scrutoire, he found the door wide open, and the inside obviously empty. Looking round, he observed his father standing on the hearth close to a great fire, in the midst of which was consuming the old black book.
Elias entreated his son earnestly to withdraw: but Rudolph could not command himself; and he exclaimed—“I doubt, I doubt, Sir, that this is the book which belongs to the scrutoire.”
His father assented with visible confusion.
“Well, then, allow me to say, that I am greatly surprised at your treating in this way an heir-loom that for a century and more has always been transmitted to the eldest son.”
“You are in the right, my son,” said the father, affectionately taking him by the hand: “You are partly in the right: it is not quite defensible, I admit: and I myself have had many scruples about the course I have taken. Yet still I feel myself glad upon the whole that I have destroyed this accursed book. He, that wrote it, never prospered; all traditions agree in that:—why then leave to one’s descendants a miserable legacy of unhallowed mysteries?
This excuse, however, did not satisfy Rudolph. He maintained that his father had made an aggression upon his rights of inheritance; and he argued the point so well, that Elias himself began to see that his son’s complaint was not altogether groundless. The whole of the next day they behaved to each other—not unkindly, but yet with some coolness. At night Elias could bear this no longer; and he said, “Dear Rudolph, we have lived long together in harmony and love; let us not begin to show an altered countenance to each other during the few days that I have yet to live.”
Rudolph pressed his father’s offered hand with a filial warmth; and the latter went on to say—“I purpose now to communicate to you by word of mouth the contents of the book which I have destroyed: I will do this with good faith and without reserve—unless you yourself can be persuaded to forego your own right to such a communication.”
Elias paused—flattering himself, as it seemed, that his son would forego his right. But in this he was mistaken: Rudolph was far too eager for the disclosure; and earnestly pressed his father to proceed.
Again Elias hesitated, and threw a glance of profound love and pity upon his son—a glance that conjured him to think better and to waive his claim: but, this being at length obviously hopeless, he spoke as follows:—“The book relates chiefly to yourself: it points to you as to the last of our race. You turn pale. Surely, Rudolph, it would have been better that you had resolved to trouble yourself no farther about it?
“No,” said Rudolph, recovering his self-possession, “No: for it still remains a question whether this prophecy be true.”
“It does so, it does, no doubt.”
“And is this all that the book says in regard to me?”
“No: it is not all: there is something more. But possibly you will only laugh when you hear it: for at this day no body believes in such strange stories. However, be that as it may, the book goes on to say plainly and positively, that the Evil One (Heaven protect us!) will make you an offer tending greatly to your worldly advantage.”
Rudolph laughed outright; and replied that, judging by the grave exterior of the book, he had looked to hear of more serious contents.
“Well, well, my son,” said the old man, “I know not that I myself am disposed to place much confidence in these tales of contracts with the devil. But, true or not, we ought not to laugh at them. Enough for me that under any circumstances I am satisfied you have so much natural piety, that you would reject all worldly good fortune that could meet you upon unhallowed paths.”
Here Elias would have broken off: but Rudolph said, “One thing more I wish to know: What is to be the nature of the good fortune offered to me? And did the book say whether I should accept it or not?”
“Upon the nature of the good fortune the writer has not explained himself: all that he says—is, that by a discreet use of it, it is in your power to become a very great man. Whether you will accept it—but God preserve thee, my child, from any thought so criminal—upon this ques-
