Chapter XIX: The Old Album

I CAME downstairs two days after my reconciliation with my husband, and was received affectionately by the good rector. Lady Waterville, too, was so moved by the account of my illness that she actually exerted herself enough to write a kind note, saying that she had quite forgiven me and taken me back again into favour. The sudden death of William Greystock had shaken her nerves; life was short; and she wanted to be at peace with all those whom she had ever known and loved.

She added that, among her poor nephew's effects, there had been found an album which had been given by Inez Greystock to her sister, Estella Hepburne. The book was full of scraps of prose and verse, all in the handwriting of the ill-fated Inez, and the name of Estella was written on the fly-leaf, followed by an urgent injunction to her husband to place the volume in Mrs. Hepburne's hands if Inez were the first to die. The Colonel had, no doubt, instructed William Greystock to fulfil that earnest request; and William (for reasons of his own) had failed to obey him.

"We have so few relics of your aunt Inez that we shall value that album," I said to Ronald.

"Yes," he answered, thoughtfully. "But what a strange fellow Greystock was! What possible motive could he have had for keeping a book which was useless to him?"

"He was full of mysteries, Ronald; let us try to banish him from our thoughts entirely," I said, with an involuntary shudder. "As soon as we return to London, you shall call on Lady Waterville, and get the album. I long to see it—I think it may tell us more of Aunt Inez than we have ever yet known."

September had set in, and the woods about my old country home were taking their first autumn tints, when I said good-bye to the rectory. Dear, peaceful house, in which Ronald and I had begun a new and better life together! I felt that I should love those ivied walls to the very last day of my life, and thank God that I had found a shelter there in the hour of my sharp distress.

Marian had gone back to her aunt, in Curzon Street, and I travelled back to London alone. Memories came rushing in upon my heart as the train bore me back again to the home of my wedded life. New thoughts, new prayers, new resolutions, made the journey seem short to me. There was a clearer light shining now upon the path which the young wife had to tread—a path in which her feeble feet had often stumbled, and her hands groped blindly for some guiding touch. But experience had taught me where the dangerous places were to be found; and the mist of doubt and fear would obscure my way no more.

It did not trouble me to know that we should have to live as cheaply as possible for many a month to come. Ronald had declared himself heartily willing to economise, and save enough out of his salary to pay off all that we owed. My health, still delicate, would oblige me to lead the quietest of lives, and my husband repeatedly assured me that he desired nothing better than home-like peace and rest. We had promised each other to begin a fresh existence, making light of small crosses, and thinking the most of every joy that came to our lot.

Ronald had already entered into his new employment heart and soul; and as his presence was required at his office, it was nurse who came to meet me at the railway-station.

It was between two and three in the afternoon when the train arrived at its destination, and I caught sight of a well-known, comely face, and a portly figure on the platform. There was a suppressed rapture in nurse's greeting, which diverted, while it almost unnerved me; the good soul's gratitude at seeing me restored to health and happiness was expressed in her own quaint fashion:

"Ah, how sweet you look, Miss Louie, ma'am! As pretty again as ever, and everything about you smells of the country! Why, that's a bunch of Glory-de-John roses from dear master's own old tree! And here's a basket of the rectory pears, that make my mouth water to behold 'em! Come, my dear, step into a cab, and don't speak a word till you have had a cup of tea and a good rest."

Obeying her kind command, I was silent as we rolled on through the sunshiny London streets; but when we drew near home, my heart began to throb fast with the bliss of the old love and the new peace.

Still in silence, I entered the little room from which I had fled in such wild haste and anguish. All the familiar objects seemed to give me a mute welcome; there were Ronald's tambourines with their bright streamers of ribbon; there were the bulrushes and the old china. On the table was my ancient silver teapot, covered by a satin cosy of my own making, and everything spoke of forethought and expectation. This was my true home; within these two rooms, my husband and I were destined, as I then believed, to spend many an hour together.

When nurse had sent one of the maids to boil a new-laid egg, and had taken off my bonnet with her own hands, she began to fuss over me, and wait upon me as if I had been her little charge of long ago. I had emptied one cup of tea, and was ready for another, before she remembered that she had a message to give me.

"Lady Waterville's man called with a parcel this morning, my dear," she said. "Her ladyship's love, and she wished to see you as soon as you were well enough to go to her."

"I shall very soon be well enough," I answered. "But where is the parcel, nurse?"

"Now drink your tea in peace like a good girl, ma'am," said nurse, authoritatively.

"I shan't drink it in peace if you don't let me see that parcel," I replied.

The parcel was brought, the string untied, and within the paper envelope lay an old-fashioned book, with well-preserved covers of scarlet morocco, and gilt edges. It was just such a book as one sees in the drawing-rooms of ancient maiden ladies; and to me there has always been something touching in such volumes—shrines of memories and dead loves.

When nurse had gone to look after household matters, and I was left alone once more, I carried the book to the sofa and sat down with it upon my knees. Close beside me was the guitar, and a few rays of afternoon sunlight illumined its polished wood and delicate mosaic ornamentation. I toyed with it carelessly for a second or two, and then began to turn over the album leaves.

Evidently poor Inez Greystock had been a woman who loved poetry and flowers. Her water-colour drawings of lilies and roses and pansies were superior to much of the boarding school art which was in vogue in her day. As to the poems, they were chiefly extracts from Byron and Shelley; all melancholy—all harping more or less on one sad string—the utter loneliness of a disappointed heart.

But at last I came to one page, near the end of the book, which was gayer and brighter than any which had preceded it. A large card, with a gaily gilded pattern for a margin, was inscribed with three verses, far inferior in literary merit to the rest of the poetry in the volume; and these lines were set to music.

A simple air it was, apparently written out by a careful hand—every note being perfectly distinct; and at the top of the page there were these words—

"Hope: a Song for my Guitar."

What remembrance was it that thrilled me with a sudden shock as my glance rested on the first words of the little poem? I read it from beginning to end, and the lines, commonplace as they will seem to strangers, must always remain imprinted on my memory.

"Hope guards the jewels, peerless gems and bright,
To crown beloved brows with living light;
When other guardians fail, and joy flies fast,
Hope leads thee to the treasure-house at last.

"Hope guards the jewels; love may prove untrue,
But faithful Hope creates thy life anew;
To her, the fairest grace of all the three,
I leave my precious things to keep for thee.

"Hope guards the jewels; there will come a day,
When she, who loves thee, shall be far away;
But Hope will hover near on angel wings,
And guide thee by the tuneful song she sings."

As one in a dream, I put down the album and took up the guitar. Already the September sunshine was beginning to wane, and I carried it close to the window (just as my husband had done when it first came into the house) and examined the piece of paper pasted inside the instrument.

"Hope guards the jewels." The handwriting here was the same as that in the book. And as the truth flashed upon my mind, a feeling something like awe overwhelmed me for a moment, and made me tremble from head to foot.

It was verily the lost guitar of poor Inez which I was holding in my hands. Through changing scenes, through divers owners, through unknown chances and dangers, it had come back to her rightful heir at last. I remembered that a good man had guided me to the attic where it was to be found, and that a dying man had delivered it to me with a blessing.

And now, with the finding of the guitar, was it not possible that other lost things might be found too? Just as my heart was throbbing fast with this thought, I heard the sound of Ronald's key in the hall door, and in the next instant he had entered the room.

"My own dear little woman, welcome home!" he said, taking me into his arms, guitar and all. "Why, how bright you are looking! Is that red book my aunt's old album?"

"Yes," I said, eagerly; "and oh, Ronald, here is some guitar music in it! Play it to me at once; I am impatient to hear this tune."

He ran his eye over the notes, tuned the instrument, and yielded to my request at once. I was not deceived; the first chords, sweet and soft and gay, convinced me that we had discovered our mysterious melody at last.

"So this is really our haunting air!" said Ronald, when he had played it to the end. "And it was a memory of my childhood, after all. I must have heard my mother sing it."

I was silent for a minute, waiting for what he would say next. He read the title of the little song once or twice before it seemed to bring any light into his mind.

"Hope guards the jewels!" he cried at last. "Louie, those words are written in Spanish inside the guitar. It surely can't be possible, little woman, that we have got the lost guitar here!"

"It is the fact, Ronald," I said, quietly. "Just compare the writing in the album with the writing inside the guitar. And now, look at this page in the book. The card on which the music is written is merely kept in its place by means of four slits cut in the leaf; and the four corners of the card are slipped into the slits. Shall we draw it out and examine it?"

The hint was, enough for my husband. In a second or two, the volume lay upon the table, and Ronald stood by the window with the card in his hand. On the back of it there were a few words in Spanish.

"Remove the parchment label from the inside of the guitar, and read what is written on the reverse side of the parchment."

It was plain that had Estella lived she would have understood the hidden meaning in the song, even without this direction, and would have searched the guitar to find out the last wishes of her sister. The air was one which they had constantly sung together in their early days, and it had, perhaps, certain associations for them which were lost to us. That poor Inez, always unlike other women, and partly crazed by sorrow, should have used her beloved guitar as the depository of her secret, would not have appeared so strange to Estella as it seemed to Ronald and myself.

It was the work of a few moments to detach the label, which was only pasted at the corners; and, when this had been carefully done, the back of the label was found to be covered with fine and delicate writing in English.

"DEAREST ESTELLA—" (Ronald read)

"I have hidden the most precious things I possess in your house in George Street. The diamonds given me by my first husband, remain in the hiding place which he made for them. Remove my portrait from the wall; press the panel marked with a red spot, and it will slide back and disclose a cavity. All that you find there belongs to you and your son. Deceived and disappointed in my second marriage, I have reserved my best treasures for you and Ronald Hepburne.

"(Signed) INEZ GREYSTOCK."

For a little while we stood and looked at each other in silence, and the same thought was in the minds of both. We could see now why William Greystock had kept the album in his own possession instead of delivering it to Ronald. He had always believed in the existence of the diamonds, although Colonel Greystock had laughed the idea to scorn. It was doubtful whether he had ever discovered the writing on the back of the card, but he might have fancied that the book contained some clue to the hiding place of the gems.

And it was evident to us now that he was scheming to get Ronald entirely into his power, that he might in the end obtain possession of the old house in George Street.

But the guitar had kept its secret faithfully, until the hour came for it to be revealed. How it was that the sweet air seemed to haunt its strings we never could explain; it was one of those things that are beyond man's philosophy. That some mysterious power had preserved the instrument from destruction, we could never doubt. But we often recalled the vague rumour which said that the dying Inez had begged a native soldier to take care of her guitar. Unable to save her, the Sepoy had, probably, obeyed her last request. And I remembered that it was from a Sepoy that Monsieur Léon had bought the guitar at Bombay.

"What if the diamonds should no longer be in the hiding place?" I said, suddenly breaking the silence. "Is it possible that they have been found and taken away?"

"I think not," Ronald answered. "But we will know to-night."