Cousin Geoffrey had sealed his letter with red wax. He had stamped the
seal with his own signet-ring, which gave the impress of a coat-of-arms
with a quaint device. That device became a household word with me by
and by, but I was too impatient even to trouble myself to decipher it
just then. I spread the thick sheets of paper before me, and gave
myself up to the luxury of satisfying the most burning curiosity which
surely ever besieged a girl.
Cousin Geoffrey's letter--a letter addressed to myself, well and
carefully written--was far too long to make it possible for me to quote
it here. I read it once, twice, three times. Then I sat with my hands
before me, the open sheets of paper lying on my lap, my eyes fixed on
vacancy. Two or three candles were lighted in my room; one by one they
burnt low in the socket, and expired. I was in the dark, not mentally
but physically. There was no darkness in my mental vision that night;
my mind was so active that my body was incapable of feeling either
fatigue or cold, and my eyes were incapable of noticing the thick
darkness which surrounded them.
This was my position: I was an heiress of Cousin Geoffrey's wealth. On
certain conditions I was to inherit exactly one-half of his houses and
lands, of his money in stocks and shares, and in the English Funds. I
could have for my own, exactly one-half of the marvellous treasures
which filled the old house. I could divide those shawls from Cashmere,
those sandal-wood boxes from China, those quaint embroideries from
Persia. Even the half of those lovely painted windows in the Chamber of
Myths would belong to me.
It was very funny. I could not help almost laughing, as I sat in the
dark, with Cousin Geoffrey's open letter on my lap, over the persistency
with which I would think of the treasures which the Chamber of Myths
contained. Which Cashmere shawl might I take? Which piece of
embroidery might I clasp to my heart as my very, very own? Above all,
which of the painted windows might in future be known as Rosamund
Lindley's window--hers and no one else's?
I felt far, far more anxious about these comparatively minor matters
than I did about the money in the Funds and the landed possessions,
one-half of which also belonged to me.
Alack and alas! the news in the letter had nearly stunned me. I found
that I was incapable of clear reasoning. What a fool I was--what an
idiotic girl--to plan and consider, and think of Cashmere shawls and
Indian embroideries and painted windows, and wonder which would fall to
my share--which of the beautiful things I might claim as my own.
My own! Cousin Geoffrey gave me nothing, nothing whatever of all his
wealth as my own absolutely.
On a certain condition I might have half. Half of the money, half of
the treasures, should be settled on me and on my children for ever, if--
ah, here was the rub, here was the astounding discovery which took my
breath away and paralysed me, and made me incapable of any consecutive
thought beyond a burning sense of shame and anger. I was to have these
riches if I fulfilled a condition.
This was the condition. I was to marry the heir of all the other half
of the wealth and the beauty. The other half of Cousin Geoffrey's
riches was left to my almost unknown cousin, Tom Valentine. He was to
possess his half if he married me. I was to take possession of my half
on the day I became his wife.
"I like you, Rosamund Lindley," Cousin Geoffrey had said in his letter;
"you are no beggar, and no fawner. You are a simple-minded, honest,
downright English girl. You have courage, too, and I always respect
courage. You have come to me to help you with your art. You have done
this with such a ludicrous, belief in yourself and your own powers, with
such a simple sort of vanity, that I should probably have tried to cure
it by granting your request had you come to me as a stranger. But I
cannot look upon you as a stranger, Rosamund; you belong to my own kith
and kin, and you are the daughter of the woman I love best on earth.
Because you are Mary Rutherford's daughter I give you half my wealth _if
you fulfil the conditions I require_!"
I knew these words of the long letter almost by heart; I said them over
to myself many times.
When the first light of morning dawned I rose from my chair, stretched
my cramped limbs, pinched my arms to see if I were awake or if I had
only been going through a horrid nightmare; opened the window, took in a
draught of the cool morning air, and putting Cousin Geoffrey's letter
into my pocket went down-stairs.
The place looked as I had left it last night--our maid-of-all-work had
not yet come down-stairs. Ugly Poverty surrounded me, and once more it
hemmed me tightly around, and made its presence more felt even than of
old, I had looked into a land of promise--an ideal and lovely country.
I had thought to enter; but alas! iron bars of pride, of maidenly
modesty, of right feeling, of even righteousness, kept me out. All the
womanhood within me declared wildly and desperately--
"Even to enter into that promised land you shall not sell yourself?"
Ugly Poverty and I must still be close acquaintances--nay more, we must
be intimate friends, even comrades, walking the path of life side by
side and hand in hand.