Jerome went to Lawyer Means's that night. Means, himself, answered
his knock, and Jerome opened abruptly upon the subject in his mind.
"I want to give away that money, as I said I would," he declared.
The lawyer peered above a flaring candle into the darkness. "Oh, it
is you, is it! Come in."
"No, I can't come in. It isn't necessary. I have nothing to say but
that. I want to give away the money, according to that paper you drew
up, and I want you to arrange it."
"You've made up your mind to keep that fool's promise, have you?"
"Yes, sir."
"Look here, young man, have you thought this over?"
"Yes, sir."
"You know what you're going to lose. You remember that your own
family--your father and mother and sister--can't profit by the gift?"
"Yes, sir; I have thought it all over."
"Do you realize that if you stick to your part of the bargain, it
does not follow that the doctor and Basset will stick to theirs?"
Jerome stared at him. "Didn't they sign that document before
witnesses?"
The lawyer laughed. "That document isn't worth the paper it's written
on. It was all horse-play. Didn't you know that, Jerome?"
"Did the doctor and Basset know it?"
"The doctor did. He wouldn't have signed, otherwise. As for
Basset--well, I don't know, but if he comes and asks me, as he will
before he unties his purse strings, I shall tell him the truth about
it, as I'm bound to, and not a dollar will he part with after he
finds out that he hasn't got to. You can judge for yourself whether
Doctor Seth Prescott is likely to fling away a fourth of his property
in any such fool fashion as this."
"Well, I don't know that it makes any difference to me whether they
give or not," said Jerome, proudly.
"Do you mean that you will abide by your part of the agreement if the
others do not abide by theirs?"
"I mean, that I keep my promise when I can; and if every other man
under God's footstool breaks his, it is no reason why I should break
mine."
"That sounds very fine," said the lawyer, dryly; "but do you realize,
my young friend, how far your large fortune alone would go when
divided among the poor of this village?"
"Yes, sir; I have reckoned it up. There are about one hundred who
would come under the terms of the agreement. My money alone, divided
among them, would give about two hundred and fifty dollars apiece."
"That is a large sum."
"It is large to a man who has never seen fifty dollars at once in his
hand, and it is large when several unite and form a company for a new
factory, with machines."
"Do you think they will do that?"
"Yes, sir. Henry Eames will set it going; give him a chance."
"Why don't you, instead of parting with your money, set up the
factory yourself, and employ the whole village?"
"That is not what I said I would do, and it is better for the village
to employ itself. I might fail, or my factory might go, as my mill
has."
"How long do you suppose it will be that every man will have his two
hundred and fifty dollars after you have given it to him? Tell me
that, if you can."
"That isn't my lookout."
"Why isn't it your lookout? A careless giver is as bad as a thief,
sir."
"I am not a careless giver," replied Jerome, stoutly. "I can't tell,
and no man can tell, how long they will keep what I give them, or how
long it will be before the stingiest and wisest get their shares away
from the weak; but that is no more reason why I should not give this
money than it is a reason why the Lord Almighty should not furnish us
all with fingers and toes, and our five senses, and our stomachs."
"You might add, our immortal souls, which the parsons say we'll get
snatched away from us if we don't watch out," said Means, with a
short laugh. "Well, Jerome, it is too late for me to attend to this
business to-night. I am worn out, too, by what I have been through
lately. Come to-morrow, and, if you are of the same mind, we'll fix
it up."
Somewhat to Jerome's surprise, the lawyer extended a lean, brown hand
for his, which he shook warmly, with a hearty "Good-night, sir."
"I don't believe he was trying to hinder me from giving it, after
all," Jerome thought, as he went down the hill.
Eliphalet Means, shuffling in loose slippers, returned to his
sitting-room, where were John Jennings and Eben Merritt. There were
no cards, and no punch, and no conviviality for the three bereaved
friends that night. The three sat before the fire, and each smoked a
melancholy pipe, and each, when he looked at or spoke to the others,
looked and spoke, whatever his words might be, to the memory of their
dead comrade.
The chair in which the Colonel had been used to sit stood a little
aloof, at a corner of the fireplace. Often one of the trio would eye
it with furtive mournfulness, looking away again directly without a
glance at the others.
When Means entered, he was smiling, for the first time that evening.
"Well," he said, "I have seen something to-night that I have never
seen before, that I shall never see again, and that no man in this
town has ever seen before, or will see again, unless he lives till
the millennium."
The others stared at him. "What d'ye mean?" asked the Squire.
"I have seen something rarer than a white black-bird, and harder to
discover than the north pole. I have seen a poor man, clothed and in
his right mind, give away every dollar of a fortune within three days
after he got it."
The two men looked at him, speechless. "He hasn't!" gasped the
Squire, finally.
"He has."
"By the Lord Harry!"
"Well," said John Jennings, slowly, "if I had started out on a search
for such a man I should have wanted more than Diogenes's lantern."
"And I should have called for blue-lights and rockets, the aurora
borealis, chain lightning, the solar system, and the eternal light of
nature, but I discovered him with a penny dip," said Eliphalet Means,
chuckling. He stood on the hearth before his two friends, his back to
the fire; it was a cool night, and he had got chilled at the open
door.
"He is going to give away the whole of it?" John Jennings said, with
wondering rumination.
"Every dollar."
Means looked at them, all the shrewd humor faded out of his face.
"I've got something to tell both of you," he said, gravely; "and,
Eben, while I think of it, I have a letter that _he_ wanted given to
your daughter. Remind me to hand it over to you to take to her when
you go home to-night. I've got something to tell you; the time has
come; _he_ said it would. I didn't half believe it, God forgive me. I
tell you, I've got a keen scent for the bad in human nature, but he
had a keen one for the good. He'd have made a sharp counsel on the
right side. After _he_ got his money, he used to talk day and night
about the poverty of this town. He had a great heart. He--_wanted and
intended that twenty-five thousand dollars to go just the way it is
going_." The lawyer, with every word, shook his skinny right hand
before the others' faces; he paused a second and looked at them with
solemn impressiveness; then he continued: "He wanted to give that
twenty-five thousand dollars, in equal parts, to the poor of this
town, as indicated in that instrument which I drew up at Robinson's
for Prescott and Basset, but instead of giving it himself he left it
to Jerome Edwards to give. He said that it would amount to the same
thing, and I tried to argue him out of it. I did not believe any man
could stand the temptation of a fortune between his fingers, but _he_
said Jerome Edwards could and would, and the money was as sure to go
as he intended it to as if he doled it out himself in dollars and
cents, and he was right. God bless him! And--_that twenty-five
thousand dollars is going just the way he meant it to go_."