[figure description] Page 100.[end figure description]

When a sad story is to be told, the fewer words in which
it is couched the better for both narrator and listener.

Sidney passed a pleasant winter and spring in the balmy
land to which he had repaired, but although there was an
alleviation of the worst symptoms of his complaint, his
health could not be said materially to improve, nor to give
the least promise of ultimate amendment. Decay slowly
but surely proceeded with its work, at once beautifying
and blighting the fair fabric of which it had taken possession,
as autumn destroys the forest leaves, yet gilds them
ere they fall with hues that summer never knew.

Yet Sidney was happy. He did not cling eagerly to
life, nor cheat himself with the flattering hopes which consumption
ever whispers to those who are willing to be deceived.
He knew his doom, and calmly awaited it.
Calmly, did I say? Aye, strange as it may seem to those
who have never accompanied a Christian invalid down to
the gates of death, often with a positive rapture, such as
the hope of health never brought to the heart of a sufferer.
The heir of vast worldly estates, he saw them passing away
from him unregretted, for he felt that he had an inheritance
on high, in comparison with which earth's congregated
gold would be as valueless as its kindred dust.

Yet he did not talk much of death. Unwilling to distress
his cousin, whose care of him was unremitting, and
whose affection for him was unlimited, he listened to his

[figure description] Page 101.[end figure description]

daily language of encouragement without seeming to discredit
it, and concealed from him as far as he could whatever
tended to show the fallacy of his expectations.

Addison wrote frequently home, always coloring his
tidings with the roseate hue of hope, until the advancing
spring forced from him the painful admission that Sidney
was worse, nay was dangerously ill.

Yet he did not propose to return home with him until
June, if the Cuban climate continued salubrious, for he
feared the sudden changes and coldness of even the early
summer at the North, and when June arrived, he would
have chosen to remain still longer, had not their dwindling
purse given warning of the necessity of departure. If
Sidney had believed that a longer sojourn at the South
would increase his chances of recovery, or prolong his days,
he would, from a sense of duty, have written to his guardian
asking for a remittance, although he had little reason
to anticipate a favorable response to such an application.
He had believed it right to bring Addison with him, and to
conceal from his uncle the fact that he did so, when he had
reason to anticipate that his design would be frustrated if
discovered; but candor had not permitted him to continue
the concealment beyond his first letter home, which had
been written soon after his arrival at Havana. In this
communication he had frankly stated that his cousin had
accompanied him, and that he had done so secretly, because
he feared opposition to his design; but Sidney
expressed the hope that his uncle would see the propriety
of his having a companion and assistant in his feeble state,
and that he would not be offended at what he had done.
The reply to this letter contained a severe reprimand, and
little else, excepting a requirement, something like a command,
that Sidney should send, once a month, an account
of his health, and that he should apprise his guardian of

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the time of his return. This order the invalid strictly complied
with, although not one of his six monthly letters ever
brought a response, and it was now with a heavy heart that
he anticipated his return to a home which so ill deserved
the name.

They took leave of Cuba and of the generous friends
they had found there, about the period of the summer
solstice, and embarked in a vessel bound for New York,
where they arrived about the middle of July, with no
amendment in the invalid's health. Before their arrival
Addison had earnestly besought his cousin not to return to
his guardian's house, but to accompany him to his own
home, where he would receive from Mrs. Jay and her
daughter all the attentions that a mother and sister could
bestow. But Sidney, much as he longed to accept this invitation,
could not consent thus to bring trouble and heavy
expense upon a family so nearly destitute, and whom he
might never have the ability to requite. Besides, he had
a nervous dread of his uncle, the result of early education
and long habit of mind, which in his present feeble state
he could not overcome. He did not dare openly to oppose
him—yet he faithfully promised Addison, that, if he were
not kindly treated, and that if the visits of his maternal
relations were not freely permitted to him at all times, he
would quit his guardian's roof, and take up his abode with
his beloved friends.

With this understanding they parted, Addison having
accompanied the invalid to the mansion of his guardian,
and then hastened to his own home, where so different a
welcome awaited him. He found his parents and sister as
well as he had left them, and was relieved to learn that
they had in no wise suffered by reason of his absence.
Their supply of money was as yet unexhausted, for they
had used it sparingly, and Lizzie had not ceased to earn

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her accustomed pittance. But the young man lost no time
in again seeking occupation for what leisure he might have,
for he knew that soon all his time would be required in attendance
upon Sidney. For a few months he visited him
daily, always spending an hour or two with him, and often,
when the weather was sufficiently fine, driving out with
him, and stopping to make long calls at his own home,
where the invalid could enjoy the society of his loved relations.

But this was a luxury that could not long remain to poor
Sidney, for the winter was drawing nigh. January came
and went, and the sufferer's daily diminution of strength
became greater, and the signs of his speedy departure were
many.

About the middle of February, when alone one evening
with Addison, he called him more closely to him, asked him
to make sure that the doors were closed, and spoke to him
as follows—

“You know that I have abandoned all hope and all desire
of life, and therefore do not let it pain you, my dear cousin,
when I speak plainly of my approaching end. It is near,
very near—nothing can avert or long postpone it; and,
for my own sake, I should rejoice, like the freed prisoner,
if the great change could come to-day. But there is an
important consideration connected with this affair for you
and for your father's family. Addison, one month from to-day,
if I should live to see that time, I shall be twenty-one
years of age; on that day I shall have power to make a
will and to dispose of my property. I do not think my uncle
suspects that I have any such views, nor do I wish that he
should, for he would prevent me, I believe, by force, if he
could. He evidently considers himself already the owner
of my estates, which the law will assuredly give to him, if
I die without a will. But, Addison, as sure as I live to

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see that day, and have power to wield a pen, so surely
shall the bulk of my property be transferred to you.
There are some other bequests that I wish to make, which
will dispose of a considerable sum, but the great mass of
the estate is to be yours. Do you understand?”

Addison had with difficulty repressed his sobs—he had
not restrained his tears, and he now raised his head from
his hands, and looked with streaming eyes into the face of
his cousin.

“Yes,” he said, hoarsely, and with choked utterance,
“I hear you, Sidney. Oh, would to God that this great
wealth could be used to bring back life and health to you.
How gladly would I see it lost in such a cause!”

“I believe you, Addison—nay, I know that you speak
the truth—you have been more than a brother to me, and
I should not die happy did I not look forward to meeting
you in the land of bliss. But do not speak of my recovery;
it is useless now, and other thoughts claim our attention.
Are you listening?”

“I hear you, Sidney.”

“Gold has been my curse—may it be a blessing to you
It has entailed upon me wrongs and persecutions, a childhood
of suffering, a youth of ignorance, a manhood of disease
and death. In my leisure, lonely hours upon this
bed, I have thought much of the past; I have recalled to
mind many events, partially forgotten, connecting links
that once seemed to have no relation, and with these shreds
of memory forming a picture of the past painful to contemplate.
Not painful, for my own sake, for my sufferings
are nearly over, and I have but trod the path of affliction
which my Heavenly Father designed for me, and which has
led me to Him; but oh, Addison, what memories will
cluster around the death-bed of him who by nature, and by
legal right, should have been the orphan's protector and

[figure description] Page 105.[end figure description]

support. I have no anger for him—I try not even to
despise him, but only to pity—yet every consideration of
justice would impel me to wrest from him the wealth which
he so wrongfully holds, even if I could not confer it upon
the deserving and the beloved. Now listen to me, Addison,”
he continued, drawing from beneath his pillow a
paper which contained a few lines in pencil. “Time may
be precious with us a month hence, and we ought to be
prepared for action. On this paper is briefly stated the
disposition I wish made of my property. There is a large
fortune for Lizzie—wealth for your father—freedom and a
competence for dear old Sukey—a handsome remembrance
for my playmate Carry Reed—five or six bequests to public
charities—a considerable legacy to Miss Kepps—
another to my dear friend, who little dreams of such a
thing from me, the Reverend Mr. —, and all the untold
bulk of the remainder to yourself. Let my will be drawn
accordingly, and with the utmost secrecy, and on that first
hour when I have the legal power to execute it, fail not to
be present here, with counsel and with witnesses, to have
it completed. Did I say the first hour? Nay, the first
minute, although it be at midnight, and whatever obstacle
may intervene. That paper once signed, I shall willingly
lay down my pen and my life, at the same instant, rejoicing
that God has given me the power to be of some service to
my fellow beings.

Addison could not reply. Blinding tears gathered in
his eyes and fell upon the paper, which trembled in his
hand, and Sidney sought to relieve him by speaking further
of details.

“There will be no difficulty in making these preparations
with secrecy?” he asked.

“I think not.”

[figure description] Page 106.[end figure description]

“Will not Mr. Perth be a suitable lawyer for our purpose?”

“Perfectly—I had already thought of him He is competent—
shrewd and trustworthy.”

“See that he is bountifully remembered if our plan succeeds—
also you will not forget my old creditor, the Jew.
Let a provision for him be inserted in the will.”

“It shall be all done as you wish.”

“Remember that you cannot be too secret in this affair—
I do not think that my guardian fears any such design
on my part—nay, I doubt whether he even knows that I
am so nearly of age. We must not awaken his suspicion.”

“I will have no confidants excepting Mr. Perth—not
even my mother or sister shall know of your design.”

“That is best; go now, dear Addison; this long conversation
has fatigued me, and I must take care of my
strength if I would see my purposes carried out.”

Addison kissed his cousin and withdrew, promising to
call again on the morrow, at his usual hour. He hastened
home, and as soon as his agitation had sufficiently subsided,
he repaired to the office of the young lawyer, and
after bespeaking his confidence, proceeded to lay before
him the business on which he had called.

“Will there be any difficulty in all this, Mr. Perth?”
he asked, after relating the circumstances.

“Not the least, if your cousin lives to sign the will,”
replied the attorney.

“I don't know, but it may be so,” answered Addison;
“but it seems to me that immense property can never be
got out of Ralph Werter's hands, although poor Sidney
should sign a dozen wills. I have a nervous dread of that
man.”

“But the great bulk of the property is not in his hands;
it is chiefly real estate, the title of which is absolutely in

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your cousin, and never can vest in his uncle, unless the
present owner either conveys or wills it to him, or dies
without a will. You are not afraid that Ralph will run
away with the land, are you?”

“No, I do not think he is quite a magician,” said Addison,
smiling.

“If your cousin executes this will and dies, that moment
this property is as irrevocably yours as if you had owned
it a hundred years, and old Werter could never exercise a
moment's further control over it.”

“I know this must be so, yet I am glad to hear you assert
it—I do not think I am so solicitous about it for myself,
as for my parents and sister, and for Sidney himself, who
will be so gratified. You smile, Mr. Perth, but I am quite
in earnest. I doubtless shall learn to love wealth, if it is
ever mine; but my present thoughts are not chiefly of
myself.”

“Is there any serious doubt of your cousin living a
month?”

“Yes, there is great reason to fear he will not last so
long, especially if he is not free from agitation. We must
use the utmost secrecy in this affair, for if it should become
known it would cause a commotion that might prove fatal
to him. I shall depend upon you.”

“You need not fear me—I shall leave nothing undone to
carry out your wishes fully and entirely.”

Addison departed, full of reflection upon the momentous
subject which he had been discussing. He went home,
and when he entered the paternal door and saw, as he
daily saw, the evidences of abject poverty, almost of destitution,
which surrounded him—when he saw the thin,
pale cheeks of his sister, worn with late hours of toil—the
anxious looking mother—the sightless father, feebly trying
to do some handiwork to aid in the general support—he

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could scarcely refrain from announcing the hope of relief
so near and so abundant. Unfortunately, Sidney's first
promise of enriching him, made before going to Cuba, had
also been accompanied by a restriction from speaking on
the subject, and it had always been a source of regret to
the affectionate son that he could not impart these anticipations
to his unhappy parents. Yet Captain Jay had not
overlooked the important fact that his nephew would have
it in his power, if his life should be spared a little longer,
to relieve their necessities, and if he had not spoken on the
subject, it was because he would not awaken hopes that
might be so easily disappointed. But he knew Sidney's
age, and as the time drew nigh which was to place such a
vast power in the dying boy's hands, he awaited with
increased interest the daily tidings of his condition.

Addison had nothing new on this point to communicate.
He brought to them as usual some message of affection
from the invalid, whom they were able to visit but seldom,
and related many particulars of his conversation on all
subjects but the forbidden one.

But although he was not at liberty to impart his secret
to his parents or sister, there was one friend to whom the
interdiction did not apply. He had talked so much and so
often to Sidney of his young friend Hazleton, and had read
to him so many of Edward's speaking letters, which bore
on every page the impress of his frank, earnest and generous
nature, that Sidney had long been accustomed to look
upon him as an acquaintance and friend of his own. He
had himself suggested what was but the echo of Addison's
thoughts, that if he should become rich, he would be able
to advance the fortunes of one whom, he said, he hoped
would fill his own place in the hearts and affections of his
relations; and when he knew that Addison was inditing a
letter to his friend, he even begged him to explain to him

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fully his prospects, although yet so uncertain, and to hold
out to him this golden hope.

All this Addison failed not to do, with much particularity
of detail, for the prospect of conferring so much happiness
on Edward and his mother, like the anticipation of
benefiting his own relations, was a temporary relief to the
gloom of his heart.

Two weeks passed away, and Sidney, daily failing, still
lived. Yet so strictly had his important secret been
guarded, that his uncle remained unsuspicious of it, although
constantly in fear that something would occur to
suggest the subject to his nephew's thoughts. He dreaded
the daily visits of young Jay, which he still dared not interdict,
lest so unreasonable a step should provoke inquiry,
and perhaps produce the very result he was so anxious to
avoid.

But he flattered himself that the cousins were both unconscious
of the momentous change which one short week
would work in the legal position of Sidney, unless a still
greater change was first wrought by death. If they were
aware that he would so soon be of age, they either remembered
it not, or they supposed that some tedious and difficult
legal process was still necessary to invest him with
his rights, and to enable him to transfer them to others.

Always accustomed to the impotency of wardship, Sidney
would not easily believe himself possessed of his new
powers, if, as was most improbable, the near view of death
should allow him to reflect at all upon the subject. Such
were some of the hopes with which Ralph fortified himself,
yet his chief dependence was upon the termination of his
nephew's days before the important hour which would give
to his pen more than the fabled power of the magician's
wand.

To this hope he had long been accustomed, to this

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anticipation he pertinaciously clung. Yet every day was
now heaping added anxiety upon his head, and when Sidney,
within a week of his majority, still lived, Ralph's
fears became goads of hourly torture, which allowed him
no interval of rest by day or night.

Some one, he felt sure, would think of the fatal subject,
if Sidney or his cousin did not; there would be some officious
medler to suggest it to them, and dissolve by a word
the golden visions of long years, in the very hour in which
they were turning to realities.

Sidney was visited by the family physician of his uncle,
who had been called to attend him on his return from the
south, when there was supposed to be no probability of
his surviving the autumn; and although Ralph would afterwards
gladly have consigned him to less careful hands,
there was no plausible pretext for a change, and with the
cowardice of guilt he feared and shunned everything that
might awaken suspicion against him. He had felt so certain
of success in his schemes without positive crime, that he
had resolved not only to avoid it, but to maintain a show
of kindness and generosity to his ward; but he now regretted
his timidity, and as he became more desperate, dark
and tumultuous thoughts took possession of his mind.

Addison meanwhile continued to spend the greater part
of his time, both by day and night, with his cousin, who,
on the third day preceding that which would complete his
twenty-first year, was pronounced by his medical attendant
to be within a few hours of his end. In the great grief
which this intelligence gave the affectionate and unselfish
heart of Addison, he entirely lost sight of the subject of
his own interest, until Sidney, revived from a temporary
exhaustion, himself reminded him of it.

“Do not weep for me, my dear cousin,” he said; “but

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if you love me, remember yourself and your family. Is
the will ready?”

Addison bowed, but could not speak.

“If I remember rightly about such things,” continued
the invalid, faintly, “it is necessary that I should read it,
or have it read to me.”

His cousin again replied with a gesture.

“This should be done as soon as possible—to-night or
to-morrow—that no time may be lost on the next day.
Will you see to it without delay?”

Addison promised compliance, and when he withdrew, it
was to seek Mr. Perth and make known Sidney's wishes,
although with little expectation that they would ever be
carried out.

“He is quite right,” replied the attorney, “and he evidently
thinks much upon the subject. The crisis is so very
near, that while there might be time to execute the will on
his birth-day, there might not be time to read it to him,
which is essential to its validity.”

“On what hour of the day can the will be executed?”

“The first. When the clock strikes the hour of midnight,
his birth-day is ushered in, and at that moment he
is of age. The law does not regard the fractions of days.”

“Are you quite sure of this?”

“Quite.”

“And when do you propose to read the will to him?”

“To-night. I will come late, when the family are retired,
and you must see to my admission.”

“I fear it will be of no avail. Dr. Lee thinks he has
but a few remaining hours, and there are yet two whole
days required for our purpose.”

“Physicians may be mistaken, like other people; let us
hope that Dr. Lee is wrong. I have heard of dying people
being apparently sustained for many hours by the mere

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hope of seeing a coming friend who was travelling fast from
a great distance to see them. Perhaps this great hope,
which young Werter has so deeply at heart, may be the
means of keeping him alive. We all know what influence
resolution has upon our strength.”

“It may be so.”

“But do you hasten to return to him, and be careful
that he does not know the physician's opinion. Cheer him
all that you can, and depend upon my calling at twelve
o'clock.”

Mr. Perth spoke with decision and earnestness, and Addison
felt relieved that he was disposed to take the direction
of the details of the melancholy business. His own
heart was so depressed and sad, that he could not bring
himself to realize the importance of passing events to his
worldly interests, and it seemed to him like a crime to
be calculating upon accession to the wealth of his dying
friend. There was not a moment of all these painful, protracted
weeks when he would not with joy, nay with ecstacy,
have sacrificed all his pecuniary expectations to restore
Sidney to health; and the only relieving anticipation that
he found in his misery was that of seeing his dear parents
and sister, raised from their destitute state to comfort and
ease.

He hastened back to the bedside of his friend, resolved
to quit it no more until all was over. The patient remained
composed and quiet through the remainder of the day,
conversing but little, and only on themes of highest import,
and at night he was left to the care of Addison and the
faithful Sukey, who was unwearying in her attendance
upon him.

Ralph retired to his feverish and fitful rest with a slightly
increased sense of security, yet with many boding fears,
and while he slept, counsel and witnesses were surrounding

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the bedside of his nephew, reading with low and solemn
voice, his last Will and Testament, receiving his asseverations
that he understood and approved it all, and that all
was as he had dictated. Cautiously, slowly, completely,
all was done but the simple act of affixing the testator's
signature, which yet required an interval of twenty-four
hours to give it validity.

p657-115

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