CHAPTER XV.

AFFIDAVIT.

LETTERS from Lizzie, who had returned to N— for another year, informed her father that Mr. Greenough had cleared the meadow running for half a mile along by the river, and had planted it over with cranberry vines, from which he expected a great return of profit. To be sure, he had been obliged to make a large outlay, and there would be the expense of picking, but one season of only moderate yield would pay for all. Lizzie knew nothing whatever of her father's project. If she had, she would have told him that the present owner would not sell the farm for twice the sum he gave. She little realized, when she wrote the above, with what a pang her father would read her letter. Yet, strange to say, it did not discourage him.

"After all," he said to Mary, "it's only putting money in my pocket; for something tells me I shall have the old place yet."

In his answer to his daughter, he wrote her to keep him informed of everything connected with the dear old homestead.

The next week Lizzie wrote, among other events,—

"I must tell you that Matilda Fish, the daughter of the rumseller I used to dislike so much, comes to my school. Though her father is reputed to be rich, she dresses very ordinarily, and seems painfully aware of her position. Through his means, many a man has drank up everything he was worth, and there is a feeling of burning indignation toward him among the best part of the community. I pity Matilda, because I can see that she feels herself neglected on account of her father's crimes, and have taken pains to render her situation more pleasant.

"At recess, instead of joining in their plays, she always comes to my desk to talk with me about her lessons. Many a pear, peach, and bunch of grapes she has brought me, until I made her confess she had saved her own portion of luxuries for that purpose. To-day she acted strangely, and I can't think what to make of it. It happened that, except a little urchin who had violated the rules and was paying the penalty by staying in, we were alone in the schoolroom. I noticed that she was very pale, and said, kindly,—

"'You are ill, Matilda?'

"'No, not ill, Miss Allen,' she answered, quickly, the bright color spreading over her face and neck,—'not ill, but—'

"'But what? Can't you tell me your troubles?'

"'It isn't about myself. If it were, I would never say a word,—no, never!'

"She spoke with passionate energy, such as I had never seen in her before.

"'I can't tell what's right to do,' she went on, beginning to cry.

"'I will help you, Matilda, if I can, but you must tell me frankly all about it.'

"'You can't, you can't! I dare not tell! I must go home!' And, hiding her face in her hands, she left me.

"Poor child! I'm afraid she has trials with her father. I will comfort her all I can. This afternoon she was not in her seat.

"Later. I have just heard that Mr. Fish kept the whole neighborhood awake last night in a fit of delirium tremens. This explains Matilda's conduct. How my heart aches for her!"

Two, three weeks, a month passed. Mr. Allen was busier than usual in the nursery, setting out new stock, and getting everything ready for winter. Two letters had been received from Lizzie in which she did not mention Mr. Fish. But one morning, Jamie brought a letter from the office, which read as follows:—

"FATHER,—come here as quick as you can. Mr. Fish is dying, and continually calls for you. He has something on his conscience, and says he can't die easy till he's confessed it. Matilda has told me some things, but I can't believe they're true. Don't wait a minute after you receive this, if you would be in time.

"LIZZIE."

Mrs. Allen grew pale as she read, but, rallying, sent Jamie to the field to summon his father. The train went at half-past eight. It now only wanted fifteen minutes of that time. With nervous haste, the woman ran to the closet, and took down her husband's Sunday suit. Then, throwing a clean shirt, etc., etc., into a bag, she ran to the door to meet him.

"Take this letter, and read it as you go along," she cried, her chin quivering with excitement. "You haven't a minute if you want to reach the morning train. Fish is dying. I can't imagine what the wicked man wants of you."

"I can." The words came thick and husky. "I have felt it all along. God help me if I'm too late! Good-by."

He ran along, and, springing over a wall, was out of sight in a moment, leaving Mary and the children gazing in the direction he had taken, and wondering what it all could mean.

"Father said he knew!" exclaimed Ned. "I wonder he didn't tell us." While Bell sank into a chair, and began to cry.

"I am afraid father will be put in prison," sobbed little Fred. "I wish he hadn't gone."

Leaving them still excited and wondering, Mrs. Allen sought her own room, where she knelt down, and, as she had often done before, commended her husband to the care of her almighty Friend. Then, calmed by this exercise, she returned quietly to her household duties.

The children, seeing her tranquillity, began to make preparations for school, Jamie first going to find Mr. Burrel, and announce to the gentleman that his father had been suddenly called away.

When Mr. Allen reached his native town, without a moment's delay, he hurried down the familiar street to the house of the dying man. On his way, he was obliged to pass his old home, but he scarcely noticed it; his thoughts were too intensely anxious concerning the coming interview.

A crowd of men were standing on the piazza outside the bar-room, but that was nothing unusual. He quickened his steps, and soon was standing on the threshold which had so nearly proved the ruin of his soul and his body. Staggering with excitement, he addressed one of the men, a stranger to himself.

"Is Mr. Fish living?"

"No; he died half an hour ago. The bell's just done tolling his age,—sixty-two."

Without another word, Mr. Allen turned and walked away.

"Too late, too late!" he repeated. "O God, help me to bear it!"

He turned his steps mechanically toward the house where his daughter boarded, but suddenly checked himself, as he remembered that at this hour she would be in school. On arriving there, however, he found only two or three children playing about the door.

"Where is Lizzie—Miss Allen—your teacher?" he asked, hurriedly.

"She's gone home with a scholar who is sick. Mr. Greenough came and carried them, and dismissed the school."

He turned away sick at heart; he felt faint and giddy, too, from over-excitement. He stood still a moment, wondering what he should do next, and whether he had not better take the return train home, when the thought of Lizzie's disappointment detained him. Suddenly remembering that he had not asked where the sick child lived, he turned back, but the children were out of sight. There was nothing now to do but to return to the depot and take the back train.

Walking slowly on, he met a gentleman standing in earnest conversation with some one who was in a covered buggy. The horse was going the other way, so that he could not have seen who it was, even if he had desired. But his only object being at the moment to escape observation, he was hurrying past them, when his steps were arrested by the words,—

"I told Lizzie he couldn't be expected by this early train."

The voice was familiar, and, turning back, the recognition was mutual. Dr. Greenough cordially extended his hand, and then introduced his father.

"I am looking for Lizzie," said Mr. Allen, trying to speak calmly.

"She is at Mr. Fish's. I have just left her there."

"Mr. Fish is dead I hear."

"Yes. Did you learn nothing more?"

"Only that I was too late to answer his summons."

"Mr. Allen," said Mr. Greenough, taking his hand, "I have just come from the death-bed of Mr. Fish, where I listened to a confession which nearly concerns you and me."

"Thank God, then, he did make it!" murmured Mr. Allen, devoutly.

"Yes, I took a deposition from his lips only two hours before he breathed his last."

"Was he perfectly conscious?"

"It would be for my interest, I suppose, to say that he was in a fit of 'mania a potu,' but I must honestly confess that he appeared sane, and in earnest in endeavoring to repair the wrong he had done you. You must come home with me and get dinner. My son Horace will make it convenient, I dare say, to bring Lizzie there too."

The two walked slowly on, by tacit consent avoiding the subject which engrossed them both, while the doctor rode off rapidly in the opposite direction.

When they were seated in the parlor, which was so changed by French windows and gilded paper that Mr. Allen scarcely recognized it, the other gentleman said, gravely,—

"Perhaps you do not know that I am a justice of the peace. I know a little of law, but am not yet prepared to say what offer it will be right for me to make you."

"Offer!" repeated Mr. Allen. "I don't understand you, sir."

"Excuse me, but I wholly forgot that you are entirely ignorant, as yet, of what Fish confessed. Here is his affidavit, which I will read you."

He took from his breast-pocket a folded paper, and began,—

"I, Abner Fish, being on my death-bed, and realizing that in a short time I must appear before God, and wishing, as far as in me lies, to die at peace with all men, do now on oath declare that, in the year 18—, I forged Joseph Allen's signature to a deed, caused by me to be drawn up, conveying to me his farm and the houses and barns on the same in payment of pretended indebtedness to me, which indebtedness did not cover one seventh part of the amount; that I afterward showed the signature to said Joseph Allen, who refused utterly to credit the account, or to believe that he had put his name thereto; that, by means of threats of personal violence, I persuaded him that he had done this while under the influence of liquor, and I then took him with me before Squire Harwood, justice of the peace, to bear testimony to his forged signature; that he did bear testimony under compulsion, and therefore that the property in said farm, houses, and barns on it belongs to said Joseph Allen, the title to them not being valid when conveyed by me to H. H. Greenough; that Mr. Allen's true bill for liquor was six hundred and forty-five dollars instead of seven thousand as I told him; that the same will be found in true charges on my books, and that my last wish and desire is that, by my dying confession, I may restore the rights and property of a man whom I have wickedly defrauded, and therefore I hereby direct my executors to pay to said H. H. Greenough the balance of the money he paid me above my real and true title to the said farmhouses and barns thereon, and so may God have mercy on my soul.

"Subscribed and sworn to on this twentieth day of October, in the year of our Lord 18—

"Before me,

"JOSHUA HARWOOD, 'Justice of the Peace.'"

Mr. Allen, who had started from his chair, and stood breathless while the reading was going on, now fell back unable to utter a syllable.

"Does this statement accord with your recollection?" inquired Mr. Greenough, after a long pause, in which both were occupied with their own thoughts.

"Perfectly. I cannot deny that I visited Fish's bar far too often for the welfare either of my soul or body. But when he brought me a deed conveying all my property to him in payment for a long account on his books, I was bewildered, and had no words sufficient to express my anger. This property had been in our family under the same name for several generations; and he says true that I would not for an instant credit the idea that I had signed it away. But I was in his power, and I could not escape. Week after week, and sometimes day after day, he tormented me and my family with threats of imprisonment, of violence, if I did not go with him and bear testimony to the fact of my signature. At last, we did go, Mary and I, like martyrs to the stake, where I sullenly and defiantly bore witness to my supposed signature. Fish had agreed if I would do this, to allow me as much whiskey as I could drink for a month, the time I was allowed to stay in the house, and also a part of the stock, which, under one false pretence and another, he had got into his hands.

"The month passed. I was a beggar with a wife and nine children dependent on me for support, but I had abandoned the cup, and become a sober man. I had formerly been respected by all; now I was disgraced, and I left the place, resolving never to enter it again. By and by hope began to dawn on me; I sought the pardon of God, and then began to inquire whether it were possible for me to earn enough to buy back my inheritance. I knew you had bought it, and were making expensive improvements, but still I did not despair. My wife encouraged me, I suppose, because she saw my heart was so greatly set on it; and both she and my children have taken hold in earnest to stop the leak occasioned by my intemperance. At this moment I have five hundred and fifty dollars laid by toward the purchase, beside the offer from Mrs. Mercy Lovell of two thousand dollars whenever I was ready to make you a proposition."

This simple story, told with tearful eyes and earnest gestures, was not without its effect on the gentleman. He had not once imagined that it would make any difference to him except the drawing out of a new deed, and paying the money over to Joseph Allen instead of Abner Fish, with perhaps a small bonus to satisfy all parties. But here was the original owner, proved to be the present owner, with money in hand to pay the bill to the estate of his former creditor, and wishing to take possession. These thoughts flashed like lightning on his mind, while, his visitor was talking, and caused him to say,—

"But, Mr. Allen, this property is worth more than twice as much as when I purchased it. I have sunk a good many thousand dollars in improvements. The cranberry meadow, formerly yielding twenty tons of hay, is now worth more than the whole farm was in your time; I mean in the way of profit. Why, I hope to realize several thousand dollars this fall, if the frost keeps off two or three weeks longer."

Mr. Allen started, as if about to speak, but checked himself, and at this moment he heard Lizzie's voice in the hall, asking,—

"Where is he, Horace?"

He turned and caught her in his arms.

After answering half a dozen questions, which she asked all in a breath, he turned to Mr. Greenough, and said,—

"As this subject is new to both of us, I propose that we defer any attempt to settle until to-morrow. I am excited, and wish to have time to think. I shall stay with my daughter to-night, and will be ready to meet you as early as you please in the morning."

"I wholly agree with you," was the cordial reply. "It is rather sudden, I acknowledge, for a man who arose this morning, thinking he had a pleasant home arranged exactly to his liking, to find before dinner that it has all slipped from under his feet."

"Or to find, as I have," was the humble reply, "that, by the mercy of God, the consequences of my former sinful habits have not been equal to my fears."

At dinner the conversation was general, and, during the half-hour they stayed after it, the peculiar situation of the parties was not once referred to.