but that you–I THINK he said you–am almost sure–had done him a
very great service once, possibly without knowing the full value of
it, and he wished he had a fortune, he would leave it to you when he
died, and a curse apiece for the rest of the citizens. Now, then,
if it was you that did him that service, you are his legitimate
heir, and entitled to the sack of gold. I know that I can trust to
your honour and honesty, for in a citizen of Hadleyburg these
virtues are an unfailing inheritance, and so I am going to reveal to
you the remark, well satisfied that if you are not the right man you
will seek and find the right one and see that poor Goodson’s debt of
gratitude for the service referred to is paid. This is the remark
‘YOU ARE FAR FROM BEING A BAD MAN: GO, AND REFORM.’
“HOWARD L. STEPHENSON.”
“Oh, Edward, the money is ours, and I am so grateful, OH, so
grateful,–kiss me, dear, it’s for ever since we kissed–and we
needed it so–the money–and now you are free of Pinkerton and his
bank, and nobody’s slave any more; it seems to me I could fly for
joy.”
It was a happy half-hour that the couple spent there on the settee
caressing each other; it was the old days come again–days that had
begun with their courtship and lasted without a break till the
stranger brought the deadly money. By-and-by the wife said:
“Oh, Edward, how lucky it was you did him that grand service, poor
Goodson! I never liked him, but I love him now. And it was fine
and beautiful of you never to mention it or brag about it.” Then,
with a touch of reproach, “But you ought to have told ME, Edward,
you ought to have told your wife, you know.”
“Well, I–er–well, Mary, you see–”
“Now stop hemming and hawing, and tell me about it, Edward. I
always loved you, and now I’m proud of you. Everybody believes
there was only one good generous soul in this village, and now it
turns out that you– Edward, why don’t you tell me?”
“Well–er–er–Why, Mary, I can’t!”
“You CAN’T? WHY can’t you?”
“You see, he–well, he–he made me promise I wouldn’t.”
The wife looked him over, and said, very slowly:
“Made–you–promise? Edward, what do you tell me that for?”
“Mary, do you think I would lie?”
She was troubled and silent for a moment, then she laid her hand
within his and said:
“No . . . no. We have wandered far enough from our bearings–God
spare us that! In all your life you have never uttered a lie. But
now–now that the foundations of things seem to be crumbling from
under us, we–we–” She lost her voice for a moment, then said,
brokenly, “Lead us not into temptation. . . I think you made the
promise, Edward. Let it rest so. Let us keep away from that
ground. Now–that is all gone by; let us he happy again; it is no
time for clouds.”
Edward found it something of an effort to comply, for his mind kept
wandering–trying to remember what the service was that he had done
Goodson.
The couple lay awake the most of the night, Mary happy and busy,
Edward busy, but not so happy. Mary was planning what she would do
with the money. Edward was trying to recall that service. At first
his conscience was sore on account of the lie he had told Mary–if
it was a lie. After much reflection–suppose it WAS a lie? What
then? Was it such a great matter? Aren’t we always ACTING lies?
Then why not tell them? Look at Mary–look what she had done.
While he was hurrying off on his honest errand, what was she doing?
Lamenting because the papers hadn’t been destroyed and the money
kept. Is theft better than lying?
THAT point lost its sting–the lie dropped into the background and
left comfort behind it. The next point came to the front: HAD he
rendered that service? Well, here was Goodson’s own evidence as
reported in Stephenson’s letter; there could be no better evidence