Well, it is finished, and after all death cannot be so terrible, seeing that every human being is born to undergo it, together with all living things.
Whatever else is false, I hold this to be true, that God exists and is more merciful than those who preach Him would have us to believe.’
And he ceased exhausted.
Often since then I have thought of his words, and I still think of them now that my own hour is so near. As will be seen Fonseca was a fatalist, a belief which I do not altogether share, holding as I do that within certain limits we are allowed to shape our own characters and destinies.
But his last sayings I believe to be true.
God is merciful, and death is not terrible either in its act or in its consequence.
Presently Fonseca spoke again.
‘Why do you lead me to talk of such things?
They weary me and I have little time.
I was telling of my will.
Nephew, listen.
Except certain sums that I have given to be spent in charities—not in masses, mind you—I have left you all I possess.’
‘You have left it to ME!’ I said astonished.
‘Yes, nephew, to you.
Why not?
I have no relations living and I have learned to love you, I who thought that I could never care again for any man or woman or child.
I am grateful to you, who have proved to me that my heart is not dead, take what I give you as a mark of my gratitude.’
Now I began to stammer my thanks, but he stopped me.
‘The sum that you will inherit, nephew, amounts in all to about five thousand gold pesos, or perhaps twelve thousand of your English pounds, enough for a young man to begin life on, even with a wife.
Indeed there in England it may well be held a great fortune, and I think that your betrothed’s father will make no more objection to you as a son-in-law.
Also there is this house and all that it contains; the library and the silver are valuable, and you will do well to keep them.
All is left to you with the fullest formality, so that no question can arise as to your right to take it; indeed, foreseeing my end, I have of late called in my moneys, and for the most part the gold lies in strong boxes in the secret cupboard in the wall yonder that you know of.
It would have been more had I known you some years ago, for then, thinking that I grew too rich who was without an heir, I gave away as much as what remains in acts of mercy and in providing refuge for the homeless and the suffering.
Thomas Wingfield, for the most part this money has come to me as the fruit of human folly and human wretchedness, frailty and sin.
Use it for the purposes of wisdom and the advancing of right and liberty.
May it prosper you, and remind you of me, your old master, the Spanish quack, till at last you pass it on to your children or the poor.
And now one word more.
If your conscience will let you, abandon the pursuit of de Garcia.
Take your fortune and go with it to England; wed that maid whom you desire, and follow after happiness in whatever way seems best to you.
Who are you that you should meet out vengeance on this knave de Garcia?
Let him be, and he will avenge himself upon himself.
Otherwise you may undergo much toil and danger, and in the end lose love, and life, and fortune at a blow.’
‘But I have sworn to kill him,’ I answered, ‘and how can I break so solemn an oath?
How could I sit at home in peace beneath the burden of such shame?’
‘I do not know; it is not for me to judge.
You must do as you wish, but in the doing of it, it may happen that you will fall into greater shames than this.
You have fought the man and he has escaped you.
Let him go if you are wise.
Now bend down and kiss me, and bid me farewell.
I do not desire that you should see me die, and my death is near.
I cannot tell if we shall meet again when in your turn you have lain as I lie now, or if we shape our course for different stars.
If so, farewell for ever.’
Then I leant down and kissed him on the forehead, and as I did so I wept, for not till this hour did I learn how truly I had come to love him, so truly that it seemed to me as though my father lay there dying.
‘Weep not,’ he said, ‘for all our life is but a parting.
Once I had a son like you, and ours was the bitterest of farewells.
Now I go to seek for him again who could not come back to me, so weep not because I die.
Good-bye, Thomas Wingfield.
May God prosper and protect you!
Now go!’
So I went weeping, and that night, before the dawn, all was over with Andres de Fonseca.