Benjamin Farjeon - A Secret Inheritance. Volume 1 of 3

I heard one say, "Hush! There's somebody coming."

The next moment I opened the gates.

"Ah, master," cried a woman, "for the love of God tell us the way to Purvis's huts! Jump down, Jim; you've pretty nigh broke my blade-bone in."

A tall man jumped from the woman's shoulders to the ground. It was from that elevated position he had seen the light in my room.

"I don't know Purvis or his huts," I said. "What are you?"

"Hoppers, master. We're bound for Purvis's gardens, and we thought we should get to the sleeping huts before night set in; but we missed our way, and have been tramping through the rain for I don't know how many hours. I'm soaked through and through, and am ready to drop."

"Why did you not stop at an inn?" I asked.

"None of that!" growled the man, in a threatening tone.

"Be quiet, Jim!" said the woman. "Why didn't we stop at an inn, master? Because in them places they don't give you nothing for nothing, and that's about as much as we've got to offer. We're dead broke, master."

"We're never nothing else," growled the man.

"Can you help us, master?" asked the woman.

"Ask him if he will," growled the man, "don't ask him if he can."

"Leave it to me, Jim. You're always a-putting your foot into it. Will you, master, will you?"

"Who is that crying?"

"One of the children, master."

"One of them! How many have you?"

"Five, master."

"Curse 'em!" growled the man.

"Shut up, Jim! The gentleman'll help us for the sake of the young 'uns, won't you, sir? They're sopping wet, master, and a-dying of hunger."

"If I allow you to occupy my room," I said, "and give you food and a fire, will you go away quietly when the sun rises?"

"There, Jim; didn't I tell you? We're in luck. Go away quiet when the sun rises, master? Yes, master, yes. Hope I may never see daylight again if we don't!"

"Come in," I said. "Follow me, and make as little noise as possible."

They followed me quietly to my room. Their eyes dilated when they saw the fire, upon which I threw a fresh supply of coals.

"God bless you, sir!" said the woman, drawing the children to the fire, before which the man was already crouching.

True enough, there were seven of them. Man, woman, and five children, the youngest a baby, the eldest not more than seven years of age. A gruesome lot. Starving, cunning, in rags; but there was a soft light in the woman's eyes; she was grateful for the warmth and the prospect of food. The man's eyes were watching me greedily.

"Where is it, master?"

"Where is what?"

"The grub you promised us."

"You shall have it presently."

I noticed that the children's clothes were drying on them, and I suggested to the woman that she should take them off.

"I've nothing to wrap 'em in, master," she said.

I went into my bedroom, and brought back sheets and blankets, which I gave to the woman. She took them in silence, and carried out my suggestion. I then made two or three journeys to the larder, and brought up the food I found there, bread, butter, meat, and the remains of a pie. When I came up for the last time I saw the man standing, looking round the room.

"He ain't took nothing, master," said the woman, "and sha'n't."

I nodded, and the man resumed his recumbent position before the fire. I handed them the food, and they devoured it wolfishly. They ate more like animals than human beings.

"Can't you treat us to a mug of beer, master?" asked the man.

"I have no beer," I replied. "I think I can find some tea, if you would like to have it."

"It's the best thing you could give us, master," said the woman, "and we shall be thankful for it."

"It's better than nothing," said the man, and was pleased to confess, after he had disposed of a couple of cups-which he emptied down his throat rather than drank-that I might have offered him something worse. When they had eaten their fill they lay down to rest, and in less than three minutes the whole party were fast asleep. "Truly," I thought, as I gazed upon them, "nature has its compensations!" They went away, as they had promised, at sunrise, and when I gave the woman a few silver coins, she said gratefully,

"Thank you, master. We're right for four good days, Jim."

I watched them from the gates. They had with them the remains of the food, and were eating it as they walked, and talking in gay tones. I experienced a sensation of pleasure. The world was not devoid of sweetness.

Thus my life went on until I grew to manhood, and then two grave events befell, following close upon each other's heels. First, my father died. He was absent from home at the time, and we had had no forewarning of the loss. I do not know whether his errand when he left us, to be away, he said, for four or five weeks, was one of pleasure or business. Quite suddenly, before the time had elapsed, I was summoned to my mother's room by Mrs. Fortress.

"Your mother has the most serious news to impart to you," said Mrs. Fortress, "and I think it well to warn you not to excite her."

I had not seen my mother for several days, and I inquired of Mrs. Fortress as to the state of her health.

"She is still unwell," said Mrs. Fortress, "and very weak. I am afraid of the consequences of the shock she has received this morning."

"No one has visited us," I observed. "She can have been told nothing."

"The news came by post," said Mrs. Fortress.

"In a letter from my father?" I asked.

"Your father did not write," said Mrs. Fortress.

There was a significance in her tone, usually so cold and impassive, which attracted my attention.

"But the news concerns my father."

"Yes, it concerns your father."

"He is ill."

"He has been seriously ill. You will learn all from your mother."

Before I entered my mother's chamber I divined the truth.

"You sent for me, mother," I said.

"Yes, Gabriel," she replied. "Sit here, by my side."

I obeyed her, and there was a long silence in the room.

"Kiss me, Gabriel."

I kissed her, somewhat in wonder. It is the plain truth that we had grown to be almost strangers to each other.

"Has Mrs. Fortress told you?" she asked.

"She has told me nothing definite," I replied, "except that you have news of my father, and that he is ill."

"His illness is at an end," said my mother. "Can you not guess, Gabriel?"

"Yes, mother," I said, "I think I know."

"It is very sudden, Gabriel. When he went away he was in good health."

She gave me the letter she had received, and I read it without remark. It was from one who was a stranger to us, and was addressed from Wales. The writer said that my father was his friend-which surprised me, as I had never heard my father or mother mention his name-and had died in his house, where my father was staying on a visit.

"He had been ailing for two or three days past," the letter said, "and had complained of his head, but I did not think that anything serious was the matter with him, or I should have written to you at once. It did not appear that he was alarmed; indeed, he said that it was only a slight attack, and that it would soon pass away. Against his wish we called in a doctor, who agreed with him and us that there was no danger. Thus there was nothing to prepare us for the sad event the news of which it is our painful duty to communicate to you. He kept his room yesterday, and in the evening said that he felt better. At ten o'clock my wife and I wished him goodnight, and thought he would retire at once to rest, but from after indications we learnt that he had not undressed, but had sat in his arm-chair the whole of the night. There was a bell at his elbow, from which I heard a faint ring at five o'clock this morning. It woke me from my sleep, and it also aroused my wife. 'That is Mr. Carew's bell,' my wife said; 'you had better go to him.' I rose immediately, and went to his room. I found our poor friend sitting in the arm-chair, and I at once recognised his grave condition. I roused the servants, and sent for the doctor; then I returned to your husband, and told him what I had done. I cannot say whether he understood me, for he was quite speechless, but I followed the direction of his eyes, and saw a sheet of paper upon which he had written a few words. They were not very legible, but I understand from them that it was his desire that he should be buried from Rosemullion. We shall respect his wish, and you will therefore be prepared for what is to follow. Although he was speechless, and life was surely ebbing away, he was calm and composed. My wife and I sat with him until the doctor arrived. Nothing could be done for him, and at twenty minutes to seven this morning your poor husband passed away in peace. It would doubtless have been a satisfaction to him could he have spoken to us, and have imparted to us his last wishes, but he had not the power. Two or three times he seemed to make an effort, and we inclined our ears to hear what he had to say. No sound, however, proceeded from his lips; he had not the strength to utter a word. The effort over, he seemed to be resigned."