"Take it!—take it!" said Mr. Aldridge, who was now for the first time in his life beginning to comprehend that the real value of money depends wholly on the way in which it is used, and that that which purchases happiness neither for its possessor nor anybody else is not wealth, but dross. "Take it, and buy whatever you want. When did he ever withhold his hand when I offered him money?" thought he as his mind recurred to his adopted nephew.
Mary accordingly departed, and having supplied the table with provisions, was sent out again to purchase a warm shawl and some other articles for herself, which it was too evident she was much in need of. It was not till after she had departed that Mr. Aldridge entered into the subject that sat heavy on his soul. He now first communicated to Lane that which the reserve of his nature had hitherto induced him to conceal from everybody—namely, the disappointment he had experienced in the character of his adopted son, the ill-treatment he had received from him, and the mixture of fear, hatred, and disgust with which the conduct of Jonas had inspired him.
"He has contrived, under the pretense of taking care of my health, to make me a prisoner in my own house. I haven't a friend nor an acquaintance; he has bought over the servants to his interest, and his confidential associate is Holland, my solicitor, who drew up the will I made in that rascal's favor, and has it in his possession. Jonas is to marry his daughter too; but I have something in my pocket that will break off that match. I should never sleep in my grave if he inherited my money! The fact is," continued he, after a pause, "I never mean to go back to the fellow. I won't trust myself in his keeping; for I see he has scarcely patience to wait till nature removes me out of the way. I'll tell you what, Lane," continued he, his hollow cheek flushing with excited feelings, "I'll come and live with you, and Mary shall be my nurse."
Lane, who sat listening to all this in a state of bewilderment, half-doubting whether his old master had not been seized with a sudden fit of insanity, here cast a glance round the miserable whitewashed walls begrimed with smoke and dirt. "Not here—not here!" added Mr. Aldridge, interpreting the look aright; we'll take a house in the country, and Mary shall manage everything for us, whilst we sit together, with our knees to the fire, and talk over old times. Thank God, my money is my own still! and with country air and good nursing I should not wonder if I recover my health; for I can safely say I have never known what it is to enjoy a happy hour these five years—never since I found out that fellow's real character—and that is enough to kill any man! Look here," said he, drawing from his pocket a large black leathern note-case. "Here is a good round sum in Bank of England notes, which I have kept concealed until I could get clear of Mr. Jonas; for though he cannot touch the principal, thank God! he got a power of attorney from me some time ago, entitling him to receive my dividends; but now I'm out of his clutches, I'll put a drag on his wheel, he may rely on it. With this we can remove into the country and take lodgings, while we look out for a place to suit us permanently. We'll have a cow in a paddock close to the house; the new milk and the smell of the hay will make us young again. Many an hour, as I have lain in my wearisome bed lately, I have thought of you and our Sunday afternoons in the country when we were boys. In the eagerness of money-getting, these things had passed away from my memory; but they return to me now as the only pleasant recollection of my life."
"And yet I never thought you enjoyed them much at the time," observed Lane, who was gradually getting more at ease with the rich man that had once been his equal, but between whom and himself all equality had ceased as the one grew richer and the other poorer.
"Perhaps I did not," returned Ephraim. "I was too eager to get on in the world to take much pleasure in anything that did not help to fill my pockets. Money—money, was all I thought of! and when I got it, what did it bring me? Jonas—and a precious bargain he has turned out! But I'll be even with him yet." Here there was a sob and a convulsion of the breast, as the wounded heart swelled with its bitter sense of injury. "I have not told you half yet," continued he; "but I'll be even with him, little as he thinks it."
As a pause now ensued, Lane felt it was his turn to say something, and he began with, "I am surprised at Mr. Jonas;" for so cleverly had the nephew managed, that the alienation of the uncle was unsuspected by everybody, and Lane could hardly bring himself to comment freely on this once-cherished nephew. "I could not have believed, after all you've done for him, that he would turn out ungrateful. Perhaps," continued he; but here the words were arrested on his lips by a sudden movement on the part of Mr. Aldridge, which caused Lane, who had been staring vacantly into the fire, to turn his eyes toward his visitor, whom, to his surprise, he saw falling gradually forward. He stretched out his hand to arrest the fall; but his feeble arm only gave another direction to the body, which sank on its face to the ground. Lane, who naturally thought Mr. Aldridge had fainted from excess of emotion, fetched water, and endeavored to raise him from the floor; but he slipped heavily from his grasp; and the recollection that years ago, he had heard from the apothecary who attended Ephraim that the latter had disease of the heart, and would some day die suddenly, filled him with terror and dismay. He saw that the prophecy was fulfilled; his own weak nerves and enfeebled frame gave way under the shock, and dropping into the nearest chair, he was for some moments almost as insensible as his friend.
When he revived, and was able to recall his scattered senses, the first thing that met his eye was the open pocket-book and the notes that lay on the table. But a moment before, how full of promise was that book to him! Now, where were his hopes? Alas, like his fortunes, in the dust! Never was a man less greedy of money than Lane; but he knew what it was to want bread, to want clothes, to want fire. He felt sure Jonas would never give him a sixpence to keep him from starving; and there was his poor Mary, so overworked, fading her fair young cheeks with toil. That money was to have made three persons comfortable: he to whom it belonged was gone, and could never need it; and he had paid quite enough before he departed to satisfy Lane, that could he lift up his voice from the grave to say who would have the contents of that book, it would not be Jonas. Where, then, could be the harm of helping himself to that which had been partly intended for him? Where too, could be the danger? Assuredly Jonas, the only person who had a right to inquire into Mr. Aldridge's affairs, knew nothing of this sum; and then the pocket-book might be burned, and so annihilate all trace. There blazed the fire so invitingly. Besides, Jonas would be so rich, and could so well afford to spare it. As these arguments hastily suggested themselves, Lane, trembling with emotion, arose from his seat, seized the book, and grasped a handful of the notes, when to his horror, at that moment he heard a tap at the window. Shaking like a leaf, his wan cheeks whiter than before, and his very breath suspended, he stood waiting for what was to follow; but nothing ensued—all was silent again. It was probably an accident: some one passing had touched the glass; but still an undefined fear made him totter to the street door, and draw the bolt. Then he returned into the room: there were the notes yet tempting him. But this interruption had answered him. He longed for them as much as before, but did not dare to satisfy his desire, lest he should hear that warning tap again. Yet if left there till Mary returned, they were lost to him forever; and he and she would be starving again, all the more wretched for this transitory gleam of hope that had relieved for a moment the darkness of their despair. But time pressed: every moment he expected to hear her at the door; and as unwilling to relinquish the prize as afraid to seize it, he took refuge in an expedient that avoided either extreme—he closed the book, and flung it beneath the table, over which there was spread an old green cloth, casting a sufficiently dark shadow around to render the object invisible, unless to a person stooping to search for it. Thus, if inquired for and sought, it would be found, and the natural conclusion be drawn that it had fallen there; if not, he would have time for deliberation, and circumstances should decide him what to do.
There were but two beds in this poor house: in one slept Lane, on the other was stretched the dead guest. Mary, therefore, on this eventful night had none to go to. So she made up the fire, threw her new shawl over her head, and arranged herself to pass the hours till morning in the rickety old chair in which her father usually sat. The scenes in which she had been assisting formed a sad episode in her sad life; and although she knew too little of Mr. Aldridge to feel any particular interest in him, she had gathered enough from her father, and from the snatches of conversation she had heard, to be aware that this visit was to have been the dawn of better fortunes, and that the old man's sudden decease was probably a much heavier misfortune to themselves than to him. A girl more tenderly nurtured and accustomed to prosperity would have most likely given vent to her disappointment in tears; but tears are an idle luxury, in which the poor rarely indulge: they have no time for them. They must use their eyes for their work; and when night comes, their weary bodies constrain the mind to rest. Mary had had a fatiguing evening—it was late before she found herself alone; and tired and exhausted, unhappy as she felt, it was not long ere she was in a sound sleep.
It appeared to her that she must have slept several hours, when she awoke with the consciousness that there was somebody stirring in the room. She felt sure that a person had passed close to where she was sitting; she heard the low breathing and the cautious foot, which sounded as if the intruder was without shoes. The small grate not holding much coal, the fire was already out, and the room perfectly dark, so that Mary had only her ear to guide her: she could see nothing. A strange feeling crept over her when she remembered their guest: but no—he was forever motionless; there could be no doubt of that. It could not surely be her father. His getting out of bed and coming down stairs in the middle of the night was to the last degree improbable. What could he come for? Besides, if he had done so, he would naturally have spoken to her. Then came the sudden recollection that she had not fastened the back-door, which opened upon a yard as accessible to their neighbors as to themselves—neighbors not always of the best character either; and the cold shiver of fear crept over her. Now she felt how fortunate it was that the room was dark. How fortunate, too, that she had not spoken or stirred; for the intruder withdrew as silently as he came. Mary strained her ears to listen which way he went; but the shoeless feet gave no echo. It was some time before the poor girl's beating heart was stilled; and then suddenly recollecting that this mysterious visitor, whoever he was, might have gone to fetch a light and return, she started up, and turned the key in the door. During that night Mary had no more sleep. When the morning broke, she arose and looked around to see if any traces of her midnight visitor remained, but there were none. A sudden alarm now arose in her breast for her father's safety, and she hastily ascended the stairs to his chamber; but he appeared to be asleep, and she did not disturb him. Then she opened the door of her own room, and peeped in—all was still there, and just as it had been left on the preceding evening; and now, as is usual on such occasions, when the terrors of the night had passed away, and the broad daylight looked out upon the world, she began to doubt whether the whole affair had not been a dream betwixt sleeping and waking, the result of the agitating events of the preceding evening.