"Not a word."
I remembered the packet which I had just received from the lawyer, and
I mentioned it to her.
"Open it now," she said. "I am interested--if you do not think me too
inquisitive."
I tore the envelope. It contained another envelope, sealed, and a
letter. I scanned the letter.
"It is nothing," I said with false casualness, and was returning it to
my pocket. The worst of me is that I have no histrionic instinct; I
cannot act a part.
"Wait!" she cried sharply, and I hesitated before the appeal in her
tragic voice. "You cannot deceive me, Mr. Foster. It is something. I
entreat you to read to me that letter. Does it not occur to you that I
have the right to demand this from you? Why should he beat about the
bush? You know, and I know that you know, that there is a mystery in
this dreadful death. Be frank with me, my friend. I have suffered much
these last days."
We looked at each other silently, I with the letter in my hand. Why,
indeed, should I treat her as a child, this woman with the compelling
eyes, the firm, commanding forehead? Why should I pursue the silly
game of pretence?
"I will read it," I said. "There is, certainly, a mystery in
connection with Alresca's death, and we may be on the eve of solving
it."
The letter was dated concurrently with Alresca's will--that is to say,
a few days before our arrival in Bruges--and it ran thus: "My dear Friend:--It seems to me that I am to die, and from
a strange cause--for I believe I have guessed the cause. The
nature of my guess and all the circumstances I have written
out at length, and the document is in the sealed packet
which accompanies this. My reason for making such a record
is a peculiar one. I should desire that no eye might ever
read that document. But I have an idea that some time or
other the record may be of use to you--possibly soon. You,
Carl, may be the heir of more than my goods. If matters
should so fall out, then break the seal, and read what I
have written. If not, I beg of you, after five years have
elapsed, to destroy the packet unread. I do not care to be
more precise.
Always yours,
"Alresca."
"That is all?" asked Rosa, when I had finished reading it.
I passed her the letter to read for herself. Her hand shook as she
returned it to me.
And we both blushed. We were both confused, and each avoided the
glance of the other. The silence between us was difficult to bear. I
broke it.
"The question is, What am I to do? Alresca is dead. Shall I respect
his wish, or shall I open the packet now? If he could have foreseen
your anxiety, he probably would not have made these conditions.
Besides, who can say that the circumstances he hints at have not
already arisen? Who can say"--I uttered the words with an emphasis the
daring of which astounded even myself--"that I am not already the heir
of more than Alresca's goods?"