Gifts of Genius | Page 9

had aided, five years before, in
remedying, still hung over the dying man's head, like a nightmare. He
could not die, he said, with the thought in his mind, that any one might
attribute this disorder to intentional maladministration--"to fraud, it
might be."
And at the word "fraud," his wan cheek became crimson.
"My own affairs, Mr. Cleave," he continued, "are, I find, in a most
unhappy condition. I have been far too negligent; and now, on my
death-bed, for such it will prove, I discover, for the first time, that I am
well-nigh a ruined man!"
He spoke with wild energy as he went on. I, in vain, attempted to
impress upon him, the danger of exciting himself.
"I must explain everything, and in my own way," he said, with burning
cheeks, "for I look to you to extricate me. I have appointed you, Mr.
Cleave, my chief executor; but, above all, I rely upon you, I adjure you,
to protect my good name in those horrible accounts, which you once
helped to arrange, but which haunt me day and night like the ghost of a
murdered man!"
The insane agitation of the speaker increased, in spite of all which I
could say. It led him to make me a singular revelation--to speak upon a
subject which I had never even dreamed of. His pride and caution
seemed wholly to have deserted him; and he continued as follows:
"You are surprised, Sir, that I should thus call upon you. You are young.
But I know very well what I am doing. Your rank in your profession is
sufficient guaranty that you are competent to perform the trust--my

knowledge of your character is correct enough to induce me not to
hesitate. There is another tie between us. Do you suspect its nature? I
loved and would have married your mother. She was poor--I was
equally poor--I was dazzled by wealth, and was miserably happy when
your mother's pride made her refuse my suit. I married--I have not been
happy. But enough. I should never have spoken of this--never--but I am
dying! As you are faithful and true, St. George Cleave, let my good
name and Annie's be untarnished!"
There the interview ended. The doctor came in, and I retired to reflect
upon the singular communication which had been made to me. On the
same evening, I accepted all the trusts confided to me. In a week the
sick gentleman was sleeping with his fathers. I held his hand when he
died.
I shall not describe the grief and suffering of every one. I shall not trust
myself, especially, to speak of Annie. Her agony was almost
destructive to her health--and every throb which shook her frame,
shook mine as well. The sight of her face had revived, in an instant, all
the love of the past, if indeed it had ever slept. I loved her now,
passionately, profoundly. As I thought that I might win her love in
return, I thrilled with a vague delight.
Well, let me not spin out my story. The result of my examination of Mr.
Barrington's affairs, was saddening in the extreme. He was quite ruined.
Neglect and extravagant living, with security debts, had mortgaged his
entire property. When it was settled, and the hall was sold, his widow
and daughter had just enough to live upon comfortably--scarcely so
much. They gladly embraced my suggestion to remove to a small
cottage near our own, in town, and there they now live--you may see
the low roof through the window.
I am glad to say that my reëxamination of the executorial accounts,
which had so troubled the poor dying gentleman, proved his fears quite
unfounded. There was mere disorder--no grounds for "exception." I
told as much to Annie, who alone knew all; and her smile,
inexpressibly sweet and filled with thanks, was my sole executorial
"commission."

VII.
I have just been discarded by Annie.
Let me endeavor to collect my thoughts and recall what she said to me.
My head is troubled to-day--it is strange what a want of self-control I
have! I thought I was strong--and I am weaker than a child.
I told her that I loved her--had loved her for years--that she was dearer,
far, to me than all on earth beside my mother. And she answered
me--agitated, but perfectly resolved:
"I cannot marry you, Mr. Cleave."
A long pause followed, in which she evidently labored with great
distress--then she continued:
"I will frankly and faithfully say why I cannot. I know all--I know your
feelings for me once. You went away because you were poor, and you
thought I was rich. Shall I be less strong than yourself? I am poor now;
I do not regret it, except--pardon me, sir, I am confused--I meant