CHAPTER IV.
When I told my mother that I was contented with the disposition myfather had made of the property I spoke the truth, but I did notintend to imply that I was contented with the position in which Ifound myself after my father's death. Not with respect to money--thatwas the last of my thoughts; indeed, my mother placed at my disposalmore than sufficient funds; but that I, who had by this time grown tomanhood, should be still confined in leading strings, hurt and galledme. I chafed inwardly at the restraint, and it will be readilyunderstood that my feelings on this matter did not bring my mother andme closer to each other. I did not, however, give expression to them;I schooled myself into a certain philosophical resignation, and tookrefuge in my books and studies.
Wide as had always been the breach--I can find no other word toexpress the attitude we held towards each other--between Mrs. Fortressand myself, it grew wider as time progressed. We seldom addressed aword to each other. To do her justice she seemed to desire a morefamiliar intercourse as little as I did. Her demeanour wasconsistently respectful, and she did not exercise her authorityobtrusively or offensively. Everything went on in the house as usual.My wants were attended to with regularity, and I may even say thatthey were anticipated. To all outward appearance I had nothingwhatever to complain of, but the independence of spirit which developswith our manhood, the consciousness that we are strong enough todepend upon ourselves and to walk alone, the growing pride whichimparts a true or false confidence in our maturing powers--all thesewere in silent rebellion within me, and rendered me at times restlessand dissatisfied. What it might have led to is hard to say, but thedifficulty was solved without action on my part. Within twelve monthsof my father's death I was a free man, free to go whither I would, tochoose my own mode of life, to visit new lands if I cared. The chainswhich 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 bythe window in my favourite room. The sultry air scarcely stirred thecurtains, and I saw in the sky the signs of a coming storm. I hoped itwould burst soon; I knew that I should welcome with gratitude the rainand the cooler air. Such sweet, fresh moments, when an oppressivelyhot day has drawn to its close, may be accepted--with a certainextravagance of metaphor, I admit--as Nature's purification of sin.
All was still and quiet; only shadows lived and moved about. Midnightstruck. That hour to me was always fraught with mysterioussignificance.
From where I sat I could see the house in which my mother lay. It hadhappened on that day, as I strolled through the woods, that I had beenwitness of the love which a mother had for her child. The child wasyoung, the mother was middle-aged, and not pretty, but when she lookedat her child, and held out her arms to receive it, as it ran laughingtowards her with its fair hair tumbled about its head, her plain facebecame glorified. Its spiritual beauty smote me with pain; the child'sglad voice made me tremble. Some dim sense of what had never been mineforced itself into my soul.
I had the power--which I had no doubt unconsciously cultivated--ofraising pictures in the air, and I called up now this picture of themother and her child. "Are all children like that," I thought, "andare 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 womanstepped forth. It walked in my direction, and stopped beneath mywindow.
"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 meto the house. She led me to my mother's bedside.
I had never been allowed so free an intercourse with my mother as uponthis occasion. Mrs. Fortress did not leave the room, but she retiredbehind the curtains of the bed, and did not interrupt ourconversation.
"You are ill, mother?"
"I am dying, Gabriel."
I was prepared for it, and I had expected to see in her some sign ofthe shadow of death. When the dread visitant stands by the side of amortal, there should be some indication of its presence. Here therewas none. My mother's face retained the wild beauty which had everdistinguished it. All that I noted was that her eyes occasionallywandered around, with a look in them which expressed a kind of fearand pity for herself.
"You speak of dying, mother," I said. "I hope you will live for manyyears yet."
"Why do you hope it?" she asked. "Has my life given you joy--has itsweetened the currents of yours?"
There was a strange wistfulness in her voice, a note of wailingagainst an inexorable fate. Her words brought before me again thepicture 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 wasso dim as to be scarcely a memory that when I was a little babe shewould press me tenderly to her bosom, would sing to me, would coo overme, as must surely be the fashion of loving mothers with theiroffspring. It is with no idea of casting reproach upon her that I sayshe 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 toanother. This was occasioned by my mother's condition; it was notpossible 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 thisquestion.
"Only his Will, and a few unimportant papers."
"Nothing else?"
"Nothing."
"Gabriel," she said, presently, "I wish you to promise me that youwill make, in years to come, a faithful record of the circumstances ofyour life, and of your secret thoughts and promptings." She paused,and when she spoke again appeared to lose sight of the promise shewished to exact from me. "You are sure your father left no specialpapers for you to read after his death?"
"I found none," I said, much moved at this iteration of a mysterywhich 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 profoundlyagitated by her strange words, but I found it impossible. Her handsmoved feebly about the coverlet, her eyes wandered still morerestlessly around. My cunningest endeavours failed to woo her back tothe subject; her speech became so wild and whirling that I was notungrateful to Mrs. Fortress when she emerged from behind the curtains,and led me firmly out of the room. I turned on the threshold to lookat 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 thegrounds between the house and the cottage, thinking of the interview,and reproaching myself for want of feeling. Was it that I wasdeficient in humanity that I did not find myself overwhelmed withgrief by the conviction that my mother was dying? No thought but ofher critical condition should have held place in my mind, and theweight of my genuine sorrow should have impressed itself uponsurrounding nature. It was not so; my grief was trivial, artificial,and I bitterly accused myself. But if natural love would not come fromthe prompting of my heart, I could at least perform a duty. My mothershould not be left to draw her last breath with not one of her kin byher bedside.
I entered the house. In the passage which led to my mother's room Iwas confronted by Mrs. Fortress. She had heard my footsteps, and cameout 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 ind
ication of the position; I had never goneunbidden to my mother's room.
We spoke in low tones. My voice was tremulous, Mrs. Fortress's wascold and firm.
"If not now," I said, "I must see her to-morrow."
"You shall see her," said Mrs. Fortress, "within the next twenty-fourhours."
I passed the evening in my cottage, trying to read. I could not fix mymind upon the page. I indulged in weird fancies, and once, putting outthe 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 mydoor. 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 wasdead.
"It is a happy release," Mrs. Fortress said.
A Secret Inheritance (Volume 1 of 3) Page 4