“We kept these things, sacredly, thinking that the time might come when Eva would be driven to seek out her mother. But not while I live. She loves us, and is happy.
“My friend, I have been thinking how suddenly death sometimes comes upon us, and how helpless she will be, with all her fine talents and rare beauty, when I am gone. Thinking of this, how could I help remembering you, my friend of friends. With a tenacity I cannot resist, the thought fastens on me, that I should be doing you a wrong if I withheld our secret from you. Be this as it may, I know that you will be her friend when I am gone. In her time of need, should it ever come, you may search out that portion of her history, which I have, up to this time, shrunk from investigating.
“If love for this child has made me secretive and selfish, you will have the energy to redeem the wrong and place her in the higher position which I solemnly believe to be hers by right.
One thing I charge you. If it should come out that the girl has no legal right to claim her parents, keep this secret from her, forever. She is proud, and so keenly sensitive, that disgrace would kill her; in that case, my humbler name would be far better than a dishonored one, however exalted.
“You are abroad now; but I have kept trace of you through all these years. Once or twice your letters have reached me. I know that you have won a high place among men of genius; that your guardianship will be an honor to this proud girl; that even for my own delicate Ruth you will have some fatherly kindness. Am I wrong in asking this? I think not. You are the only friend of the old time that I have left. In our school days, we loved each other; in our manhood the feeling grew and strengthened. After my death, if that should come, you will be mindful of the old love, and kind to those I leave behind me.
“One thing you will remember. My wife has the clothes, the coral, and the India shawl, in which little Eva was wrapped that night. She will give them to you, reluctantly, I dare say; no misfortune will ever make her willing to part with the girl; but she will remember my charge, and give them up, at your request. Perhaps they will lead to something in your hands.
“Why do I write this now, after so many years of silence? I cannot answer. But this evening, a strange, dark presentiment came over me, and I was impelled to place Eva’s story on paper. It can do no harm. My wife will keep it safe till you come, if I am doomed. Doomed! How absurd all this seems in a man of perfect health and more than ordinary strength. It is strange and wild, but troubled times are coming upon the land, times when these death shadows will not be confined to one man. Yet, somehow, I feel with mournful solemnity, that, after I am dead, you will get this paper, and act upon it in behalf of your old friend,
“Leonard Laurence.”
CHAPTER XXV.
THE PAWNBROKER.
Ross never took his gaze from the paper until he had read it through: then he folded the pages back and reperused every word, with a burning, eager question in the eyes, that seemed to devour each syllable as it arose to view. The perusal had left him pale to the lips. He held the pages with a firm, hard grip, as if he feared they would escape him, long after he had mastered their contents. Then he arose, and began to pace the floor, with a slow, heavy tread, pondering over many things in his mind, with a restless burning of the eyes that bespoke a storm at the heart.