'Am I able to fulfil the conditions?' I faltered.
'I have burdened you with no conditions,' he returned. 'I don't believe in conditions. I know your heart and mind now. I trust you perfectly.'
'I am unworthy of it.'
'That is for me to judge.'
'Will you have no trustees?'
'Not one.'
'What do you want me to do with your property?'
'You know well enough. Keep it going the right way.'
'I will always think what you would like.'
'No; do not. Think what is right; and where there is no right or wrong plain in itself, then think what is best. You may see good reason to change some of my plans. You may be wrong; but you must do what you see right--not what I see or might see right.'
'But there is no need to talk so seriously about it,' I said. 'You will manage it yourself for many years yet. Make me your steward, if you like, during your absence: I will not object to that.'
'You do not object to the other, I hope?'
'No.'
'Then so let it be. The other, of course. I have, being a lawyer myself, taken good care not to trust myself only with the arranging of these matters. I think you will find them all right.'
'But supposing you should not return--you have compelled me to make the supposition--'
'Of course. Go on.'
'What am I to do with the money in the prospect of following you?'
'Ah! that is the one point on which I want a word, although I do not think it is necessary. I want to entail the property.'
'How?'
'By word of mouth,' he answered, laughing. 'You must look out for a right man, as I have done, get him to know your ways and ideas, and if you find him worthy--that is a grand wide word--our Lord gave it to his disciples--leave it all to him in the same way I have left it to you, trusting to the spirit of truth that is in him, the spirit of God. You can copy my will--as far as it will apply, for you may have, one way or another, lost the half of it by that time. But, by word of mouth, you must make the same condition with him as I have made with you--that is, with regard to his leaving it, and the conditions on which he leaves it, adding the words, "that it may descend thus in perpetuum." And he must do the same.'
He broke into a quiet laugh. I knew well enough what he meant. But he added:
'That means, of course, for as long as there is any.'
'Are you sure you are doing right, Falconer?' I said.
'Quite. It is better to endow one man, who will work as the Father works, than a hundred charities. But it is time I went to fetch my father. Will you go with me?'
This was all that passed between us on the subject, save that, on our way, he told me to move to his rooms, and occupy them until he returned.
'My papers,' he added, 'I commit to your discretion.'
On our way back from Queen Square, he joked and talked merrily. Andrew joined in. Robert showed himself delighted with every attempt at gaiety or wit that Andrew made. When we reached the house, something that had occurred on the way made him turn to Martin Chuzzlewit, and he read Mrs.
Gamp's best to our great enjoyment.
I went down with the two to Southampton, to see them on board the steamer. I staid with them there until she sailed. It was a lovely morning in the end of April, when at last I bade them farewell on the quarter-deck. My heart was full. I took his hand and kissed it. He put his arms round me, and laid his cheek to mine. I was strong to bear the parting.
The great iron steamer went down in the middle of the Atlantic, and I have not yet seen my friend again.
CHAPTER XXI. IN EXPECTATIONE.
I had left my lodging and gone to occupy Falconer's till his return.
There, on a side-table among other papers, I found the following verses. The manuscript was much scored and interlined, but more than decipherable, for he always wrote plainly. I copied them out fair, and here they are for the reader that loves him.
Twilight is near, and the day grows old; The spiders of care are weaving their net; All night 'twill be blowing and rainy and cold; I cower at his door from the wind and wet.
He sent me out the world to see, Drest for the road in a garment new; It is clotted with clay, and worn beggarly-- The porter will hardly let me through!
I bring in my hand a few dusty ears-- Once I thought them a tribute meet!
I bring in my heart a few unshed tears: Which is my harvest--the pain or the wheat?
A broken man, at the door of his hall I listen, and hear it go merry within; The sounds are of birthday-festival!
Hark to the trumpet! the violin!
I know the bench where the shadowed folk Sit 'neath the music-loft--there none upbraids!
They will make me room who bear the same yoke, Dear publicans, sinners, and foolish maids!
An ear has been hearing my heart forlorn!
A step comes soft through the dancing-din!
Oh Love eternal! oh woman-born!
Son of my Father to take me in!
One moment, low at our Father's feet Loving I lie in a self-lost trance; Then walk away to the sinners' seat, With them, at midnight, to rise and dance!
THE END
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 1: In Scotch the ch and gh are almost always guttural. The gh according to Mr. Alexander Ellis, the sole authority in the past pronunciation of the country, was guttural in England in the time of Shakspere.]
[Footnote 2: An exclamation of pitiful sympathy, inexplicable to the understanding.