The next one to drop was Sir Clarence Butt Malmaison. The jolly baronet was
never the same man after the relapse of his second son, whom he had grown
to love more than his first-born, and to whose future he had looked
forward with much ambitious anticipation. He used to sit for hours at a
time sadly watching the child's sluggish gambols about the nursery floor;
ever and anon trying to arouse in his darkened mind some sparks of the
former brightness, and, when the effort failed, sighing heavily, sometimes
with tears trickling down his ruddy old cheeks. If Archibald had never
passed through that period of deceptive promise, it is probable that he
would have received a fair amount of affection as he was, and he would at
all events not have committed the unpardonable offence of inspiring hopes
which were not destined to be fulfilled. Sir Clarence felt like the man in
the fairy tale who received from the fairy a purse of gold, but on opening
the purse to handle the money, found nothing in his grasp but a bunch of
yellow autumn leaves. The heroic end of his friend the Colonel served to
augment the baronet's depression of spirits; nor was his gloom lightened
by the reflection that Kate's inheritance of the estate would now in no
way advantage Archibald. So, what with one thing and another, it must be
confessed that Sir Clarence ended by taking too much wine after dinner.
And the more wine he drank, the less inclination did he feel to keep up
his hardy outdoor habits of riding and shooting; and, consequently, the
more moody and plethoric he became. At length he nearly quarrelled with
Dr. Rollinson because the latter told him plainly that the bottle would be
his coffin; and a few days later he did quarrel, and very violently too,
with the Honorable Richard Pennroyal. This gentleman, it seems, had ridden
over to Malmaison and stayed to dinner; and at dessert the conversation
got round to the present melancholy condition of local affairs.