 | CHAPTER XX.
WHAT MAGDALEN FOUND IN THE GARRET. Millbank, or, Roger Irving's ward |  |
20. CHAPTER XX.
WHAT MAGDALEN FOUND IN THE GARRET.
MAGDALEN had not forgotten “the loose plank,” but
since the night of her adventure in the garret she had
never been near that part of the building, though
sorely tempted to do so every day and hour of her life. It
seemed to her as if some powerful influence was urging her on
toward the garret, while a still more powerful influence to
which she gave no name was constantly holding her back.
She had puzzled over the loose plank, and dreamed of it, and
speculated upon it, and wondered if there was anything under
it, and if so, was it —, she never quite said what, even to herself,
for it seemed to her that she should in some way be
wronging Roger if she breathed the name of will. Of one
thing, however, she felt certain; if there was a paper secreted
in the garret, old Hester knew of it, and had had a hand in
hiding it; and once she thought of quizzing Aleck to see if he
too knew about it. She could not have done much with him,
for had he known of the will, he would, if questioned with
would have heard the conversation. Aleck was not fond of
talking, and in order to avoid it, had a way, as Hester said, of
affecting to be deafer than he was, and so was usually left in
peace. He always heard Roger, and generally Magdalen; but
to the rest of the household he was as deaf as a post unless it
suited him to hear. It was useless to question him, and so
Magdalen kept her own counsel for two weeks after that memorable
night when Roger had shared her vigils, and from which
time Hester's recovery had been rapid.
She was able now to sit up all day, but had not yet been to
the kitchen, and when she asked Magdalen to go and shut the
garret window which she had left open in the morning and into
which she was sure the rain was pouring, Magdalen expressed
a good deal of surprise that she should have ventured into the
garret, and asked why she went there.
“I wanted to look over them clothes in the chest; I knew
they needed airin',” Hester said, and Magdalen accepted the
explanation and started for the garret.
It was raining fast, and as she opened the door which led up
the stairs, a gust of wind blew down into her face, and she
heard the heavy rain drops on the roof. The window was open
as Hester had said, and Magdalen shut it, and then stood a
moment looking off upon the river and the hills over which the
April shower was sweeping in misty sheets. To the right lay
the little village of Belvidere, where Roger's office was. She
could see the white building nestled among the elms in one
corner of the common, and the sight of it made her heart beat
faster than its wont, and brought before her the scene of the
morning when Roger had held her hand in his, and looked so
kindly into her eyes. She could feel the pressure of his broad,
warm hand even now, and she felt her cheeks grow hot beneath
the look which seemed to beam upon her here in the gloomy
garret where there was only rubbish, and rats, and barrels, and
chests, and loose planks under the roof. She started, almost
guiltily, when she remembered the latter, and turned her face
and see for herself what was hidden there. Hester had said, “I
went to air the clothes in the old chest,” and Magdalen turned
to the chest and looked at it, carelessly at first, then more
closely, and finally went down on her knees to examine something
which made her grow cold and faint for a moment.
It was nothing but a large cobweb, but it covered the entire
fastening of the chest, stretching from the lid down across the
keyhole, and showing plainly that the chest had not been open
in weeks. It could not be opened without disturbing the cobweb,
for Magdalen tried it, and saw the fleecy thing torn apart
as she lifted the lid. There was a paper package lying on top
of the linen, and from a rent in one corner Magdalen saw a bit
of the dress she had worn to Millbank. It was years since she
had seen it, and at the sight of it now she felt a thrill of pain,
and turned her head away. There was too much of mystery
and humiliation connected with that little dress for her to care
to look at it; and she shut the lid quickly, and said to herself,
as she turned away:
“Hester has not opened the chest to-day. What, then, was
she here for?”
Then, swift as lightning, the answer came:
“She was here to look after whatever is hidden under that
loose plank, and probably to remove it.”
Yes, that was the solution of the mystery. If there had been
anything under the floor, it had been transferred to some other
hiding-place, and, woman-like, Magdalen began to feel a little
sorry that she had lost her chance for knowing what was there.
“There can be no harm in looking now, if it is really gone,”
she said; and following some impulse she did not try to resist,
she went toward that part of the garret, putting a broken chair
out of her way, and bending down beneath the slanting rafters.
It was raining hard, and she went back a step or two, and
glanced at the window against which the storm was beating.
She was not afraid there, in broad daylight; but a strange feeling
of awe and dread began to creep over her, mingled with
She did not believe she should find anything, but she must
look, — she must satisfy herself, let the consequence be what
it might. She did not think of Roger, nor the will, nor Frank,
but, strange to say, a thought of Jessie crossed her mind, —
Jessie, the drowned woman, who seemed so near to her that
she involuntarily looked over her shoulder to see if a spectre
were there. Then she bent low under the beams, — went
nearer to the loose plank, — had her hands upon it, and knew
that it did not fit as perfectly as on that night when she first
discovered it. It had been moved. Somebody had been
there recently, and, trembling with excitement, Magdalen
grasped the plank, and drew it up from its position, shrinking
a little from the dark opening which looked so like a grave.
Gradually, as she saw clearer, she could distinguish the lath
and plastering, with bits of chips and shavings and sawdust,
and signs that the rats lived there. Then, leaning forward, she
peered down under the floor, looking to the north, looking to
the east, then to the south, and lastly to the west, where,
pushed back as far as possible from sight, was a little box,
the cover of which was tied firmly down with a bit of white
Marseilles braid, such as Magdalen was trimming her dress
with a few days before in Hester Floyd's room. She had
missed about half a yard, which could not at the time be
found, but she had found it now, and she grew dizzy and
faint as she reached for the box, and brought it out to the
daylight.
Whatever the mystery was, she had it in her hands, and she
sat down upon a chair to recover her breath, and decide what
she should do.
“Put it back where you found it,” was suggested to her; but
she could not do that, and seemingly without an effort on her
part her fingers nervously untied the hard knot, then slowly
unwound the braid, which she examined to see if it was soiled,
and if there was not enough for the pocket of her sack, if she
decided to have one.
She thought there was, and she laid it on her lap and then
opened the lid!
There were two packages inside, and both were wrapped in
thick brown paper, which Magdalen removed carefully, and
without the least agitation now. Her excitement had either
passed or was so great that she did not heed it, and she was
conscious of no emotions whatever as she sat there removing
the paper wrappings from what seemed to be a letter, an old,
yellow, soiled letter, directed to “Master Roger L. Irving,” in
a handwriting she did not know. She did not open the letter,
but she read the name and whispered it to herself, and thought
by some strange accident of that morning by the river when
Roger had spoken of working for her with his hands, and of her
helping him in case he should lose Millbank. Why she should
recall that incident she could not tell any more than she could
guess that she held in her hands that which would eventually
lead to just such an alternative as Roger had suggested.
She put the letter down, and took the other package and
removed its wrappings and turned it to the light, uttering a cry
of terror and surprise at what was written there. She must read
it, — she would read it and know the worst, and she opened the
worn document, which was dated back so many years, and read
it through while her fingers seemed to grow big and numb, and
she felt her arms prickle to her shoulders. Once she thought
of paralysis, as the strange sensation went creeping through her
whole system, and she was conscious of feeling that she merited
some such punishment for the idle curiosity which had resulted
so disastrously.
She read every word that was written on the paper, and understood
it, too, — that is, understood what the dead old man
had done, but not why he had done it. That was something
for which she could find no excuse, no reason. Doubtless the
letter directed to Roger contained the explanation, if there was
one; but that was sacred to her, — that was Roger's alone. She
could not meddle with that; she would give it to him just as
she had found it.
“Poor wronged Roger; it will kill him,” she moaned; “and
to think that I should be the instrument of his ruin.”
She was rocking to and fro in her distress, with her hands
locked together around her knees, and her head bowed in her
lap. What could she do? What should she do? she asked
herself, and something answered again, “Put it where you found
it, and keep your own counsel.”
Surely that advice was good, and Magdalen started to follow
it, when suddenly there came back to her the words, “If I believed
it, I would move heaven and earth to find it.”
Roger had spoken thus on that summer morning, which
seemed so long ago. Roger was honest; Roger was just;
Roger would bid her take that dreadful paper to him, though
total ruin was the result.
Twice Magdalen started for the dark opening under the
roof and as often stopped suddenly, until at last, overcome
with excitement and anguish, she crouched down upon the
floor, and moaned piteously, “Oh, Roger, Roger, if you must
be ruined, I wish it had fallen to the lot of some other one
to ruin you. Was it for this you brought me here? for this
you have been so kind to me? Oh, Roger, I cannot live to
see you a beggar. Why was it done? What was it for?”
The words she uttered were not intelligible, and only her sobbing
moans met Frank's ear and sent him up the steep stairway
to where she sat with her face buried in her lap and the fatal
paper clutched firmly in her hand.
“Magdalen, what is it? What has happened to you?”
Frank asked, and then Magdalen first became aware of his
presence.
Uttering a low scream she struggled to her feet, and turned
toward him a face the expression of which he never forgot, it
was so full of pain and anguish, of terror and mute entreaty.
There was no escape now, for he was there with her, — the
heir, the supplanter of poor Roger. Heaven would not suffer
her to hide it as she might have done if left alone a little longer.
It had sent Frank to prevent the wrong, and she must do the
the moment she stood confronting Frank, — then reaching
toward him the soiled yellow paper, she whispered hoarsely:
“Take it, Frank. It is yours, all yours; but oh, be merciful
to Roger.”
Mechanically Frank took the paper from her, and the next
moment she was on her knees before him trying to articulate
something about “Roger, poor Roger,” but failing in the effort.
The sight of that paper in Frank's hands, and knowing that
with it he held everything which Roger prized so dearly, took
sense and strength away, and she fainted at his feet.
Magdalen had found the will!
| CHAPTER XX.
WHAT MAGDALEN FOUND IN THE GARRET. Millbank, or, Roger Irving's ward | |