A Secret Inheritance. Volume 3 of 3. Farjeon Benjamin Leopold

not question me-my moments are numbered. I have been much shaken by the fate of Eric and Emilius. You believe Emilius to be guilty. Be more merciful in your judgments. With my dying breath I declare my belief in his innocence. It would be disloyal to one I loved as my son if I did not say this to you."

      "But why," asked Carew gently, "especially to me?"

      "I would say it to all," she replied, "and I would have all believe as I believe. His poor wife-his poor wife! Ah, how I pity her! Help her, if you can. Promise me."

      "I will do so," said Carew, "if it is in my power, and if she will receive help from me."

      "Lauretta and you are one," said the dying woman; "if not from you, she will receive it from my daughter. Before you leave me, answer one question, as you would answer before God. Have you anything hidden in your heart for which you have cause to reproach yourself?"

      "Nothing," he replied, wondering that such a question should be put to him at such a moment.

      "Absolutely nothing?"

      "Absolutely nothing."

      "Pardon me for asking you. May no shadow of sin or wrong-doing ever darken your door! Lift your heart in prayer. If you have children, teach them to pray. Nothing is more powerful to the young as the example of parents. Farewell, Gabriel. Send my husband and my daughter to me, and let my last moments with them be undisturbed." She gazed at him kindly and pityingly. "Kiss me, Gabriel."

      He left the room with eyes overflowing, and delivered the message to Doctor Louis and Lauretta, who went immediately to the chamber of death.

      Father Daniel was in the apartment, praying on his knees. He raised his head as Gabriel Carew stepped to his side. The time was too solemn for resentment or coldness.

      "Pray with me," said the priest.

      Gabriel Carew sank upon his knees, and prayed, by the priest's direction, for mercy, for light, for pardon to sinners.

      Half an hour afterwards the door was opened, and Doctor Louis beckoned to his son-in-law and the priest. They followed him to the bedside of the Angel Mother. All was over; her soul had passed away tranquilly and peacefully. Carew knelt by Lauretta, and passed his arm tenderly around her.

      When the news was made known, the village was plunged in grief. The shops were closed, and the villagers went about quietly and softly, and spoke in gentle tones of the Angel Mother, whose spirit was looking down upon them from heavenly heights. Early on the morning of the funeral the children went into the woods and gathered quantities of simple wild flowers, with which they strewed the road from Doctor Louis's house to the grave. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, soft breezes floated over the churchyard.

      "It is as the dear mother would have wished," said Doctor Louis to Lauretta. "I remember her saying long ago in the past that she would like to be buried on a bright summer day-such as this. Ah, how the years have flown! But we must not repine. Let us rather be grateful for the happiness we have enjoyed in the association of a saintly woman, an angel now-waiting for us when our time comes."

      And in his heart there breathed the hope, "May it come soon, to me!"

      The people lingered about the grave over which to this day the flowers are growing.

      XI

      So numerous had been the concourse of people, and so engrossed were they in their demonstrations of sorrow and affection for their departed friend, that the presence of a stranger among them had not been observed. He was a man whose appearance would not have won their favour. Apart from the fact that he was unknown-which in itself, because of late events, would have predisposed them against him-his face and clothes would not have recommended him. He had the air of one who was familiar with prisons; he was common and coarse-looking; his clothes were a conglomeration of patches and odds and ends; he gazed about him furtively, as though seeking for some particular person or for some special information, and at the same time wishful, for private and not creditable reasons, not to draw upon himself a too close observation. Had he done so, it would have been noted that he entered the village early in the day, and, addressing himself to children-his evident desire being to avoid intercourse with men and women-learnt from them the direction of Gabriel Carew's house. Thither he wended his way, and loitered about the house, looking up at the windows and watching the doors for the appearance of some person from whom he could elicit further information. There was only one servant in the house, the other domestics having gone to the funeral, and this servant, an elderly woman, was at length attracted by the sight of a stranger strolling this way and that, without any definite purpose-and, therefore, for a bad one. She stood in the doorway, gazing at him. He approached and addressed her.

      "I am looking for Gabriel Carew's house," he said.

      "This is it," the servant replied.

      "So I was directed, but was not sure, being a stranger in these parts. Is the master at home?"

      "No."

      "He lives here, doesn't he?"

      "He will presently; but it is only lately he came back with his wife, and has not yet taken up his residence."

      "His wife! Do you mean Doctor Louis's daughter?"

      "Yes.

      "Ah, they're married, then?"

      "Yes, they are married. You seem to know names, though you are a stranger."

      "Yes, I know names well enough. If Gabriel Carew is not here, where is he?"

      "It would be more respectful to say Mr. Carew," said the servant, resenting this familiar utterance of her master's name.

      "Mr. Carew, then. I'm not particular. Where is he?"

      "You will find him in the village."

      "That's a wide address."

      "He is stopping at Doctor Louis's house. Anybody will tell you where that is."

      "Thank you; I will go there." He was about to depart, but turned and said, "Where is the gardener, Martin Hartog?"

      "He left months ago."

      "Left, has he? Where for?"

      "I can't tell you."

      "Because you won't?"

      "Because I can't. You are a saucy fellow."

      "No, mistress, you're mistaken. It's my manner, that's all; I was brought up rough. And where I've come from, a man might as well be out of the world as in it." He accompanied this remark with a dare-devil shake of his head.

      "You're so free at asking questions," said the woman, "that there can be no harm in my asking where have you come from-being, as you say, a stranger in these parts?"

      "Ah, mistress," said the man, "questions are easily asked. It's a different thing answering them. Where I've come from is nothing to anybody who's not been there. To them it means a lot. Thank you for your information."

      He swung off without another word towards the village. He had no difficulty in finding Doctor Louis's house, and observing that something unusual was taking place, held his purpose in and took mental notes. He followed the procession to the churchyard, and was witness to the sympathy and sorrow shown for the lady whose body was taken to its last resting-place. He did not know at the time whether it was man or woman, and he took no pains to ascertain till the religious ceremony was over. Then he addressed himself to a little girl.

      "Who is dead?"

      "Our Angel Mother," replied the girl.

      "She had a name, little one." His voice was not unkindly. The answer to his question-"Angel Mother" – had touched him. He once had a mother, the memory of whom still remained with him as a softening if not a purifying influence. It is the one word in all the languages which ranks nearest to God. "What was hers?"

      "Don't you know? Everybody knows. Doctor Louis's wife."

      "Doctor Louis's wife!" he muttered. "And I had a message for her!" Then he said aloud, "Dead, eh?"

      "Dead," said the little girl mournfully.

      "And you are sorry?"

      "Everybody