“June 4th, 1887.”
“These are very private family matters for me to inflict upon you,” said
my companion, apologetically. “You must look upon it as done in your
professional capacity. I have wanted to speak about it for years.”
“I am honoured by your confidence,” I answered, “and exceedingly
interested by the facts.”
“My father was a man who was noted for his almost morbid love of truth.
He was always pedantically accurate. When he said, therefore, that he
hoped to see my mother very soon, and when he said that he had nothing
to be ashamed of in that dark room, you may rely upon it that he meant
it.”
“Then what can it be?” I ejaculated.
“Neither my mother nor I could imagine. We carried out his wishes to the
letter, and placed the seal upon the door; there it has been ever since.
My mother lived for five years after my father’s disappearance, although
at the time all the doctors said that she could not survive long. Her
heart was terribly diseased. During the first few months she had two
letters from my father. Both had the Paris post-mark, but no address.
They were short and to the same effect: that they would soon be
reunited, and that she should not fret. Then there was a silence, which
lasted until her death; and then came a letter to me of so private a
nature that I cannot show it to you, begging me never to think evil of
him, giving me much good advice, and saying that the sealing of the room
was of less importance now than during the lifetime of my mother, but
that the opening might still cause pain to others, and that, therefore,
he thought it best that it should be postponed until my twenty-first
year, for the lapse of time would make things easier. In the meantime,
he committed the care of the room to me; so now you can understand how
it is that, although I am a very poor man, I can neither let nor sell
this great house.”
“You could mortgage it.”
“My father had already done so.”
“It is a most singular state of affairs.”
“My mother and I were gradually compelled to sell the furniture and to
dismiss the servants, until now, as you see, I am living unattended in a
single room. But I have only two more months.”
“What do you mean?”
“Why, that in two months I come of age. The first thing that I do will
be to open that door; the second, to get rid of the house.”
“Why should your father have continued to stay away when these
investments had recovered themselves?”
“He must be dead.”
“You say that he had not committed any legal offence when he fled the
country?”
“None.”
“Why should he not take your mother with him?”
“I do not know.”
“Why should he conceal his address?”
“I do not know.”
“Why should he allow your mother to die and be buried without coming
back?”
“I do not know.”
“My dear sir,” said I, “if I may speak with the frankness of a
professional adviser, I should say that it is very clear that your
father had the strongest reasons for keeping out of the country, and
that, if nothing has been proved against him, he at least thought that
something might be, and refused to put himself within the power of the
law. Surely that must be obvious, for in what other possible way can the
facts be explained?”
My companion did not take my suggestion in good part.
“You had not the advantage of knowing my father, Mr. Alder,” he said,
coldly. “I was only a boy when he left us, but I shall always look upon
him as my ideal man. His only fault was that he was too sensitive and
too unselfish. That any one should lose money through him would cut him
to the heart. His sense of honour was most acute, and any theory of his
disappearance which conflicts with that is a mistaken one.”
It pleased me to hear the lad speak out so roundly, and yet I knew that
the facts were against him, and that he was incapable of taking an
unprejudiced view of the situation.
“I only speak as an outsider,” said I. “And now I must leave you, for I
have a long walk before me. Your story has interested me so much that I
should be glad if you could let me know the sequel.”
“Leave me your card,” said he; and so, having bade him “good-night,” I
left him.
I heard nothing more of the matter for some time, and had almost feared
that it would prove to be one of those fleeting experiences which drift
away from our direct observation and end only in a hope or a suspicion.
One afternoon, however, a card bearing the name of Mr. J. H. Perceval
was brought up to my office in Abchurch Lane, and its bearer, a small
dry, bright-eyed fellow of fifty, was ushered in by the clerk.
“I believe, sir,” said he, “that my name has been mentioned to you by my
young friend, Mr. Felix Stanniford?”
“Of course,” I answered, “I remember.”
“He spoke to you, I understand, about the circumstances in connection
with the disappearance of my former employer, Mr. Stanislaus Stanniford,
and the existence of a sealed room in his former residence.”
“He did.”
“And you expressed an interest in the matter.”
“It interested me extremely.”
“You are aware that we hold Mr. Stanniford’s permission to open the door
on the twenty-first birthday of his son?”
“I remember.”
“The twenty-first birthday is to-day.”
“Have you opened it?” I asked, eagerly.
“Not yet, sir,” said he, gravely. “I have reason to believe that it
would be well to have witnesses present when that door is opened. You
are a lawyer, and you are acquainted with the facts. Will you be present
on the occasion?”
“Most certainly.”
“You are employed during the day, and so am I. Shall we meet at nine
o’clock at the house?”
“I will come with pleasure.”
“Then you will find us waiting for you. Good-bye, for the present.” He
bowed solemnly, and took his leave.
I kept my appointment that evening, with a brain which was weary with
fruitless attempts to think out some plausible explanation of the
mystery which we were about to solve. Mr. Perceval and my young
acquaintance were waiting for me in the little room. I was not surprised
to see the young man looking pale and nervous, but I was rather
astonished to find the dry little City man in a state of intense, though
partially suppressed, excitement. His cheeks were flushed, his hands
twitching, and he could not stand still for an instant.
Stanniford greeted me warmly, and thanked me many times for having come.
“And now, Perceval,” said he to his companion, “I suppose there is no
obstacle to our putting the thing through without delay? I shall be glad
to get it over.”
The banker’s clerk took up the lamp and led the way. But he paused in
the passage outside the door, and his hand was shaking, so that the
light flickered up and down the high, bare walls.
“Mr. Stanniford,” said he, in a cracking voice, “I hope you will prepare
yourself in case any shock should be awaiting you when that seal is
removed and the door is opened.”
“What could there be, Perceval? You are trying to frighten me.”
“No, Mr. Stanniford; but I should wish you to be ready ... to be braced
up ... not to allow yourself....” He had to lick his dry lips between
every jerky sentence, and I suddenly realized, as clearly as if he had
told me, that he knew what was behind that closed door, and that it
_was_ something terrible. “Here are the keys, Mr. Stanniford, but
remember my warning!”
He had a bunch of assorted keys in his hand, and the young man snatched
them from him. Then he thrust a knife under the discoloured red seal and
jerked it off. The lamp was rattling and shaking in Perceval’s hands, so
I took it from him and held it near the key hole, while Stanniford tried
key after key. At last one turned in the lock, the door flew open, he
took one step into the room, and then, with a horrible cry, the young
man fell senseless at our feet.
If I had not given heed to the clerk’s warning, and braced myself for a
shock, I should certainly have dropped the lamp. The room, windowless
and bare, was fitted up as a photographic laboratory, with a tap and
sink at the side of it. A shelf of bottles and measures stood at one
side, and a peculiar, heavy smell, partly chemical, partly animal,
filled the air. A single table and chair were in front of us, and at
this, with his back turned towards us, a man was seated in the act of
writing. His outline and attitude were as natural as life; but as the
light fell upon him, it made my hair rise to see that the nape of his
neck was black and wrinkled, and no thicker than my wrist. Dust lay upon
him—thick, yellow dust—upon his hair, his shoulders, his shrivelled,
lemon-coloured hands. His head had fallen forward upon his breast. His
pen still rested upon a discoloured sheet of paper.
“My poor master! My poor, poor master!” cried the clerk, and the tears
were running down his cheeks.
“What!” I cried, “Mr. Stanislaus Stanniford!”
“Here he has sat for seven years. Oh, why would he do it? I begged him,
I implored him, I went on my knees to him, but he would have his way.
You see the key on the table. He had locked the door upon the inside.
And he has written something. We must take it.”
“Yes, yes, take it, and for God’s sake, let us get out of this,” I
cried; “the air is poisonous. Come, Stanniford, come!” Taking an arm
each, we half led and half carried the terrified man back to his own
room.
“It was my father!” he cried, as he recovered his consciousness. “He is
sitting there dead in his chair. You knew it, Perceval! This was what
you meant when you warned me.”
“Yes, I knew it, Mr. Stanniford. I have acted for the best all along,
but my position has been a terribly difficult one. For seven years I
have known that your father was dead in that room.”
“You knew it, and never told us!”
“Don’t be harsh with me, Mr. Stanniford, sir! Make allowance for a man
who has had a hard part to play.”
“My head is swimming round. I cannot grasp it!” He staggered up, and
helped himself from the brandy bottle. “These letters to my mother and
to myself—were they forgeries?”
“No, sir; your father wrote them and addressed them, and left them in my
keeping to be posted. I have followed his instructions to the very
letter in all things. He was my master, and I have obeyed him.”
The brandy had steadied the young man’s shaken nerves. “Tell me about
it. I can stand it now,” said he.
“Well, Mr. Stanniford, you know that at one time there came a period of
great trouble upon your father, and he thought that many poor people
were about to lose their savings through his fault. He was a man who was
so tender-hearted that he could not bear the thought. It worried him and
tormented him, until he determined to end his life. Oh, Mr. Stanniford,
if you knew how I have prayed him and wrestled with him over it, you
would never blame me! And he in turn prayed me as no man has ever prayed
me before. He had made up his mind, and he would do it in any case, he
said; but it rested with me whether his death should be happy and easy
or whether it should be most miserable. I read in his eyes that he meant
what he said. And at last I yielded to his prayers, and I consented to
do his will.
“What was troubling him was this. He had been told by the first doctor
in London that his wife’s heart would fail at the slightest shock. He
had a horror of accelerating her end, and yet his own existence had
become unendurable to him. How could he end himself without injuring
her?
“You know now the course that he took. He wrote the letter which she
received. There was nothing in it which was not literally true. When he
spoke of seeing her again so soon, he was referring to her own
approaching death, which he had been assured could not be delayed more
than a very few months. So convinced was he of this, that he only left
two letters to be forwarded at intervals after his death. She lived five
years, and I had no letters to send.
“He left another letter with me to be sent to you, sir, upon the
occasion of the death of your mother. I posted all these in Paris to
sustain the idea of his being abroad. It was his wish that I should say
nothing, and I have said nothing. I have been a faithful servant. Seven
years after his death, he thought no doubt that the shock to the
feelings of his surviving friends would be lessened. He was always
considerate for others.”
There was silence for some time. It was broken by young Stanniford.
“I cannot blame you, Perceval. You have spared my mother a shock, which
would certainly have broken her heart. What is that paper?”
“It is what your father was writing, sir. Shall I read it to you?”
“Do so.”
“‘I have taken the poison, and I feel it working in my veins. It is
strange, but not painful. When these words are read I shall, if my
wishes have been faithfully carried out, have been dead many years.
Surely no one who has lost money through me will still bear me
animosity. And you, Felix, you will forgive me this family scandal. May
God find rest for a sorely wearied spirit!’”
“Amen!” we cried, all three.