‘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.