Complete Works of Wilkie Collins (1740 page)

I
I      MEMOIRS OF MYSELF

Who were the two ladies?

They were both young and unmarried. As a matter of delicacy, I ask permission to mention them by their Christian names only. Zilla, aged seventeen. Cecilia, aged two and twenty.

And what was my position between them?

I was the same age as Cecilia. She was my mother’s companion and reader; handsome, well-born and poor. I had made her a proposal, and had been accepted. There were no money difficulties in the way of our marriage, in spite of my sweetheart’s empty purse. I was an only child, and I had inherited, excepting my mother’s jointure, the whole of the large property that my father left at his death. In social rank Cecilia was more than my equal; we were therefore not ill-matched from the worldly point of view. Nevertheless, there was an obstacle to our union, and a person interested in making the most of it. The obstacle was Zilla. The person interested was my mother. Zilla was her niece — her elder brother’s daughter. The girl’s parents had died in India, and she had been sent to school in England, under the care of her uncle and guardian. I had never seen her, and had hardly heard of her, until there was a question of her spending the Christmas holidays (in the year when Septimus Notman died) at our house.

‘Her uncle has no objection,’ my mother said; ‘and I shall be more than glad to see her. A most interesting creature, as I hear. So lovely, and so good, that they call her Thenbsp;Angel, at school. I say nothing about her nice little fortune or the high military rank that her poor father possessed. You don’t care for these things. But, oh, Alfred, it would make me so happy if you fell in love with Zilla and married her!’

Three days before, I had made my proposal to Cecilia, and had been accepted — subject to my mother’s approval. I thought this a good opportunity of stating my case plainly; and I spoke out. Never before had I seen my mother so outraged and disappointed — enraged with Cecilia; disappointed with me. “A woman without a farthing of a dowry; a woman who was as old as I was; a woman who had taken advantage of her position in the house to mislead and delude me!’ and so on. Cecilia would certainly have been sent away if I had not declared that I should feel it my duty, in that event, to marry her immediately. My mother knew my temper, and refrained from giving Cecilia any cause of offence. Cecilia, on her side, showed what is called a proper pride; she declined to become my wife until my mother approved of her. She considered herself to be a martyr; and I considered myself to be an abominably treated man. Between us, I am afraid we made our good mother’s life unendurable — she was obliged to be the first who gave way. It was understood that we were to be married in the spring. It was also understood that Zilla was bitterly disappointed at having her holiday visit to us put off. ‘She was so anxious to see you, poor child,’ my mother said to me; ‘but I really daren’t ask her here under present circumstances. She is so fresh, so innocent, so infinitely superior in personal attractions to Cecilia, that I don’t know what might happen if you saw her now. You are the soul of honour, Alfred; but you and Zilla had better remain strangers to each other — you
might
repent your rash engagement.’ After this, it is needless to say that I was dying to see Zilla; while, at the same time, I never for an instant swerved from my fidelity to Cecilia.

Such was my position, on the memorable day when Septimus Notman died, leaving me possessor of the Devil’s Spectacles.

I
II      THE TEST OF THE SPECTACLES

The first person whom I encountered on returning to the house was the butler. He met me in the hall, with a receipted account in his hand which I had sent him to pay. The amount was close on a hundred pounds, and I had paid it immediately. ‘Is there no discount?’ I asked, looking at the receipt.

‘The parties expect cash, sir, and charge accordingly.’

He looked so respectable when he made this answer, he had served us for so many years, that I felt an irresistible temptation to try the Devil’s Spectacles on the butler, before I ventured to look through them at the ladies of my family. Our honest old servant would be such an excellent test.

‘I am afraid my sight is failing me,’ I said.

With this exceedingly simple explanation I put on the spectacles and looked at the butler.

The hall whirled round with me; on my word of honour I tremble and turn cold while I write of it now. Septimus Notman had spoken the truth!

In an instant the butler’s heart became hideously visible — a fat organ seen through the medium of the infernal glasses. The thought in him was plainly legible to me in these words: ‘Does my master think I’m going to give
him
the five per cent off the bill? Beastly meanness, interfering with the butler’s perquisites.’

I took off my spectacles and put them in my pocket.

‘You are a thief,’ I said to the butler. ‘You have got the discount money on this bill — five pounds all but a shilling or two — in your pocket. Send in your accounts; you leave my service.’

‘To-morrow, sir, if you like!’ answered the butler, indignantly. ‘After serving your family for five-and-twenty years, to be called a thief for only taking my perquisites is an insult, Mr Alfred, that I have not deserved.’ He put his handkerchief to his eyes and left me.

It was true that he had served us for a quarter of a century; it was also true that he had taken his perquisite and told a fib about it. But he had his compensating virtues. When I was a child he had given me many a ride on his knee and many a stolen drink of wine and water. His cellar-book had always been honestly kept; and his wife herself admitted that he was a model husband. At other times I should have remembered this, I should have felt that I had been hasty, and have asked his pardon. At this time I failed to feel the slightest compassion for him, and never faltered for a moment in my resolution to send him away. What change had passed over me?

The library door opened, and an old schoolfellow and college friend of mine looked out. ‘I thought I heard your voice in the hall,’ he said; ‘I have been waiting an hour for you.’

‘Anything very important,’ I asked, leading the way back to the library.

‘Nothing of the least importance to
you
,’ he replied, modestly.

I wanted no further explanation. More than once already I had lent him money, and, sooner or later, he had always repaid me. ‘Another little loan?’ I inquired, smiling pleasantly.

‘I am really ashamed to ask you again, Alfred. But if you could lend me fifty pounds — just look at that letter?

He made some joke, suggested by the quaint appearance of the Spectacles. I was too closely occupied to appreciate his sense of humour. What had he just said to me? He had said. ‘I am ashamed to ask you again.’ And what had he thought while he was speaking? He had thought. ‘When one has a milch cow at one’s disposal, who but a fool would fail to take advantage of it?’

I handed him back the letter (from a lawyer, threatening ‘proceedings’) and I said, in my hardest tones, ‘It’s not convenient to oblige you this time.’

He stared at me like a man thunderstruck. ‘Is this a joke, Alfred?’ he asked.

‘Do I look as if I was joking?’

He took up his hat. ‘There is but one excuse for you,’ he said. ‘Your social position is too much for your weak brain — your money has got into your head. Good morning.’

I had been indebted to him for all sorts of kind services at school and college. He was an honourable man, and a faithful friend. If the galling sense of his own narrow means made him unjustly contemptuous towards rich people, it was a fault (in my case, an exasperating fault), no doubt. But who is perfect? And what are fifty pounds to me? This is what I should once have felt, before he could have found time enough to get to the door. As things were, I let him go, and thought myself well rid of a mean hanger-on who only valued me for my money.

Being now free to visit the ladies, I rang the bell and asked if my mother was at home. She was in her boudoir. And where was Miss Cecilia? In the boudoir, too.

On entering the room I found visitors in the way, and put off the trial of the Spectacles until they had taken their leave. Just as they were going a thundering knock at the door announced more visitors. This time, fortunately, we escaped with no worse consequences than the delivery of cards. We actually had two minutes to ourselves. I seized the opportunity of reminding my mother that I was constitutionally inaccessible to the claims of Society, and that I thought we might as well have our house to ourselves for half an hour or so. ‘Send word down stairs,’ I said, ‘that you are not at home.’

My mother — magnificent in her old lace, her admirably-dressed grey hair, and her finely falling robe of purple-silk — looked across the fireplace at Cecilia — tall, and lazy, and beautiful, with lovely brown eyes, luxuriant black hair, a warmly-pale complexion, and an amber-coloured dress — and said to me, ‘You forget Cecilia. She likes Society.’

Cecilia looked at my mother with an air of languid surprise. ‘What an extraordinary mistake! she answered. ‘I hate Society.’

My mother smiled — rang the bell — and gave the order — Not at home. I produced my spectacles. There was an outcry at the hideous ugliness of them. I laid blame on ‘my oculist,’ and waited for what was to follow between the two ladies. My mother spoke. Consequently I looked at my mother.

[I present her words first, and her thoughts next, in parenthesis.]

‘So you hate society, my dear? Surely you have changed your opinion lately?’ (‘She doesn’t mind how she lies as long as she can curry favour with Alfred. False creature.’)

[I report Cecilia’s answer on the same plan.]

‘Pardon me; I haven’t in the least changed my opinion — I was only afraid to express it. I hope I have not given offence by expressing it now.’ (‘She can’t exist without gossip, and then she tries to lay it on me. Worldly old wretch!’)

What I began to think of my mother, I am ashamed to record. What I thought of Cecilia may be stated in two words. I was more eager than ever to see ‘The Angel of the school,’ the good and lovely Zilla.

My mother stopped the further progress of my investigations. ‘Take off those hideous Spectacles, Alfred, or leave us to our visitors. I don’t say your sight may not be failing; I only say change your oculist.’

I took off the Spectacles, all the more willingly that I began to be really afraid of them. The talk between the ladies went on.

‘Yours is a strange confession, my dear,’ my mother said to Cecilia. ‘May I ask what motive so young a lady can have for hating Society?’

‘Only the motive of wanting to improve myself,’ Cecilia answered. ‘If I knew a little more of modern languages, and if I could be something better than a feeble amateur when I paint in water colours, you might think me worthier to be Alfred’s wife. But Society is always in the way when I open my book or take up my brushes. In London I have no time to myself, and, I really can’t disguise it, the frivolous life I lead is not to my taste.’

I thought this — (my Spectacles being in my pocket, remember) — very well and very prettily said. My mother looked at me. ‘I quite agree with Cecilia,’ I said, answering the look. ‘We cannot count on having five minutes to ourselves in London from morning to night.’ Another knock at the street door contributed its noisy support to my views as I spoke. ‘We daren’t even look out of the window,’ I remarked, ‘for fear Society may look up at the same moment, and see that we are at home.’

My mother smiled. ‘You are certainly two remarkable young people,’ she said, with an air of satirical indulgence — and paused for a moment, as if an idea had occurred to her which was more than usually worthy of consideration. If her eye had not been on me at the moment, I believe I should have taken my Spectacles out of my pocket. ‘You are both so thoroughly agreed in disliking Society and despising London,’ she resumed, ‘that I feel it my duty, as a good mother, to make your lives a little more in harmony with your tastes, if I can. You complain, Alfred, that you can never count on having five minutes to yourself with Cecilia, Cecilia complains that she is perpetually interrupted in the laudable effort to improve her mind. I offer you both the whole day to yourselves, week after week, for the next three months. We will spend the winter at Long Fallas.’