The Monikins. Джеймс Фенимор Купер
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with awe. My father gazed for a whole minute intently on the placid features of his wife, and left the room in silence. He was followed by Dr. Etherington, who accompanied him to the private apartment where they had first met that night, neither uttering a syllable until both were seated.
“She was a good woman, Dr. Etherington!” said the widowed man, shaking his foot with agitation.
“She was a good woman, Mr. Goldencalf.”
“And a good wife, Dr. Etherington.”
“I have always believed her to be a good wife, sir.”
“Faithful, obedient, and frugal.”
“Three qualities that are of much practical use in the affairs of this world.”
“I shall never marry again, sir.”
The divine bowed.
“Nay, I never could find such another match!”
Again the divine inclined his head, though the assent was accompanied by slight smile.
“Well, she has left me an heir.”
“And brought something that he might inherit,” observed the Doctor, dryly.
My ancestor looked up inquiringly at his companion, but apparently most of the sarcasm was thrown away,
“I resign the child to your care, Dr. Etherington, conformably to the dying request of my beloved Betsey.”
“I accept the charge, Mr. Goldencalf, comformably to my promise to the deceased; but you will remember that there was a condition coupled with that promise which must be faithfully and promptly fulfilled.”
My ancestor was too much accustomed to respect the punctilios of trade, whose code admits of frauds only in certain categories, which are sufficiently explained in its conventional rules of honor; a sort of specified morality, that is bottomed more on the convenience of its votaries than on the general law of right. He respected the letter of his promise while his soul yearned to avoid its spirit; and his wits were already actively seeking the means of doing that which he so much desired.
“I did make a promise to poor Betsey, certainly,” he answered, in the way of one who pondered, “and it was a promise, too, made under very solemn circumstances.”
“The promises made to the dead are doubly binding; since, by their departure to the world of spirits, it may be said they leave the performance to the exclusive superintendence of the Being who cannot lie.”
My ancestor quailed; his whole frame shuddered, and his purpose was shaken.
“Poor Betsey left you as her representative in this case, however, Doctor,” he observed, after the delay of more than a minute, casting his eyes wistfully towards the divine.
“In one sense, she certainly did, sir.”
“And a representative with full powers is legally a principal under a different name. I think this matter might be arranged to our mutual satisfaction, Dr. Etherington, and the intention of poor Betsey most completely executed; she, poor woman, knew little of business, as was best for her sex; and when women undertake affairs of magnitude, they are very apt to make awkward work of it.”
“So that the intention of the deceased be completely fulfilled, you will not find me exacting, Mr. Goldencalf.”
“I thought as much—I knew there could be no difficulty between two men of sense, who were met with honest views to settle a matter of this nature. The intention of poor Betsey, Doctor, was to place her child under your care, with the expectation—and I do not deny its justice—that the boy would receive more benefit from your knowledge than he possibly could from mine.”
Dr. Etherington was too honest to deny these premises, and too polite to admit them without an inclination of acknowledgment.
“As we are quite of the same mind, good sir, concerning the preliminaries,” continued my ancestor, “we will enter a little nearer into the details. It appears to me to be no more than strict justice, that he who does the work should receive the reward. This is a principle in which I have been educated, Dr. Etherington; it is one in which I could wish to have my son educated; and it is one on which I hope always to practise.”
Another inclination of the body conveyed the silent assent of the divine.
“Now, poor Betsey, Heaven bless her!—for she was a meek and tranquil companion, and richly deserves to be rewarded in a future state—but, poor Betsey had little knowledge of business. She fancied that, in bestowing these ten thousand pounds on a charity, she was acting well; whereas she was in fact committing injustice. If you are to have the trouble and care of bringing up little Jack, who but you should reap the reward?”
“I shall expect, Mr. Goldencalf, that you will furnish the means to provide for the child's wants.”
“Of that, sir, it is unnecessary to speak,” interrupted my ancestor, both promptly and proudly. “I am a wary man, and a prudent man, and am one who knows the value of money, I trust; but I am no miser, to stint my own flesh and blood. Jack shall never want for anything, while it is in my power to give it. I am by no means as rich, sir, as the neighborhood supposes; but then I am no beggar. I dare say, if all my assets were fairly counted, it might be found that I am worth a plum.”
“You are said to have received a much larger sum than that with the late Mrs. Goldencalf,” the divine observed, not without reproof in his voice.
“Ah, dear sir, I need not tell you what vulgar rumor is—but I shall not undermine my own credit; and we will change the subject. My object, Dr. Etherington, was merely to do justice. Poor Betsey desired that ten thousand pounds might be given to found a scholarship or two: now, what have these scholars done, or what are they likely to do, for me or mine? The case is different with you, sir; you will have trouble—much trouble, I make no doubt; and it is proper that you should have a sufficient compensation. I was about to propose, therefore, that you should consent to receive my check for three, or four, or even for five thousand pounds,” continued my ancestor, raising the offer as he saw the frown on the brow of the Doctor deepen. “Yes, sir, I will even say the latter sum, which possibly will not be too much for your trouble and care; and we will forget the womanish plan of poor Betsey in relation to the two scholarships and the charity. Five thousand pounds down, Doctor, for yourself, and the subject of the charity forgotten forever.”
When my father had thus distinctly put his proposition, he awaited its effect with the confidence of a man who had long dealt with cupidity. For a novelty, his calculation failed. The face of Dr. Etherington flushed, then paled, and finally settled into a look of melancholy reprehension. He arose and paced the room for several minutes in silence; during which time his companion believed he was debating with himself on the chances of obtaining a higher bid for his consent, when he suddenly stopped and addressed my ancestor in a mild but steady tone.
“I feel it to be a duty, Mr. Goldencalf,” he said, “to admonish you of the precipice over which you hang. The love of money, which is the root of all evil, which caused Judas to betray even his Saviour and God, has taken deep root in your soul. You are no longer young, and although still proud in your strength and prosperity, are much nearer to your great account than you may be willing to believe. It is not an hour since you witnessed the departure of a penitent soul for the presence of her God; since you heard the dying request from her lips; and since, in such a presence and in such a scene, you gave a pledge to respect her wishes, and, now, with the accursed spirit of gain upper-most, you would trifle with these most sacred obligations, in order to keep a little worthless gold in a hand that is already full to overflowing. Fancy that the pure spirit of thy confiding and single-minded wife were present at this conversation; fancy it mourning over thy weakness and violated faith—nay, I know not that such is not the fact; for there is no reason to believe that the happy spirits are not permitted to watch near, and mourn over us, until we are released from this mass of sin and depravity in which we dwell—and, then, reflect what must be her sorrow at hearing how soon her parting