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A Secret Inheritance
A Secret Inheritance (Volume 1, 2 & 3 of 3) by B. L. Farjeon
My earliest distinct remembrances are of a mean and common home in London, in which I lived with my parents and a servant named Fortress. She was a young woman, her age being twenty-four or five, but her manners were as sedate as those of a matron who had a distaste for frivolity and tittle-tattle. She performed her duties quietly and in silence, and seldom spoke unless she were first addressed. She did not take the trouble to render herself agreeable to me, or to win my affection. This was entirely to my liking, as I was of a retired habit of mind and disposition. It was not unusual for weeks to pass without our exchanging a word.
We were surrounded by squalid thoroughfares, the residents in which were persons occupying the lowest stations of life, human bees whose hives were not over stocked with honey, being indeed, I have no doubt, frequently bare of it. This was not the result of indolence, for they toiled early and late. I saw, and observed. Sometimes I wondered, sometimes I despised, and I always shrank from close contact with these sordid conditions of existence. If I had possessed a store of pocket-money it is not unlikely that a portion of it would have been expended in charity, but I will not affirm that I should have been impelled to liberality by motives of benevolence. We were, however, very poor, and my father seldom gave me a penny. I did not complain; I had no wants which money could gratify. I did not consort with other children; I did not play or associate with them; when they made advances towards me I declined to receive them, and I held myself entirely aloof from their pleasures and occupations. In this respect I instinctively followed the fashion of our home and the example of my parents. They had no friends or intimate acquaintances. During the years we lived thus poorly and meanly, not a man, woman, or child ever entered our doors to partake of our hospitality, or to impart what would possibly have been a healthy variety to our days.
Our dwelling consisted of two rooms at the top of a small house. They were attics; in one my mother and Mrs. Fortress slept; in the other my father and I. The bed he and I occupied was shut up during the day, and made an impotent pretence of being a chest of drawers. This room was our living room, and we took our meals in it.
In speaking of our servant as Mrs. Fortress I do not intend to convey that she was a married woman. My impression was that she was single, and I should have scouted the idea of her having a sweetheart; but my parents always spoke of and to her as Mrs. Fortress.
My earliest distinct remembrances are of a mean and common home in London, in which I lived with my parents and a servant named Fortress. She was a young woman, her age being twenty-four or five, but her manners were as sedate as those of a matron who had a distaste for frivolity and tittle-tattle. She performed her duties quietly and in silence, and seldom spoke unless she were first addressed. She did not take the trouble to render herself agreeable to me, or to win my affection. This was entirely to my liking, as I was of a retired habit of mind and disposition. It was not unusual for weeks to pass without our exchanging a word.
We were surrounded by squalid thoroughfares, the residents in which were persons occupying the lowest stations of life, human bees whose hives were not over stocked with honey, being indeed, I have no doubt, frequently bare of it. This was not the result of indolence, for they toiled early and late. I saw, and observed. Sometimes I wondered, sometimes I despised, and I always shrank from close contact with these sordid conditions of existence. If I had possessed a store of pocket-money it is not unlikely that a portion of it would have been expended in charity, but I will not affirm that I should have been impelled to liberality by motives of benevolence. We were, however, very poor, and my father seldom gave me a penny. I did not complain; I had no wants which money could gratify. I did not consort with other children; I did not play or associate with them; when they made advances towards me I declined to receive them, and I held myself entirely aloof from their pleasures and occupations. In this respect I instinctively followed the fashion of our home and the example of my parents. They had no friends or intimate acquaintances. During the years we lived thus poorly and meanly, not a man, woman, or child ever entered our doors to partake of our hospitality, or to impart what would possibly have been a healthy variety to our days.
Our dwelling consisted of two rooms at the top of a small house. They were attics; in one my mother and Mrs. Fortress slept; in the other my father and I. The bed he and I occupied was shut up during the day, and made an impotent pretence of being a chest of drawers. This room was our living room, and we took our meals in it.
In speaking of our servant as Mrs. Fortress I do not intend to convey that she was a married woman. My impression was that she was single, and I should have scouted the idea of her having a sweetheart; but my parents always spoke of and to her as Mrs. Fortress.
399 pages, Kindle Edition
First published July 1, 1887
91 people are currently reading
21 people want to read
About the author
Benjamin Leopold Farjeon
169 books6 followersFather of J. Jefferson Farjeon, Herbert Farjeon, and Eleanor Farjeon.
Farjeon was born in London, the second son of a poor Orthodox Jewish family, and grew up in Whitechapel. He received no formal secular education, but at fourteen began training as a printer at a newspaper office. He came to Australia in 1854 and spent seven years on the goldfields, and then left to settle in New Zealand, where he established a successful literary career, before ultimately returning to England in 1868. Farjeon produced countless popular novels, many with mystery and adventure themes that drew on his colonial experiences, as well as plays, burlesques, short fiction and journalism. Grif: A Story of Australian Life (1866) was the most popular of his novels set in Australia. Originally published in New Zealand, it was later dramatised for the theatre and also reprinted in Australia, America and London several times.
Farjeon was born in London, the second son of a poor Orthodox Jewish family, and grew up in Whitechapel. He received no formal secular education, but at fourteen began training as a printer at a newspaper office. He came to Australia in 1854 and spent seven years on the goldfields, and then left to settle in New Zealand, where he established a successful literary career, before ultimately returning to England in 1868. Farjeon produced countless popular novels, many with mystery and adventure themes that drew on his colonial experiences, as well as plays, burlesques, short fiction and journalism. Grif: A Story of Australian Life (1866) was the most popular of his novels set in Australia. Originally published in New Zealand, it was later dramatised for the theatre and also reprinted in Australia, America and London several times.
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Displaying 1 - 2 of 2 reviews
July 18, 2017
It was an interesting story with many twists and turns that saved the final answer to almost the end of the story. However the author spent way to many words that could have been reduced to make it more easy to read. If you can have the patience and discipline you can find the main point to the story.
August 20, 2020
Life is not as it seems
This is a story of revenge and trying to do the right thing. I wanted to get toward the end of the book when the truth was revealed. A mother's love will always shine through. I felt sorry for both fathers because they were both innocent.
This is a story of revenge and trying to do the right thing. I wanted to get toward the end of the book when the truth was revealed. A mother's love will always shine through. I felt sorry for both fathers because they were both innocent.
Displaying 1 - 2 of 2 reviews