Chapter XXI

THE WINCHESTER HEIRLOOM.

“Gerald,” said her ladyship that same evening, upon coming up from their dinner, “how far back do you know your family history?”

Gerald turned to his friend with some surprise at this question, and then his fine face clouded.

“Not very far,” he gravely returned. “The most that I know is that—a long time ago—some of my ancestors came to this country from England. I have heard Aunt Honor speak of her great-grandfather, on her mother’s side, being a Scotch Presbyterian minister. Her grand-father was a blacksmith, her father a physician, and——”

“And your father—who and what was he, Gerald?” eagerly questioned Lady Bromley, as he paused suddenly.

Again the young man flashed a look of surprise at his companion, and flushed slightly.

“Pardon me if I seem unduly curious,” said her ladyship, laying her hand fondly upon his shoulder as she caught the look. “I am, perhaps, overstepping the bounds of etiquette in catechizing you thus, but I have a reason for it which I will explain presently. You have already told me that you do not remember either your father or mother.”

“No,” replied Gerald, “my father, who must have been considerably younger than Aunt Honor, went to sea and never came back, and that is about all that I know regarding him; for auntie never seemed to like to talk about him. My mother died of quick consumption when I was an infant only a few months old, and was buried in Ashton, a small town in Rhode Island, where, later, I buried auntie. This is about all that I know concerning my personal history, for my aunt was always so busy trying to make a living for us, she never seemed willing to stop to answer my boyish questions. So I finally grew tired of having her say bruskly, though not unkindly, ‘Oh, go away, child; I’m busy now, and can’t be bothered,’ and thus I gradually came to look upon my birth and early life as a sort of vague dream, and to realize that my chief concern was to improve my time, and get what education I could to fit myself for the future that lay before me. And yet, since I have grown older, I have sometimes thought that Aunt Honor intentionally evaded me and kept back from me facts regarding my parentage. But she was always very good to me—she denied herself a great deal to keep me at school. I really believe that she worked beyond her strength, and that was what caused her to drop away so suddenly.”

“Have you no relics—no keepsakes, that belonged to your mother? Have you no record of her marriage, or her wedding-ring?” asked Lady Bromley.

“No; I was so intent upon my boyish pursuits I never thought to ask for anything of the kind; indeed, I doubt if I even knew that such things were requisite accompaniments to marriage while Aunt Honor lived; you know, I was only fourteen years of age when she died,” Gerald responded, with a sigh.

“Yes, I suppose it is not strange that you did not think of such things at that age,” said Lady Bromley, adding, as she smiled kindly into his rather troubled face: “And now I am going to tell you why I have been so exceedingly inquisitive—perhaps you may have deemed me rudely so. I made a discovery this afternoon, Gerald, which I am impressed will be of great interest to you, even if it does not throw any light upon your own personal history. It was to prepare you somewhat for this that I have questioned you. I took a notion into my head that I would have that ancient cricket of yours made over into something respectable, and, upon removing various coverings, I found that the top of the thing is a kind of box, with a cover which fits snugly into it.”

“That is curious!” Gerald observed, with sudden interest.

“It is; and what is still more so, is the fact that the receptacle is packed with papers.”

“Why, that is very remarkable! What kind of papers?”

“That I cannot tell you, my dear boy,” replied her ladyship, flushing slightly, “for, of course, I did not presume to touch them. I am sure, however that your aunt, Miss Winchester, must have known of this secret, and it is possible that she also may have added something to its contents, for I found that every covering, underneath the outer one, had been partially detached to admit of the lid being lifted.”

“Ah, this explains why she was so insistent that I should never part with the cricket!” Gerald exclaimed. “But why all the secrecy? Why did she not tell me that the thing contained important documents?” he added wonderingly.

“Possibly she may have intended to do so, later on, when you had arrived at years of discretion—she may have regarded you, up to the time of her death, as too young to be entrusted with important information,” replied Lady Bromley. “But come,” she continued, rising and speaking in a playful tone, “you must examine this mysterious inheritance for yourself.”

She went to the corner where she had placed the cricket, removed the coverings she had thrown over it, and pointed to the ancient heirloom, which, in its demolished condition, now appeared more disreputable than ever.

But, somehow, Gerald shrank from the thing. There was an oppressive weight upon his heart—a sense of dread lest, upon investigating the mystery, he should learn some secret which would make his life unendurable.

“Come, come, you indifferent boy; have you no curiosity?” lightly queried her ladyship, who plainly read his thoughts upon his expressive face. “I frankly confess to an element of ‘Mother Eve’ in my nature; but I have some letters to write, so I am going to my chamber while you examine the contents of your treasure-chest.”

“I cannot bear to touch it,” he replied, regarding the inoffensive chest with a moody brow; “I believe I am afraid of it.”

“Fie! do not be superstitious,” laughingly reproved his companion. “Who knows but that you may find yourself the descendant of some ‘lord of high degree’ over the water. In that case, I may have the felicity of your continued friendship and presence in the country of my adoption; that is, if my own case comes to a favorable issue, and I ever get back to England.”

Still Gerald did not move.

He was superstitious in this instance; and if he could have followed the promptings of his own inclinations, he would far rather have burned this mysterious heirloom, without learning the nature of its contents, than run the risk of discovering some story of the past which would make his cheek burn with shame to rehearse to this lovely woman, who had become so much to him during the last year.

Still assuming a lightness of manner, although her own heart was strangely oppressed by the magnetism of his fear, Lady Bromley herself lifted the foot-rest, and bore it to the table, where she deposited it.

Then, after placing a chair before it, she again went to Gerald’s side, slipping her hand within his arm, and forcibly compelling him to cross the room and be seated.

“Now, my dear boy,” she said, laying her hand caressingly on his head, and speaking with exceeding tenderness, “let not your heart be troubled, no matter what the contents of this strange treasure-chest reveals to you; all is wisely ordered by a good Father. Nothing can harm you individually; Miss Winchester’s judicious training and your own innate nobility of character have made you a man whose friendship any man or woman might be proud to win, and from whose real worth no mistake or shadow of a previous generation could detract one iota.”

Gerald lifted his face to the beautiful one bending above him, and there was a suspicious moisture in his eyes. He gently took the hand from his head, and, bringing it around to his lips, left a reverent caress upon it.

“Lady Bromley, how kind you are to me! How much you have become to me during the short year of our acquaintance! I owe you more than I can express—especially for your almost divine sympathy during my recent trouble. I believe, but for you, I could not have lived and kept my reason, after learning of Allison’s terrible fate, and now——”

Her ladyship laid her fingers upon his tremulous lips. She saw that he was on the verge of a wild outburst of grief, in view of the crushing sorrow of the past, and the dread of what might be in store for him.

“Hush!” she said softly, “do not look back. We all have our troubles and losses. I have had mine, and no living soul, save myself, knows how hard to bear some of them have been”—this with visible emotion; “and if I should allow myself to dwell on them I should be one of the most wretched women living. Now I am going to run away,” she continued more brightly, “but when I come back, let me find all these somber clouds dispersed.”

She swept her hand lightly and caressingly across his brow as she ceased speaking, then went quickly from the room. Gerald sat moodily, thinking for a long time after she disappeared. His arms were tightly folded across his breast, his head was bent, and his whole attitude plainly indicated the great depression of mind which held him enthralled.

Mentally he went over the ground of his whole life, recalling many incidents of his childhood which, at the time, had seemed of no importance whatever, but which now, viewed in the light of later events—of his aunt’s persistent evasion of his questions and of Lady Bromley’s discovery of that day—appeared to be strongly significant of some vital secret regarding his origin.

Surely, Miss Winchester would never have made him promise so sacredly never to part with her cricket if she had not known that it contained something which might some day become of importance to him.

The partial cutting away of the various coverings also betrayed that, at least, some individual, for four generations back, had been cognizant of an important secret connected with the quaint heirloom, and had probably added something to it. He recalled how very vague his Aunt Honor had always been to him in reference to his parents—particularly so regarding his father, who “went to sea before he was born and never came back”—that was her invariable reply to all questions which he asked, and he was usually switched off upon some other subject when he became too persistent.

He had a picture of his mother, taken when she was a fair, sweet girl of seventeen or eighteen years, and all his life he had loved to look at the lovely face, with its earnest, thoughtful expression, and he often wondered if the sound of her voice would have thrilled him as did those beautiful eyes into which he so loved to gaze.

He never remembered to have seen any relatives—he had had but few playmates. He and his aunt had lived very quietly by themselves in their country home, until they had come to New York, and become a part of its bustling, hustling life.

Miss Winchester had been kind and fond of him, in her way, and he had loved her more because he had no one else to love, than because of the bond of kinship which existed between them.

He smiled now, a trifle bitterly, as he thought of this, and remembered how few people there had ever been in the world who had felt any real interest in him.

Toward Mr. Brewster he had been strongly attracted from the first hour spent in his office, when he had gone to him as a common messenger-boy. He had been his ideal of a true and honorable gentleman, and his regard for him had continued to increase until it had grown into something that might have been called boyish worship.

Then Allison had come into his life, like a star of hope, only to fall again suddenly from his firmament, and leave him in almost rayless darkness.

And yet he knew he should not say that, for there was Mr. Lyttleton, whose kindness had been unvarying, while Lady Bromley was, next to Allison, the dearest friend he had ever known.

His had been rather a barren existence thus far, taking it all in all; what would the future bring him? he wondered, with a weary sigh.

With a look of sudden determination, he straightened himself, put forth his hand, and grasped the Winchester heirloom.

The next moment he swung back the lid in the top, and found himself gazing upon the mysterious documents which, for so long, had been concealed there.

Those on top were yellowed and creased with age. There was a chronological tree of the Winchesters, dating back for ten generations; but although Gerald examined it carefully, he could find no trace of any “lord of high degree,” or anything which threw the slightest light upon his own birth or parentage.

Then there were records of marriages, births, and deaths, some baptismal-certificates, and, among these latter, that of Miss Honor Winchester herself. Also one of Martha Winchester which was pinned to a marriage-certificate, showing her to have married, some fifty years previous, a certain Arthur Harris.

With these there was the record of the birth of a daughter, who had been named Miriam, and who evidently had been the only child of this couple.

“H’m!” said Gerald thoughtfully, “I never heard Miss Honor speak of having had a sister named Martha, and—and my mother’s name was Miriam. This rather mixes things for me, and strikes me as being very queer.”

These papers were the only ones which, as yet, contained anything of special interest to him, and he wondered why they had been placed so near the bottom of the receptacle in the cricket.

He laid them apart from the others, and then drew forth a bulky envelope, which, with a sudden start and thrill, he discovered was addressed to himself, in the familiar handwriting of Miss Honor Winchester.

Now every nerve in his body seemed alive with a sense of painful expectation.

He believed that a crisis in his life had come—that he was about to pass the Rubicon which was perhaps to make or mar his whole future.

The envelope was sealed, but he broke it open impatiently—an intolerance of all delay in learning his fate taking possession of him—and drew out its contents, though with a hand that was far from steady.

There were a few letters bound together with a rubber band, and the writing on their envelopes had a strangely familiar look to him.

Next, there were several closely written sheets which, he saw at once, had been written by his aunt, and doubtless to him, although he could not stop to read them then. He was too anxious to ascertain the contents of those two other papers which lay underneath them.

With a strange heart-sinking, he unfolded the uppermost one, and as he glanced quickly over it, a look of blank astonishment overspread his face.

Laying it down, he opened the only remaining document. There was a minute of utter silence, during which he scarcely seemed to breathe, as he hastily perused its contents.

Then, with a hoarse cry bursting from his colorless lips, he sprang from his chair, the paper clutched in his rigid hands, while the ancient heirloom of the Winchesters, which he had overturned with a sweep of his elbow, went crashing noisily to the floor.

An instant after that hoarse, startled cry rang through the room—after that foot-rest went crashing to the floor, the door of Lady Bromley’s chamber flew open, there was the sound of silken garments trailing swiftly over the carpet, then a jeweled hand was laid upon Gerald’s arm, and the anxious eyes of the beautiful woman searched, with a frightened look, the rigid countenance of our hero.

“Gerald! What is it?” she whispered. “What has excited you so? Tell me!”

“Good heavens! It cannot be true! I can never believe it!” the young man muttered, a far-away look in his eyes, his face still set and white as marble.

“What is it that cannot be true? Have you made some wonderful discovery?” questioned Lady Bromley, her hand still clinging to his arm, her voice full of gentle persuasiveness.

“Yes.”

“Tell me!”

“I am almost afraid to breathe it aloud.”

“No, no! Gerald, surely not to me—your friend under all circumstances; one who will never fail you,” the lovely woman pleaded. “Is it as you surmised, some secret connected with your origin?”

“Yes, and it is wonderful! Incredible!”

“Tell me!” again commanded his friend.

The excited fellow drew in a deep breath that shook his stalwart frame from head to foot.

He straightened himself to his full height, throwing back his head with an air of freedom and conscious pride, while an expression of great joy illumined his eyes.

Then he looked down and smiled into the face of the fair woman beside him.

“You will scarcely believe me,” he said, “but I am Adam Brewster’s son!”

Lady Bromley heard Gerald’s statement with amazement, although she had felt that the papers might have a serious bearing on the life of her young friend. Together they examined the documents so long hidden in the old foot-stool, and when they had finished with the last piece of evidence, so singularly produced, it was evident to both that the mystery of Gerald’s birth had been cleared away, and that, as the lawful son of the banker, he was the rightful heir to the millions for which John Hubbard had seemingly successfully plotted.

How Gerald’s claim to the banker’s fortune was established to the complete undoing of the scheming lawyer, and how the sunshine of love and happiness once more entered into his life, will be found in the sequel to this story, which is published under the title, “A Heritage of Love,” and bound in handsome cloth binding, uniform with this volume.

THE END.