Complete Works of Wilkie Collins (1722 page)

“I may rest now,” he said, faintly. “I may sleep at last. The task is done. The struggle is over.”

His last reserves of strength had been given to Frank. He stopped — he staggered — his hands waved feebly in search of support. But for one faithful friend he would have fallen. Crayford caught him. Crayford laid his old comrade gently on some sails strewn in a corner, and pillowed Wardour’s weary head on his own bosom. The tears streamed over his face. “Richard! dear Richard!” he said. “Remember — and forgive me.”

Richard neither heeded nor heard him. His dim eyes still looked across the room at Clara and Frank.

“I have made
her
happy!” he murmured. “I may lay down my weary head now on the mother earth that hushes all her children to rest at last. Sink, heart! sink, sink to rest! Oh, look at them!” he said to Crayford, with a burst of grief. “They have forgotten
me
already.”

It was true! The interest was all with the two lovers. Frank was young and handsome and popular. Officers, passengers, and sailors, they all crowded round Frank. They all forgot the martyred man who had saved him — the man who was dying in Crayford’s arms.

Crayford tried once more to attract his attention — to win his recognition while there was yet time. “Richard, speak to me! Speak to your old friend!”

He look round; he vacantly repeated Crayford’s last word.

“Friend?” he said. “My eyes are dim, friend — my mind is dull. I have lost all memories but the memory of
her
. Dead thoughts — all dead thoughts but that one! And yet you look at me kindly! Why has your face gone down with the wreck of all the rest?”

He paused; his face changed; his thoughts drifted back from present to past; he looked at Crayford vacantly, lost in the terrible remembrances that were rising in him, as the shadows rise with the coming night.

“Hark ye, friend,” he whispered. “Never let Frank know it. There was a time when the fiend within me hungered for his life. I had my hands on the boat. I heard the voice of the Tempter speaking to me: Launch it, and leave him to die! I waited with my hands on the boat, and my eyes on the place where he slept. ‘Leave him! leave him!’ the voice whispered. ‘Love him!’ the lad’s voice answered, moaning and murmuring in his sleep. ‘Love him, Clara, for helping
me!
’ I heard the morning wind come up in the silence over the great deep. Far and near, I heard the groaning of the floating ice; floating, floating to the clear water and the balmy air. And the wicked Voice floated away with it — away, away, away forever! ‘Love him! love him, Clara, for helping
me!
’ No wind could float that away! ‘Love him, Clara — ’“

His voice sank into silence; his head dropped on Crayford’s breast. Frank saw it. Frank struggled up on his bleeding feet and parted the friendly throng round him. Frank had not forgotten the man who had saved him.

“Let me go to him!” he cried. “I must and will go to him! Clara, come with me.”

Clara and Steventon supported him between them. He fell on his knees at Wardour’s side; he put his hand on Wardour’s bosom.

“Richard!”

The weary eyes opened again. The sinking voice was heard feebly once more.

“Ah! poor Frank. I didn’t forget you, Frank, when I came here to beg. I remembered you lying down outside in the shadow of the boats. I saved you your share of the food and drink. Too weak to get at it now! A little rest, Frank! I shall soon be strong enough to carry you down to the ship.”

The end was near. They all saw it now. The men reverently uncovered their heads in the presence of Death. In an agony of despair, Frank appealed to the friends round him.

“Get something to strengthen him, for God’s sake! Oh, men! men! I should never have been here but for him! He has given all his strength to my weakness; and now, see how strong I am, and how weak
he
is! Clara, I held by his arm all over the ice and snow.
He
kept watch when I was senseless in the open boat.
His
hand dragged me out of the waves when we were wrecked. Speak to him, Clara! speak to him!” His voice failed him, and his head dropped on Wardour’s breast.

She spoke, as well as her tears would let her.

“Richard, have you forgotten me?”

He rallied at the sound of that beloved voice. He looked up at her as she knelt at his head.

“Forgotten you?” Still looking at her, he lifted his hand with an effort, and laid it on Frank. “Should I have been strong enough to save him, if I could have forgotten you?” He waited a moment and turned his face feebly toward Crayford. “Stay!” he said. “Someone was here and spoke to me.” A faint light of recognition glimmered in his eyes. “Ah, Crayford! I recollect now. Dear Crayford! come nearer! My mind clears, but my eyes grow dim. You will remember me kindly for Frank’s sake? Poor Frank! why does he hide his face? Is he crying? Nearer, Clara — I want to look my last at
you
. My sister, Clara! Kiss me, sister, kiss me before I die!”

She stooped and kissed his forehead. A faint smile trembled on his lips. It passed away; and stillness possessed the face — the stillness of Death.

Crayford’s voice was heard in the silence.

“The loss is ours,” he said. “The gain is his. He has won the greatest of all conquests — the conquest of himself. And he has died in the moment of victory. Not one of us here but may live to envy
his
glorious death.”

The distant report of a gun came from the ship in the offing, and signaled the return to England and to home.

THE DREAM WOMAN:

A MYSTERY IN FOUR NARRATIVES

[INTRODUCTORY NOTE. — The original version of this story was published, many years since, in “Household Words,” and was afterwards printed in the collection of my shorter stories called “The Queen of Hearts.” In the present version — written for my public readings in the United States — new characters and new incidents are introduced; and a new beginning and ending have been written. Indeed, the whole complexion of the narrative differs so essentially from the older and shorter version, as to justify me in believing that the reader will find in these pages what is, to all practical intents and purposes, a new story. — W. C.]

PERSONS OF THE MYSTERY.

FRANCIS RAVEN (
Ostler
).
MRS. RAVEN (
His mother
).
MRS. CHANCE (
His aunt
).
PERCY FAIRBANK (
His master and mistress
)
MRS. FAIRBANK
JOSEPH RIGOBERT (
His fellow-servant
).
ALICIA WARLOCK (
His wife
).

PERIOD — THE PRESENT TIME.

SCENE — PARTLY IN ENGLAND, PARTLY IN FRANCE.

THE FIRST NARRATIVE.

INTRODUCTORY STATEMENT OF THE FACTS. BY PERCY FAIRBANK.

I.

“HULLO, there! Ostler! Hullo-o-o!”

“My dear! why don’t you look for the bell?”

“I
have
looked — there is no bell.”

“And nobody in the yard. How very extraordinary! Call again, dear.”

“Ostler! Hullo, there! Ostler-r-r!”

My second call echoes through empty space, and rouses nobody — produces, in short, no visible result. I am at the end of my resources — I don’t know what to say or what to do next. Here I stand in the solitary inn yard of a strange town, with two horses to hold, and a lady to take care of. By way of adding to my responsibilities, it so happens that one of the horses is dead lame, and that the lady is my wife.

Who am I? — you will ask.

There is plenty of time to answer the question. Nothing happens; and nobody appears to receive us. Let me introduce myself and my wife.

I am Percy Fairbank — English gentleman — age (let us say) forty — no profession — moderate politics — middle height — fair complexion — easy character — plenty of money.

My wife is a French lady. She was Mademoiselle Clotilde Delorge — when I was first presented to her at her father’s house in France. I fell in love with her — I really don’t know why. It might have been because I was perfectly idle, and had nothing else to do at the time. Or it might have been because all my friends said she was the very last woman whom I ought to think of marrying. On the surface, I must own, there is nothing in common between Mrs. Fairbank and me. She is tall; she is dark; she is nervous, excitable, romantic; in all her opinions she proceeds to extremes. What could such a woman see in me? what could I see in her? I know no more than you do. In some mysterious manner we exactly suit each other. We have been man and wife for ten years, and our only regret is, that we have no children. I don’t know what
you
may think;
I
call that — upon the whole — a happy marriage.

So much for ourselves. The next question is — what has brought us into the inn yard? and why am I obliged to turn groom, and hold the horses?

We live for the most part in France — at the country house in which my wife and I first met. Occasionally, by way of variety, we pay visits to my friends in England. We are paying one of those visits now. Our host is an old college friend of mine, possessed of a fine estate in Somersetshire; and we have arrived at his house — called Farleigh Hall — towards the close of the hunting-season.

On the day of which I am now writing — destined to be a memorable day in our calendar — the hounds meet at Farleigh Hall. Mrs. Fairbank and I are mounted on two of the best horses in my friend’s stables. We are quite unworthy of that distinction; for we know nothing, and care nothing, about hunting. On the other hand, we delight in riding, and we enjoy the breezy spring morning and the fair and fertile English landscape surrounding us on every side. While the hunt prospers, we follow the hunt. But when a check occurs — when time passes and patience is sorely tried; when the bewildered dogs run hither and thither, and strong language falls from the lips of exasperated sportsmen — we fail to take any further interest in the proceedings. We turn our horses’ heads in the direction of a grassy lane, delightfully shaded by trees. We trot merrily along the lane, and find ourselves on an open common. We gallop across the common, and follow the windings of a second lane. We cross a brook, we pass through a village, we emerge into pastoral solitude among the hills. The horses toss their heads, and neigh to each other, and enjoy it as much as we do. The hunt is forgotten. We are as happy as a couple of children; we are actually singing a French song — when in one moment our merriment comes to an end. My wife’s horse sets one of his fore-feet on a loose stone, and stumbles. His rider’s ready hand saves him from falling. But, at the first attempt he makes to go on, the sad truth shows itself — a tendon is strained; the horse is lame.

What is to be done? We are strangers in a lonely part of the country. Look where we may, we see no signs of a human habitation. There is nothing for it but to take the bridle-road up the hill, and try what we can discover on the other side. I transfer the saddles, and mount my wife on my own horse. He is not used to carry a lady; he misses the familiar pressure of a man’s legs on either side of him; he fidgets, and starts, and kicks up the dust. I follow on foot, at a respectful distance from his heels, leading the lame horse. Is there a more miserable object on the face of creation than a lame horse? I have seen lame men and lame dogs who were cheerful creatures; but I never yet saw a lame horse who didn’t look heartbroken over his own misfortune.

For half-an-hour my wife capers and curvets sideways along the bridle-road. I trudge on behind her; and the heartbroken horse halts behind
me.
Hard by the top of the hill, our melancholy procession passes a Somersetshire peasant at work in a field. I summon the man to approach us; and the man looks at me stolidly, from the middle of the field, without stirring a step. I ask at the top of my voice how far it is to Farleigh Hall. The Somersetshire peasant answers at the top of
his
voice,

“Vourteen mile. Gi’ oi a drap o’ zyder.”

I translate (for my wife’s benefit) from the Somersetshire language into the English language. We are fourteen miles from Farleigh Hall; and our friend in the field desires to be rewarded for giving us that information, with a drop of cider. There is the peasant, painted by himself! Quite a bit of character, my dear! Quite a bit of character!