  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.” |
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