Rogues and Vagabonds

by George R. Sims

‘No, no!’ he cried, burying his facc in his hands. ‘My heart relents; I cannot do it. She would rise from her grave. Ruth—my poor Ruth—for your dear sake I will forgive him all!’

For a few minutes the old man, a prey to violent emotion, the tears streaming down his face, struggled with himself. The old love he had trampled beneath the heel of supposed duty was beating at his heart and striving to enter. The wall of faith was weak to-night—it gave way, and love marched in a conqueror.

With feverish hands he seized the pen, and, taking a sheet of paper, began to write.

His pen moved on rapidly—he wrote as though he feared a hand would seize his wrist and stop him.

Love had conquered. Squire Heritage wrote that night how, being of sound mind, he did revoke the will made in favour of Ruth Adrian, and give and bequeath all his property to his beloved son George.

Then he rang the bell. He would have his signature witnessed at once, lock it up and put it away, lest he might repent at the last moment. He summoned the old butler and one of the servants, who came up wondering at their presence being required.

If the master had asked them to stand on their heads they could not have been more surprised than when the squire bade them watch him write his name on a piece of paper, and then write theirs underneath it. The butler felt as if he was committing a midnight crime; but he obeyed, so did the other servant.

Then the squire dismissed them wondering, and, folding up the paper, placed it among the letters of his dead wife. It seemed to him that it was an answer to them, and should be with them.

He put them back into the box he had taken them from. It was a small deed-box, and contained all Mrs. Heritage’s jewellery.

Her wedding-ring he wore himself; but her diamonds, all her bracelets and trinkets, he had refused to part with. He had gathered them together, and put them in this box with her letters, and a few of the little treasures that had been dear to her in life. There was a small locket with a curl from baby George’s head; there was the hair he cut with trembling fingers as he stooped to kiss the marble brow of his lost one for the last time.