A MESSAGE FROM THE DEAD.
The paroxysm of my grief passed slowly away, and I rose to my feet and
looked around with streaming eyes. Mr. Ravenor was still by my side, and
together we carried my mother back to the monastery. The news of our
approach had preceded us, and long before we reached our journey's end
the solemn minute-bell was tolling out to the silent night, awakening
strange echoes in the hills and finding a reverberation of its
mournfulness in my heart.
Austere and impressive as the great bare front of the monastery had
always appeared to me, it had never seemed so cold and desolate as when
our melancholy little procession wound round the Hill of Calvary and
slowly approached the entrance. The gloom of a winter's evening was
hanging around the building, which, with never a ray of light from any
part, looked like a habitation of the dead--a gigantic vault.
But suddenly, as we drew near, the front door was slowly opened and the
dark figure of a monk, holding above his head a lighted taper, stood on
the steps and in a low monotone repeated a Latin prayer. When he ceased
there was a moment's silence, and then from the chapel there came the
sound of deep voices chanting slowly in solemn unison the _Miserere_.
The remainder of that night seems like a dream to me now, of which I can
recall but little. But I remember that, long past midnight, when I had
thrown myself down upon the stone floor of the guest-chamber, I heard
soft steps and the rustle of garments approaching me, and, looking up, I
saw the sweetest face I ever beheld in man or woman looking down into
mine from the deep folds of a monk's cowl.
He stayed with me for a while, speaking welcome words of comfort; then,
gathering his robes about him, he stood up, prepared to leave. But first
he handed me a small packet.
"This was left in my charge for you, Philip Morton," he said. "Little did
I dream that so soon I should be called upon to fulfil my trust. Take it,
my son."
The packet, which I opened with reverent fingers, was a very small one,
and consisted of a single letter only. That I might see the more clearly
to read it, I pushed open the narrow, diamond-framed window, and the
moonlight filled the little room with a soft, mellowed light. Then I
read:
"The Barnwood Monastery of St. Clement's,
"_November 19th, 18--._
"My dearest Son,--I write these lines to you, Philip, feeling happier
than I have done for many years, because I have a deep and sure
conviction that my life is drawing fast to a close, and that the end may
come at any minute. Alas! my son, I feel that I have not been to you all
that a mother should be. It may be that my coldness has alienated from me
the love which I know you have been willing to give. It may be so; but I
choose rather to believe that you will pity me when I tell you that the
coldness which has grown up between us was none of my choosing, but was
only part of a terrible punishment which I have had to bear for many
weary years.
"What my sin--or let me be merciful to myself and call it my error--was,
I do not purpose here to tell you. Some day the person at whose
discretion I have left it may deem it well to tell you the whole story.
For my sake, Philip, for the sake of the love which I know you bear
me--and which, God knows, I have for you--I beg you to wait until that
time comes and not seek to hasten it.
"Think of me as kindly as you can, dear. If the path which I chose to
follow was not the wisest, I have, at least, suffered terribly for it.
For many weary years grief and horror and remorse have been making my
life one long purgatory. Yes, I have suffered indeed. But at last I have
found peace.
"Do not marvel at what I am going to tell you, Philip. My will--the
little I have to leave is yours--is drawn up and signed and I have
appointed Mr. Ravenor your guardian. There are reasons for this which you
cannot know, but he will be only too glad to accept the charge; and in
all things, Philip, even if he should desire you altogether to change
your position in life, follow his command and submit to his wishes.
"Farewell, my beloved son--farewell! God grant that your life may be good
and happy, and that your last days may be as peaceful as mine. I can wish
you nothing better. Once more, farewell!--Your affectionate
"Mother."