It is Never Too Late to Mend. Charles Reade Reade

      Meadows returned, clinched his teeth, and prepared for the worst, but inwardly he cursed his uneasy folly in staying here, instead of riding home the moment George had said “Yes!” to Australia.

      George now looked upon the ground a moment; and there was something in his manner that arrested the attention of all.

      Meadows turned hot and cold.

      “I am going—to speak—to my brother, Mr. Meadows!” said he, syllable by syllable to Meadows in a way brimful of meaning.

      “To me, George?” said William, a little uneasy.

      “To you!—Fall back a bit.” (Some rustics were encroaching upon the circle.)

      “Fall back, if you please; this is a family matter.”

      Isaac Levi, instead of going quite away, seated himself on a bench outside the palings.

      It was now William's turn to flutter; he said, however, to himself, “It is about the farm; it must be about the farm.”

      George resumed. “I've often had it on my mind to speak to you, but I was ashamed, now that's the truth; but now I am going away from her I must speak out, and I will—William!”

      “Yes, George?”

      “You've taken—a fancy—to my Susan, William!”

      At these words, which, though they had cost him so much to say, George spoke gravely and calmly like common words, William gave one startled look all round, then buried his face directly in his hands in a paroxysm of shame.

      Susan, who was looking at George, remonstrated loudly, “How can you be so silly, George! I am sure that is the last idea poor William—”

      George drew her attention to William by a wave of the hand.

      She held her tongue in a moment, and turned very red, and lowered her eyes to the ground. It was a very painful situation—to none more than to Meadows, who was waiting his turn.

      George continued: “Oh, it is not to reproach you, my poor lad. Who could be near her, and not warm to her? But she is my lass, Will, and no other man's. It is three years since she said the word. And though it was my hard luck there should be some coolness between us this bitter day, she will think of me when the ocean rolls between us if no villain undermines me—”

      “Villain! George!” groaned William. “That is a word I never thought to hear from you.”

      “That's why I speak in time,” said George. “I do suppose I am safe against villainy here.” And his eye swept lightly over both the men. “Anyway, it shan't be a mistake or a misunderstanding; it shall be villainy if 'tis done. Speak, Susanna Merton, and speak your real mind once for all.”

      “Oh! George,” cried Susan, fluttering with love; “you shall not go in doubt of me. We are betrothed this three years, and I never regretted my choice a single moment. I never saw, I never shall see, the man I could bear to look on beside you, my beautiful George. Take my ring and my promise, George.” And she put her ring on his little finger and kissed his hand. “While you are true to me, nothing but death shall part us twain. There never was any coolness between us, dear; you only thought so. You don't know what fools women are; how they delight to tease the man they love, and so torment themselves ten times more. I always loved you, but never as I do to-day; so honest, so proud, so unfortunate; I love you, I honor you, I adore you, oh! my love!—my love!—my love!!”

      She saw but George—she thought but of George—and how to soften his sorrow, and remove his doubts, if he had any. And she poured out these words of love with her whole soul—with blushes and tears and all the fire of a chaste and passionate woman's heart. And she clung to her love; and her tender bosom heaved against his; and she strained him, with tears and sighs, to her bosom; and he kissed her beautiful head; and his suffering heart drew warmth from this heavenly contact.

      The late exulting Meadows turned as pale as ashes, and trembled from head 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.”