Mr. Sylvester turned quietly upon the man who had been the cause of all this misery. “I charge myself with the care of that woman,” said he, “and with the burial of your child. It shall be placed in decent ground with all proper religious ceremonial.”
“What, you will do this!” cried Holt, a flush of real feeling for a moment disturbing the chalk-white pallor of his cheek. “Oh sir, this is Christian charity; and I beg your pardon for all that I may have meditated against you. It was done for the child,” he went on wildly; “to get him the bread and butter he often lacked. I didn’t care so much for myself. I hated to see him hungry and cold and ailing; I might have worked, but I detest work, and—But no matter about all that; enough that I am done with endeavoring to extort money from you. Whatever may have happened in the past, you are free from my persecutions in the future. Henceforth you and yours can rest in peace.”
“That is well,” cried a voice over his shoulder, and Bertram with an air of relief stepped hastily forward. “You must be very tired,” remarked he, turning to his uncle. “If you will take charge of Paula, I will do what I can to see that this injured woman and the dead child are properly cared for. I am so relieved, sir, at this result,” he whispered, with a furtive wring of his uncle’s hand, “that I must express my joy in some way.”
Mr. Sylvester smiled, but in a manner that reflected but little of the other’s satisfaction. “Thank you,” said he, “I am tired and will gladly delegate my duties to you. I trust you to do the most you can for both the living and the dead. That woman for all her seeming poverty is the possessor of a large fortune;” he whispered; “let her be treated as such.” And with a final word to Holt who had sunk back against the wall in his old attitude of silent despair, Mr. Sylvester took Paula upon his arm, and quietly led her out of this humble but not unkind refuge.
XLIII.
DETERMINATION.
“But alas! to make me
A fixed figure for the time of scorn
To point his slow unmoving finger at!”—Othello.
“Let me but bear your love, I’ll bear your cares.”—Henry V.