It is said, that the ill men do, lives after them—the good is oft interred with their bones. It was not so with Dean Stanley: the good he had intended for Helen, his large fortune, was lost and gone; but the real good he had done for his niece remained in full force, and to the honour of his memory: the excellent education he had given her—it was excellent not merely in the worldly meaning of the word, as regards accomplishments and elegance of manners, but excellent in having given her a firm sense of duty, as the great principle of action, and as the guide of her naturally warm generous affections.
And now, when Helen returned from her walk, Mr. Collingwood, in the gentlest and kindest manner he was able, informed her of the confusion in her uncle’s affairs, the debts, the impossibility of paying the creditors, the total loss of all fortune for herself.
Mrs. Collingwood had well foreseen the effect this intelligence would have on Helen. At first, with fixed incredulous eyes, she could not believe that her uncle could have been in any way to blame. Twice she asked—“Are you sure—are you certain—is there no mistake?” And when the conviction was forced upon her, still her mind did not take in any part of the facts, as they regarded herself. Astonished and, shocked, she could feel nothing but the disgrace that would fall upon the memory of her beloved uncle.
Then she exclaimed—“One part of it is not true, I am certain:” and hastily leaving the room, she returned immediately with a letter in her hand, which, without speaking, she laid before Mr. Collingwood, who wiped his spectacles quickly, and read.
It was addressed to the poor dean, and was from an old friend of his, Colonel Munro, stating that he had been suddenly ordered to India, and was obliged to return a sum of money which the dean had many years before placed in his hands, to secure a provision for his niece, Miss Stanley.
This letter had arrived when the dean was extremely ill. Helen had been afraid to give it to him, and yet thought it right to do so. The moment her uncle had read the letter, which he was still able to do, and to comprehend, though he was unable to speak, he wrote on the back with difficulty, in a sadly trembling hand, yet quite distinctly, these words:—“That money is yours, Helen Stanley: no one has any claim upon it. When I am gone consult Mr. Collingwood; consider him as your guardian.”
Mr. Collingwood perceived that this provision had been made by the dean for his niece before he had contracted his present debts—many years before, when he had sold his paternal estate, and that knowing his own disposition to extravagance, he had put this sum out of his own power.
“Right—all right, my dear Miss Stanley,” said the vicar; “I am very glad—it is all justly yours.”
“No,” said Helen, “I shall never touch it: take it, my dear Mr. Collingwood, take it, and pay all the debts before any one can complain.”
Mr. Collingwood pressed her to him without speaking; but after a moment’s recollection he replied:—“No, no, my dear child, I cannot let you do this: as your guardian, I cannot allow such a young creature as you are, in a moment of feeling, thus to give away your whole earthly fortune—it must not be.”