“Papa has been waiting impatiently for you, Mr. Cleave,” she said, in a low, sad voice; “will you come up and see him at once? he is very ill.”

And turning away her head, the fair girl burst into uncontrollable sobs, every one of which went to my heart.  I begged her earnestly not to yield to her distress, and she soon dried her eyes, and led the way into the parlor, where I was received by Mrs. Barrington, still cold and stiff, but much more subdued and courteous.  Annie went to announce my arrival to her father, and soon I was alone with the old man.

I was grieved and shocked at his appearance.  He seemed twenty years older.  I scarcely recognized in the pale, thin, invalid, the portly country gentleman whom I had known.

The motive for his letter was soon explained.  The executorial accounts, whose terrible disarrangement I had aided, five years before, in remedying, still hung over the dying man’s head, like a nightmare.  He could not die, he said, with the thought in his mind, that any one might attribute this disorder to intentional maladministration—­“to fraud, it might be.”

And at the word “fraud,” his wan cheek became crimson.

“My own affairs, Mr. Cleave,” he continued, “are, I find, in a most unhappy condition.  I have been far too negligent; and now, on my death-bed, for such it will prove, I discover, for the first time, that I am well-nigh a ruined man!”

He spoke with wild energy as he went on.  I, in vain, attempted to impress upon him, the danger of exciting himself.

“I must explain everything, and in my own way,” he said, with burning cheeks, “for I look to you to extricate me.  I have appointed you, Mr. Cleave, my chief executor; but, above all, I rely upon you, I adjure you, to protect my good name in those horrible accounts, which you once helped to arrange, but which haunt me day and night like the ghost of a murdered man!”

The insane agitation of the speaker increased, in spite of all which I could say.  It led him to make me a singular revelation—­to speak upon a subject which I had never even dreamed of.  His pride and caution seemed wholly to have deserted him; and he continued as follows: 

“You are surprised, Sir, that I should thus call upon you.  You are young.  But I know very well what I am doing.  Your rank in your profession is sufficient guaranty that you are competent to perform the trust—­my knowledge of your character is correct enough to induce me not to hesitate.  There is another tie between us.  Do you suspect its nature?  I loved and would have married your mother.  She was poor—­I was equally poor—­I was dazzled by wealth, and was miserably happy when your mother’s pride made her refuse my suit.  I married—­I have not been happy.  But enough.  I should never have spoken of this—­never—­but I am dying!  As you are faithful and true, St. George Cleave, let my good name and Annie’s be untarnished!”