by Edith Nesbit
That was perhaps, in part, the charm of all libraries — the sense of the minds behind those ordered rows of brown leather backs; of all the men who had done and thought and suffered, and then written their books, made their little scratch upon the sand of Time which the sea of Time not yet had obliterated. And further, in this room alone, of all the rooms in this house of his fathers, Anthony felt near to his work. Here alone he could feel that he, Anthony Drelincourt, was the same man as the Anthony Drelincourt who had studied in the white-faced house whose portal the pale wistaria overhung, who had worked in the schools and in the laboratory, toiled and agonized and failed — failed many times, and at last succeeded. In this room alone he seemed to be one person, not one of three or four.
There is a doubt, which I suppose we all know, a suspicion which comes now and then to the simplest of us, that perhaps we are not really quite so simple as we thought ourselves. We seem to see, now and then, that the man of Tuesday is not the man of last Friday week. But our various personalities seem to overlap, to blend, to qualify or obscure each other, so that we feel ourselves to be many-sided, but not many. With Anthony the lines of division were sharpened. With him there was no overlapping, hardly any shading off. He was a particular kind of Anthony at a particular moment, and without vagueness of transition would suddenly become another kind of Anthony, so different that each transition had for him all the effect of an awakening from a vivid dream.
In this room the different dreams seemed to steady themselves, to become part of a whole — not harmonious indeed, but not madly discordant; and the Anthony of the moment, whatever his mood, did really seem one with the Anthony of yesterday and of last year.
The mood of the Anthony of the moment as he sat here in the stillness of the May evening, was, at first, the calm satisfaction of the well and fully fed. He had ventured for the first time to order Wilkes to put down the coffee and leave it.
“All of it,” he said, “just as it is. And you need not come back for it. I am going to work. I shall want to go on drinking coffee.”
Wilkes retired.
“I’m not saying anything against Sir Anthony,” he said later to the housekeeper; “ for my part, I don’t dislike the young man. But he can’t be of an observing turn, or he’d know it’s not my business how many cups of coffee he drinks. There wasn’t any call for so much apologies.”
“An affable gentleman, that’s all,” said the housekeeper. “To my mind, he’s most handsome. And such a look of melancholy. He wants some good woman to take care of him. That’s what he wants.”
Anthony, at his third cup of coffee, felt his mood change to a childish but fierce curiosity about the room behind that boarded window. After all, it was his own house. He could break the panelling all to pieces if he liked. He lighted one of the wax candles in the silver candlesticks.
“I will investigate every inch of the place,” he said, and carried the candle across to the wall of books that stood guarding the missing space. “If there’s a secret room, it’s my secret room, and I’m going to find it.”
CHAPTER XI. THE SECRET ROOM
THE mind once given to it, the puzzle was a very easy one, like a child’s double-lidded pencil-box, or the cheap writing-desk whose secret drawer screams to you, “Here I am; please find me!”
At one end of the library, a door led to a small room, panelled in pleasant brown oak, and the window of this room looked out of that ivy-screened wall which Anthony had climbed to retrieve Rose’s letter. At the other end of the library another door led to another and much larger room, whose windows, three in number, also looked out of that ivied wall; and from this room two other little rooms opened. The fire-places of all these rooms ranged round a common centre, and we all know that old chimneys take up a great deal of space. But still, the biggest chimney would hardly account for the difference between the length of the library and the combined lengths of the adjoining rooms. Anthony paced out the distances. Yes, there must be twenty feet or more missing. The chimneys could not account for all that. And besides, there was the window; that undoubted oblong of wood under the matted ivy.
Anthony looked closely at panelling and chimney-pieces.
“There ought to be a piece of carving,” he told himself; “the badge of your house, a lion’s head or what not, that moves in your hand, and then the secret is revealed.” And he went about, touching this and that carved leaf or scroll, and the warm wax ran over his fingers from the tall candle he carried.
In this way he examined the rooms beyond the library. The largest of them was luxuriously furnished with the pretty meretriciousness, the gilded graceful folly of the Second Empire. Glittering girandoles, consoles of ormulu and marble, chairs of carved and gilded wood upholstered in faded pink brocade, escritoires of smooth shiny marquetry, chairs and tables of papier-maché painted with flowers and gilt scroll-work, with rainbow insets of mother-of-pearl, an Aubusson carpet, a painted ceiling where cherubs sprawled, entangled in garlands of roses and loops of blue ribbon. Evidently the boudoir of some modish beauty of the eighteen-fifties. The panelling here had been painted white and its carved garlands gilded. New, it might have looked much too new, the gilding too gilt, the brocade too rose-coloured; inharmonious, probably, the tints of ceiling, carpet, and hangings. But time had laid over all a unifying greyness, the discords had slowly faded to a very delicate and graceful harmony. There was that scent of old pot-pourri and mouldering wood which hangs about rooms unused. And yet there was no dust, the room was evidently “done” as other rooms were “done,” daily. It was, somehow, like a room in a picture. No one could believe that any one lived in it, ever had lived in it. There was nothing worn about it — at least, if anything were worn, it was by time and not by service. Anthony had found this room in his first eager search for the inside of the boarded window, but he had not, till now, become aware of the room’s personal character — its expression, as it were, the meaning of it.
Now, more quiet than the other rooms, it still seemed to be saying —
“Yes, you are right; I have a secret and I mean to keep it.”
Anthony heard it quite distinctly. He went back along the great library to where the tray was, and drank more coffee. And then he went back into that room that said it had a secret. As he went he noticed, what he had not noticed before, that its door was part of the panelling of the library. But for its handle and finger-plates, it might have passed unnoticed. And at once he felt that he knew. He went through the little suite of rooms, and stopped in front of the panelled wall that enclosed the space where the boarded window was. It was the same sort of panelling as that of the library. Holding the candle very close, he began to examine the lines of the moulding. And between two of the lines there was, without doubt, a narrow line of darkness, a crack. But nowhere could he find hint or hope of the secret spring which, to complete the adventure, must be there.
I do not know how to hope that you will forgive the Vandalism of his next act. The silence, the concealment, Lady Blair’s silly reticence — the whole thing suddenly came upon him like a wave. And, after all, it was his own house. He set the candle on a table, put his shoulder to the panel and pushed. Something gave a little. And at that his heart began to beat like a schoolgirl’s at a prize-giving. He turned round and kicked out, like an angry stallion, once, twice; and with a noise of cracking and wrenching and splintering, the panel yielded. He caught up the light and turned to see the dark oblong of a door. He had been right He bent his head, for the door was low, and went in. Nothing, just a little room like the others, only not furnished, and quite empty except for the dust of many years which lay on the floor thick and soft as any velvet carpet. There was the boarded window and the panelled walls — nothing else.
“How singularly rum,” he said; “ why should there be any secret about a little room? Why should its window be boarded up? Why should Lady Blair have lied to me about it? Ah!”
A little sound behind him made him turn sharply. And if that whic
h laid a sudden hand on his heart were not fear, it was very like it. Through the dim vista of the Empire-furnished rooms a pale figure was coming slowly towards him; it made a soft rustling sound as it came.
A curious shiver disconcerted him. He felt suddenly cold. Then, as suddenly, the blood rushed hotly to his face, and he went to meet the thing, whatever it was, holding the candle high so as to throw before him as large a circle of light as might be. As the thing came nearer, he could see that it was a slender woman in pale trailing garments, with head down drooped and long loose plaits of hair. It came a little nearer yet and said —
“Oh, Anthony!”
“Why, it’s you!” he said, with quite extraordinary relief; “ do you know I quite thought you were a ghost!”
He took the little hand, and led its owner back to the lamp-lit library, where the ghost could be seen to be Lady Blair in a marvellous tea-gown of shell-pink soft silk, old lace, and black velvet ribbons. It was not till he had placed her gently in a chair close to the lamp that he could be quite sure that the long plaits she wore were part of an almost perfect wig.
She was panting, almost sobbing.
“Don’t,” he said. “ What’s the matter? Did the noise startle you. I’m sorry I made such a row, but I hate mysteries, unless I know I’m going to find them out. And I suddenly lost patience.”
“Did you—”she asked. “You didn’t see anything?”
“Only dust,” he said; “ what should I see? But tell me.”
“Yes,” she said; “it’s no use not telling you now. Only I very much didn’t want you to go into that room. And really, there’s nothing to tell. I wish you’d go and shut all those doors.”
“You won’t vanish, if I do? I believe you are a ghost, really.”
“No — now you’ve done it, I must tell you, or you’ll think it’s worse than it is.”
“A family monster, usually introduced to the heir at his coming of age, like the Glamis thing?” he asked.
And she said “No, no,” but would he shut all the doors, please. So he did.
As he came back he wondered at her. In that dress, in that light, with that hair, she looked a girl. A wonderful illusion. It was only when one came quite close...
“Yes, I really will tell you,” she said. “ It was foolish of me not to tell you before. But, you know, quite seriously, whenever that room is opened something terrible happens.”
“But why?” he asked.
“Well, Drelincourt was an abbey once, and when it was taken away from the monks there was a curse. And that room — promise me you won’t go in again to-night.”
“Of course not, if you don’t want me to.”
“Well, that room is the only bit of the old abbey that’s left standing — that and the part below it. It was the little porter’s room where the abbot stood to meet Henry’s men, and he spoke the curse there. I believe it was a terrible curse. No; I don’t know what it was.”
“But what happened?” Anthony asked. “Something must happen. How does any one know there was a curse unless something happens?”
“Well, I daresay it’s all coincidence, but—”
“Yes?”
“Well, the eldest son of the Tobie Drelincourt who had the place first died suddenly ‘By the act and visitation of God,’ it says on his tomb in Latin, and his brother succeeded him. His eldest son, that was Howard Drelincourt, got his head cut off for treason. It turned out to be a mistake when too late, and I believe Queen Elizabeth was very sorry afterwards for the accident. Quite a boy he was, and his brother got the place. That was Anthony Drelincourt. He was the one who was Francis Bacon’s friend. He was the first baronet.”
“What happened to him?”
“The usual thing. He died without a son, and his brother inherited He was accused of black magic, and burned.”
Anthony thought of the book that Rose had given him, and a curious sensation like an inward flame, that warmed without burning, possessed him.
“Go on.”
“Well, that’s all,” she said; “ only by some curious accident Drelincourt has never been inherited by the eldest son.”
“When was the room shut up?”
“It used to be shut up when I was a little girl. And when Sir Anthony — he was the eldest son and my cousin — came of age, he persuaded his father to open up the old place, and he used the place below — had it fitted up—”
“What for?”
“For a laboratory. And then—”
“And then?”
“Well, the eldest son had never inherited, it’s true, but for several generations they’d died quietly, of ordinary things, like people there wasn’t a curse on. And Anthony was engaged to be married. And a few days before the wedding was to have been, the girl disappeared, and he was found dead at the top of the steps in that little room you opened to-night. You are exactly like him. I wish you hadn’t gone in there. It was horrible to me to see you there. You are so frightfully like him.”
She put up both hands to her eyes, and he laid a hand on her elbow.
“Yes,” she said, under her breath. “That’s just it.”
“Had the girl run away with some one else, or what?”
“Nobody knows. Nobody ever will know. Nor yet what killed him. The doctors just said heart failure. It’s fifty years ago,” she said, dropping her hands. “I didn’t think I could be so silly. She—”
“What was she like? “ Anthony asked gently; “pretty — nice?”
“Every one adored her,” said Lady Blair vindictively; “she wouldn’t have given any one a moment’s peace if they hadn’t. She was pretty, I will say that for her, and very attractive — and — well, you know, like a kitten that insists on being noticed. Sang to the guitar, and used to put gold-dust on her hair. Vain — heartless — and in the end he knew it.”
“You think—”
“I think at the end he felt he couldn’t live without her, and he wasn’t going to try. He thought she was the only girl in the world.”
“And she wasn’t?” Anthony said stupidly. But Lady Blair caught his hand and said,” How you understand! “ And then, of course, he did, completely.
“How frightful for you,” he said.
“Yes, because before she came — It’s a dreadful thing, Anthony, to be an old woman, and have nothing beautiful to look back on — nothing real, I mean — only just to think how different everything might have been if only everything had been different. Well, that’s all the story. And to-morrow you’ll have the room locked up again, won’t you?”
He reflected. “ I simply can’t,” he said then, “ and if it’s been a laboratory, I’ll use it as mine. And I promise you not to be found dead on the stairs. And aren’t you hungry? I am. And it’s frightfully late. And I had hardly any dinner — because you weren’t there, I expect; and I’m sure you didn’t have much, because you were feeling how cruelly you’d disappointed me. Couldn’t we — ? Only I don’t know the way. And besides, I suppose in really aristocratic circles no one ever forages in larders?”
“I haven’t for ages,” Lady Blair cried. “Oh, come along! I know the way. You bring a candle, and I’ll take one. We’ll go like a procession of youths and maidens.”
“Let’s light the drawing-room fire, and have a picnic on the hearthrug,” said Anthony.
“Let’s,” said she, “ and we’ll forget all those sad old stories, and only remember that we’re hungry and that there’s something to eat in the house.”
“If we can find it. It’s like hunting for treasure.”
“Just! ‘‘ she said; “ let me go first, and don’t tread on my tail.”
She led the way lightly, gracefully.
“You are about eighteen,” he said, “and very charming.”
“We are both eighteen,” she said, “ and both hungry. What more can we want?”
It was after the picnic on the hearthrug, among the cold chicken and champagne and gooseberry-pie and cream, that Anthony laid bef
ore Lady Blair his scheme for a house-party.
“I shall love it,” she said, “and I am so glad that your Rose is tall and clever and handsome. I hate your little helpless, appealing women. Yes, Eugenia was little, and helpless and appealing. Yes, her name was Eugenia. Let’s talk about what rooms they’re to have, and what we shall do to amuse them.”
So they talked, till the birds were noisy outside and the blue-grey of summer dawn reached thin fingers through the chinks of the shutters.
“Why, it’s morning,” said Lady Blair, sitting on the hearthrug with her pink draperies round her like rose petals; “what a night of dissipation!” She sprang up, and held out both hands to him. “Good night,” she said. “You’ve made me feel young again for an hour.”
“And you,” he said, “have made me feel old for ever! I shall never be as young as you, if I live to be a thousand.”
“I wouldn’t do that,” she said—”not live to be a thousand, I mean. It’s bad enough to live to be seventy-two.”
“But supposing—”he said.
“Supposing one could go on living without getting old — the Faust idea?” she answered quickly; “that would be more horrible than anything. You would outlive everything — everything that makes life worth while. Did you ever hear of the Elixir of Life?”
He laughed. “Do you know, I think I must have.”
“It’s all nonsense, of course; but Anthony — my Anthony — was always dreaming about it. It’s all nonsense, and if it were true, it would be intolerable. I’m glad you don’t believe in those sort of silly things. You don’t, do you?”
