BERTRAM’S COTTAGE.

Southern Cross, Volume 1, Issue 34, 18 November 1893, Page 14

BERTRAM’S COTTAGE.

(By Bichard Dowling in the Ludgate Monthly.) I had played around, that house as a child. It was called Bertram’s Cottage, although it far exceeded in dimensions any other cottage I have seen. It had only one floor, but it spread over a vast area, and Lad blocks of rooms looped and hinged together by a number of broad corridors, running at light angles to blocks and by narrow passages from angle to angle. I have been told, I know not with what truth, that when the building was in order, and Philip Bertram lived in it, three hundred doors swung in three hundred doorways. When I, as a boy knew that cottage in decay forty years after, not a third of the doors were in their places, and all the glass of the sashes and most of the sashes of the windows were gone. But all the furniture bad not then disappeared.

The Cottage stood in the middle of Bertram’s Demesne, or the Demesne, as the place was called in the neighbourhood. The land round the Cottage was covered partly with rank grass and partly with wild undergrowth. Around the Cottage the undergrowth held sway. It clung to the ground like a parasite. It pressed up against the very walls of the building. There were two gates on the Demesne, one into the village of Gorsefell, the other on the road from Gorsefell to the small town of Lynfall. Parallel to the main road, and at the other end of the Demesne, a mile-and-half distant ran the river Lyn. Set back

from the river about three hundred yards stood Bertram Castle, a castle in which no member of the Bertram family ever dwelt or ever will dwell. The building is finished, but no furniture has ever crossed its threshold, no fire has ever been kindled on its hearth. It has never been informed with life. It has had no connection with humanity, no interest for you or me. It is a mere mass of brick and stone, metal and wood. It is the finest castle in all the county, and, they say, the mere shell cost three years’ income of the richest commoner in the county of his day, Philip Bertram. The castle is as perfect as when it left the contractor’s hands Not a door is unhinged ; not a pane of glass broken. Far in from the river lies the Cottage in ruins and haunted by the memories of human sorrows that gave room and passage to a ghost of saddest mien—most melancholy history. When Philip Bertram atained his majority he came into an enormous fortune, which had accumulated during his twelve years’ minority He had from his youth resolved to devote the savings of his nonage, in a great measure, to pulling down the old house and erecting a splendid and commodious dwelling-place for himself and those who wero to succeed him. On coming of age he began without delay ; but first he built the Cottage as temporary residence while the old house was being pulled down, and the new one put up in its place. Before the building of Bertram Castle had been completed, Philip Bertram fell in love with Eva, the youngest daughter of Sir Andrew Mornington, a poor baronet of the Scottish border. She was very fair and pale, and had French blood in her veins. She was in disposition soft and yielding, and returned young Bertram’s love with all her heart. Both families approved the match, with one exception. Bertram was the last of his house in the male line. He had one sister, Clara, devotedly attached to him. His mother was living, but she was a proud, reserved woman, who attracted the love and sought the sympathy of no one. Her son treated her with respectful deference, but no more. But Clara stood in positive dread of her mother, and kept away from her as much as possible. The girl had a warm, affectionate nature, and all her love set in a current towards her brother, who entertained the warmest love for her. Until the acquaintance of Philip and Eva had ripened into love, brother and sister were inseparable. He had confided to her all his schemes about the new house and the establishment. How, when he had the castle built, and fonnd himself prepared to take his place in politics, he should contest the county and try to win back the seat occupied by the Bertrams for generations. Then they should go up to London for the season regularly, and once more the Belgrave Square house would be open andfullof gaiety and light. He did not care much for London* but it would be his duty to go there. Bertram Castle, too, should be no haunt of dullness, and Clara should live with him and be his friend and adviser until she married. She had listened to all he said submissively, meekly. She looked upon him as the fountain of goodness and wisdom. Whatever he did was right; whatever he said was true. He was four years her senior, and from her childhood she had looked upon her brother as a being worthy of worship. Although his university career separated them a good deal, her affection for him grew stronger. While he was away she lived alone with her silent, proud, disdainful mother, in the dreary old house by the river. They never had guests. Mrs Bertram held a hard, harsh religious creed, and looked on innocent amusement with suspicion, if not with aversion. The darkness of disposition on the mother’s part had, too, an element of dread in it for the son and daughter. After Philip’s father had married, one of Mrs Bertram’s unmarried sisters lost her reason, and had to be put under restraint. It then came

out that there had been a queer strain in the family for generations, and that more than one member of it had gone mad. When Philip began to absent himself from Bertram’s cottage a great gloom fell on Clai-a. She moved about the rooms and corridors disconsolately. She had always the dread of losing her brother’s society before her eyes ; the sti! 1 more terrible possibility of anything occurring to her mother’s mind preyed upon her. Of old the sight of her mother cowed and depressed her : now. she stood in positive fear. - What, should she do when they were alone together P Whan Philip married he would live in the Castle and they—she and her mother —would be left in this horrid, strangling cottage; or should they go up to town and occupy the dower house in Portxnan Square P Either was horrible, and she shuddered at the thought of it.

She had all the more time for thought of it now that Philip was so much away, either in London, or Brighton or Scotland. Whither Eva went he followed. It had been agreed on both sides that the wedding should not be until the Castle was finished. The number of workmen was doubled, and Philip offered the contractor a handsome premium if he would complete the building three months sooner than the original agreement specified. The contractor undertook to do so, and promised to have the house ready for decorators, upholsterers, and cabinetmakers by October that year. As the time drew near, Clara’s uneasiness increased. She could not rest by day or night. Always before her eyes rose the image of her mother, affected by the marriage and the obscurity of dowager-hood, breaking out into some dreadful violence. How, too, when she most needed sympathy and support from Philip, he was almost always away, and when at home he could talk of nothing hut Eva, Eva. He had often told her, Clara, how two of the draw-ing-rooms and all the bedrooms should be furnished exclusively according to her taste. Of course, h* had been very tender and kind to her when asking- her if she did not think that, under the altered circumstances, it would be only right that Eva should have the direction of these matters, as Eva was to spend her life at the Castle. He had always said that she, Clara, should live at the Castle until she married. She had never even thought of his marrying before this affair arose. She had always thought of herself as living under his protection until she settled in life, if she ever should. How he was about to leave her, to withdraw himself from her, and this was not the worst of it; she was to he left face to face with her stern, proud, taciturn mother, who might at any moment develop the awful malady of her race.

Sir Andred Mornington and Lady Morning-ton, accompanied by Cecil, tbeir eldest son, and Eva, the brideelect, bad promised to come and spend a fox-tnight with Mrs Bertram, at the Cottage, in September. A week before the day appointed for their arrival, Philip came home. He was in the most wonderful spirits, and went over with Clara the day of his arrival to see what progress had been made by the builder during his absence. Everything had gone on most satisfactorily. He hummed songs, talked cheerily to the men, and promised them a barrel of beer to lighten their work. . No wonder he was in good form. While he was away last time all details of the wedding had been settled. They were to be married at St. George’s, and spend the honeymoon at Bruce Hall, the country house of his future brother-in-law. The building would be completed by October, and while they were away in Scotland the place would be got ready for habitation. Sir Andrew and Lady Mornington were going on the Continent for a few months, so there would be plenty of time to get everything into proper order. When at length they should come home from Scotland

it would be just as it had been before. Clara aud he should be as union together as of old—or almost so, and then Eva, who was the most amiable darling’ in the world, would be more than a sister to Clara, and might, perhaps, exercise a softening influence on their mother.

As they came hack through the long grass to dinner, Clara spoke gravely, to him. See had no hope of any alteration for i lie better in her mother s ; .chsposn am. Indeed, of late she had marke i a great change for the worse. The mother was much more gloom'- and taciturn than formerly, din- a >oke now only when absolutely, necessary. She scowled at Clara when they met, and avoided her. Clara was quite sure had symptoms had begun to appear. He tried to cheer and comfort his -sister. He, who had been away so much of late, would he much more likely to notice a chan ye in Ids mother than she, who had been at home all the time, and he thought their mother had been rather less gloomy of late. Ah ! he was too happy to notice the change. It -was there beyond all doubt. She could see it as plainly as the cottage there before them. He looked at her uneasily. It might -be he now saw only the bright side of •things. Was it really possible a material change could be going on in his mother’s mental c adition unobserved by him ? 'The girl, the being in all the world he loved best after Eva, looked pale and haggard and tearful. It would he a dreadful thing if evil really were brewing. He determined to watch his mother closely. At the end of a few days he spoke -■again bn the subject to Clara. He ■ said he had been able to perceive no alteration whatever for the "worse in his mother. He was still of opinion -a change had taken place for the better.

Wo, no, no. A thousand times, no. He could not see; his eyes were dull. She had seen. She had surprised looks of .bad import on her mother’s face Moreover, she had heard her mother’s bitter, strange, menacing ■’words.

Menacing what ? Oh, she did not know. She could not tell. Menacing —yes, dreadful menacing words; words but half understood —about a creese. A creese ! What creese? Ho doubt the one in the armoury.

The girl looked terrified now. What could he do ? Perhaps if any mental -affection were approaching his mother, ■she had already adopted the caution of insanity to conceal it. This was a terrible reflection. But what could he do ? Plainly, nothing but watch. He watched as closely as possible, without running the risk of ever arousing attention. Pie saw nothing "betokening despair or gloom in his mother’s mind. On the contrary, she was to him more cheerful than he had seen her for many years. This was the re verse of satisfactory. It almost proved that his mother already possessed the cunning of the mad. ■'This was dreadful.

In the forenoon of the day the Morningtons were to arrive, Clara asked Philip to go with her, as she bad matter of the first moment to speak to him about. He followed her. She led him into the armoury. "She pointed up to the trophy over the chimney-piece, and said: “ Giet up and take away that creese. I am not easy while it is there. Do .vs I tell you, and ask no questions. Ask me no questions; when mother and Eva meet, if what we fear has -any foundation, it will show itself. How, Philip, hide that creese away. Lock it up. Then I shall be at rest.” He went out of the room, carrying the weapon with him. When he returned he found Clara sitting where be had left her. “ Have you hidden it ?” she asked. “ Yes.” “ Where ?” “ In the drawer of my dressingcase.” “ Give me your keys. I know it is there, but, Philip, I cannot rest until ■H have seen it, and have myself turned the key upon it.”

He handed her his keys. She left die room, came back again in a few minutes, gave him his keys, and said with a sigh : “ Yes, Philip!, I have seen it. But remember what 1 told you. W atch mother closely.”

Philip was half distracted. He did not know ■what to do, where to go. It was uncertain when the guests would arrive. They might be there at four, and they might not come till after dinner.

Dinner came and brought no visitors. It had been arranged that the Bertrams were not to wait a moment for the guests, so at six dinner was served.

At half-past six a carriage drive up. Mrs Bertram rose. She took Philip’s arm, and moved into the great hall, followed by Clara.. Philip cast one hurrying glance at his sister. She made a firm, imperative gesture, signifying that he was to pay exclusive attention to his mother.

They entered the great hall just as Sir Andrew led in Lady Mornington. Greetings were exchanged between Mrs Bertram and the guests. Philip had kept Clara’s caution in his mind. But it had been quite unnecessary. He had -never seen his mother so gracious. As the Morningtons approached Clara, Bertram and his mother fell back. Presently he heard a voice saying, “ You have come to steal my only son, have you ?” He glanced at his mother. Her lips were dumb. She looked at him in amazement. The voice resumed : “ Fool, you never shall !” He looked in the direction of Eva. Clara stood before her. He saw Clara’s hand fly up. He saw the gleam of that accursed creese in the air. He saw the hand drop. The hereditary taint had seized upon daughter, not mother In that dining room Eva died. From that day to this Philip Bertram has never entered the Cottage or the Demesne. He is now a very old man, a bachelor, the last man of his line. He has forbidden the gates of the Demesne to be shut. He has refused to let or keep the place in. order. To-day a hundred doors there swing idly in their jambs over the grave of a girl who died fifty-five years ago.