Complete Works of Wilkie Collins (1753 page)

‘Why have you come here?’ That was what she said to me.

A man of my temper, finding himself treated in this way by any woman — and especially when she is a woman whom he adores — feels the serious necessity of preserving his self-control. Instead of complaining of the ungracious welcome that I had received, I told her how I had waited, and what I had suffered: and I said in conclusion: ‘Surely, you might make some allowance for the anxieties of a man who loves you, left without news of you.’

You might have been content with writing to me,’ she answered.

‘I couldn’t have waited for the reply.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because your silence alarmed me. Come, come, Mira! speak as plainly to me as I have spoken to you. I appear to have arrived at an unfortunate time. Is your aunt ill?’

‘No.’

‘Does she object to your marrying me?’

‘She is too kind and too just to object to a person whom she has never seen.’

That something had gone wrong nevertheless, and that there were reasons for not letting me know what it was, admitted by this time of no doubt. I took Mira’s hand, led her to the sofa, and made her sit down by me. Then I ventured on one more inquiry, the last.

‘Have you changed your mind?’ I asked her. ‘Are you sorry you promised to be my wife?’

All her own pretty self came back in an instant. She put her arm round my neck, and rested her head on my shoulder, and began to cry. How would a landsman have taken such an answer as this? A sailor received it with gratitude; repaid it with kisses; and then remembered what was due to his dear’s peace of mind.

‘It’s plain to me,’ I said, ‘that I ought not to have come here without first asking leave. Let me set that right. My heart’s at ease about you now: I’ll go back again at once, and wait for our next meeting till you allow of it.’ She looked at me, surprised to find that I was such a biddable man. I said : ‘My darling, I will do anything to please you; and whether you choose to tell me your secrets, or whether you prefer keeping them to yourself, will make no difference to me. I shall believe in you all the same.’

She came close to me, and laid her hands on my shoulders. her hands trembled.

‘Suppose,’ she said, ‘that you see things and hear things which you don’t understand, will your confidence in me take my good faith for granted, without asking for an explanation?’

‘I won’t even wish for an explanation.’

Somewhere or other, I have read of the language of flowers. Mira stood up on tiptoe, and thanked me in the language of kisses. I had my hat in my hand ready to go. She took it away.

‘You are to stay here with me,’ she said, ‘and be introduced to my aunt?’

Was this pleasant change of purpose a reward? It was that and something more; it proved to be the first of many tests to which my sincerity was submitted. No fear of this troubled me at the time! I was too happy to think of consequences.

I
V

The door of the room was opened again. A tall, elegant woman came in, looking neither old nor young. She was dressed plainly in dark coloured garments; there were furrows on her handsome face, and tinges of grey in her fine thick hair, which gave me the idea of a person who had seen troubled days in the course of her life. She had a slip of paper in her hand and gave it to Mira with these words:

‘Here is a list of invitations to the party, my dear. If you will write on the cards we can send them round to my friends this evening.’ As she laid the cards on the writing-table she noticed me. ‘Who is this gentleman?’

‘I have already spoken of him, aunt. He is the gentleman to whom I am engaged. Evan, let me present you to Miss Urban.’

The grand schoolmistress shook hands with me civilly enough. She was a little majestic in offering her congratulations; but I had heard of the manners of the old school and took it for granted that I saw them now. I made my apologies for having presumed to present myself without a formal invitation.

Miss Urban’s lofty courtesy paid me a compliment, in reply: ‘Excuses are quite needless, Mr Fencote. You might have been sure of your welcome from Mrs Motherwell and from me.’

I looked round the room. No other lady was to be seen. ‘Where is Mrs Motherwell?’ I asked.

Miss Urban lifted her hand — a large strong hand that looked capable of boxing little girls’ ears — and smiling sweetly, waved it towards Mira.

There is Mrs Motherwell,’ she said.Mira heard her, and never denied it. I looked backwards and forwards from the aunt to the niece and from the niece to the aunt. In the infernal confusion of the moment I presumed to correct the schoolmistress, I said:

‘No. Miss Ringmore.’

Miss Urban assumed the duties of correction on her side.

‘Mrs Motherwell, formerly Miss Ringmore,’ she reminded me. ‘Are you doing me the honour, sir, of attending to what I say?’

I was not attending. My eyes and my mind were both fixed on Mira. To my dismay, she kept her back turned on me — afraid, evidently afraid, to let me see her face. A second opportunity had been offered to her of denying that she was a married woman — and again she was silent, when silence meant a confession of guilt. It is all very well to say that a man is bound to restrain himself, no matter how angry he may be, in the presence of a woman. There are occasions on which it is useless to expect a man to restrain himself. I was certainly loud, I dare say I was fierce.

‘You have infamously deceived me.’ I called out: ‘I loved you. I trusted you. You are a heartless woman!’

Instead of looking at me, she looked at her aunt. I saw reproach in her eyes; I saw anger in the flush of her face. I heard her say to herself: ‘Cruel! cruel!’

The schoolmistress — Lord! how I hated her — interfered directly. ‘I can’t allow you, Mr Fencote, to frighten my niece. Control yourself, or I must ask you to leave the room.’

In justice to myself, I took the woman’s advice. The most stupid thing I could possibly do would be to give her an excuse for turning me out. Besides, I now had an object in view, in which I was especially interested. I may have been a brute, or I may have been a fool. The prospect of avenging my wrongs on Mira’s husband presented the first ray of comfort which had dawned on me yet.

‘Is Mr Motherwell in the house?’ I inquired.

To this the schoolmistress replied mysteriously.

‘Mr Motherwell is in the last house of all.’

‘What do you mean, ma’am?’

‘I mean the churchyard.’

‘A widow?’ I burst out.

‘What else should she be, sir?’

I was determined to have it, in words — and from Mira’s own lips. ‘Are you a widow?’ I asked.

She turned round, and faced me. What thoughts had been in her mind, up to that time, it was impossible for me to divine. I could only see that she was mistress of herself again — a little pale perhaps: and (I did really think) a little sorry for me.

‘Evan,’ she began gently, ‘what did we say to each other, before my aunt came in?’

She was my charming girl, before her aunt came in. She was my deceitful widow now. I remembered that, and remembered nothing more. ‘I don’t understand you,’ I said.

My face no doubt showed some perplexity. It seemed to amuse her; she smiled. What are women made of? Oh, if my father had only sent me to be educated in a monastery and brought up to the business (whatever it may be) of a monk! She remembered everything: ‘I led you to suppose, Evan, that things might happen here for which you were not at all prepared, and I asked you if your confidence in me would take my good faith for granted, without wanting an explanation. And how did you answer me? You even went beyond what I had expected. You declared that you would not even
wish
for an explanation. Has my memory misled me?’

‘No.’

‘Did you mean what you said?’

‘I did.’

‘Will you be as good as your word?’

The aunt and niece looked at each other. I am not skilled in interpreting looks which pass between women — and it is, I dare say, natural to be suspicious of what we cannot understand. Anyway, I found myself making a cautious reply.

‘You have put me to a hard trial,’ I said. ‘All through our voyage, you have kept back the truth. You even accepted my proposal of marriage, without taking me into your confidence. After the discoveries that I have made in this room, how can I engage to be as good as my word, when I don’t know what confessions may be coming next. I can promise to try — and that’s all.’

‘It’s all that I have a right to expect.’ Saying that, Mira turned away to the window.

Miss Urban consulted her watch. A deep-toned bell was rung at the same time in the lower part of the house. The schoolmistress begged me to excuse her. ‘Our young ladies,’ she explained, ‘are returning to their studies; my duties are waiting for me.’ Passing her niece, on her way out of the room, she whispered something. I could only hear Mira’s reply: ‘I can’t do it! I won’t do it!’ Her aunt considered a little, and came back to me.

‘Mr Fencote,’ she said, ‘do you like little boys?’

I had got so distrustful of both of them, that I made another cautious reply to this effect:

‘Suppose I say Yes, or suppose I say No, what difference does it make?’

‘Ask my niece.’

Only three words! Having spoken them, Miss Urban attempted to leave the room. I stopped her; my dull mind was beginning to be enlightened by something like a gleam of truth.

‘You began it,’ I told her: ‘I shall not ask your niece to explain what you mean — I shall ask you. What am I to understand by your talking of little boys?’

‘I ought to have mentioned one little boy, Mr Fencote.’

‘Who is he?’

She pointed to Mira, still standing at the window.

‘Mrs Motherwell’s little boy,’ she answered; ‘the sweetest child I ever met with.’

I had been holding the schoolmistress by the arm, to prevent her from leaving me. My hand dropped. She must have made her way out; I neither saw her, nor heard her.

Having already suffered the shock of discovering that Mira had been a married woman, it would seem likely to most people that I might have been prepared to hear next of the existence of her child. I was not prepared; I felt the revelation of the child — why, God only knows — more keenly than I had felt the revelation of her husband. At that horrid moment, not a word would pass my lips. In the silence that had now fallen on us, Mira confronted me once more. Something in my face — I am afraid, something cruel — appeared to strike her with terror. She burst, poor soul, into wild entreaties:

‘Evan! don’t look at me like that. Try, dear, to do me justice. If you only knew what my position is! Believe me you are wrong to trust to appearances. I love you, my darling. I love you with all my heart and soul. Oh, he doesn’t believe me! There’s no enduring this. Come what may of it, I don’t care; I’ll tell you — ’

‘Tell me nothing more,’ I said, ‘I have heard enough.’

It was beyond what I could bear, to see what I saw at that moment; I made for the door. She called me back with a cry of misery:

‘You’re not going to leave me?’

When I look back now at that miserable time, I thank God that my heart was moved with pity for her, and that I gave her my promise to return. I could do no more. My head was in a whirl; my longing for solitude and quiet was not to be told in words. I ran down the stairs. At one end of the hall, a glass door led into the garden; not a creature was to be seen there. The bright flowers, the fine old trees looked like glimpses of Heaven after what I had gone through. In a minute more, I was breathing the fresh air: I was sheltered under the peaceful shade.