Complete Works of Wilkie Collins (1742 page)

Fifth Thought: ‘Bother this horrid work! It is all very well to be clever with one’s needle, but how it disfigures one’s forefinger! No matter, I must play my part while it lasts, or I shall be reported lazy by the most detestable woman I ever met with — the housekeeper at Long Fallas.’

She threaded her needle, and I put my Spectacles in my pocket.

I don’t think I suspected it at the time; but I am now well aware that Septimus Notman’s diabolical gift was exerting an influence over me. I was wickedly cool, under circumstances which would have roused my righteous indignation in the days before my Spectacles. Sir John and the Angel; my mother and her family interests; Cecilia and her unacknowledged lover — what a network of conspiracy and deception was wound about me! and what a perfectly fiendish pleasure I felt in planning to match them on their own ground! The method of obtaining this object presented itself to me in the simplest form. I had only to take my mother for a walk in the near neighbourhood of the shrubbery — and the exposure would be complete! That night I studied the barometer with unutterable anxiety. The prospect of the weather was all that I could wish.

V
      THE TRUTH IN THE SHRUBBERY

On the next day, the friendly sun shone, the balmy air invited everybody to go out. I made no further use of the Spectacles that morning: my purpose was to keep them in my pocket until the interview in the shrubbery was over. Shall I own the motive? It was simply fear — fear of making further discoveries, and of losing the masterly self-control on which the whole success of my project depended.

We lunched at one o’clock. Had Cecilia and Zilla come to a private understanding on the subject of the interview in the shrubbery? By way of ascertaining this, I asked Cecilia if she would like to go out riding in the afternoon. She declined the proposal — she wanted to finish a sketch. I was sufficiently answered.

‘Cecilia complains that your manner has grown cold toward her lately,’ mother said, when we were left together.

My mind was dwelling on Cecilia’s letter to Sir John. Would any man have so easily adopted Zilla’s suggestion not to take Cecilia on her word, unless there had been something to encourage him? I could only trust myself to answer my mother very briefly. ‘Cecilia is changed towards me’ — was all my reply.

My mother was evidently gratified by this prospect of a misunderstanding between us. ‘Ah!’ she said, ‘if Cecilia only had Zilla’s sweet temper.’

This was a little too much to endure — but I did endure it. ‘Will you come out with me, mamma, for a walk in the grounds?’ I asked.

My mother accepted the invitation so gladly, that I really think I should have felt ashamed of myself — if I had not had the contaminating Spectacles in my pocket. We had just settled to start soon after two o’clock, when there was a timid knock at the door. The angelic needlewoman appeared to ask for her half holiday. My mother actually blushed! Old habits will cling to the members of the past generation. ‘What is it?’ she said, in low uncertain tones. ‘Might I go to the village, ma’am, to buy some little things?’ ‘Certainly.’ The door closed again. ‘Now for the shrubbery!’ I thought. ‘Make haste, mamma,’ I said, ‘the best of the day is going. And mind one thing — put on your thickest boots!’

On one side of the shrubbery were the gardens. The other side was bounded by a wooden fence. A footpath, running part of the way beside the fence, crossed the grass beyond, and made a short cut between the nearest park gate and the servants’ offices. This was the safe place that I had chosen. We could hear perfectly — though the closely-planted evergreens might prevent the exercise of sight. I had recommended ‘thick boots’ because there was no help but to muffle the sound of our footsteps by walking on the wet grass. At its further end, the shrubbery joined the carriage road up to the house.

My mother’s surprise at the place that I had chosen for our walk would have been expressed in words, as well as by looks, if I had not stopped her by a whispered warning. ‘Keep perfectly quiet,’ I said, ‘‘and listen. I have a motive for bringing you here.’

The words had hardly passed my lips, before we heard the voices of Cecilia and the needlewoman in the shrubbery.

‘Wait a minute,’ said Cecilia; ‘you must be a little more explicit, before I consent to go any farther. How came you to take my letter to Sir John, instead of my maid?’

‘Only to oblige her, Miss. She was not very well, and she didn’t fancy going all the way to Timbercombe. I can buy no good needles in the village, and I was glad of the opportunity of getting to the town.’

There was a pause. Cecilia was reflecting, as I supposed. My mother began to turn pale.

Cecilia resumed. ‘There is nothing in Sir John’s answer to my letter,’ she said, ‘ that leads me to suppose he can be guilty of an act of rudeness. I have always believed him to be a gentleman. No gentleman would force his way into my presence, when I wrote expressly to ask him to spare me. Pray how did you know he was determined only to take his dismissal from my lips?’

‘Gentlemen’s feelings sometimes get the better of them, Miss. Sir John was very much distressed — ’

Cecilia interrupted her. ‘There was nothing in my letter to distress him,’ she said.

‘He
was
distressed, Miss; and he
did
say, “I cannot take my answer this way — I must and will see her.” And then he asked me to get you to walk out to-day, and to say nothing so that he might take you by surprise. He is so madly in love with you, Miss, that he is all but beside himself. I am really afraid of what might happen, if you don’t soften his disappointment to him in some way. How any lady can treat such a handsome gentleman so cruelly, passes my poor judgement!’

Cecilia instantly resented the familiarity implied in those last words. ‘You are not called upon to exercise your judgement,’ she said. ‘You can go back to the house.’

‘Hadn’t I better see Sir John first, Miss?’

‘Certainly not! You and Sir John have seen quite enough of each other already.’

There was another pause. My mother stood holding by my arm, pale and trembling. We could neither of us speak. My own mind was strangely agitated. Either Cecilia was a monster of deceit, or she had thus far spoken and acted as became a true and highly-bred woman. The distant sound of horses’ hoofs on the park road, told us both that the critical moment was at hand. In another minute, the sound ceased. Sir John had probably dismounted, and tied up his horse at the entrance of the shrubbery. After an interval, we heard Cecilia’s voice again, farther away from us. We followed the voice. The interview which was to decide my future destiny in life had begun.

‘No, Sir John; I must have my question answered first. Is there anything in my letter — was there anything in my conduct, when we met in London — which justifies this?’

‘Love justifies everything, Cecilia!’

‘You are not to call me Cecilia, if you please. Have you no plainer answer to give me?’

‘Have
you
no mercy on a man, who cannot live without you? Is there really nothing in myself and my title to set against the perfectly obscure person, to whom you have so rashly engaged yourself? It would be an insult to suppose that his wealth has tempted you. What can be his merit in your eyes? His own friends can say no more in his favour than that he is a good-natured fool. I don’t blame you; women often drift into engagements that they repent of afterwards. Do yourself justice! Be true to the nobility of character — and be the angel who makes our two lives happy, before it is too late!’

‘Have you done, Sir John?’

There was a moment of silence. It was impossible to mistake her tone — Sir John’s flow of eloquence came to a full stop.

‘Before I answer you,’ Cecilia proceeded, ‘I have something to say first. The girl who took my letter to you, was not my maid, as you may have supposed. She is a stranger to me; and I suspect her of being a false creature with some purpose of her own to serve. I find a difficulty in attributing to a person in your rank of life the mean deceit which answers my letter in terms that lead me to trust you, and then takes me by surprise in this way. My messenger (as I believe) is quite insolent enough to have suggested this course to you. Am I right? I expect a reply, Sir John, that is worthy in its entire truthfulness of you and your title. Am I right?’

‘You are right, Miss Cecilia. Pray don’t despise me. The temptation to plead with you once more — ’

‘I will speak to you, Sir John, as candidly as you have spoken to me. You are entirely wrong in supposing it possible for me to repent of my marriage engagement. The man, whose false friends have depreciated him in your estimation, is the only man I love, and the only man I will marry. And I beg you to understand, if he lost the whole of his fortune to-morrow, I would marry him the next day, if he asked me. Must I say more? or will you treat me with the delicacy of a gentleman, and take your leave?’

I don’t remember whether he said anything or not, before he left her. I only know that they parted. Don’t ask me to confess what I felt. Don’t ask me to describe what my mother felt. Let the scene be changed, and the narrative be resumed at a later hour of the day.

V
I      THE END OF THE SPECTACLES

I asked myself a question, which I beg to repeat here. What did I owe to the Devil’s Spectacles?

In the first place, I was indebted to my glasses for seeing all the faults, and none of the merits, in the persons about me. In the second place, I arrived at the discovery that, if we are to live usefully and happily with our fellow-creatures, we must take them at their best, and not at their worst. Having reached these conclusions, I trusted my own unassisted insight, and set myself to ascertain what the Devil had
not
helped me to discover in the two persons who were dearest to me — my mother and Cecilia.

I began with Cecilia, leaving my mother time to recover after the shock that had fallen on her.

It was impossible to acknowledge what I had seen through the Spectacles, or what I had heard at the shrubbery fence. In speaking to Cecilia, I could only attribute my coldness of manner to jealousy of the mere name of ‘Sir John,’ and ask to be pardoned for even a momentary distrust of the most constant and charming of women. There was something, I suppose, in my contrite consciousness of having wronged her, that expressed itself in my looks and in my tones. We were sitting together on the sofa. For the first time since our engagement, she put her arm around my neck, and kissed me, without waiting to be kissed first.

I am not very demonstrative,’ she said, softly; ‘and I don’t think, Alfred, you have ever known how fond I am of you. My dear, when Sir John and I met again at that dinner party, I was too faithful to you to even allow myself to
think
of him. Your poor mother irritated me by seeming to doubt whether I could trust myself within reach of Timbercombe, or I should never have consented to go to Long Fallas. You remember that she invited Sir John to ride over and see us. I wrote to him, informing him of my engagement to you, and telling him, in the plainest words, that if he did call at this house, nothing would induce me to see him. I had every reason to suppose that he would understand and respect my motives — ’

She paused. The rich colour rose in her lovely face. I refused to let her distress herself by saying a word of what had happened in the shrubbery. Look back, if you have forgotten it, and see how completely the Spectacles failed to show me the higher and nobler motives that had animated her. The little superficial irritabilities and distrusts, they exhibited to perfection; but the true regard for each other, hidden below the surface in my mother and in my promised wife, was completely beyond them.

‘Shall we go back to London, to-morrow?’ I asked.

‘Are you tired of being here with me, Alfred?’

‘I am tired of waiting till the spring, my angel. I will live with you wherever you like, if you will only consent to hasten the transformation which makes you my wife. Will you consent?’

‘If your mother asks me. Don’t hurry her, Alfred.’

But I did hurry her. After what we had heard in the shrubbery I could look into my mother’s heart (without assistance), and feel sure that the nobler part of her nature would justify my confidence in it. She was not only ready to ‘ask Cecilia,’ then and there — she was eager, poor soul, to confess hoe completely she had been mislaid by her natural interest in her brother’s child. Being firmly resolved to keep the secret of my discovery of her niece, I refused to hear her, as I had refused to hear Cecilia. Did I not know, without being told, what child’s play it would be to Zilla to dazzle and delude my innocent mother? I merely asked if ‘the needlewoman was still in the house.’ The answer was thoroughly explicit: ‘She is at the railway station by this time, and she will never enter any house of mine again.’