“Richard,—­my son,” said he, with an evident effort, “I have never thanked you for your devotion to me and mine through the best years of your life.  It shall not go unrewarded, my lad.”

It seemed as if my heart stood still with the presage of what was to come.

“May God reward you, sir!” I said.

“I have wished to speak to you,” he continued, “and I may not have another chance.  I have arranged with Mr. Carroll, the barrister, to take your cause against your uncle, so that you will lose nothing when I am gone.  And you will see, in my table in the library, that I have left my property in your hands, with every confidence in your integrity, and ability to care for my family, even as I should have done.”

I could not speak at once.  A lump rose in my throat, for I had come to look upon him as a father.  His honest dealings, his charity, of which the world knew nothing, and his plain and unassuming ways had inspired in me a kind of worship.  I answered, as steadily as I might: 

“I believe I am too inexperienced for such a responsibility, Mr. Swain.  Would it not be better that Mr. Bordley or Mr. Lloyd should act?”

“No, no,” he said; “I am not a man to do things unadvisedly, or to let affection get the better of my judgment, where others dear to me are concerned.  I know you, Richard Carvel.  Scarce an action of yours has escaped my eye, though I have said nothing.  You have been through the fire, and are of the kind which comes out untouched.  You will have Judge Bordley’s advice, and Mr. Carroll’s.  And they are too busy with the affairs of the province to be burdened as my executors.  But,” he added a little more strongly, “if what I fear is coming, Mr. Bordley will take the trust in your absence.  If we have war, Richard, you will not be content to remain at home, nor would I wish it.”

I did not reply.

“You will do what I ask?” he said.

“I would refuse you nothing, Mr. Swain,” I answered.  “But I have heavy misgivings.”

He sighed.  “And now, if it were not for Tom, I might die content,” he said.

If it were not for Tom!  The full burden of the trust began to dawn upon me then.  Presently I heard him speaking, but in so low a voice that I hardly caught the words.

“In our youth, Richard,” he was saying, “the wrath of the Almighty is but so many words to most of us.  When I was little more than a lad, I committed a sin of which I tremble now to think.  And I was the fool to imagine, when I amended my life, that God had forgotten.  His punishment is no heavier than I deserve.  But He alone knows what He has made me suffer.”

I felt that I had no right to be there.

“That is why I have paid Tom’s debts,” he continued; “I cannot cast off my son.  I have reasoned, implored, and appealed in vain.  He is like Reuben,—­his resolutions melt in an hour.  And I have pondered day and night what is to be done for him.”