Chapter XIV: Part II: The Prison Wall (7)

'I think, sir, that whatever she told me to do I would do, though I was sure to die the next minute.'

'You would be right, Blade-o'-Grass. All that she says and does is sweet and good.'

* * * * *

Ah, Rachel, my wife, how my heart yearned to you then! How tenderly, in the dim twilight of that Holy Day, did my thoughts dwell upon you in purest love! In the solemn pause that ensued I endeavoured to strengthen my heart by inward prayer. If the priceless gift of your love were denied to me, I might still hope that your friendship would sweeten my life.

* * * * *

Blade-o'-Grass laid her hand timidly upon mine, and whispered to me that the prospect I had held out was like heaven to her.

Soon after this, Charley, and Ruth with her baby, came in quietly, and I brought Ruth and Blade-o'-Grass together.

* * * * *

I see them standing side by side at the window. I see Ruth showing her baby to Blade-o'-Grass. I see Blade-o'-Grass's hands tremble and wander. I see her stretch forth her arms convulsively, and presently I see her sitting on a low stool, with the baby in her lap, sobbing quietly over the child, whose fingers caress her face, pityingly as it seems. Ruth sinks upon her knees by the side of the bereaved mother, and their arms are round each other's neck. Night's shadows steal upon them, and wrap them in a peaceful embrace.

XIII.

HIS SOUL IS IN YOUR HANDS TO SAVE AND PURIFY!

I had many opportunities of seeing Tom Beadle during his term of imprisonment, and I soon became engaged in the contemplation of a subject which has been studied and pondered over by thousands of earnest minds, but never, I believe, with greater seriousness than at the present time. Here was a man, with a man's strength, not unwilling to do his work in the world, if he knew the way to do it. Of a low type he certainly was, but he had grown into his condition through no fault of his own. I penetrated the crust of his character, and I found behind it much material which could be worked to a good end. Gradually I won his confidence, and, in answer to certain remarks of mine affecting his career and character, he answered me in plain terms and with a rough shrewdness which greatly impressed me in his favour, I saw that he was helpless; that, in this country, society could do nothing for him, and that he would be utterly lost if he were left to himself and his own resources. If he were lost, Blade-o'-Grass would be lost also.

'It will be a happy task accomplished,' I thought, 'if I can save these two from the certain degradation which lies before them--if I can make their after-life happy in an honourable way, and worthy of the respect of men.'

Tom Beadle gave me a great proof of his confidence. I asked him to allow Blade-o'-Grass to visit the Silvers and Ruth, and he consented with but little pressure. I took care that she was frequently in one or other of the houses. She liked best to be with Ruth and Ruth's baby, whom she often begged to be allowed to nurse. I said to her one day when she was in Ruth's house, having spent a few happy hours there,

'If you and Tom had such a home as this----'

'It'd be like 'eaven, sir,' she answered. 'Don't speak of it, sir. It breaks my 'eart to think of it!'

But I knew that the plan I had in view would give them such a home, after a time, if they were willing to endure a present sacrifice. I knew it from a letter which I had received from Canada a week after Christmas. The letter was from Richard. I give it in its entirety:

'My dear Mr. Meadow,--I can now, I think, send you a letter which will give you satisfaction. My dear mother, and Ruth, and Mary, write so much about you, that I feel, although I have never seen you, as if I was talking to an old friend; and I feel very proud, I assure you, that you should write to me as you have written, and should place so much confidence in me. I cannot express to you how much I have thought of the story you have told me. I can see Tom Beadle and Blade-o'-Grass as plainly as if they stood before me. I can see what they were when they were children (I saw it often, my dear Mr. Meadow, when I was in London), and what they are likely to become, if a helping hand is not stretched forth to save them. You say you place your hopes in me, and that if it is out of my power to help you, you will not know which way to turn to accomplish what you desire. My dearly-beloved mother has written to me also, urging me to try and do something, and I need not say what an incentive that has been to me.

'Now let me tell you. It has been my good fortune to make the acquaintance of a farmer, at whose house I spend my day of rest every week. His name is Gibson. Is it letting you into a secret, when I tell you that he has a daughter, and that I hope some day, please God!----Well, dear Mr. Meadow, you must finish the uncompleted sentence yourself. And yet I must tell you that I do love her, with all my heart! You are not the first I have told. My dear mother knows all about it.

'Mr. Gibson has a large farm, and employs eighteen hands, who all receive fair wages, and have made comfortable homes for themselves. The Sabbath before last, Mr. Gibson was telling me the history of some of the men he has employed, and it suddenly flashed upon me that it was in his power to do what you desire with respect to Tom Beadle.

'Well, dear Mr. Meadow, I told him the story, and I gave him your letters and my dear mother's letters to read. Annie--that is his daughter--was present, and I spoke with all my earnestness. When I had finished, Annie was crying, and I myself was very nearly crying too. It would take too long for me to tell all that passed, but Mr. Gibson said he would keep the letters for a week, and that he would consider whether he could do anything. When I wished Annie good-night, I asked her if she would help me with her father, and she said she would--and said, too, how she wished that she knew you and my dear mother and sisters! You have no idea, Mr. Meadow, what a dear good girl she is.

'I didn't have one good night's rest all the week for thinking of what Mr. Gibson would say, and last Sabbath I went to his house with a trembling heart. We go to the same church, and after church we took a walk. It was a fine cold morning--you should have seen how Annie looked! Well, but I must not wander from the subject. Then Mr. Gibson told me he had read all your letters, more than once he said, and that he had made up his mind. This is what he says. If Tom Beadle will come out to us, Mr. Gibson will take him into his service, and will give him fair wages. He will work and live on the farm, and Mr. Gibson will do all he can for him. But Mr. Gibson made conditions. Tom Beadle must come out by himself, and must bind himself to work for Mr. Gibson for five years. "At the end of that time," Mr. Gibson said, "he will, if he is industrious, have a home of his own and money in his pocket. Then he can send for his wife, and they will have a good future before them." Mr. Gibson put it this way. "Tom Beadle," he says, "must do something to show that he is worthy of the confidence that is to be placed in him; he has to grow out of old bad ways into new good ones. Give him something to work for," said Mr. Gibson, "something to look forward to, and the chances of his turning out right are more in his favour." Well, dear Mr. Meadow, that is how it stands. If Tom Beadle will come over, there is a home for him at once, and there is honest good work, with fair wages, for him to commence at, right away.

'I hope you will be satisfied and pleased with this. I am sure it will turn out right. _I_ will make a friend of Tom Beadle, and he shall not go wrong, if we can help it. Annie will help too, I am sure. I do not write any news about myself; dear mother will tell you all about me. I am getting along famously. With affectionate esteem, my dear Mr. Meadow, believe me to be most faithfully yours,

'RICHARD SILVER.'

I deemed it wise not to disclose the contents of this letter to Blade-o'-Grass until the day before Tom Beadle was to come out of prison. I had persuaded her to spend a few hours of that day with Ruth, and when I went to Ruth's house in the evening, I found that Blade-o'-Grass had gone to her home in Stoney-alley. About nine o'clock in the night I went to her room, to play the great stake upon which her future rested, and as I walked through the labyrinth of narrow thoroughfares which led to Stoney-alley, I prayed fervently that my mission would be successful. Blade-o'-Grass's room was very clean and tidy; she had been busy making preparations for the return of Tom Beadle. When I entered, her work was done, and she was sitting with her head resting on her hand.

'Don't disturb yourself, my dear,' I said; 'I have come to have a long chat with you. You have been busy, I see.'

'Yes,' she said; 'Tom's comin' 'ome to-morrer.'

I noticed that there was sadness in her tone.

'You are glad?' I said.

'Yes, sir, of course I'm glad. But I've been thinkin' of a good many things. I've been thinkin' of baby, and--and----'

She bit her lips, as if that effort were necessary to restrain the expression of what was in her mind.

'Don't hide anything from me, my dear; tell me what you've been thinking of.'

'I 'ardly know 'ow to tell it, sir. My thoughts seem as if they was turnin' agin myself. I see that I must ha' been goin' on wrong all my life, and that Tom 's been doin' the same. And my 'eart's fit to break, when I think it can't be altered now!'

'It can be altered, my child.'

She looked at me imploringly.

'You've said somethin' like that afore, sir; but it's all dark to me. Tom'll come 'ome to-morrer, and things'll go on in the old way, and per'aps he'll be took up agin before long----'

She could not proceed for her tears.

'You see, my dear, that the life he is leading is wrong.'

'I see it, sir--I see it. It'd be better, arter what you've told me, if Tom and me was to die to-morrer!'

'Our lives are not in our own hands, my dear. What has been done in the past has been done in ignorance, and the shame of it can be wiped away. It _is_ shame, my dear. Place yourself and Tom by the side of Ruth and _her_ husband.'

She uttered a cry, as if a knife had struck her. But I continued:

'Place your home by the side of theirs. See the happy future that lies before them, and think of what lies before you, if, as you have said, things go on with you in the same old way.'

She covered her face with her hands. I was striking her hard, but I knew it was necessary for the sacrifice I was about to call upon her to make. I drew a picture of the two homes. I placed children in them, and contrasted their appearance, their lives, their chances of happiness. I did not spare her; I spoke with all my strength and earnestness. Suddenly she interrupted me with wild looks and in a wild tone.

'What are you tellin' me all this for?'

'Because it is in your power to choose between them,' I replied. 'Not only for yourself, but for Tom. His future is in your hands to shape to a good end, if you have the courage to make a sacrifice. Nay, not only his future in this world--his soul is in your hands to save and purify!'

She parted the hair from her eyes, and gazed at me as if she were in a dream.

'Will you do this? Will you save your husband from the net of crime and shame in which he is entangled?'

'Will I do it?' she cried, in a tone of wonder. 'Can you arks me? Show me the way!'

I did. I told her the end I had been working for. I read Richard's letter to her, and dilated upon the prospect it held out.

'There is no chance for Tom here,' I said; 'there is in that new land, and with such friends as he will have about him. I believe it is in your power to persuade him to go. He loves you, and would do much for you. The separation will not be a very long one. Five years will soon pass, and then you will both be young. While he is working out the commencement of a good and better life there, you can stop with Mrs. Silver; she bids me offer you a home. Will you make the sacrifice?--a sacrifice that in all your after-life you will bless us for persuading you to make. My dear sister,'--she bowed her head to her breast convulsively as I thus addressed her--'it will be your salvation, and his. All our hearts are set upon it for your good and his. I know how you will suffer in parting from him, but the love's sacrifice that you will make for him will be a truer test of love than all you have hitherto done.'

She was silent for a long, long time before she spoke.

'When will he 'ave to go, sir?'

'A ship sails from Liverpool the day after to-morrow.'

'So soon!' she cried, clasping her hands.

'It is best so. Every hour that he passes here after he is out of prison is an hour of peril to you both. I will myself accompany him to Liverpool to-morrow. Let him commence his baptism at once, and in the new land work out his regeneration. He will thank you for it by and bye. Shall I tell you what I see in a few years from this present moment, my dear?'

'If you please, sir,' she said, tears streaming down her face.

'I see you and Tom in the new land living happily in your own little home. I see you standing at the door in the morning looking after him, as he goes to his work, and he turning round to smile upon you. I see him, when he is out of your sight, exchanging friendly greetings with men whose respect he has earned; no longer ashamed to look men in the face, my dear, but walking with head erect, without fear, as one can do who earns his bread honestly. I see him coming home at night, when his day's work is done, and you, perhaps, reading to him----'

'Reading, sir!'

'Yes, my dear, reading. Reading a letter, perhaps, that Mrs. Silver, or Ruth, or Mr. Merrywhistle has written to you and Tom. It will come--you will learn while he is away. I see your cupboard well stocked, your house prettily furnished, yourselves comfortably clothed. Perhaps Richard--Ruth's brother--and his wife come in to see you, and you talk together of the dear ones at home, bound to you as to him, my dear, by links of love. I hear you thank God before you sleep for all His goodness to you. I see you helping some poor child who has been left orphaned and helpless as you were left----'

'O, sir!'

'It will come, my dear, if you live, as surely as we are speaking together at this minute. I see you, perhaps, with a baby in your arms, like the dear one who has passed away from you----'

She caught my hand hysterically, and I paused. I saw that my work was done. I will not set down here what she said when she was calmer. When I left her she was animated by a high resolve, and I knew that she would not falter.

'What time will you be 'ere in the mornin', sir?' she asked, as she stood with me at the street-door in Stoney-alley.

'At twelve o'clock, my dear.'

'Tom'll be ready to go with you then, sir. It'll 'urt 'im to leave me, sir, but he'll do it for my sake. I know 'im, sir!'

'Good-night, my dear; God bless you!'

'And you, sir,' she said, kissing my hand.

I was punctual to my appointment on the following day. Blade-o'-Grass heard my step on the stairs, and came into the passage to meet me.

'Tom's inside, sir.'

I looked into her face, and saw in the anguish expressed there the marks of the conflict she had passed through.

'He's ready to go with you, sir.'

Tom Beadle's face bore marks of trouble also, and he evidently had not made up his mind whether he should receive me as a friend or an enemy.

'I feel as if I was bein' transported,' he said in a dogged manner.

'You will live to thank us, Tom,' I said, as I held out my hand to him. He hesitated a moment or two before he took it, and then he gripped it fiercely.

'Look 'ere!' he exclaimed hoarsely. 'Is it all goin' to turn out as you've told 'er? Take your oath on it! Say, May I drop down dead if it won't all come right!'

'As surely as I believe in a better life than this, so surely do I believe that this is your only chance of bestowing happiness upon the woman who loves you with her whole heart and soul.'

'I wouldn't do it but for 'er!' he said, and turned to Blade-o'-Grass. She crept into his arms, and clasped him to her faithful heart, and kissed him again and again. I went into the passage, and I heard her tell him, in a voice broken by sobs, how she loved him, and would love him, and him only, till death, and after death, and how she would count the minutes while he was away, till the blessed time came when they would be together again. Powerful as was her influence over him, it would not have been perfect if he had not had some good and tender qualities in his nature. I felt that the words that were passing between them in this crisis of their lives were sacred, and I went downstairs to the street-door. I found Mr. Merrywhistle there.

'I have a cab waiting for you,' he said, 'and a box.'

'A box!'

'With some clothes in it for Tom Beadle, my dear sir. It will make a good impression upon him. And here are two sovereigns for him.'

'Give them to him yourself, Mr. Merrywhistle,' I said; 'he will be down presently.'

Tom Beadle joined us in a few minutes.

'Mr. Merrywhistle has brought a box of clothes for you, Tom,' I said; 'and he has something else for you also.'

'It's only a matter of a couple of sovereigns, Tom,' said Mr. Merrywhistle, stammering as if he were committing an act of meanness instead of an act of kindness. 'They may come useful to you when you land in Canada.'

Tom took the money and thanked him; then said that he had forgotten to say something to Blade-o'-Grass, and ran up-stairs. I learnt afterwards that he had given her the money, and had insisted, despite her entreaties, that she should take it.

I did not leave Tom Beadle until the ship sailed. He related to me the whole story of his life, and asked me once,

'Won't the old devil break out in me when I'm on the other side o' the water?'

'Not if you are strong, Tom--not if you keep your thoughts on Blade-o'-Grass, and think of the perfect happiness you can bestow upon her by keeping in the right path.'

'I'll try to, sir. No man's ever tried 'arder than I mean to.'

When I thought of the friends that were waiting on the other side of the Atlantic to help him, and encourage him, and keep him straight, I was satisfied that all would turn out well.

I returned to London with a light heart. It was nearly nine o'clock at night when I reached home. I lit my lamp, and saw upon my table a large envelope, addressed to me in a lawyer's handwriting. I opened the letter, and found that it contained a sealed packet, and the following note, dated from Chancery-lane:

'Sir,--In accordance with instructions received from our late client, Mr. James Fairhaven, we forward to you the enclosed packet, seven days after his death.--We are, sir, your obedient servants,

'WILSON, SON, & BAXTER.

'To Andrew Meadow, Esq.'

The news of the death of my benefactor and old friend, Mr. Fairhaven, shocked and grieved me. It was a sorrowful thought that he had parted from me in anger. If I had known of his illness, I am sure I should have gone to him, despite his prohibition. But I did not know; and even the consolation of following to the grave the last remains of the man who had so generously befriended me had been denied to me. I passed a few minutes in sorrowful reflection, and then took up the sealed packet. It was addressed, in his own handwriting, to Andrew Meadow, and was very bulky. The manuscript it contained was headed,

'_James Fairhaven's last words to
Andrew Meadow_.'

It was with a beating heart I prepared to read what he had written.

XIV.

IT IS SUNRISE. A GOLDEN MIST IS RISING FROM THE WATERS.

On two occasions you have expressed to me your wish to know what it was that induced me to take an interest in you when you were left an orphan, friendless, as you might have supposed. As the answer to your inquiry would have disclosed one of the secrets of my life, I refused to answer. But tonight, sitting, as I am sitting, alone in this desolate house, I am impelled to write an answer in my own way--impelled by the resurrection of certain memories which have arisen about me during the last hour, and which cling to me now with terrible tenacity. For the only time in my life that I can remember I will indulge myself by a free outpouring of what is in my mind, setting no restraint upon myself, as has hitherto invariably been my rule. I do this the more readily, as these words will certainly not be read by you until I am dead, and may never be read by you at all, for the whim may seize me to destroy them. To this extent I may therefore think that I am speaking to myself only--making confession to myself only. I strip myself of all reserve; the mere expression of this resolution gives me relief.

I am not writing in my study; it was my first intention to do so, but the room was close and warm, and when the door was shut a stifling feeling came upon me, as if other forms besides my own were there, although I was the only living presence in it. Directly the fancy seized me, it grew to such monstrous proportions that, with a vague fear, I brought my papers away, and felt when I left the room as if I had escaped from a prison. I am writing now in the large drawing-room, by the window which looks out upon the garden and the river, where you and I have sometimes sat and conversed. The night is dark; the river and the banks beyond are dark; the garden is filled with shadows. The only light to be seen is where I am sitting writing by the light of a reading-lamp. The other portions of the room, and the garden, and the river, and the river's banks are wrapped in gloom. I open the window; I can breathe more freely now.

Certain words you spoke to me, during our last interview, have recurred to me many times, against my wish, for I have endeavoured vainly to forget them. According to your thinking, you said, money, was only sweet when it was well-earned and well-spent. Well-earned? I have worked hard for the money which I have gained. I have toiled and laboured and schemed for it, and it is mine. Has it not been well earned? I ask this question of myself, not of you; for I believe your answer, if you could give it to me, would not please me. Well spent? I do not know--I never considered. I have gone on accumulating. 'Money makes money,' I used to hear over and over again. Money _has_ made money for me. Well, it is mine. The thought intrudes itself, For how long? This thought hurts me; I am an old man. For how many years longer will my money be mine? But I go on accumulating and adding; it is the purpose of my life.

It has been the purpose of my life since I was a young man. Then I was clerk to a great broker. I became learned in money; I knew all its values and fractions; it took possession of my mind, and I determined to become rich. It seemed to me that money was the only thing in life worth living for; I resolved to live for it, and for it only, and to obtain it. I have lived for it--I have obtained it--and I sit now in my grand house, a desolate man, with a weight upon my heart which no words can express.

How still and quiet everything is around me! I might be in a deserted land, alone with my wealth, and the end of my life is near! 'Money is only sweet when it is well-earned and well-spent?' Are you right, or am I? Has my life been a mistake?

The great broker in whose employ I was, noticed my assiduity and my earnestness. There were other clerks of the same age as myself in the office, but I was the most able among them, and I rose above them. Little by little I became acquainted with the mysteries of money-making, and it was not long before I commenced to take advantage of the knowledge I gained. I began to trade upon the plots and schemes of the money men. Others lost; I gained. Others were ruined; I was prospering. In time to come, I said, I shall ride in my brougham--like my master. In time to come, I shall own a fine house--like my master. I never paused to consider whether he was happy. I knew that he was rich; I knew that he had a fine wife and a fine daughter, a fine house and a fine carriage. His wife was a fine lady--a fashionable lady--who, when I saw her in her carriage, looked as if life were a weariness to her; her daughter was growing into the likeness of her mother. I know now that he was an unhappy man, and that his pleasures were not derived through home associations.

A clerk--Sydney by name--over whose head I had risen, had often invited me to visit him; I spent one Sunday with him. He lived half-a-dozen miles from the City, and his salary at the time I visited him was a hundred and seventy-five pounds a year. I was then making, with my salary and speculations, at least a thousand. He was a married man, with a pretty wife and a baby. The house in which they lived was small, and there was a garden attached to it. After dinner we sat in the garden and talked; he told his wife what a clever fellow I was, and how I had risen over all of them. I told him that he could do as well as I if he chose, although I was inwardly sure he could not, for his qualities were different from mine. 'You have only to speculate,' I said. He returned a foolish answer. 'This is my speculation,' he said, pinching his wife's cheek. 'Is it a good one?' his wife asked merrily. I do not know what there was in the look he gave her which caused her to bend towards him and kiss him; I think there were tears in her eyes too. 'Well,' I said, 'every one to his taste.' 'Just so,' he replied, with his arm round his wife's waist In the evening, your mother, then a single girl, came in with her father. They and the Sydneys were friends.

Now, to whom am I speaking? To myself or to you? Shall I go on with my confession, and go on without moral trickery, or shall I tear up these sheets, and deaden my memory with excess of some kind? It is rather late in life for me to commence this latter course. I have often been drunk with excitement, but never with wine. My life has been a steady one, and it has been my study to keep a guard over myself. Indeed, it has been necessary for success, and I _have_ succeeded. 'When the wine is in, the wit is out'--a true proverb. Why am I debating about my course? I have already decided that I will speak plainly, and will strip myself of all reserve. When I have finished, I can destroy. I will not waver; I will go on to the end.

Even if you do read what I write, it will not matter to me. I shall have gone, and shall not know. Stop, though. You, as a clergyman, would tell me otherwise, and would doubtless, if you had the opportunity, enlighten my darkness, to use a common phrase. I have never considered it before; but I suppose I am a Christian. Is that a phrase also? To speak without reserve, as I have resolved to do, it is to me nothing more than a name. If the question, What has been your religion? were put to me, and I were compelled to answer (again without moral trickery), I should answer, Money. These reflections have come to me without foreshadowing, and I set them down. If they cause you to be sad, think for a moment. How many Christians do you know? I could argue with you now, if you were here. Christianity, as I have heard (not as I have seen), cannot mean a set belief in certain narrow doctrines; it cannot include trickery and false-dealing in worldly matters. It means, as I have heard and not seen, the practical adoption of a larger view of humanity than now obtains. Certain self-sacrifices, certain tolerations, which are not seen except in the quixotic, are included in this larger view. I repeat my question: How many Christians do you know?

A bitter mood is upon me; it may divert me from my purpose. I will lay down my pen, and look into the shadows.

What have I seen after an interval of I do not know how many minutes? Shadows in the future. Shadows from the past. Shadows all around me as I sit--in the room, in the garden, in the river. Stay. I see a light coming into the sky. The waters of the river are trembling. The moon is rising.

Andrew, I loved your mother. I never told her this, in words; but she knew it. There was a time, I have sometimes thought, when I might have won her. But I held back until, so far as she herself was concerned, it was too late. If she had not met your father--(she had not seen him when I first knew her)--and if she had not loved him, I should still have held back. For my design then was to many money, if I married at all. My master had married money. Other rich men, to whose height I had hoped to rise, had married money. I would do the same. Love was a dream to be blotted out. It stopped advancement. I strove to blot out my love for your mother, but I could not. I did the next best thing; I strove to conceal it. Even in that attempt, however, I was not successful. The Sidneys whose house I frequently visited in the hope of meeting her, saw it, and threw us much together. Mrs. Sydney said to me once, out of her ignorance, 'See how happy we are! You can be the same if you please.' I smiled, but did not reply. I could be the same, if I pleased! Why, I could have bought them up twenty times over. Sydney himself owed me money, having been duped by a friend, as foolish persons almost always are. I have never been duped by a friend in all my long life. I have lost money in the way of business, but I have never been duped by a friend. Life is an intellectual battle. Those win whose wits are the sharpest.

Your mother and I grew very intimate. I interested her in my career, although I never entered into the details of my successes. I told her only the results. Her father encouraged our intimacy. I had already lent _him_ money. About this time I saw signs of an approaching panic. I said to myself, 'This is your chance; there will be precious pickings in the ruins. Sharpen your wits; now is your time.' I gathered in my money; I studied the signs, with a cool head. I mentioned the matter, under the seal of secrecy, to your mother. 'If all goes well,' I said, 'in six months I shall be worth so-and-so.' Your mother answered, 'But how about the people with whom all will go ill?' I said gaily, 'What is one man's meat is another man's poison. If I don't gather, others will.' The panic came and parsed, and did not leave me a mourner. England was strewn with wrecks, but I was safe; I was one of the fortunate wreckers. It was an anxious time; sharp wits were about, but few sharper than mine; and every man's hand was against his neighbour. Thousands of weak ones lost their all, and thousands more were bruised to death in rash attempts to recover what they had lost I saw them struggling all around me, and I saw here and there a foolish one holding out a helping hand, and being dragged into the whirlpool for his pains. When the storm passed, and the sky became clear, the land was filled with mourning. Among the foolish ones was Sydney. How could such a man expect to get on in the world? 'Self-preservation is the first law of nature.' What wisdom there is in many of these proverbs! There were very few smiling faces after the storm; but mine was one. I had netted thirty thousand pounds. This was the solid commencement of my fortune.

During this time I had but little leisure, and I saw scarcely anything of your mother. Now that the struggle was over, I went to her to tell her of my successes. Then I learned that her father had been ruined in the panic, and that if it had not been for a friend who sacrificed his small fortune for them, they would have been turned out of house and home. This friend was your father. He was a friend also to Sydney; and it was with his money, I believe, that Sydney discharged his debt to me; I had other security, but I was glad that there was no need to enforce it.

I held my passion in full control when I was told that your mother was engaged to be married. It was bitter to bear, but I argued with myself that it was best so; I _might_ have done a foolish thing. A coldness sprang up between the Sydneys and me, and our intimacy weakened. It was natural, for our positions were very different from what they were a few months before. I had risen, and he had fallen. We were not upon an equality.

I never saw your mother after she was married. Engrossed in the purpose of my life, deeply engaged in schemes involving large interests, rising and prospering, amassing and accumulating, I lost sight of her. But I did not forget her. Now and again, in my calmer moments, when a great venture had been brought to a successful issue and I had added to my store, or when the fever of a great speculation was over, I thought of her with a certain tenderness and a certain regret; but I strove to find happiness in my money. Did I find it? No.

No; I did not find it. Looking back into my life, with all its cares and anxious struggles, I know that I was never happy. Looking upon myself now, as I sit in my great house, an old man, writing my confession, I know that I am an utterly miserable man. Yet are not most men unhappy? It seems so to me. Then I am no different from others, and under any other circumstances I should be as I am. Should I? Supposing I had married, and had children who loved me. There would be consolation in that, surely. Children, wife, friends, who loved me! Answer me, Myself. Is there one living being in the world who thinks of you with affection, who pauses now and then to give you a thought of love? Answer honestly. Not one!

Is it fancy, and am I working myself into a morbid state of feeling? From the dense shadows that lurk in the corners of the room, seemed to come an echo of the unspoken words--Not one! The air seemed to carry the words to the river--Not one! The river is flowing to the sea--to the vast unseen waters which in my present mood I liken to the future into which my life will sink, unremembered, unblessed!

Most men are unhappy, I have said. Well, it is so in my experience. Yet the Sydneys were happy; I am sure of it. Even after the panic which enriched me and impoverished him, I have seen him on the top of an omnibus, after business hours, on his way home, with happiness in his face. Home! Is this my house a home? I have seen glimpses of happiness also elsewhere, and always, as I now recognise, in connection with women and children.

I thought often of your mother; but years passed, and I made no effort to see her. One day among my letters was one with a black envelope. I have the letter by me now. Knowing what I was about to write, I brought it with me from my study. You will recognise your mother's writing. I place it after these words, so that--should these pages come to your hands--you may read it in its natural order.

'My dear Sir,--You will be surprised to receive a letter from me, but not angry, I hope. You will regard it with kindly feelings, perhaps, when I tell you that when you read it I shall be in my grave. I come to you a suppliant, and with all the earnestness of my soul I pray that I may not write in vain. My husband--whom I shall soon see again--died three years since, leaving me with a child, a boy, in whom you will see a resemblance to the girl to whom you used to confide your hopes and plans. He has his father's mouth, but he has my eyes and hair. I was very very happy with my husband, who was a good man, but not fortunate in worldly matters. I used sometimes to wish that you could have visited us, and seen our happy little home. But you were too far removed from us in station; I often heard of your great successes in life, and was very very glad to know that you had gained what you most desired. When my husband died, he left me very poor. Can you guess now--you who must receive so many applications from the unfortunate--my purpose in writing to you?

'The doctor tells me I have not many days to live. I may live a month, he says; I may die tomorrow; and my child will be left quite penniless and unprovided for. I made up my mind to write before my strength fails me. Will you befriend my orphan boy? I do not know what words to use to strengthen my appeal. If you were to ask me what it is I wish you to do, and I could answer from my grave, I would say. Arm him for the battle of life; give him some sort of plain and useful education; and when he is old enough, put him in some way so that he may be able to work for his living. Will you do this, for the sake of old times, for the sake of the girl you used to like to chat with, for the sake of charity? When I write my name to this letter, I will kneel down and pray to the Almighty that you will not turn a deaf ear to my appeal, and I will bless you with my dying breath. As you read these words, think that I am by your side, imploring you to say, "Yes, I will do this out of pity for the orphan and his dead mother, and for the sake of old times." God prosper you in all your undertakings!--Your old friend and suppliant, ISABEL.'

You know now why I interested myself in you. Yes, I think there is one living being who will remember me with affection when I am gone.

I am thinking of you now, Andrew, and I am considering whether I shall carry out an idea which has occurred to me with reference to my money. I have nearly run my span of life. Death may, in the natural order of things, claim me at any moment. Say it claims me to-morrow, and I die without a will, what will become of the great fortune I shall leave behind me? Litigation will ensue. The lawyers will have a banquet You said once, 'If there were in the world one lawyer where now there are a hundred, the world would be the better for it, and justice would be more easily administered.' Well, the law shall not juggle with my money if I live another week; neither shall you have it for your own use; no, not one shilling of it. And yet, if I keep in my present mind, you shall have the entire control of it, and shall have the power of disposing of it in any way you please--except for your own benefit. I know that I can trust you thoroughly; there is not another man in the world whom I would dream of placing such confidence in. It was my desire that you should take my name after my death, and spend my money in such a manner as to make the name a great one in society. As that satisfaction is denied to me, and as you say that 'money is only sweet when it is well-spent,' use mine in fulfilment of your sentiment. The more I think of it the more am I disposed to regard my scheme with favour. To-morrow morning I will go to my lawyer, who will communicate with you after my death. You may be sure that everything will be plainly set down, and that you will not be able to appropriate the money to your own private use. But I must be just. Every labourer is worthy of his hire. If the administration of the trust occupies the chief portion of your time, you shall be warranted in drawing from the funds the sum of one hundred and fifty pounds per annum--to cease immediately your labours cease.

* * * * *

It is long past midnight. As I look out of window, I see that the moon has risen, and that the heavens are filled with stars. My garden is really beautiful now, with the light shining upon it. I have never seen my property present so fair an aspect as it does at this present moment. The river is very beautiful also. I will go out and stroll along the banks, or sit and muse, as the whim seizes me. Shall I wish you 'Good-night before I go? No, I will wait until I return.

* * * * *

Three hours have passed since I wrote the last words. I have heard no human voice, and yet it seems to me that I have heard voices. The air has grown very sweet. Flecks of gold are coming into the sky. I have watched their faint colour grow strong. It is sunrise. A golden mist is rising from the waters. I cannot tell you what has passed through my mind during the last few hours. I cannot tell you what is in it now. I can scarcely comprehend it myself, but I feel happier than I have felt for some time. I cannot wish you Good-night, for the night has passed. Good-morning, Andrew!

XV.

FAIRHAVEN.

The perusal of this remarkable document affected me beyond power of description. My mother's letter to Mr. Fairhaven brought her dear figure vividly to my mind's eye, and I sobbed from happiness. It was love that had accomplished this wonderful thing--love, which death cannot destroy.

I read the latter portion of the document again and again, until I could almost repeat the words from memory. 'Good-morning, Andrew,' were Mr. Fairhaven's last words to me. Ah, yes! In the night of his life the morning had dawned sweetly and holily. I blessed him for his noble revenge. I prayed for strength, for wisdom, to worthily fulfil the solemn trust reposed in me.

But in what way to apply it, so that unalloyed good might spring from its use? My heart cried out, 'Teach me! Show me the way!' An answer came. Side by side I saw the figures of Ruth and Blade-o'-Grass. 'Look here and here,' a voice seemed to say to me. 'See this one trodden into the mire. See this one tended, cared for, raised to purity and usefulness.' I trembled with mingled fear and happiness. A great thought loomed upon my mind, like a sunrise to my soul.

I placed my hand upon my heart to still its beating. I was alone, and I yearned for the presence of friends in whom I could confide. Should I go to those who were dearest to me--to Rachel and to Mrs. Silver, and tell them this wonderful news? I started to my feet with the intention of proceeding at once to Buttercup-square. I placed the precious document in my breast-pocket, and I buttoned my coat tightly and securely. But what, after all, if it should prove a mockery? No, I would wait until I had assured myself. I knew what hopes would be raised in their breasts, and I would spare them a possible disappointment.

If it were not mockery--if it were true, clear, incontestable--this immense fortune was at my disposal to do as I pleased with. Not to spend upon myself; to spend upon others; to sow and reap the crop. Golden Grain!

But before it grew to fulness and ripeness, before it waved in perfect comeliness in the eyes of God and man, to watch the tender green leaves springing from the beneficent earth, smiling in the face of the bright sun, with nature's health-giving tears glistening upon them--to watch them gather sufficient strength to resist the attacks of wind and storm and adverse circumstances, each Blade of Grass a thing of beauty---- Ah, Golden Grain! Golden Grain indeed!

I could not sleep on that night I rose many times, and paced the room, praying for sunrise. And then, when the business of the day had fairly commenced, I was in the office of Mr. Fairhaven's lawyers. The principal member of the firm received me. He eyed me with curiosity through his golden spectacles.

'I expected you would call,' he observed, as he motioned me to a seat.

'Are you acquainted,' I asked, 'with the contents of the packet you sent to me yesterday?'

He answered me like a lawyer.

'It came to me sealed; my instructions were to forward it.'

I placed it in his hands, and he read it, slowly and attentively.

'I was in doubt,' he said, as he handed it back to me, 'whether you were a relative of the late Mr. Fairhaven.'

'You see that I am not'

'I see. It is all the more remarkable because of that.'

'The will,' I said, and paused. He took up my words.

'----Is in exact accordance with the terms of the letter.'

He opened his safe, and produced the will. He referred to the date of the letter.

'I received my instructions,' he said, 'from the late Mr. Fairhaven on the morning following the day on which he wrote this communication.'

'I should have wished to attend his funeral,' I said, 'if I had but known! Even without this, it would have been my earnest desire. I owe much to him.'

'I received no instructions that have not complied with.'

'You saw my dear friend before his death?'

'Frequently. Two days before his death, indeed. You are aware that he died rather suddenly.'

'I was not aware. I am glad to know that he did not suffer long.'

'Up to the last his intellect was remarkably clear.' He said this with a half smile.

'You put stress upon that,' I observed.

'Undoubtedly, my dear sir. It is an important point.'

'In what way?'

He gave me an odd look, and said: 'The late Mr. Fairhaven must have relations. The will he has made is undoubtedly an eccentric one. Has it occurred to you that its validity may be disputed?'

'No.'

'It will be,' he said dryly; 'and that is the reason why it is important to be able to prove that his intellect was clear to the last. You need have no fear, Mr. Meadow. The will cannot be shaken.'

I thanked him for the assurance, and asked him if he was acquainted with the extent of the property.

'It will probably realise,' he answered, 'not less--yes, I should certainly say not less--than two hundred and thirty thousand pounds.'

'A vast fortune, indeed,' I said, with a beating heart at this confirmation of my hopes.

'And made out of nothing,' he added. 'He commenced life as a poor clerk. I have heard it said of him that whatever he touched turned to gold.'

I left to the lawyer the management of everything connected with Mr. Fairhaven's will. As he had predicted, it was disputed, on the ground of the testator's incapacity. But it was proved, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that Mr. Fairhaven was in the full possession of his reasoning faculties not only at the time he made his will, but up to the very day of his death. The validity of the will was unhesitatingly upheld by the judges, and the property came into my possession. Nevertheless the case was not finally settled until after the lapse of many months, and during this time the newspapers were busy upon Mr. Fairhaven's eccentricity. 'It remains to be seen,' said an influential paper, in a leading article, 'and it is a matter of much curiosity, how the legatee will administer his trust' I found myself quite a public character, and I was inundated with applications and with letters of advice. But my resolution was already formed.

I did not disclose this resolution to the Silvers while the matter was in the law-courts. So great was my anxiety that I feared, even up to the last moment, that some chance or quibble of the law would deprive me of the means for carrying it out. Not until everything was settled, not until the property was declared to be mine incontestably, not until it was realised, and the money invested in the Funds, did I consider myself free to open my mind to my dear friends. I had my last interview with the lawyer; he had acted throughout in the most straightforward manner, and I thanked him sincerely.

'And yet,' he remarked, 'you said once to Mr. Fairhaven that if there were in the world one lawyer where now there are a hundred, the world would be the better for it.'