TOUCHING MYSELF AND TEN THOUSAND POUNDS.
Although my ancestor was much too wise to refuse to look back upon his
origin in a worldly point of view, he never threw his retrospective
glances so far as to reach the sublime mystery of his moral existence;
and while his thoughts might be said to be ever on the stretch to
attain glimpses into the future, they were by far too earthly to extend
beyond any other settling day than those which were regulated by the
ordinances of the stock exchange. With him, to be born was but the
commencement of a speculation, and to die was to determine the general
balance of profit and loss. A man who had so rarely meditated on the
grave changes of mortality, therefore, was consequently so much the
less prepared to gaze upon the visible solemnities of a death-bed.
Although he had never truly loved my mother, for love was a sentiment
much too pure and elevated for one whose imagination dwelt habitually
on the beauties of the stock-books, he had ever been kind to her, and
of late he was even much disposed, as has already been stated, to
contribute as much to her temporal comforts as comported with his
pursuits and habits. On the other hand, the quiet temperament of my
mother required some more exciting cause than the affections of her
husband, to quicken those germs of deep, placid, womanly love, that
certainly lay dormant in her heart, like seed withering with the
ungenial cold of winter. The last meeting of such a pair was not likely
to be attended with any violent outpourings of grief.
My ancestor, notwithstanding, was deeply struck with the physical
changes in the appearance of his wife.
“Thou art much emaciated, Betsey,” he said, taking her hand kindly,
after a long and solemn pause; “much more so than I had thought, or
could have believed! Dost nurse give thee comforting soups and generous
nourishment?”
My mother smiled the ghastly smile of death; but waved her hand, with
loathing, at his suggestion.
“All this is now too late, Mr. Goldencalf,” she answered, speaking with
a distinctness and an energy for which she had long been reserving her
strength. “Food and raiment are no longer among my wants.”
“Well, well, Betsey, one that is in want of neither food nor raiment,
cannot be said to be in great suffering, after all; and I am glad that
thou art so much at ease. Dr. Etherington tells me thou art far from
being well bodily, however, and I am come expressly to see if I can
order anything that will help to make thee more easy.”
“Mr. Goldencalf, you can. My wants for this life are nearly over; a
short hour or two will remove me beyond the world, its cares, its
vanities, its—” My poor mother probably meant to add, its heartlessness
or its selfishness; but she rebuked herself, and paused: “By the mercy
of our blessed Redeemer, and through the benevolent agency of this
excellent man,” she resumed, glancing her eye upwards at first with
holy reverence, and then at the divine with meek gratitude, “I quit you
without alarm, and were it not for one thing, I might say without
care.”
“And what is there to distress thee, in particular, Betsey?” asked my
father, blowing his nose, and speaking with unusual tenderness; “if it
be in my power to set thy heart at ease on this, or on any other point,
name it, and I will give orders to have it immediately performed. Thou
hast been a good pious woman, and canst have little to reproach thyself
with.”
My mother looked earnestly and wistfully at her husband. Never before
had he betrayed so strong an interest in her happiness, and had it not,
alas! been too late, this glimmering of kindness might have lighted the
matrimonial torch into a brighter flame than had ever yet glowed upon
the past.
“Mr. Goldencalf, we have an only son—”
“We have, Betsey, and it may gladden thee to hear that the physician
thinks the boy more likely to live than either of his poor brothers and
sisters.”
I cannot explain the holy and mysterious principle of maternal nature
that caused my mother to clasp her hands, to raise her eyes to heaven,
and, while a gleam flitted athwart her glassy eyes and wan cheeks, to
murmur her thanks to God for the boon. She was herself hastening away
to the eternal bliss of the pure of mind and the redeemed, and her
imagination, quiet and simple as it was, had drawn pictures in which
she and her departed babes were standing before the throne of the Most
High, chanting his glory, and shining amid the stars—and yet was she
now rejoicing that the last and the most cherished of all her
offsprings was likely to be left exposed to the evils, the vices, nay,
to the enormities, of the state of being that she herself so willingly
resigned.
“It is of our boy that I wish now to speak, Mr. Goldencalf,” replied my
mother, when her secret devotion was ended. “The child will have need
of instruction and care; in short, of both mother and father.”
“Betsey, thou forgettest that he will still have the latter.”
“You are much wrapped up in your business, Mr. Goldencalf, and are not,
in other respects, qualified to educate a boy born to the curse and to
the temptations of immense riches.”
My excellent ancestor looked as if he thought his dying consort had in
sooth finally taken leave of her senses.
“There are public schools, Betsey; I promise thee the child shall not
be forgotten: I will have him well taught, though it cost me a thousand
a year!”
His wife reached forth her emaciated hand to that of my father, and
pressed the latter with as much force as a dying mother could use. For
a fleet moment she even appeared to have gotten rid of her latest care.
But the knowledge of character that had been acquired by the hard
experience of thirty years, was not to be unsettled by the gratitude of
a moment.
“I wish, Mr. Goldencalf,” she anxiously resumed, “to receive your
solemn promise to commit the education of our boy to Dr.
Etherington—you know his worth, and must have full confidence in such a
man.”
“Nothing would give me greater satisfaction, my dear Betsey; and if Dr.
Etherington will consent to receive him, I will send Jack to his house
this very evening; for, to own the truth, I am but little qualified to
take charge of a child under a year old. A hundred a year, more or
less, shall not spoil so good a bargain.”
The divine was a gentleman, and he looked grave at this speech, though,
meeting the anxious eyes of my mother, his own lost their displeasure
in a glance of reassurance and pity.
“The charges of his education will be easily settled, Mr. Goldencalf,”
added my mother; “but the Doctor has consented with difficulty to take
the responsibility of my poor babe, and that only under two
conditions.”
The stock-dealer required an explanation with his eyes.
“One is, that the child shall be left solely to his own care, after he
has reached his fourth year; and the other is, that you make an
endowment for the support of two poor scholars, at one of the principal
schools.”
As my mother got out the last words, she fell back on her pillow,
whence her interest in the subject had enabled her to lift her head a
little, and she fairly gasped for breath, in the intensity of her
anxiety to hear the answer. My ancestor contracted his brow, like one
who saw it was a subject that required reflection.
“Thou dost not know perhaps, Betsey, that these endowments swallow up a
great deal of money—a great deal—and often very uselessly.”
“Ten thousand pounds is the sum that has been agreed upon between Mrs.
Goldencalf and me,” steadily remarked the Doctor, who, in my soul, I
believe had hoped that his condition would be rejected, having yielded
to the importunities of a dying woman, rather than to his own sense of
that which might be either very desirable or very useful.
“Ten thousand pounds!”
My mother could not speak, though she succeeded in making an imploring
sign of assent.
“Ten thousand pounds is a great deal of money, my dear Betsey—a very
great deal!”
The color of my mother changed to the hue of death, and by her
breathing she appeared to be in the agony.
“Well, well, Betsey,” said my father a little hastily, for he was
frightened at her pallid countenance and extreme distress, “have it
thine own way—the money, yes, yes—it shall be given as thou wishest—now
set thy kind heart at rest.”
The revulsion of feeling was too great for one whose system had been
wound up to a state of excitement like that which had sustained my
mother, who, an hour before, had seemed scarcely able to speak. She
extended her hand toward her husband, smiled benignantly in his face,
whispered the word “Thanks,” and then, losing all her powers of body,
sank into the last sleep, as tranquilly as the infant drops its head on
the bosom of the nurse. This was, after all, a sudden, and, in one
sense, an unexpected death: all who witnessed it were struck with awe.
My father gazed for a whole minute intently on the placid features of
his wife, and left the room in silence. He was followed by Dr.
Etherington, who accompanied him to the private apartment where they
had first met that night, neither uttering a syllable until both were
seated.
“She was a good woman, Dr. Etherington!” said the widowed man, shaking
his foot with agitation.
“She was a good woman, Mr. Goldencalf.”
“And a good wife, Dr. Etherington.”
“I have always believed her to be a good wife, sir.”
“Faithful, obedient, and frugal.”
“Three qualities that are of much practical use in the affairs of this
world.”
“I shall never marry again, sir.”
The divine bowed.
“Nay, I never could find such another match!”
Again the divine inclined his head, though the assent was accompanied
by slight smile.
“Well, she has left me an heir.”
“And brought something that he might inherit,” observed the Doctor,
dryly.
My ancestor looked up inquiringly at his companion, but apparently most
of the sarcasm was thrown away,
“I resign the child to your care, Dr. Etherington, conformably to the
dying request of my beloved Betsey.”
“I accept the charge, Mr. Goldencalf, comformably to my promise to the
deceased; but you will remember that there was a condition coupled with
that promise which must be faithfully and promptly fulfilled.”
My ancestor was too much accustomed to respect the punctilios of trade,
whose code admits of frauds only in certain categories, which are
sufficiently explained in its conventional rules of honor; a sort of
specified morality, that is bottomed more on the convenience of its
votaries than on the general law of right. He respected the letter of
his promise while his soul yearned to avoid its spirit; and his wits
were already actively seeking the means of doing that which he so much
desired.
“I did make a promise to poor Betsey, certainly,” he answered, in the
way of one who pondered, “and it was a promise, too, made under very
solemn circumstances.”
“The promises made to the dead are doubly binding; since, by their
departure to the world of spirits, it may be said they leave the
performance to the exclusive superintendence of the Being who cannot
lie.”
My ancestor quailed; his whole frame shuddered, and his purpose was
shaken.
“Poor Betsey left you as her representative in this case, however,
Doctor,” he observed, after the delay of more than a minute, casting
his eyes wistfully towards the divine.
“In one sense, she certainly did, sir.”
“And a representative with full powers is legally a principal under a
different name. I think this matter might be arranged to our mutual
satisfaction, Dr. Etherington, and the intention of poor Betsey most
completely executed; she, poor woman, knew little of business, as was
best for her sex; and when women undertake affairs of magnitude, they
are very apt to make awkward work of it.”
“So that the intention of the deceased be completely fulfilled, you
will not find me exacting, Mr. Goldencalf.”
“I thought as much—I knew there could be no difficulty between two men
of sense, who were met with honest views to settle a matter of this
nature. The intention of poor Betsey, Doctor, was to place her child
under your care, with the expectation—and I do not deny its
justice—that the boy would receive more benefit from your knowledge
than he possibly could from mine.”
Dr. Etherington was too honest to deny these premises, and too polite
to admit them without an inclination of acknowledgment.
“As we are quite of the same mind, good sir, concerning the
preliminaries,” continued my ancestor, “we will enter a little nearer
into the details. It appears to me to be no more than strict justice,
that he who does the work should receive the reward. This is a
principle in which I have been educated, Dr. Etherington; it is one in
which I could wish to have my son educated; and it is one on which I
hope always to practise.”
Another inclination of the body conveyed the silent assent of the
divine.
“Now, poor Betsey, Heaven bless her!—for she was a meek and tranquil
companion, and richly deserves to be rewarded in a future state—but,
poor Betsey had little knowledge of business. She fancied that, in
bestowing these ten thousand pounds on a charity, she was acting well;
whereas she was in fact committing injustice. If you are to have the
trouble and care of bringing up little Jack, who but you should reap
the reward?”
“I shall expect, Mr. Goldencalf, that you will furnish the means to
provide for the child’s wants.”
“Of that, sir, it is unnecessary to speak,” interrupted my ancestor,
both promptly and proudly. “I am a wary man, and a prudent man, and am
one who knows the value of money, I trust; but I am no miser, to stint
my own flesh and blood. Jack shall never want for anything, while it is
in my power to give it. I am by no means as rich, sir, as the
neighborhood supposes; but then I am no beggar. I dare say, if all my
assets were fairly counted, it might be found that I am worth a plum.”
“You are said to have received a much larger sum than that with the
late Mrs. Goldencalf,” the divine observed, not without reproof in his
voice.
“Ah, dear sir, I need not tell you what vulgar rumor is—but I shall not
undermine my own credit; and we will change the subject. My object, Dr.
Etherington, was merely to do justice. Poor Betsey desired that ten
thousand pounds might be given to found a scholarship or two: now, what
have these scholars done, or what are they likely to do, for me or
mine? The case is different with you, sir; you will have trouble—much
trouble, I make no doubt; and it is proper that you should have a
sufficient compensation. I was about to propose, therefore, that you
should consent to receive my check for three, or four, or even for five
thousand pounds,” continued my ancestor, raising the offer as he saw
the frown on the brow of the Doctor deepen. “Yes, sir, I will even say
the latter sum, which possibly will not be too much for your trouble
and care; and we will forget the womanish plan of poor Betsey in
relation to the two scholarships and the charity. Five thousand pounds
down, Doctor, for yourself, and the subject of the charity forgotten
forever.”
When my father had thus distinctly put his proposition, he awaited its
effect with the confidence of a man who had long dealt with cupidity.
For a novelty, his calculation failed. The face of Dr. Etherington
flushed, then paled, and finally settled into a look of melancholy
reprehension. He arose and paced the room for several minutes in
silence; during which time his companion believed he was debating with
himself on the chances of obtaining a higher bid for his consent, when
he suddenly stopped and addressed my ancestor in a mild but steady
tone.
“I feel it to be a duty, Mr. Goldencalf,” he said, “to admonish you of
the precipice over which you hang. The love of money, which is the root
of all evil, which caused Judas to betray even his Saviour and God, has
taken deep root in your soul. You are no longer young, and although
still proud in your strength and prosperity, are much nearer to your
great account than you may be willing to believe. It is not an hour
since you witnessed the departure of a penitent soul for the presence
of her God; since you heard the dying request from her lips; and since,
in such a presence and in such a scene, you gave a pledge to respect
her wishes, and, now, with the accursed spirit of gain upper-most, you
would trifle with these most sacred obligations, in order to keep a
little worthless gold in a hand that is already full to overflowing.
Fancy that the pure spirit of thy confiding and single-minded wife were
present at this conversation; fancy it mourning over thy weakness and
violated faith—nay, I know not that such is not the fact; for there is
no reason to believe that the happy spirits are not permitted to watch
near, and mourn over us, until we are released from this mass of sin
and depravity in which we dwell—and, then, reflect what must be her
sorrow at hearing how soon her parting request is forgotten, how
useless has been the example of her holy end, how rooted and fearful
are thine own infirmities!”
My father was more rebuked by the manner than by the words of the
divine. He passed his hand across his brow, as if to shut out the view
of his wife’s spirit; turned, drew his writing materials nearer, wrote
a check for the ten thousand pounds, and handed it to the Doctor with
the subdued air of a corrected boy.
“Jack shall be at your disposal, good sir,” he said, as the paper was
delivered, “whenever it may be your pleasure to send for him.”
They parted in silence; the divine too much displeased, and my ancestor
too much grieved, to indulge in words of ceremony.
When my father found himself alone, he gazed furtively about the room,
to assure himself that the rebuking spirit of his wife had not taken a
shape less questionable than air, and then, he mused for at least an
hour, very painfully, on all the principal occurrences of the night. It
is said that occupation is a certain solace for grief, and so it proved
to be in the present case; for luckily my father had made up that very
day his private account of the sum total of his fortune. Sitting down,
therefore, to the agreeable task, he went through the simple process of
subtracting from it the amount for which he had just drawn, and,
finding that he was still master of seven hundred and eighty-two
thousand three hundred and eleven pounds odd shillings and even pence,
he found a very natural consolation for the magnitude of the sum he had
just given away, by comparing it with the magnitude of that which was
left.