He gave her some money, and oppressed with thought, returned to his chamber. No adventure that he had met with in the course of his chequered life had stirred him so deeply as this. So strange and singular was it that he might have been pardoned for doubting still that it was true. But the cashbox, which he had drawn from beneath the bed, was before him; the key was in his hand.
After a brief space he opened the box, taking the precaution first to lock his door. Upon the top of the box were eight acceptances for various amounts, signed in different names, some in those of Mr. Chaytor, others in names that were strange to him. They were pinned together, and folded in a paper upon which was written:
"These acceptances are forgeries, committed by my son, Newman Chaytor. I have paid them, and saved him from the just punishment which should have been his. In this and in other ways he has ruined my career, and brought his mother and me to direst poverty. But although the money is paid and the exposure averted, the crime remains; he is not cleared of it. It is a stain upon him for ever.--Edward Chaytor."
Beneath these documents was another, inscribed:
"The last words of Edward Chaytor, once a prosperous gentleman, but brought to shame by a guilty son."
"To my son Newman Chaytor, a man of sin, I, his unhappy father, address these words. Your life has been a life of infamy, and you, who should have been a blessing to us, have plunged us in misery. I have little hope of your future, but remorse may prompt you to pay heed to what I now say. Repent of your evil courses while there is time. You may live to be old, when repentance will be too late. If there is any wrong to be righted, which may be righted by money, seek it out, and let my money right it. If there is any atonement to be made, and you see a way to it--as you surely will if you try--let my money atone for it. If there is any villainy committed by you which merits punishment, but which in some small measure may be condoned by money, let my money accomplish it. Do this, and you may hope for forgiveness. I could write much more, but I have neither the desire nor the power; but if I wrote for a week you would not have a better understanding of my meaning. Signed on my death-bed. Your father,