CONCLUSION.
Mr. Fielding was alone in his office. Perched on a high stool, with
spectacles on his nose, pouring over Blackstone's views on certain
questions of equity, sat the lawyer at his desk, with a look of wisdom
supernal. The door opened, but it did not disturb him.
"Good morning, Mr. Fielding!" said a small voice, somewhere below him.
"I am engaged!" he growled.
"But I have come on legal business," persisted the voice.
"Who in the world are you--a kobold--or--or--May Brooke! What on earth
brought you here?" he exclaimed, pushing back his glasses.
"I have come about that will of my uncle's, sir," said May, demurely.
"Come to your senses at last," said the lawyer, chuckling with triumph.
"I wish to take the most decided measures to set aside my uncle's first
will, having in my possession the most decided proof that I did not
burn the last one," she said, in her quiet way.
"Proof, eh! I wonder if your proof will stand the test of the law?"
"I should think so. But I can impart nothing more on the subject until
you promise me, on your word of honor, to ask me no questions. I will
promise you, on the other hand, to tell you all that is necessary on
the subject," said May, earnestly.
"Heaven save us, when women begin with law! My dear little foolish
child, _I_ am not the Law; I am only its minister, and am bound, under
oath, to perform its functions faithfully," said Mr. Fielding, opening
his eyes wide with astonishment at May's strange proposition.
"All of which I am perfectly aware; but as your honor, or the honor of
the law will not be in the least involved in this affair, I must
persevere in my request."
"You'll have your way there's not the slightest doubt--if you can get
it. But can't you trust my discretion--my judgment--my--my ahem!
friendship for you, _pendente lite_."
"No, sir; I can trust to nothing but a promise such as I require from
you; a promise which, if you knew all, you would voluntarily, from the
best and most generous impulses of your heart, offer," said May,
standing up on a chair, that she might converse more at her ease, by
bringing her face to a level with his.
"I will promise this, and no more," he replied, after thinking some
minutes. "If, on producing your proof, I find it irrefragable, and can
proceed in this matter without carrying it to court, or bringing in
additional counsel--that is, if I can manage it all myself, which I
doubt, I will be silent. Men--even lawyers, are not apt to die of
ungratified curiosity. Will that answer you, ma'am?"
"I think so," said May, after some deliberation.
"Now produce your proof?"
"Here it is, sir. Here is my uncle's will, which has been so long
mislaid. I presume this is proof sufficient," said May, spreading out
the lost will before him. But such was his surprise, and so great his
eagerness to take it to the window to examine it, that he upset his
desk, and losing his balance, plunged head foremost after it, and lay
amidst the ruins covered with books, ink, and papers.
"Indeed, sir, I hope you are not hurt, and beg of you to excuse me,"
said May, trying to raise him up, while she laughed until tears ran
down her cheeks. "There, sir, sit in the arm-chair, and let me wipe
the ink from your face."
"Let the ink be, May. Only tell me how this will has been so
unexpectedly recovered, for it is, I am willing to swear on the Holy
Evangely, the identical one I drew up the day your uncle died," he
said, quite unruffled by the accident, and examining the document with
a close scrutinizing look.
"Are you perfectly satisfied?" asked May, gravely.
"Perfectly," he replied.
"Then I can only tell you that it is a case of conscience which I am
not at liberty to reveal; indeed, I would rather tear that will into
fragments than reveal its history. Heaven has interposed in answer to
prayer in this matter; an immortal soul has been led back to God.
Justice is satisfied. The widow, the orphan, the destitute will be
comforted--"
"And you will be as rich as Croesus!" said Mr. Fielding, with a
delighted look.
"Oh, sir! Oh, Mr. Fielding, what shall I do?" exclaimed May, bursting
into a fit of crying.
"What is the matter? What in the world are you crying about?"
"I don't want to be rich, sir; indeed, I never thought of myself. Oh,
dear! I shall be so trammelled, so tempted with all this. I don't
want it, sir."
"You are a fool. What do you want, boy?" said Mr. Fielding angrily to
a boy, who was standing at the door, laughing immoderately, though in a
suppressed manner.
"I have a note from Father Fabian, sir," said the urchin, who gave him
the note, and rushed out of the office, while his laughter,
unsuppressed, made the street echo with its mirthful sound.
Mr. Fielding tore open the note, and read:--
"DEAR SIR: I find that it will be impossible for me to see you, as I
wished to do, to-day. Ere this you have been informed, no doubt, by
May Brooke of the recovery of the lost will. I can only say, with the
permission of the penitent, who, through the fear of the Judgment of
Almighty God, and a sincere desire for salvation, restored it; that it
is the same which you drew up the day Mr. Stillinghast was taken ill;
which declaration has been made to me under an oath of the most solemn
character. You may, therefore, feel quite safe in making such business
arrangements in connection with it as your discretion may suggest.
"Very sincerely yours,
"STEPHEN FABIAN."
"Of course," said the lawyer, looking hurt, "it must be a most delicate
case where such secrecy is observed. But one cannot control his
suspicions."
Just then Mr. Jerrold came in. He looked so little like a man that was
going to lose the bulk of a princely fortune, that Mr. Fielding was
amazed--so amazed, that he could not imagine the cause of Mr. Jerrold's
laughter, who, although highly diverted at the grave lawyer's blackened
visage, endeavored in the most polite manner to suppress it.
"He doesn't know the will is found," thought Mr. Fielding.
"I have called, Mr. Fielding, to say that I am ready to give an account
of the stewardship of Mr. Stillinghast's property, which I have managed
for the last nine months. My wife and myself are perfectly satisfied
that the will now in your hand is genuine, and are too happy to see
every thing restored to its equilibrium, to wish an hour's delay in
resigning all right and title to every thing except what is legally and
honestly ours."
"Give me your hand, Mr. Jerrold. I honor your sentiments, and the
prompt and honorable manner with which you meet this emergency," said
honest Mr. Fielding. "Take May home, and comfort her between you all,
for the poor child is breaking her heart because she is rich."
And so it was settled. After receiving with true humility the
Sacraments of the Church, Helen, so altered and changed in all her
views of life and eternity, accompanied her husband to Europe. They
spent the winter in Rome, where, among other converts, who made their
abjuration of error and first communion at the "_Gesu_," was an
American gentleman named Jerrold. We may easily imagine who this
Jerrold was.
As to May, with the advice of Father Fabian and Mr. Fielding to aid her
in the distribution of her wealth, she became gradually reconciled to
the idea of being rich, because it afforded her an unfailing source of
happiness in the reflection that she could now, in an extended view,
become the benefactor of her kind. And from that day to this she has
been the busiest--the most untiring--the most loving friend of the poor
and afflicted. Decorating the sanctuary--visiting the widow and
orphan--relieving distresses, not only by alms, but by words of
cheer--raising up the fallen, and soothing the broken-hearted, was the
business of her life; a business sweetened by such ample consolations,
that she sometimes dreaded lest she should seek more her own comfort
than the kingdom of heaven. And then she often paused, and wondered
and feared, because no wild torrents swept across her way, and no
ruggedness wounded her feet in life's pathway. But she need not. The
love of God--a perfect charity, smoothed and brightened all. Where
others would have made gloom, she made sunshine; where others found the
waters of life bitter, she sweetened them by her perfect union with the
divine will.
And better than all, her practical works of charity were continually
adding members to the Church of Christ. But we must bid her adieu.
She is growing old, but her step is light, and her cheeks still tinted
with the hue of health; and, perchance, in some future sketch of life,
we may meet her again in her ceaseless round of charity. Helen was one
of her consolations. A truly Christian wife and mother; though timid
and humble in her spiritual life, her unobtrusive piety, amidst
temptation and worldly associations, made her an example and
edification to all who knew her. Mr. Fielding, always devoted to May,
and admiring the indomitable and cheerful energy of her character, was
at last persuaded that, as there is but one God, so there was but ONE
FAITH, and ONE BAPTISM, the fruits of which he sought with great
humility and steadfastness. We regret to add, that the benevolent and
warm-hearted Mrs. Tabb was so profuse in her charitable belief of the
right of all to be saved, that she easily fell in with the New Light of
the day--Spiritualism; and got her head so filled with "circles," and
"progression" and "manifestations," that not recognizing the demoniac
origin of it all, she became hopelessly insane. Mrs. Jerrold, enraged
at the loss of Mr. Stillinghast's fortune, and the conversion of her
son and Helen, retired to the "Cedars," where between "whist" and opium
she drags out a lengthened and miserable existence--refusing all
spiritual aid, and denouncing May in no measured terms, as the cause
and prime mover of all her reverses. We should like to have told all
this in our own way, but our limits, already transgressed, warn us to
silence, while the night-lamp, burning low in its socket, and the watch
ticking faintly, like the last pulses of the dying, tell us, in
emphatic language, that the "_good-night_" hour has come.
THE END.