in a handsome chamber of a handsome house in birmingham, an old man lay dying. for most of his life he had been engaged in a large wholesale business—had achieved local position, had accumulated moderate wealth. but neither wealth nor position can ensure peace to a death-bed; and the old man lay on his, groaning over the past.

the season was that of mid-winter. not the winter following the intended removal of mr. halliburton from london, as spoken of in the last chapter, but the winter preceding it—for it is necessary to go back a little. a hard, sharp, white day in january: and the fire was piled high in the sick room, and the large flakes of snow piled themselves outside on the window frames and beat against the glass. the room was fitted up with every comfort the most fastidious invalid could desire; and yet, i say, nothing seemed to bring comfort to the invalid lying there. his hands were clenched as in mortal agony; his eyes were apparently watching the falling snow. the eyes saw it not: in reality they were cast back to where his mind was—the past.

what could be troubling him? was it that loss, only two years ago, by which one-half of his savings had been engulfed? scarcely. a man dying—as he knew he was—would be unlikely to care about that now. ample competence had remained to him, and he had neither son nor daughter to inherit. hark! what is it that he is murmuring between his parched lips, to the accompaniment of his clenched hands?

"i see it all now; i see it all! while we are buoyed up with health and strength, we continue hard, selfish, obstinate in our wickedness. but when death comes, we awake to our error; and death has come to me, and i have awakened to mine. why did i turn him out like a dog? he had neither kith nor kin, and i sent him adrift on the world, to fight with it or to starve! he was the only child of my sister, and she was gone. she and i were of the same father and mother; we shared the same meals in childhood, the same home, the same play, the same hopes. she wrote to me when she was dying, as i am dying now: 'richard, should my poor boy be left fatherless—for my husband's health seems to be failing—be his friend and protector for helen's sake, and may heaven bless you for it!' and i scoffed at the injunction when the boy offended me, and turned him out. shall i have to answer for it?"

the last anxious doubt was uttered more audibly than the rest; it escaped from his lips with a groan. a woman who was dozing over the fire started up.

"did you call, sir?"

"no. go out and leave me."

"but——"

"go out and leave me," he repeated, with anger little fitted to his position. and the woman was speeding from the room, when he caught at the curtain and recalled her.

"are they not come?"

"not yet, sir. but, with this heavy fall, it's not to be wondered at. the highways must be almost impassable. with good roads they might have been here hours ago."

she went out. he lay back on his pillow: his eyes wide open, but wearing the same dreamy look. you may be wondering who he is; though you probably guess, for you have heard of him once before as mr. cooper, the uncle who discarded edgar halliburton.

i must give you a few words of retrospect. richard cooper was the eldest of three children; the others were a brother and a sister: richard, alfred, and helen. alfred and helen both married; richard never did marry. it was somewhat singular that the brother and sister should both die, each leaving an orphan; and that the orphans should find a home in the house of their uncle richard. julia cooper, the brother's orphan, was the first to come to it, a long time before edgar halliburton came. helen had married the rev. william halliburton, and she died at his rectory in devonshire—sending that earnest prayer to her brother richard which you have just heard him utter. a little while, and her husband, the rector, also died; and then it was that edgar went up to his uncle richard's. fortunate for these two orphan children, it appeared to be, that their uncle had not married and could give them a good home.

a good home he did give them. julia left it first to become the wife of anthony dare, a solicitor in large practice in a distant city. she married him very soon after her cousin edgar came to his uncle's. and it was after the marriage of julia that edgar was discarded and turned adrift. years, many years, had gone by since then; and here lay richard cooper, stricken for death and repenting of the harshness, which he had not repented of or sought to atone for all through those long years. ah, my friends! whatsoever may lie upon our consciences, however we may have contrived to ignore it during our busy lives, be assured that it will find us out on our death-bed!

richard cooper lay back on his pillow, his eyes wide open with their inward tribulation. "who knows but there would be time yet?" he suddenly murmured. and the thought appeared to rouse his mind and flush his cheek, and he lifted his hand and grasped the bell-rope, ringing it so loudly as to bring two servants to the room.

"go up, one of you, to lawyer weston's," he uttered. "bring him back with you. tell him i want to alter my will, and that there may yet be time. don't send—one of you go," he repeated in tones of agonising entreaty. "bring him; bring him back with you!"

as the echo of his voice died away there came a loud summons at the street door, as of a hasty arrival. "sir," cried one of the maids, "they're come at last! i thought i heard a carriage drawing up in the snow."

"who's come?" he asked in some confusion of mind. "weston?"

"not him, sir; mr. and mrs. dare," replied the servant as she hurried out.

a lady and gentleman were getting out of a coach at the door. a tall, very tall man, with handsome features, but an unpleasantly free expression. the lady was tall also, stout and fair, with an imperious look in her little turned-up nose. "are we in time?" the latter asked of the servants.

"it's nearly as much as can be said, ma'am," was the answer. "but he has roused up in the last hour, and is growing excited. the doctors thought it might be so: that he'd not continue in the lethargy to the last."

they went on at once to the sick chamber. every sense of the dying man appeared to be on the alert. his hands were holding back the curtain, his eyes were strained on the door. "why have you been so long?" he cried in a voice of strength they were surprised to hear.

"dear uncle," said mrs. dare, bending over the bed and clasping the feeble hands, "we started the very moment the letter came. but we could not get along—the roads are dreadfully heavy."

"sir," whispered a servant in the invalid's ear, "are we to go now for lawyer weston?"

"no, there's no need," was the prompt answer. "anthony dare, you are a lawyer," continued mr. cooper; "you'll do what i want done as well as another. will you do it?"

"anything you please, sir," was mr. dare's reply.

"sit down, then; julia, sit down. you may be hungry and thirsty after your journey; but you must wait. life's not ebbing out of you, as it is out of me. we'll get this matter over, that my mind may be so far at rest; and then you can eat and drink of the best that my house affords. i am in mortal pain, anthony dare."

mrs. dare was silently removing some of her outer wrappings, and whispering with the servant at the extremity of the roomy chamber; but mr. dare, who had taken off his great-coat and hat in the hall, continued to stand by the sick bed.

"i am sorry to hear it, sir," he said, in reply to mr. cooper's concluding sentence. "can the medical men afford you no relief?"

"it is pain of mind, anthony dare, not pain of body. that pain has passed from me. i would have sent for you and julia before, but i did not think until yesterday that the end was so near. never let a man be guilty of injustice!" broke forth mr. cooper, vehemently. "or let him know that it will come home to him to trouble his dying bed."

"what can i do for you, sir?" questioned mr. dare.

"if you will open that bureau, you'll find pen, ink, and paper. julia, come here: and see that we are alone."

the servant left the room, and mrs. dare came forward, divested of her cloaks. she wore a handsome dark-blue satin dress (much the fashion at that time) with a good deal of rich white lace about it, a heavy gold chain, and some very showy amethysts set in gold. the jewellery was real, however, not sham; but altogether her attire looked somewhat out of place for a death-chamber.

the afternoon was drawing to a close. what with that and the dense atmosphere outside, the chamber had grown dim. mr. dare disposed the writing materials on a small round table at the invalid's elbow, and then looked towards the distant window.

"i fear i cannot see, sir, without a light."

"call for it, julia," said the invalid.

a lamp was brought in and placed on the table, so that its rays should not affect those eyes so soon to close to all earthly light. and mr. dare waited, pen in hand.

"i have been hard and wilful," began mr. cooper, putting up his trembling hands. "i have been obdurate, and selfish, and unjust; and now it is keeping peace from me——"

"but in what way, dear uncle?" softly put in mrs. dare; and it may as well be remarked that whenever mrs. dare attempted to speak softly and kindly it seemed to bear an unnatural sound to others' ears.

"in what way?—why, with regard to edgar halliburton," said mr. cooper, the dew breaking out upon his brow. "in seeking to follow the calling marked out for him by his father, he only did his duty; and i should have seen it in that light but for my own obstinate pride and self-will. i did wrong to discard him: i have done wrong ever since in keeping him from me, in refusing to be reconciled. are you listening, anthony dare?"

"certainly, sir. i hear."

"julia, i say that there was no reason for my turning him away. there has been no reason for my keeping him away. i have refused to be reconciled: i have sent back his letters unopened; i have held him at contemptuous defiance. when i heard that he had married, i cast harsh words to him because he had not asked my consent, though i was aware all the time, that i had given him no opportunity to ask it—i had harshly refused all overtures, all intercourse. i cast harsh words to his wife, knowing her not. but i see my error now. do you see it, julia? do you see it, anthony dare?"

"would you like to have him sent for, sir?" suggested mr. dare.

"it is too late. he could not be here in time. i don't know, either, where he lives in london, or what his address may be. do you?"—looking at his niece.

"oh dear, no," she replied, with a slightly contemptuous gesture of the shoulders. as much as to imply that to know the address of her cousin edgar was quite beneath her.

"no, he could not get here," repeated the dying man, whilst mrs. dare wiped the dews that had gathered on his pallid and wrinkled brow. "julia! anthony! anthony dare!"

"sir, what is it?"

"i wish you both to listen to me. i cannot die with this injustice unrepaired. i have made my will in julia's favour. it is all left to her, except a few trifles to my servants. when the property comes to be realised, there will be at least sixteen thousand pounds, and but for that late mad speculation i entered into there would have been nearly forty thousand."

he paused. but neither mr. nor mrs. dare answered.

"you are a lawyer, anthony, and could draw up a fresh will. but there's no time, i say. what is darkening the room?" he abruptly broke off to ask.

mr. dare looked hastily up. nothing was darkening the room, except the gradually increasing gloom of evening.

"my sight is growing dim, then," said the invalid. "listen to me, both of you. i charge you, anthony and julia dare, that you divide this money with edgar halliburton. give him his full share; the half, even to a farthing. will you do so, anthony dare?"

"yes, i will, sir."

"be it so. i charge you both solemnly—do not fail. if you would lay up peace for the time when you shall come to be where i am—do not fail. there's no time legally to do what is right; i feel that there is not. ere the deed could be drawn up i should be gone, and could not sign it. but i leave the charge upon you; the solemn charge. the half of my money belongs of right to edgar halliburton: julia has claim only to the other half. be careful how you divide it: you are sole executor, anthony dare. have you your paper ready?"

"yes, sir."

"then dot down a few words, as i dictate, and i will sign them. 'i, richard cooper, do repent of my injustice to my dear nephew, edgar halliburton. and i desire, by this my last act on my death-bed, to bequeath to him the half of the money and property i shall die possessed of; and i charge anthony dare, the executor of my will, to carry out this act and wish as strictly as though it were a formal and legal one. i desire that whatever i shall die possessed of, save the bequests to my servants, may be equally divided between my nephew edgar and my niece julia.'"

the dying man paused. "i think that's all that need be said," he observed. "have you finished writing it, anthony dare?"

mr. dare wrote fast and quickly, and was concluding the last words. "it is written, sir."

"read it."

mr. dare proceeded to do so. short as the time was which it took to accomplish this, the old man had fallen into a doze ere it was concluded; a doze or a partial stupor. they could not tell which; but, in leaning over him, he woke up with a start.

"i can't die with this injustice unrepaired!" he cried, his memory evidently ignoring what had just been done. "anthony dare, your wife has no right to all my money. i shall leave half of it to edgar. i want you to write it down."

"it is done, sir. this is the paper."

"where? where? why don't you get light into the room? it's dark—dark. this? is this it?"—as mr. dare put it into his hand. "now, mind!" he added, his tone changing to one of solemn enjoinder; "mind you act upon it. julia has no right to more than her half share; she must not take more: money kept by wrong, acquired by injustice, never prospers. it would not bring you good, it would not bring a blessing. give edgar his legal half; and give him his old uncle's love and contrition. tell him, if the past could come over again there should be no estrangement between us."

he lay panting for a few minutes, and then spoke again, the paper having fallen unnoticed from his hand.

"julia, when you see edgar's wife—did i sign that paper?" he broke off.

"no, sir," said mr. dare. "will you sign it now?"

"ay. but, signed or not signed, you'll equally act upon it. i don't put it forth as a legal document; i suppose it would not, in this informal state, stand good in law. it is only a reminder to you, anthony dare, that you may not forget my wishes. hold me up in bed, and have lights brought in."

anthony dare drew the curtain back, and the rays of the lamp flashed upon the dying man. mr. dare looked round for a book on which to place the paper while it was signed.

"i want a light," came again from the bed, in a pleading tone. "julia, why don't you tell them to bring in the lamp?"

"the lamp is here, uncle. it is close to you."

"then there's no oil in it," he cried. "julia, i will have lights here. tell them to bring up the dining-room lamps. don't ring; go and see that they are brought."

unwilling to oppose him, and doubting lest his sight should really have gone, mrs. dare went out, and returned with one of the servants and more light. mr. cooper was then lying back on his pillow, dozing and unconscious.

"has he signed the paper?" mrs. dare whispered to her husband.

he shook his head negatively, and pointed to it. it was lying on the bed, just as mrs. dare had left it. mrs. dare caught it up from any prying eyes that might be about, folded it, and held it securely in her hand.

"he will wake up again presently, and can sign it then," observed mr. dare, just as a gentle ring was heard at the house door.

"it's the doctor," said the servant; "i know his ring."

but the old man never did sign the paper, and never woke up again. he lay in a state of lethargy throughout the night. mr. and mrs. dare watched by his bedside; the servants watched; and the doctors came in at intervals. but there was no change in his state; until the last great change. it occurred at daybreak; and when the neighbours opened their windows to the cold and the snow, the house of richard cooper remained closed. death was within it.