When I told my mother that I was contented with the disposition my
father had made of the property I spoke the truth, but I did not
intend to imply that I was contented with the position in which I
found myself after my father's death. Not with respect to money--that
was the last of my thoughts; indeed, my mother placed at my disposal
more than sufficient funds; but that I, who had by this time grown to
manhood, should be still confined in leading strings, hurt and galled
me. I chafed inwardly at the restraint, and it will be readily
understood that my feelings on this matter did not bring my mother and
me closer to each other. I did not, however, give expression to them;
I schooled myself into a certain philosophical resignation, and took
refuge in my books and studies.
Wide as had always been the breach--I can find no other word to
express the attitude we held towards each other--between Mrs. Fortress
and myself, it grew wider as time progressed. We seldom addressed a
word to each other. To do her justice she seemed to desire a more
familiar intercourse as little as I did. Her demeanour was
consistently respectful, and she did not exercise her authority
obtrusively or offensively. Everything went on in the house as usual.
My wants were attended to with regularity, and I may even say that
they were anticipated. To all outward appearance I had nothing
whatever to complain of, but the independence of spirit which develops
with our manhood, the consciousness that we are strong enough to
depend upon ourselves and to walk alone, the growing pride which
imparts a true or false confidence in our maturing powers--all these
were in silent rebellion within me, and rendered me at times restless
and dissatisfied. What it might have led to is hard to say, but the
difficulty was solved without action on my part. Within twelve months
of my father's death I was a free man, free to go whither I would, to
choose my own mode of life, to visit new lands if I cared. The chains
which had bound me fell loose, and I was my own master.
It was in the dead of a hot summer night, and I was sitting alone by
the window in my favourite room. The sultry air scarcely stirred the
curtains, and I saw in the sky the signs of a coming storm. I hoped it
would burst soon; I knew that I should welcome with gratitude the rain
and the cooler air. Such sweet, fresh moments, when an oppressively
hot day has drawn to its close, may be accepted--with a certain
extravagance of metaphor, I admit--as Nature's purification of sin.
All was still and quiet; only shadows lived and moved about. Midnight
struck. That hour to me was always fraught with mysterious
significance.
From where I sat I could see the house in which my mother lay. It had
happened on that day, as I strolled through the woods, that I had been
witness of the love which a mother had for her child. The child was
young, the mother was middle-aged, and not pretty, but when she looked
at her child, and held out her arms to receive it, as it ran laughing
towards her with its fair hair tumbled about its head, her plain face
became glorified. Its spiritual beauty smote me with pain; the child's
glad voice made me tremble. Some dim sense of what had never been mine
forced itself into my soul.
I had the power--which I had no doubt unconsciously cultivated--of
raising pictures in the air, and I called up now this picture of the
mother and her child. "Are all children like that," I thought, "and
are all mothers--except me and mine?" If so, I had been robbed.
The door of the great house slowly opened, and the form of a woman
stepped forth. It walked in my direction, and stopped beneath my
window.
"Are you up there, Master Gabriel?"
It was Mrs. Fortress who spoke.
"Yes, I am here."
"Your mother wishes to see you."
I went down immediately, and joined Mrs. Fortress.
"Did she send you for me?"
"Yes, or I should not be here."
"She is very ill?"
"She is not well."
The grudging words angered me, and I motioned the woman to precede me
to the house. She led me to my mother's bedside.
I had never been allowed so free an intercourse with my mother as upon
this occasion. Mrs. Fortress did not leave the room, but she retired
behind the curtains of the bed, and did not interrupt our
conversation.
"You are ill, mother?"
"I am dying, Gabriel."
I was prepared for it, and I had expected to see in her some sign of
the shadow of death. When the dread visitant stands by the side of a
mortal, there should be some indication of its presence. Here there
was none. My mother's face retained the wild beauty which had ever
distinguished it. All that I noted was that her eyes occasionally
wandered around, with a look in them which expressed a kind of fear
and pity for herself.
"You speak of dying, mother," I said. "I hope you will live for many
years yet."
"Why do you hope it?" she asked. "Has my life given you joy--has it
sweetened the currents of yours?"
There was a strange wistfulness in her voice, a note of wailing
against an inexorable fate. Her words brought before me again the
picture of the mother and her child I had seen that day in the woods.
Joy! Sweetness! No, my mother had given me but little of these. It was
so dim as to be scarcely a memory that when I was a little babe she
would press me tenderly to her bosom, would sing to me, would coo over
me, as must surely be the fashion of loving mothers with their
offspring. It is with no idea of casting reproach upon her that I say
she bequeathed to me no legacy of motherly tenderness.
We conversed for nearly an hour. Our conversation was intermittent;
there were long pauses in it, and wanderings from one subject to
another. This was occasioned by my mother's condition; it was not
possible for her to keep her mind upon one theme, and to exhaust it.
"You looked among your father's papers, Gabriel?"
"Yes, mother."
"What did you find?" She seemed to shrink from me as she asked this
question.
"Only his Will, and a few unimportant papers."
"Nothing else?"
"Nothing."
"Gabriel," she said, presently, "I wish you to promise me that you
will make, in years to come, a faithful record of the circumstances of
your life, and of your secret thoughts and promptings." She paused,
and when she spoke again appeared to lose sight of the promise she
wished to exact from me. "You are sure your father left no special
papers for you to read after his death?"
"I found none," I said, much moved at this iteration of a mystery
which was evidently weighing heavily upon her.
"Perhaps," she murmured, "he thought silence kindest and wisest."
I strove to keep her mind upon this theme, for I was profoundly
agitated by her strange words, but I found it impossible. Her hands
moved feebly about the coverlet, her eyes wandered still more
restlessly around. My cunningest endeavours failed to woo her back to
the subject; her speech became so wild and whirling that I was not
ungrateful to Mrs. Fortress when she emerged from behind the curtains,
and led me firmly out of the room. I turned on the threshold to look
at my mother; her face was towards me, but she did not recognise me.
On the evening of the following day I was walking moodily about the
grounds between the house and the cottage, thinking of the interview,
and reproaching myself for want of feeling. Was it that I was
deficient in humanity that I did not find myself overwhelmed with
grief by the conviction that my mother was dying? No thought but of
her critical condition should have held place in my mind, and the
weight of my genuine sorrow should have impressed itself upon
surrounding nature. It was not so; my grief was trivial, artificial,
and I bitterly accused myself. But if natural love would not come from
the prompting of my heart, I could at least perform a duty. My mother
should not be left to draw her last breath with not one of her kin by
her bedside.
I entered the house. In the passage which led to my mother's room I
was confronted by Mrs. Fortress. She had heard my footsteps, and came
out to meet me.
"What do you want, Mr. Gabriel?"
"I must see my mother."
"You cannot; It would hasten her end."
"Has she not asked for me?"
"No; if she wished to see you she would have sent for you."
It was a truthful indication of the position; I had never gone
unbidden to my mother's room.
We spoke in low tones. My voice was tremulous, Mrs. Fortress's was
cold and firm.
"If not now," I said, "I must see her to-morrow."
"You shall see her," said Mrs. Fortress, "within the next twenty-four
hours."
I passed the evening in my cottage, trying to read. I could not fix my
mind upon the page. I indulged in weird fancies, and once, putting out
the lights, cried:
"If the Angel of Death is near, let him appear!"
There was no sign, and I sat in the dark till I heard a tapping at my
door. I opened it, and heard Mrs. Fortress's voice.
"You can see your mother," she said.
I accompanied her to the sick room, the bedside of my mother. She was
dead.
"It is a happy release," Mrs. Fortress said.