"Of my future, God knows, I take no care; but for the sake of those poor young things, so cruelly left to struggle with a hard, hard world, I feel that I have strength even to oppose the stern rock of your obstinacy, almost hopeless though the effort may be. I am going," he went on, seeing the feverish impatience working in Granite's face, "but, as a parting word, remember that my dependence is not in my own ability to unmask your speciousness, or contend against the harshness of your determination. No, I surrender my case and that of my clients into His hands who never suffers the guilty to triumph to the end. The avalanche falls sometimes on the fruitfullest vineyards, as well as on the most sterile waste."
"By Heaven! you exhaust my patience," roared the other, as he rung the servants' bell impetuously; "since you will not go of your own accord, I must indignantly thrust you forth into the street like a cur."
"There shall be no need of that," meekly replied the clerk, turning to leave the apartment, just as the servant entered, bringing a letter for Mr. Granite on a silver waiter.
The latter was about to address an angry sentence to the servant, when he perceived that the letter he carried was enclosed in an envelope deeply bordered with black.
His heart gave one mighty throb as he snatched it—tearing it open, and gasping with some terrible presentiment of evil, he but glanced at the contents, and with a fearful shriek fell prostrate.
Sterling rushed to his side, and with the aid of the servant, loosed his neckcloth, and placed him in a chair, using what immediate remedies he could command in the hope of restoring animation. It was some minutes before the stricken man, clutched from his pride of place in the winking of an eyelid, gave signs of returning vitality. During his unconsciousness, Sterling ascertained from the open letter lying at his feet, that the merchant's son, the sole hope of his existence, for whom he had slaved and toiled, set at naught all principle, and violated even the ties of kindred and of honesty, had died suddenly at college. No previous illness had given the slightest shadow of an apprehension. He had quietly retired to his bed at his usual hour on the previous night, and in the morning was found stark and cold. None knew the agony which might have preceded dissolution. No friendly tongue was nigh to speak of consolation; no hand to do the kindly offices of nature.
Slowly, slowly and painfully the wretched parent returned to consciousness, and with it, the terrible reality of his bereavement. Glaring around him fiercely: "Where am I?—what is this?—why do you hold me?" he cried, madly. At this instant his glance fell upon the fatal letter; "Oh, God! I know it all—all! my son! my son!" Turning upon Sterling, fiercely, he grasped him by the throat. "Old man," he cried, "you have murdered him! you, and that villain Travers!" Then he relaxed his gripe, and in an agony of tears, fell to supplication. "It cannot be—it shall not be—oh! take me to him—what am I to do? Sterling, my old friend, oh, forgive me—pity me—let us away." He tried to stand, but his limbs were paralyzed. "The judgment has fallen—I feared it—I expected it, but not so suddenly—it may be that there is still hope—hope, though ever so distant. Perhaps a quick atonement may avert the final blow. Quick, Sterling—give me paper, and pen." They were brought. "Now write," he continued, his voice growing fainter and fainter: "I give Travers all—all—if this late repentance may be heard, and my son should live. I know I can rely on his benevolence—quick, let me sign it, for my strength is failing fast."
With extreme difficulty, he appended his signature to the document Sterling had drawn up at his desire. When it was done, the pen dropped from his nerveless grasp, his lips moved for an instant as though in prayer—the next—he was—nothing!
CHAPTER IX.
SUNLIGHT.