Chapter 1 Only A Stroke Of The Pen

"THE papers have arrived, sir, and the witnesses are ready. Only a stroke of the pen, and the thing is done. It will not fatigue you much."

The old gentleman to whom this was spoken in a tone of gentle entreaty turned himself with difficulty on his bed, and looked earnestly at the speaker.

"You have decided, then, Geoffry," he said; "you are sure you don't mind? You won't regret it by-and-by? I had thought that perhaps you had given it up."

"I have quite decided; I shall not regret it; and I never thought of giving it up, but it was of no use to talk about it until the requisite documents were prepared. Penacre has not been in a hurry, but what he does is well and safely done. Shall I read over the particulars to you?"

"No, no, I must trust to you. My debts will all be paid, as well as yours, and there will be no stain upon my name, that's one comfort," and he groaned as if other comforts just then were not many.

"Phœbe, Phœbe," said he as his son left the room; "what are you doing there?"

"Tinking, sar," and a dark face, trimmed round with white and yellow muslin, instantly appeared at the bed-side with the next cordial for the patient. "Thinking, eh? What are you thinking about pray?"

"Tinking about one bery bad debt, sar. Wondering if it's going to be paid along de rest."

"What do you mean, woman? How dare you think about my concerns, or listen to what I say to my son?"

"Couldn't help it, sar. 'Sides, if dat 'ar debt ain't paid, him leab a bery big stain dat never come out nohows."

"What debt, woman? You shall be paid well, for you've been a faithful nurse to me, Phœbe."

"Dat's noting, sar; Phœbe not tinking about pay down here, but de big bill up dere," and she pointed upward, "must be paid by somebody, sar. By de good Lord on His cross all blot out in His precious blood, or—don't disb'lieve it 'cause poor old Phœbe say it—or by massa his own self in de eberlasting prison, whar de poor debtors neber reach de end ob der 'count."

"Stuff and nonsense, woman," said the old man angrily.

"True as de Bible, sar. How's massa going to do 'bout it?" persisted the nurse.

"Do! Why I've nothing to do with it. I shall take my chance with you, I suppose."

"Phœbe havn't noting to do with chance, sar. De kind good Lord find poor lost sheep, an' He say, 'Come unto Me.' Den I say, 'What for poor Phœbe come?' He say, 'You know you a sinner,' and 'De wages ob sin is death,' but 'God so lub de world dat He gabe His only begotten Son, dat whosoever b'lieveth in Him should not perish, but hab eberlasting life."

"Ah, yes; I heard that years ago, Phœbe, when I was a child."

"Why you not mind it, den? Phœbe neber hear it till she got old, and she come, and she b'lieve, and now noting to do but go up to be eber wid de Lord one ob dese days; all her sins washed away, and sing hallelujah! No chance 'bout it."

"Well, you foolish old woman, if you like it so, have it so, but it doesn't suit me."

"Phœbe like it very much; just suit poor old sinner like Phœbe; suit eberybody dat wants to go to hebben white and clean. Better tink 'bout it, sar, 'fore you feels de grip ob Satan on yer soul; too late den, he'll neber leave go."

"There, go away; here's another sort of sermon coming, and I'm very tired. Oh, for some rest!" And the old man groaned wearily.

"'Come unto Me all ye dat are weary and heby-laden, and I will gib you rest,'" said the old nurse, as she straightened the pillows, and made way for the party just entering the room.

The parchments were spread, and the right place indicated. The old man, after a moment's bewilderment, did what he had to do with dignity and calmness. He signed his name legibly; his son followed; then the witnesses, two respectable clerks from the Government offices, and the business was settled to the satisfaction of, at least, one person concerned.

"Geoffry," said the old gentleman, when they were again alone, "you will not forget some provision for poor Guy's widow and children? You see, I spent all Guy's money that came of his mother's property; he had nothing but his commission out of it, poor lad, and it ought to be refunded to his family out of the estate; in fact, I think there's some deed or document to that effect somewhere."

"Very well, sir; it shall be sought and acted on."

"Very good, all right; for you see, Geoffry, what with debts at home, and the expenses of my establishment here, I have saved nothing; you understand, Geoffry, saved nothing."

"I must be stupid, indeed, if I do not, sir, for you have told me so fifty times this week."

"Have I? Well, but it's important to be remembered when you are settling things for them. They must remain there, you know, until you pay that money, due to Guy, out of the proceeds."

"You did not mention it until to-day, sir."

"No, I believe I didn't; but that old fool, Phœbe, reminded me somehow, with her talk of some bad debt, and I'm glad I've mentioned it, for they may want it, you know. Now let me rest."

As the son retired, the nurse stole softly in.

"Rest, poor massa; no rest 'cept you come to de dear Lord Jesus," said she softly. "'No rest,' saith my God, 'to de wicked;' and who's dey? Why, old Phœbe and eberybody, 'cause 'All hab sinned and come short de glory ob God,' but bless de Lord, for 'Behold de Lamb of God dat taketh away de sin ob de world.' 'Though your sins be scarlet, dey shall be white as snow.' Only b'lieve; dere's de blessed rest, dere's de peace ob God for Phœbe and eberybody who come; no more wicked den, but de Lord's own dear children welcome home! Poor massa! Hope him go dat way 'fore he die."

In the night there came a cry from the bed, "Mother, mother!"

Phœbe moved forward and knelt down.

"Oh, massa, goin' to be a child again, and listen to de words ob Jesus: ''Cept ye be as a little child ye shall not enter de kingdom ob hebben.'"

"You are right, Phœbe; she says so, and the proud old man is wrong—lost, lost!"

"De dear Lord Jesus can save to de uttermost: him dat cometh He will in nowise cast out. Oh, come, dear massa! Look to Him."

"Too late—call Geoffry. I'm dying. I've lived without God, and now I must die without Him. It is just, and it is perdition. But let me tell my son."

They watched and ministered, and Phœbe wept and prayed unchecked for some hours while the mortal struggle lasted, and then there was rest,—for the body at least. The poor neglected soul was gone to its own experiences—somewhere, and the "stroke of the pen" that morning was to leave no pleasant experience of the last act on earth. For wonderful things a stroke of the pen can do. It can sign away an estate of hundreds of years of entailed possession; it can exile the widow and disinherit the orphan, and lay broad acres and stately oaks under the salesman's hammer. It can set idle clerks to work in attorneys' chambers, and make land agents and appraisers speak and look like "monarchs of all they survey."

But that stroke of the pen did a great deal more.