THE CANDLE FLICKERS.
Leaving Margaret to recover slowly at the little cottage under her
mother’s care, and Helen and her father to the tranquil existence which,
though humble, contents them, we pass to a nearer view of Lewis Rand and
his uncle, whose last days are imbittered by the artful machinations of
his nephew.
We stand before a palace-like structure, fronting on Fifth Avenue, whose
imposing exterior scarcely gives an adequate idea of the interior
magnificence. But few homes, even in that aristocratic quarter, are more
sumptuously furnished. Yet it would be difficult to say how far all this
splendor contributes to the happiness of its owner. Happiness is quite
independent of wealth, and what wealth can procure. Of what avail is it,
that curtains of the richest damask keep out the too intrusive sunlight,
or that carpets of the finest texture cover the floors, since the
shutters are always closed, and the magnificent parlors rarely echo the
steps of a visitor? Of what avail is the gallery of really exquisite
paintings, selected at an immense cost from European collections? Hidden
from the curious eye, lest perchance some harm might come to them, never
looked upon by the possessor, they might as well be buried under ground,
so far as concerns the actual enjoyment derived from them.
Mr. Rand has never recovered from the loss of his son. Great as was the
shock he experienced from that son’s plebeian choice, for such he
considered it, he would have made advances towards a reconciliation long
before, but for the vigilance and adroit manœuvring of his nephew Lewis.
The latter well knew that this would be fatal to his hopes of succeeding
as heir presumptive to his uncle’s immense wealth. Accordingly, as soon
as his uncle’s first passionate anger began to show signs of abatement,
he was persuaded by Lewis to undertake a European tour. This occupied
several years, during which they resided, for different lengths of time,
in the principal European capitals. It was at this time that most of the
articles of taste and luxury which now adorned the city mansion were
first collected.
But there is nothing that can supply to the heart the place of a lost
affection. Mr. Rand returned to America restless and unhappy for the
lack of that which his own act had driven from him. Had his son been at
hand, he would have offered to receive him back, but it was not till
some time afterwards that he heard of his being in Chicago. Whether
Lewis suspected any disposition to relent is not certain, but, as we
have already seen, he thought it politic to give his uncle the
impression that his cousin was dead. Of this he did not find it
difficult then to convince him, and so, for a time, he breathed easier.
But the recent glimpse of Robert had aroused in the father a hope which
Lewis found it exceedingly difficult to stifle. To this hope may be
attributed the change in the phraseology of the will, which the nephew
had taken such criminal pains to neutralize. He was in perpetual
apprehension that his cousin might, by some means, learn the fact of his
father’s residence in the city, and, in consequence, make an attempt to
obtain an interview. This must be avoided at all hazards. The quiet
manner in which they lived rendered the chance of discovery a small one,
and the present alarming illness of his uncle, which Lewis regarded as a
fortunate circumstance, made that chance still smaller.
On a bed in one of the most elegantly furnished chambers in his princely
dwelling, reposed Mr. Rand,—let me rather say reclined, for his quick,
restless movements indicated anything but repose. His white hair clung
disordered about his temples, his features were thin and careworn, and
his whole aspect was that of a man whose life is ending in anxiety and
disappointment.
Lewis sat by the bedside, coldly scrutinizing the wasted features, as if
calculating how long life can retain its hold.
“Will he never die—_never_?” thus ran his thoughts. “It is strange with
what tenacity he clings to life; but as long as he remains here,
prostrated by sickness, I am tolerably safe. Still, it isn’t a bad plan,
which I have in train through Sharp. Although the chances are a hundred
to one in my favor, the bare _possibility_ of miscarriage is sufficient
to justify every precaution.”
“O that he might die _at once_!” he mentally resumed, looking
impatiently at the wasted face. “Then alone will my doubts and anxieties
be at an end. Then I shall care little how often I may meet my cousin
Robert. He will have no further power to injure or thwart me. He cannot
last long now. It is three days since he has been rational. He must die,
and then——”
Lewis rose and paced the room with quick strides, while he indulged in
dreams of the uses to which he would apply the rich inheritance, for
which he had been plotting and scheming for so many years.
He was interrupted by a feeble voice from the bed.
Lewis turned quickly towards the bed, and the face of the cunning
dissembler at once assumed the expression of profound sorrow and
sympathy.
“My dear uncle,” he said, “I am rejoiced to find that you are once more
yourself. How do you feel?”
“Weak, Lewis, very weak,” returned the sick man, speaking with
difficulty. “I feel that my life is nearing its close.”
“Don’t say that, uncle,” said Lewis, with well dissembled emotion; “I
cannot bear to part with you. Live for me, if not for yourself. If you
should die, what is there left to me? Through so many years I have
renounced all other ties, and devoted myself to you. You must not leave
me now.”
The artful dissembler applied his handkerchief to his eyes, possibly to
hide the gleam of joyful anticipation which he could with difficulty
conceal.
“Yes, Lewis,” said Mr. Rand, affected by his nephew’s apparent emotion;
“you have indeed been devoted to me. You will find, after my death, that
I have not been ungrateful. Your affection leads you to wish my life
prolonged, but when the tongue falters, and the pulse grows weak, and
the throbbing heart is almost still, man should not presumptuously
strive to call back the gift which God is about to take away.”
“My dear uncle, I am convinced that you are unnecessarily alarmed. You
will yet live many years.”
“Hope it not, Lewis,” said the sick man, who was far from suspecting how
unnecessary this admonition was; “hope it not. I know my time is short.
At such a time, Lewis, our past actions assume a very different aspect
from that in which we have been wont to regard them. Now when it is too
late, I can see how by my foolish pride, I have wrecked my own
happiness, and perhaps—God forgive me—that of him I loved best in life,
my son Robert.”
Lewis was uneasy at the turn the conversation was taking, and made an
effort to divert it.
“I think, sir,” he said, “that you are blaming yourself without adequate
cause. Much as I loved my cousin, I am forced to acknowledge that he
justly forfeited his claims to your favor and affection.”
“Forfeited my affection! And shall we, weak, erring mortals, in our
presumption dare to affix such a penalty to what may after all be only
an offence against our own unworthy pride? I feel that I was wrong. I
should not have condemned Robert’s choice without having seen his wife,
and if she was really worthy, I should have given my consent.”
“But, consider her birth.”
“When you come to lie on your death-bed as I do now,” said the sick man,
solemnly, “such considerations will dwindle into their proper
insignificance. Why should I claim superiority over any being whom the
same kind Father has made? When death is near us, our vision becomes
clearer. The scales of prejudice are rent away, and we see things as
they are.”
Lewis was silent. He was seeking some way of diverting the conversation
into a less dangerous channel.
“While I have been lying here,” resumed Mr. Rand, “I have been haunted
by a conviction that Robert is still living, or that he may have left
issue.”
“My dear uncle,” interrupted Lewis; in alarm, “let me entreat you not to
disturb yourself by such thoughts; call to mind how direct were the
proofs of his death.”
“I know all that you would urge, Lewis, but there have been cases where
the death of a person of similar name has led to a misapprehension. It
may have been so in this case.”
“It is scarcely possible.”
“Perhaps you are right. My conviction is based rather upon my feelings
than upon my reason.”
“Better think no more of it, uncle, it will only distress you.”
“Have I not done so? For eighteen years I have been striving to drive
away the thoughts of my injustice. But it will not do. I _must_ think of
it, and thinking finds relief in speaking.”
“But, even admitting that you have wronged my cousin Robert, which, in
justice to yourself I am not willing to allow, consider that your will,
by its provisions, makes ample reparation for that wrong.”
“Poor, at best, Lewis. Will it make reparation for the estrangement
which for eighteen years has kept apart father and son? That cannot be.
And yet I would fain see even this poor atonement made.”
“You may rely upon my being guided by your wishes, uncle.”
“I doubt it not. Yet it would be a satisfaction if I, who have done the
wrong, could have the privilege of repairing it during my life. Oh, that
I might have the joy and blessing of seeing my son once more if he yet
lives—that I might ask his forgiveness for the wrong I have done him!”
Lewis was seriously troubled at his uncle’s pertinacity, and still more
by the inquiry which followed.
“Don’t you think, Lewis, it would be well to advertise in the daily
papers, for Robert Rand or his descendants, if he should have any?”
“It would be useless,” said Lewis, shaking his head. “It would only be
throwing the money away.”
“And what is money to me? Nothing, nothing, compared with the thought I
have done something, however little, towards expiating my injustice. I
wish, Lewis, you would draw up an advertisement, and see it inserted.”
However distasteful this proposal was to Lewis, it would not do to
object. He therefore, with an appearance of alacrity, procured writing
materials, and prepared such an advertisement as his uncle desired. He
read it to the sick man who signified his approval, and requested Lewis
to procure its insertion in the principal daily papers forthwith. This
Lewis undertook to do.
_But the advertisement never appeared!_
Lewis dared not permit this, knowing that his cousin was actually in the
city, and that it would be likely to meet his eye.
Had his uncle been in the habit of reading the daily papers, it could
not safely have been suppressed. But he was too sick for that, and there
was no prospect of his becoming better. He had of course no suspicion of
Lewis’s double dealing, but trusted implicitly to him. Day after day he
inquired anxiously if there was any answer to the advertisement. As
often Lewis replied in the negative, and Mr. Rand would sink back upon
his pillow with a sigh of disappointment.
Once Lewis ventured to suggest that it would be well to discontinue the
advertisement.
“No, no,” said his uncle, “let it be continued while I live. And after
that I depend upon you to leave no effort unmade to discover some trace
of my lost son.”
“You know me too well, to doubt that I will follow your instructions to
the letter.”
“Yes, Lewis,” said his uncle. “You have been very kind to me. You
deserve all my confidence, and you possess it.”
So Lewis continued to keep watch by his uncle’s bedside, a daily witness
of his restlessness and unhappiness, and knowing full well that in an
hour’s space, he could bring peace and comfort to the dying man by
restoring his son to him; even at the eleventh hour, he refused to speak
the word that could have wrought the blessed change.
God grant that there be not many hearts as hard!