The Man with a Secret: A Novel

by Fergus Hume

And that which once held the soul of Randal Garsworth lay on the bed under the heavily-draped canopy--a still white-faced form with the dead hands crossed on the dead breast, and on the white lips a terrible smile. Candles burned on each side of the body with a sickly light, and a woman with her face buried in her hands knelt praying for the dead man's soul.

"Oh God who art the Judge of all have mercy upon the soul of this wretched man."

Not a breath of air in the vastness of the room, no sound, no blaze of light--only the pale glimmer of the candles hollowing out a gulf of luminous light in the sombre blackness of the brooding night.

"Oh God who art all powerful and just, let not the soul of this man suffer for the sins of his life, for the mind which should have ruled the soul was a wreck and incapable of so ruling."

Was there not a sneer upon the still features of the dead man at this prayer for his misspent, useless life--he that despised prayer and only looked upon his soul as useful to inhabit a new body so that he could make it an instrument by which to enjoy the sensual things of this earth.

Midnight, and the wind is rising--with querulous voice it sweeps through the leafless trees and whistles through the chinks and crannies of the old house, making the dim light of the candles flicker and flare in the dense darkness. No prayer now sounds from the thin lips of the watcher, for a sudden thought has darted through her brain.

"The letter for my son--I must get it from the desk."

She rises softly from her knees, and putting her hand under the pillow whereon rests the head of the corpse, draws forth the keys of the dead man, holding her breath meantime, fearful lest he should arise and lay cold hands upon her. The keys chink musically in the silence, then with stealthy stride and sound of sweeping dress, she crosses to the desk, bent on obtaining the letter written by the squire to Reginald Blake.

The minutes slowly pass, and the wind is still rising; now howling furiously round the house, shaking the shutters and fluttering the curtains as though wroth at witnessing the sacrilegious theft it is powerless to prevent.

With the letter in her hand, the woman who has committed this crime against the dead for the sake of her son, softly crosses the room toward the bed, replaces the keys in their old place under the pillow, and slipping the letter into her bosom, falls once more upon her knees with tearful eyes and outstretched hands.