Turns of Fortune | Page 3

he used you. Oh! for my sake say you will forgive Mary. It is all I
ask. Do what you please with your wealth, but forgive my sister."
"You were always a fool, Sarah," he replied faintly and peevishly. "If I
could do as I please, I would take my property with me, for you will
surely spend it. But there is another condition, another promise you
must give me. Now, don't interrupt me again. We will talk of her
by-and-bye, perhaps. As long as you live, Sarah, as you value my
blessing, you must not part with anything in this room. You will live on
in the old house, or perhaps sell it, and have a smaller; yet don't spend
money in new furnishing--don't; but never part with anything in _this
room_; never so much as a stick."
This promise was willingly given; for, independently of her love for her
father, Sarah Bond had become attached to the inanimate objects which
had so long been before her. Again she endeavoured to lead her father
away from that avarice which had corrupted his soul, and driven
happiness and peace from their dwelling. She urged the duty of
forgiveness, and pleaded hard for her sister; but, though the hours wore
away, she made no impression upon him. Utterly unmindful of her
words, he did not either interrupt her or fall into his former violence.
On the contrary, he seemed involved in some intricate
calculation--counting on his fingers, or casting up lines of imaginary
figures upon the coverlit.
Sarah, heart-broken, and silently weeping, retreated to the table, and
again, after turning the fire, betook her to her solace--the precious
volume that never fails to afford consolation to the afflicted. She read a
few passages, and then, though she looked upon the book, her mind
wandered. She recalled the happy days of her childhood, before her
father, by the extraordinary and most unexpected bequest of a distant
relative, became possessed of property to what extent she could form
no idea. She knew that this relative had quarrelled with the heir-at-law,
and left all to one he had never seen. This bequest had closed up her
father's heart; instead of being a blessing, so perfectly avaricious had he
grown, that it was a curse. Previously, he had been an industrious
farmer; and though a thrifty one, had evinced none of the bitterness of

avarice, none of its hardness or tyranny. He could then sleep at nights,
permit his wife and children to share their frugal stores with those who
needed, troll "Ere around the huge oak," while his wife accompanied
him on the spinnet, and encourage his daughters to wed men in what
was their then sphere of life, rather than those who might not consider
the gentle blood they inherited, and their superior education, a
sufficient set-off to their limited means and humble station. Suddenly,
riches poured in upon him: his eldest daughter, true to the faith she
plighted, would marry her humble lover, and her father's subsequent
harshness to her favourite child broke the mother's heart. Sarah not only
had less firmness of character than her sister, but loved her father more
devotedly, and gave up the affection of her young heart to please him.
His narrow nature could not understand the sacrifice: and when her
cheek faded, and her really beautiful face contracted into the painful
expression of that pining melancholy which has neither words nor
tears--to lull his sympathy, he muttered to himself, "good girl, she shall
have all I have."
No human passion grows with so steady, so imperceptible, yet so
rampant a growth as avarice. It takes as many shapes as Proteus, and
may be called, above all others, the vice of middle life, that soddens
into the gangrene of old age; gaining strength by vanquishing all
virtues and generous emotions, it is a creeping, sly, keen, persevering,
insidious sin, assuming various forms, to cheat even itself; for it
shames to name itself unto itself; a cowardly, darkness-loving sin,
never daring to look human nature in the face; full of lean excuses for
self-imposed starvation, only revelling in the impurity and duskiness of
its own shut-up heart. At last the joy-bells ring its knell, while it crawls
into eternity like a vile reptile, leaving a slimy track upon the world.
The inmates of the mansion enclosed in its old court-yard had long
ceased to attract the observation of their neighbours. Sometimes Sarah
called at the butcher's, but she exchanged smiles or greetings with few;
and the baker rang the rusty bell twice a-week, which was answered by
their only servant. When Mr. Bond first took possession of the
manor-house, he hired five domestics, and everybody said they could
not do with so few; and there were two men to