Complete Works of Wilkie Collins (1420 page)

“HARRY.”

Like the Irish lord, Miss Henley was “in two minds,” while she rose, and dressed herself. There were parts of the letter for which she loved the writer, and parts of it for which she hated him.

What a prospect was before that reckless man — what misery, what horror, might not be lying in wait in the dreadful future! If he failed in the act of vengeance, that violent death of which he had written so heedlessly might overtake him from another hand. If he succeeded, the law might discover his crime, and the infamy of expiation on the scaffold might be his dreadful end. She turned, shuddering, from the contemplation of those hideous possibilities, and took refuge in the hope of his safe, his guiltless return. Even if his visions of success, even if his purposes of reform (how hopeless at his age!) were actually realised, could she consent to marry the man who had led his life, had written this letter, had contemplated (and still cherished) his merciless resolution of revenge? No woman in her senses could let the bare idea of being his wife enter her mind. Iris opened her writing-desk, to hide the letter from all eyes but her own. As she secured it with the key, her heart sank under the return of a terror remembered but too well. Once more, the superstitious belief in a destiny that was urging Lord Harry and herself nearer and nearer to each other, even when they seemed to be most widely and most surely separated, thrilled her under the chilling mystery of its presence. She dropped helplessly into a chair. Oh, for a friend who could feel for her, who could strengthen her, whose wise words could restore her to her better and calmer self! Hugh was far away; and Iris was left to suffer and to struggle alone.

Heartfelt aspirations for help and sympathy! Oh, irony of circumstances, how were they answered? The housemaid entered the room, to announce the arrival of a discharged servant, with a lost character.

“Let the young woman come in,” Iris said. Was Fanny Mere the friend whom she had been longing for? She looked at her troubled face in the glass — and laughed bitterly.

CHAPTER XIV

THE LADY’S MAID

IT was not easy to form a positive opinion of the young woman who now presented herself in Miss Henley’s room.

If the Turkish taste is truly reported as valuing beauty in the female figure more than beauty in the female face, Fanny Mere’s personal appearance might have found, in Constantinople, the approval which she failed to receive in London. Slim and well balanced, firmly and neatly made, she interested men who met her by accident (and sometimes even women), if they happened to be walking behind her. When they quickened their steps, and, passing on, looked back at her face, they lost all interest in Fanny from that moment. Painters would have described the defect in her face as “want of colour.” She was one of the whitest of fair female human beings. Light flaxen hair, faint blue eyes with no expression in them, and a complexion which looked as if it had never been stirred by a circulation of blood, produced an effect on her fellow-creatures in general which made them insensible to the beauty of her figure, and the grace of her movements. There was no betrayal of bad health in her strange pallor: on the contrary, she suggested the idea of rare physical strength. Her quietly respectful manner was, so to say, emphasised by an underlying self-possession, which looked capable of acting promptly and fearlessly in the critical emergencies of life. Otherwise, the expression of character in her face was essentially passive. Here was a steady, resolute young woman, possessed of qualities which failed to show themselves on the surface — whether good qualities or bad qualities experience alone could determine.

Finding it impossible, judging by a first impression, to arrive at any immediate decision favourable or adverse to the stranger, Iris opened the interview with her customary frankness; leaving the consequences to follow as they might.

“Take a seat, Fanny,” she said, “and let us try if we can understand each other. I think you will agree with me that there must be no concealments between us. You ought to know that your mistress has told me why she parted with you. It was her duty to tell me the truth, and it is my duty not to be unjustly prejudiced against you after what I have heard. Pray believe me when I say that I don’t know, and don’t wish to know, what your temptation may have been — ”

“I beg your pardon, Miss, for interrupting you. My temptation was vanity.”

Whether she did or did not suffer in making that confession, it was impossible to discover. Her tones were quiet; her manner was unobtrusively respectful; the pallor of her face was not disturbed by the slightest change of colour. Was the new maid an insensible person? Iris began to fear already that she might have made a mistake.

“I don’t expect you to enter into particulars,” she said; “I don’t ask you here to humiliate yourself.”

“When I got your letter, Miss, I tried to consider how I might show myself worthy of your kindness,” Fanny answered. “The one way I could see was not to let you think better of me than I deserve. When a person, like me, is told, for the first time, that her figure makes amends for her face, she is flattered by the only compliment that has been paid to her in all her life. My excuse, Miss (if I have an excuse) is a mean one — -I couldn’t resist a compliment. That is all I have to say.”

Iris began to alter her opinion. This was not a young woman of the ordinary type. It began to look possible, and more than possible, that she was worthy of a helping hand. The truth seemed to be in her.

“I understand you, and feel for you.” Having replied in those words, Iris wisely and delicately changed the subject. “Let me hear how you are situated at the present time,” she continued. “Are your parents living?”

“My father and mother are dead, Miss.”

“Have you any other relatives?”

“They are too poor to be able to do anything for me. I have lost my character — and I am left to help myself.”

“Suppose you fail to find another situation?” Iris suggested.

“Yes, Miss?”

“How can you help yourself?”

“I can do what other girls have done.”

“What do you mean?”

“Some of us starve on needlework. Some take to the streets. Some end it in the river. If there is no other chance for me, I think I shall try that way,” said the poor creature, as quietly as if she was speaking of some customary prospect that was open to her. “There will be nobody to be sorry for me — and, as I have read, drowning is not a very painful death.”

“You shock me, Fanny! I, for one, should be sorry for you.”

“Thank you, Miss.”

“And try to remember,” Iris continued, “that there may be chances in the future which you don’t see yet. You speak of what you have read, and I have already noticed how clearly and correctly you express yourself. You must have been educated. Was it at home? or at school?

“I was once sent to school,” Fanny replied, not quite willingly.

“Was it a private school?”

“Yes.”

That short answer warned Iris to be careful.

“Recollections of school,” she said good-humouredly, “are not the pleasantest recollections in some of our lives. Perhaps I have touched on a subject which is disagreeable to you?”

“You have touched on one of my disappointments, Miss. While my mother lived, she was my teacher. After her death, my father sent me to school. When he failed in business, I was obliged to leave, just as I had begun to learn and like it. Besides, the girls found out that I was going away, because there was no money at home to pay the fees — and that mortified me. There is more that I might tell you. I have a reason for hating my recollections of the school — but I mustn’t mention that time in my life which your goodness to me tries to forget.”

All that appealed to her, so simply and so modestly, in that reply, was not lost on Iris. After an interval of silence, she said:

“Can you guess what I am thinking of, Fanny?”

“No, Miss.”

“I am asking myself a question. If I try you in my service shall I never regret it?”

For the first time, strong emotion shook Fanny Mere. Her voice failed her, in the effort to speak. Iris considerately went on.

“You will take the place,” she said, “of a maid who has been with me for years — a good dear creature who has only left me through ill-health. I must not expect too much of you; I cannot hope that you will be to me what Rhoda Bennet has been.”

Fanny succeeded in controlling herself. “Is there any hope,” she asked, “of my seeing Rhoda Bennet?”

“Why do you wish to see her?”

“You are fond of her, Miss — -that is one reason.”

“And the other?”

“Rhoda Bennet might help me to serve you as I want to serve you; she might perhaps encourage me to try if I could follow her example.” Fanny paused, and clasped her hands fervently. The thought that was in her forced its way to expression. “It’s so easy to feel grateful,” she said — ”and, oh, so hard to show it!”

“Come to me,” her new mistress answered, “and show it to-morrow.”

Moved by that compassionate impulse, Iris said the words which restored to an unfortunate creature a lost character and a forfeited place in the world.

CHAPTER XV

MR. HENLEY’S TEMPER

PROVIDED by nature with ironclad constitutional defences against illness, Mr. Henley was now and then troubled with groundless doubts of his own state of health. Acting under a delusion of this kind, he imagined symptoms which rendered a change of residence necessary from his town house to his country house, a few days only after his daughter had decided on the engagement of her new maid.

Iris gladly, even eagerly, adapted her own wishes to the furtherance of her father’s plans. Sorely tried by anxiety and suspense, she needed all that rest and tranquillity could do for her. The first week in the country produced an improvement in her health. Enjoying the serene beauty of woodland and field, breathing the delicious purity of the air — sometimes cultivating her own corner in the garden, and sometimes helping the women in the lighter labours of the dairy — her nerves recovered their tone, and her spirits rose again to their higher level.

In the performance of her duties the new maid justified Miss Henley’s confidence in her, during the residence of the household in the country.

She showed, in her own undemonstrative way, a grateful sense of her mistress’s kindness. Her various occupations were intelligently and attentively pursued; her even temper never seemed to vary; she gave the servants no opportunities of complaining of her. But one peculiarity in her behaviour excited hostile remark, below-stairs. On the occasions when she was free to go out for the day, she always found some excuse for not joining any of the other female servants, who might happen to be similarly favoured. The one use she made of her holiday was to travel by railway to some place unknown; always returning at the right time in the evening. Iris knew enough of the sad circumstances to be able to respect her motives, and to appreciate the necessity for keeping the object of these solitary journeys a secret from her fellow-servants.

The pleasant life in the country house had lasted for nearly a month, when the announcement of Hugh’s approaching return to England reached Iris. The fatal end of his father’s long and lingering illness had arrived, and the funeral had taken place. Business, connected with his succession to the property, would detain him in London for a few days. Submitting to this necessity, he earnestly expressed the hope of seeing Iris again, the moment he was at liberty.

Hearing the good news, Mr. Henley obstinately returned to his plans — already twice thwarted — for promoting the marriage of Mountjoy and Iris.

He wrote to invite Hugh to his house in a tone of cordiality which astonished his daughter; and when the guest arrived, the genial welcome of the host had but one defect — Mr. Henley overacted his part. He gave the two young people perpetual opportunities of speaking to each other privately; and, on the principle that none are so blind as those who won’t see, he failed to discover that the relations between them continued to be relations of friendship, do what he might. Hugh’s long attendance on his dying father had left him depressed in spirits; Iris understood him, and felt for him. He was not ready with his opinion of the new maid, after he had seen Fanny Mere. “My inclination,” he said, “is to trust the girl. And yet, I hesitate to follow my inclination — and I don’t know why.”