Louis Scatcherd was not a fool, nor was he naturally, perhaps, of a depraved disposition; but he had to reap the fruits of the worst education which England was able to give him.  There were moments in his life when he felt that a better, a higher, nay, a much happier career was open to him than that which he had prepared himself to lead.  Now and then, he would reflect what money and rank might have done for him; he would look with wishful eyes to the proud doings of others of his age; would dream of quiet joys, of a sweet wife, a house to which might be asked friends who were neither jockeys nor drunkards; he would dream of such things in his short intervals of constrained sobriety; but the dream would only serve to make him moody.

This was the best side of his character; the worst, probably, was that which was brought into play by the fact that he was not a fool.  He would have a better chance of redemption in this world—­perhaps also in another—­had he been a fool.  As it was, he was no fool:  he was not to be done, not he; he knew, no one better, the value of a shilling; he knew, also, how to keep his shillings, and how to spend them.  He consorted much with blacklegs and such-like because blacklegs were to his taste.  But he boasted daily, nay, hourly to himself, and frequently to those around him, that the leeches who were stuck round him could draw but little blood from him.  He could spend his money freely; but he would so spend it that he himself might reap the gratification of the expenditure.  He was acute, crafty, knowing, and up to every damnable dodge practised by men of the class with whom he lived.  At one-and-twenty he was that most odious of all odious characters—­a close-fisted reprobate.

He was a small man, not ill-made by Nature, but reduced to unnatural tenuity by dissipation—­a corporeal attribute of which he was apt to boast, as it enabled him, as he said, to put himself up at 7st 7lb without any ‘d——­ nonsense of not eating and drinking’.  The power, however, was one of which he did not often avail himself, as his nerves were seldom in a fit state for riding.  His hair was dark red, and he wore red moustaches, and a great deal of red beard beneath his chin, cut in a manner to make him look like an American.  His voice also had a Yankee twang, being a cross between that of an American trader and an English groom; and his eyes were keen and fixed, and cold and knowing.

Such was the son whom Sir Roger saw standing at his bedside when first he awoke to his consciousness.  It must not be supposed that Sir Roger looked at him with our eyes.  To him he was an only child, the heir of his wealth, the future bearer of his title; the most heart-stirring remembrancer of those days, when he had been so much a poorer, and so much a happier man.  Let that boy be bad or good, he was all Sir Roger had; and the father was still able to hope, when others thought that all ground for hope was gone.