REST AT LAST.
That the termination of Richard's malady would be fatal did not from the
first admit of doubt, but he lingered on beyond all expectation. The
spring came on and found him yet alive at Gethin. He was never moved
from the room to which he had been carried after his mischance--the same
which had been his bedroom in the old times, when he was full of
strength and vigor--wherein he had so often lain awake, revolving
schemes to win his Harry, or slept and dreamed of her. The comparison of
his "now" and "then" was melancholy enough, but it was not bitter. His
pain was great, but not out of proportion to his comfort. He had still
Harry's love, and he had even that of two other hearts besides, which he
had reconciled and drawn together. In him Charles had had an unwearying
advocate with Agnes, and at last he had won his cause. She had been
driven to take refuge in her last intrenchment--her poverty--and
Richard had made that untenable.
"You will not be an heiress, perhaps, my dear," he had said to her,
"though you deserve to be one; but neither will you be undowered. I have
left you all I have. Nay, it is not much--a few score acres by the
sea--but they will soon be yours."
She had accepted them unwillingly, and under protest; but a day came
when it became necessary for her to remonstrate with the sick man once
again concerning this matter, sorry as she was to thwart or vex him; she
therefore requested, to have a few minutes' talk alone with him.
"Dear Mr. Balfour," said she, gently, "I am going to disobey you in once
more reopening the matter of your kind bequest. Something has happened
which has given the affair a wholly different aspect. Among the visitors
yesterday to that dreadful mine, to which people still flock, there was
a Mr. Stratum--a young engineer, it seems, of some reputation; and in
his researches in Wheal Danes they say he has hit upon a great treasure,
or what may turn out to be such."
"Ay," said Richard, with a smile; "what's that?"
"A copper lode. It is curious that so many folks should have come and
gone there and never found it before; but there it is, for certain. Mr.
Stratum has seen Charles, and tells him that he can hardly trust himself
to speak of its probable value."
"Well, I congratulate you, my dear, on being an heiress."
"Nay, my dear Mr. Balfour, but this must not be. Overborne by your kind
pressure I consented to receive this bequest--a considerable one in
itself, indeed--for what it was. I could not now take advantage of your
ignorance of its real value; it distresses me deeply to give you trouble
in your present sad condition, but you must see yourself that
circumstances compel me."
"Give me the will, my dear; it is in yonder drawer. Here is a letter
folded in it in my handwriting. What does the superscription say?"
"_To Agnes Aird_."
"Just so. You were to have opened it after my death, but you may read it
now. Please to do so aloud."
"MY DEAR YOUNG LADY,--When I am gone, it is my earnest desire that your
marriage with Charles Coe shall take place as early as may be found
convenient. He will make a good husband to you, I think; I am sure you
will make him a good wife. He loves you for your own sake, which is the
only love worth having. But, as it happens, you are very rich. In the
mine which I have left you--in the northeastern corner of the bottom
level--there is a copper lode, the existence of which is known to me,
and to me only. I have every reason to believe that it will be found in
the highest degree productive, and for your dear sake I trust it may be
so. True, you will have money enough and to spare for your own needs,
but wealth will not spoil you--in your hands it will be a great good. To
the two injunctions which here follow I have no means to give effect,
and must trust solely to your loyal heart to carry them out. I do so
with the most perfect confidence. (1.) I wish that this bequest of mine,
be the value of it ever so great, be strictly settled, upon your
marriage, on yourself and your children, so that it can not be alienated
by any act of your husband; and this I do not from any preference to
yourself over him, or from any prejudice against him, God knows. (2.) In
case the estate of Crompton, of which Wheal Danes formed a fragment,
should again be in the market, and the mine turn out so valuable that
its proceeds should enable you to purchase such estate (without
inconvenience or damage to your interests), I do enjoin that you do so
purchase it, and make Crompton your future home. This is a 'sick man's
fancy,' some will tell you; and yet you will not neglect it."
* * * * *
"And you _will_ not, Agnes dear?" whispered Richard, eagerly, when she
had thus finished. "This is the last favor I shall ever ask of you.
Promise me! promise me!"
"Oh, Sir, I promise you," cried Agnes, earnestly, and scared by his
anxious feebleness; "your wishes shall be obeyed in all points."
"Good girl, good girl," sighed he; and though the effort pained him
sharply, his face exhibited a great content. "Send Charley to me," said
he, presently, in a faint voice.
"But you are tired already," remonstrated Agnes. "You have talked enough
for to-day; see him to-morrow."
"To-morrow!" repeated Richard, with a smile that chilled her heart.
"There will be no to-morrow, dear, for me. Reflect hereafter that you
made my last day a happy one. Kiss me, daughter." This term, which was
uttered very fondly, did not surprise her, for she little guessed its
full significance. She bent down, and kissed his forehead. "Send me
Charley."
Those were the last words she ever heard him speak.
Agnes had told the young fellow how much feebler Mr. Balfour seemed that
day, and warned him to make his interview as brief as possible; but
Charley was of a sanguine temperament, and to his view the sick man
looked better. The recent excitement had heightened his color, and,
besides, he always strove to look his best and cheerfulest with Charley.
Balfour told him all that he had already said to Agnes respecting the
provision he had made for her; he thought it better to relieve her from
that task. But, to do Charley justice, he was neither grasping nor
jealous. Nothing seemed more natural to him, or even more reasonable,
than that Agnes should be made sole heiress.
"As for me, I should only make a mess of so much money," said he,
laughing. "_She_ understands how to manage"--meaning that she had a
talent for administration of affairs--"five thousand times better than I
do. Her father has taught her all sorts of good things, and that among
them. You see the poor governor and I--we never pulled together. Perhaps
if I had had a father a little less unlike myself, I might have been a
better son, and a wiser one. It was unfortunate, as Mrs. Basil used to
say. You remember her, of course?"
"Yes, indeed."
The sick man's tone was so full of interest that Charley, with great
cheerfulness, proceeded to pursue this subject.
"She was an excellent old soul; and, for her age, how sprightly and
appreciative! I remember--the very last time she came down to
dinner--telling her that story of yours about the stags in harness, and
it so interested her that she made me repeat it. It seemed to remind her
of something that she had heard before; and yet the incident was
original, and happened within your own experience, did it not?"
"It did," said Balfour, hoarsely.
"I am tiring you, my dear Sir," said Charley, anxiously. "What a fool I
have been to chatter on so, when Agnes particularly told me to be brief!
I shall leave you now, Sir; I shall indeed. Is there any thing I can do
for you before I leave?"
"Nothing, nothing. If I strove to take Agnes from you, lad, I did my
best to make her yours again. You don't dislike me now, dear boy, do
you?"
"Dislike you, Sir!" cried the young man. "That would indeed be base
ingratitude; you were always most kind to me, and you have loaded my
Agnes with benefits. I can not say, Sir, how unhappy it makes me to see
you lying here in pain, and--"
"And dying, Charley. Yes, you are sorry for me, good lad."
"Indeed, indeed I am, Sir."
"When your Agnes left me last she kissed me on the forehead--here. I
would not ask it else--but--kiss me, Charley."
The sick man's voice was very weak and faint, but its tones were full of
pathos. In some surprise, but without the least hesitation, the young
man stooped down and kissed him. "I shall leave you now, dear Mr.
Balfour, and only hope my thoughtless chatter may not have done you
mischief. I will send my mother to you, who is so quiet, and so good a
nurse, as an antidote. Good-by for the present, Sir."
"Good-by, dear lad--good-by."
Richard well knew it was good-by, not for the present, but forever.
When Mrs. Coe came into the sick man's room she perceived in him a
change for the worse, so marked that it alarmed her greatly, and she was
about to softly pull the bell, when Richard stopped her with a look.
"Don't ring," whispered he, faintly. "Sit down by me, Harry; put your
little hand in mine. I am quite happy. Our boy has kissed me."
"You did not tell him? He does not know?" inquired Harry, anxiously.
"Nay, dear, nay; I am not quite so selfish as that," answered he,
gently.
There was a long pause.
"Do you think my mother knew about him?" asked Richard, presently.
"Oh yes--though I strove to deceive her--from the first moment she saw
him, Richard, she knew it well. We never spoke of it, but it was a
secret we had in common. She loved him as though he had been your very
self; I am sure of that."
"And she knew _me_ too, Harry."
"Impossible! She could never have concealed that knowledge--with you
before her; for you were her idol, Richard."
"It was afterward," murmured the dying man. "When I had left the house
Charley told her something I had related to him, which convinced her of
my identity. I see it all now. She felt that I was bent on vengeance,
and sent you after me to use that weapon of which she knew you were
possessed. If we once came face to face, and you reproached me, my
secret was certain to come out--just as it did, Harry--and then you had
but to say, 'Charley is your son.'"
"But why did she not tell me who you were?"
"Because, if you were too late--if the mischief had been done on which
she deemed me bent--if your--if Solomon had come to harm, she would not
have had you know that Richard Yorke--the father of your child--had
blood upon his hands. Oh, mother, mother, your last thought was to keep
my memory free from stain!"
He spoke no more for full a minute; no sound was heard except the
distant murmur of the sea, for the day was fine and windless. The April
sun shone brightly in upon the pair, as if to bless their parting.
"Where is Charley?" murmured he.
"He is gone with Agnes for a walk; they will not be long; they talked of
going to the Watch Tower. You remember the old Watch Tower, Richard?"
"Well, ah, well!" answered he, smiling. "It is just twenty years ago.
How often have I thought of it!"
For a moment--before they separated forever--these two seemed to
themselves to relive the youth to which another generation had
succeeded.
"Agnes is a far better girl than I was, Richard; but she can not love
our boy more than _I_ loved _you_."
Richard answered with a smile that glorified each ghastly feature, and
brought out in them a likeness to himself of old.
"She will be his good angel, Harry," whispered Richard, gravely, "and
will guard him from himself. He will need her aid, but it will be
sufficient. I trust, I believe, that evil is not Bred in the Bone with
him, as it was with me."
There was a long, long silence, broken by a silvery laugh, which came
through the half-opened window like a strain of cheerful music, then was
suddenly cut short.
"Hush, Charley; you forget," said the soft voice of Agnes; "he may be
sleeping."
Through the calm spring air the reproof was borne into the sick man's
room as clearly as the sound which had called it forth.
"He is so happy," whispered Harry, gently; "you must forgive him;
remember he does not know."
"Yes, yes; it is better so. Dear Charley--happy, happy Charley!"
And a smile once more came over the sick man's face, which did not pass
away, for Death had frozen it there.
L'ENVOI.
Years have passed since Richard Yorke was laid in the church-yard on the
hill at Gethin, close beside his mother, whose bones Harry's pious care
had caused to be transported thither.
If aught of things that here befall
Touch a spirit among things divine--
If love has force to move us there at all,
her ghost was glad. "In time," thought Harry, "I too shall lie by his
side, at last, once more."
Old Trevethick's prophecy was accomplished in the almost fabulous
success that attended the working of Wheal Danes. If its shares are not
quoted in the market, that is because the family have retained it in
their own hands, in spite of the most dazzling offers.
Mr. Dodge has a codicil to his story at _The George and Vulture_ now,
and expresses his infinite satisfaction at the fact that "that 'ere Coe"
came to grief in the end, as he had so richly deserved to do. "I don't
doubt," says he, "that while he was underground with the bats and rats
he thought of that poor lad as he had treated so spiteful. Things mostly
does work round all right" (he would add) "under Providence, whose motto
(if I may say so without disrespect) is summat like mine: 'Let us have
no misunderstandings and no obligation.'" On the other hand, what
"sticks in Mr. Dodge's throat," as he expresses it, and is "a'most
enough to make a man an infidel," is, that "the widow of that 'ere
Coe--she as was young Yorke's ruin--is living at Crompton (in the very
house his father had) with all her brood."
Mr. Dodge is right in his facts, if not in his deductions. Out of the
proceeds of the mine the whole home-estate of Crompton has been
purchased by Charles Coe, or rather by his wife; and they both dwell
there quite unconscious that he is the lineal descendant of the mad
Carew, with whose wild exploits the country side still teems. If the old
blood shows itself, it is but in quick starts of temper, and occasional
"cursory remarks," which sound quite harmless in halls that have echoed
to the Squire's thunderous tones; and even at such times Agnes can calm
him with a word. If the open hand which is Bred in the Bone with him
scatters its _largesse_ somewhat broadcast, the revenues of Crompton,
thanks to her, are in the main directed to good ends. In that stately
mansion, whose hospitality is as proverbial though less promiscuous than
of old, not only is there room for Mrs. Coe the elder to dwell with her
young folks, without jar, but in a certain ground-floor chamber, the
same he used to inhabit in old times, there dwells an ancient divine,
once Carew's chaplain. He is still hale and stout, and has a quiet air
that becomes his age and calling. Life's fitful fever is past, and he
lives on in calm. The children--for there is small chance of Crompton
being heirless in time to come--are very fond of him; and grandmamma
spends so much time in the old gentleman's apartments, that Charley
declares it is quite scandalous. What _can_ Parson Whymper and she have
to talk about in common? In spite of the attractions of her beautiful
home, and the infirmities of advancing years, not a summer passes
without Mrs. Coe the elder revisiting Gethin. The castled rock, up which
she used to run so lightly, is beyond her powers; she is content to gaze
on that with dewy eyes; but she never fails to seek the church-yard on
the hill.
"He was what one would call a hardish husband to her, was old Solomon,"
say the neighbors; "and yet you see, when a man is dead, how a wife will
keep his memory green!"
THE END