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

remained all his days a working

stone-mason in Barchester! How happy could he have died as such,

years ago! Such tears as those which wet that pillow are the

bitterest which human eyes can shed.

 

But while they were dropping, the memoir of his life was in quick

course of preparation. It was, indeed, nearly completed, with

considerable detail. He had lingered on four days longer than might

have been expected, and the author had thus had more than usual time

for the work. In these days a man is nobody unless his biography

is kept so far posted up that it may be ready for the national

breakfast-table on the morning after his demise. When it chances that

the dead hero is one who was taken in his prime of life, of whose

departure from among us the most far-seeing biographical scribe can

have no prophetic inkling, this must be difficult. Of great men, full

of years, who are ripe for the sickle, who in the course of Nature

must soon fall, it is of course comparatively easy for an active

compiler to have his complete memoir ready in his desk. But in order

that the idea of omnipresent and omniscient information may be kept

up, the young must be chronicled as quickly as the old. In some cases

this task must, one would say, be difficult. Nevertheless, it is

done.

 

The memoir of Sir Roger Scatcherd was progressing favourably. In

this it was told how fortunate had been his life; how, in his case,

industry and genius combined had triumphed over the difficulties

which humble birth and deficient education had thrown in his way;

how he had made a name among England’s great men; how the Queen had

delighted to honour him, and nobles had been proud to have him for a

guest at their mansions. Then followed a list of all the great works

which he had achieved, of the railroads, canals, docks, harbours,

jails, and hospitals which he had constructed. His name was held up

as an example to the labouring classes of his countrymen, and he was

pointed at as one who had lived and died happy—ever happy, said the

biographer, because ever industrious. And so a great moral question

was inculcated. A short paragraph was devoted to his appearance in

Parliament; and unfortunate Mr Romer was again held up for disgrace,

for the thirtieth time, as having been the means of depriving

our legislative councils of the great assistance of Sir Roger’s

experience.

 

“Sir Roger,” said the biographer in his concluding passage, “was

possessed of an iron frame; but even iron will yield to the repeated

blows of the hammer. In the latter years of his life he was known to

overtask himself; and at length the body gave way, though the mind

remained firm to the last. The subject of this memoir was only

fifty-nine when he was taken from us.”

 

And thus Sir Roger’s life was written, while the tears were

yet falling on his pillow at Boxall Hill. It was a pity that a

proof-sheet could not have been sent to him. No man was vainer of

his reputation, and it would have greatly gratified him to know that

posterity was about to speak of him in such terms—to speak of him

with a voice that would be audible for twenty-four hours.

 

Sir Roger made no further attempt to give counsel to his son. It was

too evidently useless. The old dying lion felt that the lion’s power

had already passed from him, and that he was helpless in the hands

of the young cub who was so soon to inherit the wealth of the forest.

But Dr Thorne was more kind to him. He had something yet to say as to

his worldly hopes and worldly cares; and his old friend did not turn

a deaf ear to him.

 

It was during the night that Sir Roger was most anxious to talk, and

most capable of talking. He would lie through the day in a state

half-comatose; but towards evening he would rouse himself, and by

midnight he would be full of fitful energy. One night, as he lay

wakeful and full of thought, he thus poured forth his whole heart to

Dr Thorne.

 

“Thorne,” said he, “I told you about my will, you know.”

 

“Yes,” said the other; “and I have blamed myself greatly that I have

not again urged you to alter it. Your illness came too suddenly,

Scatcherd; and then I was averse to speak of it.”

 

“Why should I alter it? It is a good will; as good as I can make. Not

but that I have altered it since I spoke to you. I did it that day

after you left me.”

 

“Have you definitely named your heir in default of Louis?”

 

“No—that is—yes—I had done that before; I have said Mary’s eldest

child: I have not altered that.”

 

“But, Scatcherd, you must alter it.”

 

“Must! well then I won’t; but I’ll tell you what I have done. I have

added a postscript—a codicil they call it—saying that you, and you

only, know who is her eldest child. Winterbones and Jack Martin have

witnessed that.”

 

Dr Thorne was going to explain how very injudicious such an

arrangement appeared to be; but Sir Roger would not listen to him.

It was not about that that he wished to speak to him. To him it was

matter of but minor interest who might inherit his money if his son

should die early; his care was solely for his son’s welfare. At

twenty-five the heir might make his own will—might bequeath all this

wealth according to his own fancy. Sir Roger would not bring himself

to believe that his son could follow him to the grave in so short a

time.

 

“Never mind that, doctor, now; but about Louis; you will be his

guardian, you know.”

 

“Not his guardian. He is more than of age.”

 

“Ah! but doctor, you will be his guardian. The property will not be

his till he be twenty-five. You will not desert him?”

 

“I will not desert him; but I doubt whether I can do much for

him—what can I do, Scatcherd?”

 

“Use the power that a strong man has over a weak one. Use the power

that my will will give you. Do for him as you would for a son of your

own if you saw him going in bad courses. Do as a friend should do for

a friend that is dead and gone. I would do so for you, doctor, if our

places were changed.”

 

“What I can do, that I will do,” said Thorne, solemnly, taking as he

spoke the contractor’s hand in his own with a tight grasp.

 

“I know you will; I know you will. Oh! doctor, may you never feel as

I do now! May you on your deathbed have no dread as I have, as to

the fate of those you will leave behind you!”

 

Doctor Thorne felt that he could not say much in answer to this. The

future fate of Louis Scatcherd was, he could not but own to himself,

greatly to be dreaded. What good, what happiness, could be presaged

for such a one as he was? What comfort could he offer to the father?

And then he was called on to compare, as it were, the prospects of

this unfortunate with those of his own darling; to contrast all that

was murky, foul, and disheartening, with all that was perfect—for to

him she was all but perfect; to liken Louis Scatcherd to the angel

who brightened his own hearthstone. How could he answer to such an

appeal?

 

He said nothing; but merely tightened his grasp of the other’s hand,

to signify that he would do, as best he could, all that was asked

of him. Sir Roger looked up sadly into the doctor’s face, as though

expecting some word of consolation. There was no comfort, no

consolation to come to him!

 

“For three or four years he must greatly depend upon you,” continued

Sir Roger.

 

“I will do what I can,” said the doctor. “What I can do I will do.

But he is not a child, Scatcherd: at his age he must stand or fall

mainly by his own conduct. The best thing for him will be to marry.”

 

“Exactly; that’s just it, Thorne: I was coming to that. If he would

marry, I think he would do well yet, for all that has come and gone.

If he married, of course you would let him have the command of his

own income.”

 

“I will be governed entirely by your wishes: under any circumstances

his income will, as I understand, be quite sufficient for him,

married or single.”

 

“Ah!—but, Thorne, I should like to think he should shine with the

best of them. For what have I made the money if not for that? Now if

he marries—decently, that is—some woman you know that can assist

him in the world, let him have what he wants. It is not to save the

money that I put it into your hands.”

 

“No, Scatcherd; not to save the money, but to save him. I think that

while you are yet with him you should advise him to marry.”

 

“He does not care a straw for what I advise, not one straw. Why

should he? How can I tell him to be sober when I have been a beast

all my life myself? How can I advise him? That’s where it is! It is

that that now kills me. Advise! Why, when I speak to him he treats me

like a child.”

 

“He fears that you are too weak, you know: he thinks that you should

not be allowed to talk.”

 

“Nonsense! he knows better; you know better. Too weak! what

signifies? Would I not give all that I have of strength at one blow

if I could open his eyes to see as I see but for one minute?” And

the sick man raised himself up in his bed as though he were actually

going to expend all that remained to him of vigour in the energy of a

moment.

 

“Gently, Scatcherd; gently. He will listen to you yet; but do not be

so unruly.”

 

“Thorne, you see that bottle there? Give me half a glass of brandy.”

 

The doctor turned round in his chair; but he hesitated in doing as he

was desired.

 

“Do as I ask you, doctor. It can do no harm now; you know that well

enough. Why torture me now?”

 

“No, I will not torture you; but you will have water with it?”

 

“Water! No; the brandy by itself. I tell you I cannot speak without

it. What’s the use of canting now? You know it can make no

difference.”

 

Sir Roger was right. It could make no difference; and Dr Thorne gave

him the half glass of brandy.

 

“Ah, well; you’ve a stingy hand, doctor; confounded stingy. You don’t

measure your medicines out in such light doses.”

 

“You will be wanting more before morning, you know.”

 

“Before morning! indeed I shall; a pint or so before that. I remember

the time, doctor, when I have drunk to my own cheek above two quarts

between dinner and breakfast! aye, and worked all the day after it!”

 

“You have been a wonderful man, Scatcherd, very wonderful.”

 

“Aye, wonderful! well, never mind. It’s over now. But what was I

saying?—about Louis, doctor; you’ll not desert him?”

 

“Certainly not.”

 

“He’s not strong; I know that. How should he be strong, living as he

has done? Not that it seemed to hurt me