“I have heard of champagne, but I never tasted it,” returned Gerald.
“You are as well off without it—nay, better. I noticed you merely sipped the whisky at the place we just left.”
“Yes; I knew your object in ordering it, and did not want to arouse Peter’s suspicions, or I would not even have done that.”
“So I supposed. I approve of your moderation. I do not myself drink whisky, and indeed very little wine. Drink has no temptation for me. I wish I could say as much for Victor. I presume, however, if you were in his place, you would do the same.”
“You are quite mistaken, Mr. Wentworth,” said Gerald indignantly.
“Well, perhaps so, but you can’t tell, for you have never been tried.”
“I have never been tried, but I hate liquor of all kinds, and drunkenness still more. The sight of Jake Amsden just now is enough to sicken any one.”
“True, he makes a beast of himself. I am not afraid Victor will ever sink to his level; but I should be glad if he would abstain from drinking altogether.”
Bradley Wentworth rose from his recumbent position.
“I would do so, but I don’t like to leave my father alone.”
“He looked comfortable when we left the cabin.”
“Yes, but he is subject to sudden attacks.”
“And you have no doctor within a reasonable distance?”
“No; but his attacks are always the same, and I know what to do for him.”
“We will walk to the cabin, and then, if he seems well, you might venture to take a walk.”
When they were within a few rods of his home, Gerald, impatient and always solicitous about the invalid, ran forward, leaving Mr. Wentworth to follow more slowly.
The latter was startled when Gerald, pale and agitated, emerged from the cabin and called out: “Oh, come quick, Mr. Wentworth. My father has had a serious hemorrhage, and—” he choked, unable to finish the sentence.
Wentworth hurried forward and entered the cabin. Mr. Lane lay back in his chair, gasping for breath.
He opened his eyes when he heard Gerald’s voice.
“I—am—glad—you—are—come, Gerald,” he gasped. “I think—the end has come!”
He did not utter another word, but in half an hour breathed his last!
TWO days afterward the simple burial took place. Mr Wentworth remained, influenced by a variety of motives. He felt that with Warren Lane dead all form of a demand upon him for the money he had once faithfully agreed to pay had passed. Gerald might know something about it, but what could a poor and friendless boy do against a rich manufacturer? Still, if the boy had the papers, he might as well secure them for a trifle. So as they sat in front of the cabin after the burial he said suddenly: “What do you propose to do, Gerald?”