“They shan’t ask you for any money, Fred, explained Doughty, when the Squire’s voice was again heard saying,
“And they shan’t refuse it from me.”
“Thank you, Squire,” said George. “I do think you owe it to them, but I guess they’ve good enough stuff in them to refuse it.”
“George,” said the Squire, again approaching the bedside, “I’m going to continue your salary to your wife until your boys grow big enough to help her. You know I’ve got plenty of money—’twon’t hurt me; for God’s sake make her promise to take it.”
“She won’t need it,” said Doughty. “My life’s insured.”
“Then what can I do for her—for them—for you?” asked the Squire. “George, you’re holding your—sickness—against me, and I want to make it right. I can’t say I believe I’ve done wrong by you, but you think I have, and that’s enough to make me want to restore good feeling between us before—in case anything should happen. Anything that money can do, it shall do.”
“Offer it to God Almighty, Squire, and buy my life back again,” said Doughty. “If you can’t do that, your money isn’t good for anything in this house.”
The doctor whispered to his patient that he must not exert himself so much; the Squire whispered to the doctor to know what else a man in his own position could do?
Fred Macdonald could think of no appropriate expression with which to break the silence that threatened. Suddenly Parson Wedgewell raised his head, and said,
“My dear young friend, this is a solemn moment. There are others who know and esteem you, beside those here present; have you no message to leave for them? Thousands of people rightly regard you as a young man of high character, and your influence for good may be powerful among them. I should esteem it an especial privilege to announce, in my official capacity, such testimony as you may be moved to make, and as your pastor, I feel like claiming this mournful pleasure as a right. What may I say?”