“There is much that I might say,” he went on, “about the merciless treatment of me by my own family, and the merciless enmity to which I have fallen a victim.  But the harm is done; the wrong is beyond all remedy.  I decline to weary or distress you, sir, if I can help it.  At the outset of my career in this country, the vile slander to which I have referred struck me down at once and for ever.  I resigned my aspirations in my profession—­obscurity was the only hope left for me.  I parted with the woman I loved—­how could I condemn her to share my disgrace?  A medical assistant’s place offered itself, in a remote corner of England.  I got the place.  It promised me peace; it promised me obscurity, as I thought.  I was wrong.  Evil report, with time and chance to help it, travels patiently, and travels far.  The accusation from which I had fled followed me.  I got warning of its approach.  I was able to leave my situation voluntarily, with the testimonials that I had earned.  They got me another situation in another remote district.  Time passed again; and again the slander that was death to my character found me out.  On this occasion I had no warning.  My employer said, ’Mr. Jennings, I have no complaint to make against you; but you must set yourself right, or leave me.’  I had but one choice—­I left him.  It’s useless to dwell on what I suffered after that.  I am only forty years old now.  Look at my face, and let it tell for me the story of some miserable years.  It ended in my drifting to this place, and meeting with Mr. Candy.  He wanted an assistant.  I referred him, on the question of capacity, to my last employer.  The question of character remained.  I told him what I have told you—­and more.  I warned him that there were difficulties in the way, even if he believed me.  ‘Here, as elsewhere,’ I said ’I scorn the guilty evasion of living under an assumed name:  I am no safer at Frizinghall than at other places from the cloud that follows me, go where I may.’  He answered, ’I don’t do things by halves—­I believe you, and I pity you.  If you will risk what may happen, I will risk it too.’  God Almighty bless him!  He has given me shelter, he has given me employment, he has given me rest of mind—­and I have the certain conviction (I have had it for some months past) that nothing will happen now to make him regret it.”

“The slander has died out?” I said.

“The slander is as active as ever.  But when it follows me here, it will come too late.”

“You will have left the place?”

“No, Mr. Blake—­I shall be dead.  For ten years past I have suffered from an incurable internal complaint.  I don’t disguise from you that I should have let the agony of it kill me long since, but for one last interest in life, which makes my existence of some importance to me still.  I want to provide for a person—­very dear to me—­whom I shall never see again.  My own little patrimony is hardly sufficient to make her independent of the world.  The hope, if I