CHAPTER III.

FIRE.

"WHAT am I to do—what on earth am I to do!" exclaimed Wilfred. "Oh! That I had never seen this detestable deed!" And he spurned the parchment with his foot. "What ought I to do? Carry that will to my father in the morning? That would certainly be the course of duty, the course of honour; and he—my noble, upright parent—he would at once make known to the world the existence of a will which robs him of all, which reduces him almost to beggary, which compels him to begin the world again, and toil for his daily bread. I can't do it—I wont do it!" cried Wilfred, springing from his chair, and beginning to pace up and down the gloomy apartment.

"The living, too, would be lost; all the happiness of my darling Mina would be crushed at a blow. I never could deal that blow. It is not," said Wilfred, pausing in his rapid walk, and trying to bring argument after argument to drown the voice of his conscience; "it is not as if this Benson deserved anything at our hands; it is not as if he were one to make a good use of fortune. The building of the school would be stopped at once; the poor widows, whom my noble father supports, would have no refuge but the workhouse. It would be cruel, wicked, to sacrifice at once so many interests for the sake of one mean wretch who cares for no one on earth but himself."

Ah, Wilfred, self-deceiver! It is not for him, not for any mortal, that the sacrifice is required; it is sacrifice to duty, simple obedience to the command of God, "provide things honest in the sight of all men!" Our enemy is ever ready to persuade us that what is expedient must be right; that we may turn a little—but a little—from the straight, narrow path, and yet walk on with our faces towards heaven. Again and again the voice sounds in our hearts,—

"To do a great right, do a little wrong;"

but it is the voice of the tempter.

Wilfred Marsden in his happy, peaceful home, had been guarded from many evils, and was growing up, as he believed, in the practice of many virtues. Generous, affectionate, truthful, kind, in reference to outward obedience to the commandments, Wilfred might almost have said like the ruler, "All these things have I kept from my youth up." From conscious purity of conduct, and rectitude of purpose, had sprung a reliance upon his own strength, his own honour, his power of resisting temptation, which had its secret root in pride. And now, like that of the ruler, Wilfred Marsden's obedience was brought to the test. He was called upon to resign all that he possessed, to take up his cross and follow his Lord! Resolution snapped, pride gave way, honour could not stand in the trial! Like the young ruler, with a sad heart and bleeding conscience, Wilfred was turning away from the duty which seemed too hard to be performed. He reasoned and argued with himself, until he became half persuaded that to ruin his family, and stop works of charity, could not be required of him by God.

"I'll burn this parchment, I'll forget that it ever existed!" cried Wilfred, with hasty resolution, snatching the will from the floor. He held it to the flame of the candle, and a dark smoke-mark, like a stain, showed the action of fire upon the roll. But Wilfred soon perceived that it would take a considerable time to burn a large parchment thus; and his impatient spirit could not endure the protracted torture of thus slowly and deliberately committing a crime.

"I will burn it in the grate," muttered Wilfred. But it was summer-time, the grate was empty, and he hastily looked around for something that might serve as fuel. Wilfred's desk had been left downstairs—in vain, he searched his pockets for letters—the only book that was to be seen in the Oak room was his own Bible! Wilfred put his handkerchief into the grate, with a few scraps of paper which, with difficulty, he collected, laid the parchment on the little heap, and lighted it by the candle. He then stood with his back to the fire, for he could not bear to watch it while it was doing its unholy work of destruction. The grate had for months been unused; the wind blew down the chimney, a volume of smoke came curling and spreading into the room, making the dimness yet deeper, and the heat of the place more oppressive. With a sense of suffocation Wilfred turned round to see the flames—quickly kindled, and quickly spent—expiring round the great roll, which lay, blackened indeed, but unconsumed! The smell of burning gave to the miserable Wilfred a feeling of sudden horror!

"Here, in this very room, where 'he' perished by fire, do I attempt to burn his last will and testament! Can I find no other place, no other way, when I wrong both the living and the dead?" Wilfred caught up the roll from the grate. "O God, have mercy upon me!" he faltered. "Who could have believed that I would ever have been guilty of wickedness like this! These blackened smoke-marks are as witnesses against me. If fire itself loses its power to destroy, I will take this as a token that to conceal the truth is a crime against Heaven. I will not delay; I will at once carry the will to my father. Better suffer anything than this terrible feeling of remorse."

Wilfred moved some steps towards the door, and paused. "What am I about to do? Am I not putting a match to a train that, in exploding, will shatter everything that I hold dear? Mina, my own precious sister, how shall I bear to look on her grief, to hear—no, I shall never 'hear' reproaches; but in her heart may she not say, 'Wilfred might have spared me this misery! It was hard that such a trial should come to me through my only brother!' Mina shall never say, never think this!" Wilfred turned away from the door: "I dare not burn, but I will bury this scroll. Shall I replace it in that recess from which would—would that I had never moved it? No, some one else would be certain to discover it, as I have done to-night. I will bury it deep, deep in the earth, where no one can find it!"

Again Wilfred turned towards the door. "All the house is shut up; my step would be heard on the echoing stair; the bolts and chains could not be withdrawn without noise; the household would be roused; I should be questioned, and that would drive me distracted! I must at least wait till the morning. What! Wait with that horrible blackened parchment like a death-warrant before my eyes! I cannot endure to wait; I cannot support through a long dreary night this terrible indecision. I can open the window, drop down on the sod, and then bury the will in the garden."

Wilfred hastened to the casement, and, with fingers which trembled with nervous excitement, drew back the bolt and threw open the window. How refreshing was the breath of the soft night air upon his fevered brow! Wilfred hastily dressed himself, thrust the roll into his bosom, clambered out on the sill, and then, regardless of personal danger, first hung for a moment by his hands, and then half dropped, half clambered down, assisting his descent by a trained rose-tree, with whose broken twigs and crushed petals he strewed the sod beneath.