WHAT MAGDALEN FOUND IN THE GARRET.
Magdalen had not forgotten “the loose plank,” but since the night of her
adventure in the garret she had never been near that part of the
building, though sorely tempted to do so every day and hour of her life.
It seemed to her as if some powerful influence was urging her on toward
the garret, while a still more powerful influence to which she gave no
name was constantly holding her back. She had puzzled over the loose
plank, and dreamed of it, and speculated upon it, and wondered if there
was anything under it, and if so, was it—, she never quite said _what_,
even to herself, for it seemed to her that she should in some way be
wronging Roger if she breathed the name of _will_. Of one thing,
however, she felt certain; if there _was_ a paper secreted in the
garret, old Hester knew of it, and had had a hand in hiding it; and once
she thought of quizzing Aleck to see if he too knew about it. She could
not have done much with him, for had he known of the will, he would, if
questioned with regard to it, have been so deaf that everybody in the
house would have heard the conversation. Aleck was not fond of talking,
and in order to avoid it, had a way, as Hester said, of affecting to be
deafer than he was, and so was usually left in peace. He always heard
Roger, and generally Magdalen; but to the rest of the household he was
as deaf as a post unless it suited him to hear. It was useless to
question him, and so Magdalen kept her own counsel for two weeks after
that memorable night when Roger had shared her vigils, and from which
time Hester’s recovery had been rapid.
She was able now to sit up all day, but had not yet been to the kitchen,
and when she asked Magdalen to go and shut the garret window which she
had left open in the morning and into which she was sure the rain was
pouring, Magdalen expressed a good deal of surprise that she should have
ventured into the garret, and asked why she went there.
“I wanted to look over them clothes in the chest; I knew they needed
airin’,” Hester said, and Magdalen accepted the explanation and started
for the garret.
It was raining fast, and as she opened the door which led up the stairs,
a gust of wind blew down into her face, and she heard the heavy rain
drops on the roof. The window was open as Hester had said, and Magdalen
shut it, and then stood a moment looking off upon the river and the
hills over which the April shower was sweeping in misty sheets. To the
right lay the little village of Belvidere, where Roger’s office was. She
could see the white building nestled among the elms in one corner of the
common, and the sight of it made her heart beat faster than its wont,
and brought before her the scene of the morning when Roger had held her
hand in his, and looked so kindly into her eyes. She could feel the
pressure of his broad, warm hand even now, and she felt her cheeks grow
hot beneath the look which seemed to beam upon her here in the gloomy
garret where there was only rubbish, and rats, and barrels, and chests,
and loose planks under the roof. She started, almost guiltily, when she
remembered the latter, and turned her face resolutely from that part of
the room, lest she should go that way and see for herself what was
hidden there. Hester had said, “I went to air the clothes in the old
chest,” and Magdalen turned to the chest and looked at it, carelessly at
first, then more closely, and finally went down on her knees to examine
something which made her grow cold and faint for a moment.
It was nothing but a large cobweb, but it covered the entire fastening
of the chest, stretching from the lid down across the keyhole, and
showing plainly that the chest had not been open in weeks. It could not
be opened without disturbing the cobweb, for Magdalen tried it, and saw
the fleecy thing torn apart as she lifted the lid. There was a paper
package lying on top of the linen, and from a rent in one corner
Magdalen saw a bit of the dress she had worn to Millbank. It was years
since she had seen it, and at the sight of it now she felt a thrill of
pain, and turned her head away. There was too much of mystery and
humiliation connected with that little dress for her to care to look at
it; and she shut the lid quickly, and said to herself, as she turned
away:
“Hester has not opened the chest to-day. What, then, was she here for?”
Then, swift as lightning, the answer came:
“She was here to look after whatever is hidden under that loose plank,
and probably to remove it.”
Yes, that was the solution of the mystery. If there _had_ been anything
under the floor, it had been transferred to some other hiding-place,
and, woman-like, Magdalen began to feel a little sorry that she had lost
her chance for knowing what was there.
“There can be no harm in looking now, if it is really gone,” she said;
and following some impulse she did not try to resist, she went toward
that part of the garret, putting a broken chair out of her way, and
bending down beneath the slanting rafters.
It was raining hard, and she went back a step or two, and glanced at the
window against which the storm was beating. She was not afraid there, in
broad daylight; but a strange feeling of awe and dread began to creep
over her, mingled with a firmer determination to explore that spot under
the floor. She did not believe she should find anything, but she _must_
look,—she must satisfy herself, let the consequence be what it might.
She did not think of Roger, nor the will, nor Frank, but, strange to
say, a thought of _Jessie_ crossed her mind,—Jessie, the drowned woman,
who seemed so near to her that she involuntarily looked over her
shoulder to see if a spectre were there. Then she bent low under the
beams,—went nearer to the loose plank,—had her hands upon it, and knew
that it did not fit as perfectly as on that night when she first
discovered it. It had been moved. Somebody had been there recently, and,
trembling with excitement, Magdalen grasped the plank, and drew it up
from its position, shrinking a little from the dark opening which looked
so like a grave. Gradually, as she saw clearer, she could distinguish
the lath and plastering, with bits of chips and shavings and sawdust,
and signs that the rats lived there. Then, leaning forward, she peered
down under the floor, looking to the north, looking to the east, then to
the south, and lastly to the west, where, pushed back as far as possible
from sight, was a little box, the cover of which was tied firmly down
with a bit of white Marseilles braid, such as Magdalen was trimming her
dress with a few days before in Hester Floyd’s room. She had missed
about half a yard, which could not at the time be found, but she had
found it now, and she grew dizzy and faint as she reached for the box,
and brought it out to the daylight.
Whatever the mystery was, she had it in her hands, and she sat down upon
a chair to recover her breath, and decide what she should do.
“Put it back where you found it,” was suggested to her; but she could
not do that, and seemingly without an effort on her part her fingers
nervously untied the hard knot, then slowly unwound the braid, which she
examined to see if it was soiled, and if there was not enough for the
pocket of her sack, if she decided to have one.
She thought there was, and she laid it on her lap and then opened the
lid!
There were two packages inside, and both were wrapped in thick brown
paper, which Magdalen removed carefully, and without the least agitation
now. Her excitement had either passed or was so great that she did not
heed it, and she was conscious of no emotions whatever as she sat there
removing the paper wrappings from what seemed to be a _letter_, an old,
yellow, soiled letter, directed to “Master Roger L. Irving,” in a
handwriting she did not know. She did not open the letter, but she read
the name and whispered it to herself, and thought by some strange
accident of that morning by the river when Roger had spoken of working
for her with his hands, and of her helping him in case he should lose
Millbank. Why she should recall that incident she could not tell any
more than she could guess that she held in her hands that which would
eventually lead to just such an alternative as Roger had suggested.
She put the letter down, and took the other package and removed its
wrappings and turned it to the light, uttering a cry of terror and
surprise at what was written there. She must read it,—she _would_ read
it and know the worst, and she opened the worn document, which was dated
back so many years, and read it through while her fingers seemed to grow
big and numb, and she felt her arms prickle to her shoulders. Once she
thought of paralysis, as the strange sensation went creeping through her
whole system, and she was conscious of feeling that she merited some
such punishment for the idle curiosity which had resulted so
disastrously.
She read every word that was written on the paper, and understood it,
too,—that is, understood what the dead old man had done, but not _why_
he had done it. That was something for which she could find no excuse,
no reason. Doubtless the letter directed to Roger contained the
explanation, if there was one; but that was sacred to her,—that was
Roger’s alone. She could not meddle with that; she would give it to him
just as she had found it.
“Poor wronged Roger; it will kill him,” she moaned; “and to think that I
should be the instrument of his ruin.”
She was rocking to and fro in her distress, with her hands locked
together around her knees, and her head bowed in her lap. What could she
do? What should she do? she asked herself, and something answered again,
“Put it where you found it, and keep your own counsel.”
Surely that advice was good, and Magdalen started to follow it, when
suddenly there came back to her the words, “If I believed it, I would
move heaven and earth to find it.”
Roger had spoken thus on that summer morning, which seemed so long ago.
Roger was honest; Roger was just; Roger would bid her take that dreadful
paper to him, though total ruin was the result.
Twice Magdalen started for the dark opening under the roof and as often
stopped suddenly, until at last, overcome with excitement and anguish,
she crouched down upon the floor, and moaned piteously, “Oh, Roger,
Roger, if you must be ruined, I wish it had fallen to the lot of some
other one to ruin you. Was it for this you brought me here? for this you
have been so kind to me? Oh, Roger, I cannot live to see you a beggar.
Why was it done? What was it for?”
The words she uttered were not intelligible, and only her sobbing moans
met Frank’s ear and sent him up the steep stairway to where she sat with
her face buried in her lap and the fatal paper clutched firmly in her
hand.
“Magdalen, what is it? What has happened to you?” Frank asked, and then
Magdalen first became aware of his presence.
Uttering a low scream she struggled to her feet, and turned toward him a
face the expression of which he never forgot, it was so full of pain and
anguish, of terror and mute entreaty. There was no escape now, for he
was there with her,—the heir, the supplanter of poor Roger. Heaven would
not suffer her to hide it as she might have done if left alone a little
longer. It had sent Frank to prevent the wrong, and she must do the
right in spite of herself. Magdalen thought all this during the moment
she stood confronting Frank,—then reaching toward him the soiled yellow
paper, she whispered hoarsely:
“Take it, Frank. It is yours, _all yours_; but oh, be merciful to
Roger.”
Mechanically Frank took the paper from her, and the next moment she was
on her knees before him trying to articulate something about “Roger,
poor Roger,” but failing in the effort. The sight of that paper in
Frank’s hands, and knowing that with it he held everything which Roger
prized so dearly, took sense and strength away, and she fainted at his
feet.
MAGDALEN HAD FOUND THE WILL!