It Is Never Too Late to Mend. Charles Reade Reade

to foot.

      “Do you hear, William?” said George.

      “I hear, George,” replied William in an iron whisper, with his sullen head sunk upon his breast.

      George left Susan, and came between her and William.

      “Then, Susan,” said he, rather loud, “here is your brother.”

      William winced.

      “William! here is my life!” And he pointed to Susan. “Let no man rob me of it if one mother really bore us.”

      It went through William's heart like a burning arrow. And this was why George had taken him to their mother's grave. That flashed across him, too.

      The poor sulky fellow's head was seen to rise inch by inch till he held it as erect as a king's.

      “Never!” he cried, half shouting, half weeping. “Never, s'help me God! She's my sister from this hour—no more, no less. And may the red blight fall on my arm and my heart, if I or any man takes her from you—any man!” he cried, his temples flushing and his eye glittering; “sooner than a hundred men should take her from you while I am here I'd die at their feet a hundred times.”

      Well done, sullen and rugged but honest man; the capital temptation of your life is wrestled with and thrown. That is always to every man a close, a deadly, a bitter struggle; and we must all wade through this deep water at one hour or another of our lives. It is as surely our fate as it is one day to die.

      It is a noble sight to see an honest man “cleave his own heart in twain, and fling away the baser part of it.” These words, that burst from William's better heart, knocked at his brother's you may be sure. He came to William, “I believe you,” said he; “I trust you, I thank you.” Then he held out his hand; but nature would have more than that, in a moment his arm was round his brother's neck, where it had not been, this many a year. He withdrew it as quickly, half ashamed; and Anne Fielding's two sons grasped one another's hands, and holding hands turned away their heads and tried to hide their eyes.

      They are stronger than bond, deed or indenture, these fleshly compacts written by moist eyes, stamped by the grip of eloquent hands, in those moments full of soul when men's hearts beat from their bosoms to their fingers' ends.

      Isaac Levi came to the brothers, and said to William, “Yes, I will now,” and then he went slowly and thoughtfully away to his own house.

      “And now,” faltered George, “I feel strong enough to go, and I'll go.”

      He looked round at all the familiar objects he was leaving, as if to bid them farewell; and last, while every eye watched his movements, he walked slowly up to his grandfather's chair.

      “Grandfather,” said he, “I am going a long journey, and mayhap shall never see you again; speak a word to me before I go.”

      The impassive old man took no notice, so Susan came to him. “Grandfather, speak to George; poor George is going into a far country.”

      When she had repeated this in his ear their grandfather looked up for a moment. “George, fetch me some snuff from where you're going.”

      A spasm crossed George's face; he was not to have a word of good omen from the aged man.

      “Friends,” said he, looking appealingly to all the rest, Meadows included, “I wanted him to say God bless you, but snuff is all his thought now. Well, old man, George won't forget your last word, such as 'tis.”

      In a hutch near a corner of the house was William's pointer, Carlo. Carlo, observing by the general movement that there was something on foot, had the curiosity to come out to the end of his chain, and as he stood there, giving every now and then a little uncertain wag of his tail, George took notice of him and came to him and patted his head.

      “Good-by, Carlo,” faltered George, “poor Carlo—you and I shall never go after the partridges again, Carlo. The dog shows more understanding than the Christian. By, Carlo.” Then he looked wistfully at William's dog, but he said nothing more.

      William watched every look of George, but he said nothing at the time.

      “Good-by, little village church, where I went to church man and boy; good-by, churchyard, where my mother lies; there will be no church bells, Susan, where I am going; no Sunday bells to remind me of my soul and home.”

      These words, which he spoke with great difficulty, were hardly out of young Fielding's mouth when a very painful circumstance occurred; one of those things that seem the contrivance of some malignant spirit. The church bells in a moment struck up their merriest peal!

      George Fielding started, he turned pale and his lips trembled. “Are they mocking me?” he cried. “Do they take a thought what I am going through this moment, the hard-hearted—”

      “No, no, no!” cried William; “don't think it, George; I know what 'tis—I'll tell ye.”

      “What's it?”

      “Well, it is—well, George, it is Tom Clarke and Esther Borgherst married to-day. Only they couldn't have the ringers till the afternoon.”

      “Why, Will, they have only kept company a year, and Susan and I have kept company three years; and Tom and Esther are married to-day; and what are George and Susan doing to-day? God help me! Oh, God help me! What shall I do? what shall I do?” And the stout heart gave way, and George Fielding covered his face with his hands and burst out sobbing and crying.

      Susan flung her arms round his neck. “Oh! George, my pride is all gone; don't go, don't think to go; have pity on us both, and don't go.” And she clung to him—her bonnet fallen off, her hair disheveled—and they sobbed and wept in one another's arms.

      Meadows writhed with the jealous anguish this sad sight gave him, and at that moment he could have cursed the whole creation. He tried to fly, but he was rooted to the spot. He leaned sick as death against the palings.

      George and Susan cried together, and then they wiped one another's eyes like simple country folk with one pocket-handkerchief; and then they kissed one another in turn, and made each other's tears flow fast again; and again wiped one another's eyes with one handkerchief.

      Meadows griped the palings convulsively—hell was in his heart.

      “Poor souls, God help them!” said William to himself in his purified heart.

      The silence their sorrow caused all around was suddenly invaded by a voice that seemed to come from another world—it was Grandfather Fielding. “The autumn sun is not so warm as she used to be!”

      Yes, there was the whole map of humanity on that little spot in the county of Berks. The middle-aged man, a schemer, watching the success of his able scheme, and stunned and wounded by its recoil. And old age, callous to noble pain, all alive to discomfort, yet man to the last—blaming any one but Number One, cackling against heavenly bodies, accusing the sun and the kitchen fire of frigidity—not his own empty veins! And the two poor young things sobbing as if their hearts would break over their first great earthly sorrow.

      George was the first to recover himself.

      “Shame upon me!” he cried; he drew Susan to his bosom, and pressed a long, burning kiss upon her brow.

      And now all felt the wrench was coming. George, with a wild, half-terrified look, signaled William to come to him.

      “Help me, Will! you see I have no more manhood than a girl.”

      Susan instinctively trembled. George once more pressed his lips to her, as if they would grow there. William took her hand. She trembled more and more.

      “Take my hand; take your brother's hand, my poor lass,” said he.

      She trembled violently; and then George gave a cry that seemed to tear his heart, and darted from them in a moment.

      Poor Susan uttered more