What Came Afterwards CHAPTER 23.

The movements of Larobe, as we have said, were closely observed. It was plain to those who had him under surveillance, that he had lost much of the old self-reliant manner; he was alert — suspicious — uneasy. Even in court, a change was apparent. He did not come up to the defense or prosecution of his cases, with that absorption of himself which distinguished him of old, and so often wrought the success which would not otherwise have been achieved. In a comparatively short time, age had marked him, as though touched by years. His hair was losing its darker shades rapidly, and his flesh shrinking. Care-worn — that word gives the expression of his face, when in repose. He was beginning tostoop a little, as if yielding to the weight of a perpetual burden.

As far as could be ascertained, no changes in the condition of his real property were made, beyond what was necessary in his settlements with the executors of his late wife's estate. He seemed to be like one hiding and waiting for a danger to pass — a danger so threatening, that the very effort to escape might insure destruction.

Mrs. Larobe's death took place before Edwin Guyton had succeeded in negotiating the notes extorted from his unhappy mother-in-law. Mr. Glastonbury's conduct in this matter did not seem open and fair to Edwin, and more than once he suspected him to be playing false. There was always some plausible reason why the notes were not sold, and always some new opening, with flattering chances. At last, losing all patience, Edwin demanded of his lawyer a return of the notes. A little to his surprise, Glastonbury took a pocket-book from his safe, and produced the papers.

"Take them," he said, quietly, "but let me suggest caution. There is something in the wind that I cannot make out. You may stumble on a wasp's nest, and get stung!"

"What do you mean? From whence is danger threatened?" asked the young man.

"I am not at liberty to speak of what is in my thoughts. Some under-current of things is moving adversely to our friend Mr. Larobe — I can see that — but of its character I am not advised. Since the death of his wife, he has changed rapidly. It is scarcely a month since her sudden decease, and her loss, or something else — "

"Something else you may be sure," said Edwin, with sarcasm in his voice.

"Has profoundly disturbed his peace," added the lawyer.

"He may have murdered her, as he murdered my father! It is the guilty conscience, you may depend on it. No, not conscience either; that was seared long ago. It's fear of retribution — a haunting terror, that is eating into his life!"

"I know not how that may be. Such grave charges, however, my young friend, should not be made, except on very clear evidence, and I must caution you against too free speaking in this direction. Trouble, not anticipated, may be the consequence."

"What would you suggest in regard to these notes?" asked Edwin, not responding to Mr. Glastonbury's last remark.

"Keep them in your own possession."

"Will they be paid at maturity, by the executors of my mother-in-law's estate?"

"I think not."

"Would you advise a suit, or an offer to abandon the notes for a consideration?"

"I am not, as things stand, prepared to suggest anything in the way of action. For the present, keep just where you are. If there is no gain, there is no loss. Before the maturity of these notes, events may happen that will not only make them as worthless as waste paper, but — "

Mr. Glastonbury checked himself so suddenly, that Edwin looked at him in surprise.

"But what?"

"You are not a very discreet young man, Mr. Guyton," said the lawyer, speaking with entire self-possession. "So far, in this business, you have acquired an advantage of some four thousand dollars, but in a way I could not have advised. On the principle, that a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, you have considered yourself the gainer, and maybe you are; but, we never can tell what a day may bring forth. I am of the opinion, that events will prove you to have lost, instead of gained in this transaction."

"Why do you say this? What do you know?" demanded Edwin.

"I know, from long observation, that operations of this kind rarely pay; and, without being much of a prophet, I may venture the prediction, that it will not pay in your case. If we could determine the action of events, all would be well; but this is beyond our ability. Man proposes, as it is said, but God disposes. Unacceptable as the truth may be, my young friend, it is a fact in all experience, that we cannot make things come out in the line of our purpose. 'The best laid plans of mice and men' as the bard has it."

"Mr. Glastonbury, there is something in back of all this!" said Edwin, showing considerable disturbance. "You are in possession of facts that I should know!"

The lawyer's manner did not change.

"What are they?"

Glastonbury shook his head. His eyes and face were a sealed book. Edwin continued —

"Again, Mr. Glastonbury, I must put the question — what had I best do? You have said wait; but I am not of the waiting temperament."

"If my advice pleases — you will take it," answered the lawyer.

"I will be governed by what you say," replied the young man. "But we all like reasons for the course we are counseled to pursue. Blind action is of all things most distasteful."

"My young friend," said the lawyer, speaking with unusual seriousness, "it is always safest to undo what is wrong, than to let the wrong abide; for, somehow or other, there is in all wrong, a hidden impulse towards retribution, that never dies. You were wrong in extorting money and notes from your mother-in-law; and I believe, as I told you a little while ago, that you lost heavily in the transaction. As you seem to be in doubt as to what is best, I will say, in plain words, what I think."

"Say on."

"Go to the executors of your mother-in-law's estate, and offer to destroy the notes in their presence, if they will return your receipts."

"You seriously advise this?"

"Seriously."

"Suppose you were in my place?"

"Knowing what I do," said the lawyer, "I would not hold them a day."

"Knowing what you do!" The young man's color came and went. "You confound me with mysteries. Why can you not speak out plainly of what concerns my interests?"

"I have spoken plainly enough, Mr. Guyton, for all practical purposes. It is for you to act now in the way your reason may determine. But I warn you of danger, if you take any other path than the one I have suggested."

"Danger! What kind of danger?"

"Impatient — self-willed — unwise! I have given you my best counsel, and can do no more. Follow it — or keep on in your own blind way. But, remember, that of all bitter experiences, that is among the bitterest in which is wrung from us the unavailing words: 'It is too late!' I said danger — perhaps loss may better express what I meant. Let me repeat a declaration made just now. If I were in your place, knowing what I do — I would not keep those notes a single day in my possession."

Edwin lingered for a short time.

"What afterwards?" he asked.

"After you have given up this paper?"

"Yes."

"Wait."

"For what?"

"Time will best answer that question. I only say, wait."

Beyond this, Edwin Guyton was not able to get anything from the lawyer. He did not act immediately on his advice; but, after a week's perplexed debate, concluded to abandon the notes, which was done.

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