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CHAPTER II.
I was taken home on the appointed day to suffer the trial--a hard
one even at my tender years--of witnessing my mother's passionate
grief and my father's mute despair. I remember that the scene of
our first meeting after Caroline's death was wisely and
considerately shortened by my aunt, who took me out of the room.
She seemed to have a confused desire to keep me from leaving her
after the door had closed behind us; but I broke away and ran
downstairs to the surgery, to go and cry for my lost playmate
with the sharer of all our games, Uncle George.
I opened the surgery door and could see nobody. I dried my tears
and looked all round the room--it was empty. I ran upstairs again
to Uncle George's garret bedroom--he was not there; his cheap
hairbrush and old cast-off razor-case that had belonged to my
grandfather were not on the dressing-table. Had he got some other
bedroom? I went out on the landing and called softly, with an
unaccountable terror and sinking at my heart:
"Uncle George!"
Nobody answered; but my aunt came hastily up the garret stairs.
"Hush!" she said. "You must never call that name out here again!"
She stopped suddenly, and looked as if her own words had
frightened her.
"Is Uncle George dead?" I asked. My aunt turned red and pale, and
stammered.
I did not wait to hear what she said. I brushed past her, down
the stairs. My heart was bursting--my flesh felt cold. I ran
breathlessly and recklessly into the room where my father and
mother had received me. They were both sitting there still. I ran
up to them, wringing my hands, and crying out in a passion of
tears:
"Is Uncle George dead?"
My mother gave a scream that terrified me into instant silence
and stillness. My father looked at her for a moment, rang the
bell that summoned the maid, then seized me roughly by the arm
and dragged me out of the room.
He took me down into the study, seated himself in his accustomed
chair, and put me before him between his knees. His lips were
awfully white, and I felt his two hands, as they grasped my
shoulders, shaking violently.
"You are never to mention the name of Uncle George again," he
said, in a quick, angry, trembling whisper. "Never to me, never
to your mother, never to your aunt, never to anybody in this
world! Never--never--never!"
The repetition of the word terrified me even more than the
suppressed vehemence with which he spoke. He saw that I was
frightened, and softened his manner a little before he went on.
"You will never see Uncle George again," he said. "Your mother
and I love you dearly; but if you forget what I have told you,
you will be sent away from home. Never speak that name
again--mind, never! Now kiss me, and go away."
How his lips trembled--and oh, how cold they felt on mine!
I shrunk out of the room the moment he had kissed me, and went
and hid myself in the garden.
"Uncle George is gone. I am never to see him any more; I am never
to speak of him again"--those were the words I repeated to
myself, with indescribable terror and confusion, the moment I was
alone. There was something unspeakably horrible to my young mind
in this mystery which I was commanded always to respect, and
which, so far as I then knew, I could never hope to see revealed.
My father, my mother, my aunt, all appeared to be separated from
me now by some impassable barrier. Home seemed home no longer
with Caroline dead, Uncle George gone, and a forbidden subject of
talk perpetually and mysteriously interposing between my parents
and me.
Though I never infringed the command my father had given me in
his study (his words and looks, and that dreadful scream of my
mother's, which seemed to be still ringing in my ears, were more
than enough to insure my obedience), I also never lost the secret
desire to penetrate the darkness which clouded over the fate of
Uncle George.
For two years I remained at home and discovered nothing. If I
asked the servants about my uncle, they could only tell me that
one morning he disappeared from the house. Of the members of my
father's family I could make no inquiries. They lived far away,
and never came to see us; and the idea of writing to them, at my
age and in my position, was out of the question. My aunt was as
unapproachably silent as my father and mother; but I never forgot
how her face had altered when she reflected for a moment after
hearing of my extraordinary adventure while going home with the
servant over the sands at night. The more I thought of that
change of countenance in connection with what had occurred on my
return to my father's house, the more certain I felt that the
stranger who had kissed me and wept over me must have been no
other than Uncle George.
At the end of my two years at home I was sent to sea in the
merchant navy by my own earnest desire. I had always determined
to be a sailor from the time when I first went to stay with my
aunt at the sea-side, and I persisted long enough in my
resolution to make my parents recognize the necessity of acceding
to my wishes.
My new life delighted me, and I remained away on foreign stations
more than four years. When I at length returned home, it was to
find a new affliction darkening our fireside. My father had died
on the very day when I sailed for my return voyage to England.
Absence and change of scene had in no respect weakened my desire
to penetrate the mystery of Uncle George's disappearance. My
mother's health was so delicate that I hesitated for some time to
approach the forbidden subject in her presence. When I at last
ventured to refer to it, suggesting to her that any prudent
reserve which might have been necessary while I was a child, need
no longer be persisted in now that I was growing to be a young
man, she fell into a violent fit of trembling, and commanded me
to say no more. It had been my father's will, she said, that the
reserve to which I referred should be always adopted toward me;
he had not authorized her, before he died, to speak more openly;
and, now that he was gone, she would not so much as think of
acting on her own unaided judgment. My aunt said the same thing
in effect when I appealed to her. Determined not to be
discouraged even yet, I undertook a journey, ostensibly to pay my
respects to my father's family, but with the secret intention of
trying what I could learn in that quarter on the subject of Uncle
George.
My investigations led to some results, though they were by no
means satisfactory. George had always been looked upon with
something like contempt by his handsome sisters and his
prosperous brothers, and he had not improved his position in the
family by his warm advocacy of his brother's cause at the time of
my father's marriage. I found that my uncle's surviving relatives
now spoke of him slightingly and carelessly. They assured me that
they had never heard from him, and that they knew nothing about
him, except that he had gone away to settle, as they supposed, in
some foreign place, after having behaved very basely and badly to
my father. He had been traced to London, where he had sold out of
the funds the small share of money which he had inherited after
his father's death, and he had been seen on the deck of a packet
bound for France later on the same day. Beyond this nothing was
known about him. In what the alleged baseness of his behavior had
consisted none of his brothers and sisters could tell me. My
father had refused to pain them by going into particulars, not
only at the time of his brother's disappearance, but afterward,
whenever the subject was mentioned. George had always been the
black sheep of the flock, and he must have been conscious of his
own baseness, or he would certainly have written to explain and
to justify himself.
Such were the particulars which I gleaned during my visit to my
father's family. To my mind, they tended rather to deepen than to
reveal the mystery. That such a gentle, docile, affectionate
creature as Uncle George should have injured the brother he loved
by word or deed at any period of their intercourse, seemed
incredible; but that he should have been guilty of an act of
baseness at the very time when my sister was dying was simply and
plainly impossible. And yet there was the incomprehensible fact
staring me in the face that the death of Caroline and the
disappearance of Uncle George had taken plac e in the same week!
Never did I feel more daunted and bewildered by the family secret
than after I had heard all the particulars in connection with it
that my father's relatives had to tell me.
I may pass over the events of the next few years of my life
briefly enough.
My nautical pursuits filled up all my time, and took me far away
from my country and my friends. But, whatever I did, and wherever
I went, the memory of Uncle George, and the desire to penetrate
the mystery of his disappearance, haunted me like familiar
spirits. Often, in the lonely watches of the night at sea, did I
recall the dark evening on the beach, the strange man's hurried
embrace, the startling sensation of feeling his tears on my
cheeks, the disappearance of him before I had breath or
self-possession enough to say a word. Often did I think over the
inexplicable events that followed, when I had returned, after my
sister's funeral, to my father's house; and oftener still did I
puzzle my brains vainly, in the attempt to form some plan for
inducing my mother or my aunt to disclose the secret which they
had hitherto kept from me so perseveringly. My only chance of
knowing what had really happened to Uncle George, my only hope of
seeing him again, rested with those two near and dear relatives.
I despaired of ever getting my mother to speak on the forbidden
subject after what had passed between us, but I felt more
sanguine about my prospects of ultimately inducing my aunt to
relax in her discretion. My anticipations, however, in this
direction were not destined to be fulfilled. On my next visit to
England I found my aunt prostrated by a paralytic attack, which
deprived her of the power of speech. She died soon afterward in
my arms, leaving me her sole heir. I searched anxiously among her
papers for some reference to the family mystery, but found no
clew to guide me. All my mother's letters to her sister at the
time of Caroline's illness and death had been destroyed.
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