 | CHAPTER II. The monikins |  |
2. CHAPTER II.
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,
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! Does 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 well bodily, however, and I am come expressly
to see if I can order any thing 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 upward
at first with holy reverence, and then at the
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 can 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 offspring, 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.
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 colour 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 wish'st—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 towards her husband,
smiled benignantly in his face, whispered the
word “Thanks,” and then, losing all her powers
of body, sunk 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 never shall 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 a 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 this 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, conformably
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
fulfiled.”
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
spirits, it may be said they leave the performance
to the exclusive susperintendence 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,
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 any thing, while it is in my
power to give it. I am by no means as rich, sir,
as the neighbourhood 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
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 for ever.”
When my father had thus distinctly put his proposition,
he awaited its effect with the confidence
of one 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
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 uppermost,
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
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 substracting 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.
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