Complete Works of Wilkie Collins (1160 page)

“Excuse me,” I said, “if I have unintentionally made you angry. I ought to have known that I was treading on delicate ground. Your interest in Penrose may be due to a warmer motive than a sense of obligation.”

She turned away from me — sadly, not angrily — intending, as it appeared, to leave the room in silence. Arrived at the door, she altered her mind, and came back.

“Even if you insult me, Bernard, I am not able to resent it,” she said, very gently. “
I
once wronged
you
— I have no right to complain of your now wronging me. I will try to forget it.”

She held out her hand. She raised her eyes — and looked at me.

It was not her fault; I alone am to blame. In another moment she was in my arms. I held her to my breast — I felt the quick beating of her heart on me — I poured out the wild confession of my sorrow, my shame, my love — I tasted again and again and again the sweetness of her lips. She put her arms round my neck and drew her head back with a long sigh. “Be merciful to my weakness,” she whispered. “We must meet no more.”

She pushed me back from her, with a trembling hand, and left the room.

I have broken my resolution not to write about myself — but there is no egotism, there is a sincere sense of humiliation in me, when I record this confession of misconduct. I can make but one atonement — I must at once leave St. Germain. Now, when it is too late, I feel how hard for me this life of constant repression has been.

Thus far I had written, when the nursemaid brought me a little note, addressed in pencil. No answer was required.

The few lines were in Stella’s handwriting: “You must not leave us too suddenly, or you may excite my mother’s suspicions. Wait until you receive letters from England, and make them the pretext for your departure. — S.”

I never thought of her mother. She is right. Even if she were wrong, I must obey her.

September 14. — The letters from England have arrived. One of them presents me with the necessary excuse for my departure, ready made. My proposal for the purchase of the yacht is accepted. The sailing-master and crew have refused all offers of engagement, and are waiting at Cowes for my orders. Here is an absolute necessity for my return to England.

The newspaper arrived with the letters. My anticipations have been realized. Yesterday’s paragraph has produced another volunteer contributor. An Englishman just returned from Central America, after traveling in Arizona, writes to the
Times.
He publishes his name and address — and he declares that he has himself seen the two captive priests.

The name of this correspondent carries its own guarantee with it. He is no less a person than Mr. Murthwaite — the well-known traveler in India, who discovered the lost diamond called “the Moonstone,” set in the forehead of a Hindoo idol. He writes to the editor as follows:

“Sir — I can tell you something of the two Jesuit priests who were the sole survivors of the massacre in the Santa Cruz Valley four months since.

“I was traveling at the time in Arizona, under the protection of an Apache chief, bribed to show me his country and his nation (instead of cutting my throat and tearing off my scalp) by a present tribute of whisky and gunpowder, and by the promise of more when our association came to an end.

“About twelve miles northward of the little silver-mining town of Tubac we came upon an Apache encampment. I at once discovered two white men among the Indians These were the captive priests.

“One of them was a Frenchman, named L’Herbier. The other was an Englishman, named Penrose. They owed their lives to the influence of two powerful considerations among the Indians. Unhappy L’Herbier lost his senses under the horror of the night massacre. Insanity, as you may have heard, is a sacred thing in the estimation of the American savages; they regard this poor madman as a mysteriously inspired person The other priest, Penrose, had been in charge of the mission medicine-chest, and had successfully treated cases of illness among the Apaches. As a ‘great medicine-man,’ he too is a privileged person — under the strong protection of their interest in their own health. The lives of the prisoners are in no danger, provided they can endure the hardship of their wandering existence among the Indians. Penrose spoke to me with the resignation of a true hero. ‘I am in the hands of God,’ he said; ‘and if I die, I die in God’s service.’

“I was entirely unprovided with the means of ransoming the missionaries — and nothing that I could say, or that I could promise, had the smallest effect on the savages. But for severe and tedious illness, I should long since have been on my way back to Arizona with the necessary ransom. As it is, I am barely strong enough to write this letter. But I can head a subscription to pay expenses; and I can give instructions to any person who is willing to attempt the deliverance of the priests.”

So the letter ended.

Before I had read it, I was at a loss to know where to go, or what to do, when I leave St. Germain. I am now at no loss. I have found an object in life, and a means of making atonement to Stella for my own ungracious and unworthy words. Already I have communicated by telegraph with Mr. Murthwaite and with my sailing-master. The first is informed that I hope to be with him, in London, to-morrow morning. The second is instructed to have the yacht fitted out immediately for a long voyage. If I can save these men — especially Penrose — I shall not have lived in vain.

London, September 15. — No. I have resolution enough to go to Arizona, but I have no courage to record the parting scene when it was time to say good-by.

I had intended to keep the coming enterprise a secret, and only to make the disclosure in writing when the vessel was ready to sail. But, after reading the letter to the
Times,
Stella saw something in my face (as I suppose) that betrayed me. Well, it’s over now. I do my best to keep myself from thinking of it — and, for this reason, I abstain from dwelling on the subject here.

Mr. Murthwaite has not only given me valuable instructions — he has provided me with letters of introduction to persons in office, and to the
padres
(or priests) in Mexico, which will be of incalculable use in such an expedition as mine. In the present disturbed condition of the United States, he recommends me to sail for a port on the eastern coast of Mexico, and then to travel northward overland, and make my first inquiries in Arizona at the town of Tubac. Time is of such importance, in his opinion, that he suggests making inquiries in London and Liverpool for a merchant vessel under immediate sailing orders for Vera Cruz or Tampico. The fitting out of the yacht cannot be accomplished, I find, in less than a fortnight or three weeks. I have therefore taken Mr. Murthwaite’s advice.

September 16. — No favorable answer, so far as the port of London is concerned. Very little commerce with Mexico, and bad harbors in that country when you do trade. Such is the report.

September 17. — A Mexican brig has been discovered at Liverpool, under orders for Vera Cruz. But the vessel is in debt, and the date of departure depends on expected remittances! In this state of things I may wait, with my conscience at ease, to sail in comfort on board my own schooner.

September 18-30. — I have settled my affairs; I have taken leave of my friends (good. Mr. Murthwaite included); I have written cheerfully to Stella; and I sail from Portsmouth to-morrow, well provided with the jars of whisky and the kegs of gunpowder which will effect the release of the captives.

It is strange, considering the serious matters I have to think of, but it is also true, that I feel out of spirits at the prospect of leaving England without my traveling companion, the dog. I am afraid to take the dear old fellow with me, on such a perilous expedition as mine may be. Stella takes care of him — and, if I don’t live to return, she will never part with him, for his master’s sake. It implies a childish sort of mind, I suppose — but it is a comfort to me to remember that I have never said a hard word to Traveler, and never lifted my hand on him in anger.

All this about a dog! And not a word about Stella? Not a word.
Those
thoughts are not to be written.

I have reached the last page of my diary. I shall lock it, and leave it in charge of my bankers, on my way to the Portsmouth train. Shall I ever w ant a new diary? Superstitious people might associate this coming to the end of the book with coming to an end of another kind. I have no imagination, and I take my leap in the dark hopefully — with Byron’s glorious lines in my mind:

    
“Here’s a sigh to those who love me,

    
And a smile to those that hate;

    
And whatever sky’s above met

    
Here’s heart for every fate.”

(An inclosure is inserted here, marking a lapse of seven months, before the entries in the diary are resumed. It consists of two telegrams, dispatched respectively on the 1st and 2d of May, 1864.)

1. “From Bernard Winterfield, Portsmouth, England. To Mrs. Romayne care of M. Villeray, St. Germain, near Paris. — Penrose is safe on board my yacht. His unfortunate companion has died of exhaustion, and he is himself in a feeble state of health. I at once take him with me to London for medical advice. We are eager for news of you. Telegraph to Derwent’s Hotel.”

2. “From Mrs. Eyrecourt, St. Germain. To Bernard Winterfield, Derwent’s Hotel, London. — Your telegram received with joy, and sent on to Stella in Paris. All well. But strange events have happened. If you cannot come here at once, go to Lord Loring. He will tell you everything.”

Tenth Extract.

London, 2d May, 1864. — Mrs. Eyrecourt’s telegram reached me just after Doctor Wybrow had paid his first professional visit to Penrose, at the hotel. I had hardly time to feel relieved by the opinion of the case which he expressed, before my mind was upset by Mrs. Eyrecourt. Leaving Penrose under the charge of our excellent landlady, I hurried away to Lord Loring.

It was still early in the day: his lordship was at home. He maddened me with impatience by apologising at full length for “the inexcusable manner in which he had misinterpreted my conduct on the deplorable occasion of the marriage ceremony at Brussels.” I stopped his flow of words (very earnestly spoken, it is only right to add), and entreated him to tell me, in the first place, what Stella was doing in Paris.

“Stella is with her husband,” Lord Loring replied.

My head turned giddy, my heart beat furiously. Lord Loring looked at me — ran to the luncheon table in the next room — and returned with a glass of wine. I really don’t know whether I drank the wine or not. I know I stammered out another inquiry in one word.

“Reconciled?” I said.

“Yes, Mr. Winterfield — reconciled, before he dies.”

We were both silent for a while.

What was he thinking of? I don’t know. What was I thinking of? I daren’t write it down.

Lord Loring resumed by expressing some anxiety on the subject of my health. I made the best excuse for myself that I could, and told him of the rescue of Penrose. He had heard of my object in leaving England, and heartily congratulated me. “This will be welcome news indeed,” he said, “to Father Benwell.”

Even the name of Father Benwell now excites my distrust. “Is
he
in Paris too?” I inquired.

“He left Paris last night,” Lord Loring answered; “and he is now in London, on important business (as I understand) connected with Romayne’s affairs.”

I instantly thought of the boy.

“Is Romayne in possession of his faculties?” I asked.

“In complete possession.”

“While justice is in his power, has he done justice to his son?”

Lord Loring looked a little confused. “I have not heard,” was all he said in reply.

I was far from satisfied. “You are one of Romayne’s oldest friends,” I persisted. “Have you not seen him yourself?”

“I have seen him more than once. But he has never referred to his affairs.” Having said this he hastily changed the subject. “Is there any other information that I can give you?” he suggested.