"I will do it. I will tell him all, by——."
And never in his later years had Mr. Asherill uttered the sacred name with such agonized earnestness as then.
A man entered, old, white-haired, affluent; a man who did not merely look like a gentleman, but who was one; a man who talked little about religion, but whose life had been a long worship, a perpetual thanksgiving, a continual striving to do good.
He looked at the saturated clothes, at the white anxious face, at the mute glance towards the still open door; then he walked to the door, and having closed and bolted it, came close up to his visitor and asked,
"What is it? what is the matter?"....
It was a common enough story, and it did not take long to tell. When it was ended, Mr. Mortomley went to his safe, unlocked it, took out his cheque-book, filled in a cheque, signed and blotted off the writing.
"You cannot get this cashed to-day," he said; "it is too late, but first thing on Monday will be time enough for what you want. There, there; don't thank me. Thank the Almighty for sending you here and saving you from a worse crime still. Now go. Yet stay a moment. You look as if you wanted food and drink and firing. Here are a couple of sovereigns; and now do, do pray let this be a warning to you for the remainder of your life."
That was the phantom memory conjured up. Instead of the river or a prison, relief and a fresh chance given him.
It all happened just as the waves of time brought it back to his recollection.
A similar Saturday—the rain pouring down—only now it was to the old man's son, ruin had come, and there was no one to hold out a helping hand to him.