CHAPTER XXI. A MESSAGE FROM THE DEAD.
The paroxysm of my grief passed slowly away, and I rose to my feet andlooked around with streaming eyes. Mr. Ravenor was still by my side, andtogether we carried my mother back to the monastery. The news of ourapproach had preceded us, and long before we reached our journey's endthe solemn minute-bell was tolling out to the silent night, awakeningstrange echoes in the hills and finding a reverberation of itsmournfulness in my heart.
Austere and impressive as the great bare front of the monastery hadalways appeared to me, it had never seemed so cold and desolate as whenour melancholy little procession wound round the Hill of Calvary andslowly approached the entrance. The gloom of a winter's evening washanging around the building, which, with never a ray of light from anypart, looked like a habitation of the dead--a gigantic vault.
But suddenly, as we drew near, the front door was slowly opened and thedark figure of a monk, holding above his head a lighted taper, stood onthe steps and in a low monotone repeated a Latin prayer. When he ceasedthere was a moment's silence, and then from the chapel there came thesound of deep voices chanting slowly in solemn unison the _Miserere_.
The remainder of that night seems like a dream to me now, of which I canrecall but little. But I remember that, long past midnight, when I hadthrown myself down upon the stone floor of the guest-chamber, I heardsoft steps and the rustle of garments approaching me, and, looking up, Isaw the sweetest face I ever beheld in man or woman looking down intomine from the deep folds of a monk's cowl.
He stayed with me for a while, speaking welcome words of comfort; then,gathering his robes about him, he stood up, prepared to leave. But firsthe handed me a small packet.
"This was left in my charge for you, Philip Morton," he said. "Little didI dream that so soon I should be called upon to fulfil my trust. Take it,my son."
The packet, which I opened with reverent fingers, was a very small one,and consisted of a single letter only. That I might see the more clearlyto read it, I pushed open the narrow, diamond-framed window, and themoonlight filled the little room with a soft, mellowed light. Then Iread:
"The Barnwood Monastery of St. Clement's, "_November 19th, 18--._
"My dearest Son,--I write these lines to you, Philip, feeling happierthan I have done for many years, because I have a deep and sureconviction that my life is drawing fast to a close, and that the end maycome at any minute. Alas! my son, I feel that I have not been to you allthat a mother should be. It may be that my coldness has alienated from methe love which I know you have been willing to give. It may be so; but Ichoose rather to believe that you will pity me when I tell you that thecoldness which has grown up between us was none of my choosing, but wasonly part of a terrible punishment which I have had to bear for manyweary years.
"What my sin--or let me be merciful to myself and call it my error--was,I do not purpose here to tell you. Some day the person at whosediscretion I have left it may deem it well to tell you the whole story.For my sake, Philip, for the sake of the love which I know you bearme--and which, God knows, I have for you--I beg you to wait until thattime comes and not seek to hasten it.
"Think of me as kindly as you can, dear. If the path which I chose tofollow was not the wisest, I have, at least, suffered terribly for it.For many weary years grief and horror and remorse have been making mylife one long purgatory. Yes, I have suffered indeed. But at last I havefound peace.
"Do not marvel at what I am going to tell you, Philip. My will--thelittle I have to leave is yours--is drawn up and signed and I haveappointed Mr. Ravenor your guardian. There are reasons for this which youcannot know, but he will be only too glad to accept the charge; and inall things, Philip, even if he should desire you altogether to changeyour position in life, follow his command and submit to his wishes.
"Farewell, my beloved son--farewell! God grant that your life may be goodand happy, and that your last days may be as peaceful as mine. I can wishyou nothing better. Once more, farewell!--Your affectionate
"Mother."
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