AFFIDAVIT.
LETTERS from Lizzie, who had returned to N— for another year, informed
her father that Mr. Greenough had cleared the meadow running for half a
mile along by the river, and had planted it over with cranberry vines,
from which he expected a great return of profit. To be sure, he had
been obliged to make a large outlay, and there would be the expense
of picking, but one season of only moderate yield would pay for all.
Lizzie knew nothing whatever of her father's project. If she had, she
would have told him that the present owner would not sell the farm for
twice the sum he gave. She little realized, when she wrote the above,
with what a pang her father would read her letter. Yet, strange to say,
it did not discourage him.
"After all," he said to Mary, "it's only putting money in my pocket;
for something tells me I shall have the old place yet."
In his answer to his daughter, he wrote her to keep him informed of
everything connected with the dear old homestead.
The next week Lizzie wrote, among other events,—
"I must tell you that Matilda Fish, the daughter of the rumseller I
used to dislike so much, comes to my school. Though her father is
reputed to be rich, she dresses very ordinarily, and seems painfully
aware of her position. Through his means, many a man has drank up
everything he was worth, and there is a feeling of burning indignation
toward him among the best part of the community. I pity Matilda,
because I can see that she feels herself neglected on account of her
father's crimes, and have taken pains to render her situation more
pleasant.
"At recess, instead of joining in their plays, she always comes to
my desk to talk with me about her lessons. Many a pear, peach, and
bunch of grapes she has brought me, until I made her confess she had
saved her own portion of luxuries for that purpose. To-day she acted
strangely, and I can't think what to make of it. It happened that,
except a little urchin who had violated the rules and was paying the
penalty by staying in, we were alone in the schoolroom. I noticed that
she was very pale, and said, kindly,—
"'You are ill, Matilda?'
"'No, not ill, Miss Allen,' she answered, quickly, the bright color
spreading over her face and neck,—'not ill, but—'
"'But what? Can't you tell me your troubles?'
"'It isn't about myself. If it were, I would never say a word,—no,
never!'
"She spoke with passionate energy, such as I had never seen in her
before.
"'I can't tell what's right to do,' she went on, beginning to cry.
"'I will help you, Matilda, if I can, but you must tell me frankly all
about it.'
"'You can't, you can't! I dare not tell! I must go home!' And, hiding
her face in her hands, she left me.
"Poor child! I'm afraid she has trials with her father. I will comfort
her all I can. This afternoon she was not in her seat.
"Later. I have just heard that Mr. Fish kept the whole neighborhood
awake last night in a fit of delirium tremens. This explains Matilda's
conduct. How my heart aches for her!"
Two, three weeks, a month passed. Mr. Allen was busier than usual in
the nursery, setting out new stock, and getting everything ready for
winter. Two letters had been received from Lizzie in which she did not
mention Mr. Fish. But one morning, Jamie brought a letter from the
office, which read as follows:—
"FATHER,—come here as quick as you can. Mr. Fish is dying, and
continually calls for you. He has something on his conscience, and says
he can't die easy till he's confessed it. Matilda has told me some
things, but I can't believe they're true. Don't wait a minute after you
receive this, if you would be in time.
"LIZZIE."
Mrs. Allen grew pale as she read, but, rallying, sent Jamie to the
field to summon his father. The train went at half-past eight. It now
only wanted fifteen minutes of that time. With nervous haste, the woman
ran to the closet, and took down her husband's Sunday suit. Then,
throwing a clean shirt, etc., etc., into a bag, she ran to the door to
meet him.
"Take this letter, and read it as you go along," she cried, her chin
quivering with excitement. "You haven't a minute if you want to reach
the morning train. Fish is dying. I can't imagine what the wicked man
wants of you."
"I can." The words came thick and husky. "I have felt it all along. God
help me if I'm too late! Good-by."
He ran along, and, springing over a wall, was out of sight in a moment,
leaving Mary and the children gazing in the direction he had taken, and
wondering what it all could mean.
"Father said he knew!" exclaimed Ned. "I wonder he didn't tell us."
While Bell sank into a chair, and began to cry.
"I am afraid father will be put in prison," sobbed little Fred. "I wish
he hadn't gone."
Leaving them still excited and wondering, Mrs. Allen sought her
own room, where she knelt down, and, as she had often done before,
commended her husband to the care of her almighty Friend. Then, calmed
by this exercise, she returned quietly to her household duties.
The children, seeing her tranquillity, began to make preparations for
school, Jamie first going to find Mr. Burrel, and announce to the
gentleman that his father had been suddenly called away.
When Mr. Allen reached his native town, without a moment's delay, he
hurried down the familiar street to the house of the dying man. On his
way, he was obliged to pass his old home, but he scarcely noticed it;
his thoughts were too intensely anxious concerning the coming interview.
A crowd of men were standing on the piazza outside the bar-room, but
that was nothing unusual. He quickened his steps, and soon was standing
on the threshold which had so nearly proved the ruin of his soul and
his body. Staggering with excitement, he addressed one of the men, a
stranger to himself.
"Is Mr. Fish living?"
"No; he died half an hour ago. The bell's just done tolling his
age,—sixty-two."
Without another word, Mr. Allen turned and walked away.
"Too late, too late!" he repeated. "O God, help me to bear it!"
He turned his steps mechanically toward the house where his daughter
boarded, but suddenly checked himself, as he remembered that at this
hour she would be in school. On arriving there, however, he found only
two or three children playing about the door.
"Where is Lizzie—Miss Allen—your teacher?" he asked, hurriedly.
"She's gone home with a scholar who is sick. Mr. Greenough came and
carried them, and dismissed the school."
He turned away sick at heart; he felt faint and giddy, too, from
over-excitement. He stood still a moment, wondering what he should
do next, and whether he had not better take the return train home,
when the thought of Lizzie's disappointment detained him. Suddenly
remembering that he had not asked where the sick child lived, he turned
back, but the children were out of sight. There was nothing now to do
but to return to the depot and take the back train.
Walking slowly on, he met a gentleman standing in earnest conversation
with some one who was in a covered buggy. The horse was going the other
way, so that he could not have seen who it was, even if he had desired.
But his only object being at the moment to escape observation, he was
hurrying past them, when his steps were arrested by the words,—
"I told Lizzie he couldn't be expected by this early train."
The voice was familiar, and, turning back, the recognition was mutual.
Dr. Greenough cordially extended his hand, and then introduced his
father.
"I am looking for Lizzie," said Mr. Allen, trying to speak calmly.
"She is at Mr. Fish's. I have just left her there."
"Mr. Fish is dead I hear."
"Yes. Did you learn nothing more?"
"Only that I was too late to answer his summons."
"Mr. Allen," said Mr. Greenough, taking his hand, "I have just come
from the death-bed of Mr. Fish, where I listened to a confession which
nearly concerns you and me."
"Thank God, then, he did make it!" murmured Mr. Allen, devoutly.
"Yes, I took a deposition from his lips only two hours before he
breathed his last."
"Was he perfectly conscious?"
"It would be for my interest, I suppose, to say that he was in a fit
of 'mania a potu,' but I must honestly confess that he appeared sane,
and in earnest in endeavoring to repair the wrong he had done you.
You must come home with me and get dinner. My son Horace will make it
convenient, I dare say, to bring Lizzie there too."
The two walked slowly on, by tacit consent avoiding the subject which
engrossed them both, while the doctor rode off rapidly in the opposite
direction.
When they were seated in the parlor, which was so changed by French
windows and gilded paper that Mr. Allen scarcely recognized it, the
other gentleman said, gravely,—
"Perhaps you do not know that I am a justice of the peace. I know a
little of law, but am not yet prepared to say what offer it will be
right for me to make you."
"Offer!" repeated Mr. Allen. "I don't understand you, sir."
"Excuse me, but I wholly forgot that you are entirely ignorant, as yet,
of what Fish confessed. Here is his affidavit, which I will read you."
He took from his breast-pocket a folded paper, and began,—
"I, Abner Fish, being on my death-bed, and realizing that in a short
time I must appear before God, and wishing, as far as in me lies, to
die at peace with all men, do now on oath declare that, in the year
18—, I forged Joseph Allen's signature to a deed, caused by me to be
drawn up, conveying to me his farm and the houses and barns on the
same in payment of pretended indebtedness to me, which indebtedness
did not cover one seventh part of the amount; that I afterward showed
the signature to said Joseph Allen, who refused utterly to credit the
account, or to believe that he had put his name thereto; that, by means
of threats of personal violence, I persuaded him that he had done this
while under the influence of liquor, and I then took him with me before
Squire Harwood, justice of the peace, to bear testimony to his forged
signature; that he did bear testimony under compulsion, and therefore
that the property in said farm, houses, and barns on it belongs to
said Joseph Allen, the title to them not being valid when conveyed by
me to H. H. Greenough; that Mr. Allen's true bill for liquor was six
hundred and forty-five dollars instead of seven thousand as I told him;
that the same will be found in true charges on my books, and that my
last wish and desire is that, by my dying confession, I may restore
the rights and property of a man whom I have wickedly defrauded, and
therefore I hereby direct my executors to pay to said H. H. Greenough
the balance of the money he paid me above my real and true title to the
said farmhouses and barns thereon, and so may God have mercy on my soul.
"Subscribed and sworn to on this twentieth day of October, in the year
of our Lord 18—
"Before me,
"JOSHUA HARWOOD, 'Justice of the Peace.'"
Mr. Allen, who had started from his chair, and stood breathless while
the reading was going on, now fell back unable to utter a syllable.
"Does this statement accord with your recollection?" inquired Mr.
Greenough, after a long pause, in which both were occupied with their
own thoughts.
"Perfectly. I cannot deny that I visited Fish's bar far too often for
the welfare either of my soul or body. But when he brought me a deed
conveying all my property to him in payment for a long account on his
books, I was bewildered, and had no words sufficient to express my
anger. This property had been in our family under the same name for
several generations; and he says true that I would not for an instant
credit the idea that I had signed it away. But I was in his power,
and I could not escape. Week after week, and sometimes day after
day, he tormented me and my family with threats of imprisonment, of
violence, if I did not go with him and bear testimony to the fact of my
signature. At last, we did go, Mary and I, like martyrs to the stake,
where I sullenly and defiantly bore witness to my supposed signature.
Fish had agreed if I would do this, to allow me as much whiskey as I
could drink for a month, the time I was allowed to stay in the house,
and also a part of the stock, which, under one false pretence and
another, he had got into his hands.
"The month passed. I was a beggar with a wife and nine children
dependent on me for support, but I had abandoned the cup, and become a
sober man. I had formerly been respected by all; now I was disgraced,
and I left the place, resolving never to enter it again. By and by
hope began to dawn on me; I sought the pardon of God, and then began
to inquire whether it were possible for me to earn enough to buy back
my inheritance. I knew you had bought it, and were making expensive
improvements, but still I did not despair. My wife encouraged me,
I suppose, because she saw my heart was so greatly set on it; and
both she and my children have taken hold in earnest to stop the leak
occasioned by my intemperance. At this moment I have five hundred and
fifty dollars laid by toward the purchase, beside the offer from Mrs.
Mercy Lovell of two thousand dollars whenever I was ready to make you a
proposition."
This simple story, told with tearful eyes and earnest gestures, was
not without its effect on the gentleman. He had not once imagined that
it would make any difference to him except the drawing out of a new
deed, and paying the money over to Joseph Allen instead of Abner Fish,
with perhaps a small bonus to satisfy all parties. But here was the
original owner, proved to be the present owner, with money in hand to
pay the bill to the estate of his former creditor, and wishing to take
possession. These thoughts flashed like lightning on his mind, while,
his visitor was talking, and caused him to say,—
"But, Mr. Allen, this property is worth more than twice as much as
when I purchased it. I have sunk a good many thousand dollars in
improvements. The cranberry meadow, formerly yielding twenty tons of
hay, is now worth more than the whole farm was in your time; I mean in
the way of profit. Why, I hope to realize several thousand dollars this
fall, if the frost keeps off two or three weeks longer."
Mr. Allen started, as if about to speak, but checked himself, and at
this moment he heard Lizzie's voice in the hall, asking,—
"Where is he, Horace?"
He turned and caught her in his arms.
After answering half a dozen questions, which she asked all in a
breath, he turned to Mr. Greenough, and said,—
"As this subject is new to both of us, I propose that we defer any
attempt to settle until to-morrow. I am excited, and wish to have time
to think. I shall stay with my daughter to-night, and will be ready to
meet you as early as you please in the morning."
"I wholly agree with you," was the cordial reply. "It is rather sudden,
I acknowledge, for a man who arose this morning, thinking he had a
pleasant home arranged exactly to his liking, to find before dinner
that it has all slipped from under his feet."
"Or to find, as I have," was the humble reply, "that, by the mercy of
God, the consequences of my former sinful habits have not been equal to
my fears."
At dinner the conversation was general, and, during the half-hour they
stayed after it, the peculiar situation of the parties was not once
referred to.