know that now.”

 

“Nonsense, governor; never mind about that now; I shall do well

enough, I dare say. Besides, it isn’t too late; you can make it

twenty-three years instead of twenty-five, if you like it.”

 

“I do not mean as to money, Louis. There are things besides money

which a father ought to look to.”

 

“Now, father, don’t fret yourself—I’m all right; you may be sure of

that.”

 

“Louis, it’s that accursed brandy—it’s that that I’m afraid of: you

see me here, my boy, how I’m lying here now.”

 

“Don’t you be annoying yourself, governor; I’m all right—quite

right; and as for you, why, you’ll be up and about yourself in

another month or so.”

 

“I shall never be off this bed, my boy, till I’m carried into my

coffin, on those chairs there. But I’m not thinking of myself, Louis,

but you; think what you may have before you if you can’t avoid that

accursed bottle.”

 

“I’m all right, governor; right as a trivet. It’s very little I take,

except at an odd time or so.”

 

“Oh, Louis! Louis!”

 

“Come, father, cheer up; this sort of thing isn’t the thing for you

at all. I wonder where mother is: she ought to be here with the

broth; just let me go, and I’ll see for her.”

 

The father understood it all. He saw that it was now much beyond his

faded powers to touch the heart or conscience of such a youth as his

son had become. What now could he do for his boy except die? What

else, what other benefit, did his son require of him but to die; to

die so that his means of dissipation might be unbounded? He let go

the unresisting hand which he held, and, as the young man crept out

of the room, he turned his face to the wall. He turned his face to

the wall and held bitter commune with his own heart. To what had he

brought himself? To what had he brought his son? Oh, how happy would

it have been for him could he have

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