The Dead Secret - Wilkie Collins (rm book recommendations txt) 📗

a scarecrow you are, and frighten her away. If it’s a man visitor⁠—”

“If it’s a man visitor,” interposed Shrowl, “I’ll punch his head for interrupting me at my breakfast.”

Mr. Treverton filled and lit his pipe during his servant’s absence. Before the tobacco was well alight, Shrowl returned, and reported a man visitor.

“Did you punch his head?” asked Mr. Treverton.

“No,” said Shrowl. “I picked up his letter. He poked it under the gate and went away. Here it is.”

The letter was written on foolscap paper, superscribed in a round legal hand. As Mr. Treverton opened it, two slips cut from newspapers dropped out. One fell on the table before which he was sitting; the other fluttered to the floor. This last slip Shrowl picked up and looked over its contents, without troubling himself to go through the ceremony of first asking leave.

After slowly drawing in and slowly puffing out again one mouthful of tobacco-smoke, Mr. Treverton began to read the letter. As his eye fell on the first lines, his lips began to work round the mouthpiece of the pipe in a manner that was very unusual with him. The letter was not long enough to require him to turn over the first leaf of it⁠—it ended at the bottom of the opening sheet. He read it down to the signature⁠—then looked up to the address, and went through it again from the beginning. His lips still continued to work round the mouthpiece of the pipe, but he smoked no more. When he had finished the second reading, he set the letter down very gently on the table, looked at his servant with an unaccustomed vacancy in the expression of his eyes, and took the pipe out of his mouth with a hand that trembled a little.

“Shrowl,” he said, very quietly, “my brother, the Captain, is drowned.”

“I know he is,” answered Shrowl, without looking up from the newspaper-slip. “I’m reading about it here.”

“The last words my brother said to me when we quarreled about the player-woman,” continued Mr. Treverton, speaking as much to himself as to his servant, “were that I should die without one kind feeling in my heart toward any living creature.”

“So you will,” muttered Shrowl, turning the slip over to see if there was anything worth reading at the back of it.

“I wonder what he thought about me when he was dying?” said Mr. Treverton, abstractedly, taking up the letter again from the table.

“He didn’t waste a thought on you or anybody else,” remarked Shrowl. “If he thought at all, he thought about how he could save his life. When he had done thinking about that, he had done living too.” With this expression of opinion Mr. Shrowl went to the beer-barrel, and drew his morning draught.

“Damn that player-woman!” muttered Mr. Treverton. As he said the words his face darkened and his lips closed firmly. He smoothed the letter out on the table. There seemed to be some doubt in his mind whether he had mastered all its contents yet⁠—some idea that there ought to be more in it than he had yet discovered. In going over it for the third time, he read it to himself aloud and very slowly, as if he was determined to fix every separate word firmly in his memory. This was the letter:

“Sir⁠—As the old legal adviser and faithful friend of your family, I am desired by Mrs. Frankland, formerly Miss Treverton, to acquaint you with the sad news of your brother’s death. This deplorable event occurred on board the ship of which he was captain, during a gale of wind in which the vessel was lost on a reef of rocks off the island of Antigua. I enclose a detailed account of the shipwreck, extracted from The Times, by which you will see that your brother died nobly in the performance of his duty toward the officers and men whom he commanded. I also send a slip from the local Cornish paper, containing a memoir of the deceased gentleman.

“Before closing this communication, I must add that no will has been found, after the most rigorous search, among the papers of the late Captain Treverton. Having disposed, as you know, of Porthgenna, the only property of which he was possessed at the time of his death was personal property, derived from the sale of his estate; and this, in consequence of his dying intestate, will go in due course of law to his daughter, as his nearest of kin.

“I am, Sir, your obedient servant,

“Alexander Nixon.”

The newspaper-slip, which had fallen on the table, contained the paragraph from The Times. The slip from the Cornish paper, which had dropped to the floor, Shrowl poked under his master’s eyes, in a fit of temporary civility, as soon as he had done reading it. Mr. Treverton took not the slightest notice either of the one paragraph or the other. He still sat looking at the letter, even after he had read it for the third time.

“Why don’t you give the strip of print a turn, as well as the sheet of writing?” asked Shrowl. “Why don’t you read about what a great man your brother was, and what a good life he led, and what a wonderful handsome daughter he’s left behind him, and what a capital marriage she’s made along with the man that’s owner of your old family estate? She don’t want your money now, at any rate! The ill wind that blowed her father’s ship on the rocks has blowed forty thousand pounds of good into her lap. Why don’t you read about it? She and her husband have got a better house in Cornwall than you have got here. Ain’t you glad of that? They were going to have repaired the place from top to bottom for your brother to go and live along with ’em in clover when he came back from sea. Who will ever repair a place for you? I wonder whether your niece would knock the old house about for your