“Well, she has left me an heir.”
“And brought something that he might inherit,” observed the Doctor, dryly.
My ancestor looked up inquiringly at his companion, but apparently most of the sarcasm was thrown away,
“I resign the child to your care, Dr. Etherington, conformably to the dying request of my beloved Betsey.”
“I accept the charge, Mr. Goldencalf, comformably to my promise to the deceased; but you will remember that there was a condition coupled with that promise which must be faithfully and promptly fulfilled.”
My ancestor was too much accustomed to respect the punctilios of trade, whose code admits of frauds only in certain categories, which are sufficiently explained in its conventional rules of honor; a sort of specified morality, that is bottomed more on the convenience of its votaries than on the general law of right. He respected the letter of his promise while his soul yearned to avoid its spirit; and his wits were already actively seeking the means of doing that which he so much desired.
“I did make a promise to poor Betsey, certainly,” he answered, in the way of one who pondered, “and it was a promise, too, made under very solemn circumstances.”
“The promises made to the dead are doubly binding; since, by their departure to the world of spirits, it may be said they leave the performance to the exclusive superintendence of the Being who cannot lie.”
My ancestor quailed; his whole frame shuddered, and his purpose was shaken.
“Poor Betsey left you as her representative in this case, however, Doctor,” he observed, after the delay of more than a minute, casting his eyes wistfully towards the divine.