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 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 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 it 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.’

‘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, 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 two.’

‘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 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 the 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 is 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 of 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; now, 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 as 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 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 a 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 can I do, that I will do,’ said Thorne, solemnly, taking as he spoke the contractor’s own 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 death-bed 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.

‘For three or four years, he must greatly depend on 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 I have made the money for 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 have 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? 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 in his bed as though he were actually going to expend all that remained to him of vigour in the energy of the 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 two 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 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 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 the world; that he had to trudge about with an apron round his waist as I did. But it’s too late now to think of that. If he would marry, doctor.’

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

‘I’ll tell you what, Thorne,’ said he. And then, after a pause, he went on. ‘I have not half told you as yet what is on my mind; and I’m nearly afraid to tell it; though, indeed, I don’t know what I should be.’

‘I never knew you afraid of anything yet,’ said the doctor, smiling gently.

‘Well, then, I’ll not end by turning coward. Now, doctor, tell the truth to me; what do you expect me to do for that girl of yours that we 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 as truly as yours.’

‘Nothing,’ at last said the doctor, slowly. ‘I expect nothing. I would 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 the other. ‘Not that I ask you or wish you to do so. Mary, thank God, can do without wealth.’

‘Thorne, on one condition I will put her name into it. I will alter it on one condition. Let the two cousins be man and wife — let Louis marry poor Mary’s child.’

The proposition for a moment took away the doctor’s............