Complete Works of Wilkie Collins (1966 page)

           
Joey
. Are we all to live in the house, young Master Wilding? The two other cellarmen, the three porters, the two ‘prentices, and the odd men?

           
Wilding
. Yes, Joey. I hope we shall all be an united family.

           
Joey
. Ah! I hope they may be.

           
Wilding
. They? Rather say we, Joey.

           
Joey
. Don’t look to me to make “We” on it, young Master Wilding. Don’t look to me to put a lively face on anything. It’s all very well, gentlemen, for you that has been accustomed to take your wine into your systems by the convivial channel of your throttles, to put a lively face on it. But I have been accustomed to take
my
wine in at the pores of the skin — and, took that way, it acts depressing. It’s one thing to charge your glasses in a dining-room with a Hip — Hip — Hooray, and a Jolly Companions Everyone. And it’s another thing to be charged yourself, through the pores, in a low dark cellar and a mouldy atmosphere. I have been a cellarman my life through — and what’s the consequence? I’m as muddled and as molloncolly a man as lives. A pecking-machine, sir, is all that I am capable of proving myself, out of my cellars. But that you’re welcome to, if it’s worth your while to keep such a thing on your premises.

           
Bintrey
. I don’t want to interrupt the flow of Mr. Joey’s philosophy. But it’s past ten o’clock — and the housekeepers will be coming to apply for the vacant place.

           
Wilding
. Let them come, and welcome. My good friend, George Vendale, has undertaken to see them for me, and to pick out the woman whom he thinks will suit me best. (B
INTREY
nods
,
and turns to go out
.) You’re not going?

           
Bintrey
. I have an appointment in court. I’ll look in on my way back, and hear what you have done.

(
Exit
.)

           
Joey
. So, you’ve been and taken young Master George Vendale partner into the old business?

           
Wilding
. Yes, Joey. My old friend George Vendale begins, as my partner, to-day.

           
Joey
. Don’t change the name of the Firm again, young Master Wilding. It was bad luck enough to make it Yourself and Co. Better by far have left the old name of the old Firm — Pebbleson Nephew. Good luck always stuck to Pebbleson Nephew. You should never change luck when it’s good, sir.

Enter
G
EORGE
V
ENDALE
,
from the house
.

           
Vendale
. I have seen the housekeepers, Walter. There is only one woman in the whole collection who isn’t a Gorgon. I like her face and her manner — and she is coming here to be presented to you. Her name is Sarah Goldstraw.

           
Wilding
. Goldstraw! Surely I have heard that name before?

           
Vendale
. If she is an old acquaintance, so much the better (
Looking towards the house
.) This way, Miss Goldstraw. Here is Mr. Wilding!

Enter
S
ALLY
G
OLDSTRAW
.

           
Sally
(
aside
). Wilding!

           
Joey
(
aside
). I agree with Master George. That’s a sound woman, outside and in!

           
Vendale
. (
to
W
ILDING
). This is a busy morning with
me
. I am going to the Docks — then back again to the house, to speak to the gas-fitter about the new light in the dining-room. Good-bye, for the present!

                                                                                         (
Exit through the counting-house.
)

           
Wilding
. (
to
S
ALLY
). Will you step into the counting-house, if you please? (
Aside
.) Her face is familiar to me! Where did I see it last?

           
Sally
(
advancing a few steps
,
and stopping thoughtfully
). Wilding! — No, no, it can’t be? Wilding’s a common name. How foolish I am!

           
Joey
(
to
W
ILDING
). Take her, young Master Wilding! You won’t find the match of Sarah Goldstraw in a hurry. (
Aside
,
returning to the cellars
.) I feel as if I had taken something new in at the pores. (
Looking back at
S
ALLY
). Has that pleasant woman brought a streak of sunshine with her into this moloncolly place? And am I a-walking in it on my way back to the cellars?

(
Exit into the cellars
.)

           
Wilding
. Let me show you the way into the counting-house.

           
Sally
(
rousing herself
). I beg your pardon, sir.

(
She goes on to the counting-house — and is about to enter the door
,
when she suddenly starts back with a scream
,
and sinks on a bench in the yard
.)

           
Wilding
. What’s the matter? what have you seen to frighten you?

           
Sally
. Nothing!

           
Wilding
. Nothing?

           
Sally
. Might I ask —
 
— ? there’s a portrait in the counting-house, sir —
 
—

           
Wilding
. The portrait of my late mother. What is there in that to frighten you?

           
Sally
(
aside
). His mother. The lady who spoke to me twelve years since! (
Rising and addressing
W
ILDING
.) I hope you will excuse me, sir, I would rather not take up your time. I — I don’t think the place would suit me.

(
Attempts to retire
.)

           
Wilding
. (
stopping her
). Wait a minute. There’s something wrong here — there’s something I don’t understand. Your face puzzles me; your name puzzles me — good Heavens! I have it! You were the nurse at the Foundling, when I was one of the boys there twelve years since!

           
Sally
(
aside
). What
am
I to say to him?

           
Wilding
. You were the woman who took pity on my poor mother. She often talked of it to me. A nurse told her my name, and pointed me out to her at dinner. You were that nurse.

           
Sally
(
sinking back on the bench
). Heaven forgive me, sir, I was that nurse!

           
Wilding
. Heaven forgive you? What do you mean? Speak out!

           
Sally
. Oh, sir, don’t ask me to speak out! I may make you rue the day when you first let me into your house.

           
Wilding
. You can do nothing worse than frighten me as you are frightening me now.

           
Sally
. Compose yourself, sir! If I
must
speak, I
will
. You said a minute since that the lady —
 
—

           
Wilding
. She calls my mother “the lady!” When you talk of my mother, why don’t you call her my mother?

           
Sally
. You said just now, sir, that the lady often talked of what had passed between herself and me. Are you calm enough to remember what she told you?

           
Wilding
. Calm or not, it is impossible that I can forget it. You told my mother that you were present when I was first received at the Foundling. You saw me christened; you heard me named Walter Wilding. You said that I was removed to the institution in the country, and that you remained at the institution in London.

           
Sally
. All quite true then, sir — and all quite true now. But you don’t know — and at that time, I didn’t know either — what happened at our place in the country. A strange lady — one Mrs. Miller — came there, six months after the child had been removed from London. Her object was to adopt one of our foundlings; and she was provided with the necessary authority. The child she chose, was the infant whom I had seen christened — the child of the lady whose portrait hangs there.

           
Wilding
. Why can’t you speak plainly? You mean
me?

           
Sally
. I mean the child of that lady, sir. You are
not
her child. (W
ILDING
starts
.) You were not received into the Foundling until three weeks after the date I am speaking of. I was absent at the time — or this would never have happened. You, in your turn, were christened at the chapel in London. There was a question of what name to give you. The name of the child who had been taken away from us, was a name to spare — and it was given to
you
. You, too, were taken to the country. At three years old you were brought back to the London Foundling. I was ignorant of all the circumstances. What could I conclude, when you came back to us, under the name of Walter Wilding, but that you were the child whom I had seen christened by that name? How could I know that there had been a first Walter Wilding, adopted, and taken away, and a second Walter Wilding put in his place?

           
Wilding
. (
staggering back
). Is it getting dark? Are my eyes failing me? Give me a hand — I don’t know where I am.

           
Sally
(
supporting him
,
and placing him on the bench from which she has risen
). Shall I get you some water, sir? Shall I call for help?

           
Wilding
. Wait — give me time. (
Rousing himself suddenly
.) How do I know your story is true?

           
Sally
. Should I have told it, sir, in my situation, if it had
not
been true?

           
Wilding
. Oh me! oh me! I loved her so dearly! I felt so fondly I was her son!

(
His head sinks
. S
ALLY
kneels by him and supports it on her bosom
.)

           
Sally
. Let it rest here, sir. This is not the first time. I have rocked you to sleep, on my bosom, many and many a time when you were a boy.

           
Wilding
. She died, Sally, in my arms — she died blessing me as only a mother
could
have blessed me. Oh, if you
were
to speak —
 
— Why not have spoken sooner?

           
Sally
. I only knew it myself, sir, two years since. I found the work at the Foundling too much for me, and left to take a housekeeper’s situation. I went to say good-bye to a friend at our place in the country, and there I heard it for the first time. Where was I to find the poor lady? Where was I to find
you?
It’s not my fault, sir. If you hadn’t forced me to it, I wouldn’t have spoken now.