In Luck at Last | Page 5

income until I, or my heirs, should return to England in order
to claim the inheritance.
"It is strange. I die in a wooden shanty, in a little Western town, the
editor of a miserable little country paper. I have not money enough
even to bury me, and yet, if I were at home, I might be called a rich
man, as men go. My little Iris will be an heiress. At the very moment
when I learn that I am my father's heir, I am struck down by fever; and
now I know that I shall never get up again.
"It is strange. Yet my father sent me his forgiveness, and my wife is

dead, and the wealth that has come is useless to me. Wherefore, nothing
now matters much to me, and I know that you will hold my last wishes
sacred.
"I desire that Iris shall be educated as well and thoroughly as you can
afford; keep her free from rough and rude companions; make her
understand that her father was a gentleman of ancient family; this
knowledge will, perhaps, help to give her self-respect. If any
misfortune should fall upon you, such as the loss of health or wealth,
give the papers inclosed to a trustworthy solicitor, and bid him act as is
best in the interests of Iris. If, as I hope, all will go well with you, do
not open the papers until my child's twenty-first birthday; do not let her
know until then that she is going to be rich; on her twenty-first birthday,
open the papers and bid her claim her own.
"To the woman I wronged--I know not whether she has married or
not--bid Iris carry my last message of sorrow at what has happened. I
do not regret, and I have never regretted, that I married Alice. But, I
gave her pain, for which I have never ceased to grieve. I have been
punished for this breach of faith. You will find among the papers an
account of all the circumstances connected with this engagement. There
is also in the packet my portrait, taken when I was a lad of sixteen; give
her that as well; there is the certificate of my marriage, my register of
baptism, that of Iris's baptism, my signet ring--" "His arms"--the old
man interrupted his reading--"his arms were: quarterly: first and fourth,
two roses and a boar's head, erect; second and third, gules and fesse
between--between--but I cannot remember what it was between--" He
went on reading: "My father's last letter to me; Alice's letters, and one
or two from yourself. If Iris should unhappily die before her
twenty-first birthday, open these papers, find out from them the owner's
name and address, seek her out, and tell her that she will never now be
disturbed by any claimants to the estate."
The letter ended here abruptly, as if the writer had designed to add
more, but was prevented by death.
For there was a postscript, in another hand, which stated: "Mr. Aglen
died November 25th, 1866, and is buried in the cemetery of Johnson

City, Ill."
The old man folded the letter carefully, and laid it on the table. Then he
rose and walked across the room to the safe, which stood with open
door in the corner furthest from the fireplace. Among its contents was a
packet sealed and tied up in red tape, endorsed: "For Iris. To be given
to her on her twenty-first birthday. From her father."
"It will be her twenty-first birthday," he said, "in three weeks. Then I
must give her the packet. So--so--with the portrait of her father, and his
marriage-certificate." He fell into a fit of musing, with the papers in his
hand. "She will be safe, whatever happens to me; and as for me, if I
lose her--of course I shall lose her. Why, what will it matter? Have I
not lost all, except Iris? One must not be selfish. Oh, Iris, what a
surprise--what a surprise I have in store for you!"
He placed the letter he had been reading within the tape which fastened
the bundle, so that it should form a part of the communication to be
made on Iris's birthday.
"There," he said, "now I shall read this letter no more. I wonder how
many times I have read it in the last eighteen years, and how often I
have wondered what the child's fortune would be? In three weeks--in
three short weeks. Oh, Iris, if you only knew!"
He put back the letters and the packet, locked the safe, and resumed his
seat.
The red-eyed assistant, still gumming and pasting his slips with
punctilious regard to duty, had been following his master's movements
with curiosity.
"Counting his investments again as usual," Mr. James murmured.