THE SEALED ROOM
A solicitor of an active habit and athletic tastes who is compelled byhis hopes of business to remain within the four walls of his office fromten till five must take what exercise he can in the evenings. Hence itwas that I was in the habit of indulging in very long nocturnalexcursions, in which I sought the heights of Hampstead and Highgate inorder to cleanse my system from the impure air of Abchurch Lane. It wasin the course of one of these aimless rambles that I first met FelixStanniford, and so led up to what has been the most extraordinaryadventure of my lifetime.
One evening—it was in April or early May of the year 1894—I made my wayto the extreme northern fringe of London, and was walking down one ofthose fine avenues of high brick villas which the huge city is for everpushing farther and farther out into the country. It was a fine, clearspring night, the moon was shining out of an unclouded sky, and I,having already left many miles behind me, was inclined to walk slowlyand look about me. In this contemplative mood, my attention was arrestedby one of the houses which I was passing.
It was a very large building, standing in its own grounds, a little backfrom the road. It was modern in appearance, and yet it was far less sothan its neighbours, all of which were crudely and painfully new. Theirsymmetrical line was broken by the gap caused by the laurel-studdedlawn, with the great, dark, gloomy house looming at the back of it.Evidently it had been the country retreat of some wealthy merchant,built perhaps when the nearest street was a mile off, and now graduallyovertaken and surrounded by the red brick tentacles of the Londonoctopus. The next stage, I reflected, would be its digestion andabsorption, so that the cheap builder might rear a dozeneighty-pound-a-year villas upon the garden frontage. And then, as allthis passed vaguely through my mind, an incident occurred which broughtmy thoughts into quite another channel.
A four-wheeled cab, that opprobrium of London, was coming jolting andcreaking in one direction, while in the other there was a yellow glarefrom the lamp of a cyclist. They were the only moving objects in thewhole long, moonlit road, and yet they crashed into each other with thatmalignant accuracy which brings two ocean liners together in the broadwaste of the Atlantic. It was the cyclist’s fault. He tried to cross infront of the cab, miscalculated his distance, and was knocked sprawlingby the horse’s shoulder. He rose, snarling; the cabman swore back athim, and then, realizing that his number had not yet been taken, lashedhis horse and lumbered off. The cyclist caught at the handles of hisprostrate machine, and then suddenly sat down with a groan. “Oh, Lord!”he said.
I ran across the road to his side. “Any harm done?” I asked.
“It’s my ankle,” said he. “Only a twist, I think; but it’s prettypainful. Just give me your hand, will you?”
He lay in the yellow circle of the cycle lamp, and I noted as I helpedhim to his feet that he was a gentlemanly young fellow, with a slightdark moustache and large, brown eyes, sensitive and nervous inappearance, with indications of weak health upon his sunken cheeks. Workor worry had left its traces upon his thin, yellow face. He stood upwhen I pulled his hand, but he held one foot in the air, and he groanedas he moved it.
“I can’t put it to the ground,” said he.
“Where do you live?”
“Here!” he nodded his head towards the big, dark house in the garden. “Iwas cutting across to the gate when that confounded cab ran into me.Could you help me so far?”
It was easily done. I put his cycle inside the gate, and then Isupported him down the drive, and up the steps to the hall door. Therewas not a light anywhere, and the place was as black and silent as if noone had ever lived in it.
“That will do. Thank you very much,” said he, fumbling with his key inthe lock.
“No, you must allow me to see you safe.”
He made some feeble, petulant protest, and then realized that he couldreally do nothing without me. The door had opened into a pitch-darkhall. He lurched forward, with my hand still on his arm.
“This door to the right,” said he, feeling about in the darkness.
I opened the door, and at the same moment he managed to strike a light.There was a lamp upon the table, and we lit it between us. “Now, I’m allright. You can leave me now! Good-bye!” said he, and with the words hesat down in the arm-chair and fainted dead away.
It was a queer position for me. The fellow looked so ghastly, thatreally I was not sure that he was not dead. Presently his lips quiveredand his breast heaved, but his eyes were two white slits and his colourwas horrible. The responsibility was more than I could stand. I pulledat the bell-rope, and heard the bell ringing furiously far away. But noone came in response. The bell tinkled away into silence, which nomurmur or movement came to break. I waited, and rang again, with thesame result. There must be some one about. This young gentleman couldnot live all alone in that huge house. His people ought to know of hiscondition. If they would not answer the bell, I must hunt them outmyself. I seized the lamp and rushed from the room.
What I saw outside amazed me. The hall was empty. The stairs were bare,and yellow with dust. There were three doors opening into spaciousrooms, and each was uncarpeted and undraped, save for the grey webswhich drooped from the cornice, and rosettes of lichen which had formedupon the walls. My feet reverberated in those empty and silent chambers.Then I wandered on down the passage, with the idea that the kitchens, atleast, might be tenanted. Some caretaker might lurk in some secludedroom. No, they were all equally desolate. Despairing of finding anyhelp, I ran down another corridor, and came on something which surprisedme more than ever.
The passage ended in a large, brown door, and the door had a seal of redwax the size of a five-shilling piece over the keyhole. This seal gaveme the impression of having been there for a long time, for it was dustyand discoloured. I was still staring at it, and wondering what that doormight conceal, when I heard a voice calling behind me, and, runningback, found my young man sitting up in his chair and very muchastonished at finding himself in darkness.
“Why on earth did you take the lamp away?” he asked.
“I was looking for assistance.”
“You might look for some time,” said he. “I am alone in the house.”
“Awkward if you get an illness.”
“It was foolish of me to faint. I inherit a weak heart from my mother,and pain or emotion has that effect upon me. It will carry me off someday, as it did her. You’re not a doctor, are you?”
“No, a lawyer. Frank Alder is my name.”
“Mine is Felix Stanniford. Funny that I should meet a lawyer, for myfriend, Mr. Perceval, was saying that we should need one soon.”
“Very happy, I am sure.”
“Well, that will depend upon him, you know. Did you say that you had runwith that lamp all over the ground floor?”
“Yes.”
“_All_ over it?” he asked, with emphasis, and he looked at me very hard.
“I think so. I kept on hoping that I should find someone.”
“Did you enter _all_ the rooms?” he asked, with the same intent gaze.
“Well, all that I could enter.”
“Oh, then you _did_ notice it!” said he, and he shrugged his shoulderswith the air of a man who makes the best of a bad job.
“Notice what?”
“Why, the door with the seal on it.”
“Yes, I did.”
“Weren’t you curious to know what was in it?”
“Well, it did strike me as unusual.”
“Do you think you could go on living alone in this house, year afteryear, just longing all the time to know what is at the other side ofthat door, and yet not looking?”
“Do you mean to say,” I cried, “that you don’t know yourself?”
“No more than you do.”
“Then why don’t you look?”
“I mustn’t,” said he.
He spoke in a constrained way, and I saw that I had blundered on to somedelicate ground. I don’t know that I am mo
re inquisitive than myneighbours, but there certainly was something in the situation whichappealed very strongly to my curiosity. However, my last excuse forremaining in the house was gone now that my companion had recovered hissenses. I rose to go.
“Are you in a hurry?” he asked.
“No; I have nothing to do.”
“Well, I should be very glad if you would stay with me a little. Thefact is that I live a very retired and secluded life here. I don’tsuppose there is a man in London who leads such a life as I do. It isquite unusual for me to have any one to talk with.”
I looked round at the little room, scantily furnished, with a sofa-bedat one side. Then I thought of the great, bare house, and the sinisterdoor with the discoloured red seal upon it. There was something queerand grotesque in the situation, which made me long to know a littlemore. Perhaps I should, if I waited. I told him that I should be veryhappy.
“You will find the spirits and a siphon upon the side table. You mustforgive me if I cannot act as host, but I can’t get across the room.Those are cigars in the tray there. I’ll take one myself, I think. Andso you are a solicitor, Mr. Alder?”
“Yes.”
“And I am nothing. I am that most helpless of living creatures, the sonof a millionaire. I was brought up with the expectation of great wealth;and here I am, a poor man, without any profession at all. And then, onthe top of it all, I am left with this great mansion on my hands, whichI cannot possibly keep up. Isn’t it an absurd situation? For me to usethis as my dwelling is like a coster drawing his barrow with athoroughbred. A donkey would be more useful to him, and a cottage tome.”
“But why not sell the house?” I asked.
“I mustn’t.”
“Let it, then?”
“No, I mustn’t do that either.”
I looked puzzled, and my companion smiled.
“I’ll tell you how it is, if it won’t bore you,” said he.
“On the contrary, I should be exceedingly interested.”
“I think, after your kind attention to me, I cannot do less than relieveany curiosity that you may feel. You must know that my father wasStanislaus Stanniford, the banker.”
Stanniford, the banker! I remembered the name at once. His flight fromthe country some seven years before had been one of the scandals andsensations of the time.
“I see that you remember,” said my companion. “My poor father left thecountry to avoid numerous friends, whose savings he had invested in anunsuccessful speculation. He was a nervous, sensitive man, and theresponsibility quite upset his reason. He had committed no legaloffence. It was purely a matter of sentiment. He would not even face hisown family, and he died among strangers without ever letting us knowwhere he was.”
“He died!” said I.
“We could not prove his death, but we know that it must be so, becausethe speculations came right again, and so there was no reason why heshould not look any man in the face. He would have returned if he werealive. But he must have died in the last two years.”
“Why in the last two years?”
“Because we heard from him two years ago.”
“Did he not tell you then where he was living?”
“The letter came from Paris, but no address was given. It was when mypoor mother died. He wrote to me then, with some instructions and someadvice, and I have never heard from him since.”
“Had you heard before?”
“Oh, yes, we had heard before, and that’s where our mystery of thesealed door, upon which you stumbled to-night, has its origin. Pass methat desk, if you please. Here I have my father’s letters, and you arethe first man except Mr. Perceval who has seen them.”
“Who is Mr. Perceval, may I ask?”
“He was my father’s confidential clerk, and he has continued to be thefriend and adviser of my mother and then of myself. I don’t know what weshould have done without Perceval. He saw the letters, but no one else.This is the first one, which came on the very day when my father fled,seven years ago. Read it to yourself.”
This is the letter which I read:—
“MY EVER DEAREST WIFE,—
“Since Sir William told me how weak your heart is, and how harmful any shock might be, I have never talked about my business affairs to you. The time has come when at all risks I can no longer refrain from telling you that things have been going badly with me. This will cause me to leave you for a little time, but it is with the absolute assurance that we shall see each other very soon. On this you can thoroughly rely. Our parting is only for a very short time, my own darling, so don’t let it fret you, and above all don’t let it impair your health, for that is what I want above all things to avoid.
“Now, I have a request to make, and I implore you by all that binds us together to fulfil it exactly as I tell you. There are some things which I do not wish to be seen by any one in my dark room—the room which I use for photographic purposes at the end of the garden passage. To prevent any painful thoughts, I may assure you once for all, dear, that it is nothing of which I need be ashamed. But still I do not wish you or Felix to enter that room. It is locked, and I implore you when you receive this to at once place a seal over the lock, and leave it so. Do not sell or let the house, for in either case my secret will be discovered. As long as you or Felix are in the house, I know that you will comply with my wishes. When Felix is twenty-one he may enter the room—not before.
“And now, good-bye, my own best of wives. During our short separation you can consult Mr. Perceval on any matters which may arise. He has my complete confidence. I hate to leave Felix and you—even for a time—but there is really no choice.
“Ever and always your loving husband,
STANISLAUS STANNIFORD.
“June 4th, 1887.”
“These are very private family matters for me to inflict upon you,” saidmy companion, apologetically. “You must look upon it as done in yourprofessional capacity. I have wanted to speak about it for years.”
“I am honoured by your confidence,” I answered, “and exceedinglyinterested by the facts.”
“My father was a man who was noted for his almost morbid love of truth.He was always pedantically accurate. When he said, therefore, that hehoped to see my mother very soon, and when he said that he had nothingto be ashamed of in that dark room, you may rely upon it that he meantit.”
“Then what can it be?” I ejaculated.
“Neither my mother nor I could imagine. We carried out his wishes to theletter, and placed the seal upon the door; there it has been ever since.My mother lived for five years after my father’s disappearance, althoughat the time all the doctors said that she could not survive long. Herheart was terribly diseased. During the first few months she had twoletters from my father. Both had the Paris post-mark, but no address.They were short and to the same effect: that they would soon bereunited, and that she should not fret. Then there was a silence, whichlasted until her death; and then came a letter to me of so private anature that I cannot show it to you, begging me never to think evil ofhim, giving me much good advice, and saying that the sealing of the roomwas of less importance now than during the lifetime of my mother, butthat the opening might still cause pain to others, and that, therefore,he thought it best that it should be postponed until my twenty-firstyear, for the lapse of time would make things easier. In the meantime,he committed the care of the room to me; so now you can understand howit is that, although I am a very poor man, I can neither let nor sellthis great house.”
“You could mortgage it.”
“My father had already done so.”
“It is a most singular state of affairs.”
“My mother and I were gradually compelled to sell the furniture and todismiss the servants, until now, as you see, I am living unattended in asingle room. But I have only two more months.”
“What do you mean?”
“Why, that in two months I come of age. The first thing that I do willbe to op
en that door; the second, to get rid of the house.”
“Why should your father have continued to stay away when theseinvestments had recovered themselves?”
“He must be dead.”
“You say that he had not committed any legal offence when he fled thecountry?”
“None.”
“Why should he not take your mother with him?”
“I do not know.”
“Why should he conceal his address?”
“I do not know.”
“Why should he allow your mother to die and be buried without comingback?”
“I do not know.”
“My dear sir,” said I, “if I may speak with the frankness of aprofessional adviser, I should say that it is very clear that yourfather had the strongest reasons for keeping out of the country, andthat, if nothing has been proved against him, he at least thought thatsomething might be, and refused to put himself within the power of thelaw. Surely that must be obvious, for in what other possible way can thefacts be explained?”
My companion did not take my suggestion in good part.
“You had not the advantage of knowing my father, Mr. Alder,” he said,coldly. “I was only a boy when he left us, but I shall always look uponhim as my ideal man. His only fault was that he was too sensitive andtoo unselfish. That any one should lose money through him would cut himto the heart. His sense of honour was most acute, and any theory of hisdisappearance which conflicts with that is a mistaken one.”
It pleased me to hear the lad speak out so roundly, and yet I knew thatthe facts were against him, and that he was incapable of taking anunprejudiced view of the situation.
“I only speak as an outsider,” said I. “And now I must leave you, for Ihave a long walk before me. Your story has interested me so much that Ishould be glad if you could let me know the sequel.”
“Leave me your card,” said he; and so, having bade him “good-night,” Ileft him.
I heard nothing more of the matter for some time, and had almost fearedthat it would prove to be one of those fleeting experiences which driftaway from our direct observation and end only in a hope or a suspicion.One afternoon, however, a card bearing the name of Mr. J. H. Percevalwas brought up to my office in Abchurch Lane, and its bearer, a smalldry, bright-eyed fellow of fifty, was ushered in by the clerk.
“I believe, sir,” said he, “that my name has been mentioned to you by myyoung friend, Mr. Felix Stanniford?”
“Of course,” I answered, “I remember.”
“He spoke to you, I understand, about the circumstances in connectionwith the disappearance of my former employer, Mr. Stanislaus Stanniford,and the existence of a sealed room in his former residence.”
“He did.”
“And you expressed an interest in the matter.”
“It interested me extremely.”
“You are aware that we hold Mr. Stanniford’s permission to open the dooron the twenty-first birthday of his son?”
“I remember.”
“The twenty-first birthday is to-day.”
“Have you opened it?” I asked, eagerly.
“Not yet, sir,” said he, gravely. “I have reason to believe that itwould be well to have witnesses present when that door is opened. Youare a lawyer, and you are acquainted with the facts. Will you be presenton the occasion?”
“Most certainly.”
“You are employed during the day, and so am I. Shall we meet at nineo’clock at the house?”
“I will come with pleasure.”
“Then you will find us waiting for you. Good-bye, for the present.” Hebowed solemnly, and took his leave.
I kept my appointment that evening, with a brain which was weary withfruitless attempts to think out some plausible explanation of themystery which we were about to solve. Mr. Perceval and my youngacquaintance were waiting for me in the little room. I was not surprisedto see the young man looking pale and nervous, but I was ratherastonished to find the dry little City man in a state of intense, thoughpartially suppressed, excitement. His cheeks were flushed, his handstwitching, and he could not stand still for an instant.
Stanniford greeted me warmly, and thanked me many times for having come.“And now, Perceval,” said he to his companion, “I suppose there is noobstacle to our putting the thing through without delay? I shall be gladto get it over.”
The banker’s clerk took up the lamp and led the way. But he paused inthe passage outside the door, and his hand was shaking, so that thelight flickered up and down the high, bare walls.
“Mr. Stanniford,” said he, in a cracking voice, “I hope you will prepareyourself in case any shock should be awaiting you when that seal isremoved and the door is opened.”
“What could there be, Perceval? You are trying to frighten me.”
“No, Mr. Stanniford; but I should wish you to be ready ... to be bracedup ... not to allow yourself....” He had to lick his dry lips betweenevery jerky sentence, and I suddenly realized, as clearly as if he hadtold me, that he knew what was behind that closed door, and that it_was_ something terrible. “Here are the keys, Mr. Stanniford, butremember my warning!”
He had a bunch of assorted keys in his hand, and the young man snatchedthem from him. Then he thrust a knife under the discoloured red seal andjerked it off. The lamp was rattling and shaking in Perceval’s hands, soI took it from him and held it near the key hole, while Stanniford triedkey after key. At last one turned in the lock, the door flew open, hetook one step into the room, and then, with a horrible cry, the youngman fell senseless at our feet.
If I had not given heed to the clerk’s warning, and braced myself for ashock, I should certainly have dropped the lamp. The room, windowlessand bare, was fitted up as a photographic laboratory, with a tap andsink at the side of it. A shelf of bottles and measures stood at oneside, and a peculiar, heavy smell, partly chemical, partly animal,filled the air. A single table and chair were in front of us, and atthis, with his back turned towards us, a man was seated in the act ofwriting. His outline and attitude were as natural as life; but as thelight fell upon him, it made my hair rise to see that the nape of hisneck was black and wrinkled, and no thicker than my wrist. Dust lay uponhim—thick, yellow dust—upon his hair, his shoulders, his shrivelled,lemon-coloured hands. His head had fallen forward upon his breast. Hispen still rested upon a discoloured sheet of paper.
“My poor master! My poor, poor master!” cried the clerk, and the tearswere running down his cheeks.
“What!” I cried, “Mr. Stanislaus Stanniford!”
“Here he has sat for seven years. Oh, why would he do it? I begged him,I implored him, I went on my knees to him, but he would have his way.You see the key on the table. He had locked the door upon the inside.And he has written something. We must take it.”
“Yes, yes, take it, and for God’s sake, let us get out of this,” Icried; “the air is poisonous. Come, Stanniford, come!” Taking an armeach, we half led and half carried the terrified man back to his ownroom.
“It was my father!” he cried, as he recovered his consciousness. “He issitting there dead in his chair. You knew it, Perceval! This was whatyou meant when you warned me.”
“Yes, I knew it, Mr. Stanniford. I have acted for the best all along,but my position has been a terribly difficult one. For seven years Ihave known that your father was dead in that room.”
“You knew it, and never told us!”
“Don’t be harsh with me, Mr. Stanniford, sir! Make allowance for a manwho has had a hard part to play.”
“My head is swimming round. I cannot grasp it!” He staggered up, andhelped himself from the brandy bottle. “These letters to my mother andto myself—were they forgeries?”
“No, sir; your father wrote them and addressed them, and left them in mykeeping to be posted. I have followed his instructions to the veryletter in all things. He was my master, and I have obeyed him.”
The brandy had steadied the yo
ung man’s shaken nerves. “Tell me aboutit. I can stand it now,” said he.
“Well, Mr. Stanniford, you know that at one time there came a period ofgreat trouble upon your father, and he thought that many poor peoplewere about to lose their savings through his fault. He was a man who wasso tender-hearted that he could not bear the thought. It worried him andtormented him, until he determined to end his life. Oh, Mr. Stanniford,if you knew how I have prayed him and wrestled with him over it, youwould never blame me! And he in turn prayed me as no man has ever prayedme before. He had made up his mind, and he would do it in any case, hesaid; but it rested with me whether his death should be happy and easyor whether it should be most miserable. I read in his eyes that he meantwhat he said. And at last I yielded to his prayers, and I consented todo his will.
“What was troubling him was this. He had been told by the first doctorin London that his wife’s heart would fail at the slightest shock. Hehad a horror of accelerating her end, and yet his own existence hadbecome unendurable to him. How could he end himself without injuringher?
“You know now the course that he took. He wrote the letter which shereceived. There was nothing in it which was not literally true. When hespoke of seeing her again so soon, he was referring to her ownapproaching death, which he had been assured could not be delayed morethan a very few months. So convinced was he of this, that he only lefttwo letters to be forwarded at intervals after his death. She lived fiveyears, and I had no letters to send.
“He left another letter with me to be sent to you, sir, upon theoccasion of the death of your mother. I posted all these in Paris tosustain the idea of his being abroad. It was his wish that I should saynothing, and I have said nothing. I have been a faithful servant. Sevenyears after his death, he thought no doubt that the shock to thefeelings of his surviving friends would be lessened. He was alwaysconsiderate for others.”
There was silence for some time. It was broken by young Stanniford.
“I cannot blame you, Perceval. You have spared my mother a shock, whichwould certainly have broken her heart. What is that paper?”
“It is what your father was writing, sir. Shall I read it to you?”
“Do so.”
“‘I have taken the poison, and I feel it working in my veins. It isstrange, but not painful. When these words are read I shall, if mywishes have been faithfully carried out, have been dead many years.Surely no one who has lost money through me will still bear meanimosity. And you, Felix, you will forgive me this family scandal. MayGod find rest for a sorely wearied spirit!’”
“Amen!” we cried, all three.
Round the Fire Stories Page 12