On a night shortly after the Mexican man was overtaken by a most righteous wrath in the Nettleton Building, certain evidences that Peyton Westbrook had for once gone a step too far in his villany came to my hands. I gave thanks to God that I should have been the one chosen as the humble instrument of that man's undoing. The testimony was irrefragable—as we lawyers say, conclusive—and I held him in the hollow of my hand. Here, my lifelong affection led me into error of judgment—something that I am not often guilty of; my tenderness of heart blinded me to my hatred of this man, and instead of stripping him of his smug and gaudy trappings of virtue, and showing him up to be the scoundrel he was, I ended by allowing that evidence to be taken from me—I standing by complaisant—and the opportunity to unmask him to be destroyed. So did gentle Elinor reward him for his base heartlessness of other days! What is the use for me to say that Peyton Westbrook was a scoundrel, if I cannot prove it? Although it is the bare truth, I will refrain from telling it. Besides, sweet Elinor has begged me not to....

For a time I thought of that snip of a girl who bears the Westbrook name with about as much dignity as really invests it—

But enough of her. I was wrong, and I bear her no ill will for being a witless butterfly. Butterflies, I dare say, have their uses in the vast scheme of creation.

To return to my error of judgment. When I had satiated my senses by gloating over this evidence, I was possessed of an idea. Never had I breathed a word to any living soul of my love for Elinor Clay; it was a secret locked safely in the treasure-house of my heart; and now I could overwhelm her with gratitude. I would go to her—now that her foolish girl sentiment for the bowelless Westbrook had long been dead—and at once show her what a hypocrite he was, how basely he had treated her, and then present the immense contrast offered by my lifelong devotion and generosity. Could any mortal—especially a woman—resist such an appeal? I pride myself on my knowledge of the sex; to the intelligent, observant mind they are as open books; and I unhesitatingly answer, No. But alas for human frailty! When I appeared to my beloved Elinor, I had not taken into account her years of enervating illness; I failed to consider that she was not the woman she had been; but I did not hesitate—to me she would ever remain unchanged.

When she comprehended the tenor of my errand, the shock was too much for her gentle nature; she was quite overcome and rendered irresponsible, and all unconsciously she reviled me,—she who had ever been all gentleness and tenderness,—and treated me with a harshness that was very, very painful. What could I do but deliver my testimony over to her? How could I refrain, when her delirium or hallucination was so great that it actually led her to defending Peyton Westbrook! to calling him by many endearing names! And presently, her daughter—who, I make no doubt, had been listening at the door—entered, and I thoughtfully and considerately desisted in my importunities for the testimony's return (for my beloved Elinor had it at the moment); and I decided to leave her until a more propitious time. Alas! that time was destined never to come.

But enough. I reap from my trust no material benefit. The envious call my conduct Miserliness; I spell it differently; Fidelity.

Charlotte, Clay, dear children of my beloved Elinor, take what is yours. I ask for no meed of thanks. My reward is the consciousness of a duty well accomplished, of a trust faithfully guarded. But never forget that William Slade, son of an overseer, despised and spurned by an unfeeling and heartless world, ever had your interests near to his heart. If the reader in his soul does not say that my unselfishness is sublime, then are you inhuman, cold, and bloodless; for I end my trust with the firm conviction that the cestuis que trust are in no wise worthy or deserving of this magnificent gift of fortune.

BOOK IV.
THE DANCER AND THE MOUNTEBANK

The tongues of dying men
Enforce attention like deep harmony.
Where words are scarce they are seldom spent in vain,
For they breathe truth that breathe their words in pain.
—RICHARD II.