Complete Works of Wilkie Collins (240 page)

“You never left her,” cried Rosamond, interposing before he could say more — ”surely, surely, you never left her with that thought in her heart!”

Uncle Joseph’s head drooped on his breast. “What words of mine could change it?” he asked, sadly.

“Oh, Lenny, do you hear that? I must leave you, and leave the baby. I must go to her, or those last words about me will break my heart.” The passionate tears burst from her eyes as she spoke; and she rose hastily from her seat, with the child in her arms.

“Not to-night,” said Uncle Joseph. “She said to me at parting, ‘I can bear no more to-night; give me till the morning to get as strong as I can.’“

“Oh, go back, then, yourself!” cried Rosamond. “Go, for God’s sake, without wasting another moment, and make her think of me as she ought! Tell her how I listened to you, with my own child sleeping on my bosom all the time — tell her — oh, no, no! words are too cold for it! — Come here, come close, Uncle Joseph (I shall always call you so now); come close to me and kiss my child — her grandchild! — Kiss him on this cheek, because it has lain nearest to my heart. And now, go back, kind and dear old man — go back to her bedside, and say nothing but that I sent that kiss to her!”

CHAPTER IV.

THE CLOSE OF DAY.

THE
night, with its wakeful anxieties, wore away at last; and the morning light dawned hopefully, for it brought with it the promise of an end to Rosamond’s suspense.

The first event of the day was the arrival of Mr. Nixon, who had received a note on the previous evening, written by Leonard’s desire, to invite him to breakfast. Before the lawyer withdrew, he had settled with Mr. and Mrs. Frankland all the preliminary arrangements that were necessary to effect the restoration of the purchase-money of Porthgenna Tower, and had dispatched a messenger with a letter to Bayswater, announcing his intention of calling upon Andrew Treverton that afternoon, on private business of importance relating to the personal estate of his late brother.

Toward noon, Uncle Joseph arrived at the hotel to take Rosamond with him to the house where her mother lay ill.

He came in, talking, in the highest spirits, of the wonderful change for the better that had been wrought in his niece by the affectionate message which he had taken to her on the previous evening. He declared that it had made her look happier, stronger, younger, all in a moment; that it had given her the longest, quietest, sweetest night’s sleep she had enjoyed for years and years past; and, last, best triumph of all, that its good influence had been acknowledged, not an hour since, by the doctor himself.

Rosamond listened thankfully, but it was with a wandering attention, with a mind ill at ease. When she had taken leave of her husband, and when she and Uncle Joseph were out in the street together, there was something in the prospect of the approaching interview between her mother and herself which, in spite of her efforts to resist the sensation, almost daunted her. If they could have come together, and have recognised each other without time to think what should be first said or done on either side, the meeting would have been nothing more than the natural result of the discovery of the Secret. But, as it was, the waiting, the doubting, the mournful story of the past, which had filled up the emptiness of the last day of suspense, all had their depressing effect on Rosamond’s impulsive disposition. Without a thought in her heart which was not tender, compassionate, and true toward her mother, she now felt, nevertheless, a vague sense of embarrassment, which increased to positive uneasiness the nearer she and the old man drew to their short journey’s end. As they stopped at last at the house door, she was shocked to find herself thinking beforehand of what first words it would be best to say, of what first things it would be best to do, as if she had been about to visit a total stranger, whose favorable opinion she wished to secure, and whose readiness to receive her cordially was a matter of doubt.

The first person whom they saw after the door was opened was the doctor. He advanced toward them from a little empty room at the end of the hall, and asked permission to speak with Mrs. Frankland for a few minutes. Leaving Rosamond to her interview with the doctor, Uncle Joseph gayly ascended the stairs to tell his niece of her arrival, with an activity which might well have been envied by many a man of half his years.

“Is she worse? Is there any danger in my seeing her?” asked Rosamond, as the doctor led her into the empty room.

“Quite the contrary,” he replied. “She is much better this morning; and the improvement, I find, is mainly due to the composing and cheering influence on her mind of a message which she received from you last night. It is the discovery of this which makes me anxious to speak to you now on the subject of one particular symptom of her mental condition which surprised and alarmed me when I first discovered it, and which has perplexed me very much ever since. She is suffering — not to detain you, and to put the matter at once in the plainest terms — under a mental hallucination of a very extraordinary kind, which, so far as I have observed it, affects her, generally, toward the close of the day, when the light gets obscure. At such times, there is an expression in her eyes as if she fancied some person had walked suddenly into the room. She looks and talks at perfect vacancy, as you or I might look or talk at someone who was really standing and listening to us. The old man, her uncle, tells me that he first observed this when she came to see him (in Cornwall, I think he said) a short time since. She was speaking to him then on private affairs of her own, when she suddenly stopped, just as the evening was closing in, startled him by a question on the old superstitious subject of the re-appearance of the dead, and then, looking away at a shadowed corner of the room, began to talk at it — exactly as I have seen her look and heard her talk upstairs. Whether she fancies that she is pursued by an apparition, or whether she imagines that some living person enters her room at certain times, is more than I can say; and the old man gives me no help in guessing at the truth. Can you throw any light on the matter?”

“I hear of it now for the first time,” answered Rosamond, looking at the doctor in amazement and alarm.

“Perhaps,” he rejoined, “she may be more communicative with you than she is with me. If you could manage to be by her bedside at dusk to-day or to-morrow, and if you think you are not likely to be frightened by it, I should very much wish you to see and hear her, when she is under the influence of her delusion. I have tried in vain to draw her attention away from it, at the time, or to get her to speak of it afterward. You have evidently considerable influence over her, and you might therefore succeed where I have failed. In her state of health, I attach great importance to clearing her mind of everything that clouds and oppresses it, and especially of such a serious hallucination as that which I have been describing. If you could succeed in combating it, you would be doing her the greatest service, and would be materially helping my efforts to improve her health. Do you mind trying the experiment?”

Rosamond promised to devote herself unreservedly to this service, or to any other which was for the patient’s good. The doctor thanked her, and led the way back into the hall again. Uncle Joseph was descending the stairs as they came out of the room. “She is ready and longing to see you,” he whispered in Rosamond’s ear.

“I am sure I need not impress on you again the very serious necessity of keeping her composed,” said the doctor, taking his leave. “It is, I assure you, no exaggeration to say that her life depends on it.”

Rosamond bowed to him in silence, and in silence followed the old man up the stairs.

At the door of a back room on the second floor Uncle Joseph stopped.

“She is there,” he whispered eagerly. “I leave you to go in by yourself, for it is best that you should be alone with her at first. I shall walk about the streets in the fine warm sunshine, and think of you both, and come back after a little. Go in; and the blessing and the mercy of God go with you!” He lifted her hand to his lips, and softly and quickly descended the stairs again. Rosamond stood alone before the door. A momentary tremor shook her from head to foot as she stretched out her hand to knock at it. The same sweet voice that she had last heard in her bedroom at West Winston answered her now. As its tones fell on her ear, a thought of her child stole quietly into her heart, and stilled its quick throbbing. She opened the door at once and went in.

Neither the look of the room inside, nor the view from the window; neither its characteristic ornaments, nor its prominent pieces of furniture; none of the objects in it or about it, which would have caught her quick observation at other times, struck it now. From the moment when she opened the door, she saw nothing but the pillows of the bed, the head resting on them, and the face turned toward hers. As she stepped across the threshold, that face changed; the eyelids drooped a little, and the pale cheeks were tinged suddenly with burning red.

Was her mother ashamed to look at her?

The bare doubt freed Rosamond in an instant from all the self-distrust, all the embarrassment, all the hesitation about choosing her words and directing her actions which had fettered her generous impulses up to this time- She ran to time bed, raised the worn, shrinking figure in her arms, and laid the poor weary head gently on her warm, young bosom. “I have come at last, mother, to take my turn at nursing you,” she said. Her heart swelled as those simple words came from it — her eyes overflowed — she could say no more.

“Don’t cry!” murmured the faint, sweet voice timidly. “I have no right to bring you here and make you sorry. Don’t, don’t cry!”

“Oh, hush! hush! I shall do nothing but cry if you talk to me like that!” said Rosamond. “Let us forget that we have ever been parted — call me by my name — speak to me as I shall speak to my own child, if God spares me to see him grow up. Say ‘Rosamond,’ and — oh, pray, pray — tell me to do something for you!” She tore asunder passionately the strings of her bonnet, and threw it from her on the nearest chair. “Look! here is your glass of lemonade on the table. Say ‘Rosamond, bring me my lemonade!’ say it familiarly, mother! say it as if you knew that I was bound to obey you!”

She repeated the words after her daughter, but still not in steady tones — repeated them with a sad, wondering smile, and with a lingering of the voice on the name of Rosamond, as if it was a luxury to her to utter it.

“You made me so happy with that message and with the kiss you sent me from your child,” she said, when Rosamond had given her the lemonade, and was seated quietly by the bedside again. “It was such a kind way of saying that you pardoned me! It gave me all the courage I wanted to speak to you as I am speaking now. Perhaps my illness has changed me — but I don’t feel frightened and strange with you, as I thought I should, at our first meeting after you knew the Secret. I think I shall soon get well enough to see your child. Is he like what you were at his age? If he is, he must be very, very — ” She stopped. “I may think of that,” she added, after waiting a little, “but I had better not talk of it, or I shall cry too; and I want to have done with sorrow now.”

While she spoke those words, while her eyes were fixed with wistful eagerness on her daughter’s face, the whole instinct of neatness was still mechanically at work in her weak, wasted fingers. Rosamond had tossed her gloves from her on the bed but the minute before; and already her mother had taken them up, and was smoothing them out carefully and folding them neatly together, all the while she spoke.

“Call me ‘mother’ again,” she said, as Rosamond took the gloves from her and thanked her with a kiss for folding them up. “I have never heard you call me ‘mother’ till now — never, never till now, from the day when you were born!”

Rosamond checked the tears that were rising in her eyes again, and repeated the word.

“It is all the happiness I want, to lie here and look at you, and hear you say that! Is there any other woman in the world, my love, who has a face so beautiful and so kind as yours?” She paused and smiled faintly. “I can’t look at those sweet rosy lips now,” she said, “without thinking how many kisses they owe me!”

“If you had only let me pay the debt before!” said Rosamond, taking her mother’s hand, as she was accustomed to take her child’s, and placing it on her neck. “If you had only spoken the first time we met, when you came to nurse me! How sorrowfully I have thought of that since! Oh, mother, did I distress you much in my ignorance? Did it make you cry when you thought of me after that?”

“Distress me! All my distress, Rosamond, has been of my own making, not of yours. My kind, thoughtful love! you said, ‘Don’t be hard on her’ — do you remember? When I was being sent away, deservedly sent away, dear, for frightening you, you said to your husband, ‘Don’t be hard on her!’ Only five words — but, oh, what a comfort it was to me afterward to think that you had said them! I did want to kiss you so, Rosamond, when I was brushing your hair. I had such a hard fight of it to keep from crying out loud when I heard you, behind the bed-curtains, wishing your little child good-night. My heart was in my mouth, choking me all that time. I took your part afterward, when I went back to my mistress — I wouldn’t hear her say a harsh word of you. I could have looked a hundred mistresses in the face then, and contradicted them all. Oh, no, no, no! you never distressed me. My worst grief at going away was years and years before I came to nurse you at West Winston. It was when I left my place at Porthgenna when I stole into your nursery on that dreadful morning, and when I saw you with both your little arms round my master’s neck. The doll you had taken to bed with you was in one of your hands, and your head was resting on the Captain’s bosom, just as mine rests now — oh, so happily, Rosamond! — on yours. I heard the last words he was speaking to you — words you were too young to remember. ‘Hush! Rosie, dear,’ he said, ‘don’t cry any more for poor mama. Think of poor papa, and try to comfort him!’ There, my love — there was the bitterest distress and the hardest to bear! I, your own mother, standing like a spy, and hearing him say that to the child I dared not own! ‘Think of poor papa!’ My own Rosamond! you know, now, what father I thought of when he said those words! How could I tell him the Secret? how could I give him the letter, with his wife dead that morning — with nobody but you to comfort him — with the awful truth crushing down upon my heart, at every word he spoke, as heavily as ever the rock crushed down upon the father you never saw!”