He paused; but Bertie said nothing, and after a long silence the Squire commenced his tale.
“I was an only child, and my parents were all that is kind and wise and judicious. I was not spoiled, and yet I had every reasonable indulgence, and I was very happy. I was brought up in the fear and love of God, as well as in the earnest wish to do my duty to my fellow-creatures, especially to those who lived about me, and were, or would be, in a measure dependent upon me for their daily bread. I was never inclined to treat such matters lightly, accepted the teaching my parents gave me readily and sincerely, and I never felt tempted to wander from the beaten track that my forefathers had trodden. I had a very happy, untroubled youth, and life was very bright before and around me. I was kind-hearted and generous, a favorite with our people, and if I had ever been questioned upon the subject, I suppose I should have said that I was doing my best to live the life of a Christian gentleman. I was not in the least aware that there was nothing personal in my religion. I had accepted it from my father and mother in just the same fashion as I had accepted their politics and their teaching upon a variety of subjects; only, whereas I interested myself deeply in secular subjects, and verified the wisdom of their views by practical experience of my own, I was content in the matter of religion to take all upon trust, and accept everything they said, because I had no reason to doubt their wisdom, and because it was much easier to let them do the thinking for me than to do it for myself.
“As years passed by, changes came into my life. My parents died, and I married, and had children of my own to care for. My life continued easy and pleasant and prosperous, as it always had been. I was very happy, and had never known what real trouble was. The death of my parents had been my only grief. I mourned sincerely for them, but in the love of my wife and the caresses of my baby boys I soon found comfort; and in this happy and quiet way my life flowed on from year to year, till, like somebody else of whom we read, ‘I said in my prosperity, I shall never be moved; Thou, Lord, of Thy goodness hast made my hill so strong.’”
There was a pause, which the quiet little listener did not try to break. How much he understood of all this, how much he entered into the frame of mind described, the Squire did not pause to ask. It was plain enough that he was deeply interested in any story that dealt with the past life of one he loved so well.
“My wife, Bertie, was a very good woman. You see her picture there. She brought up our children to be like her—how like I did not know for many years. I was very happy and very busy every day of my life, from one year’s end to another. I loved my wife, I loved my children very dearly. They loved me in return, and it seemed as if no cloud ever shadowed our peaceful home. Sickness never came within our doors. We often laughed at our yearly doctor’s bill, it was so very small. Everything seemed to thrive with us. Trouble passed us by as if it had no part or lot in our house. I began to take our happiness and prosperity so much for granted that I almost forgot to be grateful.
“Not so my wife; her gentle voice was often raised in thanksgiving for the brightness of our lot. I always assented readily when she spoke of the gratitude we owed to God. I did not know how little my heart really responded to her words. I was soon, however, to learn that my service had been all this while little more than the service of self.
“Fifteen years ago last summer, the cholera came to this country on one of its periodical visits. It attacked our village; but in the first instance the nature of the malady was not detected. Our good old doctor was himself ill, and away for his health, whilst his young assistant was quite inexperienced, and had never seen cholera in his life. We heard that there were many cases of illness in the village, and from what we heard we gathered that it was caused by some impurity in the water supply. We had never been in the least alarmed on our own account when attacks of sickness had from time to time taken place in the village. We had never banished the children, nor had we ever had cause to repent our temerity. My wife was assiduous as ever in ministering to the wants of the sick. Nobody called it cholera during the first week that it visited us. Many people took it and died, and a sort of panic set in; but that made my wife only the more anxious to encourage others by her own example.
“The boys had just come home for their holidays, and as they were very popular in the village, and had a number of friends amongst the people, they were continually running across; and if they heard of a case of illness in any house they knew, they would look in to say a cheery word to the sufferer and ascertain if he had everything he wanted.
“But at the end of a week the mortality became so great that the gravest fears were excited. Medical help from other places was called in, and we were soon made aware that the scourge of cholera had visited us. I took the alarm then. I said to my wife that she must make instant arrangements to leave, taking all the children with her, but that I should remain to do what I could for the sufferers and to help those who were working for them. My wife would fain have stayed with me, but I would not hear of it. For the sake of the children she submitted to my verdict; and, with the heroism that had always characterized her, she forbore to tempt me away from the place where my duty bade me stay.
“It was on Saturday that we awoke to a sense of the peril of our position. On Monday morning we had arranged that all for whom any anxiety was felt, or who were at all afraid to remain, should leave the house. All our plans were made—but they were made too late.