Complete Works of Wilkie Collins (1245 page)

“I see that you have arrived at a remarkable change of opinion, since we spoke of the subject in the garden at school.”

“In my place, you would have changed your opinion too. I shall write to Mrs. Rook by tomorrow’s post.”

Alban heard her with dismay. “Pray be guided by my advice!” he said earnestly. “Pray don’t write that letter!”

“Why not?”

It was too late to recall the words which he had rashly allowed to escape him. How could he reply?

To own that he had not only read what Emily had read, but had carefully copied the whole narrative and considered it at his leisure, appeared to be simply impossible after what he had now heard. Her peace of mind depended absolutely on his discretion. In this serious emergency, silence was a mercy, and silence was a lie. If he remained silent, might the mercy be trusted to atone for the lie? He was too fond of Emily to decide that question fairly, on its own merits. In other words, he shrank from the terrible responsibility of telling her the truth.

“Isn’t the imprudence of writing to such a person as Mrs. Rook plain enough to speak for itself?” he suggested cautiously.

“Not to me.”

She made that reply rather obstinately. Alban seemed (in her view) to be trying to prevent her from atoning for an act of injustice. Besides, he despised her cake. “I want to know why you object,” she said; taking back the neglected slice, and eating it herself.

“I object,” Alban answered, “because Mrs. Rook is a coarse presuming woman. She may pervert your letter to some use of her own, which you may have reason to regret.”

“Is that all?”

“Isn’t it enough?”

“It may be enough for
you
. When I have done a person an injury, and wish to make an apology, I don’t think it necessary to inquire whether the person’s manners happen to be vulgar or not.”

Alban’s patience was still equal to any demands that she could make on it. “I can only offer you advice which is honestly intended for your own good,” he gently replied.

“You would have more influence over me, Mr. Morris, if you were a little readier to take me into your confidence. I daresay I am wrong — but I don’t like following advice which is given to me in the dark.”

It was impossible to offend him. “Very naturally,” he said; “I don’t blame you.”

Her colour deepened, and her voice rose. Alban’s patient adherence to his own view — so courteously and considerately urged — was beginning to try her temper. “In plain words,” she rejoined, “I am to believe that you can’t be mistaken in your judgment of another person.”

There was a ring at the door of the cottage while she was speaking. But she was too warmly interested in confuting Alban to notice it.

He was quite willing to be confuted. Even when she lost her temper, she was still interesting to him. “I don’t expect you to think me infallible,” he said. “Perhaps you will remember that I have had some experience. I am unfortunately older than you are.”

“Oh if wisdom comes with age,” she smartly reminded him, “your friend Miss Redwood is old enough to be your mother — and she suspected Mrs. Rook of murder, because the poor woman looked at a door, and disliked being in the next room to a fidgety old maid.”

Alban’s manner changed: he shrank from that chance allusion to doubts and fears which he dare not acknowledge. “Let us talk of something else,” he said.

She looked at him with a saucy smile. “Have I driven you into a corner at last? And is
that
your way of getting out of it?”

Even his endurance failed. “Are you trying to provoke me?” he asked. “Are you no better than other women? I wouldn’t have believed it of you, Emily.”

“Emily?” She repeated the name in a tone of surprise, which reminded him that he had addressed her with familiarity at a most inappropriate time — the time when they were on the point of a quarrel. He felt the implied reproach too keenly to be able to answer her with composure.

“I think of Emily — I love Emily — my one hope is that Emily may love me. Oh, my dear, is there no excuse if I forget to call you ‘Miss’ when you distress me?”

All that was tender and true in her nature secretly took his part. She would have followed that better impulse, if he had only been calm enough to understand her momentary silence, and to give her time. But the temper of a gentle and generous man, once roused, is slow to subside. Alban abruptly left his chair. “I had better go!” he said.

“As you please,” she answered. “Whether you go, Mr. Morris, or whether you stay, I shall write to Mrs. Rook.”

The ring at the bell was followed by the appearance of a visitor. Doctor Allday opened the door, just in time to hear Emily’s last words. Her vehemence seemed to amuse him.

“Who is Mrs. Rook?” he asked.

“A most respectable person,” Emily answered indignantly; “housekeeper to Sir Jervis Redwood. You needn’t sneer at her, Doctor Allday! She has not always been in service — she was landlady of the inn at Zeeland.”

The doctor, about to put his hat on a chair, paused. The inn at Zeeland reminded him of the Handbill, and of the visit of Miss Jethro.

“Why are you so hot over it?” he inquired

“Because I detest prejudice!” With this assertion of liberal feeling she pointed to Alban, standing quietly apart at the further end of the room. “There is the most prejudiced man living — he hates Mrs. Rook. Would you like to be introduced to him? You’re a philosopher; you may do him some good. Doctor Allday — Mr. Alban Morris.”

The doctor recognised the man, with the felt hat and the objectionable beard, whose personal appearance had not impressed him favorably.

Although they may hesitate to acknowledge it, there are respectable Englishmen still left, who regard a felt hat and a beard as symbols of republican disaffection to the altar and the throne. Doctor Allday’s manner might have expressed this curious form of patriotic feeling, but for the associations which Emily had revived. In his present frame of mind, he was outwardly courteous, because he was inwardly suspicious. Mrs. Rook had been described to him as formerly landlady of the inn at Zeeland. Were there reasons for Mr. Morris’s hostile feeling toward this woman which might be referable to the crime committed in her house that might threaten Emily’s tranquillity if they were made known? It would not be amiss to see a little more of Mr. Morris, on the first convenient occasion.

“I am glad to make your acquaintance, sir.”

“You are very kind, Doctor Allday.”

The exchange of polite conventionalities having been accomplished, Alban approached Emily to take his leave, with mingled feelings of regret and anxiety — regret for having allowed himself to speak harshly; anxiety to part with her in kindness.

“Will you forgive me for differing from you?” It was all he could venture to say, in the presence of a stranger.

“Oh, yes!” she said quietly.

“Will you think again, before you decide?”

“Certainly, Mr. Morris. But it won’t alter my opinion, if I do.”

The doctor, hearing what passed between them, frowned. On what subject had they been differing? And what opinion did Emily decline to alter?

Alban gave it up. He took her hand gently. “Shall I see you at the Museum, to-morrow?” he asked.

She was politely indifferent to the last. “Yes — unless something happens to keep me at home.”

The doctor’s eyebrows still expressed disapproval. For what object was the meeting proposed? And why at a museum?

“Good-afternoon, Doctor Allday.”

“Good-afternoon, sir.”

For a moment after Alban’s departure, the doctor stood irresolute. Arriving suddenly at a decision, he snatched up his hat, and turned to Emily in a hurry.

“I bring you news, my dear, which will surprise you. Who do you think has just left my house? Mrs. Ellmother! Don’t interrupt me. She has made up her mind to go out to service again. Tired of leading an idle life — that’s her own account of it — and asks me to act as her reference.”

“Did you consent?”

“Consent! If I act as her reference, I shall be asked how she came to leave her last place. A nice dilemma! Either I must own that she deserted her mistress on her deathbed — or tell a lie. When I put it to her in that way, she walked out of the house in dead silence. If she applies to you next, receive her as I did — or decline to see her, which would be better still.”

“Why am I to decline to see her?”

“In consequence of her behavior to your aunt, to be sure! No: I have said all I wanted to say — and I have no time to spare for answering idle questions. Good-by.”

Socially-speaking, doctors try the patience of their nearest and dearest friends, in this respect — they are almost always in a hurry. Doctor Allday’s precipitate departure did not tend to soothe Emily’s irritated nerves. She began to find excuses for Mrs. Ellmother in a spirit of pure contradiction. The old servant’s behavior might admit of justification: a friendly welcome might persuade her to explain herself. “If she applies to me,” Emily determined, “I shall certainly receive her.”

Having arrived at this resolution, her mind reverted to Alban.

Some of the sharp things she had said to him, subjected to after-reflection in solitude, failed to justify themselves. Her better sense began to reproach her. She tried to silence that unwelcome monitor by laying the blame on Alban. Why had he been so patient and so good? What harm was there in his calling her “Emily”? If he had told her to call
him
by his Christian name, she might have done it. How noble he looked, when he got up to go away; he was actually handsome! Women may say what they please and write what they please: their natural instinct is to find their master in a man — especially when they like him. Sinking lower and lower in her own estimation, Emily tried to turn the current of her thoughts in another direction. She took up a book — opened it, looked into it, threw it across the room.

If Alban had returned at that moment, resolved on a reconciliation — if he had said, “My dear, I want to see you like yourself again; will you give me a kiss, and make it up” — would he have left her crying, when he went away? She was crying now.

CHAPTER XXVII. MENTOR AND TELEMACHUS.

If Emily’s eyes could have followed Alban as her thoughts were following him, she would have seen him stop before he reached the end of the road in which the cottage stood. His heart was full of tenderness and sorrow: the longing to return to her was more than he could resist. It would be easy to wait, within view of the gate, until the doctor’s visit came to an end. He had just decided to go back and keep watch — when he heard rapid footsteps approaching. There (devil take him!) was the doctor himself.

“I have something to say to you, Mr. Morris. Which way are you walking?”

“Any way,” Alban answered — not very graciously.

“Then let us take the turning that leads to my house. It’s not customary for strangers, especially when they happen to be Englishmen, to place confidence in each other. Let me set the example of violating that rule. I want to speak to you about Miss Emily. May I take your arm? Thank you. At my age, girls in general — unless they are my patients — are not objects of interest to me. But that girl at the cottage — I daresay I am in my dotage — I tell you, sir, she has bewitched me! Upon my soul, I could hardly be more anxious about her, if I was her father. And, mind, I am not an affectionate man by nature. Are you anxious about her too?”

“Yes.”

“In what way?”

“In what way are you anxious, Doctor Allday?”

The doctor smiled grimly.

“You don’t trust me? Well, I have promised to set the example. Keep your mask on, sir — mine is off, come what may of it. But, observe: if you repeat what I am going to say — ”