Kitabı oku: «A Secret Inheritance. Volume 1 of 3», sayfa 2
CHAPTER III
Thus my life went on until I grew to manhood, and then two grave events befell, following close upon each other's heels. First, my father died. He was absent from home at the time, and we had had no forewarning of the loss. I do not know whether his errand when he left us, to be away, he said, for four or five weeks, was one of pleasure or business. Quite suddenly, before the time had elapsed, I was summoned to my mother's room by Mrs. Fortress.
"Your mother has the most serious news to impart to you," said Mrs. Fortress, "and I think it well to warn you not to excite her."
I had not seen my mother for several days, and I inquired of Mrs. Fortress as to the state of her health.
"She is still unwell," said Mrs. Fortress, "and very weak. I am afraid of the consequences of the shock she has received this morning."
"No one has visited us," I observed. "She can have been told nothing."
"The news came by post," said Mrs. Fortress.
"In a letter from my father?" I asked.
"Your father did not write," said Mrs. Fortress.
There was a significance in her tone, usually so cold and impassive, which attracted my attention.
"But the news concerns my father."
"Yes, it concerns your father."
"He is ill."
"He has been seriously ill. You will learn all from your mother."
Before I entered my mother's chamber I divined the truth.
"You sent for me, mother," I said.
"Yes, Gabriel," she replied. "Sit here, by my side."
I obeyed her, and there was a long silence in the room.
"Kiss me, Gabriel."
I kissed her, somewhat in wonder. It is the plain truth that we had grown to be almost strangers to each other.
"Has Mrs. Fortress told you?" she asked.
"She has told me nothing definite," I replied, "except that you have news of my father, and that he is ill."
"His illness is at an end," said my mother. "Can you not guess, Gabriel?"
"Yes, mother," I said, "I think I know."
"It is very sudden, Gabriel. When he went away he was in good health."
She gave me the letter she had received, and I read it without remark. It was from one who was a stranger to us, and was addressed from Wales. The writer said that my father was his friend-which surprised me, as I had never heard my father or mother mention his name-and had died in his house, where my father was staying on a visit.
"He had been ailing for two or three days past," the letter said, "and had complained of his head, but I did not think that anything serious was the matter with him, or I should have written to you at once. It did not appear that he was alarmed; indeed, he said that it was only a slight attack, and that it would soon pass away. Against his wish we called in a doctor, who agreed with him and us that there was no danger. Thus there was nothing to prepare us for the sad event the news of which it is our painful duty to communicate to you. He kept his room yesterday, and in the evening said that he felt better. At ten o'clock my wife and I wished him goodnight, and thought he would retire at once to rest, but from after indications we learnt that he had not undressed, but had sat in his arm-chair the whole of the night. There was a bell at his elbow, from which I heard a faint ring at five o'clock this morning. It woke me from my sleep, and it also aroused my wife. 'That is Mr. Carew's bell,' my wife said; 'you had better go to him.' I rose immediately, and went to his room. I found our poor friend sitting in the arm-chair, and I at once recognised his grave condition. I roused the servants, and sent for the doctor; then I returned to your husband, and told him what I had done. I cannot say whether he understood me, for he was quite speechless, but I followed the direction of his eyes, and saw a sheet of paper upon which he had written a few words. They were not very legible, but I understand from them that it was his desire that he should be buried from Rosemullion. We shall respect his wish, and you will therefore be prepared for what is to follow. Although he was speechless, and life was surely ebbing away, he was calm and composed. My wife and I sat with him until the doctor arrived. Nothing could be done for him, and at twenty minutes to seven this morning your poor husband passed away in peace. It would doubtless have been a satisfaction to him could he have spoken to us, and have imparted to us his last wishes, but he had not the power. Two or three times he seemed to make an effort, and we inclined our ears to hear what he had to say. No sound, however, proceeded from his lips; he had not the strength to utter a word. The effort over, he seemed to be resigned."
The letter contained the expression of a sincere sympathy for our bereavement.
"He died peacefully," said my mother. "All deaths are not so."
"Madam!" cried Mrs. Fortress, in a warning tone.
Did it spring from my fancy that my mother's remark was uttered in fear, and was intended to bear a personal reference, and that Mrs. Fortress's "Madam!" sounded like a threat? If it were or were not so, my mother quickly recovered herself.
"It is good to know that your father did not suffer," she said.
"Death is not a pleasant subject to talk about," observed Mrs. Fortress.
"What has passed between my mother and myself is quite natural," I retorted; it appeared to me that her remark was unnecessary.
"I beg your pardon," she said, but although her words conveyed an apology, her voice did not.
Shortly afterwards my mother pleaded that she was tired, and I left the room.
Upon the news of my father's death becoming known I had two visitors, the doctor who attended on my mother, and a lawyer. I may mention here that these were the only persons who, with myself, followed my father to the grave. The doctor's visit was one of condolence, and he indulged in the usual platitudes which, but for the occasion, I should not have listened to with patience. He bade me good day with a sigh, and called into his face an expression of dolour which I knew was assumed for my benefit.
The lawyer's visit was upon business. He came to acquaint me with the particulars of my father's Will.
"I have the rough draft in my office," he said; "the Will itself we shall doubtless find among your father's private papers. It was his habit, when he intended to be absent from home for any length of time, to leave the key of his safe in my keeping, I have brought it with me."
We went together to my father's special room, the room in which he wrote and transacted his private business, and which was always kept locked. No person, unbidden, was allowed to enter it but himself. Although I had now been living at Rosemullion for many years I had been but once in this apartment, and then I took no particular notice of it. The key of the room had been found in his portmanteau, which he had taken with him to Wales, and had been delivered up to me with his other effects.
It was plainly furnished. There were two chairs, a couch, and a writing-table-nothing more; not a picture, not an ornament, not a single evidence of luxury. The walls were hung with old tapestry on which battle scenes were worked.
"Rosemullion is not a modern building," said the lawyer, "but perhaps you are already familiar with its history, being a student."
I said, In reply, that I was not aware that Rosemullion was of ancient origin, nor that it had a history.
"Did your father never speak to you on the subject?" asked the lawyer.
"Never," I replied.
"Perhaps it was not of much interest to him," remarked the lawyer. "The house belonged to a great family once, who owned vast tracts of land hereabout. They ruled here for many generations, I believe, until, as is the case with numberless others who carried it with a high hand in times gone by, they lost their place in the world. If the truth were known we should learn-to judge from my experiences, and supposing them to be worth anything-that there was but one cause why they were wiped out. Spendthrift father, spendthrift heir, followed by another, and perhaps by another; land parted with piecemeal, mortgaged and sold, till heirlooms and stone-walls are called upon, and the wreck is complete. It is an old story, and is being played out now by many inheritors of ancient names."
"The chairs and couch in the room," I said, "are modern. Not so the writing-table."
It was made of stout oak, and bore signs of long service. Its massive legs were wonderfully carved, and were fixed deep in the oaken flooring. The lawyer's remarks had given the place an interest in my eyes, and I gazed around with lively curiosity.
"If these walls could speak," I said, "they would be able to tell strange stories."
"Many of which," said the lawyer, with a dry cough, "are better unrevealed. It is quite as well that dumb memorials cannot rise in witness against us."
"So that we are no better off than our forefathers."
"And no worse," said the lawyer, sententiously. "We are much of a muchness, ancients and moderns. I had no idea till to-day how solid these walls really were."
They were, indeed, of massive thickness, fit depositories of mighty secrets. I lifted the tapestry to examine them, and observed a steel plate fixed in the portion I had bared. I was searching in vain for a keyhole when the lawyer said,
"The safe your father used is not on that side; it is here to the right. On three sides of the wall you will see these steel plates fixed, and my idea is that the receptacles were used as a hiding-place for jewels and other treasure. In the building of this room special ingenuity was displayed. No one unacquainted with the secret could open the metal doors, the design is so cunning. There were locksmiths before Brahmah. I would defy any but an expert to discover the means, and it would puzzle him for a time."
"They are really doors?"
"Yes; you shall see for yourself."
"How did you discover the secret?" I asked.
"Your father let me into it," he replied.
"How did he discover it? Before he bought this little estate I doubt if he had ever heard the name of Rosemullion, or knew of its existence."
"That is very probable, but I cannot enlighten you upon the point. In his conversations with me he never referred to it. It is not unlikely that the agents through whom he purchased the place may have known; or he may have found a clue to it after he came into possession. That, however, is mere speculation, and is not material to us. What is material is the Will. Observe. Here before us is a sheet of steel, covered with numberless small knobs with shining round surfaces. There must be some peculiarity about the metal that it does not rust; or perhaps its lustre is due to the dryness of the air. When I say that the knobs are numberless I am inexact. They may be easily counted; they are in regular lines, and are alternately placed. From ceiling to floor there are twenty lines, and each line contains twenty knobs-four hundred in all. If you pressed every one of these four hundred knobs one after another with your thumb, you would find only one that would yield beneath the pressure. That knob is in the bottom line, at the extreme left hand corner. Kneel, and press with your thumb, and you will find that I am right."
I followed his instructions. I knelt, and pressed the knob; it yielded, and upon my removing my thumb, it returned to its former position.
"Still," I said, as I rose from my kneeling posture, "I see no hole in which a key can be inserted."
"Wait," said the lawyer. "By pressing on that knob you have unlocked a second at the extreme end of the right corner in the same line. Press it as you did the other."
I knelt and obeyed; it yielded as the other had done, and returned to its former position. But there was no apparent change in the steel door.
"You have unlocked a third knob," said the lawyer. "You will now have to stand upon one of the chairs; place it here, on the right, and press again on the knob at the extreme right hand. It yields. One more, and the charm is nearly complete. Remove the chair to the left, and repeat the operation on the topmost knob at the extreme left hand. Now descend. Supposing this to be the door of a room, where would the keyhole be situated? Yes, you point to the exact spot. Press there, then, gently. What do we see? The keyhole revealed. The rest is easy."
He inserted the key and turned the lock. Massive as was the door, there was no difficulty now in opening it. With very little exertion on our part it swung upon its hinges. I could not but admire the ingenuity of the device, and I wondered at the same time how my father could have found it out, supposing the secret not to have been imparted to him.
There was a space disclosed of some two feet in depth, divided by stout oaken shelves. On one of the shelves was a cash-box. There was nothing else within the space. The lawyer took out the cash-box, and brought it to the table. It was unlocked, and the lawyer drew from it my father's Will. I was disappointed that it contained no other papers. I cannot say what I expected to discover, but I had a vague hope that I might light upon some explanation of the mystery which had reigned in our home from my earliest remembrance. However, I made no remark on the subject to the lawyer.
The Will was read in my mother's presence, the only other person in attendance, besides my mother, the lawyer, and myself, being Mrs. Fortress. It was very simple; the entire property was bequeathed to my mother; during her lifetime I was to reside at Rosemullion, and there was otherwise no provision made for me; but at her death, with the exception of a legacy to Mrs. Fortress, "for faithful and confidential service," I became sole heir. The only stipulation was that Rosemullion should not be sold.
"I hope, Gabriel," said my mother, "that you are not dissatisfied."
I replied that I was contented with the disposition my father had made of his property.
"You can have what money you want," she said.
"I shall want very little," I said.
"You will remain here, Gabriel?"
These words which, in her expression of them, were both a question and an entreaty, opened up a new train of thought. I set it aside a while, and said to my mother,
"Is it your wish?"
"Yes, Gabriel, while I live."
"I will obey you, mother."
"Gabriel," she said, "bend your head." Mrs. Fortress came forward as if with the intention of interposing, but I motioned her away, and she retired in silence, but kept her eyes fixed upon us. "You bear no ill-will towards me?" my mother whispered. "You do not hate me?"
"No, mother," I replied, in a tone as low as her own. "What cause have I for ill-will or hatred? It would be monstrous."
"Yes," she muttered, "it would be monstrous, monstrous!"
And she turned from me, and lay with her face to the wall. Her form was shaken with sobs.
Mrs. Fortress beckoned to me and I followed her to the door.
"I will speak to you outside," she said.
We stood in the passage, the door of my mother's bedroom being closed upon us. The lawyer, who had also left the room, stood a few paces from us.
"It comes within my sphere of duty," said Mrs. Fortress, "to warn you that these scenes are dangerous to your mother. Listen."
I heard my mother crying and speaking loudly to herself, but I could not distinguish what she said.
"Remain here a moment," said Mrs. Fortress; "I have something more to say to you."
She left me, and entered the bedroom, and in a short time my mother was quiet. Mrs. Fortress returned.
"She is more composed."
"You have a great power over her, Mrs. Fortress."
"No one else understands her." She held in her hand a letter, which she offered to me. "It was entrusted to me by your father, and I was to give it to you in the event of his dying away from Rosemullion, and before your mother. Perhaps you will read it here."
I did so. It was addressed to me, and was very brief, its contents being simply to the effect that Mrs. Fortress was to hold, during my mother's lifetime, the position she had always held in the household, and that I was, under no consideration, to interfere with her in the exercise of her duties. She was, also, as heretofore, to have the direction of the house.
"Are you acquainted with the contents of this letter?" I asked.
"Yes; your father, before he sealed it gave it to me to read. He gave me at the same time another document, addressed to myself."
"Investing you, I suppose, with the necessary authority." She slightly inclined her head. "I shall not interfere with you in any way," I said.
"I am obliged to you," she said, and then she re-entered my mother's apartment.
The lawyer and I walked to my father's private room. I wished to assure myself that there was nothing else in the safe in which my father had deposited his Will, and which we had left open. There was nothing, not a book, not a scrap of paper, nor article of any kind. Then in the presence of the lawyer, I searched the writing-desk, and found only a few unimportant memoranda and letters. My unsatisfactory search at an end, I remarked to the lawyer that I supposed nothing remained to be done.
"Except to lock the safe," he said.
"How is that accomplished?"
"You have merely to reverse the process by which you opened it. I have seldom seen a more admirable and simple piece of mechanism."
I followed his instructions, and let the tapestry fall over the steel plate. Then the lawyer, saying that he would attend to the necessary formalities with respect to the Will, bade me good-day.
CHAPTER IV
When I told my mother that I was contented with the disposition my father had made of the property I spoke the truth, but I did not intend to imply that I was contented with the position in which I found myself after my father's death. Not with respect to money-that was the last of my thoughts; indeed, my mother placed at my disposal more than sufficient funds; but that I, who had by this time grown to manhood, should be still confined in leading strings, hurt and galled me. I chafed inwardly at the restraint, and it will be readily understood that my feelings on this matter did not bring my mother and me closer to each other. I did not, however, give expression to them; I schooled myself into a certain philosophical resignation, and took refuge in my books and studies.
Wide as had always been the breach-I can find no other word to express the attitude we held towards each other-between Mrs. Fortress and myself, it grew wider as time progressed. We seldom addressed a word to each other. To do her justice she seemed to desire a more familiar intercourse as little as I did. Her demeanour was consistently respectful, and she did not exercise her authority obtrusively or offensively. Everything went on in the house as usual. My wants were attended to with regularity, and I may even say that they were anticipated. To all outward appearance I had nothing whatever to complain of, but the independence of spirit which develops with our manhood, the consciousness that we are strong enough to depend upon ourselves and to walk alone, the growing pride which imparts a true or false confidence in our maturing powers-all these were in silent rebellion within me, and rendered me at times restless and dissatisfied. What it might have led to is hard to say, but the difficulty was solved without action on my part. Within twelve months of my father's death I was a free man, free to go whither I would, to choose my own mode of life, to visit new lands if I cared. The chains which had bound me fell loose, and I was my own master.
It was in the dead of a hot summer night, and I was sitting alone by the window in my favourite room. The sultry air scarcely stirred the curtains, and I saw in the sky the signs of a coming storm. I hoped it would burst soon; I knew that I should welcome with gratitude the rain and the cooler air. Such sweet, fresh moments, when an oppressively hot day has drawn to its close, may be accepted-with a certain extravagance of metaphor, I admit-as Nature's purification of sin.
All was still and quiet; only shadows lived and moved about. Midnight struck. That hour to me was always fraught with mysterious significance.
From where I sat I could see the house in which my mother lay. It had happened on that day, as I strolled through the woods, that I had been witness of the love which a mother had for her child. The child was young, the mother was middle-aged, and not pretty, but when she looked at her child, and held out her arms to receive it, as it ran laughing towards her with its fair hair tumbled about its head, her plain face became glorified. Its spiritual beauty smote me with pain; the child's glad voice made me tremble. Some dim sense of what had never been mine forced itself into my soul.
I had the power-which I had no doubt unconsciously cultivated-of raising pictures in the air, and I called up now this picture of the mother and her child. "Are all children like that," I thought, "and are all mothers-except me and mine?" If so, I had been robbed.
The door of the great house slowly opened, and the form of a woman stepped forth. It walked in my direction, and stopped beneath my window.
"Are you up there, Master Gabriel?"
It was Mrs. Fortress who spoke.
"Yes, I am here."
"Your mother wishes to see you."
I went down immediately, and joined Mrs. Fortress.
"Did she send you for me?"
"Yes, or I should not be here."
"She is very ill?"
"She is not well."
The grudging words angered me, and I motioned the woman to precede me to the house. She led me to my mother's bedside.
I had never been allowed so free an intercourse with my mother as upon this occasion. Mrs. Fortress did not leave the room, but she retired behind the curtains of the bed, and did not interrupt our conversation.
"You are ill, mother?"
"I am dying, Gabriel."
I was prepared for it, and I had expected to see in her some sign of the shadow of death. When the dread visitant stands by the side of a mortal, there should be some indication of its presence. Here there was none. My mother's face retained the wild beauty which had ever distinguished it. All that I noted was that her eyes occasionally wandered around, with a look in them which expressed a kind of fear and pity for herself.
"You speak of dying, mother," I said. "I hope you will live for many years yet."
"Why do you hope it?" she asked. "Has my life given you joy-has it sweetened the currents of yours?"
There was a strange wistfulness in her voice, a note of wailing against an inexorable fate. Her words brought before me again the picture of the mother and her child I had seen that day in the woods. Joy! Sweetness! No, my mother had given me but little of these. It was so dim as to be scarcely a memory that when I was a little babe she would press me tenderly to her bosom, would sing to me, would coo over me, as must surely be the fashion of loving mothers with their offspring. It is with no idea of casting reproach upon her that I say she bequeathed to me no legacy of motherly tenderness.
We conversed for nearly an hour. Our conversation was intermittent; there were long pauses in it, and wanderings from one subject to another. This was occasioned by my mother's condition; it was not possible for her to keep her mind upon one theme, and to exhaust it.
"You looked among your father's papers, Gabriel?"
"Yes, mother."
"What did you find?" She seemed to shrink from me as she asked this question.
"Only his Will, and a few unimportant papers."
"Nothing else?"
"Nothing."
"Gabriel," she said, presently, "I wish you to promise me that you will make, in years to come, a faithful record of the circumstances of your life, and of your secret thoughts and promptings." She paused, and when she spoke again appeared to lose sight of the promise she wished to exact from me. "You are sure your father left no special papers for you to read after his death?"
"I found none," I said, much moved at this iteration of a mystery which was evidently weighing heavily upon her.
"Perhaps," she murmured, "he thought silence kindest and wisest."
I strove to keep her mind upon this theme, for I was profoundly agitated by her strange words, but I found it impossible. Her hands moved feebly about the coverlet, her eyes wandered still more restlessly around. My cunningest endeavours failed to woo her back to the subject; her speech became so wild and whirling that I was not ungrateful to Mrs. Fortress when she emerged from behind the curtains, and led me firmly out of the room. I turned on the threshold to look at my mother; her face was towards me, but she did not recognise me.
On the evening of the following day I was walking moodily about the grounds between the house and the cottage, thinking of the interview, and reproaching myself for want of feeling. Was it that I was deficient in humanity that I did not find myself overwhelmed with grief by the conviction that my mother was dying? No thought but of her critical condition should have held place in my mind, and the weight of my genuine sorrow should have impressed itself upon surrounding nature. It was not so; my grief was trivial, artificial, and I bitterly accused myself. But if natural love would not come from the prompting of my heart, I could at least perform a duty. My mother should not be left to draw her last breath with not one of her kin by her bedside.
I entered the house. In the passage which led to my mother's room I was confronted by Mrs. Fortress. She had heard my footsteps, and came out to meet me.
"What do you want, Mr. Gabriel?"
"I must see my mother."
"You cannot; It would hasten her end."
"Has she not asked for me?"
"No; if she wished to see you she would have sent for you."
It was a truthful indication of the position; I had never gone unbidden to my mother's room.
We spoke in low tones. My voice was tremulous, Mrs. Fortress's was cold and firm.
"If not now," I said, "I must see her to-morrow."
"You shall see her," said Mrs. Fortress, "within the next twenty-four hours."
I passed the evening in my cottage, trying to read. I could not fix my mind upon the page. I indulged in weird fancies, and once, putting out the lights, cried:
"If the Angel of Death is near, let him appear!"
There was no sign, and I sat in the dark till I heard a tapping at my door. I opened it, and heard Mrs. Fortress's voice.
"You can see your mother," she said.
I accompanied her to the sick room, the bedside of my mother. She was dead.
"It is a happy release," Mrs. Fortress said.
