He
turned it and threw open the lid. There was a white slip of paper with
his own name written upon it. With trembling fingers he unfolded it.
Was he the heir to the riches of El Dorado, or was he destined to be a
poor struggling artist? The note was dated that very evening,
and ran in this way:
"MY DEAR ROBERT,--My secret shall never be used again. I cannot
tell you how I thank Heaven that I did not entirely confide it to
you, for I should have been handing over an inheritance of misery
both to yourself and others. For myself I have hardly had a happy
moment since I discovered it. This I could have borne had I been
able to feel that I was doing good, but, alas! the only effect of my
attempts has been to turn workers into idlers, contented men into
greedy parasites, and, worst of all, true, pure women into
deceivers and hypocrites. If this is the effect of my interference
on a small scale, I cannot hope for anything better were I to carry
out the plans which we have so often discussed. The schemes of my
life have all turned to nothing. For myself, you shall never see me
again. I shall go back to the student life from which I emerged.
There, at least, if I can do little good, I can do no harm.
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