‘He’s always at it, my lady, always,’ said Mr Winterbones.

‘Is he?’ said Lady Scatcherd, well understanding what Mr Winterbones’s allusion meant.

’Always, my lady.  I never saw nothing like it.  Now, there’s me—­I can always go my half-hour when I’ve had my drop; but he, why, he don’t go ten minutes, not now.’

This was not cheerful to Lady Scatcherd; but what was the poor woman to do?  When she spoke to him on any subject he only snarled at her; and now that the heavy fit was on him, she did not dare even to mention the subject of his drinking.  She had never known him so savage in his humour as he was now, so bearish in his habits, so little inclined to humanity, so determined to rush headlong down, with his head between his legs, into the bottomless abyss.

She thought of sending for Dr Thorne; but she did not know under what guise to send for him,—­whether as doctor or as friend:  under neither would he now be welcome; and she well knew that Sir Roger was not the man to accept in good part either a doctor or a friend who might be unwelcome.  She knew that this husband of hers, this man, who, with all his faults, was the best of her friends whom she loved best—­she knew that he was killing himself, and yet she could do nothing.  Sir Roger was his own master, and if kill himself he would, kill himself he must.

And kill himself he did.  Not indeed by one sudden blow.  He did not take one huge dose of his consuming poison, and then fall dead upon the floor.  It would perhaps have been better for himself, and better for those around him, had he done so.  No; the doctors had time to congregate round his bed; Lady Scatcherd was allowed a period of nurse-tending; the sick man was able to say his last few words and bid his adieu to his portion of the lower world with dying decency.  As these last words will have some lasting effect upon the surviving personages of our story, the reader must be content to stand for a short while by the side of Sir Roger’s sick-bed, and help us bid him God-speed on the journey which lies before him.

CHAPTER XXIII

RETROSPECTIVE

It was declared in the early pages of this work that Dr Thorne was to be our hero; but it would appear very much as though he had latterly been forgotten.  Since that evening when he retired to rest without letting Mary share the grievous weight which was on his mind, we have neither seen nor heard aught of him.

It was then full midsummer, and it now early spring:  and during the intervening months the doctor had not had a happy time of it.  On that night, as we have before told, he took his niece to his heart; but he could not then bring himself to tell her that which it was so imperative that she should know.  Like a coward, he would put off the evil hour, till the next morning, and thus robbed himself of his night’s sleep.