Gifts of Genius | Page 9

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 re?xamination 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 to say, that you are now the richer. It humbles me to speak of this--why did you not"--
There she stopped, blushing and trembling.
"Why did I not? Oh! do not stop there, I pray you."
She replied to my words in a broken and agitated voice:
"I cannot finish. I was thinking of--of--the day when I mended your coat!"
And a smile broke through the tears in her eyes, as she gazed timidly at me. I shall not prolong the account of our interview. She soon left me, resolute to the last; and I came away, perfectly miserable.
What shall I do? I cannot live without her. My life would be a miserable mockery. To see her there near me, at the window, in the street; to see her tresses in the sunlight, her little slipper as it flits through the flower-enveloped gate; to feel that she is near me, but lost to me! Never could I endure it! But what can I do? Is there anything that can move her?
--Ah! that may! Let me try it. Oh, fortunate accident.