V
“A respectable, elderly woman, did you say, Marshall?” said Mr. Greatheart in his room at the office; “certainly, bring her in. Very likely a widow wishing to get her son admitted to the Bluecoat School, or some poor householder in trouble about her taxes.” For to this man came all sorts and conditions of people in their distresses, and to each he gave patient audience and practical succour.
“You don't trouble me. If I can be of any use, nothing will please me better,” he said, placing a chair and making a kindly fuss to cover his visitor's confusion. “Now sit down and tell me all about it” That was why the respectable poor loved him, from the Catholic Irish of Scotland Road to the Orangemen of Toxteth.
“Is it your husband or your son you are so anxious about?”—for she was much agitated. “I notice that a woman hardly ever comes about herself! It's we men who are selfish, not the women.”
“No, it's neither, for I am an unmarried woman. It's about my master, whom I believe you know, sir—Mr. Dodson.”
“Samuel Dodson, you mean; I should think so! Have known him for fifty years—since we served our time together in Palmer's shipping office. What, is he ill?”
“He's dead... this morning. You'll excuse me, I was his housekeeper for near thirty year, and... I'm a little upset.”
“Good gracious! No wonder. Maria Wilkins, did you say?... You may well be upset And thirty years with him! Tell me how this happened, for we've heard nothing in the city. He couldn't have been ill long.”
“No, sir, he was never ill at all—not what you would say proper; but I've seen him failin' for some time—gettin' thin like and growin' down—and last night he was that white and shaky, that I wanted him to see a doctor. But no, he wouldn't If it had been me or the girl, he would have had a doctor when there was nothing wrong with us, he was that concerned about other people; but for himself...”
Mr. Greatheart nodded—indicating that Mr. Dodson's unselfish character was well known to him.
“'No, no, Maria,' says he, 'a doctor can do no good to me. I'm a tough old fellow*—speaking that way to me, being long with him—'I'll be all right to-morrow.' But I made bold to put a glass of brandy in his room, and pleaded with him to ring the bell if he was unwell—he was not easily managed—and that was all I could do, sir.”
Her hearer was of opinion that from what he knew of Mr. Dodson's native obstinacy, Maria Wilkins had done all in the power of mortal woman, and possibly, more, than could have been accomplished by any man.
“Twice during the night I rose and listened at his door—his face, when he said good-night, lyin' heavy on me, so to say—and I heard nothing; but when he didn't answer in the mornin' I took it on me to open the door. Mr. Dodson was a-sittin' up in his bed, and at the sight of his face I knew how it was, havin' seen death many times. My old master... was gone,” and the housekeeper yielded to her feelings.
“Dear, dear! So Sam Dodson is gone; an able and successful merchant, one who always met his obligations, and whose word was as good as his bond; he had a warmer heart than any person knew. I've seen a look in his face at a time, and am sure that he did good in his own way.”
“God bless you for that, sir! but it's what I could have looked for from you, if I may say it without offence. And you never spoke a truer word, and that I can testify as has lived with master for a lifetime, and could tell the difference between the outside and the inside.”
“Ah, yes, you saw the real man, Maria; but he was sometimes... well, hidden from the public.”
“He had his peculiarities, and 'oo hasn't, I say? Now, my wages when I came to him was just fourteen pounds, and they're just fourteen yet; but every Christmas, for many a year, master slipped a ten-pound note into my hand. 'Put that into your bank, Maria,' he would say, 'and never tell anybody you've got it.'
“As for food, he was aggravatin', for he would have nothing as was not plain, and he would check the books to a ha'penny; but if you was ill, why, he would bring home grapes with his own hand. We dare not for our lives give a morsel to beggars at the door, but if he heard of a poor family, nothin' would serve him but he would go and find out all about them.”
“That's my Dodson, just as I imagined him,” cried Mr. Greatheart; “tell me more, Maria; it's excellent, every word.”
“Do you think he would let any person know he was givin' help? Not he; and he was artful, was master. Why, I've known him send me with money to a clergyman, that he might give it, and his words were, 'No name, Maria, or we part; just a citizen of Liverpool.'”
“Dodson all over! shrewd and unassuming, and full of charity. Have you anything else to tell, Maria?”
“Well, sir, I do not know for certain, and it was not for me to spy on my master, but I'm much mistaken if many a one in the better class was not the better of Mr. Dodson in their troubles.”
“How do you think that?” inquired Mr. Great-heart in huge delight “I've seen him read a letter maybe six times, and he would wipe his eyes through pleasure as I took it You wouldn't believe, maybe, as master could be like that”
“I do, Maria. I declare it's what I expected. And what then?”
“He would walk up and down the room, and speak to himself, and read another bit, and rub his hands...”
“I wish I had been there, Maria.”
“And he would carry a letter like that in his pocket for days, and then he would put it carefully in the fire; but I saw him take it out, half-burned, and read a corner again before he burned that letter.”
“Maria, I cannot tell you how much obliged I am to you for coming to me, and giving me such a touching account of your dear master. Now, is there anything I can do for you in this loss?”
“Lord bless me, sir, that I should have been taking up your time like this, and you a magistrate, and never told you what brought me! It's more than a month past that master said to me, 'Maria, if anything happens to me, go to Mr. Greatheart's office, and give him my keys, and ask him to open my desk. He is a good man, and he's sure to come.'”
“Did he say so? That was most generous of him, and I appreciate it highly. I will come instantly, and shall bring a lawyer with me, a kind-hearted and able man. Good-bye for the present, Maria; you have fulfilled your charge, as I believe you have all your duty, excellently... excellently.”
“You see, Welsby,” as they went up to the house, “Dodson had left his firm, and had few friends, perhaps none—a reserved man about himself, but a true man at the bottom.”
“So you have always said, Mr. Greatheart Well know now; my experience as a lawyer proves that, as a rule, a man's papers reveal him, and there are some curious surprises.”
“If you look through that safe, and note the contents, Welsby, I'll read this letter addressed to me. I gather that I must be executor, and there seems to be no lawyer; very like Dodson, very—do everything for himself.
“Liverpool, April 15th, 188—.
“Barnabas Greatheart, Esq.
“My dear Sir,—You will peruse this letter after my death, and you will be pleased to consider it as intended for your eyes alone, since it is in the nature of a confession.
“My early career was a continuous struggle with narrow and arduous circumstances, and I suffered certain disappointments at the hands of friends which I considered undeserved. In consequence of these experiences I grew penurious, cynical, merciless, hopeless, and, let me say it plainly, a sour, hard man, hating my neighbours, and despised of them. May the Almighty forgive me!
“This year in which I write, a great change has come over me, and my heart has been softened and touched at last with human sympathy. The force which has affected me is not any book nor sermon, but your example of goodness and your charity towards all men. In spite of the general judgment on me, which has been fully merited, I have seen that you do not shun me, but rather have gone out of your way to countenance me, and I have heard that you speak kindly of me. It is not my nature to say much; it is not yours to receive praise; but I wish you to know you have made me a new man.
“It seemed to me, however, dangerous that I should begin to distribute my means openly among charities, as I was inclined to do, since I might pass from hardness to pride and be charged with ostentation, as I had been once with miserliness, with sad justice in both cases.
“So it came to me that, still retaining and maintaining my character for meanness—as a punishment for my past ill-doing and a check on vanity—I would gradually use my capital in the private and anonymous aid of respectable people who are passing through material adversity, and the help of my native city, so that my left hand should not know what my right was doing. This plan I have now, at this date, pursued for six months, and hope to continue to my death, and I did not know so great joy could be tasted by any human being as God has given to me. And now, to all the goodness you have shown me, will you add one favour, to wind up my affairs as follows:—
“(1) Provide for my housekeeper generously.
“(2) Give a liberal donation to the other servant.
“(3) Bury me quietly, without intimation to any one.
“(4) Distribute all that remains, after paying every debt, as you please, in the help of widows, orphans, and young men.
“(5) Place a packet, marked 'gilt-edged securities,' in my coffin.
“And consider that, among all your good works, this will have a humble place, that you saved the soul of—Your grateful friend,
“Samuel Dodson.”
“What Dodson has done with his money, Mr. Greatheart I don't know; all the securities together don't amount to £5,000. He seems to have been living on an annuity.”
“His wealth is here, Welsby, in this packet of cancelled cheques, two hundred and eighty-seven, which go with him to the other side; and I tell you, Welsby, I know no man who has invested his money so securely as Samuel Dodson. See, read that top check.”
“To Goldbeater, London, £10,000. Why, the draft I got for playgrounds was on that bank, and the date corresponds. Curious.
“Eh? What? You don't mean to say that this man we slanged and... looked down on was....”
“Yes, Zaccheus was Sam Dodson.”