Complete Works of Wilkie Collins (881 page)

“Tell me, one of you!” he cried. “What name did she give?”

Julian told him.

“GRACE ROSEBERRY.”

CHAPTER X. A COUNCIL OF THREE.

FOR a moment Horace stood thunderstruck, looking in blank astonishment at Lady Janet. His first words, as soon as he had recovered himself, were addressed to Julian. “Is this a joke?” he asked, sternly. “If it is, I for one don’t see the humour of it.”

Julian pointed to the closely written pages of the consul’s letter. “A man writes in earnest,” he said, “when he writes at such length as this. The woman seriously gave the name of Grace Roseberry, and when she left Mannheim she traveled to England for the express purpose of presenting herself to Lady Janet Roy.” He turned to his aunt. “You saw me start,” he went on, “when you first mentioned Miss Roseberry’s name in my hearing. Now you know why.” He addressed himself once more to Horace. “You heard me say that you, as Miss Roseberry’s future husband, had an interest in being present at my interview with Lady Janet. Now
you
know why.”

“The woman is plainly mad,” said Lady Janet. “But it is certainly a startling form of madness when one first hears of it. Of course we must keep the matter, for the present at least, a secret from Grace.”

“There can be no doubt,” Horace agreed, “that Grace must be kept in the dark, in her present state of health. The servants had better be warned beforehand, in case of this adventuress or madwoman, whichever she may be, attempting to make her way into the house.”

“It shall be done immediately,” said Lady Janet. “What surprises
me
Julian (ring the bell, if you please), is that you should describe yourself in your letter as feeling an interest in this person.”

Julian answered — without ringing the bell.

“I am more interested than ever,” he said, “now I find that Miss Roseberry herself is your guest at Mablethorpe House.”

“You were always perverse, Julian, as a child, in your likings and dislikings,” Lady Janet rejoined. “Why don’t you ring the bell?”

“For one good reason, my dear aunt. I don’t wish to hear you tell your servants to close the door on this friendless creature.”

Lady Janet cast a look at her nephew which plainly expressed that she thought he had taken a liberty with her.

“You don’t expect me to see the woman?” she asked, in a tone of cold surprise.

“I hope you will not refuse to see her,” Julian answered, quietly. “I was out when she called. I must hear what she has to say — and I should infinitely prefer hearing it in your presence. When I got your reply to my letter, permitting me to present her to you, I wrote to her immediately, appointing a meeting here.”

Lady Janet lifted her bright black eyes in mute expostulation to the carved Cupids and wreaths on the dining-room ceiling.

“When am I to have the honour of the lady’s visit?” she inquired, with ironical resignation.

“To-day,” answered her nephew, with impenetrable patience.

“At what hour?”

Julian composedly consulted his watch. “She is ten minutes after her time,” he said, and put his watch back in his pocket again.

At the same moment the servant appeared, and advanced to Julian, carrying a visiting card on his little silver tray.

“A lady to see you, sir.”

Julian took the card, and, bowing, handed it to his aunt.

“Here she is,” he said, just as quietly as ever.

Lady Janet looked at the card, and tossed it indignantly back to her nephew. “Miss Roseberry!” she exclaimed. “Printed — actually printed on her card! Julian, even MY patience has its limits. I refuse to see her!”

The servant was still waiting — not like a human being who took an interest in the proceedings, but (as became a perfectly bred footman) like an article of furniture artfully constructed to come and go at the word of command. Julian gave the word of command, addressing the admirably constructed automaton by the name of “James.”

“Where is the lady now?” he asked.

“In the breakfast-room, sir.”

“Leave her there, if you please, and wait outside within hearing of the bell.”

The legs of the furniture-footman acted, and took him noiselessly out of the room. Julian turned to his aunt.

“Forgive me,” he said, “for venturing to give the man his orders in your presence. I am very anxious that you should not decide hastily. Surely we ought to hear what this lady has to say?”

Horace dissented widely from his friend’s opinion. “It’s an insult to Grace,” he broke out, warmly, “to hear what she has to say!”

Lady Janet nodded her head in high approval. “I think so, too,” said her ladyship, crossing her handsome old hands resolutely on her lap.

Julian applied himself to answering Horace first.

“Pardon me,” he said. “I have no intention of presuming to reflect on Miss Roseberry, or of bringing her into the matter at all. — The consul’s letter,” he went on, speaking to his aunt, “mentions, if you remember, that the medical authorities of Mannheim were divided in opinion on their patient’s case. Some of them — the physician-in-chief being among the number — believe that the recovery of her mind has not accompanied the recovery of her body.”

“In other words,” Lady Janet remarked, “a madwoman is in my house, and I am expected to receive her!”

“Don’t let us exaggerate,” said Julian, gently. “It can serve no good interest, in this serious matter, to exaggerate anything. The consul assures us, on the authority of the doctor, that she is perfectly gentle and harmless. If she is really the victim of a mental delusion, the poor creature is surely an object of compassion, and she ought to be placed under proper care. Ask your own kind heart, my dear aunt, if it would not be downright cruelty to turn this forlorn woman adrift in the world without making some inquiry first.”

Lady Janet’s inbred sense of justice admitted not over willingly — the reasonableness as well as the humanity of the view expressed in those words. “There is some truth in that, Julian,” she said, shifting her position uneasily in her chair, and looking at Horace. “Don’t you think so, too?” she added.

“I can’t say I do,” answered Horace, in the positive tone of a man whose obstinacy is proof against every form of appeal that can be addressed to him.

The patience of Julian was firm enough to be a match for the obstinacy of Horace. “At any rate,” he resumed, with undiminished good temper, “we are all three equally interested in setting this matter at rest. I put it to you, Lady Janet, if we are not favored, at this lucky moment, with the very opportunity that we want? Miss Roseberry is not only out of the room, but out of the house. If we let this chance slip, who can say what awkward accident may not happen in the course of the next few days?”

“Let the woman come in,” cried Lady Janet, deciding headlong, with her customary impatience of all delay. “At once, Julian — before Grace can come back. Will you ring the bell this time?”

This time Julian rang it. “May I give the man his orders?” he respectfully inquired of his aunt.

“Give him anything you like, and have done with it!” retorted the irritable old lady, getting briskly on her feet, and taking a turn in the room to compose herself.

The servant withdrew, with orders to show the visitor in.

Horace crossed the room at the same time — apparently with the intention of leaving it by the door at the opposite end.

“You are not going away?” exclaimed Lady Janet.

“I see no use in my remaining here,” replied Horace, not very graciously.

“In that case,” retorted Lady Janet, “remain here because I wish it.”

“Certainly — if you wish it. Only remember,” he added, more obstinately than ever, “that I differ entirely from Julian’s view. In my opinion the woman has no claim on us.”

A passing movement of irritation escaped Julian for the first time. “Don’t be hard, Horace,” he said, sharply. “All women have a claim on us.”

They had unconsciously gathered together, in the heat of the little debate, turning their backs on the library door. At the last words of the reproof administered by Julian to Horace, their attention was recalled to passing events by the slight noise produced by the opening and closing of the door. With one accord the three turned and looked in the direction from which the sounds had come.

CHAPTER XI. THE DEAD ALIVE.

JUST inside the door there appeared the figure of a small woman dressed in plain and poor black garments. She silently lifted her black net veil and disclosed a dull, pale, worn, weary face. The forehead was low and broad; the eyes were unusually far apart; the lower features were remarkably small and delicate. In health (as the consul at Mannheim had remarked) this woman must have possessed, if not absolute beauty, at least rare attractions peculiarly her own. As it was now, suffering — sullen, silent, self-contained suffering — had marred its beauty. Attention and even curiosity it might still rouse. Admiration or interest it could excite no longer.

The small, thin, black figure stood immovably inside the door. The dull, worn, white face looked silently at the three persons in the room.

The three persons in the room, on their side, stood for a moment without moving, and looked silently at the stranger on the threshold. There was something either in the woman herself, or in the sudden and stealthy manner of her appearance in the room, which froze, as if with the touch of an invisible cold hand, the sympathies of all three. Accustomed to the world, habitually at their ease in every social emergency, they were now silenced for the first time in their lives by the first serious sense of embarrassment which they had felt since they were children in the presence of a stranger.

Had the appearance of the true Grace Roseberry aroused in their minds a suspicion of the woman who had stolen her name, and taken her place in the house?

Not so much as the shadow of a suspicion of Mercy was at the bottom of the strange sense of uneasiness which had now deprived them alike of their habitual courtesy and their habitual presence of mind. It was as practically impossible for any one of the three to doubt the identity of the adopted daughter of the house as it would be for you who read these lines to doubt the identity of the nearest and dearest relative you have in the world. Circumstances had fortified Mercy behind the strongest of all natural rights — the right of first possession. Circumstances had armed her with the most irresistible of all natural forces — the force of previous association and previous habit. Not by so much as a hair-breadth was the position of the false Grace Roseberry shaken by the first appearance of the true Grace Roseberry within the doors of Mablethorpe House. Lady Janet felt suddenly repelled, without knowing why. Julian and Horace felt suddenly repelled, without knowing why. Asked to describe their own sensations at the moment, they would have shaken their heads in despair, and would have answered in those words. The vague presentiment of some misfortune to come had entered the room with the entrance of the woman in black. But it moved invisibly; and it spoke as all presentiments speak, in the Unknown Tongue.

A moment passed. The crackling of the fire and the ticking of the clock were the only sounds audible in the room.

The voice of the visitor — hard, clear, and quiet — was the first voice that broke the silence.

“Mr. Julian Gray?” she said, looking interrogatively from one of the two gentlemen to the other.

Julian advanced a few steps, instantly recovering his self-possession. “I am sorry I was not at home,” he said, “when you called with your letter from the consul. Pray take a chair.”

By way of setting the example, Lady Janet seated herself at some little distance, with Horace in attendance standing near. She bowed to the stranger with studious politeness, but without uttering a word, before she settled herself in her chair. “I am obliged to listen to this person,” thought the old lady. “But I am
not
obliged to speak to her. That is Julian’s business — not mine. Don’t stand, Horace! You fidget me. Sit down.” Armed beforehand in her policy of silence, Lady Janet folded her handsome hands as usual, and waited for the proceedings to begin, like a judge on the bench.