Part 2 (1/2)
”George Feval. The very name sounds like fever. He died on Christmas eve, fifteen years ago this night. It was on his death-bed, while his mind was tossing on a sea of delirious fancies, that he wrote me this long letter,--for to the last, I was uppermost in his thoughts.
It is a wild, incoherent thing, of course,--a strange mixture of sense and madness. But I have kept it as a memorial of him. I have not looked at it for years; but this morning I found it among my papers, and somehow it has been in my mind all day.”
He slowly unfolded the faded sheets, and sadly gazed at the writing.
His daughter had risen from her half-rec.u.mbent posture, and now bent her graceful head over the leaves. The phantom covered its face with its hands.
”What a beautiful ma.n.u.script it is, father!” she exclaimed. ”The writing is faultless.”
”It is, indeed,” he replied. ”Would he had written his life as fairly!”
”Read it, father,” said Nathalie.
”No, but I'll read you a detached pa.s.sage here and there,” he answered, after a pause. ”The rest you may read yourself some time, if you wish. It is painful to me. Here's the beginning:--
”'_My Dear Charles Renton:--Adieu, and adieu. It is Christmas eve, and I am going home. I am soon to exhale from my flesh, like the spirit of a broken flower. Exultemus forever!_'
”It is very wild. His mind was in a fever-craze. Here is a pa.s.sage that seems to refer to his own experience of life:--
”'_Your friends.h.i.+p was dear to me. I give you true love. Stocks and returns. You are rich, but I did not wish to be your bounty's pauper. Could I beg? I had my work to do for the world, but oh!
the world has no place for souls that can only love and suffer.
How many miles to Babylon? Threescore and ten. Not so far--not near so far! Ask starvelings--they know._
_I wanted to do the world good, and the world has killed me, Charles._'”
”It frightens me,” said Nathalie, as he paused.
”We will read no more,” he replied sombrely. ”It belongs to the psychology of madness. To me, who knew him, there are gleams of sense in it, and pa.s.sages where the delirium of the language is only a transparent veil on the meaning. All the remainder is devoted to what he thought important advice to me. But it's all wild and vague. Poor--poor George!”
The phantom still hid its face in its hands, as the doctor slowly turned over the pages of the letter. Nathalie, bending over the leaves, laid her finger on the last, and asked, ”What are those closing sentences, father? Read them.”
”Oh! that is what he called his 'last counsel' to me. It's as wild as the rest,--tinctured with the prevailing ideas of his career.
First he says, '_Farewell--farewell_'; then he bids me take his '_counsel into memory on Christmas day_'; then after enumerating all the wretched cla.s.ses he can think of in the country, he says: '_These are your sisters and your brothers,--love them all._' Here he says, '_O friend, strong in wealth for so much good, take my last counsel. In the name of the Saviour, I charge you be true and tender to mankind._' He goes on to bid me '_live and labor for the fallen, the neglected, the suffering, and the poor_'; and finally ends by advising me to help upset any, or all, inst.i.tutions, laws, and so forth, that bear hardly on the f.a.g-ends of society; and tells me that what he calls 'a service to humanity' is worth more to the doer than a service to anything else, or than anything we can gain from the world. Ah, well! poor George.”
”But isn't all that true, father?” said Netty; ”it seems so.”
”H'm,” he murmured through his closed lips. Then, with a vague smile, folding up the letter, meanwhile, he said, ”Wild words, Netty, wild words. I've no objection to charity, judiciously given; but poor George's notions are not mine. Every man for himself, is a good general rule. Every man for humanity, as George has it, and in his acceptation of the principle, would send us all to the almshouse pretty soon. The greatest good of the greatest number,--that's my rule of action. There are plenty of good inst.i.tutions for the distressed, and I'm willing to help support 'em, and do. But as for making a martyr of one's self, or tilting against the necessary evils of society, or turning philanthropist at large, or any quixotism of that sort, I don't believe in it. We didn't make the world, and we can't mend it. Poor George. Well--he's at rest. The world was n't the place for him.”
They grew silent. The spectre glided slowly to the wall, and stood as if it were thinking what, with Dr. Renton's rule of action, was to become of the greatest good of the smallest number. Nathalie sat on her father's knee, thinking only of George Feval, and of his having been starved and grieved to death.
”Father,” said Nathalie, softly, ”I felt, while you were reading the letter, as if he were near us. Didn't you? The room was so light and still, and the wind sighed so.”
”Netty, dear, I've felt that all day, I believe,” he replied. ”Hark!
there is the door-bell. Off goes the spirit-world, and here comes the actual. Confound it! Some one to see me, I'll warrant, and I'm not in the mood.”
He got into a fret at once. Netty was not the Netty of an hour ago, or she would have coaxed him out of it. But she did not notice it now in her abstraction. She had risen at the tinkle of the bell, and seated herself in a chair. Presently a nose, with a great pimple on the end of it, appeared at the edge of the door, and a weak, piping voice said, reckless of the proper tense, ”There was a woman wanted to see you, sir.”