Doctor Thorne

  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 duringthe latter part of Sir Roger's illness. He returned home daily toGreshamsbury; for he had his patients there, to whom he was asnecessary as to Sir Roger, the foremost of whom was Lady Arabella. Hehad, therefore, no slight work on his hands, seeing that his nightswere by no means wholly devoted to rest.

  Mr Rerechild had not been much wrong as to the remaining space oflife which he had allotted to the dying man. Once or twice Dr Thornehad thought that the great original strength of his patient wouldhave enabled him to fight against death for a somewhat longer period;but Sir Roger would give himself no chance. Whenever he was strongenough to have a will of his own, he insisted on having his verymedicine 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. "Dowhat you can to keep down the quantity, but do not irritate him byrefusing to obey. It does not much signify now." So Lady Scatcherdstill administered the alcohol, and he from day to day inventedlittle schemes for increasing the amount, over which he chuckled withghastly laughter.

  Two or three times during these days Sir Roger essayed to speakseriously to his son but Louis always frustrated him. He either gotout of the room on some excuse, or made his mother interfere on thescore that so much talking would be bad for his father. He alreadyknew with tolerable accuracy what was the purport of his father'swill, and by no means approved of it; but as he could not now hopeto induce his father to alter it so as to make it more favourable tohimself, he conceived that no conversation on matters of businesscould be of use to him.

  "Louis," said Sir Roger, one afternoon to his son "Louis, I have notdone by you as I ought to have done--I know that now."

  "Nonsense, governor; never mind about that now; I shall do wellenough, I dare say. Besides, it isn't too late; you can make ittwenty-three years instead of twenty-five, if you like it."

  "I do not mean as to money, Louis. There are things besides moneywhich a father ought to look to."

  "Now, father, don't fret yourself--I'm all right; you may be sure ofthat."

  "Louis, it's that accursed brandy--it's that that I'm afraid of: yousee me here, my boy, how I'm lying here now."

  "Don't you be annoying yourself, governor; I'm all right--quiteright; and as for you, why, you'll be up and about yourself inanother month or so."

  "I shall never be off this bed, my boy, till I'm carried into mycoffin, 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 thataccursed 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 youat all. I wonder where mother is: she ought to be here with thebroth; just let me go, and I'll see for her."

  The father understood it all. He saw that it was now much beyond hisfaded powers to touch the heart or conscience of such a youth as hisson had become. What now could he do for his boy except die? Whatelse, what other benefit, did his son require of him but to die; todie so that his means of dissipation might be unbounded? He let gothe unresisting hand which he held, and, as the young man crept outof the room, he turned his face to the wall. He turned his face tothe wall and held bitter commune with his own heart. To what had hebrought himself? To what had he brought his son? Oh, how happy wouldit have been for him could he have remained all his days a workingstone-mason in Barchester! How happy could he have died as such,years ago! Such tears as those which wet that pillow are thebitterest which human eyes can shed.

  But while they were dropping, the memoir of his life was in quickcourse of preparation. It was, indeed, nearly completed, withconsiderable detail. He had lingered on four days longer than mighthave been expected, and the author had thus had more than usual timefor the work. In these days a man is nobody unless his biographyis kept so far posted up that it may be ready for the nationalbreakfast-table on the morning after his demise. When it chances thatthe dead hero is one who was taken in his prime of life, of whosedeparture from among us the most far-seeing biographical scribe canhave no prophetic inkling, this must be difficult. Of great men, fullof years, who are ripe for the sickle, who in the course of Naturemust soon fall, it is of course comparatively easy for an activecompiler to have his complete memoir ready in his desk. But in orderthat the idea of omnipresent and omniscient information may be keptup, the young must be chronicled as quickly as the old. In some casesthis task must, one would say, be difficult. Nevertheless, it isdone.

  The memoir of Sir Roger Scatcherd was progressing favourably. Inthis it was told how fortunate had been his life; how, in his case,industry and genius combined had triumphed over the difficultieswhich humble birth and deficient education had thrown in his way;how he had made a name among England's great men; how the Queen haddelighted to honour him, and nobles had been proud to have him for aguest at their mansions. Then followed a list of all the great workswhich he had achieved, of the railroads, canals, docks, harbours,jails, and hospitals which he had constructed. His name was held upas an example to the labouring classes of his countrymen, and he waspointed at as one who had lived and died happy--ever happy, said thebiographer, because ever industrious. And so a great moral questionwas inculcated. A short paragraph was devoted to his appearance inParliament; and unfortunate Mr Romer was again held up for disgrace,for the thirtieth time, as having been the means of deprivingour legislative councils of the great assistance of Sir Roger'sexperience.

  "Sir Roger," said the biographer in his concluding passage, "waspossessed of an iron frame; but even iron will yield to the repeatedblows of the hammer. In the latter years of his life he was known toovertask himself; and at length the body gave way, though the mindremained firm to the _last_. The subject of this memoir was onlyfifty-nine when he was taken from us."

  And thus Sir Roger's life was written, while the tears wereyet falling on his pillow at Boxall Hill. It was a pity that aproof-sheet could not have been sent to him. No man was vainer ofhis reputation, and it would have greatly gratified him to know thatposterity was about to speak of him in such terms--to speak of himwith a voice that would be audible for twenty-four hours.

  Sir Roger made no further attempt to give counsel to his son. It wastoo evidently useless. The old dying lion felt that the lion's powerhad already passed from him, and that he was helpless in the handsof 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 tohis worldly hopes and worldly cares; and his old friend did not turna deaf ear to him.

  It was during the night that Sir Roger was most anxious to talk, andmost capable of talking. He would lie through the day in a statehalf-comatose; but towards evening he would rouse himself, and bymidnight he would be full of fitful energy. One night, as he laywakeful and full of thought, he thus poured forth his whole heart toDr Thorne.

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

  "Yes," said the other; "and I have blamed myself greatly that I havenot 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. Notbut that I have altered it since I spoke to you. I did it that dayafter 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 eldestchild: 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 haveadded a postscript--a codicil they call it--saying that you, and youonly, know who is her eldest child. Winterbones and Jack Martin havewitnessed that."

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p; Dr Thorne was going to explain how very injudicious such anarrangement 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 wasmatter of but minor interest who might inherit his money if his sonshould die early; his care was solely for his son's welfare. Attwenty-five the heir might make his own will--might bequeath all thiswealth according to his own fancy. Sir Roger would not bring himselfto believe that his son could follow him to the grave in so short atime.

  "Never mind that, doctor, now; but about Louis; you will be hisguardian, you know."

  "Not his guardian. He is more than of age."

  "Ah! but doctor, you will be his guardian. The property will not behis till he be twenty-five. You will not desert him?"

  "I will not desert him; but I doubt whether I can do much forhim--what can I do, Scatcherd?"

  "Use the power that a strong man has over a weak one. Use the powerthat my will will give you. Do for him as you would for a son of yourown if you saw him going in bad courses. Do as a friend should do fora friend that is dead and gone. I would do so for you, doctor, if ourplaces were changed."

  "What I can do, that I will do," said Thorne, solemnly, taking as hespoke 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 asI do now! May you on your death-bed have no dread as I have, as tothe fate of those you will leave behind you!"

  Doctor Thorne felt that he could not say much in answer to this. Thefuture fate of Louis Scatcherd was, he could not but own to himself,greatly to be dreaded. What good, what happiness, could be presagedfor 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 ofthis unfortunate with those of his own darling; to contrast all thatwas murky, foul, and disheartening, with all that was perfect--for tohim she was all but perfect; to liken Louis Scatcherd to the angelwho brightened his own hearthstone. How could he answer to such anappeal?

  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 askedof him. Sir Roger looked up sadly into the doctor's face, as thoughexpecting some word of consolation. There was no comfort, noconsolation to come to him!

  "For three or four years he must greatly depend upon you," continuedSir 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 fallmainly 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 wouldmarry, 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 hisown income."

  "I will be governed entirely by your wishes: under any circumstanceshis 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 thebest of them. For what have I made the money if not for that? Now ifhe marries--decently, that is--some woman you know that can assisthim in the world, let him have what he wants. It is not to save themoney that I put it into your hands."

  "No, Scatcherd; not to save the money, but to save him. I think thatwhile you are yet with him you should advise him to marry."

  "He does not care a straw for what I advise, not one straw. Whyshould he? How can I tell him to be sober when I have been a beastall my life myself? How can I advise him? That's where it is! It isthat that now kills me. Advise! Why, when I speak to him he treats melike a child."

  "He fears that you are too weak, you know: he thinks that you shouldnot be allowed to talk."

  "Nonsense! he knows better; you know better. Too weak! whatsignifies? Would I not give all that I have of strength at one blowif I could open his eyes to see as I see but for one minute?" Andthe sick man raised himself up in his bed as though he were actuallygoing to expend all that remained to him of vigour in the energy of amoment.

  "Gently, Scatcherd; gently. He will listen to you yet; but do not beso 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 hewas desired.

  "Do as I ask you, doctor. It can do no harm now; you know that wellenough. 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 withoutit. What's the use of canting now? You know it can make nodifference."

  Sir Roger was right. It could make no difference; and Dr Thorne gavehim the half glass of brandy.

  "Ah, well; you've a stingy hand, doctor; confounded stingy. You don'tmeasure 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 rememberthe time, doctor, when I have drunk to my own cheek above two quartsbetween 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 Isaying?--about Louis, doctor; you'll not desert him?"

  "Certainly not."

  "He's not strong; I know that. How should he be strong, living as hehas done? Not that it seemed to hurt me when I was his age."

  "You had the advantage of hard work."

  "That's it. Sometimes I wish that Louis had not a shilling in theworld; that he had to trudge about with an apron round his waist as Idid. But it's too late now to think of that. If he would only marry,doctor."

  Dr Thorne again expressed an opinion that no step would be so likelyto reform the habits of the young heir as marriage; and repeated hisadvice to the father to implore his son to take a wife.

  "I'll tell you what, Thorne," said he. And then, after a pause, hewent on. "I have not half told you as yet what is on my mind; and I'mnearly afraid to tell it; though, indeed, I don't know why I shouldbe."

  "I never knew you afraid of anything yet," said the doctor, smilinggently.

  "Well, then, I'll not end by turning coward. Now, doctor, tell thetruth to me; what do you expect me to do for that girl of yours thatwe were talking of--Mary's child?"

  There was a pause for a moment, for Thorne was slow to answer him.

  "You would not let me see her, you know, though she is my niece astruly as she is yours."

  "Nothing," at last said the doctor, slowly. "I expect nothing. Iwould not let you see her, and therefore, I expect nothing."

  "She will have it all if poor Louis should die," said Sir Roger.

  "If you intend it so you should put her name into the will," said theother. "Not that I ask you or wish you to do so. Mary, thank God, cando without wealth."

  "Thorne, on one condition I will put her name into it. I will alterit all on one condition. Let the two cousins be man and wife--letLouis marry poor Mary's child."

  The proposition for a moment took away the doctor's breath, and hewas unable to answer. Not for all the wealth of India would he havegiven up his lamb to that young wolf, even though he had had thepower to do so. But that lamb--lamb though she was--had, as he wellknew, a will of her own on such a matter. What alliance could be moreimpossible, thought he to himself, than one between Mary Thorne andLouis Scatcherd?

  "I will alter it all if you will give me your hand upon it that youwill do your best to bring about this marriage. Everything shall behis on the day he marries her; and should he die unmarried, it shallall then be hers by name. Say the word, Thorne, and she shall comehere at once. I shall yet have time to see her."

  But Dr Thorne did not say the word; just at the moment he saidnothing, but he slowly shook his head.

  "Why not, Thorne?"

  "My friend, it is impossible."

  "Why impossible?"

  "Her hand is not mine to dispose of, nor is her heart."

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p; "Then let her come over herself."

  "What! Scatcherd, that the son might make love to her while thefather is so dangerously ill! Bid her come to look for a richhusband! That would not be seemly, would it?"

  "No; not for that: let her come merely that I may see her; that wemay all know her. I will leave the matter then in your hands if youwill promise me to do your best."

  "But, my friend, in this matter I cannot do my best. I can donothing. And, indeed, I may say at once, that it is altogether out ofthe question. I know--"

  "What do you know?" said the baronet, turning on him almost angrily."What can you know to make you say that it is impossible? Is she apearl of such price that a man may not win her?"

  "She is a pearl of great price."

  "Believe me, doctor, money goes far in winning such pearls."

  "Perhaps so; I know little about it. But this I do know, that moneywill not win her. Let us talk of something else; believe me it isuseless for us to think of this."

  "Yes; if you set your face against it obstinately. You must thinkvery poorly of Louis if you suppose that no girl can fancy him."

  "I have not said so, Scatcherd."

  "To have the spending of ten thousand a year, and be a baronet'slady! Why, doctor, what is it you expect for this girl?"

  "Not much, indeed; not much. A quiet heart and a quiet home; not muchmore."

  "Thorne, if you will be ruled by me in this, she shall be the mosttopping woman in this county."

  "My friend, my friend, why thus grieve me? Why should you thus harassyourself? I tell you it is impossible. They have never seen eachother; they have nothing, and can have nothing in common theirtastes, and wishes, and pursuits are different. Besides, Scatcherd,marriages never answer that are so made; believe me, it isimpossible."

  The contractor threw himself back on his bed, and lay for some tenminutes perfectly quiet; so much so that the doctor began to thinkthat he was sleeping. So thinking, and wearied by the watching,Dr Thorne was beginning to creep quietly from the room, when hiscompanion again roused himself, almost with vehemence.

  "You won't do this thing for me, then?" said he.

  "Do it! It is not for you or me to do such things as that. Suchthings must be left to those concerned themselves."

  "You will not even help me?"

  "Not in this thing, Sir Roger."

  "Then, by ----, she shall not under any circumstances ever have ashilling of mine. Give me some of that stuff there," and he againpointed to the brandy bottle which stood ever within his sight.

  The doctor poured out and handed to him another small modicum ofspirit.

  "Nonsense, man; fill the glass. I'll stand no nonsense now. I'll bemaster in my own house to the last. Give it here, I tell you. Tenthousand devils are tearing me within. You--you could have comfortedme; but you would not. Fill the glass I tell you."

  "I should be killing you were I to do it."

  "Killing me! killing me! you are always talking of killing me. Do yousuppose that I am afraid to die? Do not I know how soon it is coming?Give me the brandy, I say, or I will be out across the room to fetchit."

  "No, Scatcherd. I cannot give it to you; not while I am here. Do youremember how you were engaged this morning?"--he had that morningtaken the sacrament from the parish clergyman--"you would not wish tomake me guilty of murder, would you?"

  "Nonsense! You are talking nonsense; habit is second nature. I tellyou I shall sink without it. Why, you know I always get it directlyyour back is turned. Come, I will not be bullied in my own house;give me that bottle, I say!"--and Sir Roger essayed, vainly enough,to raise himself from the bed.

  "Stop, Scatcherd; I will give it you--I will help you. It may bethat habit is second nature." Sir Roger in his determined energyhad swallowed, without thinking of it, the small quantity which thedoctor had before poured out for him, and still held the empty glasswithin his hand. This the doctor now took and filled nearly to thebrim.

  "Come, Thorne, a bumper; a bumper for this once. 'Whatever the drink,it a bumper must be.' You stingy fellow! I would not treat you so.Well--well."

  "It's as full as you can hold it, Scatcherd."

  "Try me; try me! my hand is a rock; at least at holding liquor." Andthen he drained the contents of the glass, which were sufficient inquantity to have taken away the breath from any ordinary man.

  "Ah, I'm better now. But, Thorne, I do love a full glass, ha! ha!ha!"

  There was something frightful, almost sickening, in the peculiarhoarse guttural tone of his voice. The sounds came from him asthough steeped in brandy, and told, all too plainly, the havoc whichthe alcohol had made. There was a fire too about his eyes whichcontrasted with his sunken cheeks: his hanging jaw, unshorn beard,and haggard face were terrible to look at. His hands and arms werehot and clammy, but so thin and wasted! Of his lower limbs the lostuse had not returned to him, so that in all his efforts at vehemencehe was controlled by his own want of vitality. When he supportedhimself, half-sitting against the pillows, he was in a continualtremor; and yet, as he boasted, he could still lift his glasssteadily to his mouth. Such now was the hero of whom that readycompiler of memoirs had just finished his correct and succinctaccount.

  After he had had his brandy, he sat glaring a while at vacancy, asthough he was dead to all around him, and was thinking--thinking--thinking of things in the infinite distance of the past.

  "Shall I go now," said the doctor, "and send Lady Scatcherd to you?"

  "Wait a while, doctor; just one minute longer. So you will do nothingfor Louis, then?"

  "I will do everything for him that I can do."

  "Ah, yes! everything but the one thing that will save him. Well, Iwill not ask you again. But remember, Thorne, I shall alter my willto-morrow."

  "Do so by all means; you may well alter it for the better. If Imay advise you, you will have down your own business attorney fromLondon. If you will let me send he will be here before to-morrownight."

  "Thank you for nothing, Thorne: I can manage that matter myself. Nowleave me; but remember, you have ruined that girl's fortune."

  The doctor did leave him, and went not altogether happy to his room.He could not but confess to himself that he had, despite himself asit were, fed himself with hope that Mary's future might be made moresecure, aye, and brighter too, by some small unheeded fraction brokenoff from the huge mass of her uncle's wealth. Such hope, if it hadamounted to hope, was now all gone. But this was not all, nor wasthis the worst of it. That he had done right in utterly repudiatingall idea of a marriage between Mary and her cousin--of that he wascertain enough; that no earthly consideration would have induced Maryto plight her troth to such a man--that, with him, was as certain asdoom. But how far had he done right in keeping her from the sight ofher uncle? How could he justify it to himself if he had thus robbedher of her inheritance, seeing that he had done so from a selfishfear lest she, who was now all his own, should be known to the worldas belonging to others rather than to him? He had taken upon him onher behalf to reject wealth as valueless; and yet he had no soonerdone so than he began to consume his hours with reflecting how greatto her would be the value of wealth. And thus, when Sir Roger toldhim, as he left the room, that he had ruined Mary's fortune, he washardly able to bear the taunt with equanimity.

  On the next morning, after paying his professional visit to hispatient, and satisfying himself that the end was now drawing nearwith steps terribly quickened, he went down to Greshamsbury.

  "How long is this to last, uncle?" said his niece, with sad voice, ashe again prepared to return to Boxall Hill.

  "Not long, Mary; do not begrudge him a few more hours of life."

  "No, I do not, uncle. I will say nothing more about it. Is his sonwith him?" And then, perversely enough, she persisted in askingnumerous questions about Louis Scatcherd.

  "Is he likely to marry, uncle?"

  "I hope so, my dear."

  "Will he be so very rich?"

  "Yes; ultimately he will be very rich."

/>   "He will be a baronet, will he not?"

  "Yes, my dear."

  "What is he like, uncle?"

  "Like--I never know what a young man is like. He is like a man withred hair."

  "Uncle, you are the worst hand in describing I ever knew. If I'd seenhim for five minutes, I'd be bound to make a portrait of him; andyou, if you were describing a dog, you'd only say what colour hishair was."

  "Well, he's a little man."

  "Exactly, just as I should say that Mrs Umbleby had a red-hairedlittle dog. I wish I had known these Scatcherds, uncle. I do soadmire people that can push themselves in the world. I wish I hadknown Sir Roger."

  "You will never know him now, Mary."

  "I suppose not. I am so sorry for him. Is Lady Scatcherd nice?"

  "She is an excellent woman."

  "I hope I may know her some day. You are so much there now, uncle; Iwonder whether you ever mention me to them. If you do, tell her fromme how much I grieve for her."

  That same night Dr Thorne again found himself alone with Sir Roger.The sick man was much more tranquil, and apparently more at easethan he had been on the preceding night. He said nothing about hiswill, and not a word about Mary Thorne; but the doctor knew thatWinterbones and a notary's clerk from Barchester had been in thebedroom a great part of the day; and, as he knew also that the greatman of business was accustomed to do his most important work by thehands of such tools as these, he did not doubt but that the willhad been altered and remodelled. Indeed, he thought it more thanprobable, that when it was opened it would be found to be whollydifferent in its provisions from that which Sir Roger had alreadydescribed.

  "Louis is clever enough," he said, "sharp enough, I mean. He won'tsquander the property."

  "He has good natural abilities," said the doctor.

  "Excellent, excellent," said the father. "He may do well, very well,if he can only be kept from this;" and Sir Roger held up the emptywine-glass which stood by his bedside. "What a life he may havebefore him!--and to throw it away for this!" and as he spoke he tookthe glass and tossed it across the room. "Oh, doctor! would that itwere all to begin again!"

  "We all wish that, I dare say, Scatcherd."

  "No, you don't wish it. You ain't worth a shilling, and yet youregret nothing. I am worth half a million in one way or the other,and I regret everything--everything--everything!"

  "You should not think in that way, Scatcherd; you need not think so.Yesterday you told Mr Clarke that you were comfortable in your mind."Mr Clarke was the clergyman who had visited him.

  "Of course I did. What else could I say when he asked me? It wouldn'thave been civil to have told him that his time and words wereall thrown away. But, Thorne, believe me, when a man's heart issad--sad--sad to the core, a few words from a parson at the lastmoment will never make it all right."

  "May He have mercy on you, my friend!--if you will think of Him, andlook to Him, He will have mercy on you."

  "Well--I will try, doctor; but would that it were all to do again.You'll see to the old woman for my sake, won't you?"

  "What, Lady Scatcherd?"

  "Lady Devil! If anything angers me now it is that 'ladyship'--her tobe my lady! Why, when I came out of jail that time, the poor creaturehad hardly a shoe to her foot. But it wasn't her fault, Thorne; itwas none of her doing. She never asked for such nonsense."

  "She has been an excellent wife, Scatcherd; and what is more, sheis an excellent woman. She is, and ever will be, one of my dearestfriends."

  "Thank'ee, doctor, thank'ee. Yes; she has been a good wife--betterfor a poor man than a rich one; but then, that was what she was bornto. You won't let her be knocked about by them, will you, Thorne?"

  Dr Thorne again assured him, that as long as he lived Lady Scatcherdshould never want one true friend; in making this promise, however,he managed to drop all allusion to the obnoxious title.

  "You'll be with him as much as possible, won't you?" again asked thebaronet, after lying quite silent for a quarter of an hour.

  "With whom?" said the doctor, who was then all but asleep.

  "With my poor boy; with Louis."

  "If he will let me, I will," said the doctor.

  "And, doctor, when you see a glass at his mouth, dash it down; thrustit down, though you thrust out the teeth with it. When you see that,Thorne, tell him of his father--tell him what his father might havebeen but for that; tell him how his father died like a beast, becausehe could not keep himself from drink."

  These, reader, were the last words spoken by Sir Roger Scatcherd. Ashe uttered them he rose up in bed with the same vehemence which hehad shown on the former evening. But in the very act of doing sohe was again struck by paralysis, and before nine on the followingmorning all was over.

  "Oh, my man--my own, own man!" exclaimed the widow, remembering inthe paroxysm of her grief nothing but the loves of their early days;"the best, the brightest, the cleverest of them all!"

  Some weeks after this Sir Roger was buried, with much pomp andceremony, within the precincts of Barchester Cathedral; and amonument was put up to him soon after, in which he was portrayed assmoothing a block of granite with a mallet and chisel; while hiseagle eye, disdaining such humble work, was fixed upon some intricatemathematical instrument above him. Could Sir Roger have seen ithimself, he would probably have declared, that no workman was everworth his salt who looked one way while he rowed another.

  Immediately after the funeral the will was opened, and Dr Thornediscovered that the clauses of it were exactly identical with thosewhich his friend had described to him some months back. Nothing hadbeen altered; nor had the document been unfolded since that strangecodicil was added, in which it was declared that Dr Thorne knew--andonly Dr Thorne--who was the eldest child of the testator's onlysister. At the same time, however, a joint executor with Dr Thornehad been named--one Mr Stock, a man of railway fame--and Dr Thornehimself was made a legatee to the humble extent of a thousand pounds.A life income of a thousand pounds a year was left to Lady Scatcherd.