All things must End

I remember when I first met Sylas. It was in 1898. He was a dirty little waif about eight years old, wandering the streets of Soho. Back then, he reminded me of a mouse—darting from place to place, searching for safety in a room full of cats. He was nervous and afraid, yet beneath it all, there was a fierce determination. After all, a person must eat and, to eat, one must survive.

I approached the child with as nonthreatening a manner as I could manage. “Tell me, lad, what is your name?” Distrust radiated from every pore of his small body, yet he did not flinch.

Interweaving my fingers, I pressed them lightly to my lips. “I mean you no harm, my young friend. My name is Sir Malcom Finch, and I would very much like to help you if you’ll allow me. But to do that, I’ll need to know what to call you. Can you tell me your name?” Still, he remained silent, studying me from head to toe, as though he might discern if I were telling the truth, from the cut of my coat and the polish of my boots. Then his gaze settled on the silver knob of my walking stick. Something in it seemed to impress him enough to finally speak.

“Sylas.”

“Ah, Sylas. That’s a very noble name,” I told him. “How did you come to live on the streets? Don’t you have parents?” Sylas shook his head. “What about your father? Where is he?”

At once, his expression twisted with hatred and disgust. “He left. That bastard ran out when he found out my mother was dying.”

I squatted down so I could look him directly in the face. “So your mother has passed on? I’m truly sorry, Sylas.” After a moment, I continued, “That’s why I want to make you a proposition. How would you like to leave the streets and come with me? I’ll take you into my care and teach you how to become a wealthy and successful man of honor. All you have to do is accept. There are no strings attached to my offer.”

Sylas cast his eyes to the side, quietly considering my words. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer, less defensive. “Why would you do this for me?”

I straightened and answered serenely, “Because I believe everyone deserves a chance in life. And those with wealth and status have an obligation to provide that chance whenever they can. So, Sylas… what do you say?”

Sylas remained stoic as he nodded. “Alright. I agree.”

I shifted my walking stick beneath my arm and clapped enthusiastically. “Very good, Sylas! Very good indeed! Now, I’m going to draw up a contract outlining my promise to you, so I’ll need your last name.”

Sylas’s expression hardened instantly. “I don’t want to use that man’s name! I want nothing to do with him at all!”

His outburst moves me more than I expected. “I understand. Then perhaps you can take my name instead. Finch. Sylas Finch.” I grinned. “I do believe it has a rather nice ring to it, don’t you? Certainly better than Jones.”

The corners of Sylas’s lips twitched upward into the faintest smile. “Yes. Yes, it is.” He hesitates. “But… what’s a contract?”

Smiling, I placed a hand on his shoulder and gently guided him toward my carriage. “A contract is simply a legal agreement,” I explain. “Through it, I will promise to shelter you and ensure you are properly fed. I will also see that you are educated at the finest schools, where you will learn everything necessary to thrive in respectable society. No doubt, some will think me foolish for sacrificing my time and money on someone I scarcely know, but I believe it is the Godly thing to do.”

When we arrive at my estate, I immediately sent Sylas off to bathe while I instructed the kitchen to prepare a proper meal for him. With quiet amusement, I watched him nearly devour an entire roasted chicken on his own. After dinner, I had my servants take his measurements and send them to the tailor so a complete wardrobe could be made for him.

Later that evening, I found myself smiling as I listened to the soft sound of his snoring drifting from his bedroom. I suspected it is the first night in a very long time that he has truly felt safe and secure.

…

In the years that followed, I kept my promise to Sylas. I sent him to a military academy, where he graduated as a second lieutenant before immediately entering military service, fulfilling the obligation tied to his education. Throughout it all, I supported him generously with a monthly stipend to supplement his living expenses.

When World War I erupted across Europe in 1914, Sylas was placed in command of a squadron of soldiers. Above all else, he made the safety of his men his highest priority. Yet he also led them in courageous assaults that resulted in the capture of numerous German troops.

Even in war, he treated enemy soldiers with dignity, understanding that they, like his own men, were husbands and fathers following orders beyond their control. Because of this humanity, many prisoners willingly provided valuable information regarding troop placements and military strategies—intelligence that proved instrumental in securing victories. By the time he retired in 1935, Sylas had risen to the rank of major and enjoyed all the benefits that accompanied it.

During those same years, however, I became swept up in the unprecedented boom of the American stock market and invested heavily in Eastman Kodak. When the market collapsed in 1929, it destroyed everything I had. Though I managed to settle my debts, I was left utterly destitute at the same time.

At last, with nowhere else to turn, I reached out to Sylas for help. I knew his pension was safeguarded by the Pension Protection Fund, and I was certain that when he saw me reduced to the same desperate condition in which I had once found him as a child, and remembered all I had done for him, he would not refuse me. You cannot imagine the shock I felt when my plea went unanswered! Swallowing my pride, I went to his home with hat in hand. I spoke to a servant, who carried my message to his master. When he returned, the servant informed me that his master was truly sorry for my predicament, but that it was my own fault, not his, and asked that I stop bothering him. With that, the servant closed the door in my face.

I stepped back onto the street and slowly pulled on my cap. Sighing, I could only nod at the bitter realization that my friends had been right all those years ago. They had called me a fool for wasting my time and money and now, at last, I understood why. I could have never imagined Sylas would have seen me as the father figure that he hated so.