Complete Works of Wilkie Collins (1251 page)

“Very pretty,” he remarked, looking round the room — without appearing to care for anything in it, except the prints.

Francine was bent on fascinating him. She raised her eyebrows and lifted her hands, in playful remonstrance. “Do remember it’s
my
room,” she said, “and take some little interest in it, for
my
sake!”

“What do you want me to say?” he asked.

“Come and sit down by me.” She made room for him on the sofa. Her one favorite aspiration — the longing to excite envy in others — expressed itself in her next words. “Say something pretty,” she answered; “say you would like to have such a room as this.”

“I should like to have your prints,” he remarked. “Will that do?”

“It wouldn’t do — from anybody else. Ah, Mr. Morris, I know why you are not as nice as you might be! You are not happy. The school has lost its one attraction, in losing our dear Emily. You feel it — I know you feel it.” She assisted this expression of sympathy to produce the right effect by a sigh. “What would I not give to inspire such devotion as yours! I don’t envy Emily; I only wish — ” She paused in confusion, and opened her fan. “Isn’t it pretty?” she said, with an ostentatious appearance of changing the subject. Alban behaved like a monster; he began to talk of the weather.

“I think this is the hottest day we have had,” he said; “no wonder you want your fan. Netherwoods is an airless place at this season of the year.”

She controlled her temper. “I do indeed feel the heat,” she admitted, with a resignation which gently reproved him; “it is so heavy and oppressive here after Brighton. Perhaps my sad life, far away from home and friends, makes me sensitive to trifles. Do you think so, Mr. Morris?”

The merciless man said he thought it was the situation of the house.

“Miss Ladd took the place in the spring,” he continued; “and only discovered the one objection to it some months afterward. We are in the highest part of the valley here — but, you see, it’s a valley surrounded by hills; and on three sides the hills are near us. All very well in winter; but in summer I have heard of girls in this school so out of health in the relaxing atmosphere that they have been sent home again.”

Francine suddenly showed an interest in what he was saying. If he had cared to observe her closely, he might have noticed it.

“Do you mean that the girls were really ill?” she asked.

“No. They slept badly — lost appetite — started at trifling noises. In short, their nerves were out of order.”

“Did they get well again at home, in another air?”

“Not a doubt of it,” he answered, beginning to get weary of the subject. “May I look at your books?”

Francine’s interest in the influence of different atmospheres on health was not exhausted yet. “Do you know where the girls lived when they were at home?” she inquired.

“I know where one of them lived. She was the best pupil I ever had — and I remember she lived in Yorkshire.” He was so weary of the idle curiosity — as it appeared to him — which persisted in asking trifling questions, that he left his seat, and crossed the room. “May I look at your books?” he repeated.

“Oh, yes!”

The conversation was suspended for a while. The lady thought, “I should like to box his ears!” The gentleman thought, “She’s only an inquisitive fool after all!” His examination of her books confirmed him in the delusion that there was really nothing in Francine’s character which rendered it necessary to caution Emily against the advances of her new friend. Turning away from the book-case, he made the first excuse that occurred to him for putting an end to the interview.

“I must beg you to let me return to my duties, Miss de Sor. I have to correct the young ladies’ drawings, before they begin again to-morrow.”

Francine’s wounded vanity made a last expiring attempt to steal the heart of Emily’s lover.

“You remind me that I have a favor to ask,” she said. “I don’t attend the other classes — but I should so like to join
your
class! May I?” She looked up at him with a languishing appearance of entreaty which sorely tried Alban’s capacity to keep his face in serious order. He acknowledged the compliment paid to him in studiously commonplace terms, and got a little nearer to the open window. Francine’s obstinacy was not conquered yet.

“My education has been sadly neglected,” she continued; “but I have had some little instruction in drawing. You will not find me so ignorant as some of the other girls.” She waited a little, anticipating a few complimentary words. Alban waited also — in silence. “I shall look forward with pleasure to my lessons under such an artist as yourself,” she went on, and waited again, and was disappointed again. “Perhaps,” she resumed, “I may become your favorite pupil — Who knows?”

“Who indeed!”

It was not much to say, when he spoke at last — but it was enough to encourage Francine. She called him “dear Mr. Morris”; she pleaded for permission to take her first lesson immediately; she clasped her hands — ”Please say Yes!”

“I can’t say Yes, till you have complied with the rules.”

“Are they
your
rules?”

Her eyes expressed the readiest submission — in that case. He entirely failed to see it: he said they were Miss Ladd’s rules — and wished her good-evening.

She watched him, walking away down the terrace. How was he paid? Did he receive a yearly salary, or did he get a little extra money for each new pupil who took drawing lessons? In this last case, Francine saw her opportunity of being even with him “You brute! Catch me attending your class!”

CHAPTER XXXIII. RECOLLECTIONS OF ST. DOMINGO.

The night was oppressively hot. Finding it impossible to sleep, Francine lay quietly in her bed, thinking. The subject of her reflections was a person who occupied the humble position of her new servant.

Mrs. Ellmother looked wretchedly ill. Mrs. Ellmother had told Emily that her object, in returning to domestic service, was to try if change would relieve her from the oppression of her own thoughts. Mrs. Ellmother believed in vulgar superstitions which declared Friday to be an unlucky day; and which recommended throwing a pinch over your left shoulder, if you happened to spill the salt.

In themselves, these were trifling recollections. But they assumed a certain importance, derived from the associations which they called forth.

They reminded Francine, by some mental process which she was at a loss to trace, of Sappho the slave, and of her life at St. Domingo.

She struck a light, and unlocked her writing desk. From one of the drawers she took out an old household account-book.

The first page contained some entries, relating to domestic expenses, in her own handwriting. They recalled one of her efforts to occupy her idle time, by relieving her mother of the cares of housekeeping. For a day or two, she had persevered — and then she had ceased to feel any interest in her new employment. The remainder of the book was completely filled up, in a beautifully clear handwriting, beginning on the second page. A title had been found for the manuscript by Francine. She had written at the top of the page:
Sappho’s Nonsense
.

After reading the first few sentences she rapidly turned over the leaves, and stopped at a blank space near the end of the book. Here again she had added a title. This time it implied a compliment to the writer: the page was headed:
Sappho’s Sense
.

She read this latter part of the manuscript with the closest attention.

“I entreat my kind and dear young mistress not to suppose that I believe in witchcraft — after such an education as I have received. When I wrote down, at your biding, all that I had told you by word of mouth, I cannot imagine what delusion possessed me. You say I have a negro side to my character, which I inherit from my mother. Did you mean this, dear mistress, as a joke? I am almost afraid it is sometimes not far off from the truth.

“Let me be careful, however, to avoid leading you into a mistake. It is really true that the man-slave I spoke of did pine and die, after the spell had been cast on him by my witch-mother’s image of wax. But I ought also to have told you that circumstances favored the working of the spell: the fatal end was not brought about by supernatural means.

“The poor wretch was not in good health at the time; and our owner had occasion to employ him in the valley of the island far inland. I have been told, and can well believe, that the climate there is different from the climate on the coast — in which the unfortunate slave had been accustomed to live. The overseer wouldn’t believe him when he said the valley air would be his death — and the negroes, who might otherwise have helped him, all avoided a man whom they knew to be under a spell.

“This, you see, accounts for what might appear incredible to civilized persons. If you will do me a favor, you will burn this little book, as soon as you have read what I have written here. If my request is not granted, I can only implore you to let no eyes but your own see these pages. My life might be in danger if the blacks knew what I have now told you, in the interests of truth.”

Francine closed the book, and locked it up again in her desk. “Now I know,” she said to herself, “what reminded me of St. Domingo.”

When Francine rang her bell the next morning, so long a time elapsed without producing an answer that she began to think of sending one of the house-servants to make inquiries. Before she could decide, Mrs. Ellmother presented herself, and offered her apologies.

“It’s the first time I have overslept myself, miss, since I was a girl. Please to excuse me, it shan’t happen again.”

“Do you find that the air here makes you drowsy?” Francine asked.

Mrs. Ellmother shook her head. “I didn’t get to sleep,” she said, “till morning, and so I was too heavy to be up in time. But air has got nothing to do with it. Gentlefolks may have their whims and fancies. All air is the same to people like me.”

“You enjoy good health, Mrs. Ellmother?”

“Why not, miss? I have never had a doctor.”

“Oh! That’s your opinion of doctors, is it?”

“I won’t have anything to do with them — if that’s what you mean by my opinion,” Mrs. Ellmother answered doggedly. “How will you have your hair done?”

“The same as yesterday. Have you seen anything of Miss Emily? She went back to London the day after you left us.”

“I haven’t been in London. I’m thankful to say my lodgings are let to a good tenant.”

“Then where have you lived, while you were waiting to come here?”

“I had only one place to go to, miss; I went to the village where I was born. A friend found a corner for me. Ah, dear heart, it’s a pleasant place, there!”

“A place like this?”

“Lord help you! As little like this as chalk is to cheese. A fine big moor, miss, in Cumberland, without a tree in sight — look where you may. Something like a wind, I can tell you, when it takes to blowing there.”

“Have you never been in this part of the country?”

“Not I! When I left the North, my new mistress took me to Canada. Talk about air! If there was anything in it, the people in
that
air ought to live to be a hundred. I liked Canada.”

“And who was your next mistress?”

Thus far, Mrs. Ellmother had been ready enough to talk. Had she failed to hear what Francine had just said to her? or had she some reason for feeling reluctant to answer? In any case, a spirit of taciturnity took sudden possession of her — she was silent.

Francine (as usual) persisted. “Was your next place in service with Miss Emily’s aunt?”

“Yes.”

“Did the old lady always live in London?”

“No.”

“What part of the country did she live in?”