THE OAK ROOM.
VERY merrily passed that Tuesday evening at Cortley Hall. Neighbours
"dropped in" to tea, Sophia arrived from London, her luggage swelled
to an unreasonable size by divers boxes and parcels labelled "glass,"
and "with care," with which she had been entrusted for the bride. There
were so many presents, of which the unpacking gave no small amusement
to Wilfred, that he declared that his wedding-gift to Mina ought to
have been a manifold writer instead of a "lady's companion," that she
might not have had half her time taken up in penning letters of thanks.
Tom Benson, the churl, was the only one, as Wilfred affirmed, who had
not done his duty, nor given so much as a flower to the bride.
There were songs and mirth, laughing and banter, interspersed with
the pleasant preparations for a village wedding, in the feasting
and gladness of which all the poor around were to share. The young
clergyman and his betrothed were deeply, tranquilly happy, the
bridesmaids full of frolic and fun, and Wilfred, the merriest, noisiest
"best man" that ever wore a white favour. There was to him nothing but
pleasure in the prospect of the marriage. There would be no separation
from the sister whom he fondly loved, for the Vicarage was so near to
the Hall that Wilfred considered that he should only possess two happy
homes instead of one.
It was late before the cheerful circle dispersed, for time seemed too
rich in enjoyment for much to be wasted in sleep. With a light step
and lighter heart, whistling the merry song of "The Squire," Wilfred
retired to the old Oak chamber; but there was something in the solemn
aspect of the room which, as soon as he entered, stopped his music
if it did not damp his spirits. The gleam of his solitary candle so
dimly lighted the dark carved panels, the massive furniture, the
heavily-draperied bed, that it seemed but to make darkness visible. One
of the pillars of that bed, blackened and charred, bore token yet of
the awful fate which had befallen the last owner of Cortley Hall.
Wilfred examined it with thrilling interest, and felt less disposed
than he had done by day to laugh at the feelings of Sophia. His mind
would perpetually recur to the miserable old man who had retired to
rest in that very room, as little expecting to rise no more as the boy
who now occupied his place. There had he lain, just there, the candle
by the bedside, the bottle on the table, the novel in his hand. There
had he fallen asleep—and oh! What an awful waking!
Wilfred found such thoughts depressing after the gay excitement of
the evening. He hurried over his toilet, extinguished his candle, and
stretched himself on the bed; he wished to sleep, but sleep would not
come at his bidding. He tried to turn his mind to Mina and her fair
prospects, but his thoughts again and again returned to the poor old
man who had perished by fire in that place, unwarned and unprepared!
"I think that this room has never lost the suffocating heat of that
fire!" exclaimed Wilfred at last, with feverish restlessness. "I feel
hardly able to breathe! How stupid I was not to throw the window wide
open, to let in a little fresh air!"
The boy pulled back his curtain, and rose, feeling his way towards the
window by the wall. As he groped thus along, passing his hand over each
panel, to his surprise Wilfred felt one of them slightly move under
his pressure. He felt angry with himself for the little start which he
gave; and his curiosity being aroused, the boy drew the panel backwards
with stronger force, and thus assured himself that he had made no
mistake in imagining that he was able to move it.
"I may have made some grand discovery," said Wilfred, half aloud. "I
may have found some secret hiding-place for treasure! There's no saying
what a store of old family plate or family jewels may lie behind that
sliding panel. If only the room were not so dark. The moon is up, I
fancy, and the window looks to the east; but there's as much stone as
glass in it, and the glass itself is stained, so that the casement
seems expressly contrived to let in as little light as may be. I must
light my candle again, if only I knew where to find the matchbox."
Wilfred groped, and felt, and fumbled, knocked over the candlestick
in his search for the box, and started at the sudden noise in the
stillness of that dark apartment. It was several minutes before he was
able to get a light, which seemed to burn dimly and heavily in the hot,
close air of the room. Wilfred instantly returned with the candle to
the spot where he had moved back the panel. The place was marked by
what looked like a broad black line on the wall; the boy soon widened
the opening, and put his hand into the recess. Wilfred could feel but
one thing within it, and that was a long parchment roll. Burning with
intense curiosity to know its contents, he drew out the roll, and,
after placing his candle upon a table, seated himself on a heavy carved
armchair beside it, to examine his prize at his leisure.
"Some great document, awfully long, and all written in black letter,
with a big red seal at the bottom! I dare say that I shall understand
as little of it as if it were all in Hebrew. Oh! Here's a date. I guess
that it will show the deed to be centuries old. No, 'eighteen hundred
and thirty-eight,' that's only ten years before I was born. Here are
signatures at the bottom. What a frightfully crabbed hand! 'Josiah
Marsden,' that's the name of my great-uncle, who was burned to death in
this room. I dare say that this is only some document relating to the
Cortley estate."
Wilfred rolling up the parchment from the bottom, so as to examine with
greater ease what was written at the top. "Last will and testament of
Josiah Marsden." Wilfred felt a little nervousness, for which he could
hardly have accounted, as he slowly made out the first line. With a
little difficulty, as he was unaccustomed to read black letter, and the
tedious forms and repetitions of a law-deed made it difficult to be
understood, Wilfred went on with his perusal.
A description of all the demesnes of the Cortley estate, which,
comprising the minutest particulars, stretched through some hundred
most tedious lines, closed with one which, like a sudden apparition,
blanched the cheek of the boy, made his hand tremble, and his heart
beat fast. "To my nephew Thomas Benson and his heirs."
Wilfred could not, would not at first believe the evidence of his
senses. He rubbed his eyes as if they must be in fault, shook himself
with the idea of awaking from what he almost hoped might be but a
dream, looked again at the yellow parchment with its thick black
letters, in which the hated name appeared so painfully distinct.
Wilfred read and re-read the will, with a desperate hope of finding out
that he had mistaken its meaning. Each perusal made the fact but more
clear that his father was not mentioned in the will, though by birth
next of kin; that the old man had bequeathed Cortley Hall, with all
the surrounding estate, fields, cottages, and timber, and the gift of
presentation to the adjoining living, to his nephew, Thomas Benson, and
his heirs!
In a paroxysm of passionate rage, Wilfred dashed the parchment on the
floor, and throwing himself back in his chair, groaned aloud in his
anguish of soul.