“Now there was a great calm at that time in the river; wherefore Mr. Standfast, when he was about half way in, he stood awhile, and talked to his companions that had waited upon him thither; and he said,...’I have formerly lived by hearsay and faith; but now I go where I shall live by sight, and shall be with Him in whose company I delight myself.  I have loved to hear my Lord spoken of; and wherever I have seen the print of his shoe in the earth, there have I coveted to set my foot too.’” Pilgrim’s Progress.

And now the Christmas holiday being more than half over, Mr. Augustus Mortimer desired that his grandson might come and spend a few days with him, for Valentine had told him how enchanted John was with the boy’s progress, but that he was mortified almost past bearing by his lisp.  Grand therefore resolved that something should be done; and Crayshaw having now arrived, and spending the greater part of every day with his allies the young Mortimers, was easily included in the invitation.  If anybody wants a school-boy, he is generally most welcome to him.  Grand sent a flattering message to the effect that he should be much disappointed if Cray did not appear that day at his dinner table.  Cray accordingly did appear, and after dinner the old man began to put before his grandson the advantage it would be to him if he could cure himself, of his lisp.

“I never lithp, Grand,” answered the boy, “when I talk thlowly, and No, I mean when I talk s-lowly and take pains.”

“Then why don’t you always talk slowly and take pains, to please your father, to please me, and to improve yourself?”

Johnnie groaned.

“This is very little more than an idle childish habit,” continued Grand.

“We used to think it would do him good to have his tongue slit,” said Crayshaw, “but there’s no need.  When I torment him and chaff him, he never does it.”

“I hope there is no need,” said Grand, a little uncertain whether this remedy was proposed in joke or earnest.  “Valentine has been reminding me that he used to lisp horribly when a child, but he entirely cured himself before he was your age.”

Johnnie, in school-boy fashion, made a face at Valentine when the old man was not looking.  It expressed good-humoured defiance and derision, but the only effect it produced was on himself, for it disturbed for the moment the great likeness to his grandfather that grew on him every day.  John had clear features, thick light hair, and deep blue eyes.  His son was dark, with bushy eyebrows, large stern features, and a high narrow head, like old Grand.

It was quite dark, and the depth of winter, but the thermometer was many degrees above freezing-point, and a warm south wind was blowing.  Grand rose and rang the bell.  “Are the stable lanterns lighted?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Then you two boys come with me.”

The boys, wondering and nothing loth, followed to the stable, and the brown eyes of two large ponies looked mildly into theirs.

“Trot them out,” said Grand to the groom, “and let the young gentlemen have a good look at them.”

Not a word did either of the boys say.  An event of huge importance appeared to loom in the horizon of each:  he cogitated over its probable conditions.

“I got a saddle for each of them,” said Grand.  “Valentine chose them, Johnnie.  There now, we had better come in again.”  And when they were seated in the dining-room as before, and there was still silence, he went on, “You two, as I understand, are both in the same house at Harrow?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And it is agreed that Johnnie could cure himself of his lisp if he chose, and if you would continually remind him of it?”

“Oh yes, certainly it is.”

“Very well, if the thing is managed by next Easter, I’ll give each of you one of those ponies; and,” continued Grand cunningly, “you may have the use of them during the remainder of these holidays, provided you both promise, upon your honour, to begin the cure directly.  If Johnnie has not left off lisping at Easter, I shall have the ponies sold.”

“I’ll lead him such a life that he shall wish he’d never been born; I will indeed,” exclaimed Crayshaw fervently.

“Well,” said Johnnie, “never wath a better time. Allez lé, or, in other wordth, go it.”

“And every two or three days you shall bring him to me,” continued Grand, “that I may hear him read and speak.”

The next morning, before John went into the town, he was greeted by the two boys on their ponies, and came out to admire and hear the conditions.

“We mayn’t have them at school,” said Johnnie, bringing out the last word with laudable distinctness, “but Grand will let them live in hith in his stables.”

John was very well contented to let the experiment alone; and a few days after this, his younger children, going over with a message to Johnnie, reported progress to him in the evening as he sat at dinner.

“Johnnie and Cray were gone into the town on their grand new ponies, almost as big as horses; they came galloping home while we were there,” said Janie.

“And, father, they are going to show up their exercises, or something that they’ve done, to Grand tomorrow; you’ll hear them,” observed Hugh.

“But poor Cray was so ill on Saturday,” said the little girl, “that he couldn’t do nothing but lie in bed and write his poetry.”

“But they got on very well,” observed Bertram philosophically.  “They had up the stable-boy with a great squirt; he had to keep staring at Cray while Johnnie read aloud, and every time Cray winked he was to squirt Johnnie.  Cray didn’t have any dinner or any tea, and his face was so red.”

“Poor fellow!”

“Yes,” said the youngest boy, “and he wrote some verses about Johnnie, and said they were for him to read aloud to grandfather.  But what do you think?  Johnnie said he wouldn’t!  That doesn’t sound very kind, does it?”

Johnnie’s resolution, however, was not particularly remarkable; the verses, compounded during an attack of asthma, running as follows:

     AUGUSTUS JOHN CONFESSES TO LOSS OF APPETITE.

     I cannot eat rice pudding now,
     Jam roll, boiled beef, and such;
     From Stilton cheese this heart I vow
     Turns coldly as from Dutch.

     For crab, a shell-fish erst loved well,
     I do not care at all,
     Though I myself am in the shell
     And fellow-feelings call.

     I mourn not over tasks unsaid
     This child is not a flat
     My purse is empty as my head,
     But no it isn’t that;

     I cannot eat.  And why?  To shrink
     From truth is like a sinner,
     I’ll speak or burst; it is, I think,
     That I’ve just had my dinner.

Crayshaw was very zealous in the discharge of his promise; the ponies took a great deal of exercise; and old Grand, before the boys were dismissed to school, saw very decided and satisfactory progress on the part of his grandson, while the ponies were committed to his charge with a fervour that was almost pathetic.  It was hard to part from them; but men are tyrannical; they will not permit boys to have horses at a public school; the boys therefore returned to their work, and the ponies were relieved from theirs, and entered on a course of life which is commonly called eating their heads off.

John in the meanwhile tried in vain to supply the loss of the stately and erudite Miss Crampton.  He wanted two ladies, and wished that neither should be young.  One must be able to teach his children and keep them in order; the other must superintend the expenditure and see to the comforts of his whole household, order his children’s dress, and look after their health.

Either he was not fortunate in his applicants, or he was difficult to please, for he had not suited himself with either lady when a new source of occupation and anxiety sprung up, and everything else was set aside on account of it; for all on a sudden it was perceived one afternoon that Mr. Augustus Mortimer was not at all well.

It was after bank hours, but he was dozing in his private sitting-room at the bank, and his young nephew, Mr. Mortimer, was watching him.

Valentine had caused his card to be printed “Mr. Mortimer:”  he did not intend because he was landless, and but for his uncle’s bounty almost penniless, to forego the little portion of dignity which belonged to him.

The carriage stood at the door, and the horses now and then stamped in the lightly-falling snow, and were sometimes driven a little way down the street and back again to warm them.

At his usual time John had gone home, and then his father, while waiting for the carriage, had dropped asleep.

Though Valentine had wakened him more than once, and told him the men and horses were waiting, he had not shown any willingness to move.

“There’s plenty of time; I must have this sleep out first,” he said.

Then, when for the third time Valentine woke him, he roused himself.  “I think I can say it now,” he observed.  “I could not go home, you know, Val, till it was said.”

“Till what was said, uncle?”

“I forget,” was the answer.  “You must help me.”

Valentine suggested various things which had been discussed that day; but they did not help him, and he sank into thought.

“I hope I was not going to make any mistake,” he shortly said, and Valentine began to suppose he really had something particular to say.  “I think my dear brother and I decided for ever to hold our peace,” he next murmured, after a long pause.

Valentine was silent.  The allusion to his father made him remember how completely all the more active and eventful part of their lives had gone by for these two old men before he came into the world.

“What were you and John talking of just before he left?” said the old man, after a puzzled pause.

“Nothing of the least consequence,” answered Valentine, feeling that he had forgotten what he might have meant to say.  “John would be uneasy if he knew you were here still.  Shall we go home?”

“Not yet.  If I mentioned this, you would never tell it to my John.  There is no need that my John should ever have a hint of it.  You will promise not to tell him?”

“No, my dear uncle, indeed I could not think of such a thing,” said Valentine, now a little uneasy.  If his uncle really had something important to say, this was a strange request, and if he had not, his thoughts must be wandering.

“Well,” said Grand, in a dull, quiet voice, as of one satisfied and persuaded, “perhaps it is no duty of mine, then, to mention it.  But what was it that you and John were talking of just before he went away?”

“You and John were going to send your cards, to inquire after Mrs. A’Court, because she is ill.  I asked if mine might go too, and as it was handed across you took notice of what was on it, and said it pleased you; do you remember?  But John laughed about it.”

“Yes; and what did you answer, Val?”

“I said that if everybody had his rights, that ought not to have been my name at all.  You ought to have been Mr. Mortimer now, and I Mr. Melcombe.”

“I thought it was that,” answered Grand, cogitating.  “Yes, it was never intended that you should touch a shilling of that property.”

“I know that, uncle,” said Valentine.  “My father always told me he had no expectations from his mother.  It was unlucky for me, that’s all.  I don’t mean to say,” he continued, “that it has been any particular disappointment, because I was always brought up to suppose I should have nothing; but as I grow older I often think it seems rather a shame I should be cut out; and as my father was, I am sure, one of the most amiable of men, it is very odd that he never contrived to make it up with the old lady.”

“He never had any quarrel with her,” answered old Augustus.  “He was always her favourite son.”

Valentine looked at him with surprise.  He appeared to be oppressed with the lassitude of sleep, and yet to be struggling to keep his eyes open and to say something.  But he only managed to repeat his last words.  “I’ve told John all that I wish him to know,” he next said, and then succumbed and was asleep again.

“The favourite son, and natural heir!” thought Valentine.  “No quarrel, and yet not inherit a shilling!  That is queer, to say the least of it.  I’ll go up to London and have another look at that will.  And he has told John something or other.  Unless his thoughts are all abroad then, he must have been alluding to two perfectly different things.”

Valentine now went to the carriage and fetched in the footman, hoping that at sight of him his uncle might be persuaded to come home; but this was done with so much difficulty that, when at last it was accomplished, Valentine sent the carriage on to fetch John, and sat anxiously watching till he came, and a medical man with him.

Sleep and weakness, but no pain, and no disquietude.  It was so at the end of a week; it was so at the end of a fortnight, and then it became evident that his sight was failing; he was not always aware whether or not he was alone; he often prayed aloud also, but sometimes supposed himself to be recovering.

“Where is Valentine?” he said one afternoon, when John, having left him to get some rest, Valentine had taken his place.  “Are we alone?” he asked, when Valentine had spoken to him.  “What time is it?”

“About four o’clock, uncle; getting dusk, and snow falls.”

“Yes, I heard you mention snow when the nurse went down to her tea.  I am often aware of John’s presence when I cannot show it.  Tell him so.”

“Yes, I will.”

“He is a dear good son to me.”

“Yes.”

“He ought not to make a sorrow of my removal.  It disturbs me sometimes to perceive that he does.  He knows where my will is, and all my papers.  I have never concealed anything from him; I had never any cause.”

“No, indeed, uncle.”

“Till now,” proceeded old Augustus.  Valentine looked attentively in the failing light at the majestic wreck of the tall, fine old man.  He made out that the eyes were closed, and that the face had its usual immobile, untroubled expression, and the last words startled him.  “I have thought it best,” he continued, “not to leave you anything in my will.”

“No,” said Valentine, “because you gave me that two thousand pounds during your lifetime.”

“Yes, my dear; my memory does not fail me.  John will not be cursed with one guinea of ill-gotten wealth.  Valentine!”

“Yes, uncle, yes; I am here; I am not going away.”

“You have the key of my cabinet, in the library.  Go and fetch me a parcel that is in the drawer inside.”

“Let me ring, then, first for some one to come; for you must not be left alone.”

“Leave me, I say, and do as I tell you.”

Valentine, vexed, but not able to decline, ran down in breathless haste, found the packet of that peculiar sort and size usually called a banker’s parcel, locked the cabinet, and returned to the old man’s bed.

“Are we alone?” he asked, when Valentine had made his presence known to him.  “Let me feel that parcel.  Ah, your father was very dear to me.  I owe everything to him everything.”

Valentine, who was not easy as to what would come next, replied like an honourable man, “So you said, uncle, when you generously gave me that two thousand pounds.”

“Ill-gotten wealth,” old Augustus murmured, “never prospers; it is a curse to its possessor.  My son, my John, will have none of it.  Valentine!”

“Yes.”

“What do you think was the worst-earned money that human fingers ever handled?”

The question so put suggested but one answer.

“That thirty pieces of silver,” said Valentine.

“Ah!” replied Augustus with a sigh.  “Well, thank God, none of us can match that crime.  But murders have been done, and murderers have profited by the spoil!  When those pieces of silver were lying on the floor of the temple, after the murderer was dead, to whom do you think they belonged?”

Valentine was excessively startled; the voice seemed higher and thinner than usual, but the conversation had begun so sensibly, and the wrinkled hand kept such firm hold still of the parcel, that it surprised him to feel, as he now did, that his dear old uncle was wandering, and he answered nothing.

“Not to the priests,” continued Augustus, and as a pause followed, Valentine felt impelled to reply.

“No,” he said, “they belonged to his family, no doubt, if they had chosen to pick them up.”

“Ah, that is what I suppose.  If his father, poor wretch, or perhaps his miserable mother, had gone into the temple that day, it would have been a strange sight, surely, to see her gather them up.”

“Yes,” said Valentine faintly.  The shadow of something too remote to make its substance visible appeared to fall over him then, causing him a vague wonder and awe, and revulsion of feeling.  He knew not whether this old man was taking leave of sober daylight reason, or whether some fresh sense of the worthlessness of earthly wealth, more especially ill-gotten wealth, had come to him from a sudden remembrance of this silver or

He tried gently to lead his thoughts away from what seemed to be troubling him, for his head turned restlessly on the pillow.

“You have no need to think of that,” he said kindly and quietly, “for as you have just been saying, John will inherit nothing but well-earned property.”

“John does not know of this,” said Augustus.  “I have drawn it out for years by degrees, as he supposed, for household expenses.  It is all in Bank of England notes.  Every month that I lived it would have become more and more.”

Uncommonly circumstantial this!

“It contains seventeen hundred pounds; take it in your hand, and hear me.”

“Yes, uncle.”

“You cannot live on a very small income.  You have evidently very little notion of the value of money.  You and John may not agree.  It may not suit him to have you with him; on the other hand on the other hand what was I saying?”

“That it might not suit John to have me with him.”

“Yes, yes; but, on the other hand (where is it gone), on the other hand, it might excite his curiosity, his surprise, if I left you more in my will.  Now what am I doing this for?  What is it?  Daniel’s son?  Yes.”

“Dear uncle, try to collect your thoughts; there is something you want me to do with this money, try to tell me what it is.”

“Have you got it in your hand?”

“Yes, I have.”

“Keep it then, and use it for your own purposes.”

“Thank you.  Are you sure that is what you meant?  Is that all?”

“Is that all?  No.  I said you were not to tell John.”

“Will you tell him yourself then?” asked Valentine.  “I do not think he would mind my having it.”

By way of answer to this, the old man actually laughed.  Valentine had thought he was long past that, but it was a joyful laugh, and almost exultant.

“Mind,” he said, “my John!  No; you attend to my desire, and to all I have said.  Also it is agreed between me and my son that if ever you two part company, he is to give you a thousand pounds.  I tell you this that you may not suppose it has anything to do with the money in that parcel.  Your father was everything to me,” he continued, his voice getting fainter, and his speech more confused, as he went on, “and and I never expected to see him again in this world.  And so you have come over to see me, Daniel?  Give me your hand.  Come over to see me, and there are no lights!  God has been very good to me, brother, and I begin to think He will call me into his presence soon.”

Valentine started up, and it was really more in order to carry out the old man’s desires, so solemnly expressed, than from any joy of possession, that he put the parcel into his pocket before he rang for the nurse and went to fetch John.

He had borne a part in the last-sustained conversation the old man ever held, and that day month, in just such a snow-storm as had fallen about his much-loved brother, his stately white head was laid in the grave.