Mr. Marx's Secret Part 16

Side by side we began to descend the hill. Our path wound around several freshly-planted spinneys and then led through a plantation of pine-trees.

Then we turned with regret, so far as I was concerned, into the muddy road again and walked for more than a mile between high, straight hedges.

At last, soon after mid-day, we turned to the left, pa.s.sed through a farmyard and along a winding path, which led us, now by the side of turnip fields, now across bracken-covered open country, to the summit of our last hill.

Here again we paused. Below us, close up against the background of the colourless hills, drearily situated in the bleakest spot of the austere landscape, the straight spires and severely simple buildings of the monastery were cl.u.s.tered together. A little above it, on an artificial eminence of rock, a rude cross stood out in vivid relief against the sky, and on this my mother's eyes were fixed with a sort of rapt wistfulness, as we stood side by side on the top of the hill looking downwards.

It was a fitting spot that these men--who counted it among their virtues that in their rigid self-immolation they had cut themselves off even from the beauties of Nature--had chosen for their habitation. But although the place had a peculiar impressiveness of its own, which never failed to exercise a sort of fascination upon me, I was glad to-day when my mother moved forward again.

As we neared the end of our journey and turned in at the long, straight avenue which led to the monastery doors, the strange agitation which I had noticed in my mother's manner during the earlier part of the day visibly increased. The cold inexpressiveness which had dwelt for so long in her face vanished, and into it there crept a look which, having once seen, I cared not to look upon again. It seemed as though she were endeavouring to brace herself up for some tremendous ordeal, and I would have given anything to have been able to put into words the sympathy which had risen up strongly within me.

Unnatural, cold, severe and, at the best of times, indifferent, as she had lately been to me, she was still my mother and I loved her. But I dared not break in with words upon the fierce anguish which was already beginning to leave its marks upon her white, strained face. Only when we stood before the bare stone front of the monastery, and with feeble fingers she had pulled the great iron bell, could I speak at all, and then the words were not such as I wished to speak. Afterwards, when I thought of them--and I often did think of them and of every trifling incident of that memorable walk--they seemed to me weak and ill-chosen.

But, such as they were, I am glad that I spoke them.

She listened as one whose thoughts were far away, but when I ceased, breathless, she laid her hand upon my arm and, with her dim, sad eyes looking into mine, said simply:

"This is for your sake, Philip--for your sake!"

Then, before I could ask her what she meant, the great door slowly opened and the guest-master stood before us. She pa.s.sed him with a silent salutation and vanished on her way to the chapel; and, though I watched her longingly, I dared not follow. Then, declining Father Bernard's invitation to go to his room and rest, I turned away from the door and wandered into the grounds.

Hour after hour of the brief winter's day pa.s.sed away. Father Bernard came out in search of me and offered me refreshments; but I shook my head. I could not eat, nor drink, nor rest. A strange but powerful apprehension of some coming crisis in my life--some great evil connected with my mother's visit to this place--had laid hold of me, and all my struggles against it were impotent.

It was late in the afternoon before she came. I had climbed up to the top of "Calvary" and, with sick heart and longing eyes, was watching the door from which she must issue. Suddenly it was opened and she stood for a moment upon the threshold looking around for me. To my dying day I shall think of her as I saw her then.

Her face was the face of a saint--calm, pa.s.sionless, and happy, with a gentle, chastened happiness. I knew, when I looked upon her, that she had left the burden of her great sorrow behind. But she had paid a price for it. Pale and fragile as she had always appeared, she seemed now to have been wasted by some fierce, scathing ordeal, which had driven out of her features everything human and left only a spiritual life. As she moved slowly forward into the drive and I saw her even more distinctly, she seemed to me to have gained a strange, new beauty; but it was a beauty which made me look upon her with a sudden shuddering fear.

I hurried down to her side and she welcomed me with a smile such as I had seldom seen on her face, and which was altogether in harmony with her softened expression. Then she took my arm and we turned towards home.

"You are happier now, mother?" I ventured to ask her, and she answered me by silently pressing my arm.

We pa.s.sed down the avenue, thickly strewn with decaying leaves, along the winding lane, and through the gate which led up to Ive's Head Hill. Once or twice as we were making the ascent I fancied that she hung heavily upon my arm and I asked if she were tired; but she only shook her head.

We had reached the summit before the terrible fear which had been gnawing at my heart took definite shape. Then, for the first time since we had started upon our return journey, I was able to look into her face, which she had been keeping averted from me, and when I saw the ghastly change which had crept into it, my heart stood still and all my senses seemed numbed with fear.

"Mother," I cried, "you are ill! What is the matter? Oh, speak to me--do!"

She had fallen into my arms, and her hands, which touched mine as they fell to her side, were as cold as ice. Her face was like the face of one who has already triumphed over the shadows of death. Far away at our feet the Cross of Calvary was standing out with rugged vividness against the fast darkening sky and upon it her closing eyes were steadily fixed. Her lips were slightly parted in a happy, confident smile, and her whole being seemed absorbed in the most religious devotion. Once she whispered my name and faintly pressed my hand; then her lips moved again and I heard the dread sound of the solemn prayer, faltered out in a broken whisper, "_In ma.n.u.s Tuas, Domine_!"

In my heart I knew that she was dying, and that human help would be of no avail. Yet I was loth to abandon all hope, and setting her gently down I looked anxiously around. On the summit of the next range of hills a man was sitting on horseback, looking down upon the monastery--a motionless figure against the sky. I cried out to him, and at the sound of my voice he started round and looked towards us; then, suddenly digging the spurs deep into the sides of his great black horse, he came thundering up the side of the hill at a pace which made the ground shake beneath my feet like the tremblings of an earthquake.

"What is wrong?" he cried hoa.r.s.ely; and, looking into his face, I recognised Mr. Ravenor.

I pointed to my mother's prostrate figure, and, gazing at him with dry eyes, I answered mechanically:

"She is dying!"

The words had scarcely left my lips before he had leaped from his horse, and, pa.s.sing his arm around her, bent over her pallid face.

"Oh, this is horrible!" he murmured. "You must not die--you must not die!

I have----"

His voice seemed choked with emotion and he did not finish his sentence.

She spoke to him, but so softly that I could not hear the words.

I walked a few yards away and once more looked wildly round. Far away on the dark hillside I could see the white-robed figures of the lay brethren bending over their labour. Nearer there was no one. The road below was deserted and a deep stillness seemed brooding over the bare, shadowy landscape. Sick at heart I turned back and fell on my knees by my mother's side.

We remained there, fearing almost to look into her face, until the twilight deepened upon the hills and slowly blotted out from our view even the dark cross standing up against the grey sky. Then Mr. Ravenor leaned for a moment forward and a low groan escaped from his lips. It told me what I dreaded--that my mother was dead!

CHAPTER XXI.

A MESSAGE FROM THE DEAD.

The paroxysm of my grief pa.s.sed slowly away, and I rose to my feet and looked around with streaming eyes. Mr. Ravenor was still by my side, and together we carried my mother back to the monastery. The news of our approach had preceded us, and long before we reached our journey's end the solemn minute-bell was tolling out to the silent night, awakening strange echoes in the hills and finding a reverberation of its mournfulness in my heart.

Austere and impressive as the great bare front of the monastery had always appeared to me, it had never seemed so cold and desolate as when our melancholy little procession wound round the Hill of Calvary and slowly approached the entrance. The gloom of a winter's evening was hanging around the building, which, with never a ray of light from any part, looked like a habitation of the dead--a gigantic vault.

But suddenly, as we drew near, the front door was slowly opened and the dark figure of a monk, holding above his head a lighted taper, stood on the steps and in a low monotone repeated a Latin prayer. When he ceased there was a moment's silence, and then from the chapel there came the sound 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 can recall but little. But I remember that, long past midnight, when I had thrown myself down upon the stone floor of the guest-chamber, I heard soft steps and the rustle of garments approaching me, and, looking up, I saw the sweetest face I ever beheld in man or woman looking down into mine 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 first he handed me a small packet.

"This was left in my charge for you, Philip Morton," he said. "Little did I 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 clearly to read it, I pushed open the narrow, diamond-framed window, and the moonlight filled the little room with a soft, mellowed light. Then I read:

"The Barnwood Monastery of St. Clement's, "_November 19th, 18--._

"My dearest Son,--I write these lines to you, Philip, feeling happier than I have done for many years, because I have a deep and sure conviction that my life is drawing fast to a close, and that the end may come at any minute. Alas! my son, I feel that I have not been to you all that a mother should be. It may be that my coldness has alienated from me the love which I know you have been willing to give. It may be so; but I choose rather to believe that you will pity me when I tell you that the coldness which has grown up between us was none of my choosing, but was only part of a terrible punishment which I have had to bear for many weary 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 whose discretion 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 bear me--and which, G.o.d knows, I have for you--I beg you to wait until that time comes and not seek to hasten it.

"Think of me as kindly as you can, dear. If the path which I chose to follow was not the wisest, I have, at least, suffered terribly for it.

For many weary years grief and horror and remorse have been making my life one long purgatory. Yes, I have suffered indeed. But at last I have found peace.

"Do not marvel at what I am going to tell you, Philip. My will--the little I have to leave is yours--is drawn up and signed and I have appointed Mr. Ravenor your guardian. There are reasons for this which you cannot know, but he will be only too glad to accept the charge; and in all things, Philip, even if he should desire you altogether to change your position in life, follow his command and submit to his wishes.

"Farewell, my beloved son--farewell! G.o.d grant that your life may be good and happy, and that your last days may be as peaceful as mine. I can wish you nothing better. Once more, farewell!--Your affectionate

"Mother."

CHAPTER XXII.

FOR LIFE.