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Transcriber's Notes: 1. Page scan source: https://archive.org/details/secretinheritanc01farj (University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign)
A SECRET INHERITANCE
A SECRET INHERITANCE
BY
B. L. FARJEON,
AUTHOR OF "GREAT PORTER SQUARE," "IN A SILVER SEA," "THE HOUSE OF WHITE SHADOWS," ETC.
_IN THREE VOLUMES_ VOL. I
LONDON WARD AND DOWNEY 12, YORK STREET, COVENT GARDEN, W.C. 1887
Richard Clay and Sons, LONDON AND BUNGAY.
A SECRET INHERITANCE.
* * * * * *
BOOK THE FIRST.
THE RECORD OF GABRIEL CAREW.
VOL. I.
CHAPTER I.
My earliest distinct remembrances are of a mean and common home inLondon, in which I lived with my parents and a servant named Fortress.She was a young woman, her age being twenty-four or five, but hermanners were as sedate as those of a matron who had a distaste forfrivolity and tittle-tattle. She performed her duties quietly and insilence, and seldom spoke unless she were first addressed. She did nottake the trouble to render herself agreeable to me, or to win myaffection. This was entirely to my liking, as I was of a retired habitof mind and disposition. It was not unusual for weeks to pass withoutour exchanging a word.
We were surrounded by squalid thoroughfares, the residents in whichwere persons occupying the lowest stations of life, human bees whosehives were not over stocked with honey, being indeed, I have no doubt,frequently bare of it. This was not the result of indolence, for theytoiled early and late. I saw, and observed. Sometimes I wondered,sometimes I despised, and I always shrank from close contact withthese sordid conditions of existence. If I had possessed a store ofpocket-money it is not unlikely that a portion of it would have beenexpended in charity, but I will not affirm that I should have beenimpelled to liberality by motives of benevolence. We were, however,very poor, and my father seldom gave me a penny. I did not complain; Ihad no wants which money could gratify. I did not consort with otherchildren; I did not play or associate with them; when they madeadvances towards me I declined to receive them, and I held myselfentirely aloof from their pleasures and occupations. In this respect Iinstinctively followed the fashion of our home and the example of myparents. They had no friends or intimate acquaintances. During theyears we lived thus poorly and meanly, not a man, woman, or child everentered our doors to partake of our hospitality, or to impart whatwould possibly have been a healthy variety to our days.
Our dwelling consisted of two rooms at the top of a small house. Theywere attics; in one my mother and Mrs. Fortress slept; in the other myfather and I. The bed he and I occupied was shut up during the day,and made an impotent pretence of being a chest of drawers. This roomwas our living room, and we took our meals in it.
In speaking of our servant as Mrs. Fortress I do not intend to conveythat she was a married woman. My impression was that she was single,and I should have scouted the idea of her having a sweetheart; but myparents always spoke of and to her as Mrs. Fortress.
From the window of our living-room I could see, at an angle, a bit ofthe River Thames. The prospect was gloomy and miserable. There was notouch of gaiety in the sluggish panorama of the life on the water. Themen on the barges, working with machine-like movement against thetide, were begrimed and joyless; the people on the penny steamersseemed bent on anything but pleasure; the boys who played about thestranded boats when the tide was low were elfish and mischievous. Theland life was in keeping. The backs of other poor houses were scarcelya handshake off. On a sill here and there were a few drooping flowers,typical of the residents in the poverty-stricken neighbourhood.Sometimes as I gazed upon these signs an odd impression stole upon methat we had not always lived in this mean condition. I saw dimly theoutlines of a beautiful house, with gardens round it, of horses myparents used to ride, of carriages in which we drove, of many servantsto wait upon us. But it was more like a dream than reality, and I madeno reference to it in my parents' hearing, and did not ask themwhether my fancies had any substantial foundation.
When I say that a cloud rested upon us, I mean the figure of speech tobear no partial application. It was dark and palpable; it entered intoour lives; it shadowed all our days. On more than one occasion Inoticed my parents gazing apprehensively at me, and then piteously ateach other; and upon their discovering that I was observing them theywould force a smile to their lips, and assume a gaiety in which, youngas I was, I detected a false ring. My mother did not always take hermeals with us; my father and I frequently sat at the table alone.
"Your mother is not well enough to join us," he would sometimes say tome. If he saw me gazing on the vacant chair.
There were occasions when he and I would go into the country, and I donot remember that my mother ever accompanied us. There would be nopreliminary preparation for these trips, nor was it customary for myfather to say to me on the morning or the evening before thesedepartures, "We are going into the country to-morrow, Gabriel." Wealways seemed to be suddenly called away, and our return was alsosudden and, to me, unexpected. These holidays would, in the ordinarycourse of things, have been joyfully hailed by most poor lads. Not soby me. They were most melancholy affairs, and I was glad to get backfrom them. My father appeared to be suffering from greater anxiety inthe country than in London. The excuse for these sudden departures wasthat my mother was ill, and needed quiet. We stopped at poor inns, andhad no money to spend in junketings.
"I would like to take you to such or such a place," my father wouldsay, "but I cannot afford it."
"It does not matter, father," I would answer. "I should be happy if Ionly had my books about me."
It was the being separated from my little library that made thecountry so irksome to me. I was passionately fond of reading, and mystore of literature consisted of books which had belonged to myfather, and had been well thumbed by him. They were mine; he had giventhem to me on my birthday. Of their nature it is sufficient to sayhere that they were mostly classics, and that among them were very fewof a light character.
One morning a ray of light shone through the dark spaces of our lives.
We were sitting at breakfast in our lodgings in London when Mrs.Fortress brought in a letter for my father. It was an unusual event,and my father turned it over leisurely in his hand, and examined thewriting on the envelope before he opened it. But his manner changedwhen he read the letter; he was greatly agitated, and my mother askedanxiously:
"Have you bad news?"
"No," he replied, "good."
He was silent for a few moments, and his next words were:
"Mildred, can you bear a shock?"
"Yes," said my mother, "as the news is good."
"We are rich once more," my father said, and then exclaimed, as hegazed around upon the mean walls of our apartment, "Thank God!"
A relative of ours had died in a distant land, and had left hisfortune to my father. My father had had no expectations from him, andhad, indeed, almost forgotten his existence. The greater was oursurprise at this sudden change in our circumstances.
Although there were form
alities to be gone through before my fathercame into possession of the large legacy, and although seven or eightweeks elapsed before we removed from our poor lodgings, the changefrom poverty to riches was almost immediately apparent. My fatherpresented me with a purse containing money. I do not remember howmuch, but there were sovereigns in it.
I was not proud; I was not elated. The prospect of living in a betterplace, with better surroundings, was agreeable to me, but it did notexcite me. With my purse in my pocket I went to a shop in whichsecond-hand books were sold, and among them some I desired to possess.I bought what I wished, and carried them away with me. On my way homeI noticed a little girl sitting on a doorstep, and there was a wanlook in her pale face which attracted me. By her side was a crutch. AsI stood looking at her for a moment, the string with which my bookswere tied became undone, the paper in which they were wrapped burst,and the books fell to the ground. I stooped to pick them up, but thebooks, being loose and of different sizes, were cumbersome to hold,and I called to the girl that I would give her a shilling if shehelped me.
"A shilling!" she exclaimed, and rose upon her feet, but immediatelysank to the ground, with a cry of pain.
"What is the matter with you?" I asked. "I haven't hurt you, have I?"
She pointed to her crutch. Thinking that she wished me to hand it toher, I lifted it from the ground, and found that it was broken.
"You are lame," I said.
"Yes," she said, looking at me admiringly from her crouching position;the twitch in her leg had caused her but momentary suffering, "I can'tstand without my crutch, and it's broke."
"But you tried to stand when I called to you."
"Oh, yes; you said you'd give me a shilling, and I didn't think of myleg."
Much virtue in a shilling, thought I, to cause one to forget such anaffliction.
"I wouldn't mind buying you a crutch," I said, "if I knew where theywere sold."
"There's a shop in the next street," said the girl, "where themaster's got the feller one to this. It's a rag and bone shop, andhe'll sell it cheap."
"I'll show you the shop, young sir, if you like," said a voice at myelbow.
The tone and the manner of speech were refined, and it surprised me,therefore, when I turned, to behold a figure strangely at variancewith this refinement. The man was in rags, and the drunkard's stampwas on his features, but in his kind eyes shone a sadly humorouslight. Moreover, he spoke as a gentleman would have spoken.
I accepted his offer to show me the rag and bone shop, and we walkedside by side, conversing. To be exact, I should say that he talked andI listened, for he used twenty words to one of mine. This kind ofsocial intercourse was rare in my experiences, and it provedinteresting, by reason of my chance companion being an exception tothe people who lived in the neighbourhood. Few as were the words Iuttered, they, and the books I carried under my arm, served to unlockhis tongue, and he regaled me with snatches of personal history. Hewas familiar with the books I had purchased, and expressed approval ofmy selection. He had, indeed, been born a gentleman, and had receiveda liberal education.
"Which has served to convince me," he observed, "that if it is in thenature of a man to swim with the current into which he has drifted orbeen driven, swim with it he must, wheresoever it may lead him."
"There is the power of resistance," I said.
"There is nothing of the sort," was his comment, "unless it isagreeable to the man to exercise it. We are but straws. It isfortunate that life is short, and that happiness does not consist inwearing a jewelled crown. Young sir, how came you to live in theseparts?"
"I do not know," I replied. "My parents live here."
"But you are not poor."
By this time I had bought the odd crutch, and my companion had seenthe gold in my purse when I paid for it.
"We have been," I said, "but are so no longer."
"Shade of Pluto!" he cried. "If I could but say as much! So, beingsuddenly made rich, you open your heart to pity's call?" I shook myhead in doubt, and he touched the crutch. "Don't you think this a finething to do?"
"I am not sure," I said.
"Excellent!" he exclaimed. "Praise me not for my virtues; blame me notfor my vices. That morality, in respect to the average man, is a knifethat cuts both ways. To sinners like myself it is more comforting thanotherwise."
He puzzled me, and I told him so, but he made a pretence ofdisbelieving me, and said,
"There are depths in you, young sir. You may live to discover that youare in the wrong century."
That I did not clearly understand him did not render his conversationless interesting. I gave the girl the crutch and a shilling, and lefther and the man together.
I record this incident because it is the only one I remember duringthe time we lived in that poor neighbourhood in which strangers playeda part. So far as my outer life was concerned, it was utterly devoidof colour.
A Secret Inheritance (Volume 1 of 3) Page 1