Chapter Fourteen.
Keys and Locks.
As the saying is, I had my task cut out for me. Never did any one go more nearly mad over the subject of keys than I. Cousin Geoffrey, with all his eccentricities, had in many respects a well-balanced mind. Nothing could have been neater than the queer arrangements of his house. Everywhere there were locked cupboards, locked bureaus, locked chests of drawers, boxes with locks to them, portfolios which could only be opened by fitting a key into a lock. In short, there never was a more thoroughly locked-up house. No wonder the bag which contained Cousin Geoffrey’s keys should prove heavy.
It was one thing, however, for the owner of the said keys to know where to apply each—it was quite another thing for me. To my horror when I unfastened the brown leather bag, I found that the great bunches of keys of all sorts and sizes were unlabelled. When I made this discovery I almost gave up my task in despair. I had to look twice at the ruby ring, and think of the voice which spoke so confidently within its secret chamber before I had the courage to commence my search.
I don’t believe, however, that my heart was a particularly faint one, and after girding myself to the fray, I toiled up-stairs, carrying the bag of keys with me.
I knew well that my search must be confined to the octagon room.
To reach this room I had to go up-stairs to the first landing of the house. I had then to turn to the left, and to descend some four or five steps; a narrow passage here led me to a spiral staircase which communicated directly with the Chamber of Myths.
This quaint and beautiful room was evidently an afterthought. It was built when the rest of the house was completed. It stood alone, and I found afterwards that it was supported from the ground by massive pillars. No pains and no money had been spared upon it. The middle of London, or at least the middle of Bloomsbury, could scarcely contain a lovely view. Geoffrey Rutherford had clearly apprehended this fact when he built the octagon chamber: he did the next best thing he could for it; he supplied it with painted glass, of modern workmanship it is true, but exquisite in colour and artistic in design. The eight windows which the room contained were narrow, high, and pointed; they were filled in with glass copied from the designs of masters. Geoffrey must have travelled over a great part of Europe to supply himself with these designs. He must have gone with an artist as his companion, for in no other way could these perfectly painted glass pictures from old Flemish Cathedrals and old Roman Council Chambers have been so exquisitely and perfectly reproduced.
“I wonder if he copied the designs himself,” I thought. “I remember that my mother told me what an accomplished artist Cousin Geoffrey was. Oh, what lovely glass! I could sit here and study. I will sit here and study. If I cannot acquire art in any other way, I will learn it from Cousin Geoffrey’s windows.”
The Chamber of Myths had always exercised a fascination over me, but never more so than to-day. I was so excited by what I saw that I forgot for a time the mission on which I had come. The subjects of the different windows represented Woman in various guises and forms: there was the mother with the baby in her arms: there was the maiden crowning herself with spring flowers, there was the wife tending the vines and watching for the return of her absent husband. One window was larger than the rest, and it contained what I supposed was a copy of a well-known masterpiece. The world’s greatest Friend sat in the centre of a group of children. Some had climbed into His arms, some leant against His knees, some knelt at His feet, the tender and gracious hands were raised in blessing, the eyes shone with the highest love. In the background a mother stood, worship in her face; adoration, humility, joy, thanksgiving in her smile. This picture of Christ blessing children made me weep.
“Oh, if I could but see the original,” I murmured.
I did not know then what I afterwards learnt that I was looking at the original; that this painted window was the work, the greatest work, of the eccentric owner of the house. Between each of the pointed windows hung valuable Gobelin tapestries, some the work of the great French artist, Noel Coypel; others by the splendid workman, Jans. I learned the value of these rare tapestries later on; now I scarcely noticed them, so absorbed was I in the fascination of the windows. Each window contained a deep seat, which was approached by oak steps, highly polished and black with age. The floor of the room was also of black oak. The roof was high and pointed, made of oak and exquisitely carved. Behind each of the tapestry curtains I discovered a small locked cupboard. There were four oak bureaus in the room, each of which contained ten separate locked drawers. A work-table of ivory, inlaid with lovely lapis lazuli, was also locked. There was an old-fashioned writing-table, and three or four oak chests. Everything that could be fitted with a key in this chamber had a lock which was securely fastened. I thought it highly probable that each lock would have to be fitted with a separate key. In this case, after making a careful calculation, I found that if I were to acquaint myself with all the secrets contained in the Chamber of Myths, I must be supplied with about sixty separate keys. No wonder the task before me seemed to increase in magnitude as I approached it.
Opening my brown leather bag, I laid the keys which Mr Gray had given me on a slender Queen Anne table, which stood near one of the tapestry recesses. My first task was to arrange them according to size. This occupied me until two o’clock, when a slow, somewhat heavy step on the stairs warned me that Mrs Drake was approaching. I did not want her to see me at my task, and hastened to meet her. She had provided a dainty little lunch for me; not in the kitchen, but in the queer and desolate sitting-room where I had first seen Cousin Geoffrey. I ate my chop off old Sèvres china, and drank a refreshing draught of water out of a tall, rose-coloured Flemish glass. I was far too excited to linger long over the meal. The moment I had satisfied my hunger, I ran back to the octagon room, and continued my task of arranging and sorting the keys. I had provided myself with paper and ink, and as I fitted each key to its lock I fastened a label to it. Night overtook me, however, before my work was a quarter done. I put the keys once more into the brown bag—the unsorted ones at the bottom, those with the labels at the top. I went down-stairs, desired Drake to fetch a cab for me, told him I should return to the house early the next day, and took the precious bag containing the keys back to the lawyer’s office. He was within, and evidently expecting me.
“Well, Miss Rosamund,” he said, “and what luck have you had?”
“None up to the present,” I replied. Then I continued: “There must have been a sad want of order in some person’s brain not to have had these keys labelled.”
“Ah, you have found that out, have you?”
“Yes, and I am rectifying the omission.”
“Good girl—clever, methodical girl.”
“Here is the bag, Mr Gray; I will come to fetch it early to-morrow.”
“Oh, you will, will you?”
“Certainly; expect me before eleven o’clock.” I bade Mr Gray good-night, and took an omnibus which presently conducted me to the neighbourhood of Paddington Station.
In course of time I got home. My father and George had arrived before me. It was quite contrary to the doctrines of our house for a woman to assert her independence in the way I was doing. My conduct in staying out in this unwarrantable fashion called forth contemptuous glances from my father, sighs of regret from my gentle mother, and sharp speeches from my brother George. I bore all with wonderful patience, and ran up-stairs to take off my things.
As I was arranging my thick hair before the glass, and giving a passing thought to my dear little sister Hetty’s curling brown locks, and remembering how deftly she had tried to arrange mine according to modern fashion, a knock came to my door, and George stood outside.
“You don’t deserve me to treat you with any confidence. You are the most curious mixture of childishness, folly, and obstinacy that I have ever had the pleasure of meeting,” he said in his cold voice; “but, nevertheless, as you were good enough to confide in me last night, and as your communication was of importance, you will be pleased to learn that I was able to persuade my father not to see Chillingfleet.”
“I am delighted,” I said, running up to George, and kissing him, very much against his will. “How did you manage it, George? Do tell me.”
“Dear me, Rosamund, how impulsive you are! What does it matter how I managed the thing, provided it was done? I think it due to you to let you know that I have taken steps to prevent our father ever becoming acquainted with Jack’s wickedness; and now let us drop this revolting subject at once and for ever.”
“I am more than willing,” I replied, “provided we do not drop Jack as well.”
“What do you mean? Do you suppose I am going to have anything further to say to the fellow?”
“I cannot say whether you are or not, George, but I am. Jack must live; Hetty must be cared for.”
“Hetty! How dare you speak to me of that low-born girl?”
“I know nothing about her birth,” I retorted. “I only know that she Is a lady at heart; that she is a sweet little thing, and that I love her tenderly.”
“I don’t want to stand here any longer, Rosamund, to listen to your childishness.”
“Just as you please, George.”
“One word, however, before I go,” continued my brother. “You will have the goodness to give up this gadding into town in future, and will arrange to stay quietly at home with our mother.”
“I am sorry I cannot oblige you,” I replied. “It will be necessary for me to go back to town early to-morrow, and to continue to do so for several days.”
“I shall ask my father to forbid you.”
“Very well, George; you can please yourself, only I warn you, you had better not.”
“What do I care for your warnings?” He slammed the door behind him, and went down-stairs in the worst possible humour.
I wondered if George had quite made up his mind to give up the girl whom he loved, and who possessed a little money, and if this was the reason he was even crosser than his wont.
This thought helped me to be patient with him; and I went down-stairs to supper, resolved to show no ill-temper, but to make myself as agreeable as I possibly could.
I had never in my whole life wilfully disobeyed a direct command of my father’s, and I did not want to begin to do so now. I took it upon me, therefore, to make myself agreeable to him. I put his worsted-work slippers before the fire to warm. I pulled forward his favourite arm-chair, and cut the pages of a new magazine and laid it by his side. George was not in the room. My father received these attentions without any outward show of thanks; but when I came close to him for a moment, he bent forward and patted my head.
“It’s a good thing to have you at home again, Rose,” he said.
“Father,” I said, suddenly, “I should always like to do what you wish, of course; but I need not obey George, need I?”
“Obey George!” echoed my father. “I should think not, indeed. The fellow is growing much too hectoring. Obey George! What next, I wonder?”
“He wants me not to go to town to-morrow,” I said; “but if you give me leave, I may, may I not?”
“Of course, child, of course.”
“Then I’ll tell George that I have your leave. It isn’t as if I were a little girl, is it? I shall always wish to please you and mother.”
My father muttered something which might have signified approval or the reverse; but when George came into the room and began, according to my father’s verdict, to hector me once again, he received a sudden and unlooked-for check.
I could not help feeling myself quite double, and even deceitful, when I discovered that I had so easily gained my point.