One Who Died

He was a remittance man, receiving each month from his father, a Dorset parson, a letter and a check. The letter was not a source of pleasure to the son, and does not concern us; the check made five pounds payable to the order of Richard Beaumont Carteret, known to many men in San Lorenzo County, and some women, as Dick. Time was when Mr. Carteret cut what is called a wide swath, when indeed he was kowtowed to as Lord Carteret, who drove tandem, shot pigeons, and played all the games, including poker and faro. But the ten thousand pounds he inherited from his mother lasted only five years, and when the last penny was spent Dick wrote to his father and demanded an allowance.

He knew that the parson was living in straitened circumstances, with two daughters to provide for, and he knew also that his mother's fortune should in equity have been divided among the family; but, as he pointed out to his dear old governor, a Carteret mustn't be allowed to starve; so the parson, who loved the handsome lad, put down his hack and sent the prodigal a remittance. He had better have sent him a hempen rope, for necessity might have made a man out of Master Dick; the remittance turned him into a moral idiot.

A Carteret, as you know, cannot do himself justice upon five pounds a month, so Dick was constrained to play the part of Mentor to sundry youthful compatriots, teaching them a short cut to ruin, and sharing the while their purses and affections. But, very unhappily for Dick, the supply of fools suddenly failed, and, lo! Dick's occupation was gone. Finally, in despair, he allied himself to another remittance man, an ex-deacon of the Church of England, and the two drifted slowly out of decent society upon a full tide of Bourbon whisky.

Tidings must have come to the parson of his son's unhappy condition, or possibly he decided that the Misses Carteret were entitled to the remittance. It is certain that one dreadful day Dick's letter contained nothing but a sheet of note-paper.

"I can send you no more checks" (wrote the parson), "not another penny will you receive from me. I pray to God that He may see fit to turn your heart, for He alone can do it. I have failed ..."

Dick showed this letter to his last and only friend, the ex-deacon, the Rev. Tudor Crisp, known to many publicans and sinners as the 'Bishop.' The two digested the parson's words in a small cabin situated upon a pitiful patch of ill-cultivated land; land irreclaimably mortgaged to the hilt, which the 'Bishop' spoke of as "my place." Dick (he had a sense of humor) always called the cabin the rectory. It contained one unplastered, unpapered room, carpetless and curtainless; a bleak and desolate shelter that even a sheep-herder would be loath to describe as home.

In the corners were two truckle beds, a stove, and a large demijohn containing some cheap and fiery whisky; in the center of the floor was a deal table; on the rough redwood walls were shelves displaying many dilapidated pairs of boots and shoes, also some fly-specked sporting prints, and, upon a row of nails, a collection of shabby discolored garments, ancient "hartogs," manifesting even in decay a certain jaunty, dissolute air, at once ludicrous and pathetic. Outside, in front, the 'Bishop' had laid out a garden wherein nothing might be found save weeds and empty beer bottles, dead men denied decent interment.

Behind the cabin was the dust-heap, an interesting and historical mound, an epitome, indeed, of the 'Bishop's' gastronomical past, that emphasized his descent from Olympus to Hades; for on the top was a plebeian deposit of tomato and sardine cans, whereas below, if you stirred the heap, might be found a nobler stratum of terrines, once savory with foie gras and Strasbourg pâté, of jars still fragrant of fruits embedded in liqueur, of bottles that had contained the soups that a divine loves—oxtail, turtle, mulligatawny, and the like. Upon rectory, glebe, and garden was legibly inscribed the grim word—ICHABOD.

"He means what he says," growled Dick. "So far as he's concerned I'm dead."

"You ought to be," said the 'Bishop,' "but you aren't; what are you going to do?"

This question burned its insidious way to Dick's very vitals. What could he do? Whom could he do? After a significant pause he caught the 'Bishop's' eye, and, holding his pipe as it might be a pistol, put it to his head, and clicked his tongue.

"Don't," said the 'Bishop' feebly.

The two smoked on in silence. The Rev. Tudor Crisp reflected mournfully that one day a maiden aunt might withdraw the pittance that kept his large body and small soul together. This unhappy thought sent him to the demijohn, whence he extracted two stiff drinks.

"No," said Dick, pushing aside the glass. "I want to think, to think. Curse it, there must be a way out of the wood. If I'd capital we could start a saloon. We know the ropes, and could make a living at it, more, too, but now we can't even get one drink on credit. Why don't you say something, you stupid fool?"

He spoke savagely. The past reeled before his eyes, all the cheery happy days of youth. He could see himself at school, in the playing fields, at college, on the river, in London, at the clubs. Other figures were in the picture, but he held the center of the stage. God in heaven, what a fool he had been!

The minutes glided by, and the 'Bishop' refilled his glass, glancing from time to time at Dick. He was somewhat in awe of Carteret, but the whisky warmed him into speech.

"Look here," he said with a spectral grin, "what's enough for one is enough for two. We'll get along, old man, on my money, till the times mend."

Dick rose, tall and stalwart; and then he smiled, not unkindly, at the squat, ungainly 'Bishop.'

"You're a good chap," he said quietly. "Shake hands, and—good-bye."

"Why, where are you going?"

"Ah! Who knows? If the fairy tales are true, we may meet again later."

Crisp stared at the speaker in horror. He had reason to know that Dick was reckless, but this dare-devil despair appalled him. Yet he had wit enough to attempt no remonstrance, so he gulped down his whisky and waited.

"It's no use craning at a blind fence," continued Dick. "Sooner or later we all come to the jumping-off place. I've come to it to-night. You can give me a decent funeral—the governor will stump up for that—and there will be pickings for you. You can read the service, 'Bishop.' Gad! I'd like to see you in a surplice."

"Please, don't," pleaded the Rev. Tudor.

"He'll be good for a hundred sovs.," continued Dick. "You can do the thing handsomely for half that."

"For God's sake, shut up."

"Pooh! why shouldn't you have your fee? That hundred would start us nicely in the saloon business, and----"

He was walking up and down the dusty, dirty floor. Now he stopped, and his eyes brightened; but Crisp noted that his hands trembled.

"Give me that whisky," he muttered. "I want it now."

The 'Bishop' handed him his glass. Dick drained it, and laughed.

"Don't," said the 'Bishop' for the third time. Dick laughed again, and slapped him on the shoulder. Then the smile froze on his lips, and he spoke grimly.

"What does the apostle say—hey? We must die to live. A straight tip! Well—! I shall obey the apostolic injunction gladly. I'm going to die to-night. Don't jump like that, you old ass; let me finish.

I'm going to die to-night, but you and I are going into the saloon business all the same. Yes, my boy, and we'll tend bar ourselves, and keep our eyes on the till, and have our own bottle of the best, and be perfect gentlemen. Come on, let's drink to my resurrection. Here's to the man who was, and is, and is to be."

"You're a wonder," replied the 'Bishop' fervently. "I understand. You mean to be your own undertaker."

"I do, my lord. Now give me the tobacco, some ink and paper, and an hour's peace."

But the hour passed and found Dick still composing. The 'Bishop' watched his friend with spaniel-like patience. At last the scribe flung down his pen, and read aloud, as follows—

"The Rectory, San Lorenzo,

September 1,

To the Rev. George Carteret.

Dear Sir,—I beg to advise you, with sincere regret on my part, of the sudden demise of your son, Richard Beaumont Carteret, who died at my house just three days ago of heart failure, quite painlessly. You will find enclosed the doctor's certificate, the coroner's report, and the undertaker's bill paid and receipted.

I had a very honest friendship for your son, although I deplored a misspent youth. But I rejoice to say that poor Dick lived long enough to heartily repent him of his sins, which after all were sins against himself. He often talked of home and you, alluding feelingly to the sacrifices you had made on his behalf—sacrifices that he confessed were far greater than his deserts.

I am a poor man, but I felt impelled to give your son the funeral of a gentleman. The bills I have paid, as you will observe, in full, including the purchase in perpetuity of a lot in the cemetery. Should you see fit to refund me these amounts, I shall not refuse the money; if, on the other hand, you repudiate the claim, I shall let the matter drop. I could not permit my friend to be buried as a pauper.

It is possible that you may wish a stone placed at the head of the grave. A suitable cross of plain white marble would cost about two hundred dollars. If you care to entrust me with the sad commission, I will give it my earnest attention.

I refer you to my aunt, Miss Janetta Crisp, of Montpelier Road, Brighton, and also to the Clergy List.

Very truly yours,

Tudor Crisp (The Rev.)."

"There," exclaimed Mr. Carteret, "that will do the trick. The bills and other documents we'll forge at our leisure to-morrow."

"I don't quite like the use of my name," protested the Rev. Tudor Crisp.

Dick explained that his reverence would be entitled to half the plunder, and that discovery was almost impossible. Still, despite Dick's eloquence, the 'Bishop' submitted that such a cruel fraud was "tough" on the old gentleman.

"On the contrary," retorted the other. "He will assume that I died in the odor of sanctity, in the atmosphere of a rectory, in the arms of a parson. He'll worry no more, poor old chap, about my past or my future. This is the turning-point of our fortunes. Don't look so glum, man. Here—hit the demijohn again."

But the 'Bishop' declined this invitation, and betook himself to his blankets, muttering inarticulate nothings. Dick relighted his pipe, and refilled his glass.

Then he walked to the mantelshelf and gazed long and critically at three framed photographs of his father and two sisters. These were almost the only property he possessed. It is significant from an ethical point of view that Dick kept these pictures where he could see them. The 'Bishop' had photos also, but they lay snug at the bottom of an old portmanteau. His reverence was sensible that he was not worthy to keep company with even the pictures of honorable and respectable persons. No such qualms affected Dick. He regarded these photos as credentials. His father had a charming face—one of those human documents whereon are inscribed honor, culture, benevolence, and the wisdom that is not of this world. The sisters, too, had comely features; and strangers introduced to the family group always felt more kindly disposed to the prodigal so far from such nice people.

Dick had impetrated more than one loan, using these portraits as collateral security. Did his heart soften as he bade them farewell? Who can tell?

Within six weeks the Rev. Tudor Crisp received a check from distant Dorset, and the proceeds were duly invested in a saloon in San Clemente, a town some twenty miles from San Lorenzo. Moreover, the business prospered from the start. The partners, Crisp and Cartwright (Dick deemed it wise to alter his name), kept no assistants, so there was no leakage from the till. They understood that this liquor traffic was a shameful trade, but they pronounced themselves unable to follow any other. Curiously enough the work proved a tonic to the 'Bishop.' He allowed himself so many drinks a day, and observed faithfully other rules to his physical and financial betterment. He started a reading-room in connection with the bar, for he had had experience in such matters when a curate at home; and the illustrated papers sent regularly by his maiden aunt were in great demand.

Indeed, the mere reading about football matches and the like created an unquenchable thirst in cowboys and sheep-herders. Moreover the 'Bishop' enforced order and decorum, being a muscular Christian, and the boys learned to curb obscene tongues in his presence. Dick marveled at the change in his partner, but he was shrewd enough to see that it brought grist to the gin-mill.

"Once a parson, always a parson," Dick would say; and the Rev. Tudor would blush and sigh. He never spoke of his clerical days, but once Dick caught him furtively examining a picture of himself in surplice and cassock. Each week a division of the profits was made. The 'Bishop's' share was deposited in the local bank, but where Dick's dollars went it would be indiscreet to tell. He had no stomach for economies, and observed no rules. When he apprehended the general drift of things he was content to let the 'Bishop' have his way and say in regard to the conduct of the business. His reverence bought the cigars and liquors. Dick could hardly be called a sleeping partner, for he took the night watch, but the 'Bishop' did most of the work, and kept the books. Before two years had passed a capital restaurant was added to the reading-room, where the best of steaks and chops might be had, hot and hot, at all hours and at a reasonable price.

Dick never knew it, but the 'Bishop' wrote to Miss Janetta Crisp and begged her to send no more checks. He told his kind auntie very modestly that he had a bank account of his own, and that he hoped one day to thank her in person for all she had done for him.

Towards the close of the third year the 'Bishop' told Dick that it would be well for them to leave their saloon, and to purchase a small hotel then offered for sale. Dick told his old friend to go ahead. His reverence supplied Dick's share of the purchase-money, and the saloon knew them no more. But the hotel, under the 'Bishop's' management, proved a tiny gold mine.

All this time, however, the memory of that dirty trick he had helped to play upon an honest gentleman, festered in his memory. He feared that Nemesis would overtake him, and time justified these fears; for in the spring of 1898 came a second letter to the Rev. Tudor Crisp, of The Rectory, San Lorenzo, a letter that the poor 'Bishop' read with quickening pulses, and then showed to Dick.

"My very dear Sir" (it began), "a curious change in my fortunes enables me to carry out a long-cherished plan. I purpose, D.V., to pay a pilgrimage to my poor son's grave, and shall start for California immediately. Perhaps you will be good enough to let me spend a couple of days at the rectory. It will be a mournful pleasure to me to meet one who was kind to my dear lad.

I will write to you again from San Francisco.

Very gratefully yours,

George Carteret."

If the hotel, uninsured, had suddenly burst into flames, the 'Bishop' would have manifested far less consternation. He raved incoherently for nearly ten minutes, while Dick sat silent and nervous beneath a storm of remorse.

"I'll meet your father in San Francisco," said the unhappy Crisp, "and make a clean breast of it." "That spells ruin," said Dick coldly. "The governor is a dear old gentleman, but he has the Carteret temper. He would make this place too hot for you and too hot for me. I've a voice in this matter, and for once," he added, with unnecessary sarcasm, "I propose to be heard."

"What do you mean to do?"

"If necessary I'll resurrect myself. I'll play the hand alone. You've no more tact than a hippopotamus. And I'll meet the governor. Don't stare. Do you think he'll know me? Not much! I left Dorset a smooth-faced boy; to-day I'm bearded like the pard. My voice, my figure, the color of my hair, my complexion are quite unrecognizable. It may be necessary to show the governor my grave, but I shan't bring him down here. Now, I must commit murder as well as suicide."

"What?"

"I must kill you, you duffer! Do you think my father would return to England without thanking the man who was kind to his dear lad? And you would give the whole snap away. Yes; I'll call upon him as Cartwright, the administrator of the late Tudor Crisp's estate. If it were not for that confounded grave and marble cross, I could fix him in ten minutes. Don't frown. I tell you, 'Bishop,' you're not half the fellow you were."

"Perhaps not," replied his reverence humbly.

But when Dick was alone he muttered to himself: "Now what the deuce did the governor mean by a curious change in his fortunes?"

The Rev. George Carteret was sitting at ease in his comfortable rooms at the Acropolis Hotel. The luxury of them was new to him, yet not unpleasing after many years of rigorous self-denial and poverty. It seemed strange, however, that in the evening of life riches should have come to him—riches from a distant kinsman who, living, had hardly noticed the obscure scholar and parson. Five thousand pounds a year was fabulous wealth to a man whose income heretofore had numbered as many hundreds. And—alas! his son was dead. Not that the parson loved his daughters the less because they were girls, but as the cadet of an ancient family he had a Tory squire's prejudice in favor of a Salique Law. With the thousands went a charming grange in the north country and many fat acres which should of right be transmitted to a male Carteret. If—futile thought—Dick had only been spared!

Thus reflecting, the bellboy brought him a card. The parson placed his glasses upon a fine aquiline nose.

"Ahem! Mr.—er—Cartwright. The name is not familiar to me, but I'll see the gentleman."

And so, after many years, father and son met as strangers. Dick fluently explained the nature of his errand. Mr. Carteret's letter had been given to him as the administrator of the late Mr. Tudor Crisp's estate. He happened to be in San Francisco, and, seeing Mr. Carteret's name in the morning paper, had ventured to call.

"And you, sir," said the father softly, "did you know my son?"

Dick admitted that he had known himself—slightly.

"A friend, perhaps? You are an Englishman." Dick pulled his beard.

"Ah!" sighed the father, "I understand. My poor lad was not one, I fear, whom anyone would hasten to call a friend. But if I'm not trespassing too much upon your time and kindness, tell me what you can of him. What good, I mean."

Dick kept on pulling his beard.

"Was there no good?" said the father, very sorrowfully. "His friend, Mr. Crisp, wrote kindly of him. He said Dick had no enemies but himself."

Dick was sensible that his task was proving harder than he had expected. He could not twist his tongue to lie about himself. Men are strangely inconsistent. Dick had prepared other lies, a sackful of them; and he knew that a few extra ones would make no difference to him, and be as balm to the questioning spirit opposite; yet he dared not speak good of the man whom he counted rotten to the core. The parson sighed and pressed the matter no further. He desired, he said, to see Dick's grave. Then he hoped to return to England.

Now Dick had made his plans. In a new country, where five years bring amazing changes, it is easy to play pranks, even in churchyards. In the San Lorenzo cemetery were many nameless graves, and the sexton chanced to be an illiterate foreigner who could neither read nor write.

So Dick identified a forlorn mound as his last resting-place, and told the sexton that a marble cross would be erected there under his (Dick's) direction. Then he tipped the man, and bought a monument, taking care to choose one sufficiently time-stained. There are scores of such in every marble-worker's yard. Upon it were cut Dick's initials, a date, and an appropriate text. Within three days of the receipt of Mr. Carteret's letter, the cross was standing in the cemetery. None knew or cared whence it came. Moreover, Dick had passed unrecognized through the town where he had once ruffled it so gaily as Lord Carteret. He had changed greatly, as he said, and for obvious reasons he had never visited the mission town since his bogus death and burial.

Thus it came to pass that Dick and his father traveled together to San Lorenzo, and together stood beside the cross in the cemetery. Presently Dick walked away; and then the old man knelt down, bareheaded, and prayed fervently for many minutes. Later, the father pointed a trembling finger at the initials. "Why," he demanded querulously, "did they not give the lad his full name?" And to this natural question Dick had nothing to say.

"It seems," murmured the old man mournfully, "that Mr. Crisp, with all his kindness, felt that the name should perish also. Well, amen, amen. Will you give me your arm, sir?"

So, arm in arm, they passed from the pretty garden of sleep. Dick was really moved, and the impulse stirred within him to make full confession there and then. But he strangled it, and his jaw grew set and hard. As yet he was in ignorance of the change in his father's fortunes. Mr. Carteret assumed none of the outward signs of prosperity. He wore the clothes of a poor parson, and his talk flowed along the old channels, a limpid stream not without sparkle, but babbling of no Pactolian sands. And then, quite suddenly and simply, he said that he had fallen heir to a large estate, and that he wished to set aside so much money as a memorial of his son, to be expended as the experience of the bishop of the diocese might direct.

"You—you are a rich man?" faltered Dick.

"My son, sir, had he lived, would have been heir to five thousand a year."

Dick gasped, and a lump in his throat stifled speech for a season. Presently he asked politely the nature of Mr. Carteret's immediate plans, and learned that he was leaving San Lorenzo for Santa Barbara on the morrow. Dick had determined not to let his father stray from his sight till he had seen him safe out of the country, but he told himself that he must confer with the 'Bishop' at once. The 'Bishop' must act as go-between; the 'Bishop,' by Jove! should let the cat out of the bag; the 'Bishop' would gladly color the facts and obscure the falsehoods. So he bade his father good-bye, and the old gentleman thanked him courteously and wished him well. To speak truth, Mr. Carteret was not particularly impressed with Mr. Cartwright, nor sorry to take leave of him. Dick soon secured a buggy, and drove off. En route he whistled gaily, and at intervals burst into song. He really felt absurdly gay.

The 'Bishop,' however, pulled a long face when he understood what was demanded of him. "It's too late," said he.

"Do you funk it?" asked Dick angrily.

"I do," replied his reverence.

"Well, he must be told the facts before he goes south."

Dick little knew, as he spoke so authoritatively, that his father was already in possession of these facts. Within an hour of Dick's departure, Mr. Carteret was walking through the old mission church, chatting with my brother Ajax. From Ajax he learned that at San Clemente, not twenty miles away, was another mission of greater historical interest and in finer preservation than any north of Santa Barbara. Ajax added that there was an excellent hotel at San Clemente, kept by two Englishmen, Cartwright and Crisp. Of course the name Crisp tickled the parson's curiosity, and he asked if this Crisp were any relation to the late Tudor Crisp, who had once lived in or near San Lorenzo. My brother said promptly that these Crisps were one and the same, and was not to be budged from that assertion by the most violent exclamations on the part of the stranger. A synopsis of the Rev.

Tudor's history followed, and then the inevitable question: "Who is Cartwright?" Fate ordained that this question was answered by a man who knew that Cartwright was Carteret; and so, at last, the unhappy father realized how diabolically he had been hoaxed. Of his suffering it becomes us not to speak; of his just anger something remains to be said.

He drove up to the San Clemente Hotel as the sun was setting, and both Dick and the 'Bishop' came forward to welcome him, but fell back panic-stricken at sight of his pale face and fiery eyes. Dick slipped aside; the 'Bishop' stood still, rooted in despair.

"Is your name Crisp?"

"Yes," faltered the 'Bishop.'

"The Rev. Tudor Crisp?"

"I—er—once held deacon's orders."

"Can I see you alone?"

The 'Bishop' led the way to his own sanctum, a snug retreat, handy to the bar, and whence an eye could be kept on the bar-tender. The 'Bishop' was a large man, but he halted feebly in front of the other, who, dilated in his wrath, strode along like an avenging archangel, carrying his cane as it might be a flaming sword.

"Now, sir," said Dick's father, as soon as they were alone, "what have you to say to me?"

The 'Bishop' told the story from beginning to end, not quite truthfully.

"You dare to tell me that you hatched this damnable plot?"

The 'Bishop' lied: "Yes—I did."

"And with the money obtained under false pretenses you bought a saloon, you, a deacon of the Church of England?"

The 'Bishop' lied: "Yes—I did."

"The devil takes care of his own," said the parson, looking round, and marking the comfort of the room.

"Not always," said the 'Bishop,' thinking of Dick.

"Well, sir," continued the parson, "I'm told that money can work miracles in this country. And, by God! if my money can send you to gaol, you shall go there, as sure as my name is George Carteret."

"All right," said the 'Bishop.' "I—er—I don't blame you. I think you're behaving with great moderation."

"Moderation! Confound it! sir, are you laughing at me?"

"The Lord forbid!" ejaculated Crisp.

"Men have been shot for less than this."

"There's a pistol in that drawer," said the 'Bishop' wearily. "You can shoot if you want to. Your money can put me into gaol, as you say, and keep you out of it, if—if you use that pistol."

Mr. Carteret stared. The 'Bishop' was beginning to puzzle him. He stared still harder, and the 'Bishop' blushed; an awkward habit that he had never rid himself of. Now a country parson, who is also a magistrate, becomes in time a shrewd judge of men.

"Will you kindly send for my—for your partner?" he said suddenly. "Please sit or stand where you are. I think you'll admit that I have a right to conduct this inquiry in my own way."

Accordingly, Dick was sent for, and soon he took his stand beside the 'Bishop,' facing the flaming blue eyes of his father. Then Mr. Carteret asked him point blank the questions he had put to the other, and received the same answers, the 'Bishop' entering an inarticulate demurrer.

"It appears," said Mr. Carteret, "that there are two ways of telling this story. One of you, possibly, has told the truth; the other has unquestionably lied. I confess," he added dryly, "that my sympathies are with the liar. He is the honester man."

"Yes," said Dick. "I'm about as big a blackguard as you'll find anywhere, but I'm your son all the same. Father—forgive me."

One must confess that Dick played his last trump in a masterly fashion. He knew that whining wouldn't avail him, or any puling hypocrisy. So he told the truth.

"Is that what you want?" said the father sarcastically. "Only that: my forgiveness and my blessing?"

Dick's bold eyes fell beneath this thrust.

"The man who drove me here," continued the father, "told me a curious story. It seems that Mr. Crisp here has toiled and moiled for many years, keeping you in comparative luxury and idleness. Not a word, sir. It's an open secret. For some occult reason he likes to pay this price for your company. Having supported you so long, I presume he is prepared to support you to the end?"

"He's my friend," said the 'Bishop' stoutly.

"My son," said the old man solemnly, "died six years ago, and he can never, never," the second word rang grimly out, "be raised from the dead. That man there," his voice faltered for the first time, "is another son whom I do not know—whom I do not want to know—let him ask himself if he is fit to return with me to England, to live with those gentlewomen, his sisters, to inherit the duties and responsibilities that even such wealth as mine bring in their train. He knows that he is not fit. Is he fit to take my hand?"

He stretched forth his lean white hand, the hand that had signed so many checks. Dick did not try to touch it. The 'Bishop' wiped his eyes. The poor fellow looked the picture of misery.

"If there be the possibility of atonement for such as he," continued the speaker—"and God forbid that I should dare to say there is not—let that atonement be made here where he has sinned. It seems that the stoppage of his allowance tempted him to commit suicide. I did not know my son was a coward. Now, to close for ever that shameful avenue down which he might slink from the battle, I pledge myself to pay again that five pounds a month during my life, and to secure the same to Richard Cartwright after my death, so long as he shall live. That, I think, is all."

He passed with dignity out of the room and into the street, where the buggy awaited him. Dick remained standing, but the 'Bishop' followed the father, noting how, as soon as he had crossed the threshold, his back became bowed and his steps faltered. He touched the old man lightly on the shoulder.

"May I take your hand?" he asked. "I am not fit, no fitter than Dick, but----"

Mr. Carteret held out his hand, and the 'Bishop' pressed it gently.

"I believe," said Mr. Carteret after a pause, "that you, sir, may live to be an honest man."

"I'll look after Dick," blubbered the 'Bishop,' sorely affected. "Dick will pan out all right—in the end."

But Dick's father shuddered.

"It's very chilly," he said, with a nervous cough. "Good-night, Mr. Crisp. Good-night, and God bless you."