It Is Never Too Late to Mend. Charles Reade Reade

you, though it some distance—and not so great a distance. I am always well horsed, and I know you will give me a bed at Grassmere once a quarter.”

      “That we will,” cried the farmer, warmly, “and proud and happy to see you cross the threshold, sir.”

      “And, Mr. Merton, my new house is large. I shall be alone in it. Whenever you and Miss Merton have nothing better to do, pray come and visit me. I will make you as uncomfortable as you have made me comfortable, but as welcome as you have made me welcome.”

      “We will come, sir! we will come some one of these days, and thank you for the honor.”

      So Mr. Eden went from Grassmere village and Grassmere farmhouse—but he left neither as he found them; fifty years hence an old man and woman or two will speak to their grandchildren of the “Sower,” and Susan Merton (if she is on earth then) of “the good Physician.” She may well do so, for it was no vulgar service he rendered her, no vulgar malady he checked.

      Not every good man could have penetrated so quickly a coy woman's grief, nor, the wound found, have soothed her fever and deadened her smart with a hand as firm as gentle, as gentle as firm.

      Such men are human suns! They brighten and warm wherever they pass. Fools count them mad, till death wrenches open foolish eyes; they are not often called “my Lord,” * nor sung by poets when they die; but the hearts they heal, and their own are their rich reward on earth—and their place is high in heaven.

      * Sometimes thought.

CHAPTER X.

       Table of Contents

      MR. MEADOWS lived in a house that he had conquered three years ago by lending money on it at fair interest in his own name. Mr. David Hall, the proprietor, paid neither principal nor interest. Mr. Meadows expected this contingency, and therefore lent his money. He threatened to foreclose and sell the house under the hammer; to avoid this Mr. Hall said, “Pay yourself the interest by living rent free in the house till such time as my old aunt dies, drat her, and then I'll pay your money. I wish I had never borrowed it.” Meadows acquiesced with feigned reluctance. “Well, if I must, I must; but let me have my money as soon as you can—” (aside) “I will end my days in this house.”

      It had many conveniences; among the rest a very long though narrow garden inclosed within high walls. At the end of the garden was a door which anybody could open from the inside, but from the outside only by a Bramah key.

      The access to this part of the premises was by a short, narrow lane, very dirty and very little used, because, whatever might have been in old times, it led now from nowhere to nowhere. Meadows received by this entrance one or two persons whom he never allowed to desecrate his knocker. At the head of these furtive visitors was Peter Crawley, attorney-at-law, a gentleman who every New Year's Eve used to say to himself with a look of gratified amazement—“Another year gone, and I not struck off the Rolls!!!”

      Peter had a Bramah key intrusted to him.

      His visits to Mr. Meadows were conducted thus: he opened the garden-gate and looked up at the window in a certain passage. This passage was not accessible to the servants, and the window with its blinds was a signal-book.

      Blinds up, Mr. Meadows out.

      White blind down, Mr. Meadows in.

      Blue blind down, Mr. Meadows in, but not alone.

      The same key that opened the garden-door opened a door at the back of the house which led direct to the passage above-mentioned. On the window-seat lay a peculiar whistle constructed to imitate the whining of a dog. Then Meadows would go to his book-shelves, which lined one side of the room, and pressing a hidden spring open a door that nobody ever suspected, for the books came along with it. To provide for every contingency, there was a small secret opening in another part of the shelves by which Meadows could shoot unobserved a note or the like into the passage, and so give Crawley instructions without dismissing a visitor, if he had one.

      Meadows provided against surprise and discovery. His study had double doors. Neither of them could be opened from the outside. His visitors or servants must rap with an iron knocker; and while Meadows went to open, the secret visitor stepped into the passage and shut the books behind him.

      It was a room that looked business. One side was almost papered with ordnance maps of this and an adjoining county. Pigeon-holes abounded, too, and there was a desk six feet long, chock full of little drawers—contents indicated outside in letters of which the proprietor knew the meaning, not I.

      Between the door and the fireplace was a screen, on which, in place of idle pictures, might be seen his plans and calculations as a land surveyor, especially those that happened to be at present in operation or under consideration. So he kept his business before his eye, on the chance of a good idea striking him at a leisure moment.

      “Will Fielding's acceptance falls due to-morrow, Crawley.”

      “Yes, sir, what shall I do?”

      “Present it; he is not ready for it, I know.

      “Well, sir; what next?”

      “Serve him with a writ.”

      “He will be preciously put about.”

      “He will. Seem sorry; say you are a little short, but won't trouble him for a month, if it is inconvenient; but he must make you safe by signing a judgment.”

      “Ay! ay! Sir, may I make bold to ask what is the game with this young Fielding?”

      “You ought to know the game—to get him in my power.”

      “And a very good game it is, sir! Nobody plays it better than you. He won't be the only one that is in your power in these parts—he! he!” And Crawley chuckled without merriment. “Excuse my curiosity, sir, but when about is the blow to fall?”

      “What is that to you?”

      “Nothing, sir, only the sooner the better. I have a grudge against the family.”

      “Have you? then don't act upon it. I don't employ you to do your business, but mine.

      “Certainly, Mr. Meadows. You don't think I'd be so ungrateful as to spoil your admirable plans by acting upon any little feeling of my own.”

      “I don't think you would be so silly. For if you did, we should part.”

      “Don't mention such an event, sir.”

      “You have been drinking, Crawley!”

      “Not a drop, sir, this two days.”

      “You are a liar! The smell of it comes through your skin. I won't have it. Do you hear what I say? I won't have it. No man that drinks can do business—especially mine.”

      “I'll never touch a drop again. They called me into the public-house—they wouldn't take a denial.”

      “Hold your prate and listen to me. The next time you look at a public-house say to yourself, Peter Crawley, that is not a public-house to you—it is a hospital, a workhouse, for a dunghill—for if you go in there John Meadows, that is your friend, will be your enemy.”

      “Heaven forbid, Mr. Meadows.”

      “Drink this basinful of coffee.”

      “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. It is very bitter.”

      “Is your head clear now?”

      “As a bell.”

      “Then go and do my work, and don't do an atom more or an atom less than your task.”

      “No, sir. Oh, Mr. Meadows! it is a pleasure to serve you. You are as deep as the sea, sir, and as firm as the rock.