Complete Works of Wilkie Collins (1747 page)

Without wasting a moment in words, the two at once entered the wood, and took the knapsack from its place of shelter in the hollow tree. In ten minutes more my husband was dressed in a suit of workman’s clothes, and was further disguised in the wig and beard. The two then set forth down the course of the stream, keeping in the shadow of the wood until the night had fallen and the darkness hid them. The night was cloudy; there was no moon. After walking two miles or a little more, they altered their course, and made for the high-road to Manchester, entering on it at a point some thirty miles distant from the city.

On their way from the wood, Roland described the manner in which he had effected his escape.

The story was simple enough. He had assumed to be suffering from nervous illness, and had requested to have his meals in his own room. For the first fortnight, the two men appointed to wait upon him in succession, week by week, were both more than his match in strength. The third man employed, at the beginning of the third week, was physically a less formidable person than his predecessors. Seeing this, Roland decided, when evening came, on committing another “act of violence.” In plain words, he sprang upon the keeper waiting on him in his room, and gagged and bound the man.

This done, he laid the unlucky keeper, face to the wall, on his own bed, covered with his own cloak, so that any one entering the room might suppose he was lying down to rest. He had previously taken the precaution to remove the sheets from the bed, and he had now only to tie them together to escape by the window of his room, situated on the upper floor of the house. The sun was setting, and the inmates of the asylum were then at tea. After narrowly missing discovery by one of the labourers employed in the grounds, he had climbed the garden inclosure, and had dropped on the other side — a free man!

Arrived on the high-road to Manchester, my husband and my brother parted.

Roland, who was an excellent walker, set forth on his way to Manchester on foot. He had food in his knapsack, and he proposed to walk some twelve or fifteen miles on the road to the city before he stopped at any town or village to rest. My brother, who was physically unable to accompany him, returned to the place in which I was then residing, to tell me the good news.

By the first train the next morning I traveled to Manchester, and took a lodging in a suburb of the city known to my husband as well as to me. A prim, smoky little square was situated in the immediate neighbourhood; and we had arranged that whichever of us first arrived in Manchester should walk round that square, between twelve and one in the afternoon, and between six and seven in the evening. In the evening I kept my appointment. A dusty, foot-sore man, in shabby clothes, with a hideous beard, and a knapsack on his back, met me at my first walk round. He smiled as I looked at him. Ah! I knew that smile through all disguises. In spite of the Court of Chancery and the Lords Justices, I was in my husband’s arms once more.

We lived quietly in our retreat for a month. During that time, (as I heard by letters from my brother) nothing that money and cunning could do toward discovering Roland was left untried by the proprietor of the asylum, and by the persons acting with him. But where is the cunning which can trace a man who, escaping at night in disguise, has not trusted himself to a railway or a carriage, and who takes refuge in a great city in which he has no friends? At the end of our month in Manchester we traveled northward, crossed the Channel to Ireland, and passed a pleasant fortnight in Dublin. Leaving this again, we made our way to Cork and Queenstown, and embarked from that latter place (among a crowd of steerage passengers) in a steamship for America.

My story is told. I am writing these lines from a farm in the west of the United States. Our neighbours may be homely enough; but the roughest of them is kinder to us than a mad doctor or a Lord Justice. Roland is happy in those agricultural pursuits which have always been favorite pursuits with him; and I am happy with Roland. Our sole resources consist of my humble little fortune, inherited from my dear mother. After deducting our traveling expenses, the sum total amounts to between seven and eight hundred pounds; and this, as we find, is amply sufficient to start us well in the new life that we have chosen. We expect my father and my brother to pay us a visit next summer; and I think it is just possible that they may find our family circle increased by the presence of a new member in long clothes. Are there no compensations here for exile from England and the loss of a fortune?
We
think there are! But then, my dear Miss Anstell, “Mary Brading’s husband is mad, and Mary Brading herself is not much better.”

If you feel inclined to alter this opinion, and if you remember our old days at school as tenderly as I remember them, write and tell me so. Your letter will be forwarded, if you send it to the inclosed address at New York.

In the meantime, the moral of our story seems to be worth serious consideration. A certain Englishman legally inherits a large fortune. At the time of his inheritance, he has been living as a free man for three years — without once abusing his freedom, and with the express sanction of the medical superintendent who has had experience and charge of him. His next of kin and his heirs at law (who are left out of the fortune) look with covetous eyes at the money, and determine to get the management and the ultimate possession of it. Assisted by a doctor, whose honesty and capacity must be taken on trust, these interested persons, in this nineteenth century of progress, can lawfully imprison their relative for life, in a country which calls itself free, and which declares that its justice is equally administered to all alike.

NOTE. — The reader is informed that this story is founded, in all essential particulars, on a case which actually occurred in England, eight years since. W. C.

First published in
The Spirit of the Times
23 December 1882 and in London in
The Pictorial World Christmas Supplement
in December 1882. The story was reprinted in
The Seaside Library
in April 1883.

In January
1887 Collins wrote a note concerning ‘The Devil’s Spectacles’, ‘Love’s Random Shot’ and ‘Fie! Fie! Or, the Fair Physician’:

“These stories have served their purpose in periodicals, but are not worthy of republication in book form. They were written in a hurry, and the sooner they are drowned in the waters of oblivion the better. I desire that they shall not be republished after my death.”

I

On Christmas Eve, Mrs Crossmichael made an interesting announcement in her family circle. She said, ‘I am positively determined to write an account of it; I shall furnish the raw material, and an editor shall manufacture the narrative.’

Whatever is said of Mrs Crossmichael’s family in these pages must be said from Mrs Crossmichael’s point of view. The editor would prefer his own point of view; but he knows his lady, and uses his pen cautiously when he mentions her father, her mother, and her unmarried sister. A profound scholar and a handsome old man; a venerable lady with grand remains of beauty; a sweet girl, who is also an accomplished musician — named respectively Reverend and Mrs Skirton, and Miss Salome Slirton — comprise the audience addressed by Mrs Crossmichael, when she expressed her resolution to produce the present narrative.

‘My mind being quite made up,’ she said, ‘I am now ready to hear what you think of it.’ Her husband came in at the moment; but she took no notice of him.

Mrs Skirton smiled over her knitting, and made no remark. In the cases of some rare persons, silent smiles have a meaning of their own: Mrs Skirton’s smile meant gentle encouragement. Reverend Mr Skirton expressed himself in words. ‘Have it privately printed, my dear, and it cannot fail to be productive of advantage to others.’ Miss Salome modestly exhibited her father’s view in detail. ‘It will be productive,’ she said ‘of a warning to young ladies.’ Nobody consulted Mr Crossmichael, sitting modestly in a corner. Like the present Editor (but with infinitely superior opportunities), he knew his lady, and he kept his opinions to himself. Had he not promised at the altar (as Mrs Crossmichael frequently reminded him) to love, honour, and obey his wife? They were the happiest married couple in all England.

Venerable and learned and charming as they were, the family had failed, nevertheless, to penetrate the object which Mrs Crossmichael had in view. It was not to please her excellent mother; it was not to ‘prove of advantage to others;’ it was not to ‘offer a warning to young ladies,’ that she had determined to take up her pen. Her one motive for favouring the Editor with his ‘raw material’ shall be stated in the lady’s own words: —

‘I hate her.’

Who was she? And why did Mrs Crossmichael hate her?

Here, again, the expressive brevity of ‘the raw material’ may be quoted with advantage. The instructions run as follows: ‘Say the worst you can of her at starting; and condemn her unheard by means of her own visiting card.’

Here it is:

Sophia Pillico, M.D.

Is M.D. sufficiently intelligible? Let no hasty persons answer, ‘Of course!’ There are full-grown inhabitants of the civilised universe who have never heard of Julius Cæsar, Oliver Cromwell, or Napoleon the Great. There may be other inhabitants, who are not aware that we have invented fair physicians in these latter days. M.D. (let it be known to these benighted brethren) means that Sophia has passed her examination, and has taken her Doctor’s degree. Mrs Crossmichael is further willing to admit that Miss Pillico is sufficiently young, and — we all know there is no accounting for tastes — passably pretty. (N
OTE
, attached to the instructions: ‘We are not on oath, and we may be allowed our own merciful reserves. Never mind her figure — oh dear no, never mind her figure: Men-doctors get on very well with clumsy legs and no waists. Why should women doctors not do the same? Equal justice to the two sexes, Sophia, was the subject of your last lecture — I was present, and heard you say it!’)

The second question still remains unanswered. Why did Mrs Crossmichael hate her?

For three good reasons. Because she delivered lectures on the rights of women in our Assembly Room. Because she set herself up in medical practice, and in our south-eastern suburb of London, and within five minutes walk of our house. Because she became acquainted with our next-door neighbours, and to my sister Salome. The Editor can bear witness to this. (He bears witness with pleasure.) The Editor can describe our next-door neighbours. (No: he is not sufficiently well acquainted with them. He knows a lady who can take the story, at the present stage of it, out of his hands — and to that lady he makes his bow, and offers his pen.)

Mrs Crossmichael abhors flattery, and considers descriptions to be the bane of literature. If she is to accept the pen, it must be on one condition. The next-door neighbours shall describe themselves.

I
I

Our suburb possesses the most convenient detached houses in all England. The gardens are worthy of the houses — and the rents are frightful. A sudden death, and an executor in a hurry, offered the lease of the next house a bargain. Alderman Sir John Dowager took it on speculation, and is waiting to dispose of it on his own outrageous terms. In the meantime, he and his family occupy the premises. Sir John is stingy; his wife is deaf; his daughter is sour, his son is sulky. The one other member of this detestable family is an interesting exception to the rest: he is Lady Dowager’s son, by her first husband. Let this gentleman wait a little while, and be introduced presently by himself.