As he spoke, Ingraham turned to his desk and touched a check-book which lay upon it.
“Mr. Gregory, I want to write my check for fifty thousand dollars to be placed unconditionally in your hands. You want a little church down there in your settlement, and you want it beautiful, worthy of its purpose; you want a library—both are necessary to carry on the kind of work you project. Here they are,” and again he touched the little leather book with his forefinger; “let me do that much as a memorial of this night and what you have done for me.”
John Gregory met the look of sincere and even anxious appeal with which these words were spoken with unyielding, although not unkindly, firmness.
“This is a generous impulse on your part, Mr. Ingraham. Do not for a moment think I fail to appreciate it. You are right; the money must be used, and will be, I hope, promptly and wisely. You must pardon me a certain over nicety perhaps in preferring not to build my church in Fraternia, or even my library, with it. You will find plenty of men less fastidious, and no one but myself will, I suppose, have reason to entertain such scruples.”
Gregory had risen, and was ready now to go. It was four o’clock, he found, by his watch, and it had been a long vigil; but, while Ingraham’s face was haggard and even ghastly, that of Gregory was unchanged in its massive firmness and its strong, fine lines.
Ingraham stood at his desk plainly chagrined and ill at ease.
“In your eyes, I see,” he said ruefully, “I am still in the place of the man who went away sorrowful because he had great possessions.”
“Perhaps,” said Gregory; “it is too soon to tell.”
“Every man must judge for himself, Mr. Gregory, when it comes to the supreme acts of his life.”
“Yes,” said the other, sadly; “to the supreme acts or to the supreme compromises. Will you excuse me now? I believe that I must go.” Gregory held out his hand, which Ingraham grasped with eagerness. “You have honoured me by your confidence and your generosity. Count me your friend if you will. Good night.”