A Secret Inheritance. B. L. Farjeon
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."
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