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“ WHAT DO YOU MEAN BY THAT ? YOU UGLY BRUTE, YOU’VE GOT A 
 CLEAN SHIRT ON 1 ” 
 
 —Frontispiece, Vol. XYI., page 324. 
 
THE WORKS OF 
 
 WILKIE COLLINS 
 
 VOLUME SIXTEEN 
 
 WITH FRONTISPIECE 
 
 THE DEAD SECRET 
 
 A NOVEL 
 
 % 4 
 
 LITTLE NOVEL 
 
 MISS BERTHA AND THE YANKEE 
 
 New York 
 
 PETER FENELON COLLIER, PUBLISHER 
 
. 
 
 I 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
> ^ - b y 
 
 THE DEAD SECRET 
 
 
 BOOK /. 
 
 f 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE TWENTY— THIRD OF AUGUST, 1829. 
 
 “Will she last out the night, I wonder?” 
 “Look at the clock, Mathew.” 
 
 “Ten minutes past twelve! She has lasted 
 the night out. She has lived, Robert, to see ten 
 minutes of the new day.” 
 
 These words were spoken in the kitchen of a 
 large country-house situated on the west coast of 
 Cornwall, The speakers were two of the men- 
 servants composing the establishment of Captain 
 Treverton, an officer in the navy, and the eldest 
 male representative of an old Cornish family. 
 Both the servants communicated with each other 
 restrainedly, in whispers — sitting close together, 
 and looking round expectantly toward the door 
 whenever the talk flagged between them. 
 
 “It’s an awful thing,” said the elder of the 
 men, “for us two to be alone here, at this dark 
 
6 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 time, counting out the minutes that our mistress 
 has left to live!” 
 
 “Robert,” said the other, “you have been in 
 the service here since you were a boy — did you 
 ever hear that our mistress was a play-actress 
 when our master married her?” 
 
 “How came you to know that?” inquired the 
 elder servant, sharply. 
 
 “Hush!” cried the other, rising quickly from 
 his chair. 
 
 A bell rang in the passage outside. 
 
 “Is that for one of us?” asked Mathew. 
 
 “Can’t you tell, by the sound, which is which 
 of those bells yet?” exclaimed Robert, contempt- 
 uously. “That bell is for Sarah Leeson. Go 
 out into the passage and look.” 
 
 The younger servant took a candle and obeyed. 
 When he opened the kitchen-door, a long row of 
 bells met his eye on the wall opposite. Above 
 each of them was painted, in neat black letters, 
 the distinguishing title of the servant whom it 
 was specially intended to summon. The row of 
 letters began with Housekeeper and Butler, and 
 ended with Kitchen-maid and Footman’s Boy. 
 
 Looking along the bells, Mathew easily dis- 
 covered that one of them was still in motion. 
 Above it were the words Lady’s Maid. Observ- 
 ing this, he passed quickly along the passage, 
 and knocked at an old-fashioned oak door at the 
 end of it. No answer being given, he opened 
 the door and looked into the room. It was dark 
 and empty. 
 
 “Sarah is not in the housekeeper’s room,” said 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 7 
 
 Mathew, returning to his fellow-servant in the 
 kitchen. 
 
 “She is gone to her own room, then,” rejoined 
 the other. “Go up and tell her that she is 
 wanted by her mistress.” 
 
 The bell rang again as Mathew went out. 
 
 “Quick! — quick!” cried Robert. “Tell her 
 she is wanted directly. Wanted,” he continued 
 to himself in lower tones, “perhaps for the last 
 time!” 
 
 Mathew ascended three flights of stairs — passed 
 half-way down a long arched gallery — and 
 knocked at another old-fashioned oak door. 
 This time the signal was answered. A low, 
 clear, sweet voice, inside the room, inquired who 
 was waiting without? In a few hasty words 
 Mathew told his errand. Before he had done 
 speaking the door was quietly and quickly 
 opened, and Sarah Leeson confronted him on 
 the threshold, with her candle in her hand. 
 
 Not tall, not handsome, not in her first youth 
 — shy and irresolute in manner— simple in dress 
 to the utmost limits of plainness — the lady’s- 
 maid, in spite of all these disadvantages, was a 
 woman whom it was impossible to look at with- 
 out a feeling of curiosity, if not of interest. Few' 
 men, at first sight of her, could have resisted the 
 desire to find out who she was; few would have 
 been satisfied with receiving for answer, She is 
 Mrs. Treverton’s maid ; few would have re- 
 frained from the attempt to extract some secret 
 information for themselves from her face and 
 manner; and none, not even the most patient 
 
8 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 and practiced of observers, could have succeeded 
 in discovering more than that she must have 
 passed through the ordeal of some great suffer- 
 ing at some former period of her life. Much in 
 her manner, and more in her face, said plainly 
 and sadly : I am the wreck of something that 
 you might once have liked to see; a wreck that 
 can never be repaired —that must drift on through 
 life unnoticed, unguided, unpitied — drift till the 
 fatal shore is touched, and the waves of Time 
 have swallowed up these broken relics of me for- 
 ever. This was the story that was told in Sarah 
 Leeson’s face — this, and no more. 
 
 No two men interpreting that story for them- 
 selves, would probably have agreed on the nature 
 of the suffering which this woman had under- 
 gone. It was hard to say, at the outset, whether 
 the past pain that had set its ineffaceable mark 
 on her had been pain of the body or pain of the 
 mind. But whatever the nature of the affliction 
 she had suffered, the traces it had left were deep- 
 ly and strikingly visible in every part of her face. 
 
 Her cheeks had lost their roundness and their 
 natural color; her lips, singularly flexible in 
 movement and delicate in form, had faded to an 
 unhealthy paleness; her eyes, large and black 
 and overshadowed by unusually thick lashes, 
 had contracted an anxious startled look, which 
 never left them, and which piteously expressed 
 the painful acuteness of her sensibility, the in- 
 herent timidity of her disposition. So far, the 
 marks which sorrow or sickness had set on her 
 were the marks common to most victims of 
 
THE BEAD SECRET 
 
 9 
 
 mental or physical suffering. The one extra- 
 ordinary personal deterioration which she had 
 undergone consisted in the unnatural change 
 that had passed over the color of her hair. It 
 was as thick and soft, it grew as gracefully, as 
 the hair of a young girl ; but it was as gray as 
 the hair of an old woman. It seemed to contra- 
 dict, in the most startling manner, every per- 
 sonal assertion of youth that still existed in her 
 face. With all its haggardness and paleness, no 
 one could have looked at it and supposed for a 
 moment that it was the face of an elderly wo- 
 man. Wan as they might be, there was not a 
 wrinkle in her cheeks. Her eyes, viewed apart 
 from their prevailing expression of uneasiness 
 and timidity, still preserved that bright, clear 
 moisture which is never seen in the eyes of the 
 old. The skin about her temples was as deli- 
 cately smooth as the skin of a child. These and 
 other physical signs which never mislead, showed 
 that she was still, as to years, in the very prime 
 of her life. Sickly and sorrow-stricken as she 
 was, she looked, from the eyes downward, a 
 woman who had barely reached thirty years of 
 age. From the eyes upward, the effect of her 
 abundant gray hair, seen in connection with her 
 face, was not simply incongruous — it was abso- 
 lutely startling; so startling as to make it no 
 paradox to say that she would have looked most 
 natural, most like herself, if her hair had been 
 dyed. In her case, Art would have seemed to be 
 the truth, because Nature looked like falsehood. 
 
 What shock had stricken her hair, in the very 
 
10 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 maturity of its luxuriance, with the hue of an 
 unnatural old age? Was it a serious illness, or 
 a dreadful grief, that had turned her gray in the 
 prime of her womanhood? That question had 
 often been agitated among her fellow-servants, 
 who were all struck by the peculiarities of her 
 personal appearance, and rendered a little suspi- 
 cious of her, as well, by an inveterate habit that 
 she had of talking to herself. Inquire as they 
 might, however, their curiosity was always baf- 
 fled. Nothing more could be discovered than 
 that Sarah Leeson was, in the common phrase, 
 touchy on the subject of her gray hair and her 
 habit of talking to herself, and that Sarah Lee- 
 son’s mistress had long since forbidden every 
 one, from her husband downward, to ruffle her 
 maid’s tranquillity by inquisitive questions. 
 
 She stood for an instant speechless, on that 
 momentous morning of the twenty-third of Au- 
 gust, before the servant who summoned her to 
 her mistress’s death-bed — the light of the candle 
 flaring brightly over her large, startled, black 
 eyes, and the luxuriant, unnatural gray hair 
 above them. She stood a moment silent — her 
 hand trembling while she held the candlestick, 
 so that the extinguisher lying loose in it rattled 
 incessantly — then thanked the servant for calling 
 her. The trouble and fear in her voice, as she 
 spoke, seemed to add to its sweetness; the agita- 
 tion of her manner took nothing away from its 
 habitual gentleness, its delicate, winning, femi- 
 nine restraint. Mathew, who, like the other 
 servants, secretly distrusted and disliked her for 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 11 
 
 differing from the ordinary pattern of professed 
 lady’s-maids, was, on this particular occasion, so 
 subdued by her manner and her tone as she 
 thanked him, that he offered to carry her candle 
 for her to the door of her mistress’s bed-chamber. 
 She shook her head, and thanked him again, then 
 passed before him quickly on her way out of the 
 gallery. 
 
 The room in which Mrs. Treverton lay dying 
 was on the floor beneath. Sarah hesitated twice 
 before she knocked at the door. It was opened 
 by Captain Treverton. 
 
 The instant she saw her master she started 
 back from him. If she had dreaded a blow she 
 could hardly have drawn away more suddenly, 
 or with an expression of greater alarm. There 
 was nothing in Captain Treverton’s face to war- 
 rant the suspicion of ill-treatment, or even of 
 harsh words. His countenance was kind, hearty, 
 and open ; and the tears were still trickling down 
 it which he had shed by his wife’s bedside. 
 
 4 4 Go in, ’ ’ he said, turning away his face. 4 4 She 
 does not wish the nurse to attend; she only 
 wishes for you. Call me if the doctor — ” His 
 voice faltered, and he hurried away without at- 
 tempting to finish the sentence. 
 
 Sarah Leeson, instead of entering her mis- 
 tress’s room, stood looking after her master 
 attentively, with her pale cheeks turned to a 
 deathly whiteness — with an eager, doubting, 
 questioning terror in her eyes. When he had 
 disappeared round the corner of the gallery, she 
 listened for a moment outside the door of the 
 
12 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 sick-room — whispered affrightedly to herself, 
 
 4 ‘Can she have told him?” — then opened the 
 door, with a visible effort to recover her self- 
 control; and, after lingering suspiciously on the 
 threshold for a moment, went in. 
 
 Mrs. Treverton’s bed-chamber was a large, 
 lofty room, situated in the western front of the 
 house, and consequently overlooking the sea- 
 view. The night-light burning by the bedside 
 displayed rather than dispelled the darkness in 
 the corners of the room. The bed was of the old- 
 fashioned pattern, with heavy hangings and 
 thick curtains drawn all round it. Of the other 
 objects in the chamber, only those of the largest 
 and most solid kind were prominent enough to 
 be tolerably visible in the dim light. The cabi- 
 nets, the wardrobe, the full-length looking-glass, 
 the high-backed arm-chair, these, with the great 
 shapeless bulk of the bed itself, towered up heav- 
 ily and gloomily into view. Other objects were 
 all merged together in the general obscurity. 
 Through the open window, opened to admit the 
 fresh air of the new morning after the sultriness 
 of the August night, there poured monotonously 
 into the room the dull, still, distant roaring of 
 the surf on the sandy coast. All outer noises 
 were hushed at that first dark hour of the new 
 day. Inside the room the one audible sound was 
 the slow, toilsome breathing of the dying wo- 
 man, raising itself in its mortal frailness, awful- 
 ly and distinctly, even through the far thunder- 
 breathing from the bosom of the everlasting sea. 
 
 “Mistress,” said Sarah Leeson, standing close 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 13 
 
 to the curtains, but not withdrawing them, “my 
 master has left the room, and has sent me here 
 in his place.” 
 
 “ Light! — give me more light.” 
 
 The feebleness of mortal sickness was in the 
 voice; but the accent of the speaker sounded 
 resolute even yet — doubly resolute by contrast 
 with the hesitation of the tones in which Sarah 
 had spoken. The strong nature of the mistress 
 and the weak nature of the maid came out, even 
 in that short interchange of words spoken through 
 the curtain of a death- bed. 
 
 Sarah lit two candles with a wavering hand — 
 placed them hesitatingly on a table by the bed- 
 side — waited for a moment, looking all round 
 her with suspicious timidity — then undrew the 
 curtains. 
 
 The disease of which Mrs. Treverton was dying 
 was (me of the most terrible of all the maladies 
 that afflict humanity, one to which women are 
 especially subject, and one which undermines 
 life without, in most cases, showing any remark- 
 able traces of its corroding progress in the face. 
 No uninstructed person, looking at Mrs. Trever- 
 ton when her attendant undrew the bed-curtain, 
 could possibly have imagined that she was past 
 all help that mortal skill could offer to her. The 
 slight marks of illness in her face, the inevitable 
 changes in the grace and round ness of its outline, 
 were rendered hardly noticeable by the marvel- 
 ous preservation of her complexion in all the 
 light and delicacy of its first girlish beauty. 
 There lay her face on the pillow — tenderly framed 
 
14 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 in by the rich lace of her cap, softly crowned by 
 her shining brown hair — to all outward appear- 
 ance, the face of a beautiful woman recovering 
 from a slight illness, or reposing after unusual 
 fatigue. Even Sarah Leeson, who had watched 
 her all through her malady, could hardly believe, 
 as she looked at her mistress, that the Gates of 
 Life had closed behind her, and that the beckon- 
 ing hand of Death was signing to her already 
 from the Gates of the Grave. 
 
 Some dog’s-eared books in paper covers lay on 
 the counterpane of the bed. As soon as the cur- 
 tain was drawn aside Mrs. Treverton ordered 
 her attendant by a gesture to remove them. 
 They were plays, underscored in certain places 
 by ink lines, and marked with marginal annota- 
 tions referring to entrances, exits, and places on 
 the stage. The servants, talking downstairs of 
 their mistress’s occupation before her marriage, 
 had not been misled by false reports. Their 
 master, after he had passed the prime of life, 
 had, in very truth, taken his wife from the ob- 
 scure stage of a country theater, when little 
 more than two years had elapsed since her first 
 appearance in public. The dog’s-eared old plays 
 had been once her treasured dramatic library; 
 she had always retained a fondness for them 
 from old associations; and, during the latter 
 part of her illness, they had remained on her 
 bed for days and days together. 
 
 Having put away the plays, Sarah went back 
 to her mistress; and, with more of dread and be- 
 wilderment in her face than grief, opened her 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 15 
 
 lips to speak. Mr. Treverton held up her hand, 
 as a sign that she had another order to give. 
 
 “Bolt the door,” she said, in the same enfee- 
 bled voice, but with the same accent of resolu- 
 tion which had so strikingly marked her first 
 request to have more light in the room. “Bolt 
 the door. Let no one in, till I give you leave.’ ’ 
 “No one?” repeated Sarah, faintly. “Not the 
 doctor? not even my master?” 
 
 “Not the doctor — not even your master,” said 
 Mrs. Treverton, and pointed to the door. The 
 hand was weak; but even in that momentary 
 action of it there was no mistaking the gesture 
 of command. 
 
 Sarah bolted the door, returned irresolutely to 
 the bedside, fixed her large, eager, startled eyes 
 inquiringly on her mistress’s face, and, suddenly 
 bending over her, said in a whisper: 
 
 “Have you told my master?” 
 
 “No,” was the answer. “I sent for him, to 
 tell him — I tried hard to speak the words — it 
 shook me to my very soul, only to think how I 
 should best break it to him — I am so fond of 
 him! I love him so dearly! But I should have 
 spoken in spite of that, if he had not talked of 
 the child. Sarah! he did nothing but talk of 
 the child — and that silenced me.” 
 
 Sarah, with a forgetfulness of her station which 
 might have appeared extraordinary even in the 
 eyes of the most lenient of mistresses, flung her- 
 self back in a chair when the first word of Mrs. 
 Treverton’s reply was uttered, clasped her trem- 
 bling hands over her face, and groaned to her- 
 
16 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 self, “Oh, what will happen! what will happen 
 now!” 
 
 Mrs. Treverton’s eyes had softened and moist- 
 ened when she spoke of her love for her hus- 
 band. She lay silent for a few minutes; the 
 working of some strong emotion in her being 
 expressed by her quick, hard, labored breathing, 
 and by the painful contraction of her eyebrows. 
 Ere long, she turned her head uneasily toward 
 the chair in which her attendant was sitting, 
 and spoke again — this time in a voice which had 
 sunk to a whisper. 
 
 4 ‘ Look for my medicine, ’ ’ said she ; “ 1 want it. 5 ’ 
 
 Sarah started up, and with the quick instinct 
 of obedience brushed away the tears that were 
 rolling fast over her cheeks. 
 
 “The doctor,” she said. “Let me call the 
 doctor.” 
 
 “No! The medicine — look for the medicine.” 
 
 “Which bottle? The opiate — ” 
 
 “No. Not the opiate. The other.” 
 
 Sarah took a bottle from the table, and looking 
 attentively at the written direction on the label, 
 said that it was not yet time to take that medi- 
 cine again. 
 
 “Give me the bottle.” 
 
 “Oh, pray don’t ask me. Pray wait. The 
 doctor said it was as bad as dram-drinking, if 
 you took too much.” 
 
 Mrs. Treverton’s clear gray eyes began to flash; 
 the rosy flush deepened on her cheeks ; the com- 
 manding hand was raised again, by an effort, 
 from the counterpane on which it lay. 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 17 
 
 “ Take the cork out of the bottle,” she said, 
 “and give it to me. I want strength. No mat- 
 ter whether I die in an hour’s time or a week’s. 
 Give me the bottle.” 
 
 “No, no — not the bottle!” said Sarah, giving 
 it up, nevertheless, under the influence of her 
 mistress’s look. “There are two doses left. 
 Wait, pray wait till I get a glass.” 
 
 She turned again toward the table. At the 
 same instant Mrs. Treverton raised the bottle to 
 her lips, drained it of its contents, and flung it 
 from her on the bed. 
 
 “She has killed herself!” cried Sarah, run- 
 ning in terror to the door. 
 
 “Stop!” said the voice from the bed, more 
 resolute than ever, already. “Stop ! Come back 
 and prop me up higher on the pillows.” 
 
 Sarah put her hand on the bolt. 
 
 “Come back!” reiterated Mrs. Treverton. 
 “While there is life in me, I will be obeyed. 
 Come back!” The color began to deepen per- 
 ceptibly all over her face, and the light to grow 
 brighter in her widely opened eyes, 
 
 Sarah came back; and with shaking hands 
 added one more to the many pillows which sup- 
 ported the dying woman’s head and shoulders. 
 While this was being done the bed-clothes be- 
 came a little discomposed. Mrs. Treverton 
 shuddered, and drew them up to their former 
 position, close round her neck. 
 
 “Did you unbolt the door?” she asked. 
 
 “No.” 
 
 “I forbid you to go near it again. Get my 
 
18 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 writing-case, and the pen and ink, from the cab- 
 inet near the window.” 
 
 Sarah went to the cabinet and opened it; then 
 stopped, as if some sudden suspicion had crossed 
 her mind, and asked what the writing materials 
 were wanted for. 
 
 “ Bring them, and you will see.” 
 
 The writing-case, with a sheet of note-paper 
 on it, was placed upon Mrs. Treverton’s knees; 
 the pen was dipped into the ink, and given to 
 her; she paused, closed her eyes for a minute, 
 and sighed heavily; then began to write, saying 
 to her waiting-maid, as the pen touched the 
 paper — “Look.” 
 
 Sarah peered anxiously over her shoulder, and 
 saw the pen slowly and feebly form these three 
 words : To my Husband . 
 
 “Oh, no! no! For God’s sake, don’t write 
 it!” she cried, catching at her mistress’s hand — 
 but suddenly letting it go again the moment 
 Mrs. Treverton looked at her. 
 
 The pen went on; and more slowly, more fee- 
 bly, formed words enough to fill a line — then 
 stopped. The letters of the last syllable were all 
 blotted together. 
 
 “Don’t!” reiterated Sarah, dropping on her 
 knees at the bedside. “Don’t write it to him if 
 you can’t tell it to him. Let me go on bearing 
 what I have borne so long already. Let the 
 Secret die with you and die with me, and be 
 never known in this world — never, never, never!” 
 “The Secret must be told,” answered Mrs. 
 Treverton. “My husband ought to know it, 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 19 
 
 and must know it. I tried to tell him, and my 
 courage failed me. I cannot trust you to tell 
 him, after I am gone. It must be written. Take 
 you the pen; my sight is failing, my touch is 
 dull. Take the pen, and write what I tell you.” 
 
 Sarah, instead of obeying, hid her face in the 
 bed-cover, and wept bitterly. 
 
 “Y.ou have been with me ever since my mar- 
 riage,” Mrs. Treverton went on. “You have 
 been my friend more than my servant. Do you 
 refuse my last request? You do ! Fool ! look up 
 and listen to me. On your peril, refuse to take 
 the pen Write, or I shall not rest in my grave. 
 Write , or, as true as there is a heaven above 
 us y I will come to you from the other world /” 
 
 Sarah started to her feet with a faint scream. 
 
 “You make my flesh creep!” she whispered, 
 fixing her eyes on her mistress’s face with a stare 
 of superstitious horror. 
 
 At the same instant, the overdose of the stim- 
 ulating medicine began to affect Mrs. Treverton’s 
 brain. She rolled her head restlessly from side 
 to side of the pillow — repeated vacantly a few 
 lines from one of the old play-books which had 
 been removed from her bed — and suddenly held 
 out the pen to the servant, with a theatrical wave 
 of the hand, and a glance upward at an imagi- 
 nary gallery of spectators. 
 
 “Write!” she cried, with an awful mimicry 
 of her old stage voice. “Write!” And the 
 weak hand was waved again with a forlorn, 
 feeble imitation of the old stage gesture. 
 
 Closing her fingers mechanically on the pen 
 
20 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS, 
 
 that was thrust between them, Sarah, with her 
 eyes still expressing the superstitious terror 
 which her mistress’s words had aroused, waited 
 for the next command. Some minutes elapsed 
 before Mrs. Treverton spoke again. She still 
 retained her senses sufficiently to be vaguely 
 conscious of the effect which the medicine was 
 producing on her, and to be desirous of combat- 
 ing its further progress before it succeeded in 
 utterly confusing her ideas. She asked first for 
 the smelling-bottle, next for some Eau de Cologne. 
 
 This last, poured on to her handkerchief and 
 applied to her forehead, seemed to prove success- 
 ful in partially clearing her faculties, Her eyes 
 recovered their steady look of intelligence; and, 
 when she again addressed her maid, reiterating 
 the word “Write,” she was able to enforce the 
 direction by beginning immediately to dictate 
 in quiet, deliberate, determined tones. Sarah’s 
 tears fell fast; her lips murmured fragments 
 of sentences in which entreaties, expressions of 
 penitence and exclamations of fear were all 
 strangely mingled together; but she wrote on 
 submissively, in wavering lines, until she had 
 nearly filled the first two sides of the note-paper. 
 Then Mrs. Treverton paused, looked the writing 
 over, and, taking the pen, signed her name at 
 the end of it, With this eff ort, her powers of re- 
 sistence to the exciting effect of the medicine 
 seemed to fail her again. The deep flush began 
 to tinge her cheeks once more, and she spoke 
 hurriedly and unsteadily when she handed the 
 pen back to her maid. 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 21 
 
 “Sign!” she cried, beating her hand feebly 
 on the bed-clothes. “Sign c Sarah Leeson, wit- 
 ness.’ No! — write ‘Accomplice.’ Take your 
 share of it; I won’t have it shifted on me. 
 Sign, I insist on it! Sign as I tell you.” 
 
 Sarah obeyed; and Mrs. Treverton, taking the 
 paper from her, pointed to it solemnly, with a 
 return of the stage gesture which had escaped 
 her a little while back. 
 
 “You will give this to your master,” she said, 
 “when I am dead; and you will answer any 
 questions he puts to you as truly as if you were 
 before the judgment-seat.” 
 
 Clasping her hands fast together, Sarah re- 
 garded her mistress, for the first time, with 
 steady eyes, and spoke to her for the first time 
 in steady tones. 
 
 “If I only knew that I was fit to die,” she 
 said, “oh, how gladly I would change places 
 with you!” 
 
 “Promise me that you will give the paper to 
 your master,” repeated Mrs. Treverton. “Prom- 
 ise — no! I won’t trust your promise — I’ll have 
 your oath. Get the Bible — the Bible the clergy- 
 man used when he was here this morning. Get 
 it, or I shall not rest in my grave. Get it, or 1 
 will come to you from the other world ” 
 
 The mistress laughed as she reiterated that 
 threat, The maid shuddered, as she obeyed the 
 command which it was designed to impress on 
 her. 
 
 “Yes, yes — the Bible the clergyman used,” 
 continued Mrs. Treverton, vacantly, after the 
 
22 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 book had been produced. 4 ‘The clergyman — a 
 poor weak man — I frightened him, Sarah. He 
 said: ‘ Are you at peace with all the world?’ and 
 I said: ‘All but one.’ You know who.” 
 
 “The Captain’s brother? Oh, don’t die at 
 enmity with anybody. Don’t die at enmity 
 even with pleaded Sarah. 
 
 “The clergyman said so too,” murmured Mr. 
 Treverton, her eyes beginning to wander child- 
 ishly round the room, her tones growing suddenly 
 lower and more confused. “ ‘You must forgive 
 him,’ the clergyman said. And I said: ‘No, I 
 forgive all the world, but not my husband’s 
 brother. ’ The clergyman got up from the bed- 
 side, frightened, Sarah. He talked about pray- 
 ing for me and coming back. Will he come 
 back?” 
 
 “Yes, yes,” answered Sarah. “He is a good 
 man — he will come back — and oh, tell him that 
 you forgive the Captain’s brother! Those vile 
 words he spoke of you when you were married 
 will come home to him some day. Forgive him 
 — forgive him before you die!” 
 
 Saying those words, she attempted to remove 
 the Bible softly out of her mistress’s sight. The 
 action attracted Mrs. Treverton’s attention, and 
 roused her sinking faculties into observation of 
 present things. 
 
 “Stop!” she cried, with a gleam of the old 
 resolution flashing once more over the dying dim- 
 ness of her eyes. She caught at Sarah’s hand 
 with a great effort, placed it on the Bible, and 
 held it there. Her other hand wandered a little 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 23 
 
 over the bed-clothes, until it encountered the writ- 
 ten paper addressed to her husband. Her fingers 
 closed on it, and a sigh of relief escaped her lips. 
 
 “Ah! ” she said, “I know what I wanted the 
 Bible for. Fm dying with all my senses about 
 me, Sarah ; you can’t decei ve me even yet. ’ ’ She 
 stopped again, smiled a little, whispered to her- 
 self rapidly, “Wait, wait, wait!” then added 
 aloud, with the old stage voice and the old stage 
 gesture: “No! I won’t trust you on your prom- 
 ise. I’ll have your oath. Kneel down. These 
 are my last words in this world — disobey them 
 if you dare!” 
 
 Sarah dropped on her knees by the bed. The 
 breeze outside, strengthening just then with the 
 slow advance of the morning, parted the win- 
 dow-curtains a little, and wafted a breath of its 
 sweet fragrance j oyously into the sick-room. The 
 heavy beating hum of the distant surf came in 
 at the same time, and poured out its unresting 
 music in louder strains. Then the window-cur- 
 tains fell again heavily, the wavering flame of 
 the candle grew .steady once more, and the awful 
 silence in the room sank deeper than ever. 
 
 “Swear!” said Mrs. Treverton. Her voice 
 failed her when she had pronounced that one 
 word. She struggled a little, recovered the 
 power of utterance, and went on: “Swear that 
 you will not destroy this paper after I am dead.” 
 
 Even while she pronounced these solemn words, 
 even at that last struggle for life and strength, 
 the ineradicable theatrical instinct showed, with 
 a fearful inappropriateness, how firmly it kept 
 
24 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 its place in her mind. Sarah felt the cold hand 
 that was still laid on hers lifted for a moment- 
 saw it waving gracefully toward her — felt it de- 
 scend again, and clasp her own hand with a 
 trembling, impatient pressure. At that final 
 appeal, she answered, faintly: 
 
 “I swear it.” 
 
 “Swear that you will not take this paper away 
 with you, if you leave the house, after I am 
 dead.” 
 
 Again Sarah paused before she answered — 
 again the trembling pressure made itself felt 
 on her hand, but more weakly this time — and 
 again the words dropped affrightedly from her 
 lips: 
 
 “I swear it.” 
 
 “Swear!” Mrs. Treverton began for the third 
 time. Her voice failed her once more ; and she 
 struggled vainly to regain the command over it. 
 
 Sarah looked up, and saw signs of convulsion 
 beginning to disfigure the white face — saw the 
 fingers of the white, delicate hand getting crooked 
 as they reached over toward the table on which 
 the medicine- bottles were placed. 
 
 “You drank it all,” she cried, starting to her 
 feet, as she comprehended the meaning of that 
 gesture. “Mistress, dear mistress, you drank it 
 all — there is nothing but the opiate left. Let 
 me go — let me go and call — ” 
 
 A look from Mrs. Treverton stopped her before 
 she could utter another word. The lips of the 
 dying woman were moving rapidly. Sarah put 
 her ear close to them. At first she heard nothing 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 25 
 
 but panting, quick-drawn breaths — then a few 
 broken words mingled confusedly with them: 
 
 “I haven’t done — you must swear — close, close, 
 come close — a third thing — your master — swear 
 to give it — ” 
 
 The last words died away very softly. The 
 lips that had been forming them so laboriously 
 parted on a sudden and closed again no more. 
 Sarah sprang to the door, opened it, and called 
 into the passage for help ; then ran back to the 
 bedside, caught up the sheet of note-paper on 
 which she had written from her mistress’s dic- 
 tation, and hid it in her bosom. The last look 
 of Mrs. Treverton’s eyes fastened sternly and 
 reproachfully on her as she did this, and kept 
 their expression unchanged, through the momen- 
 tary distortion of the rest of the features, for one 
 breathless moment. That moment passed, and, 
 with the next, the shadow which goes before the 
 presence of death stole up and shut out the light 
 of life in one quiet instant from all the face. 
 
 The doctor, followed by the nurse and by one 
 of the servants, entered the room; and, hurrying 
 to the bedside, saw at a glance that the time for 
 his attendance there had passed away forever. 
 He spoke first to the servant who had followed 
 him. 
 
 “Go to your master,” he said, “and beg him 
 to wait in his own room until I can come and 
 speak to him.” 
 
 Sarah still stood — without moving or speaking, 
 or noticing any one — by the bedside. 
 
 The nurse, approaching to draw the curtains 
 
26 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 together, started at the sight of her face, and 
 turned to the doctor. 
 
 “I think this person had better leave the room, 
 sir?” said the nurse, with some appearance of 
 contempt in her tones and looks. “She seems 
 unreasonably shocked and terrified by what has 
 happened.” 
 
 “Quite right,” said the doctor. “It is best 
 that she should withdraw. — Let me recommend 
 you to leave us for a little while,” he added, 
 touching Sarah on the arm. 
 
 She shrank back suspiciously, raised one of 
 her hands to the place where the letter lay hid- 
 den in her bosom, and pressed it there firmly 
 while she held out the other hand for a 
 candle. 
 
 “You had better rest for a little in your own 
 room,” said the doctor, giving her a candle. 
 “Stop, though,” he continued, after a moment’s 
 reflection. “I am going to break the sad news 
 to your master, and I may find that he is anxious 
 to hear any last words that Mrs. Treverton may 
 ha\re spoken in your presence. Perhaps you had 
 better come with me, and wait while I go into 
 Captain Treverton’s room.” 
 
 “No! no! — oh, not now— not now, for God’s 
 sake!” Speaking those words in low, quick, 
 pleading tones, and drawing back affrightedly 
 to the door, Sarah disappeared without waiting 
 a moment to be spoken to again. 
 
 “A strange woman!” said the doctor, address- 
 ing the nurse. “Follow her, and see where she 
 goes to, in case she is wanted and we are obliged 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 27 
 
 to send for her. I will wait here until you come 
 back.” 
 
 When the nurse returned she had nothing to 
 report but that she had followed Sarah Leeson 
 to her own bedroom, had seen her enter it, had 
 listened outside, and had heard her lock the door, 
 “A strange woman!” repeated the doctor. 
 “One of the silent, secret sort.” 
 
 “One of the wrong sort,” said the nurse. 
 “She is always talking to herself, and that is 
 a bad sign, in my opinion. I distrusted her, sir, 
 the very first day I entered the house.” 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE CHILD. 
 
 The instant Sarah Leeson had turned the key 
 of her bedroom door, she took the sheet of note- 
 paper from its place of concealment in her bosom 
 — shuddering, when she drew it out, as if the 
 mere contact of it hurt her — placed it open on 
 her little dressing-table, and fixed her eyes eagerly 
 on the lines which the note contained. At first 
 they swam and mingled together before her. She 
 pressed her hands over her eyes, for a few min- 
 utes, and then looked at the writing again. 
 
 The characters were clear now — vividy clear, 
 and, as she fancied, unnaturally large and near 
 to view. There was the address: “To my Hus- 
 band”; there the first blotted line beneath, in 
 her dead mistress’s handwriting; there the lines 
 
28 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 that followed, traced by her own pen, with the 
 signature at the end — Mrs. Treverton’s first, and 
 then her own. The whole amounted to but very 
 few sentences, written on one perishable fragment 
 of paper, which the flame of a candle would have 
 consumed in a moment. Yet there she sat, read- 
 ing, reading, reading, over and over again; 
 never touching the note, except when it was ab- 
 solutely necessary to turn over the first page; 
 never moving, never speaking, never raising her 
 eyes from the paper. As a condemned prisoner 
 might read his death-warrant, so did Sarah 
 Leeson now read the few lines which she and 
 her mistress had written together not half an 
 hour since. 
 
 The secret of the paralyzing effect of that writ- 
 ing on her mind lay, not only in itself, but in 
 the circumstances which had attended the act of 
 its production. 
 
 The oath which had been proposed by Mrs. 
 Treverfcon under no more serious influence than 
 the last caprice of her disordered faculties, stimu- 
 lated by confused remembrances of stage words 
 and stage situations, had been accepted by Sarah 
 Leeson as the most sacred and inviolable engage- 
 ment to which she could bind herself. The threat 
 of enforcing obedience to her last commands from 
 beyond the grave, which the mistress had uttered 
 in mocking experiment on the superstitious fears 
 of the maid, now hung darkly over the weak 
 mind of Sarah, as a judgment which might de- 
 scend on her, visibly and inexorably, at any mo- 
 ment of her future life. When she roused her- 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 29 
 
 self at last, and pushed away the paper and rose 
 to her feet, she stood quite still for an instant, 
 before she ventured to look behind her. When 
 she did look, it was with an effort and a start, 
 with a searching distrust of the empty dimness 
 in the remoter corners of the room. 
 
 Her old habit of talking to herself began to 
 resume its influence, as she now walked rapidly 
 backward and forward, sometimes along the room 
 and sometimes across it. She repeated inces- 
 santly such broken phrases as these : “How can 
 I give him the letter? — Such a good master; so 
 kind to us all. — Why did she die, and leave it 
 all to me ? — I can’t bear it alone; it’s too much 
 for me.” While reiterating these sentences, she 
 vacantly occupied herself in putting things about 
 the room in order, which were set in perfect order 
 already. All her looks, all her actions, betrayed 
 the vain struggle of a weak mind to sustain itself 
 under the weight of a heavy responsibility. She 
 arranged and re-arranged the cheap china orna- 
 ments on her chimney-piece a dozen times over 
 — put her pin-cushion first on the looking-glass, 
 then on the table in front of it — changed the 
 position of the little porcelain dish and tray on 
 her wash-hand-stand, now to one side of the 
 basin and now to the other. Throughout all 
 these trifling actions the natural grace, delicacy, 
 and prim neat- handedness of the woman still 
 waited mechanically on the most useless and 
 aimless of her occupations of the moment. She 
 knocked nothing down, she put nothing awry; 
 her footsteps at the fastest made no sound — the 
 
30 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 very skirts of her dress were kept as properly and 
 prudishly composed as if it was broad daylight 
 and the eyes of all her neighbors were looking at 
 her. 
 
 From time to time the sense of the words she 
 was murmuring confusedly to herself changed. 
 Sometimes they disjointedly expressed bolder and 
 more self-reliant thoughts. Once they seemed 
 to urge her again to the dressing-table and the 
 open letter on it, against her own will. She 
 read aloud the address, “To my Husband,” and 
 caught the letter up sharply, and spoke in firmer 
 tones. “Why give it to him at all? Why not 
 let the secret die with her and die with me, as it 
 ought? Why should he know it? He shall not 
 know it!” 
 
 Saying those last words, she desperately held 
 the letter within an inch of the flame of the can- 
 dle. At the same moment the white curtain 
 over the window before her stirred a little, as 
 the freshening air found its way through the old- 
 fashioned, ill-fitting sashes. Her eye caught 
 sight of it, as it waved gently backward and 
 forward. She clasped the letter suddenly to her 
 breast with both hands, and shrank back against 
 the wall of the room, her eyes still fastened on 
 the curtain with the same blank look of horror 
 which they had exhibited when Mrs. Treverton 
 had threatened to claim her servant’s obedience 
 from the other world. 
 
 “Something moves,” she gasped to herself, in 
 a breathless whisper. “Something moves in the 
 
 room. 
 
THE DEAD SECRET, 
 
 33 
 
 had hidden it on leaving her mistress’s bed- 
 -side. 
 
 She then stole across the nursery on tiptoe to- 
 ward the inner room. The entrance to it, to 
 please some caprice of the child’s, had been 
 arched, and framed with trellis - work, gayly 
 colored, so as to resemble the entrance to a sum- 
 mer-house. Two pretty chintz curtains, hanging 
 inside the trellis- work, formed the only barrier 
 between the day-room and the bedroom. One 
 of these was looped up, and toward the opening 
 thus made Sarah now advanced, after cautiously 
 leaving her candle in the passage outside. 
 
 The first object that attracted her attention in 
 the child’s bedroom was the figure of the nurse- 
 maid, leaning back, fast asleep, in an easy-chair 
 by the window. Venturing, after this discovery, 
 to look more boldly into the room, she next saw 
 her master sitting with his back toward her, by 
 the side of the child’s crib. Little Rosamond 
 was awake, and was standing up in bed with 
 her arms round her father’s neck. One of her 
 hands held over his shoulder the doll that she 
 had taken to bed with her, the other was twined 
 gently in his hair. The child had been crying 
 bitterly, and had now exhausted herself, so that 
 she was only moaning a little from time to time, 
 with her head laid wearily on her father’s bosom. 
 
 The tears stood thick in Sarah’s eyes as they 
 looked on her master and on the little hands that 
 lay round his neck. She lingered by the raised 
 curtain, heedless of the risk she ran, from mo- 
 ment to moment, of being discovered and ques- 
 B Vol — 16 
 
34 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 tioned — lingered until she heard Captain Trever- 
 ton say soothingly to the child: 
 
 4 ‘ Hush, Rosie, dear! hush, my own love! 
 Don’t cry any more for poor mamma. Think 
 of poor papa, and try to comfort him.” 
 
 Simple as the words were, quietly and tenderly 
 as they were spoken, they seemed instantly to 
 deprive Sarah Leesonof all power of self-control. 
 Reckless whether she was heard or not, she turned 
 and ran into the passage as if she had been flying 
 for her life. Passing the candle she had left 
 there, without so much as a look at it, she made 
 for the stairs, and descended them with headlong 
 rapidity to the kitchen-floor. There one of the 
 servants who had been sitting up met her, and, 
 with a face of astonishment and alarm, asked 
 what was the matter. 
 
 “I’m ill— I’m faint — I want air,” she an- 
 swered, speaking thickly and confusedly. “Open 
 the garden door and let me out.” 
 
 The man obeyed, but doubtfully, as if he 
 thought her unfit to be trusted by herself. 
 
 “She gets stranger than ever in her ways,” he 
 said, when he rejoined his fellow- servant, after 
 Sarah had hurried past him into the open air. 
 “Now our mistress is dead, she will have to find 
 another place, I suppose. I, for one, shan’t break 
 my heart when she’s gone. Shall you?” 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 35 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE HIDING OF THE SECRET. 
 
 The cool, sweet air in the garden, blowing 
 freshly over Sarah’s face, seemed to calm the 
 violence of her agitation. She turned down a 
 side walk, which led to a terrace and overlooked 
 the church of the neighboring village. 
 
 The daylight out of doors was clear already. 
 The misty auburn light that goes before sunrise 
 was flowing up, peaceful and lovely, behind a 
 line of black- brown moorland, overall the eastern 
 sky. The old church, with the hedge of myrtle 
 and fuchsia growing round the little cemetery in 
 all the luxuriance which is only seen in Cornwall, 
 was clearing and brightening to view, almost as 
 fast as the morning firmament itself. Sarah 
 leaned her arms heavily on the back of a gar- 
 den-seat, and turned her face toward the church. 
 Her eyes wandered from the building itself to 
 the cemetery by its side, rested there, and watched 
 the light growing warmer and warmer over the 
 lonesome refuge where the dead lay at rest. 
 
 4 ‘Oh, my heart! my heart!” she said. “What 
 must it be made of not to break?” 
 
 She remained for some time leaning on the 
 seat, looking sadly toward the churchyard, and 
 pondering over the words which she had heard 
 Captain Treverton say to the child. They seemed 
 to connect themselves, as everything else now 
 
36 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 appeared to connect itself in her mind, with the 
 letter that had been written on Mrs. Treverton’s 
 death-bed. She drew it from her bosom once 
 more, and crushed it up angrily in her fingers. 
 
 “Still in my hands! still not seen by any eyes 
 but mine!” she said, looking down at the crum- 
 pled pages. “Is it all my fault? If she was 
 alive now — if she had seen what I saw, if she 
 had heard what I heard in the nursery — could 
 she expect me to give him the letter?” 
 
 Her mind was apparently steadied by the re- 
 flection which her last words expressed. She 
 moved away thoughtfully from the garden-seat, 
 crossed the terrace, descended some wooden steps, 
 and followed a shrubbery path which led round 
 by a winding track from the east to the north 
 side of the house. 
 
 This part of the building had been uninhabited 
 and neglected for more than half a century past. 
 In the time of Captain Treverton’s father the 
 whole range of the north rooms had been 
 stripped of their finest pictures and their most 
 valuable furniture, to assist in redecorating the 
 west rooms, which now formed the only inhabited 
 part of the house, and which were amply suffi- 
 cient for the accommodation of the family and 
 of any visitors who came to stay with them. 
 The mansion had been originally built in the 
 form of a square, and had been strongly forti- 
 fied. Of the many defenses of the place, but 
 one now remained — a heavy, low tower (from 
 which and from the village near, the house de- 
 rived its name of Porthgenna Tower), standing 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 37 
 
 at the southern extremity of the west front. 
 The south side itself consisted of stables and 
 outhouses, with a ruinous wall in front of 
 them, which, running back eastward at right 
 angles, joined the north side, and so completed, 
 the square which the whole outline of the build- 
 ing represented. 
 
 The outside view of the range of north rooms, 
 from the weedy, deserted garden below, showed 
 plainly enough that many years had passed since 
 any human creature had inhabited them. The 
 window-panes were broken in some places, and 
 covered thickly with dirt and dust in others. 
 Here, the shutters were closed — there, they were 
 only half opened. The untrained ivy, the rank 
 vegetation growing in fissures of the stone-work, 
 the festoons of spiders’ webs, the rubbish of 
 wood, bricks, plaster, broken glass, rags, and 
 strips of soiled cloth, which lay beneath the win- 
 dows, all told the same tale of neglect. Shad- 
 owed by its position, this ruinous side of the 
 house had a dark, cold, wintry aspect, even 
 on the sunny August morning when Sarah 
 Leeson strayed into the deserted northern gar- 
 den. Lost in the labyrinth of her own thoughts, 
 she moved slowly past flower-beds, long since 
 rooted up, and along gravel walks overgrown 
 by weeds; her eyeswandering mechanically over 
 the prospect, her feet mechanically carrying her 
 on wherever there was a trace of a footpath, lead 
 where it might. 
 
 The shock which the words spoken by her 
 master in the nursery had communicated to 
 
38 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 her mind, had set her whole nature, so to speak, 
 at bay, and had roused in her, at last, the moral 
 courage to arm herself with a final and desperate 
 resolution. Wandering more and more slowly 
 along the pathways of the forsaken garden, as 
 the course of her ideas withdrew her more and 
 more completely from all outward things, she 
 stopped insensibly on an open patch of ground^ 
 which had once been a well-kept lawn, and which 
 still commanded a full view of the long range of 
 uninhabited north rooms. 
 
 “What binds me to give the letter to my mas- 
 ter at all?” she thought to herself, smoothing out 
 the crumpled paper dreamily in the palm of her 
 hand. “My mistress died without making me 
 swear to do that. Can she visit it on me from 
 the other world, if I keep the promises I swore 
 to observe, and do no more? May I not risk the 
 worst that can happen, so long as I hold re- 
 ligiously to all that I undertook to do on my 
 oath?” 
 
 She paused here in reasoning with herself — 
 her superstitious fears still influencing her out 
 of doors, in the daylight, as they had influenced 
 her in her own room, in the time of darkness. 
 She paused — then fell to smoothing the letter 
 again, and began to recall the terms of the 
 solemn engagement which Mrs. Treverton had 
 forced her to contract. 
 
 What had she actually bound herself to do? 
 ISTot to destroy the letter, and not to take it away 
 with her if she left the house. Beyond that, Mrs. 
 Treverton ’s desire had been that the letter should 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 39 
 
 be given to her husband. Was that last wish 
 binding on the person to whom it had been con- 
 fided? Yes. As binding as an oath? No. 
 
 As she arrived at that conclusion, she looked up. 
 
 At first her eyes rested vacantly on the lonely, 
 deserted north front of the house; gradually they 
 became attracted by one particular window ex- 
 actly in the middle, on the floor above the ground 
 —the largest and the gloomiest of all the row; 
 suddenly they brightened with an expression of 
 intelligence. She started ; a faint flush of color 
 flew into her cheeks, and she hastily advanced 
 closer to the wall of the house. 
 
 The panes of the large window were yellow 
 with dust and dirt, and festooned about fantas- 
 tically with cobwebs. Below it was a heap of 
 rubbish, scattered over the dry mould of what 
 might once have been a bed of flowers or shrubs. 
 The form of the bed was still marked out by an 
 oblong boundary of weeds and rank grass. She 
 followed it irresolutely all round, looking up at 
 the window at every step — then stopped close 
 under it, glanced at the letter in her hand, and 
 said to herself abruptly — 
 
 “I’ll risk it!” 
 
 As the words fell from her lips, she hastened 
 back to the inhabited part of the house, followed 
 the passage on the kitchen-floor which led to the 
 housekeeper’s room, entered it, and took down 
 from a nail in the wall a bunch of keys, having 
 a large ivory label attached to the ring that con- 
 nected them, on which was inscribed, “Keys of 
 the North Rooms.” 
 
* 
 
 40 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 She placed the keys on a writing-table near 
 her, took up a pen, and rapidly added these 
 lines on the blank side of the letter which she 
 had written under her mistress’s dictation — 
 
 “If this paper should ever be found (which I 
 pray with my whole heart it never may be), 
 I wish to say that I have come to the resolu- 
 tion of hiding it, because I dare not show the 
 writing that it contains to my master, to whom 
 it is addressed. In doing what 1 now propose 
 to do, though I am acting against my mistress’s 
 last wishes, I am not breaking the solemn en- 
 gagement which she obliged me to make before 
 her on her death-bed. That engagement forbids 
 me to destroy this letter, or to take it away with 
 me if I leave the house. I shall do neither — my 
 purpose is to conceal it in the place, of all others, 
 where I think there is least chance of its ever 
 being found again. Any hardship or misfortune 
 which may follow as a consequence of this de- 
 ceitful proceeding on my part, will fall on my- 
 self. Others, I believe in my conscience, will 
 be the happier for the hiding of the dreadful 
 Secret which this letter contains.” 
 
 She signed those lines with her name — pressed 
 them hurriedly over the blotting-pad that lay 
 with the rest of the writing materials on the 
 table — took the note in her hand, after first 
 folding it up — and then, snatching at the bunch 
 of keys, with a look all round her as if she 
 dreaded being secretly observed, left the room. 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 41 
 
 All her actions since she had entered it had been 
 hast} T and sadden; she was evidently afraid of 
 allowing herself one leisure moment to re- 
 flect. 
 
 On quitting the housekeeper’s room, she turned 
 to the left, ascended a back staircase, and un- 
 locked a door at the top of it. A cloud of dust 
 flew all about her as she softly opened the door; 
 a mouldy coolness made her shiver as she crossed 
 a large stone hall, with some black old family 
 portraits hanging on the walls, the canvasses of 
 which were bulging out of the frames. Ascend- 
 ing more stairs, she came upon a row of doors, 
 all leading into rooms on the first floor of the 
 north side of the house. 
 
 She knelt down, putting the letter on the 
 boards beside her, opposite the key-hole of the 
 fourth door she came to after reaching the top 
 of the stairs, peered in distrustfully for an in- 
 stant, then began to try the different keys till 
 she found one that fitted the lock. She had great 
 difficulty in accomplishing this, from the violence 
 of her agitation, which made her hands tremble 
 to such a degree that she was hardly able to keep 
 the keys separate one from the ether. At length 
 she succeeded in opening the door. Thicker clouds 
 of dust than she had yet met with flew out the mo- 
 ment the interior of the room was visible; a dry, 
 airless, suffocating atmosphere almost choked 
 her as she stooped to pick up the letter from the 
 floor. She recoiled from it at first, and took a 
 few steps back toward the staircase. But she 
 recovered her resolution immediately. 
 
42 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 “I can’t go back now!” she said, desperately, 
 and entered the room. 
 
 She did not remain in it more than two or 
 three minutes. When she came out again her 
 face was white with fear, and the hand which 
 had held the letter when she went into the room 
 held nothing now but a small rusty key. 
 
 After locking the door again, she examined 
 the large bunch of keys which she had taken 
 from the housekeeper’s room, with closer atten- 
 tion than she had yet bestowed on them. 
 
 Besides the ivory label attached to the ring 
 that connected them, there were smaller labels, 
 of parchment, tied to the handles of some of the 
 keys, to indicate the rooms to which they gave 
 admission. The particular key which she had 
 used had one of these labels hanging to it. She 
 held the little strip of parchment close to the 
 light, and read on it, in written characters 
 faded by time— 
 
 “ The Myrtle Room ” 
 
 The room in which the letter was hidden had 
 a name, then ! A prettily sounding name that 
 would attract most people, and keep pleasantly 
 in their memories. A name to be distrusted 
 by her, after what she had done, on that very 
 account. 
 
 She took her housewife from its usual place in 
 the pocket of her apron, and, with the scissors 
 which it contained, cut the label from the key. 
 Was it enough to destroy that one only? She 
 lost herself in a maze of useless conjecture; and 
 ended by cutting off the other labels, from no 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 43 
 
 other motive than instinctive suspicion of 
 them. 
 
 Carefully gathering up the strips of parchment 
 from the floor, she put them, along with the little 
 rusty key which she had brought out of the Myrtle 
 Room, in the empty pocket of her apron. Then, 
 carrying the large bunch of keys in her hand, 
 and carefully locking the doors that she had 
 opened on her way to the north side of Porth- 
 genna Tower, she retraced her steps to the house- 
 . keeper’s room, entered it without seeing anybody, 
 and hung up the bunch of keys again on the nail 
 in the wall. 
 
 Fearful, as the morning hours wore on, of 
 meeting with some of the female servants, she 
 next hastened back to her bedroom. The candle 
 she had left there was still burning feebly in the 
 fresh daylight. When she drew aside the win- 
 dow-curtain, after extinguishing the candle, a 
 shadow of her former fear passed over her face, 
 even in the broad daylight that now flowed in 
 upon it. She opened the window, and leaned 
 out eagerly into the cool air. 
 
 Whether for good or for evil, the fatal Secret 
 was hidden now — the act was done. There was 
 something calming in the first consciousness of 
 that one fact. She could think more composedly, 
 after that, of herself, and of the uncertain future 
 that lay before her. 
 
 Under no circumstances could she have ex- 
 pected to remain in her situation, now that the 
 connection between herself and her mistress had 
 been severed by death. She knew that Mrs. 
 
44 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 Treverton, in the last days of her illness, had 
 earnestly recommended her maid to Captain 
 Treverton’s kindness and protection, and she 
 felt assured that the wife’s last entreaties, in 
 this as in all other instances, would be viewed 
 as the most sacred of obligations by the husband. 
 But could she accept protection and kindness at 
 the hand of the master whom she had been acces- 
 sory to deceiving, and whom she had now com- 
 mitted herself to deceiving still? The bare idea 
 of such baseness was so revolting that she ac- 
 cepted, almost with a sense of relief, the one sad 
 alternative that remained — the alternative of 
 leaving the house immediately. 
 
 And how was she to leave it? By giving 
 formal warning, and so exposing herself to ques- 
 tions which would be sure to confuse and terrify 
 her? Could she venture to face her master again, 
 after what she had done — to face him, when his 
 first inquiries would refer to her mistress, when 
 he would be certain to ask her for the last mourn- 
 ful details, for the slightest word that had been 
 spoken during the death-scene that she alone had 
 witnessed? She started to her feet, as the cer- 
 tain consequences of submitting herself to that 
 unendurable trial all crowded together warningly 
 on her mind, took her cloak from its place on the 
 wall, and listened at her door in sudden suspicion 
 and fear. Had she heard footsteps? Was her 
 master sending for her already? 
 
 No; all was silent outside. A few tears rolled 
 over her cheeks as she put on her bonnet, and felt 
 that she was facing, by the performance of that 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 45 
 
 simple action, the last, and perhaps the hardest 
 to meet, of the cruel necessities in which the hid- 
 ing of the Secret had involved her. There was 
 no help for it. She must run the risk of betray- 
 ing everything, or brave the double trial of leav- 
 ing Porthgenna Tower, and leaving it secretly. 
 
 Secretly — as a thief might go? Without a 
 word to her master? without so much as one 
 line of writing to thank him for his kindness 
 and to ask his pardon? She had unlocked her 
 desk, and had taken from it her purse, one or 
 two letters, and a little book of Wesley’s Hymns, 
 before these considerations occurred to her. They 
 made her pause in the act of shutting up the desk. 
 “Shall I write?” she asked herself, “and leave 
 the letter here, to be found when I am gone?” 
 
 A little more reflection decided her in the 
 affirmative. As rapidly as her pen could form 
 the letters she wrote a few lines addressed to Cap- 
 tain Treverton, in which she confessed to having 
 kept a secret from his knowledge which had been 
 left in her charge to divulge; adding, that she 
 honestly believed no harm could come to him, 
 or to any one in whom he was interested, by her 
 failing to perform the duty intrusted to her; and 
 ended by asking his pardon for leaving the house 
 secretly, and by begging, as a last favor, that no 
 search might ever be made for her. Having 
 sealed this short note, and left it on the table, 
 with her master’s name written outside, she list- 
 ened again at the door; and, after satisfying her- 
 self that no one was yet stirring, began to descend 
 the stairs at Porthgenna Tower for the last time. 
 
46 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 At the entrance of the passage leading to the 
 nursery she stopped. The tears which she had 
 restrained since leading her room began to flow 
 again. Urgent as her reasons now were for 
 effecting her departure without a moment’s less 
 of time, she advanced, with the strangest incon- 
 sistency, a few steps toward the nursery door. 
 Before she had gone far, a slight noise in the 
 lower part of the house caught her ear and in- 
 stantly checked her further progress. 
 
 While she stood doubtful, the grief at her heart 
 — a greater grief than any she had yet betrayed 
 —rose irresistibly to her lips, and burst from 
 them in one deep gasping sob. The sound of it 
 seemed to terrify her into a sense of the danger 
 of her position, if she delayed a moment longer. 
 She ran out again to the stairs, reached the 
 kitchen- floor in safety, and made her escape by 
 the garden door which the servant had opened 
 for her at the dawn of the morning. 
 
 On getting clear of the premises at Porthgenna 
 Tower, instead of taking the nearest path over 
 the moor that led to the high-road, she diverged 
 to the church; but stopped before she came to it, 
 at the public well of the neighborhood, which 
 had been sunk near the cottages of the Porth- 
 genna fishermen. Cautiously looking round 
 her, she dropped into the well the little rusty 
 key which she had brought out of the Myrtle 
 Room; then hurried on, and entered the church- 
 yard. She directed her course straight to one of 
 the graves, situated a little apart from the rest. 
 On the headstone were inscribed these words: 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 47 
 
 SACRED TO THE MEMORY 
 OF 
 
 Ijugl) J) 0 1 10 f) e a i, 
 
 AGED 26 YEARS. 
 
 HE MET WITH HIS DEATH 
 THROUGH THE FALL OF A ROCK 
 IN 
 
 PORTHGENNA MINE, 
 
 DECEMBER 1?TH, 1823. 
 
 Gathering a few leaves of grass from the 
 grave, Sarah opened the little book of Wes- 
 ley’s Hymns which she had brought with her 
 from the bedroom of Porthgenna Tower, and 
 placed the leaves delicately and carefully be- 
 tween the pages. As she did this, the wind 
 blew open the title-page of the Hymns, and dis- 
 played this inscription on it, written in large, 
 clumsy characters— “ Sarah Leeson, her book. 
 The gift of Hugh Pol wheal.” 
 
 Having secured the blades of grass between 
 the pages of the book, she retraced her way to- 
 ward the path leading to the high-road. Arrived 
 on the moor, she took out of her apron pocket the 
 parchment labels that had been cut from the keys, 
 and scattered them under the furze-bushes. 
 
 “Gone,” she said, “as I am gone! God help 
 and forgive me — it is all done and over now!” 
 With those words she turned her back on the 
 old house and the sea- view below it, and followed 
 the moorland path on her way to the high-road. 
 
48 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 Four hours afterward Captain Treverton de- 
 sired one of the servants at Purthgenna Tower 
 to inform Sarah Leeson that he wished to hear 
 all she had to tell him of the dying moments of 
 her mistress. The messenger returned with looks 
 and words of amazement, and with the letter that 
 Sarah had addressed to her master in his hand. 
 
 The moment Captain Treverton had read the 
 letter, he ordered an immediate search to be 
 made after the missing woman. She was so 
 easy to describe and to recognize, by the prema- 
 ture grayness of her hair, by the odd, scared look 
 in her eyes, and by her habit of constantly talk- 
 ing to herself, that she was traced with certainty 
 as far as Truro. In that large town the track of 
 her was lost, and never recovered again. 
 
 Rewards were offered ; the magistrates of the 
 district were interested in the case ; all that wealth 
 and power could do to discover her was done — 
 and done in vain. No clew was found to sug- 
 gest a suspicion of her whereabouts, or to help 
 in the slightest degree toward explaining the 
 nature of the secret at which she had hinted in 
 her letter. Her master never saw her again, 
 never heard of her again, after the morning of 
 the twenty-third of August, eighteen hundred 
 and twenty-nine. 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 49 
 
 BOOK //. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 FIFTEEN YEARS AFTER 
 
 The church of Long Beckley (a large agricul- 
 tural village in one of the midland counties of 
 England), although a building in no way re- 
 markable either for its size, its architecture, or 
 its antiquity, possesses, nevertheless, one advan- 
 tage which mercantile London has barbarously 
 denied to the noble cathedral church of St. Paul. 
 It has plenty of room to stand in, and it can con- 
 sequently be seen with perfect convenience from 
 every point of view, all around the compass. 
 
 The large open, space around the church can be 
 approached in three different directions. There 
 is a road from the village, leading straight to the 
 principal door. There is a broad gravel walk, 
 which begins at the vicarage gates, crosses the 
 churchyard, and stops, as in duty bound, at 
 the vestry entrance. There is a footpath over 
 the fields, by which the lord of the manor, and 
 the gentry in general who live in his august 
 neighborhood, can reach the side door of the 
 building, whenever their natural humility may 
 incline them to encourage Sabbath observance 
 in the stables by going to church, like the lower 
 sort of worshipers, on their own legs. 
 
50 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 At half-past seven o’clock on a certain fine 
 summer morning, in the year eighteen hundred 
 and forty-four, if any observant stranger had 
 happened to be standing in some unnoticed cor- 
 ner of the churchyard, and to be looking about 
 him with sharp eyes, he would probably have 
 been the witness of proceedings which might 
 have led him to believe that there was a con- 
 spiracy going on in Long Beckley, of which the 
 church was the rallying-point, and some of the 
 most respectable inhabitants the principal lead- 
 ers. Supposing him to have been looking for- 
 ward toward the vicarage as the clock chimed 
 the half-hour, he would have seen the vicar of 
 Long Beckley, the Reverend Doctor Chennery, 
 leaving his house suspiciously, by the back way, 
 glancing behind him guiltily as he approached 
 the gravel walk that led to the vestry, stopping 
 mysteriously just outside the door, and gazing 
 anxiously down the road that led from the village. 
 
 Assuming that our observant stranger would, 
 upon this, keep out of sight, and look down the 
 road, like the vicar, he would next have seen the 
 clerk of the church — an austere, yellow-faced 
 man — a Protestant Loyola in appearance, and a 
 working shoemaker by trade — approaching with 
 a look of unutterable mystery in his face, and a 
 bunch of big keys in his hands. He would have 
 seen the vicar nod in an abstracted manner to the 
 clerk, and say: “Fine morning, Thomas. Have 
 you had your breakfast yet?” He would have 
 heard Thomas reply, with a suspicious regard 
 for minute particulars: “I have had a cup of tea 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 51 
 
 and a crust, sir.” And he would then have seen 
 these two local conspirators, after looking up 
 with one accord at the church clock, draw off 
 together to the side door which commanded a 
 view of the footpath across the fields. 
 
 Following them — as our inquisitive stranger 
 could not fail to do— he would have detected three 
 more conspirators advancing along the footpath. 
 The leader of this treasonable party was an elderly 
 gentleman, with a weather - beaten face and a 
 bluff, hearty manner. His two followers were 
 a young gentleman and a young lady, walking 
 arm-in-arm, and talking together in whispers. 
 They were dressed in the plainest morning cos- 
 tume. The faces of both were rather pale, and 
 the manner of the lady was a little flurried. 
 Otherwise there was nothing remarkable to ob- 
 serve in them, until they came to the wicket- 
 gate leading into the churchyard; and there the 
 conduct of the young gentleman seemed, at first 
 sight, rather inexplicable. Instead of holding 
 the gate open for the lady to pass through, he 
 hung back, allowed her to open it for herself, 
 waited till she had got to the churchyard side, 
 and then, stretching out his hand over the gate, 
 allowed her to lead him through the entrance, as 
 if he had suddenly changed from a grown man 
 to a helpless little child. 
 
 Noting this, and remarking also that, when 
 the party from the fields had arrived within 
 greeting distance of the vicar, and when the 
 clerk had used his bunch of keys to open the 
 church-door, the young lady’s companion was 
 
52 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 led into the building (this time by Doctor Chen- 
 nery’s. hand), as he had been previously led 
 through the wicket-gate, our observant stranger 
 must have arrived at one inevitable conclusion 
 — that the person requiring such assistance as 
 this was suffering under the affliction of blind- 
 ness. Startled a little by that discovery, he 
 would have been still further amazed, if he had 
 looked into the church, by seeing the blind man 
 and the young lady standing together before the 
 altar rails, with the elderly gentleman in parental 
 attendance. Any suspicions he might now en- 
 tertain that the bond which united the conspira- 
 tors at that early hour of the morning was of the 
 hymeneal sort, and that the object of their plot 
 was to celebrate a wedding with the strictest 
 secrecy, would have been confirmed in five min- 
 utes by the appearance of Doctor Chennery from 
 the vestry in full canonicals, and by the reading 
 of the marriage service in the reverend gentle- 
 man’s most harmonious officiating tones. The 
 ceremony concluded, the attendant stranger must 
 have been more perplexed than ever by observing 
 that the persons concerned in it all separated, 
 the moment the signing, the kissing and con- 
 gratulating duties proper to the occasion had 
 been performed, and quickly retired in the vari- 
 ous directions by which they had approached the 
 church. 
 
 Leaving the clerk to return by the village 
 road, the bride, bridegroom and elderly gentle- 
 man to turn back by the footpath over the fields, 
 and the visionary stranger of these pages to van- 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 53 
 
 ish out of them in any direction that he pleases 
 — let us follow Doctor Chennery to the vicarage 
 breakfast-table, and hear what he has to say 
 about his professional exertions of the morning 
 in the familiar atmosphere of his own family 
 circle. 
 
 The persons assembled at the breakfast were, 
 first, Mr. Phippen, a guest; secondly, Miss 
 Sturch, a governess; thirdly, fourthly and 
 fifthly, Miss Louisa Chennery (aged eleven 
 years), Miss Amelia Chennery (aged nine 
 years), and Master Robert Chennery (aged 
 eight years). There was no mother’s face 
 present to make the household picture com- 
 plete. Doctor Chennery had been a widower 
 since the birth of his youngest child. 
 
 The guest was an old college acquaintance of 
 the vicar’s, and he was supposed to be now stay- 
 ing at Long Beckley for the benefit of his health. 
 Most men of any character at all contrive to get 
 a reputation of some sort which individualizes 
 them in the social circle amid which they move. 
 Mr. Phippen was a man of some little character, 
 and he lived with great distinction in the estima- 
 tion of his friends on the reputation of being A 
 Martyr to Dyspepsia. 
 
 Wherever Mr. Phippen went, the woes of Mr. 
 Phippen’s stomach went with him. He dieted 
 himself publicly, and physicked himself publicly. 
 He was so intensely occupied with himself and 
 his maladies, that he would let a chance acquain- 
 tance into the secret of the condition of his tongue 
 at five minutes’ notice; being just as perpetually 
 
54 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 ready to discuss the state of his digestion as peo- 
 ple in general are to discuss the state of the 
 weather. Ou this favorite subject, as on all 
 others, he spoke with a wheedling gentleness 
 of manner, sometimes in softly mournful, some- 
 times in languidly sentimental tones. His po- 
 liteness was of the oppressively affectionate sort, 
 and he used the word 4 ‘dear” continually in ad- 
 dressing himself to others. Personally, he could 
 not be called a handsome man. His eyes were 
 watery, large, and light gray; they were always 
 rolling from side to side in a state of moist ad- 
 miration of something or somebody. His nose 
 was long, drooping, profoundly melancholy — if 
 such an expression may be pormitted in reference 
 to that particular feature. For the rest, his lips 
 had a lachrymose twist; his stature was small; 
 his head large, bald, and loosely set on his shoul- 
 ders ; his manner of dressing himself eccentric, 
 on the side of smartness; his age about five-and- 
 forty; his condition that of a single man. Such 
 was Mr. Phippen, the Martyr to Dyspepsia, and 
 the guest of the vicar of Long Beckley. 
 
 Miss Sturch, the governess, may be briefly and 
 accurately described as a young lady who had 
 never been troubled with an idea or a sensation 
 since the day when she was born. She was a 
 little, plump, quiet, white - skinned, smiling, 
 neatly-dressed girl, wound up accurately to the 
 performance of certain duties at certain times; 
 and possessed of an inexhaustible vocabulary of 
 commonplace talk, which dribbled placidly out 
 of her lips whenever it was called for, always in 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 55 
 
 the same quantity, and always oi the same qual- 
 ity, at every hour in the day, and through every 
 change in the seasons. Miss Sturch never laughed, 
 and never cried, but took the safe middle course 
 of smiling perpetually* She smiled when she 
 came down on a morning in January, and said 
 it was very cold. She smiled when she came 
 down on a morning in July, and said it was 
 very hot. She smiled when the bishop came once 
 a year to see the vicar; she smiled when the 
 butcher’s boy came every morning for orders. 
 Let what might happen at the vicarage, noth- 
 ing ever jerked Miss Sturch out of the one 
 smooth groove in which she ran perpetually, al- 
 ways at the same pace. If she had lived in a 
 royalist family, during the civil wars in En- 
 gland, she would have rung for the cook, to 
 order dinner, on the morning of the execution 
 of Charles the First. If Shakespeare had come 
 back to life again, and had called at the vicar- 
 age at six o’clock on Saturday evening, to ex- 
 plain to Miss Sturch exactly what his views 
 were in composing the tragedy of Hamlet, she 
 would ha^e smiled and said it was [extremely 
 interesting, until the striking of seven o’clock; 
 at which time she would have left him in the 
 middle of a sentence, to superintend the house- 
 maid in the verification of the washing- book. A 
 very estimable young person, Miss Sturch (as 
 the ladies of Long Beckley were accustomed to 
 say) ; so judicious with the children, and so at- 
 tached to her household duties; such a well-regu- 
 lated mind, and such a crisp touch on the piano; 
 
56 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 just nice-looking enough, just well-dressed 
 enough, just talkative enough; not quite old 
 enough, perhaps, and a little too much inclined 
 to be embraceably plump about the region of 
 the waist— but, on the whole, a most estimable 
 young person— very much so, indeed. 
 
 On the characteristic peculiarities of Miss 
 Sturch’s pupils it is not necessary to dwell at 
 very great length. Miss Louisa’s habitual weak- 
 ness was an inveterate tendency to catch cold. 
 Miss Amelia’s principal defect was a disposition 
 to gratify her palate by eating supplementary 
 dinners and breakfasts at unauthorized times and 
 seasons. Master Robert’s most noticeable fail- 
 ings were caused by alacrity in tearing his clothes 
 and obtuseness in learning the Multiplication 
 Table. The virtues of all three were of much 
 the same nature — they were well grown, they 
 were genuine children, and they were boister- 
 ously fond of Miss Sturch. 
 
 To complete the gallery of family portraits, 
 an outline, at the least, must be attempted of 
 the vicar himself. Doctor Chennery was, in a 
 physical point of view, a credit to the Establish- 
 ment to which he was attached. He stood six 
 feet two in his shooting-shoes; he weighed fif- 
 teen stone; he was the best bowler in the Long 
 Beckley cricket-club; he was a strictly orthodox 
 man in the matter of wine and mutton; he never 
 started disagreeable theories about people’s future 
 destinies in the pulpit, never quarreled with any- 
 body out of the pulpit, never buttoned up his 
 pockets when the necessities of his poor brethren 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 5 
 
 (Dissenters included) pleaded with him to open 
 them. His course through the world was a steady 
 march along the high and dry middle of a safe 
 turnpike road. The serpentine side-paths of con- 
 troversy might open as alluringly as they pleased 
 on his right hand and on his left, but he kept on 
 his way sturdily, and never regarded them. In- 
 novating young recruits in the Church army 
 might entrappingly open the Thirty-nine Arti- 
 cles under his very nose, but the veteran’s wary 
 eye never looked a hair-breadth further than his 
 own signature at the bottom of them. He knew 
 as little as possible of theology, he had never 
 given the Privy Council a minute’s trouble, in 
 the whole course of his life, he was innocent of 
 all meddling with the reading or writing of 
 pamphlets, and he was quite incapable of find- 
 ing his way to the platform of Exeter Hall. In 
 short, he was the most unclerical of clergymen 
 — but, for all that, he had such a figure for a 
 surplice as is seldom seen. Fifteen stone weight 
 of upright muscular flesh, without an angry spot 
 or sore place in any part of it, has the merit of 
 suggesting stability, at any rate — an excellent 
 virtue in pillars of all kinds, but an especially 
 precious quality, at the present time, in a pillar 
 of the Church. 
 
 As soon as the vicar entered the breakfast- 
 parlor the children assailed him with a chorus 
 of shouts. He was a severe disciplinarian in the 
 observance of punctuality at meal-times; and he 
 now stood convicted by the clock of being too 
 late for breakfast by a quarter of an hour. 
 
58 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 “Sorry to have kept you waiting, Miss Sturch,” 
 said the vicar; “but I have a good excuse for 
 being late this morning.” 
 
 “Pray don’t mention it, sir, ’’said Miss Sturch, 
 blandly rubbing her plump little hands one over 
 the other. “A beautiful morning. I fear we 
 shall have another warm day — Robert, my love, 
 your elbow is on the table. — A beautiful morn- 
 ing, indeed!” 
 
 “Stomach still out of order — eh, Phippen?” 
 asked the vicar, beginning to carve the ham. 
 
 Mr. Phippen shook his large head dolefully, 
 placed his yellow forefinger, ornamented with a 
 large turquoise ring, on the center check of his 
 light-green summer waistcoat — looked piteously 
 at Doctor Chennery, and sighed — removed the 
 finger, and produced from the breast pocket of 
 his wrapper a little mahogany case — took out of 
 it a neat pair of apothecary’s scales, with the ac- 
 companying weights, a morsel of ginger, and a 
 highly polished silver nutmeg-grater. “Dear 
 Miss Sturch will pardon an invalid?” said Mr. 
 Phippen, beginning to grate the ginger feebly 
 into the nearest tea-cup. 
 
 “Guess what has made me a quarter of an 
 hour late this morning,” said the vicar, looking 
 mysteriously all round the table. 
 
 “Lying in bed, papa,” cried the three chil- 
 dren, clapping their hands in triumph. 
 
 “What do you say, Miss Sturch?” asked Doc- 
 tor Chennery. 
 
 Miss Sturch smiled as usual, rubbed her hands 
 as usual, cleared her throat softly as usual, 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 59 
 
 looked at the tea-urn, and begged, with the 
 most graceful politeness, to be excused if she 
 said nothing. 
 
 “Your turn now, Phippen,” said the vicar. 
 “Come, guess what has kept me late this 
 morning.” 
 
 “My dear friend,” said Mr. Phippen, giving 
 the doctor a brotherly squeeze of the hand, 
 “don’t ask me to guess — I know! I saw what 
 you eat at dinner yesterday — 1 saw what you 
 drank after dinner. No digestion could stand it 
 — not even yours. Guess wha,t has made you 
 late this morning? Pooh! pooh! I know. You 
 dear, good soul, you have been taking physic!” 
 
 “Haven’t touched a drop, thank God, for the 
 last ten years!” said Doctor Chennery, with a 
 look of devout gratitude. “No, no; you’re all 
 wrong. The fact is, I have been to church; and 
 what do you think I have been doing there? 
 Listen, Miss Sturch — listen, girls, with all your 
 ears. Poor blind young Frankland is a happy 
 man at last — I have married him to our dear 
 Rosamond Treverton this very morning!” 
 
 “Without telling us, papa!” cried the two 
 girls together in their shrillest tones of vexation 
 and surprise. “Without telling us, when you 
 know how we should have liked to see it!” 
 
 “That was the very reason why I did not tell 
 you, my dears,” answered the vicar. “Young 
 Frankland has not got so used to his affliction yet, 
 poor fellow, as to bear being publicly pitied and 
 stared at in the character of a blind bridegroom. 
 He had such a nervous horror of being an object 
 
60 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 of curiosity on his wedding-day, and Rosamond, 
 like a kind-hearted girl as she is, was so anxious 
 that his slightest caprices should be humored, 
 that we settled to have the wedding at an hour 
 in the morning when no idlers were likely to be 
 lounging about the neighborhood of the church. 
 I was bound over to the strictest secrecy about 
 the day, and so was my clerk Thomas. Except- 
 ing us two, and the bride and bridegroom, and 
 the bride’s father, Captain Treverton, nobody 
 knew — ” 
 
 “Treverton!” exclaimed Mr. Phippen, hold- 
 ing his tea-cup, with the grated ginger in the 
 bottom of it, to be filled by Miss Sturch. “Trev- 
 erton! (No more tea, dear Miss Sturch,) How 
 very remarkable ! I know the name. (Fillup 
 with water, if you please.) Tell me, my dear 
 doctor (many, many thanks; no sugar — it turns 
 acid on the stomach), is this Miss Treverton 
 whom you have been marrying (many thanks 
 again; no milk, either) one of the Cornish 
 Trevertons?” 
 
 “To be sure she is!” rejoined the vicar. 
 “Her father, Captain Treverton, is the head of 
 the family. Not that there’s much family to 
 speak of now. The Captain, and Rosamond, 
 and that whimsical old brute of an uncle of 
 hers, Andrew Treverton, are the last left now 
 of the old stock— a rich family, and a fine fam- 
 ily, in former times — good friends to Church 
 and State, you know, and all that — ” 
 
 “Do you approve, sir, of Amelia having a 
 second helping of bread and marmalade?” asked 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 61 
 
 Miss Sturch, appealing to Doctor Chennery, with 
 the most perfect unconsciousness of interrupting 
 him. Having no spare room in her mind for 
 putting things away in until the appropriate 
 time came for bringing them out, Miss Sturch 
 always asked questions and made remarks the 
 moment they occurred to her, without waiting 
 for the beginning, middle, or end of any con- 
 versations that might be proceeding in her pres- 
 ence. She invariably looked the part of a lis- 
 tener to perfection, but she never acted it except 
 in the case of talk that was aimed point-blank at 
 her own ears. 
 
 “Oh, give her a second helping, by all means !” 
 said the vicar, carelessly; “if she must over-eat 
 herself, she may as well do it on bread and mar- 
 malade as on anything else.” 
 
 “My dear, good soul,” exclaimed Mr. Phip- 
 pen, “look what a wreck I am, and don’t talk 
 in that shockingly thoughtless way of letting 
 our sweet Amelia over-eat herself. Load the 
 stomach in youth, and what becomes of the 
 digestion in age? The thing which vulgar peo- 
 ple call the inside — I appeal to Miss Sturch’s in- 
 terest in her charming pupil as an excuse for 
 going into physiological particulars — is, in point 
 of fact, an Apparatus. Digestively considered, 
 Miss Sturch, even the fairest and youngest of us 
 is an Apparatus. Oil our wheels, if you like; 
 but clog them at your peril. Farinaceous pud- 
 dings and mutton-chops; mutton-chops and fari- 
 naceous puddings — those should be the parents’ 
 watch- words, if I had my way, from one end of 
 
62 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 England to the other. Look here, my sweet 
 child — look at me. There is no fun, dear, about 
 these little scales, but dreadful earnest. See! I 
 put in the balance on one side dry bread (stale, 
 dry bread, Amelia!), and on the other some ounce 
 weights. ‘Mr. Phippen, eat by weight. Mr. 
 Phippen ! eat the same quantity, day by day, to 
 a hair-breadth. Mr. Phippen! exceed your al- 
 lowance (though it is only stale, dry bread) if 
 you dare!’ Amelia, love, this is not fun— this 
 is what the doctors tell me — the doctors, my 
 child, who have been searching my Apparatus 
 through and through for thirty years past with 
 little pills, and have not found out where my 
 wheels are clogged yet. Think of that, Amelia 
 — think of Mr. Phippen’s clogged Apparatus — 
 and say ‘No, thank you,’ next time. Miss 
 Sturch, I beg a thousand pardons for intruding 
 on your province; but my interest in that sweet 
 child — Chennery, you dear, good soul, what 
 were we talking about? Ah! the bride — the 
 interesting bride! And so she is one or the 
 Cornish Trevertons? I knew something of An- 
 drew years ago. He was a bachelor, like my- 
 self, Miss Sturch. His Apparatus was out of 
 order, like mine, dear Amelia. Not at all like 
 his brother, the Captain, I should suppose? 
 And so she is married? A charming girl, I 
 have no doubt. A charming girl!” 
 
 “No better, truer, prettier girl in the world,” 
 said the vicar. 
 
 “A very lively, energetic person,” remarked 
 Miss Sturch. 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 63 
 
 “How I shall miss her!” cried Miss Louisa. 
 “Nobody else amused me as Rosamond did, 
 when I was laid up with that last bad cold of 
 mine.” 
 
 “She used to give us such nice little early 
 supper- parties,” said Miss Amelia. 
 
 “She was the only girl I ever saw who was fit 
 to play with boys,” said Master Robert. “She 
 could catch a ball, Mr. Phippen, sir, with one 
 hand, and go down a slide with both her legs 
 together.” 
 
 •“Bless me!” said Mr. Phippen. “What an 
 extraordinary wife for a blind man! You said 
 he was blind from his birth, my dear doctor, did 
 you not? Let me see, what was his name? You 
 will not bear too hardly on my loss of memory, 
 Miss Sturch? When indigestion has done with 
 the body, it begins to prey on the mind. Mr. 
 Frank Something, was it not?” 
 
 “No, no — Frankland,” answered the vicar, 
 “Leonard Frankland. And not blind from his 
 birth by any means. It is not much more than 
 a year ago since he could see almost as well as 
 any of us.” 
 
 “An accident, I suppose!” said Mr. Phippen. 
 “You will excuse me if I take the arm-chair? 
 — a partially reclining posture is of great assist= 
 ance to me after meals. So an accident hap- 
 pened to his eyes? Ah, what a delightfully easy 
 chair to sit in !” 
 
 “Scarcely an accident,” said Doctor Chennery. 
 “Leonard Frankland was a difficult child to 
 bring up: great constitutional weakness, you 
 
64 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 know, at first. He seemed to get over that with 
 time, and grew into a quiet, sedate, orderly sort 
 of boy— as unlike my son there as possible — very 
 amiable, and what you call easy to deal with. 
 Well, he had a turn for mechanics (I am telling 
 you' all this to make you understand about his 
 blindness), and, after veering from one occupa- 
 tion of that sort to another, he took at last to 
 watch-making. Curious amusement for a boy; 
 but anything that required delicacy of touch, 
 and plenty of patience and perseverance, was 
 just the thing to amuse and occupy Leonard. ' I 
 always said to his father and mother, ‘Get him 
 off that stool, break his magnifying-glasses, send 
 him to me, and I’ll give him a back at leap-frog, 
 and teach him the use of a bat.’ But it was no 
 use. His parents knew best, I suppose, and they 
 said he’must be humored. Well, things went on 
 smoothly enough for some time, till he got an- 
 other long illness — as I believe, from not taking 
 exercise enough. As soon as he began to get 
 round, back he went to his old watch-making 
 occupations again. But the bad end of it all 
 was coming. About the last work he did, poor 
 fellow, was the repairing of my watch — here it 
 is; goes as regular as a steam-engine. I hadn’t 
 got it back into my fob very long before I heard 
 that he was getting a bad pain at the back of his 
 head, and that he saw all sorts of moving spots 
 before his eyes. ‘String him up with lots of 
 port wine, and give him three hours a day on 
 the back of a quiet pony’ — that was my advice. 
 Instead of taking it, they sent for doctors from 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 65 
 
 London, and blistered him behind the ears and 
 between the shoulders, and drenched the lad 
 with mercury, and moped him up in a dark 
 room. No use. The sight got worse and worse, 
 flickered and flickered, and went out at last like 
 the flame of a candle, His mother died — luckily 
 for her, poor soul — before that happened. His 
 father was half out of his mind; took him to 
 oculists in London and oculists in Paris. All 
 they did was to call the blindness by a long 
 Latin name, and to say that it was hopeless and 
 useless to try an operation. Some of them said 
 it was the result of the long weaknesses from 
 which he had twice suffered after illness. Some 
 said it was an apoplectic effusion in his brain. 
 All of them shook their heads when they heard 
 of the watch-making. So they brought him 
 back home, blind; blind he is now; and blind 
 he will remain, poor dear fellow, for the rest of 
 his life.” 
 
 “You shock me; my dear Chennery, you shock 
 me dreadfully,” said Mr. Phippen. “Especially 
 when you state that theory about long weakness 
 after illness. Good heavens ! Why, I have had 
 long weaknesses — I have got them now. Spots 
 did he see before his eyes? I see spots, black 
 spots, dancing black spots, dancing black bilious 
 spots. Upon my word of honor, Chennery, this 
 comes home to me — my sympathies are pain- 
 fully acute — I feel this blind story in every 
 nerve of my body; I do, indeed!” 
 
 “You would hardly know that Leonard was • 
 blind, to look at him,” said Miss Louisa, strik- 
 C— Yol. 16 
 
66 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 ing into the conversation with a view to restor- 
 ing Mr. Phippen’s equanimity. “Except that 
 his eyes look quieter than other people’s, there 
 seems no difference in them now. Who was 
 that famous character you told us about, Miss 
 Sturch, who was blind, and didn’t show it any 
 more than Leonard Frankland?” 
 
 “Milton, my love. I begged you to remember 
 that he was the most famous of British epic 
 poets,” answered Miss Sturch with suavity. 
 “He poetically describes his blindness as being 
 caused by ‘so thick a drop serene.’ • You shall 
 read about it, Louisa. After we have had a lit- 
 tle French, we will have a little Milton, this 
 morning. Hush, love, your papa is speaking.” 
 
 “Poor young Frankland!” said the vicar, 
 warmly. “That good, tender, noble creature I 
 married him to this morning seems sent as a 
 consolation to him in his affliction. If any hu- 
 man being can make him happy 'for the rest of 
 his life, Rosamond Treverton is the girl to do it.” 
 
 “She has made a sacrifice,” said Mr. Phip- 
 pen; “but I like her for that, having, made a— 
 sacrifice myself in remaining- single. It seems 
 indispensable, indeed, on the score of humanity, 
 that I should do so. How could I conscientious- 
 ly inflict such a digestion as mine on a member 
 of the fairer portion of creation? Ho; I am a 
 sacrifice in my own proper person, and I have a 
 fellow-feeling for others who are like me. Did 
 she cry much, Chennery, when you were marry- 
 ing her?” 
 
 “Cry !” exclaimed the vicar, contemptuously. 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 67 
 
 “Rosamond Treverton is not one of the puling, 
 sentimental sort, I can tell you. A fine buxom, 
 warm-hearted, quick-tempered girl, who looks 
 what she means when she tells a man she is go- 
 ing to marry him. And, mind you, she has been 
 tried. If she hadn’t loved him with all her heart 
 and soul, she might have been free months ago 
 to marry anybody she pleased. They were en- 
 gaged long before this cruel affliction befell 
 young Frankland— the fathers, on both sides, 
 having lived as near neighbors in these parts 
 for years. Well, when the blindness came, 
 Leonard at once offered to release Rosamond 
 from her engagement. You should have read 
 the letter she wrote to him, Phippen, upon that. 
 I don’t mind confessing that I blubbered like a 
 baby over it when they showed it to me. I 
 should have married them at once the instant I 
 read it, but old Frankland was a fidgety, punc- 
 tilious kind of man, and he insisted on a six- 
 months’ probation, so that she might be certain 
 of knowing her own mind. He died before the 
 term was out, and that caused the marriage to 
 be put off again. But no delays could alter 
 Rosamond — six years, instead of six months, 
 would not have changed her. There she was 
 this morning as fond of that poor, patient blind 
 fellow as she was the first day they were en- 
 gaged. c You shall never know a sad moment, 
 Lenny, if I can help it, as long as you live’— 
 these were the first words she said to him when 
 we all came out of church. ‘I hear you, Rosa- 
 mond,’ said I. ‘And you shall judge me, too, 
 
6S 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 Doctor/ says she, quick as lightning. { ¥e will 
 come back to Long Beckley, and you shall ask 
 Lenny if I have not kept my word/ With that 
 she gave me a kiss that you might have heard 
 down here at the vicarage, bless her heart! 
 We’ll drink her health after dinner, Miss 
 Sturch — we’ll drink both their healths, Phip. 
 pen, in a bottle of the best wine I have in my 
 cellar.” 
 
 <c Ina glass of toast-and- water, so far as I am 
 concerned, if you will allow me,” said Mr. Phip- 
 pen, mournfully. “But, my dear Chennery, 
 when you were talking of the fathers of these 
 two interesting young people, you spoke of their 
 living as near neighbors here, at Long Beckley. 
 My memory is impaired, as I am painfully 
 aware; but I thought Captain Treverton was 
 the eldest of the two brothers, and that he al- 
 ways lived, when he was on shore, at the family 
 place in Cornwall?” 
 
 “So he did,” returned the vicar, “in his wife’s 
 lifetime. But since her death, which happened 
 as long ago as the year ’twenty-nine— let me see, 
 we are now in the year ’forty-four— and that 
 makes — ” 
 
 The vicar stopped for an instant to calculate, 
 and looked at Miss Sturch. 
 
 “Fifteen years ago, sir,” said Miss Sturch, 
 offering the accommodation of a little simple 
 subtraction to the vicar, with her blandest smile. 
 
 “Of course,” continued Doctor Chennery. 
 “Well, since Mrs. Treverton died, fifteen years 
 ago, Captain Treverton has never been near 
 
THE BEAD SECRET. 
 
 69 
 
 Porthgenna Tower. And, what is more, Phip- 
 pen, at the first opportunity he could get, he 
 sold the place — sold it, out and out, mine, fisher- 
 ies, and all — for forty thousand pounds .’ 5 
 
 “You don’t say so!” exclaimed Mr. Phippen. 
 “Did he find the air unhealthy? I should think 
 the local produce, in the way of food, must be 
 coarse now, in those barbarous regions? Who 
 bought the place?” 
 
 “Leonard Frankland’s father,” said the vicar. 
 “It is rather a long story, that sale of Porth- 
 genna Tower, with some curious circumstances 
 involved in it. Suppose we take a turn in the 
 garden, Phippen? I’ll tell you all about it over 
 my morning cigar. Miss Sturctr, if you want 
 me, I shall be on the lawn somewhere. Girls! 
 mind you know your lessons. Bob! remember 
 that I’ve got a cane in the hall, and a birch-rod 
 in my dressing-room. Come, Phippen, rouse up 
 out of that arm-chair. You won’t say No to a 
 turn in the garden?” 
 
 “My dear fellow, I will say Yes — if you will 
 kindly lend me an umbrella, and allow me to 
 carry my camp-stool in my hand,” said Mr. 
 Phippen. “I am too weak to encounter the sun, 
 and I can’t go far without sitting down. - The 
 moment I feel fatigued, Miss Sturch, I open my 
 camp-stool, and sit down anywhere, without the 
 slightest regard for appearances. — I am ready, 
 Chennery, whenever you are — equally ready, 
 my good friend, for the garden and the story 
 about the sale of Porthgenna Tower. You said 
 it was a curious story, did you not?” 
 
70 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 li I said there was some curious circumstances 
 connected with it,” replied the vicar. “And 
 when you hear about them, I think you will say 
 so too. Come along! you will find your camp- 
 stool, and a choice of all the umbrellas in the 
 house, in the hall.” 
 
 With those words, Doctor Chennery opened his. 
 cigar-case and led the way out of the breakfast- 
 parlor. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE SALE OF PORTHGENNA TOWER. 
 
 “How charming! how pastoral! how exquis- 
 itely soothing!” said Mr. Phippen, sentimentally 
 surveying the lawn at the back of the vicarage- 
 house, under the shadow of the lightest um- 
 brella he could pick out of the hall. “Three 
 years have passed, Chennery, since I last stood 
 on this lawn. There is the window of your old 
 study, where I had my attack of heart-burn last 
 time — in the strawberry season; don’t you re- 
 member? Ah! and there is the school -room! 
 Shall I ever forget dear Miss Sturch coming to 
 me out of that room — a ministering angel with 
 soda and ginger — so comforting, so sweetly anx- 
 ious about stirring it up, so unaffectedly grieved 
 that there was no sal- volatile in the house ! I do 
 so enjoy these pleasant recollections, Chennery; 
 they are as great a luxury to me as your cigar is 
 to you. Could you walk on the other side, my 
 dear fellow? I like the smell, but the smoke is 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 71 
 
 a little too much for me. Thank you. And now 
 about the story? What was the name of the old 
 place — I am so interested in it — it began with a 
 P, surely?” 
 
 “Porthgenna Tower,” said the vicar. 
 
 “Exactly,” rejoined Mr. Phippen, shifting the 
 umbrella tenderly from one shoulder to the other. 
 “And what in the world made Captain Trever- 
 ton sell Porthgenna Tower?” 
 
 “I believe the reason was that he could not 
 endure the place after the death of his wife,” 
 answered Doctor Chennery. “The estate, you 
 know, has never been entailed; so the Captain 
 had no difficulty in parting with it, except, of 
 course, the difficulty of finding a purchaser.” 
 
 “Why not his brother?” asked Mr. Phippen. 
 “Why not our eccentric friend, Andrew Trever- 
 ton?” 
 
 “Don’t call him my friend,” said the vicar. 
 “A mean, groveling, cynical, selfish old wretch! 
 It’s no use shaking your head, Phippen, and try- 
 ing to look shocked. I know Andrew Trever- 
 ton’s early history as well as you do. I know 
 that he was treated with the basest ingratitude 
 by a college friend, who took all he had to give, 
 and swindled him at last in the grossest manner. 
 I know all about that. But one instance of in- 
 gratitude does not justify a man in shutting him- 
 self up from society, and railing against all man- 
 kind as a disgrace to the earth they walk on. I 
 myself have heard the old brute say that the 
 greatest benefactor to our generation would be a 
 second Herod, who could prevent another genera- 
 
72 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 tion from succeeding it. Ought a man who can 
 talk in that way to be the friend of any human 
 being with the slightest respect for his species or 
 himself?” 
 
 46 My friend!” said Mr. Phippen, catching the 
 vicar by the arm, and mysteriously lowering his 
 voice — 4 4 My dear and reverend friend ! I admire 
 your honest indignation against the utterer of 
 that exceedingly misanthropical sentiment; but 
 —I confide this to you, Chennery, in the strictest 
 secrecy — there are moments — morning moments 
 generally — when my digestion is in such a state 
 that I have actually agreed with that annihilat- 
 ing person, Andrew Treverton ! I have woke up 
 with my tongue like a cinder — I have crawled to 
 the glass and looked at it— and I have said to 
 myself: ‘Let there be an end of the human race 
 rather than a continuance of this ! 5 ” 
 
 “Pooh! pooh!” cried the vicar, receiving Mr. 
 Phippen ’s confession with a burst of irreverent 
 laughter. “Take a glass of cool small beer next- 
 time your tongue is in that state, and you will 
 pray for a continuance of the brewing part of the 
 human race, at any rate. But let us go back to 
 Porthgenna Tower, or I shall never get on with 
 my story. When Captain Treverton had once 
 made up his mind to sell the place, I have no 
 doubt that, under ordinary circumstances, he 
 would have thought of offering it to his brother, 
 with a view, of course, to keeping the estate in 
 the family. Andrew was rich enough to have 
 bought it; for, though he got nothing at his 
 father’s death but the old gentleman’s rare col- 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 73 
 
 lection of books, he inherited his mother’s fort- 
 une, as the second son. However, as things were 
 at that time (and are still, I am sorry to say), the 
 Captain could make no personal offers of any kind 
 to Andrew ; for the two were not then, and are 
 not now, on speakiug, or even on writing terms. 
 It is a shocking thing to say, but the worst 
 quarrel of the kind I ever heard of is the quarrel 
 between those two brothers.” 
 
 6 ‘Pardon me, my dear friend,” said Mr. Phip- 
 pen, opening his camp-stool, which had hitherto 
 dangled by its silken tassel from the hooked 
 handle of the umbrella. “May I sit down be- 
 fore you go any further? I am getting a little 
 excited about this part of the story, and I dare 
 not fatigue myself. Pray go on. I don’t think 
 the legs of my camp-stool will make holes in the 
 lawn. I am so light — a mere skeleton, in fact. 
 Do go on!” 
 
 “You must have heard,” pursued the vicar, 
 “that Captain Treverton, when he was advanced 
 in life, married an actress— rather a violent tem- 
 per, I believe; but a person of spotless character, 
 and as fond of her husband as a woman could be; 
 therefore, according to my view of it, a very 
 good wife for him to marry. However, the Cap- 
 tain’s friends, of course, made the usual senseless 
 outcry, and the Captain’s brother, as the only 
 near relation, took it on himself to attempt break- 
 ing off the marriage in the most offensively in- 
 delicate way. Failing in that, and hating the 
 poor woman like poison, he left this brother’s 
 house, saying, among many other savage 
 
74 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 speeches, one infamous thing about the bride, 
 which — which, upon my honor, Phippen, 1 am 
 ashamed to repeat. Whatever the words were, 
 they were unluckily carried to Mrs. Treverton’s 
 ears, and they were of the kind that no woman 
 — let alone a quick-tempered woman like the Cap- 
 tain’s wife — ever forgives. An interview fol- 
 lowed between the two brothers — and it led, as 
 you may easily imagine, to very unhappy re- 
 sults. They parted in the most deplorable man- 
 ner. The Captain declared, in the heat of his 
 passion, that Andrew had never had one gen- 
 erous impulse in his heart since he was born, 
 and that he would die without one kind feeling 
 toward any living soul in the world. Andrew 
 replied that, if he had no heart, he had a mem- 
 ory, and that he should remember those farewell 
 words as long as he lived. So they separated. 
 Twice afterward the Captain made overtures of 
 reconciliation. The first time when his daughter 
 Rosamond was born; the second time when Mrs. 
 Treverton died. On each occasion the elder bro- 
 ther wrote to say that, if the younger would re- 
 tract the atrocious words he had spoken against 
 his sister-in-law, every atonement should be 
 offered to him for the harsh language which 
 the Captain had used, in the hastiness of anger, 
 when they last met. No answer was received 
 from Andrew to either letter ; and the estrange- 
 ment between the two brothers has continued to 
 the present time. You understand now why 
 Captain Treverton could not privately consult 
 Andrew’s inclinations before he publicly an- 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 75 
 
 nounced his intention of parting with Porth- 
 genna Tower.” 
 
 Although Mr. Phippen declared, in answer 
 to this appeal, that he understood perfectly, and 
 although he begged with the utmost politeness 
 that the vicar would go on, his attention seemed, 
 for the moment, to be entirely absorbed in in- 
 spect] ug the legs of his camp-stool, and in ascer- 
 taining what impression they made on the vicar- 
 age lawn. Doctor Chennery’s own interest, 
 however, in the circumstances that he was re- 
 lating, seemed sufficiently strong to make up 
 for any transient lapse of attention on the part 
 of his guest. After a few vigorous puffs at his 
 cigar (which had been several times in im- 
 minent danger of going out while he was speak- 
 ing), he went on with his narrative in these 
 words : 
 
 “Well, the house, the estate, the mine, and 
 the fisheries of Porthgenna were all publicly put 
 up for sale a few months after Mrs. Treverton’s 
 death ; but no offers were made for the property 
 which it was possible to accept.* The ruinous 
 state of the house, the bad cultivation of the 
 land, legal difficulties in connection with the 
 mine, and quarter-day difficulties in the collec- 
 tion of the rents, all contributed to make Porth- 
 genna what the auctioneers would call a bad lot 
 to dispose of. Failing to sell the place, Captain 
 Treverton could not be prevailed on to change 
 his mind and live there again. The death of 
 his wife almost broke his heart — for he was, by 
 all accounts, just as fond of her as she had been 
 
76 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 of him— and the very sight of the place that was 
 associated with the greatest affliction of his life 
 became hateful to him. He removed, with his 
 little girl and a relative of Mrs. Treverton, who 
 was her governess, to our neighborhood, and 
 rented a pretty little cottage across the church 
 fields. The house nearest to it was inhabited 
 at that time by Leonard Frankland’s father and 
 mother. The new neighbors soon became inti- 
 mate; and thus it happened that the couple 
 whom X have been marrying this morning were 
 brought up together as children, and fell in love 
 with each other almost before they were out of 
 their pinafores.” 
 
 “Chennery, my dear fellow, I don’t look as if 
 I was sitting all on one side, do I?” cried Mr. 
 Phippen, suddenly breaking into the vicar’s nar- 
 rative, with a look of alarm. “I am shocked to 
 interrupt you; but surely your grass is amazingly 
 soft in this part of the country. One of my camp- 
 stool legs is getting shorter and shorter every 
 moment. I’m drilling a hole! I’m toppling 
 over! Gracious heavens! 1 feel myself going 
 —I shall be down, Chennery; upon my life, I 
 shall be down!” 
 
 “Staff!” cried the vicar, pulling up first Mr. 
 Phippen, and then Mr. Phippen’s camp-stool, 
 which had rooted itself in the grass, all on one 
 side. “Here, come on to the gravel walk; you 
 can’t drill holes in that. What’s the matter 
 now?” 
 
 “Palpitations,” said Mr. Phippen, dropping 
 his umbrella, and placing his hand over his 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 77 
 
 heart, “and bile. I see those black spots again 
 — those infernal, lively black spots dancing be- 
 fore my eyes. Chennery, suppose you consult 
 some agricultural friend about the quality of 
 your grass. Take my word for it, your lawn 
 is softer than it ought to be. —Lawn!” repeated 
 Mr. Phippen to himself, contemptuously, as he 
 turned round to pick up his umbrella. “It isn’t 
 a lawn — it is a bog!” 
 
 “There, sit down,” said the vicar, “and don’t 
 pay the palpitations and the black spots the com- 
 pliment of bestowing the smallest attention on 
 them. Do you want anything to drink? Shall 
 it be physic, or beer, or what?” 
 
 “No, no! I am so unwilling to give trouble,” 
 answered Mr. Phippen. “I would rather suffer 
 — rather, a great deal. I think if you would go 
 on with your story, Chennery, it would compose 
 me. I have not the faintest idea of what led to 
 it, but I think you were saying something in- 
 teresting on the subject of pinafores!” 
 
 “Nonsense!” said Doctor Chennery. “I was 
 only telling you of the fondness between the two 
 children who have now grown up to be man and 
 wife. And I was going on to tell you that Cap- 
 tain Treverton, shortly after he settled in our 
 neighborhood, took to the active practice of his 
 profession again. Nothing else seemed to fill up 
 the gap that the loss of Mrs. Treverton had made 
 in his life. Having good interest with the Ad- 
 miralty, he can always get a ship when he applies 
 for one; and up to the present time, with inter- 
 vals on shore, he has resolutely stuck to the sea 
 
78 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 — though he is getting, as his daughter and his 
 friends think, rather too old for it now. Don’t 
 look puzzled, Phippen; I am not going so wide 
 of the mark as you think. These are some of 
 the necessary particulars that must be stated 
 first. And now they are comfortably disposed 
 of, I can get round at last to the main part of 
 my story— the sale of Porthgenna Tower. — What 
 is it now? Do you want to get up again?” 
 
 Yes, Mr. Phippen did want to get up again, 
 for the purpose of composing the palpitations 
 and dispersing the black spots, by trying the 
 experiment of a little gentle exercise. He was 
 most unwilling to occasion any trouble, but would, 
 his worthy friend Chennery give him an arm, 
 and carry the camp-stcol, and walk slowly in 
 the direction of the school-room window, so as to 
 keep MissSturch within easy hailing distance, in 
 case it became necessary to try the last resource 
 of taking a composing draught? The vicar, 
 whose inexhaustible good nature was proof 
 against every trial that Mr. Phippen’s despep- 
 tic infirmities could inflict on it, complied with 
 all these requests, and went on with his story, 
 unconsciously adopting the tone and manner of 
 a good-humored parent who was doing his best 
 tc soothe the temper of a fretful child. 
 
 “I told you,” he said, “that the elder Mr. 
 Frankland and Captain Treverton were near 
 neighbors here. They had not been long ac- 
 quainted before the one found out from the 
 other that Porthgenna Tower was for sale. On 
 first hearing this, old Frankland asked a few 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 79 
 
 questions about the place, but said not a word 
 on the subject of purchasing it. Soon after that 
 the Captain got a ship and went to sea. During 
 his absence old Frankland privately set off for 
 Cornwall to look at the estate, and to find out 
 all he could about its advantages and defects 
 from the persons left in charge of the house and 
 lands. He said nothing when he came back, 
 until Captain Treverton returned from his first 
 cruise; and then the old gentleman spoke out 
 one morning, in his quiet, decided way. 
 
 44 ‘Treverton,’ said he, ‘if you will sell Porth- 
 genna Tower at the price at which you bought 
 it in, when you tried to dispose of it by auction, 
 write to your lawyer, and tell him to take the 
 title-deeds to mine, and ask for the purchase- 
 money.’ 
 
 “Captain Treverton was naturally a little as- 
 tonished at the readiness of this offer ; but people 
 like myself, who knew old Frankland’s history, 
 were not so surprised. His fortune had been 
 made by trade, and he was foolish enough to 
 be always a little ashamed of acknowledging 
 that one simple and creditable fact. The truth 
 was, that his ancestors had been landed gentry 
 of importance before the time of the Civil War, 
 and the old gentleman’s great ambition was to 
 sink the merchant in the landed grandee, and 
 to leave his son to succeed him in the character 
 of a squire of large estate and great county in- 
 fluence. He was willing to devote half his fort- 
 une to accomplish this scheme; but half his fort- 
 une would not buy him such an estate as he 
 
80 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 wanted, in an important agricultural county like 
 ours. Rents are high, and land is made the 
 most of with us. An estate as extensive as 
 the estate at Porthgenna would fetch more than 
 double the money which Captain Treverton could 
 venture to ask for it, i£ it were situated in these 
 parts. Old Frankland was well aware of that 
 fact, and attached all possible importance to it. 
 Besides, there was something in the feudal look 
 of Porthgenna Tower, and in the right over the 
 mine and fisheries, which the purchase of the 
 estate included, that flattered his notions of re- 
 storing the family greatness. Here he and his 
 son after him could lord it, as he thought, on a 
 large scale, and direct at their sovereign will and 
 pleasure the industry of hundreds of poor people, 
 scattered along the coast, or huddled together in 
 the little villages inland. This was a tempting 
 prospect, and it could be secured for forty thou- 
 sand pounds — which was just ten thousand 
 pounds less than he had made up his mind to 
 give, when he first determined to metamorphose 
 himself from a plain merchant into a magnifi- 
 cent landed gentleman. People who knew these 
 facts were, as I have said, not much surprised at 
 Mr. Frankland’s readiness to purchase Porth- 
 genna Tower; and Captain Treverton, it is 
 hardly necessary to say, was not long in clinch- 
 ing the bargain on his side. The estate changed 
 hands; and away went old Frankland, with a 
 tail of wiseacres from London at his heels, to 
 work the mine and the fisheries on new scien- 
 tific principles, and to beautify the old house from 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 81 
 
 top to bottom with brand-new mediaeval decora- 
 tions under the direction ot a gentleman who 
 was said to be an architect, but who looked, to 
 my mind, the very image of a Popish priest in 
 disguise. Wonderful plans and projects were 
 they not? And how do you think they suc- 
 ceeded?” 
 
 “Do tell me, my dear fellow !” was the answer 
 that fell from Mr. Phippen’s lips. — “I wonder 
 whether Miss Sturch keeps a bottle of camphor 
 julep in the family medicine-chest?” was the 
 thought that passed through Mr. Phippen’s 
 mind. 
 
 “Tell you!” exclaimed the vicar, “Why, 
 of course, every one of his plans turned out a 
 complete failure. His Cornish tenantry re- 
 ceived him as an interloper. The antiquity of 
 his family made no impression upon them. It 
 might be an old family, but it was not a Cornish 
 family, and, therefore, it was of no importance 
 in their eyes. They would have gone to the 
 world’s end for the Trevertons; but not a man 
 would move a step out of his way for the Prank- 
 lands. As for the mine, it seemed to be inspired 
 with the same mutinous spirit that possessed the 
 tenantry. The wiseacres from London blasted 
 in all directions on the profoundest scientific 
 principles, and brought about sixpennyworth of 
 ore to the surface for every five pounds spent 
 in getting it up. The fisheries turned out little 
 better. A new plan for curing pilchards, which 
 was a marvel of economy in theory, proved to be 
 a perfect phenomenon of extravagance in prac- 
 
82 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 tice. The only item of luck in old Frankland’s 
 large sum of misfortunes was produced by his 
 quarreling in go d time with the mediaeval arch- 
 itect, who was like a Popish priest in disguise. 
 This fortunate event saved the new owner of 
 Porthgenna all the money he might otherwise 
 have spent in restoring and redecorating the 
 whole suite of rooms on the north side of the 
 house, which had been left to go to rack and 
 ruin for more than fifty years past, and which 
 remain in their old neglected condition to this 
 day. To make a long story short, after uselessly 
 spending more thousands of pounds at Porth- 
 genna than I should like to reckon up, old 
 Frankland gave in at last, left the place in dis- 
 gust to the care of his steward, who was charged 
 never to lay out another farthing on it, and re- 
 turned to this neighborhood. Being in high 
 dudgeon, and happening to catch Captain Trev- 
 erton on shore when he got back, the first thing 
 he did was to abuse Porthgenna and all the peo- 
 ple about it a little too vehemently in the Cap- 
 tain’s presence. This led to a coolness between 
 the two neighbors, which might have ended in 
 the breaking off of all intercourse, but for the 
 children on either side, who would see each 
 other just as often as ever, and who ended, by 
 dint of willful persistency, in putting an end to 
 the estrangement between the fathers by making 
 it look simply ridiculous. Here, in my opinion, 
 lies the most curious part of the story. Important 
 family interests depended on those two young 
 people falling in love with each other; and won- 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 83 
 
 derf ul to relate, that (as you know, after my con- 
 fession at breakfast-time) was exactly what thej^ 
 did. Here is a case of the most romantic love- 
 match, which is also the marriage, of all others, 
 that the parents on both sides had the strongest 
 worldly interest in promoting. Shakespeare may 
 say what he pleases, the course of true love does 
 run smooth sometimes. Never was the marriage 
 service performed to better purpose than when I 
 read it this morning. The estate being entailed 
 on Leonard, Captain Treverton’s daughter now 
 goes back, in the capacity of mistress, to the 
 house and lands which her father sold. Rosa- 
 mond being an only child, the purchase-money 
 of Porthgenna, which old Franklaud once la- 
 mented as money thrown away, will now, when 
 the Captain dies, be the marriage-portion of 
 young Frankland’s wife. I don’t know what 
 you think of the beginning and middle of my 
 story, Phippen, but the end ought to satisfy you, 
 at any rate. Did you ever hear of a bride and 
 bridegroom who started with fairer prospects in 
 life than our bride and bridegroom of to-day?” 
 Before Mr. Phippen could make any reply, Miss 
 Sturch put her head out of the schoolroom win- 
 dow; and seeing the two gentlemen approaching, 
 beamed on them with her invariable smile. Then 
 addressing the vicar, said in her softest tones: 
 
 “I regret extremely to trouble you, sir, but I 
 find Robert very intractable this morning with 
 his Multiplication table.” 
 
 “Where does he stick now?” asked Doctor 
 Chennery, 
 
84 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 “At seven times eight, sir,” replied Miss 
 Sturch. 
 
 “Bob!’ shouted the vicar through the win- 
 dow. “Seven times eight?” 
 
 “Forty - three,” answered the whimpering 
 voice of the invisible Bob. 
 
 “You shall have one more chance before I 
 get my cane,” said Doctor Chennery. “J^ow, 
 then, look out! Seven times—” 
 
 “My dear, good friend,” interposed Mr, Phip- 
 pen, “if you cane that very unhappy boy he will 
 scream. My nerves have been tried once this 
 morning by the camp-stool. 1 shall be totally 
 shattered if 1 hear screams. Give me time to 
 get out of the way, and allow me also to spare 
 dear Miss Sturch the sad spectacle of correction 
 (so shocking to sensibilities like hers) by asking 
 her for a little camphor julep, and so giving her 
 an excuse for getting out of the way like me. I 
 think 1 could have done without the camphor 
 julep under any other circumstances ; but I ask for 
 it unhesitatingly now, as much for Miss Sturch’s 
 sake as for the sake of my own poor nerves. — 
 Have you got camphor julep, Miss Sturch? Say 
 yes, I beg and entreat, and give me an oppor- 
 tunity of escorting you out of the way of the 
 screams.” 
 
 While Miss Sturch — whose well-trained sen- 
 sibilities were proof against the longest paternal 
 caning and the loudest filial acknowledgment 
 of it in the way of screams — tripped upstairs to 
 fetch the camphor julep, as smiling and self-pos- 
 sessed as ever, Master Bob, finding himself left 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 85 
 
 alone with his sisters in the school-room, sidled 
 up to the youngest of the two, produced from 
 the pocket of his trousers three frowsy acidulated 
 drops looking very much the worse for wear, and, 
 attacking Miss Amelia on the weak, or greedy 
 side of her character, artfully offered the drops 
 in exchange for information on the subject of 
 seven times eight. “You like ’em?” whispered 
 Bob. “Oh, don’tl!” answered Amelia. “Seven 
 timeseight?” askedBob. “Fifty-six,” answered 
 Amelia. “Sure?” said Bob. “Certain,” said 
 Amelia. The drops changed hands, and the ca- 
 tastrophe of the domestic drama changed with 
 them. Just as Miss Sturch appeared with the 
 camphor julep at the garden door, in the char- 
 acter of medical Hebe to Mr. Phippen, her in- 
 tractable pupil showed himself to his father at 
 the school-room window, in the character, arith- 
 metically speaking, of a reformed son. The cane 
 reposed for the day; and Mr. Phippen drank his 
 glass of camphor julep with a mind at ease on 
 the twin subjects of Miss Sturch’s sensibilities 
 and Master Bob’s screams, 
 
 “Most gratifying in every way,” said the 
 Martyr to Dyspepsia, smacking his lips with 
 great relish, as he drained the last drops out 
 of the glass. “My nerves are spared, Miss 
 Sturch’s feelings are spared, and the dear boy’s 
 back is spared. You have no idea how relieved 
 I feel, Chennery. Whereabouts were we in that 
 delightful story of yours when this little domestic 
 interruption occurred?” 
 
 “At the end of it, to be sure,” said the vicar. 
 
86 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 “The bride and bridegroom are some miles on 
 their way by this time to spend the honeymoon 
 at St, Swithin’s-on-Sea. Captain Treverton is 
 only left behind for a day. He received his sail- 
 ing orders on Monday, and he will be off to Ports- 
 mouth to-morrow morning to take command of 
 his ship. Though he won’t admit it in plain 
 words, I happen to know that Rosamond has per- 
 suaded him to make this his last cruise. She has 
 a plan for getting him back to Porthgenna, to 
 livo there with her husband, which I hope and 
 believe will succeed. The west rooms at the old 
 house, in one of which Mrs. Treverton died, are 
 not to be used at all by the young married couple. 
 They have engaged a builder — a sensible, practi- 
 cal man, this time — to survey the neglected north 
 rooms, with a view to their redecoration and 
 thorough repair in every way. This part of the 
 house cannot possibly be associated with any 
 melancholy recollections in Captain Treverton’s 
 mind, for neither he ndr anyone else ever entered 
 it during the period of his residence at Porth- 
 genna. Considering the change in the look of 
 the place which this project of repairing the north 
 rooms is sure to produce, and taking into account 
 also the softening effect of time on all painful 
 recollections, I should say there was a fair pros- 
 pect of Captain Treverton’s returning to pass 
 the end of his daj^s among his old tenantry. It 
 will be a great chance for Leonard Frankland 
 if he does, for he would be sure to dispose the 
 people at Porthgenna kindly toward their new 
 master. Introduced among his Cornish tenants 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 87 
 
 under Captain Treverton’s wing, Leonard is sure 
 to get on well with them, provided he abstains 
 from showing too much of the family pride 
 which he has inherited from his father. He is 
 a little given to overrate the advantages of birth 
 and the importance of rank — hut that is really 
 the only noticeable defect in his character. In 
 all other respects I can honestly say of him that 
 he deserves what he has got — the best wife in 
 the world. What a life of happiness, Phippen, 
 seems to be awaiting these lucky young people! 
 It is a bold thing to say of any mortal creatures; 
 but, look as far as I may, not a cloud can I see 
 anywhere on their future prospects.” 
 
 “You excellent creature!” exclaimed Mr. 
 Phippen, affectionately squeezing the vicar’s 
 hand. “How I enjoy hearing you! how I 
 luxuriate in your bright view of life!” 
 
 “And is it not the true view — especially in the 
 case of young Pranklandand his wife?” inquired 
 the vicar. 
 
 “If you ask me,” said Mr. Phippen, with a 
 mournful smile, and a philosophic calmness of 
 manner, “I can only answer that the direction 
 of a man’s speculative views depends— not to 
 mince the matter — on the state of his secretions. 
 Your biliary secretions, dear friend, are all right, 
 and you take bright views. My biliary secre- 
 tions are all wrong, and I take dark views. You 
 look at the future prospects of this young married 
 couple, and say there is no cloud over them. I 
 don’t dispute the assertion, not having the pleas- 
 ure of knowing either bride or bridegroom. But 
 
88 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 I look up at the sky over our heads — I remember 
 that there was not a cloud on it when we first 
 entered the garden — I now see, just over those 
 two trees growing so close together, a cloud that 
 has appeared unexpectedly from nobody knows 
 where — and I draw my own conclusions. Such, ” 
 said Mr. Phippen, ascending the garden steps on 
 his way into the house, “is my philosophy. It 
 may be tinged with bile, but it is philosophy for 
 all that.” 
 
 “All the philosophy in the world,” said the 
 vicar, following his guest up the steps, “will not 
 shake my conviction that Leonard Frankland 
 and his wife have a happy future before them.” 
 
 Mr. Phippen laughed, and, waiting on the 
 steps till his host joined him, took Doctor Chen- 
 nevy ’s arm in the friendliest manner. 
 
 “You have told a charming story, Chennery,” 
 he said, “and you have ended it with a charm- 
 ing sentiment. But, my dear friend, though 
 your healthy mind (influenced by an enviably 
 easy digestion) despises my bilious philosophy, 
 don’t quite forget the cloud over the two trees. 
 Look up at it now — it is getting darker and 
 bigger already.” 
 
 CHAPTER HI. 
 
 THE BRIDE AND BRIDEGROOxM. 
 
 Under the roof of a widowed mother, Miss 
 Mowlem lived humbly at St. Swithin’s-on-Sea. 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 89 
 
 In the spring of the year eighteen hundred and 
 forty-four, the heart of Miss Mowlem’s widowed 
 mother was gladdened by a small legacy. Turn- 
 ing over in her mind the various uses to which 
 the money might be put, the discreet old lady 
 finally decided on investing it in furniture, on 
 fitting up the first floor and the second floor of 
 her house in the best taste, and on hanging a 
 card in the parlor window to inform the public 
 that she had furnished apartments to let. By 
 the summer the apartments were ready, and the 
 card was put up. It had hardly been exhibited 
 a week before a dignified personage in black ap- 
 plied to look at the rooms, expressed himself as 
 satisfied with their appearance, and engaged 
 them for a month certain, for a newly married 
 lady and gentleman, who might be expected to 
 take possession in a few days. The dignified 
 personage in black was Captain Treverton’s 
 servant, and the lady and gentleman, who ar- 
 rived in due time to take possession, were Mr. 
 and Mrs. Frankland. 
 
 The natural interest which Mrs. Mowlem felt 
 in her youthful first lodgers was necessarily 
 vivid in its nature; but it was apathy itself 
 compared to the sentimental interest which her 
 daughter took in observing the manners and cus- 
 toms of the lady and gentleman in their capacity 
 of bride and bridegroom. From the moment 
 when Mr. and Mrs. Frankland entered the house 
 Miss Mowlem began to study them with all the 
 ardor of an industrious scholar who attacks a 
 new branch of knowledge. At every spare mo- 
 
90 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 ment of the day, this industrious young lady 
 occupied herself in stealing upstairs to collect 
 observations and in running downstairs to com- 
 municate them to her mother. By the time the 
 married couple had been in- the house a week, 
 Miss Mowlem had made such good use of her 
 eyes, ears and opportunities that she could have 
 written a seven days’ diary of the lives of Mr. 
 and Mrs. Frankland with the truth and minute- 
 ness of Mr. Samuel Pepys himself. 
 
 But, learn as much as we may, the longer we 
 live the more information there is to acquire. 
 Seven days’ patient accumulation of facts in 
 connection with the honeymoon had not placed 
 Miss Mowlem beyond the reach of further dis- 
 coveries. On the morning of the eighth day, 
 after bringing down the breakfast tray, this ob- 
 servant spinster stole upstairs again, according 
 to custom, to drink at the spring of knowledge 
 through the key-hole channel of the drawing- 
 room door. After an absence of five minutes 
 she descended to the kitchen, breathless with ex- 
 citement, to announce a fresh discovery in con- 
 nection with Mr. and Mrs. Frankland to her 
 venerable mother. 
 
 “Whatever do you think she’s doing now,” 
 cried Miss Mowlem, with widely opened eyes 
 and highly elevated hands. 
 
 “Nothing that’s useful,” answered Mrs. Mow- 
 lem, with sarcastic readiness. 
 
 “She’s actually sitting on his knee! Mother, 
 did you ever sit on father’s knee when you were 
 married?” 
 
THE BEAD SECRET. 
 
 91 
 
 4 4 Certainly not, my dear. When me and your 
 poor father married, we were neither of us flighty 
 young people, and we knew better. 5 ’ 
 
 “She’s got her bead on his shoulder,” proceeded 
 Miss Mowlem, more and more agitatedly, “and 
 her arms round his neck — both her arms, mother, 
 as tight as can be . 55 
 
 “I won’t believe it,” exclaimed Mrs. Mowlem, 
 indignantly. “A ladylike her, with riches, and 
 accomplishments, and all that, demean herself 
 like a housemaid with a sweetheart. Don’t tell 
 me, I won’t believe it!” 
 
 It was true enough, for all that. There were 
 plenty of chairs in Mrs. Mowlem’s drawing-room; 
 there were three beautifully bound books on Mrs. 
 Mowlem’s Pembroke table (the Antiquities of St. 
 Swithin’s, Smallridge’s Sermons’ andKlopstock’s 
 Messiah in English prose)— Mrs. Frankland might 
 have sat on purple morocco leather, stuffed with 
 the best horse-hair, might have informed and 
 soothed her mind with archaeological diversions, 
 with orthodox native theology, and with devo- 
 tional poetry of foreign origin — and yet, so friv- 
 olous is the nature of woman, she was perverse 
 enough to prefer doing nothing, and perching 
 herself uncomfortably on her husband’s knee! 
 
 She sat for some time in the undignified posi- 
 tion which Miss Mowlem had described with 
 such graphic correctness to her mother — then 
 drew back a little, raised her head, and looked 
 earnestly into the quiet, meditative face of the 
 blind man. 
 
 “Lenny, you are very silent this morning,” 
 
92 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 she said. “What are you thinking about? If 
 you will tell me all your thoughts, I will tell 
 you all mine.” 
 
 “Would you really care to hear all my 
 thoughts?” asked Leonard. 
 
 “Yes; all. I shall be jealous of any thoughts 
 that you keep to yourself. Tell me what you 
 were thinking of just now! Me?” 
 
 “Not exactly of you.” 
 
 “More shame for you. Are you tired of me 
 in eight days? I have not thought of anybody 
 but you ever since we have been here. Ah! you 
 laugh. Oh, Lenny, I do love you so; how can 
 I think of anybody but you? No! I shan’t kiss 
 you. I want to know what you were thinking 
 about first.” 
 
 “Of a dream, Rosamond, that I had last night. 
 Ever since the first days of my blindness — Why, 
 I thought you were not going to kiss me again 
 till I had told you what I was thinking about?” 
 
 “I can’t help kissing you, Lenny, when you 
 talk of the loss of your sight. Tell me, my poor 
 love, do I help to make up for that loss? Are 
 you happier than you used to be? and have I 
 some share in making that happiness, though it 
 is ever so little?” 
 
 She turned her head away as she spoke, but 
 Leonard was too quick for her. His inquiring- 
 fingers touched her cheek. “Rosamond, you are 
 crying,” he said. 
 
 “I crying!” she answered, with a sudden as- 
 sumption of gayety. “No,” she continued, after 
 a moment’s pause. “I will never deceive you, 
 
THE HEAD SECRET. 
 
 93 
 
 love, even in the veriest trifle. My eyes serve 
 for both of us now, don’t they? you depend on 
 me for all that your touch fails to tell you, and 
 I must never be unworthy of my trust — must I? 
 I did cry, Lenny— but only a very little. I don’t 
 know how it was, but I never, in all my life, 
 seemed to pity you and feel for you as I did just 
 at that moment. Never mind, I’ve done now. 
 Go on — do go on with what you were going to 
 say.” 
 
 “I was going to say, Rosamond, that I have 
 observed one curious thing about myself since 1 
 lost my sight. I dream a great deal, but I never 
 dream of myself as a blind man. I often visit 
 in my dreams places that I saw and people whom 
 I knew when I had my sight, and though I feel 
 as much myself, at those visionary times, as I 
 am now when I am wide-awake, I never by any 
 chance feel blind. I wander about all sorts of 
 old walks in my sleep, and never grope my way. 
 I talk to all sorts of old friends in my sleep, and 
 see the expression in their faces which, waking, 
 I shall never see again. I have lost my sight 
 more than a year now, and yet it was like the 
 shock of a new discovery to me to wake up last 
 night from my dream, and remember suddenly 
 that I was blind.” 
 
 4 4 What dream was it, Lenny?” 
 
 4 4 Only a dream of the place where I first met 
 you when we were both children. I saw the 
 glen, as it was years ago, with the great twisted 
 roots of the trees, and the blackberry bushes twin- 
 ing about them in a still shadowed light that 
 
94 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 came through thick leaves from the rainy sky. I 
 saw the mud on the walk in the middle of the 
 glen, with the marks of the cows’ hoofs in some 
 places, and the sharp circles in others where some 
 countrywoman had been lately trudging by on 
 pattens. I saw the muddy water running down 
 on either side of the path after the shower; and 
 I saw you, Rosamond, a naughty girl, all cov- 
 ered with clay and wet— just as you were in the 
 reality — soiling your bright blue pelisse and your 
 pretty little chubby hands by making a dam to 
 stop the running water, and laughing at the in- 
 dignation of your nurse-maid when she tried to 
 pull you away and take you home, I saw all 
 that exactly as it really was in the by-gone time; 
 but, strangely enough, I did not see myself as 
 the boy I then was. You were a little girl, and 
 the glen was in its old neglected state, and yet, 
 though I was all in the past so far, I was in the 
 present as regarded myself. Throughout the 
 whole dream I was uneasily conscious of being 
 a grown man — of being, in short, exactly what 
 I am now, , excepting always that I was not 
 blind.” 
 
 4 ‘ What a memory you must have, love, to be 
 able to recall all those little circumstances after 
 the years that have passed since that wet day in 
 the glen ! How well you recollect what I was 
 as a child! Do you remember in the same vivid 
 way what I looked like a year ago when you 
 saw me — Oh, Lenny, it almost breaks my heart 
 to think of it! — when you saw me for the last 
 time?” 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 95 
 
 “Do I remember, Rosamond! My last look 
 at your face has painted your portrait in my 
 memory in colors that can never change. I have 
 many pictures in my mind, but your picture is 
 the clearest and brightest of all.” 
 
 “And it is the picture of me at my best- — 
 painted in my youth, dear, when my face was 
 always confessing how I loved you, though my 
 lips said nothing. There is some consolation in 
 that thought. When years have passed over us 
 both, Lenny, and when time begins to set his 
 mark on me, you will not say to yourself, 6 My 
 Rosamond is beginning to fade; she grows less 
 and less like what she was when I married her,’ 
 I shall never grow old, love, for you ! The bright 
 young picture in your mind will still be my pict- 
 ure when my cheeks are wrinkled and my hair 
 is gray!” 
 
 “Still your picture — always the same, grow 
 as old as I may.” 
 
 “But are you sure it is clear in every part? 
 Are there no doubtful lines, no unfinished cor- 
 ners anywhere? I have not altered yet since 
 you saw me — I am just what I was a year ago. 
 Suppose I ask you what I am like now, could 
 you tell me without making a mistake?” 
 
 “Try me.” 
 
 “May I? You shall be put through a com- 
 plete catechism ! I don’t tire you sitting on your 
 knee, do I? Well, in the first place, h6w tall 
 am I when we both stand up side by side?” 
 “You just reach to my ear.” 
 
 “Quite right, to begin with. Now for the 
 
WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 next question. What does my hair look like in 
 your portrait?” 
 
 “It is dark brown— there is a great deal of it 
 — and it grows rather too low on your forehead 
 for the taste of some people — ” 
 
 “Never mind about 6 some people’ ; does it grow 
 too low for your taste?” 
 
 “Certainly not. I like it to grow low; I like 
 all those little natural waves that it makes against 
 your forehead; I like it taken back, as yon wear 
 it,, in plain bands, which leave your ears and 
 your cheeks visible; and above all things, I like 
 that big glossy knot that it makes where it is all 
 gathered up together at the back of your head.” 
 “Oh, Lenny, how well you remember me, so 
 far! Now go a little lower.” 
 
 “A little lower is down to your eyebrows. 
 They are very nicely shaped eyebrows in my 
 picture — -” 
 
 “Yes, but they have a fault. Come! tell me 
 what the fault is.” 
 
 “They are not quite so strongly marked as they 
 might be.” 
 
 “Right again! And my eyes?” 
 
 “Brown eyes, large eyes, wakeful eyes, that 
 are always looking about them. Eyes that can 
 be very soft at one time, and very bright at an- 
 other. Eyes tender and clear, just at the present 
 moment, but capable, on very slight provocation, 
 of opening rather too widely, and looking rather 
 too brilliantly resolute.” 
 
 “Mind you don’t make them look so now! 
 What is there below the eyes?” 
 
THE HEAD SECRET. 
 
 97 
 
 “A nose that is not quite big enough to be in 
 proper proportion with them. A nose that has a 
 slight tendency to be — ” 
 
 “Don’t say the horrid English word! Spare 
 my feelings by putting it in French. Say re- 
 trousse , and skip over my nose as fast as pos- 
 sible.” 
 
 “I must stop at the mouth, then, and own that 
 it is as near perfection as possible. The lips are 
 lovely in shape, fresh in color, and irresistible in 
 expression. They smile in my portrait, and I 
 am sure they are smiling at me now.” 
 
 “How could they do otherwise when they are 
 getting so much praise? My vanity whispers to 
 me that I had better stop the catechism here. If 
 I talk about my complexion, I shall only hear 
 that it is of the dusky sort ; and that there is 
 never red enough in it except when I am walk 
 ing, or confused, or angry. If I ask a question 
 about my figure, I shall receive the dreadful an- 
 swer, 4 You are dangerously inclined to be fat.’ 
 If I say, How do I dress? I shall be told, Not 
 soberly enough ; you are as fond as a child of 
 gay colors — No! I will venture no more ques- 
 tions. But, vanity apart, Lenny, I am so glad, 
 so proud, so happy to find that you can keep the 
 image of me clearly in your mind. I shall do 
 my best now to look and dress like your last re- 
 membrance of me. My love of loves! I will 
 do you credit — I will try if I can’t make you 
 envied for your wife. You deserve a hundred 
 thousand kisses for saying your catechism so 
 well — and there they are!” 
 
 D— Vol. 16 
 
WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 58 
 
 While Mrs. Frankland was conferring the re- 
 ward of merit on her husband, the sound of a 
 faint, small, courteously significant cough made 
 itself timidly audible in a corner of the room. 
 Turning round instantly, with the quickness that 
 characterized all her actions, Mrs. Frankland, 
 to her horror and indignation, confronted Miss 
 Mowlem standing just inside the door, with a 
 letter in her hand and a blush of sentimental 
 agitation on her simpering face. 
 
 “You wretch! how dare you come in without 
 knocking at the door?” cried Rosamond, start- 
 ing to her feet with a stamp, and passing in an 
 instant from the height of fondness to the height 
 of indignation. 
 
 Miss Mowlem shook guiltily before the bright, 
 angry eyes that looked througli and through 
 her, turned very pale, held out the letter apolo- 
 getically, and said in her meekest tones that she 
 was very sorry. 
 
 “Sorry!” exclaimed Rosamond, getting even 
 more irritated by the apology than she had been 
 by the intrusion, and showing it by another 
 stamp of the foot; “who cares whether you are 
 sorry? I don’t want your sorrow— I won’t have 
 it. I never was so insulted in my life — never, 
 you mean, prying, inquisitive creature!” 
 
 “Rosamond! Rosamond! pray don’t forget 
 yourself!” interposed the quiet voice of Mr. 
 Frankland. 
 
 “Lenny, dear, I can’t help it! That creature 
 would drive a saint mad. She has been prying 
 after us ever since we have been here- — you have, 
 
THE HEAD SECRET. 
 
 99 
 
 you ill-bred, indelicate woman ! — I suspected it 
 before — I am certain of it now ! Must we lock 
 our doors to keep you out? — we won’t lock our 
 doors! Fetch the bill! We give you warning. 
 Mr. Frankland gives you warning — don’t you, 
 Lenny? I’ll pack up all your things, dear: she 
 shan’t touch one of them, Go downstairs and 
 make out your bill, and give your mother warn- 
 ing, Mr. Frankland says he won’t have his 
 rooms burst into, and his doors listened at by 
 inquisitive women — and I say so, too. Put that 
 letter down on the table — unless you want to 
 open it and read it — put it down, you audacious 
 woman, and fetch the bill, and tell your mother 
 we are going to leave the house directly!” 
 
 At this dreadful threat, Miss Mowlem, who 
 was soft and timid, as well as curious, by nature, 
 wrung her hands in despair, and overflowed 
 meekly in a shower of tears. 
 
 “Oh! good gracious heavens above!” cried 
 Miss Mowlem, addressing herself distractedly to 
 the ceiling, “what will mother say! whatever 
 will become of me now! Oh, ma’am! I thought 
 I knocked — I did, indeed ! Oh, ma’am ! I humbly 
 beg pardon, and I’ll never intrude again. Oh, 
 ma’am! mother’s a widow, and this is the first 
 time we have let the lodgings, and the furniture’s 
 swallowed up all our money, and oh, ma’am! 
 ma’am! how I shall catch it if you go!” Here 
 words failed Miss Mowlem, and hysterical sobs 
 pathetically supplied their place. 
 
 “Rosamond!” said Mr. Frankland, There 
 was an accent of sorrow in his voice this time, 
 
100 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE QOLLINS. 
 
 as well as an accent of remonstrance. Rosa- 
 mond’s quick ear caught the alteration in his 
 tone. As she looked round at him her color 
 changed, her head drooped a little, and her whole 
 expression altered on the instant. She stole gen- 
 tly to her husband’s side with softened, saddened 
 eyes, and put her lips caressingly close to his ear. 
 
 “ Lenny,” she whispered, “have I made you 
 angry with me?” 
 
 “I can’t be angry with you, Rosamond,” was 
 the quiet answer. “1 only wish, love, that you 
 could have controlled yourself a little sooner.” 
 
 “I am so sorry — so very, very sorry!” The 
 fresh, soft lips came closer still to his ear as 
 they whispered these penitent words; and the 
 cunning little hand crept up tremblingly round 
 his neck and began to play with his hair. “So 
 sorry, and so ashamed of myself ! But it was 
 enough to make almost anybody angry, just at 
 first— wasn’t it, dear? , And you will forgive me 
 — won’t you, Lenny? — if I promise never to be- 
 have so badly again? Never mind that wretched 
 whimpering fool at the door,” said Rosamond, 
 undergoing a slight relapse as she looked round 
 at Miss Mowlem, standing immovably repentant 
 against the wall, with her face buried in a dingy- 
 white pocket-handkerchief. “I’ll make it up 
 with her; I’ll stop her crying; I’ll take her out 
 of the room; I’ll do anything in the world that’s 
 kind to her, if you will only forgive me.” 
 
 “A polite word or two is all that is wanted — 
 nothing more than a polite word or two,” said 
 Mr. Frankland, rather coldly and constrainedly. 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 101 
 
 “Don’t cry anymore, for goodness’ sake!” said 
 Rosamond, walking straight up to Miss Mowlem, 
 and pulling the dingy-white pocket-handkerchief 
 away from her face without the least ceremony. 
 “There! leave off, will you? I am very sorry 
 I was in a passion — though you had no business 
 to come in without knocking — I never meant to 
 distress you, and I’ll never say a hard word to 
 you again, if you will only knock at the door for 
 the future, and leave off crying now. Do leave 
 off crying, you tiresome creature! We are not 
 going away. We don’t want your mother, or 
 the bill, or anything. Here! here’s a present 
 for you, if you’ll leave off crying, Here’s my 
 neck-ribbon — I saw you trying it on yesterday 
 afternoon, when I was lying down on the bed- 
 room sofa and you thought I was asleep. Never 
 mind; I’m not angry about that. Take the rib- 
 bon-take it as a peace-offering, if you won’t as 
 a present. You shall take it! — No, I don’t mean 
 that. — I mean, please take it! There, I’ve pinned 
 it on. And now, shake hands and be friends, and 
 go upstairs and see how it looks in the glass.” 
 
 With these words, Mrs. Frankland opened the 
 door, administered, under the pretense of a pat 
 on the shoulder, a good-humored shove to the 
 amazed and embarrassed Miss Mowlem, closed 
 the door again, and resumed her place in a mo- 
 ment on her husband’s knee. 
 
 “I’ve made it up with her, dear. I’ve sent 
 her away with my bright green ribbon, and it 
 makes her look as yellow as a guinea, and as 
 ugly as — ” Rosamond stopped, and looked anx- 
 
102 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 iously into Mr. Frankland’s face. “Lenny!” she 
 said, sadly, putting her cheek against his, “are 
 you angry with me still?” 
 
 “My love, I was never angry with you. I 
 never can be.” 
 
 “I will always keep my temper down for the 
 future, Lenny!” 
 
 “I am sure you will, Rosamond. But never 
 mind that. 1 am not thinking of your temper 
 now.” 
 
 “Of what, then?” 
 
 “Of the apology you made to Miss Mowlem.” 
 “Did I not say enough? I’ll call her back if 
 you like — I’ll make another penitent speech — 
 I’ll do anything but kiss her. 1 really can’t do 
 that — I can’t kiss anybody now but you.” 
 
 “My dear, dear love, how very much like a 
 child you are still in some of your ways! You 
 said more than enough to Miss Mowlem — far 
 more. And if you will pardon me for making 
 the remark, I think in your generosity and good- 
 nature you a little forgot yourself with the young 
 woman. I don’t so much allude to your giving 
 her the ribbon — though, perhaps, that might have 
 been done a little less familiarly — but, from what 
 I heard you say, I infer that you actually went 
 the length of shaking hands with her.” 
 
 “Was that wrong? I thought it was the kind- 
 est way of making it up.” 
 
 “My dear, it is an excellent way of making it 
 up between equals. But consider the difference 
 between your station in society and Miss Mow- 
 lem’s.” 
 
THE BEAD SECRET. 
 
 103 
 
 “I will try and consider it, if you wish me, 
 love. But I think I take after my father, who 
 never troubles his head (dear old man!) about 
 differences of station. I can’t help liking people 
 who are kind to me, without thinking whether 
 they are above my rank or below it; and when 
 I got cool, I must confess X felt just as vexed with 
 myself for frightening and distressing that un- 
 lucky Miss Mowlem as if her station had been 
 equal to mine. X will try to think as you do, 
 Lenny ; but X am very much afraid that X have 
 got, without knowing exactly how, to be what 
 the newspapers call a Radical.” 
 
 “My dear Rosamond! don’t talk of yourself 
 in that way, even in joke. You ought to be 
 the last person in the world to confuse those dis- 
 tinctions in rank on which the whole well-being 
 of society depends.” 
 
 “Does it really? And yet, dear, we don’t 
 seem to have been created with such very wide 
 distinctions between us. We have all got the 
 same number of arms and legs; we are all 
 hungry and thirsty, and hot in the summer and 
 cold in the winter; we all laugh when we are 
 pleased, and cry when we are distressed; and, 
 surely, we have all got very much the same feel- 
 ings, whether we are high or whether we are 
 low. I could not have loved you better, Lenny, 
 than I do now if I had been a duchess, or less 
 than I do now if I had been a servant-girl.” 
 
 “My love, you are not a servant-girl. And, 
 as to what you say about being a duchess, let me 
 remind you that you are not so much below a 
 
104 
 
 WORKS OR WILKIR COLLINS. 
 
 duchess as you seem to think. Many a lady of 
 high title cannot look back on such a line of an- 
 cestors as yours. Your father’s family, Rosa- 
 mond, is one of the oldest in England : even my 
 father’s family hardly dates back so far; and we 
 were landed gentry when many a name in the 
 peerage was not heard of. It is really almost 
 laughably absurd to hear you talking of your- 
 self as a Radical.” 
 
 “I won’t talk of myself so again, Lenny — only 
 don’t look so serious. I will be a Tory, dear, if 
 you will give me a kiss, and let me sit on your 
 knee a little longer. ’ ’ 
 
 Mr. Frankland’s gravity was not proof against 
 his wife’s change of political principles, and the 
 conditions which she annexed to it. His face 
 cleared up, and he laughed almost as gayly as 
 Rosamond herself. 
 
 “By-the-by,” he said, after an interval of si- 
 lence had given him time to collect his thoughts, 
 “did I not hear you tell Miss Mowlem to put a 
 letter down on the table? Is it a letter for you 
 or for me?” 
 
 “ Ah! I forgot all about the letter,” said Rosa- 
 mond, running to the table. “It is for you, 
 Lenny — and, goodness me! here’s the Porth- 
 genna postmark on it.” 
 
 “It must be from the builder whom I sent 
 down to the old house about the repairs. Lend 
 me your eyes, love, and let us hear what he says. ” 
 
 Rosamond opened the letter, drew a stool to 
 her husband’s feet, and, sitting down with her 
 arms on his knees, read as follows : 
 
THE DEAD SECRET, 
 
 105 
 
 6 'To Leonard Frankland, Esq. : 
 
 "Sir — Agreeably to the instructions with 
 which you favored me, 1 have proceeded to 
 survey Porthgenna Tower, with a view to as- 
 certaining what repairs the house in general, 
 and the north side of it in particular, may stand 
 in need of. 
 
 "As regards the outside, a little cleaning and 
 new pointing is all that the building wants. 
 The walls and foundations seem made to last 
 forever. Such strong, solid work I never set 
 eyes on before. 
 
 "Inside the house, I cannot report so favorably. 
 The rooms in the west front, having been in- 
 habited during the period of Captain Treverton’s 
 occupation, and having been well looked after 
 since, are in tolerably sound condition. I should 
 say two hundred pounds would cover the expense 
 of all repairs in my line which these rooms need. 
 This sum would not include the restoration of the 
 western staircase, which has given a little in some 
 places, and the banisters of which are decidedly 
 insecure from the first to the second landing. 
 From twenty-five to thirty pounds would suffice 
 to set this all right. 
 
 "In the rooms on the north front, the state of 
 dilapidation, from top to bottom, is as bad as 
 can be. From all that I could ascertain, nobody 
 ever went near these rooms in Captain Trever- 
 ton’s time, or has ever entered them since. The 
 people who now keep the house have a supersti- 
 tious dread of opening any of the north doors, in 
 consequence of the time that has elapsed since 
 
106 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 any living being has passed through them. No- 
 body would volunteer to accompany me in my 
 survey, and nobody could tell me which keys 
 fitted which room doors in any part of the north 
 side. I could find no plan containing the names 
 or numbers of the rooms; nor, to my surprise, 
 were there any labels attached separately to the 
 keys. They were given to me, all hanging to- 
 gether on a large ring, with an ivory label on it, 
 which was only marked — Keys of the North 
 Rooms. I take the liberty of mentioning these 
 particulars in order to account for my having, 
 as you might think, delayed my stay at Porth- 
 germa Tower longer than is needful. I lost 
 nearly a whole day in taking the keys off the 
 ring, and fitting them at hazard to the right 
 doors. And I occupied some hours of another 
 day in marking each door with a number on 
 the outside, and putting a corresponding label 
 to each key, before I replaced it on the ring, 
 in order to prevent the possibility of future 
 errors and delays. 
 
 “As I hope to furnish you, in a few days, with 
 a detailed estimate of the repairs needed in the 
 north part of the house, from basement to roof, I 
 need only say here that they will occupy some 
 time, and will be of the most extensive uature. 
 The beams of the staircase and the flooring of the 
 first story have got the dry rot. The damp in some 
 rooms, and the rats in others, have almost de- 
 stroyed the wainscotings. Four of the mantel- 
 pieces have given out from the walls, and all the 
 ceilings are either stained, cracked, or peeled away 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 107 
 
 in large patches. The flooring is, in general, in 
 a better condition than I had anticipated; but 
 the shutters and window-sashes are so warped 
 as to be useless. It is only fair to acknowledge 
 that the expense of setting all these things to 
 rights — that is to say, of making the rooms safe 
 and habitable, and of putting them in proper 
 condition for the upholsterer — will be consider- 
 able. I would respectfully suggest, in the event 
 of your feeling any surprise or dissatisfaction at 
 the amount of my estimate, that you should name 
 a friend in whom you place confidence, to go over 
 the north rooms with me, keeping my estimate 
 in his hand. I will undertake to prove, if need- 
 ful, the necessity of each separate repair, and the 
 justice of each separate charge for the same, to 
 the satisfaction of any competent and impartial 
 person whom you may please to select. 
 
 “Trusting to send you the estimate in a few 
 days, I remain, sir, 
 
 “Your humble servant, 
 
 “Thomas Horlock.” 
 
 “A very honest straightforward letter,” said 
 Mr. Frankland. 
 
 “I wish he had sent the estimate with it,” said 
 Rosamond. “Why could not the provoking man 
 tell us at once in round numbers what the repairs 
 will really cost?” 
 
 “I suspect, my dear, he was afraid of shocking 
 us, if he mentioned the amount in round num- 
 bers.” 
 
 “That horrid money! It is always getting in 
 
108 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 one’s way, and upsetting one’s plans.. If we 
 haven’t got enough, let us go and borrow of 
 somebody who has. Do you mean to dispatch 
 a friend to Porthgenna to go over the house with 
 Mr. Horlock? If you do I know who I wish you 
 would send.” 
 
 “Who?” 
 
 “Me, if you please— uuder your escort, of 
 course. Don’t laugh, Lenny; I would be very 
 sharp with Mr. Horlock; I would object to every 
 one of his charges, and beat him down without 
 mercy. I once saw a surveyor go over a house, 
 and I know exactly what to do. You stamp on 
 the floor, and knock at the walls, and scrape at 
 the brick-work, and look up all the chimneys, 
 and out of all the windows — sometimes you make 
 notes in a little book, sometimes you measure 
 with a foot-rule, sometimes you sit down all of 
 a sudden, and think profoundly — and the end 
 of it is that you say the house will do very well 
 indeed, if the tenant will pull out his purse and 
 put it in proper repair.” 
 
 “Well done, Rosamond! You have one more 
 accomplishment than I knew of; and I suppose 
 I have no choice now but to give you an oppor- 
 tunity of displaying it. If you don’t object, my 
 dear, to being associated with a professional as- 
 sistant in the important business of checking 
 Mr. Horlock’s estimate, I don’t object to paying 
 a short visit to Porthgenna whenever you please 
 — especially now I know that the west rooms are 
 still habitable.” 
 
 “Oh, how kind of you! how pleased I shall 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 109 
 
 be! how I shall enjoy seeing the old place again 
 before it is altered! I was only five years old, 
 Lenny, when we left Porthgenna, and I am so 
 anxious to see what I can remember of it, after 
 such a long, long absence as mine. Do you 
 know, I never saw anything of that ruinous 
 north side of the house? — and I do so dote on 
 old rooms! We will go all through them, 
 Lenny. You shall have hold of my hand, and 
 look with my eyes, and make as many discov- 
 eries as I do. I prophesy that we shall see 
 ghosts, and find treasures, and hear mysterious 
 noises — and, oh heavens! what clouds of dust 
 we shall have to go through. Pouf! the very 
 anticipation of them chokes me already!’ 5 
 “Now we are on the subject of Porthgenna, 
 Rosamond, let us be serious for one moment. It 
 is clear to me that these repairs of the north 
 rooms will cost a large sum of money. Now, 
 my love, I consider no sum of money misspent, 
 however large it may be, if it procures you pleas- 
 ure. 1 am with you heart and soul—” 
 
 He paused. His wife’s caressing arms were 
 twining round his neck again, and her cheek 
 was laid gently against his. “Go on, Lenny,” 
 she said, with such an accent of tenderness in 
 the utterance of those three simple words that 
 his speech failed him for the moment, and all 
 his sensations seemed absorbed in the one luxury 
 of listening. “Rosamond, ” he whispered, “there 
 is no music in the world that touches me as your 
 voice touches me now ! I feel it all through me, 
 as I used sometimes to feel the sky at night, in 
 
110 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 the time when I could see. 53 Ashe spoke, the 
 caressing arms tightened round his neck, and 
 the fervent lips softly took the place which the 
 cheek had occupied. “Go on, Lenny,” they re- 
 peated, happily as well as tenderly now, “you 
 said you were with me, heart and soul. With 
 me in what?” 
 
 “In your project, love, for inducing your fa- 
 ther to retire from his profession after this last 
 cruise, and in your hope of prevailing on him to 
 pass the evening of his days happily with us at 
 Porthgenna. If the money spent in restoring the 
 north rooms, so that we may all live in them for 
 the future, does indeed so alter the look of the 
 place to his eyes as to dissipate his old sorrow- 
 ful associations with it, and to make his living 
 there again a pleasure instead of a pain to him, 
 I shall regard it as money well laid out. But, 
 Rosamond, are you sure of the success of your 
 plan before we undertake it? Have you dropped 
 any hint of the Porthgenna project to your 
 father?” 
 
 “I told him, Lenny, that 1 should never be quite 
 comfortable unless he left the sea and came to 
 live with us — and he said that he would. I did 
 not mention a word about Porthgenna — nor did 
 he — but he knows that we shall live there when 
 we are settled, and he made no conditions when 
 he promised that our home should be his home.” 
 
 “Is the loss of your mother the only sad asso- 
 ciation he has with the place?” 
 
 “Not quite. There is another association, 
 which has never been mentioned, but which I 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 Ill 
 
 may tell you, because there are no secrets be- 
 tween us. My mother had a favorite maid who 
 lived with her from the time of her marriage, 
 andwhowas, accidentally, the only person present 
 in her room when she died. I remember hearing 
 of this woman as being odd in her look and man- 
 ner, and no great favorite with anybody but her 
 mistress. Well, on the morning of my mother’s 
 death, she disappeared from the house in the 
 strangest way, leaving behind her a most singu- 
 lar and mysterious letter to my father, asserting 
 that in my mother’s dying moments a Secret 
 had been confided to her which she was charged 
 to divulge to her master when her mistress was 
 no more; and adding that she was afraid to men- 
 tion this secret, and that, to avoid being ques- 
 tioned about it, she had resolved on leaving 
 the house forever. She had been gone some 
 hours when the letter was opened — and she has 
 never been seen or heard of since that time. 
 This circumstance seemed to make almost as 
 strong an impression on my father’s mind as 
 the shock of my mother’s death. Our neigh- 
 bors and servants all thought (as I think) that 
 the woman was mad; but he never agreed with 
 them, and I know that he has neither destroyed 
 nor forgotten the letter from that time to this.” 
 “ A strange event, Rosamond — a very strange 
 event. I don’t wonder that it has made a last- 
 ing impression on him.” 
 
 “ Depend upon it, Lenny, the servants and the 
 neighbors were right — The woman was mad. 
 Any way, however, it was certainly a singular 
 
112 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 ©vent in our family. All old houses have their 
 romance — and that is the romance of our house. 
 But years and years have passed since then; and, 
 what with time, and what with the changes we 
 are going to make, I have no fear that my dear, 
 good father will spoil our plans. Give him a 
 new north garden at Porthgenna, where he can 
 walk the decks, as I call it — give him new 
 north rooms to live in — and I will answer for 
 the result. But all this is in the future; let us 
 get back to the present time. When shall we 
 pay our flying visit to Porthgenna, Lenny, and 
 plunge into the important business of checking 
 Mr. Horlock’s estimate for the repairs.” 
 
 “We have three weeks more to stay here, 
 Rosamond.” 
 
 “Yes; and then we must go back to Long 
 Beckley. I promised that best and biggest of 
 men, the vicar, that we would pay our first visit 
 to him. He is sure not to let us off under three 
 weeks or a month.” 
 
 “In that case, then, we had better say two 
 months hence for the visit to Porthgenna. Is 
 your writing-case in the room, Rosamond?” 
 
 “Yes; close by us, on the table.” 
 
 “Write to Mr. Horlock then, love— and appoint 
 a meeting in two months’ time at the old house. 
 Tell him also, as we must not trust ourselves on 
 unsafe stairs— especially considering how de- 
 pendent I am on banisters — to have the west 
 staircase repaired immediately. And, while you 
 have the pen in your hand, perhaps it may save 
 trouble if you write a second note to the house- 
 
THE DEAD SECRET, 
 
 118 
 
 keeper at Porthgenna, to tell her when she may 
 expect us.” 
 
 Rosamond sat down gayly at the table, and 
 dipped her pen in the ink with a little flourish of 
 triumph. 
 
 “In two months,” she exclaimed, joyfully, “I 
 shall see the dear old place again! In two 
 months, Lenny, our profane feet will be rais- 
 ing the dust in the solitudes of the North 
 Rooms.” 
 
 BOOK III . 
 
 CHAPTER L 
 
 TIMONOF LONDON. 
 
 % 
 
 Timon of Athens retreated from an ungrate- 
 ful world to a cavern by the sea-shore, vented 
 his misanthropy in magnificent poetry, and en- 
 joyed the honor of being called “My Lord,” 
 Timon of London took refuge from his species 
 in a detached house at Bays water — expressed his 
 sentiments in shabby prose— and was only ad- 
 dressed as “Mr. Treverton,” The one point of 
 resemblance which it is possible to set against 
 these points of contrast between the twp Timons 
 consisted in this: that their misanthropy was, 
 at least, genuine. Both were incorrigible haters 
 of mankind. 
 
 There is probably no better proof of the ac- 
 
114 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 curacy of that definition of man which describes 
 him as an imitative animal, than is to be found 
 in the fact that the verdict of humanity is al- 
 ways against any individual member of the 
 species who presumes to differ from the rest. A 
 man is one of a flock, and his wool must be of 
 the general color. He must drink when the rest 
 drink, and graze where the rest graze. Let him 
 walk at noonday with perfect composure of 
 countenance and decency of gait, with not the 
 slightest appearance of vacancy in his eyes or 
 wildness in his manner, from one end of Oxford 
 Street to the other without his hat, and let every 
 one of the thousands of hat- wearing people whom 
 he passes be asked separately what they think of 
 him, how many will abstain from deciding in- 
 stantly that he is mad, on no other evidence than 
 the evidence of his bare head? Nay, more; let 
 him politely stop each one of thos^p passengers, 
 and let him explain in the plainest form of words, 
 and in the most intelligible manner, that his head 
 feels more easy and comfortable without a hat 
 than with one, how many of his fellow-mortals 
 who decided that he was mad on first meeting 
 him, will change their opinion when they part 
 from him after hearing his explanation? In the 
 vast majority of cases, the very explanation itself 
 would be accepted as an excellent additional proof 
 that the. intellect of the hatless man was indis- 
 putably deranged. 
 
 Starting at the beginning of the march of life 
 out of step with the rest of the mortal regiment, 
 Andrew Treverton paid the penalty of his irregu- 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 115 
 
 larity from his earliest days. He was a phe- 
 nomenon in the nursery, a butt at school, and 
 a victim at college. The ignorant nurse-maid 
 reported him as a queer child ; the learned school- 
 master genteelly varied the phrase, and described 
 him as an eccentric boy ; the college tutor, harp- 
 ing on the same string, facetiously likened his 
 head to a roof, and said there was a slate loose in 
 it. When a slate is loose, if nobody fixes it in 
 time, it ends by falling off. In the roof of a 
 house we view that consequence as »a necessary 
 result of neglect; in the roof of a man’s head we 
 are generally very much shocked and surprised 
 by it. 
 
 Overlooked in some directions and misdirected 
 in others, Andrew’s uncouth capacities for good 
 tried helplessly to shape themselves. The better 
 side of his eccentricity took the form of friend- 
 ship. He became violently and unintelligibly 
 fond of one among his school-fellows — a boy who 
 treated him with no especial consideration in the 
 playground, and who gave him no particular help 
 in the class. Nobody could discover the smallest 
 reason for it, but it was nevertheless a notorious 
 fact that Andrew’s pocket-money was always at 
 this boy’s service, that Andrew ran about after 
 him like a dog, and that Andrew over and over 
 again took the blame and punishment on his 
 own shoulders which ought to have fallen on 
 the shoulders of his friend. When, a few years 
 afterward, that friend went to college, the lad 
 petitioned to be sent to college, too, and attached 
 himself there more closely than ever to the 
 
116 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 strangely chosen comrade of his school- boy days. 
 Such devotion as this must have touched any 
 man possessed of ordinary generosity of disposi- 
 tion. It made no impression whatever on the 
 inherently base nature of Andrew’s friend. 
 After three years of intercourse at college — in- 
 tercourse which was all selfishness on one side 
 and all self-sacrifice on the other— the end came, 
 and the light was let in cruelly on Andrew’s 
 eyes. "When his purse grew light in his friend’s 
 hand, and when his acceptances were most nu- 
 merous on his friend’s bills, the brother of his 
 honest affection, the hero of his simple admira- 
 tion, abandoned him to embarrassment, to ridi- 
 cule, and to solitude, without the faintest affec- 
 tation of penitence — without so much even as a 
 word of farewell. 
 
 He returned to his father’s house, a soured 
 man at the outset of life— returned to be upbraided 
 for the debts that he had contracted to serve the 
 man who had heartlessly outraged and shame- 
 lessly cheated him. He left home in disgrace to 
 travel on a small allowance. The travels were 
 protracted, and they ended, as such travels often 
 do, in settled expatriation. The life he led, the 
 company he kept, during his long residence 
 abroad, did him permanent and fatal harm. 
 When he at last returned to England, he pre- 
 sented himself in the most hopeless of all char- 
 acters— the character of a man who believes in 
 nothing. At this period of his life, his one 
 chance for the future lay in the good results 
 which his brother’s influence over him might 
 
THE BEAD SECRET. 
 
 117 
 
 have produced. The two had hardly resumed 
 their intercourse of early days, when the quarrel 
 occasioned by Captain Treverton’s marriage broke 
 it off forever. From that time, for all social in- 
 terests and purposes, Andrew was a lost man. 
 From that time he met the last remonstrances 
 that were made to him by the last friends who 
 took any interest in his fortunes always with 
 the same bitter and hopeless form of reply: “My 
 dearest friend forsook and cheated me,” he would 
 say. “My only brother has quarreled with me 
 for the sake of a play-actress. What am I to ex- 
 pect of the rest of mankind after that? I have 
 suffered twice for my belief in others — I will 
 never suffer a third time. The wise man is the 
 man who does not disturb his heart at its natural 
 occupation of pumping blood through his body. 
 I have gathered m)^ experience abroad and at 
 home, and have learned enough to see through 
 the delusions of life which look like realities to 
 other men’s eyes. My business in this world is 
 to eat, drink, sleep, and die. Everything else 
 is superfluity — and I have done with it.” 
 
 The few people who ever cared to inquire about 
 him again, after being repulsed by such an avowal 
 as this, heard of him three or four years after his 
 brother’s marriage in the neighborhood of Bavs- 
 water. Local report described him as having- 
 bought the first cottage he could find which was 
 cut off from other houses by a wall all around 
 it. It was further rumored that he was living- 
 like a miser; that he had got an old man-servant, 
 named Shrowl, who was even a greater enemy 
 
118 
 
 WORKS OP WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 to mankind than himself; that he allowed no 
 living soul, not even an occasional charwoman, 
 to enter the house; that he was letting his beard 
 grow, and that he had ordered his servant Shrowl 
 to follow his example. In the year eighteen hun- 
 dred and forty-four, the fact of a man’s not shav- 
 ing was regarded by the enlightened majority of 
 the English nation as a proof of unsoundness of 
 intellect. At the present time Mr. Treverton’s 
 beard would only have interfered with his repu- 
 tation for respectability. Seventeen years ago 
 it was accepted as so much additional evidence 
 in support of the old theory that his intellects 
 were deranged. He was at that very time, as 
 his stockbroker could have testified, one of the 
 sharpest men of business in London; he could 
 argue on the wrong side of any question with 
 an acuteness of sophistry and sarcasm that Dr. 
 Johnson himself might have envied; he kept 
 his household accounts right to a farthing — but 
 what did these advantages avail him, in the 
 estimation of his neighbors, when he presumed 
 to live on another plan than theirs, and when he 
 wore a hairy certificate of lunacy on the lower 
 part of his face? We have advanced a little in 
 the matter of partial toleration of beards since 
 that time ; but we have still a good deal of ground 
 to get over. In the present year of progress, eigh- 
 teen hundred and sixty-one, would the most 
 trustworthy banker’s clerk in the whole me- 
 tropolis have the slightest change cf keeping 
 his situation if he left off shaving his chin? 
 
 Common report, which calumniated Mr. Trev- 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 119 
 
 erton as mad, had another error to answer for in 
 describing him as a miser. He saved more than 
 two-thirds of the income derived from his com- 
 fortable fortune, not because he liked hoarding 
 up money, but because he had no enjoyment of 
 the comforts and luxuries which money is spent 
 in procuring. To do him justice, his contempt 
 for his own wealth was quite as hearty as his 
 contempt for the wealth of his neighbors. Thus 
 characteristically wrong in endeavoring to de- 
 lineate his character, report was, nevertheless, 
 for once in a way, inconsistently right in de- 
 scribing his manner of life. It was true that 
 he had bought the first cottage he could find 
 that was secluded within its own walls — true 
 that nobody was allowed, on any pretense what- 
 ever, to enter his doors — and true that he had 
 met with a servant, who was even bitterer 
 against all mankind than himself, in the person 
 of Mr. Shrowl. 
 
 The life these two led approached as nearly to 
 the existence of the primitive man (or savage) 
 as the surrounding conditions of civilization 
 would allow. Admitting the necessity of eat- 
 ing and drinking, the first object of Mr. Trever- 
 ton’s ambition was to sustain life with the least 
 possible dependence on the race of men who pro- 
 fessed to supply their neighbors’ bodily wants, 
 and who, as he conceived, cheated them infa- 
 mously on the strength of their profession. 
 
 Having a garden at the back of the house, 
 Timon of London dispensed with the green- 
 grocer altogether by cultivating his own vege- 
 
120 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 tables. There was no room for growing wheat, 
 or he would have turned farmer also on his own 
 account; but he could outwit the miller and the 
 baker, at any rate, by buying a sack of corn, 
 grinding it in his own hand-mill, and giving 
 the flour to Shrowl to make into bread. On the 
 same principle, the meat for the house was bought 
 wholesale of the City salesmen — the master and 
 servant eating as much of it in the fresh state as 
 they could, salting the rest, and setting butchers 
 at defiance. As for drink, neither brewer nor 
 publican ever had the chance of extorting a farth- 
 ing from Mr. Treverton’s pocket. He and Shrowl 
 were satisfied with beer — and they brewed for 
 themselves. With bread, vegetables, meat and 
 malt liquor, these two hermits of modern days 
 achieved the great double purpose of keeping life 
 in and keeping tradesmen out. 
 
 Eating like primitive men, they lived in all 
 other respects like primitive men also. They 
 had pots, pans and pipkins, two dead tables, two 
 chairs, two old sofas, two short pipes, and two 
 long cloaks. They had no stated meal-times, no 
 carpets and bedsteads, no cabinets, bookcases, or 
 ornamental knickknacks of any kind, no laun- 
 dress, and no charwoman. When either of the 
 two wanted to eat and drink, he cut off his crust- 
 of bread, cooked his bit of meat, drew his drop 
 of beer, without the slightest reference to the 
 other. When either of the two thought he 
 wanted a clean shirt, which was very seldom, 
 he went and washed one for himself. When 
 either of the two discovered that any part of the 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 121 
 
 house was getting very dirty indeed, he took a 
 bucket of water and a birch-broom, and washed 
 the place out like a dog-kennel. And, lastly, 
 when either of the two wanted to go to sleep, he 
 wrapped himself up in his cloak, lay down on 
 one of the sofas, and took what repose he re- 
 quired, early in the evening or late in the morn- 
 ing, just as he pleased. 
 
 When there was no baking, brewing, garden- 
 ing or cleaning to be done, the two sat down op- 
 posite each other and smoked for hours, generally 
 without uttering a word. Whenever they did 
 speak they quarreled. Their ordinary dialogue 
 was a species of conversational prize-fight, begin- 
 ning with a sarcastic affectation of good-will on 
 either side, and ending in hearty exchanges of 
 violent abuse — just as the boxers go through the 
 feeble formality of shaking hands before they 
 enter on the serious practical business of beating 
 each other’s faces out of all likeness to the image 
 of man. Not having so many disadvantages of 
 early refinement and education to contend against 
 as his master, Shrowl generally won the victory 
 in these engagements of the tongue. Indeed, 
 though nominally the servant, he was really the 
 ruling spirit of the house — acquiring unbounded 
 influence over his master by dint of outmarch- 
 ing Mr. Treverton in every direction on his own 
 ground. Shrowl’s was the harshest voice; 
 Shrowl’s were the bitterest sayings ; and Shrowl’s | 
 was the longest beard. The surest of all retribu- 
 tions is the retribution that lies in wait for a man 
 who boasts. Mr. Treverton was rashly given to 
 
122 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 boasting of his independence, and when retribu- 
 tion overtook him it assumed a personal form, 
 and bore the name of ShrowL 
 
 On a certain morning, about three weeks after 
 Mrs. Frankland had written to the housekeeper 
 at Porthgenna Tower to mention the period at 
 which her husband and herself might be ex- 
 pected there, Mr. Treverton descended, with his 
 sourest face and his surliest manner, from the 
 upper regions of the cottage to one of the rooms 
 on the ground-floor, which civilized tenants would 
 probably have called the parlor. Like his elder 
 brother, he was a tall, well-built man; but his 
 bony, haggard, sallow face bore not the slightest 
 resemblance to the handsome, open, sunburned 
 face of the Captain. No one seeing them together 
 could possibly have guessed that they were broth- 
 ers — so completely did they differ in expression 
 as well as in feature. The heart-aches that he 
 had suffered in youth; the reckless, wandering, 
 dissipated life that he had led in manhood; the 
 petulance, the disappointment and the physical 
 exhaustion of his latter days had so wasted and 
 worn him away that he looked his brother’s elder 
 by almost twenty years. With unbrushed hair 
 and unwashed face, with a tangled gray beard, 
 and an old, patched, dirty flannel dressing-gown 
 that hung about him like a sack, this descendant 
 of a wealthy and ancient family looked as 
 if his birthplace had been the workhouse, 
 and his vocation in life the selling of cast- 
 off clothes. 
 
THE BEAD SECRET. 
 
 123 
 
 It was breakfast-time with Mr. Treverton — 
 that is to say, it was the time at which he felt 
 hungry enough to think about eating something. 
 In the same position over the mantel-piece in which 
 a looking-glass would have been placed in a 
 household of ordinary refinement, there hung in 
 the cottage of Titnon of London a side of bacon. 
 On the deal table by the fire stood half a loaf of 
 heavy-looking brown-bread; in a corner of the 
 room was a barrel of beer, with two battered 
 pewter pots hitched onto nails in the wall above 
 it; and under the grate lay a smoky old grid- 
 iron, left just as it had been thrown down when 
 last used and done with. Mr. Treverton took a 
 greasy clasp-knife out of the pocket of his dress- 
 ing-gown, cut off a rasher of bacon, jerked, the 
 gridiron onto the fire, and began to cook his 
 breakfast. He had just turned the rasher, when 
 the door opened, and Shrowl entered the room, 
 with his pipe in his mouth, bent on the same eat- 
 ing errand as his master. 
 
 In personal appearance, Shrowl was short, fat, 
 flabby, and perfectly bald, except at the back of 
 his head, where a ring of bristly iron-gray hair 
 projected like a collar that had got hitched out 
 of its place. To make amends for the scantiness 
 of his hair, the beard which he had cultivated by 
 his master’s desire grew far over his cheeks, and 
 drooped down on his chest in two thick jagged 
 peaks. He wore a very old long-tailed dresscoat, 
 which he had picked up at a bargain in Petticoat 
 Lane — a faded yellow shirt, with a large torn 
 frill — velveteen trousers, turned up at the ankles 
 
124 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 — and Blucher boots that had never been blacked 
 since the day when they last left the cobbler’s 
 stall. /"His color was unhealthily florid, his thick 
 lips curled upward with a malicious grin, and 
 his eyes were the nearest approach, in form and 
 expression, to the eyes of a bull terrier which 
 those features are capable of achieving when they 
 are placed in the countenance of a man. Any 
 painter wanting to express strength, insolence, 
 ugliness, coarseness, and cunning in the face and 
 figure of one and the same individual, could have 
 discovered no better model for the purpose, all 
 the world over, than he might have found in the 
 person of Mr. ShrowLj^ 
 
 Neither master nor servant exchanged a word 
 or took the smallest notice of each other on first 
 meeting. Shrowl stood stolidly contemplative, 
 with his hands in his pockets, waiting for his 
 turn at the gridiron. Mr. Treverton finished his 
 cooking, took his bacon to the table, and, cut- 
 ting a crust of bread, began to eat his breakfast. 
 When he had disposed of the first mouthful, he 
 condescended to look up at Shrowl, who was at 
 that moment opening his clasp-knife and ap- 
 proaching the side of bacon with slouching steps 
 and sleepily greedy eyes. 
 
 “What do you mean by that?” asked Mr. 
 Treverton, pointing with indignant surprise at 
 Shrowl’s breast. “You ugly brute, you’ve got 
 a clean shirt on!” 
 
 “Thankee, sir, for noticing it,” said Shrowl, 
 with a sarcastic affectation of humility. “This 
 is a joyful occasion, this is. I couldn’t do no 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 125 
 
 less than put a clean shirt on, when it’s my mas- 
 ter’s birthday. Many happy returns, sir. Per- 
 haps you thought I should forget that to-day was 
 your birthday? Lord bless your sweet face, I 
 wouldn’t ha^e forgot it on any account. How 
 old are you to-day? It’s a long time ago, sir, 
 since you was a plump, smiling little boy, with 
 a frill round your neck, and marbles in your 
 pocket, and trousers and waistcoat all in one, 
 and kisses and presents from Pa and Ma, and 
 uncle and aunt, on your birthday. Don’t you 
 be afraid of me wearing out this shirt by too 
 much washing. I mean to put it away in laven- 
 der against your next birthday; or against your 
 funeral, which is just as likely at your time of 
 life — isn’t it, sir?” 
 
 4 6 Don’t waste a clean shirt on my funeral,” 
 retorted Mr. Treverbon. 44 1 haven’t left you any 
 money in my will, Shrowl. You’ll be on your 
 way to the workhouse when I’m on my way to 
 the grave.” 
 
 4 4 Have you really made your will at last, sir?” 
 inquired Shrowl, pausing, with an appearance of 
 the greatest interest, in the act of cutting off his 
 slice of bacon. 44 1 humbly beg pardon, but I 
 always thought you was afraid to do it,” 
 
 The servant had evidently touched intention- 
 ally on one of the master’s sore points. Mr. 
 Treverton thumped his crust of bread on the 
 table and looked up angrily at Shrowl. 
 
 44 Afraid of making my will, you fool!” said 
 he. 44 1 don’t make it, and 1 won’t make it, on 
 principle.” 
 
126 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 Shrowl slowly sawed off his slice of bacon, 
 and began to whistle a tune. 
 
 “On principle/’ repeated Mr. Treverton. 
 “Rich men who leave money behind them are 
 the farmers who raise the crop of human wicked- 
 ness. When a man has any spark of generosity 
 in his nature, if you want to put it out, leave 
 him a legacy. When a man is bad, if you want 
 to make him worse, leave him a legacy. If you 
 want to collect a number of men together for the 
 purpose of perpetuating corruption and oppres- 
 sion on a large scale, leave them a legacy under 
 the form of endowing a public charity. If you 
 want to give a woman the best chance in the 
 world of getting a bad husband, leave her a 
 legacy. Make my will ! I have a pretty strong 
 dislike of my species, Shrowl, but I don’t quite 
 hate mankind enough yet iodo such mischief 
 among them as that!” Ending his diatribe in 
 those words, Mr. Treverton took down one of the 
 battered pewter pots, and refreshed himself with 
 a pint of beer. 
 
 Shrowl shifted the gridiron to a clear place in 
 the fire, and chuckled sarcastically. 
 
 “Who the devil would you have me leave my 
 money to?” cried Mr. Treverton, overhearing 
 him. “To my brother, who thinks me a brute 
 now; who would think me a fool then; and who 
 would encourage swindling, anyhow, by spend- 
 ing all my money among doxies and strolling 
 players? To the child of that player-woman, 
 whom I have never set eyes on, who has been 
 brought up to hate me, and who would turn 
 
. THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 127 
 
 hypocrite directly by pretending, for decency’s 
 sake, to be sorry for my death? To you , you 
 human babboon! — you, who would set up a 
 usury office directly, and prey upon the widow, 
 the fatherless, and the unfortunate generally, 
 all over the world? Your good health, Mr. 
 Shrowl! I can laugh as well as you— espe* 
 cially when I know I’m not going to leave you 
 sixpence.” 
 
 Shrowl, in his turn, began to get a little irri- 
 tated now. The jeering civility which he had 
 chosen to assume on first entering the room gave 
 place to his habitual surliness of manner and his 
 natural growling intonation of voice. 
 
 “You just let me alone — will you?” he said, 
 sitting down sulkily to his breakfast. “I’ve done 
 joking for to-day ; suppose you finish too. What’s 
 the use of talking nonsense about your money. 
 You must leave it to somebody.” 
 
 "^“Yes, I will,” said Mr. Treverton. “I will 
 leave it, as I have told you over and over again, 
 to the first Somebody I can find who honestly 
 despises money, and who can’t be made the 
 jarorse, therefore, by having it.” 
 
 “That means nobody,” grunted Shrowl. 
 
 “I know it does!” retorted his master. 
 
 Before Shrowl could utter a word of rejoinder, 
 there was a ring at the gate-bell of the cottage. 
 
 “Go out,” said Mr. Treverton, “and see what 
 that is. If it’s a woman visitor, show her what 
 a scarecrow you are, and frighten her away. If 
 it’s a man visitor — ” 
 
 “If it’s a man visitor,” interposed Shrowl, “I’ll 
 
128 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 punch his head for interrupting me at my break' 
 fast.” 
 
 Mr. Treverton filled and lighted his pipe during 
 his servant’s absence. Before the tobacco was 
 well alight, Shrowl returned, and reported a 
 man visitor. 
 
 “Did you punch his head” asked Mr. Trever- 
 ton. 
 
 “No,” said Shrowl. “I picked up his letter. 
 He poked it under the gate and went away. 
 Here it is.” 
 
 The letter was written on foolscap paper, su- 
 perscribed in a round legal hand. As Mr. Trev- 
 erton opened it, two slips cut from newspapers 
 dropped out. One fell on the table before which 
 he was sitting; the other fluttered to the floor. 
 This last slip Shrowl picked up and looked over 
 its contents, without troubling himself to go 
 through the ceremony of first asking leave. 
 
 After slowly drawing in and slowly puffing 
 out again one mouthful of tobacco-smoke, Mr. 
 Treverton began to read the letter. As his eye 
 fell on the first lines, his lips began to work round 
 the mouth-piece of the pipe in a manner that was 
 very unusual with him. The letter was not long 
 enough to require him to turn over the first leaf 
 of it — it ended at the bottom of the opening sheet. 
 He read it down to the signature — then looked 
 up to the address, and went through it again 
 from the beginning. His lips still continued to 
 work round the mouth-piece of the pipe, but he 
 smoked no more. When he had finished the 
 second reading, he set the letter down very gently 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 129 
 
 on the table, looked at his servant with an unac- 
 customed vacancy in the expression of his eyes, 
 and took the pipe out of his mouth with a hand 
 that trembled a little. 
 
 “Shrowl,” he said, very quietly, “my brother, 
 the Captain, is drowned.” 
 
 “I know he is,” answered Shrowl, without 
 looking up from the newspaper-slip. “I’m read- 
 ing about it here.” 
 
 “The last words my brother said to me when 
 we quarreled about the player-woman,” contin- 
 ued Mr. Treverton, speaking as much to himself 
 as to his servant, “were that I should die with- 
 out one kind feeling in my heart toward any liv- 
 ing creature.” 
 
 “So you will,” muttered Shrowl, turning the 
 slip over to see if there was anything worth read- 
 ing at the back of it. 
 
 “I wonder what he thought about me when he 
 was dying?” said Mr. Treverton, abstractedly, 
 taking up the letter again from the table. 
 
 “He didn’t waste a thought on you or anybody 
 else,” remarked Shrowl. “If he thought at all, 
 he thought about how he could save his life. 
 When he had done thinking about that, he had 
 done living too.” With this expression of opin- 
 ion Mr. Shrowl went to the beer-barrel, and drew 
 his morning draught. 
 
 “Damn that player- woman !” muttered Mr. 
 Treverton. As he said the words his face dark- 
 ened and his lips closed firmly. He smoothed 
 the letter out on the table. There seemed to be 
 some doubt in his mind whether he had mastered 
 E — Vol 16 
 
130 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 all its contents yet — some idea that there rught 
 to be more in it than he had yet discovered. In 
 going over it for the third time, he read it to him- 
 self aloud and very slowly, as if he was deter- 
 mined to fix every separate word firmly in his 
 memory. This was the letter : 
 
 “Sir — As the old legal adviser and faithful 
 friend of your family, I am desired by Mrs. 
 Frankland, formerly Miss Treverton, to acquaint 
 you with the sad news of your brother’s death. 
 This deplorable event occurred on board the ship 
 of which he was captain, during a gale in which 
 the vessel was lost on a reef of rocks off the isl- 
 and of Antigua. 1 inclose a detailed account 
 of the shipwreck, extracted from The Times , 
 by which you will see that your brother died 
 nobly in the performance of his duty toward 
 the officers and men whom he commanded. I 
 also send a slip from the local Cornish paper, 
 containing a memoir of the deceased gentleman. 
 
 “Before closing this communication, I must 
 add that no will has been found, after the most 
 rigorous search, among the papers of the late 
 Captain Treverton. Having disposed, as you 
 know, of Porthgenna, the only property of which 
 he was possessed at the time of his death was 
 personal property, derived from the sale of this 
 estate; and this, in consequence of his dying 
 intestate, will go in due course of law to his 
 daughter, as his nearest of kin. 
 
 “I am, sir, your obedient servant, 
 
 “Alexander Nixon.” 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 131 
 
 The newspaper-slip, which had fallen on the 
 table, contained the paragraph from The Times . 
 The slip from the Cornish paper, which had 
 dropped to the floor, Shrowl poked under his 
 master’s eyes, in a fit of temporary civility, as 
 soon as he had done reading it. Mr. Treverton 
 took not the slightest notice either of the one par- 
 agraph or the other. He still sat looking at the 
 letter, even after he had read it for the third time. 
 
 “Why don’t you give the strip of print a turn, 
 as well as the sheet of writing?” asked Shrowl. 
 “Why don’t you read about what a great man 
 your brother was, and what a good life he led, 
 and what a wonderful handsome daughter he’s 
 left behind him, and what a capital marriage 
 she’s made along with the man that’s owner of 
 your old family estate? She don’t want your 
 money now, at any rate! The ill wind that 
 blowed her father’s ship on the rocks has blowed 
 forty thousand pounds of good into her lap, Why 
 don’t you read about it? She and her husband 
 have got a better house in Cornwall than you 
 have got here. Ain’t you glad of that? They 
 were going to have repaired the place from top 
 to bottom for your brother to go and live along 
 with ’em in clover when he came back from sea. 
 Who will ever repair a place for you? I wonder 
 whether your niece would knock the old house 
 about for your sake, now, if you was to clean 
 yourself up and go and ask her?” 
 
 At the last question, Shrowl paused in the 
 work of aggravation — not for want of more 
 words, but for want of encouragement to utter 
 
132 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 them. For the first time since they had kept 
 house together, he had tried to provoke his mas- 
 ter and had failed. Mr. Treverton listened, or 
 appeared to listen, without moving a muscle — 
 without the faintest change to anger in his face. 
 The only words he said when Shrowl had done 
 were these two — 
 
 “Go out!” 
 
 Shrowl was not an easy man to move, but he 
 absolutely changed color when he heard himself 
 suddenly ordered to leave the room. 
 
 “Go out!” reiterated Mr. Treverton. “And 
 hold your tongue henceforth and forever about 
 my brother and my brother’s daughter. I never 
 have set eyes upon the player- woman’s child, and 
 I never will. Hold your tongue — leave me alone 
 — go out!” 
 
 “I’ll be even with him for this,” thought 
 Shrowl as he slowly withdrew from the room. 
 
 When he had closed the door, he listened out- 
 side of it, and heard Mr. Treverton push aside 
 his chair, and walk up and down, talking to 
 himself. Judging by the confused words that 
 escaped him, Shrowl concluded that his thoughts 
 were still running on the “player- woman” who 
 had set his brother and himself at variance. He 
 seemed to feel a barbarous sense of relief in vent- 
 ing his dissatisfaction with himself, after the 
 news of Captain Trever ton’s death, on the mem- 
 ory of the woman whom he hated so bitterly, 
 and on the child whom she had left behind her. 
 
 After a while the low rumbling tones of his 
 voice ceased altogether. Shrowl peeped through 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 133 
 
 the key-hole, and saw that he was reading the 
 newspaper-slips which contained the account of 
 the shipwreck and the Memoir of his brother. 
 The latter adverted to some of those family par- 
 ticulars which the vicar of Long Beckley had 
 mentioned to his guest; and the writer of the 
 Memoir concluded by expressing a hope that the 
 bereavement which Mr. and Mrs. Frankland had 
 suffered would not interfere with their project 
 for repairing Portligenna Tower, after they had 
 gone the length already of sending a builder to 
 survey the place. Something in the wording of 
 that paragraph seemed to take Mr. Treverton’s 
 memory back to his youth-time when the old 
 family house had been his home. He whispered 
 a few words to himself which gloomily referred 
 to the days that were gone, rose from his chair 
 impatiently, threw both the newspaper-slips into 
 the fire, watched them while they were burning, 
 and sighed when the black gossamer ashes floated 
 upward on the draught, and were lost in the 
 chimney. 
 
 The sound of that sigh startled Shrowl as the 
 sound of a pistol-shot might have startled an- 
 other man. His bull-terrier eyes opened wide in 
 astonishment, and he shook his head ominously 
 as he walked away from the door. 
 
134 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 WILL THEY COME? 
 
 The housekeeper at Porthgenna Tower had 
 just completed the necessary preparations for the 
 reception of her master and mistress, at the time 
 mentioned in Mrs. Frankland’s letter from St. 
 Swithin’s-on-Sea, when she was startled by re- 
 ceiving a note sealed with black wax, and sur- 
 rounded by a thick mourning border. The note 
 briefly communicated the news of Captain Trev- 
 erton’s death, and informed her that the visit of 
 Mr. and Mrs. Frankland to Porthgenna was de- 
 ferred for an indefinite period. 
 
 By the same post the builder, who was superin- 
 tending the renovation of the west staircase, also 
 received a letter, requesting him to send in his 
 account as soon as the repairs on which he was 
 then engaged were completed; and telling him 
 that Mr. Frankland was unable, for the present, 
 to give any further attention to the project for 
 making the north rooms habitable. On the re- 
 ceipt of this communication, the builder withdrew 
 himself and his men as soon as the west stairs 
 and banisters had been made secure; and Porth- 
 genna Tower was again left to the care of the 
 housekeeper and her servant, without master 
 or mistress, friends or strangers, to thread its 
 solitary passages or enliven its empty rooms. 
 
 From this time eight months passed away, and 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 135 
 
 the housekeeper heard nothing of her master and 
 mistress, except through the medium of para- 
 graphs in the local newspaper, which dubiously 
 referred to the probability of their occupying the 
 old house, and interesting themselves in the af- 
 fairs of their tenantry, at no very distant period. 
 Occasionally, too, when business took him to the 
 post-town, the steward collected reports about his 
 employers among the old friends and dependents 
 of the Treverton family. 
 
 From these sources of information, the house- 
 keeper was led to conclude that Mr. and Mrs. 
 Frankland had returned to Long Beckley, after 
 receiving the news of Captain Treverton’s death, 
 and had lived there for some months in strict 
 retirement. When they left that place, they 
 moved (if the newspaper report was to be cred- 
 ited) to the neighborhood of London, and occu- 
 pied the house of some friends who were travel- 
 ing on the Continent. Here they must have 
 remained for some time, for the new year came 
 and brought no rumors of any change in their 
 place of abode. January and February passed 
 without any news of them. Early in March the 
 steward had occasion to go to the post-town. 
 When he returned to Porthgenna, he came back 
 with a new report relating to Mr. and Mrs. 
 Frankland, which excited the housekeeper’s in- 
 terest in an extraordinary degree. In two differ- 
 ent quarters, each highly respectable, the steward 
 had heard it facetiously announced that the do- 
 mestic responsibilities of his master and mistress 
 were likely to be increased by their having a 
 
136 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 nurse to engage and a crib to buy at the end of 
 the spring or the beginning of the summer. In 
 plain English, among the many babies who 
 might be expected to make their appearance in 
 the world in the course of the next three months, 
 there was one who would inherit the name of 
 Frankland, and who (if the infant luckily turned 
 out to be a boy) would cause a sensation through- 
 out West Cornwall as heir to the Porthgenna 
 estate. 
 
 In the next month, the month of April, before 
 the housekeeper and the steward had done dis- 
 cussing their last and most important fragment 
 of news, the postman made his welcome appear- 
 ance at Porthgenna Tower, and brought another 
 note from Mrs. Frankland. The housekeeper’s 
 face brightened with unaccustomed pleasure and 
 surprise as she read the first line. The letter 
 announced that the long-deferred visit of her 
 master and mistress to the old house would take 
 place early in May, and that they might be ex- 
 pected to arrive any day from the first to the 
 tenth of the month. 
 
 The reasons which had led the owners of Porth- 
 genna to fix a period, at last, for visiting their 
 country seat, were connected with certain par- 
 ticulars into which Mrs. Frankland had not 
 thought it advisable to enter in her letter. The 
 plain facts of the case were, that a little discus- 
 sion had arisen between the husband and wife 
 in relation to the next place of residence which 
 they should select, after the return from the 
 Continent of the friends whose house they were 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 137 
 
 occupying. Mr. Frankland had very reasonably 
 suggested returning again to Long Beckley — not 
 only because all their oldest friends lived in the 
 neighborhood, but also (and circumstances made 
 this an important consideration) because the 
 place had the advantage of possessing an excel- 
 lent resident medical man. Unfortunately this 
 latter advantage, so far from carrying any weight 
 with it in Mrs. Frankland’s estimation, actually 
 prejudiced her mind against the project of going 
 to Long Beckley. She had always, she acknowl- 
 edged, felt an unreasonable antipathy to the doc- 
 tor there. He might be a very skillful, an ex- 
 tremely polite, and an undeniably respectable 
 man; but she never had liked him, and never 
 should, and she was resolved to oppose the plan 
 for living at Long Beckley, because the execu- 
 tion of it would oblige her to commit herself to 
 his care. 
 
 Two other places of residence were next sug- 
 gested ; but Mrs. Frankland had the same objec- 
 tion to oppose to both— in each case the resident 
 doctor would be a stranger to her, and she did 
 not like the notion of being attended by a stran- 
 ger. Finally, as she had all along anticipated, 
 the choice of the future abode was left entirely 
 to her own inclinations; and then, to the amaze- 
 ment of her husband and her friends, she imme- 
 diately decided on going to Porthgenna. She 
 had formed this strange project, and was now 
 resolved on executing it, partly because she was 
 more curious than ever to see the place again; 
 partly because the doctor who had been with her 
 
138 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 mother in Mrs. Treverton’s last-illness, and who 
 had attended her through all her own little mala- 
 dies when she was a child, was still living and 
 practicing in the Porthgenna neighborhood. 
 Her father and the doctor had been old cronies, 
 and had met for years at the same chess-board 
 every Saturday night. They had kept up their 
 friendship, when circumstances separated them, 
 by exchanges of Christmas presents every year; 
 and when the sad news of the Captain’s death 
 had reached Cornwall, the doctor had written a 
 letter of sympathy and condolence to Rosamond, 
 speaking in such terms of his former friend and 
 patron as she could never forget. He must be 
 a nice, fatherly old man now, the man of all 
 others who was fittest, on every account, to at- 
 tend her. In short, Mrs. Frankland was just as 
 strongly prejudiced in favor of employing the 
 Porthgenna doctor as she was prejudiced against 
 employing the Long Beckley doctor; and she 
 ended, as all young married women with affec- 
 tionate husbands may, and do end, whenever 
 they please — by carrying her own point, and 
 having her own way. 
 
 On the first of May the west rooms were all 
 ready for the reception of the master and mis- 
 tress of the house. The beds were aired, the 
 carpets cleaned, the sofas and chairs uncovered. 
 The housekeeper put on her satin gown and her 
 garnet brooch; the maid followed suit, at a re- 
 spectful distance, in brown merino and a pink 
 ribbon; and the steward, determining not to be 
 outdone by the women, arrayed himself in a 
 
THE DEAD SECRET 
 
 139 
 
 black brocaded waistcoat, which almost rivaled 
 the gloom and grandeur of the housekeeper’s 
 satin gown. The day wore on, evening closed 
 in, bed -time came, and there were no signs yet 
 of Mr. and Mrs. Frankland. 
 
 But the first was an early day on which to 
 expect them. The steward thought so, and the 
 housekeeper added that it would be foolish to 
 feel disappointed, even if they did not arrive 
 until the fifth. The fifth came, and still noth- 
 ing happened. The sixth, seventh, eighth, and 
 ninth followed, and no sound of the expected 
 carriage- wheels came near the lonely house. 
 
 On the tenth, and last day, the housekeeper, 
 the steward, and the maid, all three rose earlier 
 than usual ; all three opened and shut doors, and 
 went up and down stairs oftener than was need- 
 ful; ail three looked out perpetually toward the 
 moor and the high-road, and thought the view 
 flatter and duller and emptier than ever it had 
 appeared to them before. The day waned, the 
 sunset came; darkness changed the perpetual 
 looking-out of the housekeeper, the steward, and 
 the maid into perpetual listening; ten o’clock 
 struck, and still there was nothing to be heard 
 when they went to the open window but the 
 wearisome beating of the surf on the sandy shore. 
 
 The housekeeper began to calculate the time 
 that would be consumed on the railway journey 
 from London to Exeter, and on the posting jour- 
 ney afterward through Cornwall to Porthgenna. 
 When had Mr. and Mrs. Frankland left Exeter? 
 — that was the first question. And what delays 
 
140 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 might they have encountered afterward in get- 
 ting horses? — that was the second, The house- 
 keeper and the steward differed in debating these 
 points; but both agreed that it was necessary to 
 sit up until midnight, on the chance of the mas- 
 ter and mistress arriving late. The maid, hear- 
 ing her sentence of banishment from bed for the 
 next two hours pronounced by the superior au- 
 thorities, yawned and sighed mournfully — was 
 reproved by the steward — and was furnished by 
 the housekeeper with a book of hymns to read to 
 keep up her spirits. 
 
 Twelve o’clock struck, and still the monoto- 
 nous beating of the surf, varied occasionally by 
 those loud, mysterious, cracking noises which 
 make themselves heard at night in an old house, 
 were the only audible sounds. The steward was 
 dozing; the maid was fast asleep under the sooth- 
 ing influence of the hymns ; the housekeeper was 
 wide awake, with her eyes fixed on the window, 
 and her head shaking forebodingly from time to 
 time. At the last stroke of the clock she left her 
 chair, listened attentively, and still hearing noth- 
 ing, shook the maid irritably by the shoulder, 
 and stamped on the floor to arouse the steward. 
 
 “We may go to bed,” she said. “They are 
 not coming. This is the second time they have 
 disappointed us. The first time the Captain’s 
 death stood in the way. What stops them now? 
 Another death? I shouldn’t wonder if it was.” 
 
 “Now I think of it, no more should I,” said 
 the steward, ominously knitting his brows. 
 
 “Another death!” repeated the housekeeper, 
 
THE DEAD SECRET* 
 
 141 
 
 superstitiously. “If it is another death, I should 
 take it, in their place, as a warning to keep away 
 from the house .’ 5 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 MRS. JAZEPH. 
 
 If, instead of hazarding the guess that a sec- 
 ond death stood in the way of Mr. and Mrs. 
 Prankland’s arrival at Porthgenna, the house- 
 keeper had, by way of variety, surmised this 
 time that a birth was the obstacle which delayed 
 them, she might have established her character 
 as a wise woman, by hitting at random on the 
 actual truth. Her master and mistress had 
 started from London on the ninth of May, and 
 had got through the greater part of their railway 
 journey, when they were suddenly obliged to 
 stop, on Mrs. Frankland’s account, at the sta- 
 tion of a small town in Somersetshire. The lit- 
 tle visitor, who was destined to increase the do- 
 mestic responsibilities of the young married 
 couple, had chosen to enter on the scene, in the 
 character of a robust boy -baby, a month earlier 
 than he had been expected, and had modestly 
 preferred to make his first appearance in a small 
 Somersetshire inn, rather than wait to be cere- 
 moniously welcomed to life in the great house of 
 Porthgenna, which he was one day to inherit. 
 
 Very few events had ever produced a greater 
 sensation in the town of West Winston than the 
 one small event of the unexpected stoppage of 
 
142 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Frankland’s journey at that place. 
 Never since the last election had the landlord 
 and landlady of the Tiger’s Head Hotel bustled 
 about their house in such a fever of excitement 
 as possessed them when Mr. Frankland’s servant 
 and Mrs. Frankland’s maid drew up at the door in 
 a fly from the station, to announce that their mas- 
 ter and mistress were behind, and that the larg- 
 est and quietest rooms in the hotel were wanted 
 immediately, under the most unexpected circum- 
 stances. Never since he had triumphantly passed 
 his examination had young Mr. Orridge, the 
 new doctor, who had started in life by purchas- 
 ing the West Winston practice, felt such a thrill 
 of pleasurable agitation pervade him from top to 
 toe as when he heard that the wife of a blind 
 gentleman of great fortune had been taken ill on 
 the railway journey from London to Devonshire, 
 and required all that his skill and attention could 
 do for her without a moment’s delay. Never 
 since the last archery meeting and fancy fair had 
 the ladies of the town been favored with such 
 an all-absorbing subject for conversation as was 
 now afforded to them by Mrs. Frankland’s mis- 
 hap. Fabulous accounts of the wife’s beauty 
 and the husband’s fortune poured from the orig- 
 inal source of the Tiger’s Head, and trickled 
 through the highways and byways of the little 
 town. There were a dozen different reports, one 
 more elaborately false than the other, about Mr. 
 Frankland’s blindness, and the cause of it; about 
 the lamentable condition in which his wife had 
 arrived at the hotel; and about the painful sense 
 
THE BEAD SECRET. 
 
 143 
 
 of responsibility which had unnerved the inex 
 perienced Mr. Orridge from the first moment 
 when he set eyes on his patient. It was not till 
 eight o’clock in the evening that the public mind 
 was relieved at last from all suspense by an an- 
 nouncement that the child was born, and scream- 
 ing lustily; that the mother was wonderfully 
 well, considering all things; and that Mr. Or- 
 ridge had covered himself with distinction by the 
 skill, tenderness, and attention with which he 
 had performed his duties. 
 
 On the next day, and the next, and for a week 
 after that, the accounts wore still favorable. 
 But on the tenth day a catastrophe was re- 
 ported. The nurse who was in attendance on 
 Mrs. Frankland had been suddenly taken ill, 
 and was rendered quite incapable of performing 
 any further service for at least a week to come, 
 and perhaps for a much longer period. 
 
 In a large town this misfortune might have 
 been readily remedied, but in a place like West 
 Winston it was not so easy to supply the loss cf 
 an experienced nurse at a few hours’ notice. 
 When Mr. Orridge was consulted in the new 
 emergency, he candidly acknowledged that he 
 required a little time for consideration before he 
 could undertake to find another professed nurse 
 of sufficient character and experience to wait on 
 a lady like Mrs. Frankland. Mr. Frankland 
 suggested telegraphing to a medical friend in 
 London for a nurse, but the doctor was unwill- 
 ing for many reasons to adopt that plau, except 
 as a last resource. It would take some time t > 
 
144 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 find the right person, and to send her to West 
 Winston; and, moreover, he would infinitely 
 prefer employing a woman with whose character 
 and capacity he was himself acquainted. He 
 therefore proposed that Mrs. Frankland should 
 be trusted for a few hours to the care of her 
 maid, under supervision of the landlady of the 
 Tiger’s Head, while he made inquiries in the 
 neighborhood. If the inquiries produced no sat- 
 isfactory result, he should be ready, when he 
 called in the evening, to adopt Mr. Frankland’s 
 idea of telegraphing to London for a nurse. 
 
 On proceeding to make the investigation that 
 he had proposed, Mr. Orridge, although he spared 
 no trouble, met with no success. He found plenty 
 of volunteers for the office of nurse, but they 
 were all loud-voiced, clumsy-handed, heavy- 
 footed countrywomen, kind and willing enough, 
 but sadly awkward, blundering attendants to 
 place at the bedside of such a lady as Mrs. 
 Frankland. The morning hours passed away, 
 and the afternoon came, and still Mr. Orridge 
 had found no substitute for the invalided nurse 
 whom he could venture to engage. 
 
 At two o’clock he had half an hour’s drive be- 
 fore him to a country-house where he had a child- 
 patient to see. “ Perhaps I may remember some- 
 body who may do, on the way out or on the way 
 back again,” thought Mr. Orridge, as he got into 
 his gig. “I have some hours at my disposal 
 still before the time comes for my evening visit 
 at the inn.” 
 
 Puzzling his brains, with the best intention in 
 
THE DEAD SECRET* 
 
 145 
 
 the world, all along the road to the country- 
 house, Mr. Orridge reached his destination with- 
 out having arrived at any other conclusion than 
 that he might just as well state his difficulty to 
 Mrs. Nor bury, the lady whose child he was 
 about to prescribe for. He had called on her 
 when he bought the West Winston practice, and 
 had found her one of those frank, good-humored, 
 middle-aged women who are generally desig- 
 nated by the epithet “ motherly.’ ’ Her hus- 
 band was a country squire, famous for his old 
 politics, his old stories, and his old wine. He 
 had seconded his wife’s hearty reception of the 
 new doctor, with all the usual jokes about never 
 giving him any employment, and never letting 
 any bottles into the house except the bottles that 
 went down into the cellar. Mr. Orridge had 
 been amused by the husband and pleased with 
 the wife; and he thought it might be at least 
 worth while, before he gave up all hope of find- 
 ing a fit nurse, to ask Mrs. Norbury, as an old 
 resident in the West Winston neighborhood, for 
 a word of advice. 
 
 Accordingly, after seeing the child, and pro- 
 nouncing that there were no symptoms about the 
 little patient which need cause the slightest 
 alarm to anybody, Mr. Orridge paved the way 
 for a statement of the difficulty that beset him 
 by asking Mrs. Norbury if she had heard of the 
 “ interesting event” that had happened at the 
 Tiger’s Head. 
 
 “You mean,” answered Mrs. Norbmy, who 
 was a downright woman, and a resolute speaker 
 
146 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 of the plainest possible English — “You mean, 
 have I heard about that poor unfortunate lady 
 who was taken ill on her journey, and who had 
 a child born at the inn? We have heard so 
 much, and no more — living as we do (thank 
 Heaven!) out of reach of the West Winston gos- 
 sip. How is the lady? Who is she? Is the 
 child well? Is she tolerably comfortable? poor 
 thing! * Can I send her anything, or do any- 
 thing for her?” 
 
 “You would do a great thing for her, and ren- 
 der a great assistance to me,” said Mr. Orridge, 
 “if you could tell me of any respectable woman 
 in this neighborhood who would be a proper 
 nurse for her.” 
 
 “You don’t mean to say that the poor creature 
 has not got a nurse!” exclaimed Mrs. Norbury. 
 
 “She has had the best nurse in West Win- 
 ston,” replied Mr. Orridge. “But, most unfort- 
 unately, the woman was taken ill this morning, 
 and was obliged to go home. I am now at my 
 wit’s end for somebody to supply her place. 
 Mrs. Frankland has been used to the luxury of 
 being well waited on ; and where I am to find an 
 attendant who is likely to satisfy her, is more 
 than I can tell.” 
 
 “Frankland, did you say her name was?” in- 
 quired Mrs. Norbury. 
 
 “Yes. She is, I understand, a daughter of 
 that Captain Treverton who was lost with his 
 ship a year ago in the West Indies. Perhaps 
 you may remember the account of the disaster in 
 the newspapers?” 
 
TH E DEAD SECRET. 
 
 147 
 
 ■‘Of course I do! and I remember the Captain 
 too. I was acquainted with him when he was a 
 young man, at Portsmouth. His daughter and I 
 ought not to be strangers, especially under such 
 circumstances as the poor thing is placed in now. 
 I will call at the inn, Mr. Orridge, as soon as 
 you will allow me to introduce myself to her. 
 But, in the meantime, what is to be done in this 
 difficulty about the nurse? Who is with Mrs. 
 Frankland now?” 
 
 “Her maid; but she is a very young woman, 
 and doesn’t understand nursing duties. The 
 landlady of the inn is ready to help when she 
 can ; but then she has constant demands on her 
 time and attention. I suppose we shall have to 
 telegraph to London and get somebody sent here 
 by railway.” 
 
 “And that will take time, of course. And the 
 new nurse may turn out to be a drunkard or a 
 thief, or both — when you have got her here,” 
 said the outspoken Mrs. Norbury. “Dear, dear 
 me! can't we do something better than that? I 
 am ready, I am sure, to take any trouble, or 
 make any sacrifice, if I can be of use to Mrs. 
 Frankland. Do you know, Mr. Orridge, I think 
 it would be a good plan if we consulted my 
 housekeeper, Mrs. Jazeph. She is an odd wo- 
 man, with an odd name, you will say; but she 
 has lived with me in this house more than five 
 years, and she may know of somebody in our 
 neighborhood who might suit you, though I 
 don’t.” With those words, Mrs. Norbury rang 
 the bell, and ordered the servant who answered 
 
148 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 it to tell Mrs. Jazeph that she was wanted up- 
 stairs immediately. 
 
 After the lapse of a minute or so a soft knock 
 was heard at the door, and the housekeeper en- 
 tered the room. 
 
 Mr. Orridge looked at her, the moment she ap- 
 peared, with an interest and curiosity for which 
 he was hardly able to account. He judged her, 
 at a rough guess, to be a woman of about fifty 
 years of age. At the first glance, his medical 
 eye detected that some of the intricate machinery 
 of the nervous system had gone wrong with Mrs. 
 Jazeph. He noted the painful working of the 
 muscles of her face, and the hectic flush that flew 
 into her cheeks when she entered the room and 
 found a visitor there. He observed a strangely 
 scared look in her eyes, and remarked that it did 
 not leave them when the rest of her face became 
 gradually composed. 6 4 That woman has had 
 some dreadful fright, some great grief, or some 
 wasting complaint,” he thought to himself. “I 
 wonder which it is?” 
 
 4 ‘This is Mr. Orridge, the medical gentleman 
 who has lately settled at West Winston,” said 
 Mrs. Nor bury, addressing the housekeeper. “He 
 is in attendance on a lady who was obliged to 
 stop, on her journey westward, at our station, 
 and who is now staying at the Tiger’s Head. 
 You have heard something about it, have you 
 not, Mrs. Jazeph?” 
 
 Mrs. Jazeph, standing just inside the door, 
 looked respectfully toward the doctor, and an- 
 swered in the affirmative. Although she only 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 149 
 
 said the two common words, “Yes, ma’am/’ in 
 a quiet, uninterested way, Mr. Orridge was 
 struck by the sweetness and tenderness of her 
 voice. If he had not been looking at her, he 
 would have supposed it to be the voice of a 
 young woman. His eyes remained fixed on her 
 after she had spoken, though he felt that they 
 ought to have been looking toward her mistress. 
 He, the most unobservant of men in such things, 
 found himself noticing her dress, so that he re- 
 membered, long afterward, the form of the spot- 
 less muslin cap that primly covered her smooth 
 gray hair, and the quiet brown color of the silk 
 dress that fitted so neatly and hung around her 
 in such spare and disciplined folds. The little 
 confusion which she evidently felt at finding 
 herself the object of the doctor’s attention did 
 not betray her into the slightest awkwardness 
 of gesture or manner. If there can be such a 
 thing, physically speaking, as the grace of re- 
 straint, that was the grace which seemed to gov- 
 ern Mrs. Jazeph’s slightest movements; which 
 led her feet smoothly over the carpet, as she ad- 
 vanced when her mistress next spoke to her; 
 which governed the action of her wan right 
 hand as it rested lightly on a table by her side, 
 while she stopped to hear the next question that 
 was addressed to her. 
 
 “Well,” continued Mrs. Nor bury, “this poor 
 lady was just getting on comfortably, when the 
 nurse who was looking after her fell ill this 
 morning; and there she is now, in a strange 
 place, with a first child, and no proper attend- 
 
150 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 ance — no woman of age and experience to help 
 her as she ought to be helped. We want some- 
 body fit to wait on a delicate woman who has 
 seen nothing of the rough side of humanity. 
 Mr. Orridge can find nobody at a day’s notice, 
 and I can tell him of nobody. Can you help us, 
 Mrs. Jazeph? Are there any women down in 
 the village, or among Mr. Norbury’s tenants, 
 who understand nursing, and have some tact 
 and tenderness to recommend them into the 
 bargain?” 
 
 Mrs. Jazeph reflected for a little while, and 
 then said, very respectfully, but very briefly 
 also, and still without any appearance of inter- 
 est in her manner, that she knew of no one whom 
 she could recommend. 
 
 ‘‘Don’t make too sure of that till you have 
 thought a little longer,” said Mrs. Norbury. “I 
 have a particular interest in serving this lady, 
 for Mr. Orridge told me just before you came in 
 that she is the daughter of Captain Treverton, 
 whose shipwreck — ” 
 
 The instant those words were spoken, Mrs. 
 Jazeph turned round with a start, and looked 
 at the doctor. Apparently forgetting that her 
 right hand was on the table, she moved it so 
 suddenly that it struck against a bronze statuette 
 of a dog placed on some writing materials. The 
 statuette fell to the ground, and Mrs. Jazeph 
 stooped to pick it up with a cry of alarm which 
 seemed strangely exaggerated by comparison 
 with the trifling nature of the accident. 
 
 “Bless the woman! what is she frightened 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 151 
 
 about? 9 ’ exclaimed Mrs. Norbury, 4; The dog 
 is not hurt — put it back again! This is the 
 first time. Mrs Jazeph, that I ever knew you 
 do an awkward thing. You may take that as 
 a compliment, I think. Well, as I was saying, 
 this lady is the daughter of Captain Treverton, 
 whose dreadful shipwreck we all read about in the 
 papers. I knew her father in my early days, and 
 on that account 1 am doubly anxious to be of ser- 
 vice to her now. Do think again. Is there nobody 
 within reach who can be trusted to nurse her?” 
 
 The doctor, still watching Mrs. Jazeph with 
 that secret medical interest of his in her case, 
 had seen her turn so deadly pale when she started 
 and looked toward him that lie would not have 
 been surprised if she had fainted on the spot. 
 He now observed that she changed color again 
 when her mistress left off speaking. The hectic 
 red tinged her cheeks once more with two bright 
 spots. Her timid eyes wandered uneasily about 
 the room; and her fingers, as she clasped her 
 hands together, interlaced themselves mechani- 
 cally. 4 4 That would be an interesting case to 
 treat,” thought the doctor, following every nerv- 
 ous movement of the housekeeper’s hands with 
 watchful eyes. 
 
 4 4 Do think again,” repeated Mrs. Norbury. 
 44 I am so anxious to help this poor lady through 
 her difficulty, if I can.” 
 
 44 I am very sorry,” said Mrs. Jazeph, in faint, 
 trembling tones, but still always with the same 
 sweetness in her voice — 4 4 very sorry that I can 
 think of no one who is fit; but — ” 
 
152 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 She stopped. No shy child on its first intro- 
 duction to the society of strangers could have 
 looked more disconcerted than she looked now. 
 Her eyes were on the ground; her color was 
 deepening; the fingers of her clasped hands 
 were working together faster and faster every 
 moment. 
 
 6 4 But what?” asked Mrs. Norbury. 
 
 “I was about to say, ma’am,” answered Mrs. 
 Jazeph, speaking with the greatest difficulty and 
 uneasiness, and never raising her eyes to her 
 mistress’s face, “that, rather than this lady 
 should want for a nurse, I would — considering 
 the interest, ma’am, which you take in her — 1 
 wcnid, if you thought you could spare me — ” 
 
 44 What, nurse her yourself!” exclaimed Mrs. 
 Norbury. 4 4 Upon my word, although you have 
 got to it in rather a roundabout way, you have 
 come to the point at last, in a manner which 
 does infinite credit to your kindness of heart and 
 your readiness to make yourself useful. As to 
 sparing you, of course I am not so selfish, under 
 the circumstances, as to think twice of the in- 
 convenience of losing my housekeeper. But the 
 question is, are you competent as well as will- 
 ing? Have you ever had any practice in nurs- 
 ing?” 
 
 44 Yes, ma’am,” answered Mrs. Jazeph, still 
 without raising her eyes from the ground. 
 
 4 4 Shortly after my marriage” (the flush disap- 
 peared and her face turned pale again as she said 
 those words), 4 4 I had some practice in nursing, 
 and continued it at intervals until the time of 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 153 
 
 my husband’s death. I only presume to offer 
 myself, sir,” she went on, turning toward the 
 doctor, and becoming more earnest and self-pos- 
 sessed in her manner as she did so — “1 only pre- 
 sume to offer myself, with my mistress’s per= 
 mission, as a substitute for a nurse until some 
 better qualified person can be found.” 
 
 “What do you say, Mr. Orridge?” asked Mrs, 
 Nor bury. 
 
 It had been the doctor’s turn to start when he 
 first heard Mrs. Jazeph propose herself for the 
 office of nurse. He hesitated before he answered 
 Mrs. Norbury's question, then said: 
 
 “I can have but one doubt about the propriety 
 of thankfully accepting Mrs. Jazeph’s offer.” 
 
 Mrs. Jazeph’s timid eyes looked anxiously and 
 perplexedly at him as he spoke. Mrs. Nor bury, 
 in her downright, abrupt way, asked immediately 
 what the doubt was. 
 
 “I feel some uncertainty,” replied Mr. Or- 
 ridge, “as to whether Mrs. Jazeph — she will par- 
 don me, as a medical man, for mentioning it — as 
 to whether Mrs. Jazeph is strong enough, and 
 has her nerves sufficiently under control, to per- 
 form the duties which she is so kindly ready to 
 undertake.” 
 
 In spite of the politeness of the explanation, 
 Mrs. Jazeph was evidently disconcerted and dis- 
 tressed by it. A certain quiet, uncomplaining 
 sadness, which it was very touching to see, over- 
 spread her face as she turned away, without an- 
 other word, and walked slowly to the door. 
 
 “Don’t go yet!” cried Mrs. Norbury, kindly, 
 
154 : 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 “or, at least, if you do go, come back again in 
 five minutes, I am quite certain we shall have 
 something more to say to you then.” 
 
 Mrs, Jazeph’s eyes expressed her thanks in 
 one grateful glance. They looked so much 
 brighter than usual while they rested on her 
 mistress’s face that Mrs. Nor bury half doubted 
 whether the tears were not just rising in them 
 at that moment. Before she could look again, 
 Mrs. Jazeph had courtesied to the doctor and 
 had noiselessly left the room. 
 
 “Now we are alone, Mr. Orridge,” said Mrs, 
 Norbury, “1 may tell you, with all submission 
 to your medical judgment, that you are a little 
 exaggerating Mrs. Jazeph’s nervous infirmities. 
 She looks poorly enough, I own; but, after fi\re 
 years’ experience of her, I can tell you that she 
 is stronger than she looks, and I honestly think 
 you will be doing good service to Mrs Frank- 
 land if you try our volunteer nurse, at least for 
 a day or two. She is the gentlest, tenderest 
 creature I ever met with, and conscientious to 
 a fault in the performance of any duty that she 
 undertakes. Don’t be under any delicacy about 
 taking her away. I gave a dinner-party last 
 week, and shall not give another for some time 
 to come. I never could have spared my house- 
 keeper more easily than I can spare her now.” 
 “I am sure I may offer Mrs. Frankland’s 
 thanks to you as well as my own,” said Mr. 
 Or ridge. “After what you have said, it would 
 be ungracious and ungrateful in me not to follow 
 your advice. But will you excuse me if I ask 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 155 
 
 one question? Did you ever hear that Mrs. 
 Jazeph was subject to fits of any kind?” 
 
 “Never.” 
 
 “Not even to hysterical affections, now and 
 then?” 
 
 “Never, since she has been in this house.” 
 
 “You surprise me, there is something in her 
 look and manner—” 
 
 “Yes, yes; everybody remarks that at first; 
 but it simply means that she is in delicate health, 
 and that she has not led a very happy life (as I 
 suspect) in her younger days. The lady from 
 whom I had her (with an excellent character) 
 told me that she had married unhappily, when 
 she was in a sadly poor, unprotected state. She 
 never says anything about her married troubles 
 herself; but I believe her husband ill-used her. 
 However, it does not seem to me that this is our 
 business. I can only tell you again that she has 
 been an excellent servant here for the last five 
 years, and that, in your place, poorly as she may 
 look, I should consider her as the best nurse that 
 Mrs. Frankland could possibly wish for, under 
 the circumstances. There is no need for me to 
 say any more. Take Mrs. Jazeph, or telegraph 
 to London for a stranger — the decision of course 
 rests with you.” 
 
 Mr. Orridge thought he detected a slight tone 
 of irritability in Mrs. Norbury’s last sentence. 
 He was a prudent man; and he suppressed any 
 doubts he might still feel in reference to Mrs. 
 Jazeph’s physical capacities for nursing, rather 
 than risk offending the most important lady in 
 
150 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 the neighborhood at the outset of his practice 
 in West Winston as a medical man. 
 
 “I cannot hesitate a moment after what you 
 have been good enough to tell me,” he said. 
 “Pray believe that I gratefully accept your kind- 
 ness and your housekeeper’s offer.” 
 
 Mrs. Norbury rang the bell. It was answered 
 on the instant by the housekeeper herself. 
 
 The doctor wondered whether she had been 
 listening outside the door, and thought it rather 
 strange, if she had, that she should be so anxious 
 to learn his decision. 
 
 “Mr. Orridge accepts your offer with thanks,” 
 said Mrs. Norbury, beckoning to Mrs. Jazeph 
 to advance into the room. “I have persuaded 
 him that you are not quite so weak and ill as 
 you look.” 
 
 A gleam of joyful surprise broke over the 
 housekeeper’s face. It looked suddenly younger 
 by years and years, as she smiled and expressed 
 her grateful sense of the trust that was about to 
 be reposed in her. For the first time, also, since 
 the doctor had seen her, she ventured on speak- 
 ing before she was spoken to. 
 
 “When will my attendance be required, sir?” 
 she asked. 
 
 “As soon as possible,” replied Mr. Orridge. 
 How quickly and brightly her dim eyes seemed 
 to clear as she heard that answer! How much 
 more hasty than her usual movements was the 
 movement with which she now turned round and 
 looked appealingly at her mistress ! 
 
 “Go whenever Mr. Orridge wants you,” said 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 157 
 
 Mrs. Norbury. “I know your accounts are al- 
 ways in order, and your keys always in their 
 proper places. You never make confusion, and 
 you never leave confusion. Go, by all means, 
 as soon as the doctor wants you.” 
 
 “I suppose you have some preparations to 
 make?” said Mr. Orridge. 
 
 “None, sir, that need delay me more than half 
 an hour,” answered Mrs. Jazeph. 
 
 “This evening will be early enough,” said 
 the doctor, taking his hat, and bowing to Mrs. 
 Norbury. “Come to the Tiger’s Head and ask 
 for me. I shall be there between seven and 
 eight. Many thanks again, Mrs. Norbury.” 
 “My best wishes and compliments to your 
 patient, doctor.” 
 
 “At the Tiger’s Head, between seven and 
 eight this evening,” reiterated Mr. Orridge, as 
 the housekeeper opened the door for him. 
 
 “Between seven and eight, sir,” repeated the 
 soft, sweet voice, sounding younger than ever, 
 now that there was an under-note of pleasure 
 running through its tones. 
 
 CHAPTER IY. 
 
 THE NEW NURSE. 
 
 As the clock struck seven, Mr. Orridge put on 
 his hat to go to the Tiger’s Head. He had just 
 opened his own door, when he was met on the 
 step by a messenger, who summoned him imme- 
 
158 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 diately to a case of sudden illness in the poor 
 quarter of the town. The inquiries he made 
 satisfied him that the appeal was really of an 
 urgent nature, and that there was no help for it 
 but to delay his attendance for a little while at 
 the inn. On reaching the bedside of the patient, 
 he discovered symptoms in the case which ren- 
 dered an immediate operation necessary. The 
 performance of this professional duty occupied 
 some time. It was a quarter to eight before he 
 left his house, for the second time, on his way to 
 the Tiger’s H,ead. 
 
 On entering the inn door, he was informed 
 that the new nurse had arrived as early as seven 
 o’clock, and had been waiting for him in a room 
 by herself ever since. Having received no orders 
 from Mr. Orridge, the landlady had thought it 
 safest not to introduce the stranger to Mrs. Frank- 
 land before the doctor came. 
 
 4 'Did she ask to go up into Mrs. Frankland’s 
 room?” inquired Mr. Orridge. 
 
 “Yes, sir,” replied the landlady. “And I 
 thought she seemed rather put out when I said 
 that I must beg her to wait till you got here. 
 Will you step this way, and see her at once, sir? 
 She is in my parlor.” 
 
 Mr. Orridge followed the landlady into a little 
 room at the back of the house, and found Mrs. 
 Jazeph sitting alone in the corner furthest from 
 the window. He was rather surprised to see 
 that she drew her veil down the moment the 
 door was opened. 
 
 “I am sorry you should have been kept wait- 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 159 
 
 ing,” he said; “but I was called away to a pa- 
 tient. Besides, I told you between seven and 
 eight, if you remember; and it is not eight 
 o’clock yet.” 
 
 “I was very anxious to be in good time, sir,” 
 said Mrs. Jazeph. 
 
 There was an accent of restraint in the quiet 
 tones in which she spoke which struck Mr. Or- 
 ridge’s ear, and a little perplexed him. She 
 was, apparently, not only afraid that her face 
 might betray something, but apprehensive also 
 that her voice might tell him more than her 
 words expressed. What feeling was she anxious 
 to conceal? Was it irritation at having been 
 kept waiting so long by herself in the landlady’s 
 room? 
 
 “If you will follow me,” said Mr. Orridge, “I 
 will take you to Mrs. Frankland immediately.” 
 
 Mrs. Jazeph rose slowly, and, when she was 
 on her feet, rested her hand for an instant on a 
 table near her. That action, momentary as it 
 was, helped to confirm the doctor in his convic- 
 tion of her physical unfitness for the position 
 which she had volunteered to occupy. 
 
 “You seem tired,” he said, as he led the way 
 out of the door. “Surely, you did not walk all 
 the way here?” 
 
 “No, sir. My mistress was so kind as to let 
 one of the servants drive me in the pony-chaise.” 
 There was the same restraint in her voice as she 
 made that answer; and still she never attempted 
 to lift her veil. While ascending the inn stairs 
 Mr. Orridge mentally resolved to watch her first 
 
160 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 proceedings in Mrs. Frankland’s room closely, 
 and to send, after all, for the London nurse un- 
 less Mrs. Jazeph showed remarkable aptitude in 
 the performance of her new duties. 
 
 The room which Mrs. Frankland occupied was 
 situated at the back of the house, having been 
 chosen in that position with the object of remov- 
 ing her as much as possible from the bustle and 
 noise about the inn door. It was lighted by one 
 window overlooking a few cottages, beyond which 
 spread the rich grazing grounds of West Somer- 
 setshire, bounded by a long monotonous line of 
 thickly wooded hills. The bed was of the old- 
 fashioned kind, with the customary four posts 
 and the inevitable damask curtains. Ifc projected 
 from the wall into the middle of the room, in 
 such a situation as to keep the door on the right 
 hand of the person occupying it, the window on 
 the left, and the fireplace opposite the foot of the 
 bed. On the side of the bed nearest the window 
 the curtains were open, while at the foot, and on 
 the side near the door, they were closely drawn. 
 By this arrangement the interior of the bed was 
 necessarily concealed from the view of any per- 
 son on first entering the room. 
 
 “How do you find yourself to-night, Mrs. 
 Frankland?” asked Mr. Orridge, reaching out 
 his hand to undraw the curtains. “Do you 
 think you will he any the worse for a little freer 
 circulation of air?” 
 
 “On the contrary, doctor, I shall be all the 
 better,” was the answer. “But I am afraid — 
 in case you have ever been disposed to consider 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 161 
 
 me a sensible woman — that my character will 
 suffer a little in your estimation when you see 
 how I have been occupying myself for the last 
 hour.” 
 
 Mr. Orridge smiled as he undrew the curtains, 
 and laughed outright when he looked at the 
 mother and child. 
 
 Mrs. Frankland had been amusing herself, 
 and gratifying her taste for bright colors, by 
 dressing out her baby with blue ribbons as he 
 lay asleep. He had a necklace, shoulder-knots, 
 and bracelets, all of blue ribbon; and, to com- 
 plete the quaint finery of his costume, his mother’s 
 smart little lace cap had been hitched comically 
 on one side of his head. Rosamond herself, as 
 if determined to vie with the baby in gayety of 
 dress, wore a light pink jacket, ornamented 
 down the bosom and over the sleeves with bows 
 of white satin ribbon. Laburnum blossoms, 
 gathered that morning, lay scattered about over 
 the white counterpane, intermixed with some 
 flowers of the lily of the valley, tied up into 
 two nosegays with strips of cherry-colored rib- 
 bon. Over this varied assemblage of colors, over 
 the baby’s smoothly rounded cheeks and arms, 
 over his mother’s happy, youthful face, the ten- 
 der light of the May evening poured tranquil 
 and warm. Thoroughly appreciating the charm 
 of the picture which he had disclosed on undraw- 
 ing the curtains, the doctor stood looking at it 
 for a few moments, quite forgetful of the errand 
 that had brought him into the room. He was 
 only recalled to a remembrance of the new nurse 
 F— Vol 16 
 
162 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 by a chance question which Mrs. Frankland ad- 
 dressed to him. 
 
 “J can’t help it, doctor,” said Rosamond, with 
 a look of apology. “ I really can’t help treating 
 my baby, now I am a grown woman, just as I 
 used to treat my doll when I was a little girl. 
 Did anybody come into the room with you? 
 Lenny, are you there? Have you done dinner, 
 darling, and did you drink my health when you 
 were left at dessert all by yourself?” 
 
 “Mr. Frankland is still at dinner,” said the 
 doctor. “But I certainly brought some one into 
 the room with me. Where, in the name of won- 
 der, has she gone to? — Mrs. Jazeph!” 
 
 The housekeeper had slipped round to the part 
 of the room between the foot of the bed and the 
 fireplace, where she was hidden by the curtains 
 that still remained drawn. When Mr. Orridge 
 called to her, instead of joining him where he 
 stood, opposite the window, she appeared at the 
 other side of the bed, where the window was 
 behind her. Her shadow stole darkly oyer the 
 bright picture which the doctor had been admir- 
 ing. It stretched obliquely across the counter- 
 pane, and its dusky edges touched the figures of 
 the mother and child. 
 
 “Gracious goodness! who are you?” exclaimed 
 Rosamond. “A woman or a ghost?” 
 
 Mrs. Jazeph’s veil was up at last. Although 
 her face was necessarily in shadow in the posi- 
 tion which she had chosen to occupy, the doctor 
 saw a change pass over it when Mrs. Frankland 
 spoke. The lips dropped and quivered a little; 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 163 
 
 the marks of care and age about the mouth 
 deepened; and the eyebrows contracted sud- 
 denly, The eyes Mr. Orridge could not see; they 
 were cast down on the counterpane at the first 
 word that Rosamond uttered. Judging by the 
 light of his medical experience, the doctor con- 
 cluded that she was suffering pain, and trying 
 to suppress any outward manifestation of it. 
 “An affection of the heart, most likely,” he 
 thought to himself. “She has concealed it from 
 her mistress, but she can’t hide it from me.” 
 “Who are you?” repeated Rosamond. “And 
 what in the world do you stand there for — be- 
 tween us and the sunlight?” 
 
 Mrs. Jazeph neither answered nor raised her 
 eyes. She only moved back timidly to the fur- 
 thest corner of the window. 
 
 “Did you not get a message from me this 
 afternoon?” asked the doctor, appealing to Mrs. 
 Frankland. 
 
 “To be sure I did,” replied Rosamond. “A 
 very kind, flattering message about a new nurse. ” 
 “There she is,” said Mr. Orridge, pointing 
 across the bed to Mrs. Jazeph. 
 
 “You don’t say so!” exclaimed Rosamond. 
 “But of course it must be. Who else could have 
 come in with you? I ought to have known that. 
 Pray come here — (what is her name, doctor? 
 Joseph, did you say? — No? — Jazeph?) — pray 
 come nearer, Mrs. Jazeph, and let me apologize 
 for speaking so abruptly to you. I am more 
 obliged than I can say for your kindness in com- 
 ing here, and for your mistress’s good-nature in 
 
164 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLTNS. 
 
 resigning you to me. I hope I shall not give you 
 much trouble, and I am sure you will find the 
 baby easy to manage. He is a perfect angel, 
 and sleeps like a dormouse. Dear me! now 1 
 look at you a little closer, I am afraid you are 
 in very delicate health yourself. Doctor, if Mrs. 
 Jazeph would not be offended with me, I should 
 almost feel inclined to say that she looks in want 
 of nursing herself.” 
 
 Mrs. Jazeph bent down over the laburnum 
 blossoms on the bed, and began hurriedly and 
 confusedly to gather them together. 
 
 “I thought as you do, Mrs. Frankland,” said 
 Mr. Orridge. “But I have been assured that 
 Mrs. Jazeph’s looks belie her, and that her ca- 
 pabilities as a nurse quite equal her zeal.” 
 
 “Are you going to make all that laburnum 
 into a nosegay?” asked Mrs. Frankland, notic- 
 ing how the new nurse was occupying herself. 
 “How thoughtful of you! and how magnificent 
 it will be! I am afraid you will find the room* 
 very untidy. I will ring for my maid to set it 
 to rights.” 
 
 “If you will allow me to put it in order, 
 ma’am, I shall be very glad to begin being of use 
 to you in that way,” said Mrs. Jazeph. When she 
 made the offer she looked up, and her eyes and 
 Mrs. Frankland’s met. Rosamond instantly drew 
 back on the pillow, and her color altered a little. 
 
 “How strangely you look at me!” she said. 
 
 Mrs. Jazeph started* at the words, as if some- 
 thing had struck her, and moved away suddenly 
 to the window. 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 165 
 
 “You are not offended with me, I hope?” said 
 Rosamond, noticing the action. “I have a sad 
 habit of saying anything that comes uppermost. 
 And I really thought you looked just now as if 
 you saw something about me that frightened or 
 grieved you. Pray put the room in order, if you 
 are kindly willing to undertake the trouble. And 
 never mind what 1 say; you will soon get used to 
 my ways — and we shall be as comfortable and 
 friendly — ” 
 
 Just as Mrs. Frankland said the words “com- 
 fortable and friendly,” the new nurse left the 
 window, and went back to the part of the room 
 where she was hidden from view, between the 
 fireplace and the closed curtains at the foot of 
 the bed. Rosamond looked round to express her 
 surprise to the doctor, but he turned away at the 
 same moment so as to occupy a position which 
 might enable him to observe what Mrs. Jazeph 
 was doing on the other side of the bed-curtains. 
 
 When he first caught sight of her, her hands 
 were both raised to her face. Before he could 
 decide whether he had surprised her in the act of 
 clasping them over her eyes or not, they changed 
 their position, and were occupied in removing 
 her bonnet. After she had placed this part of 
 her wearing apparel, and her shawl and gloves, 
 on a chair in a corner of the room, she went to 
 the dressing-table, and began to arrange the 
 various useful and ornamental objects scattered 
 about it. She set them in order with remarkable 
 dexterity and neatness, showing a taste for ar- 
 rangement, and a capacity for discriminating 
 
166 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 between things that were likely to be wanted 
 and things that were not, which impressed Mr. 
 Orridge very favorably. He particularly noticed 
 the carefulness with which she handled some bot- 
 tles of physic, reading the labels on each, and ar- 
 ranging the medicine that might be required at 
 night on one side of the table, and the medicine 
 that might be required in the day-time on the 
 other. When she left the dressing-table, and oc- 
 cupied herself in setting the furniture straight, 
 and in folding up articles of clothing that had 
 been thrown on one side, not the slightest move- 
 ment of her thin, wasted hands seemed ever to 
 be made at hazard or in vain. Noiselessly, mod- 
 estly, observantly, she moved from side to side 
 of the room, and neatness and order followed her 
 steps wherever she went. When Mr. Orridge 
 resumed his place at Mrs. Frankland’s bedside, 
 his mind was at ease on one point at. least — it 
 was perfectly evident that the new nurse could 
 be depended on to make no mistakes. 
 
 4 4 What an odd woman she is,” whispered 
 Rosamond. 
 
 4 4 Odd, indeed,” returned Mr. Orridge, 4 4 and 
 desperately broken in health, though she may 
 not confess to it. However, she is wonderfully 
 neat-handed and careful, and there can be no 
 harm in trying her for one night— that is to say, 
 unless you feel any objection.” 
 
 4 4 On the contrary,” said Rosamond, 44 she 
 rather interests me. There is something in her 
 face and manner — I can’t say what — that makes 
 me feel curious to know more of her. I must get 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 167 
 
 her to talk, and try if I can’t bring out all her 
 peculiarities. Don’t be afraid of my exciting 
 myself, and don’t stop here in this dull room on 
 my account. I would much rather you went 
 downstairs, and kept my husband company over 
 his wine. Do go and talk to him, and amuse 
 him a little — he must be so dull, poor fellow, 
 while I am up here; and he likes you, Mr. Or- 
 ridge — he does, very much. Stop one moment, 
 and just look at the baby again. He doesn’t 
 take a dangerous quantity of sleep, does he? 
 And, Mr. Orridge, one word more: When you 
 have done your wine, you will promise to lend 
 my husband the use of your eyes, and bring him 
 upstairs to wish me good-night, won’t you?” 
 Willingly engaging to pay attention to Mrs. 
 Frankland’s request, Mr. Orridge left the bedside 
 As he opened the room door, he stopped to tell 
 Mrs. Jazeph that he should be downstairs if she 
 wanted him, and that he would give her any in- 
 structions of which she might stand in need later 
 in the evening, before he left the inn for the 
 night. The new nurse, when he passed by her, 
 was kneeling over one of Mrs. Frankland’s open 
 trunks, arranging some articles of clothing which 
 had been rather carelessly folded up. Just be- 
 fore he spoke to her, he observed that she had a 
 chemisette in her hand, the frill of which was 
 laced through with ribbon. 
 
 One end of this ribbon she appeared to him to 
 be on the point of drawing out, when the sound of 
 his footsteps disturbed her. The moment she be- 
 came aware of his approach she dropped the 
 
168 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 chemisette suddenly in the trunk, and covered 
 it over with some handkerchiefs. Although this 
 proceeding on Mrs. Jazeph’s part rather surprised 
 the doctor, he abstained from showing that he 
 had noticed it. Her mistress had vouched for 
 her character, after five years’ experience of it, 
 and the bit of ribbon was intrinsically worthless. 
 On both accounts, it was impossible to suspect 
 her of attempting to steal it; and yet, as Mr. 
 Orridge could not help feeling when he had left 
 the room, her conduct, when he surprised her 
 over the trunk, was exactly the conduct of a per- 
 son who is about to commit a theft. 
 
 4 ‘Pray don’t trouble yourself about my lug- 
 gage,” said Rosamond, remarking Mrs. Jazeph’s 
 occupation as soon as the doctor had gone. 
 “That is my idle maid’s business, and you will 
 only make her more careless than ever if you do 
 it for her. 1 am sure the room is beautifully set 
 in order. Come here and sit down and rest your- 
 self. You must be a very unselfish, kind-hearted 
 woman to give yourself all this trouble to serve 
 a stranger. The doctor’s message this afternoon 
 told me that your mistress was a friend of my 
 poor, dear father’s. I suppose she must have 
 known him before my time. Any way, I feel 
 doubly grateful to her for taking an interest in 
 me for my father’s sake. But you can have no 
 such feeling; you must have come here from 
 pure good-nature and anxiety to help others. 
 Don’t go away, there, to the window. Come 
 and sit down by me.” 
 
 Mrs. Jazeph had risen from the trunk, and 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 169 
 
 was approaching the bedside — when she suddenly 
 turned away in the direction of the fire-place, 
 just as Mrs. Frankland began to speak of her 
 father. 
 
 “Come and sit here,” reiterated Rosamond, 
 getting impatient at receiving no answer. 
 “What in the world are you doing there at the 
 foot of the bed?” 
 
 The figure of the new nurse again interposed 
 between the bed and the fading evening light 
 that glimmered through the window before there 
 was any reply. 
 
 “The evening is closing in,” said Mrs. Jazeph, 
 “and the window is not quite shut. I was think- 
 ing of making it fast, and of drawing down the 
 blind— if you had no objection, ma’am?” 
 
 “Oh, not yet! not yet! Shut the window, if 
 you please, in case the baby should catch cold, 
 but don’t draw down the blind. Let me get my 
 peep at the view as L ng as there is any light left 
 to see it by. That long flat stretch of grazing- 
 ground out there is just beginning, at this dim 
 time, to look a little like my childish recollec- 
 tions of a Cornish moor. Do you know anything 
 about Cornwall, Mrs. Jazeph?” 
 
 “I have heard — ” At those first three words 
 of reply the nurse stopped. She was just then 
 engaged in shutting the window, and she seemed 
 to find some difficulty in closing the lock. 
 
 “What have you heard?” asked Rosamond. 
 
 “I have heard that Cornwall is a wild, dreary 
 country,” said Mrs. Jazeph, still busying herself 
 with the lock of the window, and, by conse- 
 
170 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 quence, still keeping her back turned to Mrs. 
 Frankland. 
 
 “ Can’t you shut the window, yet?” said Rosa- 
 mond. 4 ‘My maid always does it quite easily. 
 Leave it till she comes up— I am going to ring 
 for her directly. I want her to brush my hair 
 and cool my face with a little Eau de Cologne 
 and water.” 
 
 “I have shut it, ma’am,” said Mrs Jazeph, 
 suddenly succeeding in closing the lock. “And 
 if you will allow me, I should be very glad to 
 make you comfortable for the night, and save 
 you the trouble of ringing for the maid.” 
 
 . Thinking the new nurse the oddest woman she 
 had ever met with, Mrs. Frankland accepted the 
 offer. By the time Mrs. Jazeph had prepared 
 the Eau de Cologne and water, the twilight was 
 falling softly over the landscape outside, and the 
 room was beginning to grow dark. 
 
 “Had you not better light a candle?” sug- 
 gested Rosamond. 
 
 “I think not, ma’am,” said Mrs. Jazeph, rather 
 hastily. “I can see quite well without.” 
 
 She began to brush Mrs. Frankland’s hair as 
 she spoke; and, at the same time, asked a ques- 
 tion which referred to the few words that had 
 passed between them on the subject of Cornwall. 
 Pleased to find that the new nurse had grown 
 familiar enough at last to speak before she was 
 spoken to, Rosamond desired nothing better than 
 to talk about her recollections of her native coun- 
 try. But, from some inexplicable reason, Mrs. 
 Jazeph’s touch, light and tender as it was, had 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 171 
 
 such a strangely disconcerting effect on her, that 
 she could not succeed, for the moment, in collect- 
 ing her thoughts so as to reply, except in the 
 briefest manner. The careful hands of the nurse 
 lingered with a stealthy gentleness among the 
 locks of her hair ; the pale, wasted face of the 
 new nurse approached, every now and then, 
 more closely to her own than appeared at all 
 needful. A vague sensation of uneasiness, 
 which she could not trace to any particular part 
 of her — which she could hardly say that she really 
 felt, in a bodily sense, at all— seemed to be float- 
 ing about her, to be hanging around and over 
 her, like the air she breathed. She could not 
 move, though she wanted to move in the bed; 
 she could not turn her head so as to humor the 
 action of the brush; she could not look round; 
 she could not break the embarrassing silence 
 which had been caused by her own short, dis- 
 couraging answer. At last the sense of oppres- 
 sion — whether fancied or real — irritated her into 
 snatching the brush out of Mrs. Jazeph’s hand. 
 The instant she had done so, she felt ashamed of 
 the discourteous abruptness of the action, and 
 confused at the alarm and surprise which the 
 manner of the nurse exhibited. With the strong- 
 est sense of the absurdity of her own conduct, 
 and yet without the least power of controlling 
 herself, she burst out laughing, and tossed the 
 brush away to the foot of the bed. 
 
 “Pray don’t look surprised, Mrs. Jazeph,” she 
 said, still laughing without knowing why, and 
 without feeling in the slightest degree amused. 
 
m 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 “I’m very rude and odd, I know. You have 
 brushed my hair delightfully; but — I can’t tell 
 how — it seemed, all the time, as if you were brush- 
 ing the strangest fancies into my head. I can’t 
 help laughing at them — I can’t indeed ! Do you 
 know, once or twice, I absolutely fancied, when 
 your face was closest to mine, that you wanted 
 to kiss me! Did you ever hear of anything so 
 ridiculous? I declare I am more of a baby, in 
 some things, than the little darling here by my 
 side!” 
 
 Mrs. Jazeph made no answer. She left the bed 
 while Rosamond was speaking, and came back, 
 after an unaccountably long delay, with the Eau 
 de Cologne and water. As she held the basin 
 while Mrs. Frankland bathed her face, she kept 
 away at arms-length, and came no nearer when 
 it was time to offer the towel. Rosamond began 
 to be afraid that she had seriously offended Mrs. 
 Jazeph, and tried to soothe and propitiate her 
 by asking questions about the management of 
 the baby. There was a slight trembling in the 
 sweet voice of the new nurse, but not the faintest 
 tone of sullenness or anger, as she simply and 
 quietly answered the inquiries addressed to her. 
 By dint of keeping the conversation still on the 
 subject of the child, Mrs. Frankland succeeded, 
 little by little, in luring her back to the bedside 
 — in tempting her to bend down admiringly over 
 the infant — in emboldening her, at last, to kiss 
 him tenderly on the cheek. One kiss was all 
 that she gave; and she turned away from the 
 bed, after it, and sighed heavily. 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 173 
 
 The sound of that sigh fell very sadly on 
 Rosamond’s heart. Up to this time the baby’s 
 little span of life had always been associated with 
 smiling faces and pleasant words. It made her 
 uneasy to think that any one could caress him 
 and sigh after it. 
 
 “I am sure you must be fond of children,” she 
 said, hesitating a little from natural delicacy of 
 feeling. “But will you excuse me for noticing 
 that it seems rather a mournful fondness? Pray 
 — pray don’t answer my question if it gives you 
 any pain — if you have any loss to deplore; but — 
 but I do so want to ask if you have ever had a 
 child of your own?” 
 
 Mrs. Jazephwas standing near a chair wheq 
 that question was put. She caught fast hold of 
 the back of it, grasping it so firmly, or perhaps 
 leaning on it so heavily, that the woodwork 
 cracked. Her head dropped low on her bosom. 
 She did not utter, or even attempt to utter, a 
 single word. 
 
 Fearing that she must have lost a child of her 
 own, and dreading to distress her unnecessarily 
 by venturing to ask any more questions, Rosa- 
 mond said nothing, as she stooped over the baby 
 to kiss him in her turn. Her lips rested on his 
 cheek a little above where Mrs. Jazeph’s lips had 
 rested the moment before, and they touched a 
 spot of wet on his smooth warm skin. Fearing 
 that some of the water in which she had been 
 bathing her face might have dropped on him, 
 she passed her fingers lightly over his head, neck, 
 and bosom, and felt no other spots of wet any- 
 
1?4 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 where. The one drop that had fallen on him 
 was the drop that wetted the cheek which the 
 new nurse had kissed. 
 
 The twilight faded over the landscape, the 
 room grew darker and darker; and still, though 
 she was now sitting close to the table on which 
 the candles and matches were placed, Mrs. Ja- 
 zeph made no attempt to strike a light. Rosa- 
 mond did not feel quite comfortable at the idea 
 of lying awake in the darkness, with nobody in 
 the room but a person who was as yet almost a 
 total stranger ; and she resolved to have the can- 
 dles lighted immediately. 
 
 “Mrs. Jazeph,” she said, looking toward the 
 gathering obscurity outside the window, “I shall 
 be much obliged to you, if you will light the 
 candles and pull down the blind. I can trace no 
 more resemblances out there, now, to a Cornish 
 prospect; the view has gone altogether.” 
 
 “Are you very fond of Cornwall, ma’am?” 
 asked Mrs. Jazeph, rising, in rather a dilatory 
 manner, to light the candles. 
 
 “Indeed I am,” said Rosamond. “I was born 
 there; and my husband and I were on our way 
 to Cornwall when we were obliged to stop, on 
 my account, at this place. You are a long time 
 getting the candles lighted. Can’t you find the 
 match-box?” 
 
 Mrs. Jazeph, with an awkwardness which was 
 rather surprising in a person who had shown so 
 much neat-handedness in setting the room to 
 rights, broke the first match in attempting to 
 light it, and let the second go out the instant 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 175 
 
 after the flame was kindled. At the third at- 
 tempt she was more successful ; but she only lit 
 one candle, and that one she carried away from 
 the table which Mrs. Frankland could see, to the 
 dressing-table, which was hidden from her by 
 the curtains at the foot of the bed. 
 
 “Why do you move the candle?” asked Rosa- 
 mond. 
 
 “I thought it was best for your eyes, ma’am, 
 not to have the light too near them,” replied 
 Mrs. Jazeph; and then added hastily, as if she 
 was unwilling to give Mrs. Frankland time to 
 make any objections — “And so you were going 
 to Cornwall, ma’am, when you stopped at this 
 place? To travel about there a little, I sup- 
 pose?” After saying these words, she took up 
 the second candle, and passed out of sight as she 
 carried it to the dressing-table. 
 
 Rosamond thought that the nurse, in spite of 
 her gentle looks and manners, was a remarkably 
 obstinate woman. But she was too good-natured 
 to care about asserting her right to have the 
 candles placed where she pleased; and when 
 she answered Mrs. Jazeph’s question, she still 
 spoke to her as cheerfully and familiarly as 
 ever. 
 
 “Oh, dear no! Not to travel about,” she said, 
 “but to go straight to the old country-house 
 where I was born. It belongs to my husband 
 now, Mrs. Jazeph. I have not been near it since 
 I was a little girl of five years of age. Such a 
 ruinous, rambling old place! You, who talk of 
 the dreariness and wildness of Cornwall, would 
 
176 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 / 
 
 be quite horrified at the very idea of living in 
 Porthgenna Tower.” 
 
 The faintly rustling sound of Mrs. Jazeph’s 
 silk dress, as she moved about the dressing-table, 
 had been audible all the while Rosamond was 
 speaking. It ceased instantaneously when she 
 said the words 4 4 Porthgenna Tower”; and for 
 one moment there was a dead silence in the room. 
 
 “You, who have been living all your life, I 
 suppose, in nicely repaired houses, cannot imag- 
 ine what a place it is that we are going to, when 
 I am well enough to travel again,” pursued 
 Rosamond. “What do you think, Mrs. Jazeph, 
 of a house with one whole side of it that has 
 never been inhabited for sixty or seventy years 
 past? You may get some notion of the size of 
 Porthgenna Tower from that. There is a west 
 side that we are to live in when we get there, 
 and a north side, where the empty old rooms are, 
 which I hope we shall be able to repair. Only 
 think of the hosts of odd, old-fashioned things 
 that we may find in those uninhabited rooms! I 
 mean to put on the cook’s apron and the gar- 
 dener’s gloves, and rummage all over them from 
 top to bottom. How I shall astonish the house- 
 keeper, when I get to Porthgenna, and ask her 
 for the keys of the ghostly north rooms!” 
 
 A low cry, and a sound as if something had 
 struck against the dressing-table, followed Mrs. 
 Frankland’s last words. She started in the bed 
 and asked eagerly what was the matter. 
 
 “Nothing,” answered Mrs. Jazeph, speaking so 
 constrainedly that her voice dropped to a whis- 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 \77 
 
 per. “Nothing, ma’am — nothing, I assure you. 
 I struck my side, by accident, against the table— 
 pray don’t be alarmed ! — it’s not worth noticing.” 
 
 “But you speak as if you were in pain,” said 
 Rosamond. 
 
 “No, no — not in pain. Not hurt — not hurt, 
 indeed.” 
 
 While Mrs. Jazeph was declaring that she was 
 not hurt, the door of the room was opened, and 
 the doctor entered, leading in Mr. Frankland. 
 
 “We come early, Mrs. Frankland, but we are 
 going to give you plenty of time to compose 
 yourself for the night,” said Mr. Orridge. He 
 paused, and noticed that Rosamond’s color was 
 heightened. “I am afraid you have been talk- 
 ing and exciting yourself a little too much,” he 
 went on. “If you will excuse me for venturing 
 on the suggestion, Mr. Frankland, I think the 
 sooner good-night is said the better. Where is 
 the nurse?” 
 
 Mrs. Jazeph sat down with her back to the 
 lighted candle when she heard herself asked for. 
 Just before that, she had been looking at Mr. 
 Frankland with an eager, undisguised curiosity, 
 which, if any one had noticed it, must have ap- 
 peared surprisingly out of character with her 
 usual modesty and refinement of manner. 
 
 “I am afraid the nurse has accidentally hurt 
 her side more than she is willing to confess,” 
 said Rosamond to the doctor, pointing with one 
 hand to the place in which Mrs. J azeph was sit- 
 ting, and raising the other to her husband’s neck 
 as he stooped over her pillow. 
 
178 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 Mr. Orridge, cn inquiring what had happened, 
 could not prevail on the new nurse to acknowl- 
 edge that the accident was of the slightest conse- 
 quence. He suspected, nevertheless, that she was 
 suffering, or, at least, that something had hap- 
 pened to discompose her; for he found the great- 
 est difficulty in fixing her attention, while he 
 gave her a few needful directions in case her 
 services were required during the night. All the 
 time he was speaking, her eyes wandered away 
 from him to the part of the room where Mr. and 
 Mrs. Frankland were talking together. Mrs. 
 Jazeph looked like the last person in the world 
 who would be guilty of an act of impertinent 
 curiosity; and yet she openly betrayed all the 
 characteristics of an inquisitive woman while 
 Mr. Frankland was standing by his wife’s pil- 
 low. The doctor was obliged to assume his most 
 peremptory manner before he could get her to 
 attend to him at all. 
 
 “And now, Mrs. Frankland,” said Mr. Or- 
 ridge, turning away from the nurse, “as I have 
 given Mrs. Jazeph all the directions she wants, I 
 shall set the example of leaving you in quiet by 
 saying good-night.” 
 
 Understanding the hint conveyed in these 
 words, Mr. Frankland attempted to say good- 
 night too, but his wife kept tight hold of both 
 his hands, and declared that it was unreasonable 
 to expect her to let him go for another half-hour 
 at least. Mr. Orridge shook his head, and began 
 to expatiate on the evils of over-excitement, and 
 the blessings of composure and sleep. His re- 
 
THE BEAD SECRET. 
 
 179 
 
 monstrances, however, would have produced 
 very little effect, even if Rosamond had allowed 
 him to continue them, but for the interposition 
 of the baby, who happened to wake up at that 
 moment, and who proved himself a powerful aux- 
 iliary on the doctor’s side, by absorbing all his 
 mother’s attention immediately. Seizing his 
 opportunity at the right moment, Mr. Orridge 
 quietly led Mr. Frankland out of the room, just 
 as Rosamond was taking the child up in her 
 arms. He stopped before closing the door to 
 whisper one last word to Mrs. Jazeph. 
 
 “If Mrs. Frankland wants to talk, you must 
 not encourage her,” he said. “As soon as she 
 has quieted the baby, she ought to go to sleep. 
 There is a chair- bedstead in that corner, which 
 you can open for yourself when you want to lie 
 down. Keep the candle where it is now, behind 
 the curtain. The less light Mrs. Frankland sees, 
 the sooner she will compose herself to sleep.” 
 Mrs. Jazeph made no answer; she only looked 
 at the doctor and courtesied. That strangely 
 scared expression in her eyes, which he had 
 noticed on first seeing her, was more painfully 
 apparent than ever when he left her alone for 
 the night with the mother and child. “She will 
 never do,” thought Mr. Orridge, as he led Mr. 
 Frankland down the inn stairs. “ We shall have 
 to send to London for a nurse, after all.” 
 
 Feeling a little irritated by the summary man- 
 ner in which her husband had been taken away 
 from her, Rosamond fretfully rejected the offers 
 of assistance which were made to her by Mrs. 
 
180 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 Jazeph as soon as the doctor had left the room. 
 The nurse said nothing when her services were 
 declined; and yet, judging by her conduct, she 
 seemed anxious to speak. Twice she advanced 
 toward the bedside — opened her lips — stopped— 
 and retired confusedly, before she settled herself 
 finally in her former place by the dressing-table. 
 Here she remained, silent and out of sight, until 
 the child had been quieted, and had fallen asleep 
 in his mother’s arms, with one little pink, half- 
 closed hand resting on her bosom. Rosamond 
 could not resist raising the hand to her lips, 
 though she risked waking him again by doing 
 so. As she kissed it, the sound of the kiss was 
 followed by a faint, suppressed sob, proceeding 
 from the other side of the curtains at the lower 
 end of the bed. 
 
 “ What is that?” she exclaimed. 
 
 “Nothing, ma’am,” said Mrs, Jazeph, in the 
 same constrained, whispering tones in which 
 she had answered Mrs. Frankland’s former 
 question. “I think I was just falling asleep 
 in the arm-chair here; and I ought to have told 
 you perhaps that, having had my troubles, and 
 being afflicted with a heart complaint, I have a 
 habit of sighing in my sleep. It means nothing, 
 ma’am, and I hope you will be good enough to 
 excuse it.” 
 
 Rosamond’s generous instincts were aroused 
 in a moment. 
 
 “Excuse it!” she said. “I hope I may do 
 better than that, Mrs. Jazeph, and be the means 
 of relieving it. When Mr. Orridge comes to- 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 181 
 
 morrow you shall consult him, and I will take 
 care that you want for nothing that he may 
 order. No! no! Don’t thank me until I have 
 been the means of making you well — and keep 
 where you are, if the arm-chair is comfortable. 
 The baby is asleep again; and I should like to 
 have half an hour’s quiet before I change to the 
 night side of the bed, Stop where you are for 
 the present: I will call as soon as I want 
 you.” 
 
 So far from exercising a soothing effect on Mrs. 
 Jazeph, these kindly meant words produced the 
 precisely opposite result of making her restless. 
 She began to walk about the room, and confus- 
 edly attempted to account for the change in her 
 conduct by saying that she wished to satisfy herself 
 that all her arrangements were properly made for 
 the night. In a few minutes more she began, in 
 defiance of the doctor’s prohibition, to tempt 
 Mrs. Frankland into talking again, by asking 
 questions about Porthgenna Tower, and by re- 
 ferring to the chances for and against its being 
 chosen as a permanent residence by the young 
 married couple. 
 
 “Perhaps, ma’am,” she said, speaking on a 
 sudden, with an eagerness in her voice which 
 was curiously at variance with the apparent in- 
 difference of her manner — “Perhaps when you 
 see Porthgenna Tower you may not like it so 
 well as you think you will now. Who can tell 
 that you may not get tired and leave the place 
 again after a few days — especially if you go into 
 the empty rooms? I should have thought — if 
 
182 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 you will excuse my saying so, ma’am — I should 
 have thought that a lady like you would have 
 liked to get as far away as possible from dirt 
 and dust, and disgreeable smells.” 
 
 “I can face worse inconveniences than those, 
 where my curiosity is concerned,” said Rosa- 
 mond. 4 ‘And I am more curious to see the un- 
 inhabited rooms at Porthgenna than to see the 
 Seven Wonders of the World. Even if we don’t 
 settle altogether at the old house, I feel certain 
 that we shall stay there for some time.” 
 
 At that answer, Mrs. Jazeph abruptly turned 
 away and asked no more questions. She retired 
 to a corner of the room near the door, where the 
 chair- bedstead stood which the doctor had pointed 
 out to her — occupied herself for a few minutes in 
 making it ready for the night — then left it as 
 suddenly as she had approached it, and began to 
 walk up and down once more. This unaccount- 
 able restlessness, which had already surprised 
 Rosamond, now made her feel rather uneasy — 
 especially when she once or twice overheard Mrs. 
 Jazeph talking to herself. Judging by words 
 and fragments of sentences that were audible 
 now and then, her mind was still running, with 
 the most inexplicable persistency, on the subject 
 of Porthgenna Tower. As the minutes wore on, 
 and she continued to walk up and down, and 
 still went on talking, Rosamond’s uneasiness be- 
 gan to strengthen into something like alarm. 
 She resolved to awaken Mrs. Jazeph, in the least 
 offensive manner, to a sense of the strangeness 
 of her own conduct, by noticing that she was 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 183 
 
 talking, but by not appearing to understand that 
 she was talking to herself. 
 
 “What did you say?” asked Rosamond, put- 
 ting the question at a moment when the nurse’s 
 voice was most distinctly betraying her in the 
 act of thinking aloud. 
 
 Mrs. Jazeph stopped, and raised her head va- 
 cantly, as if she had been awakened out of a 
 heavy sleep. 
 
 “I thought you were saying something more 
 about our old house,” continued Rosamond. “I 
 thought I heard you say that I ought not to go 
 to Porthgenna, or that you would not go there 
 in my place, or something of that sort.” 
 
 Mrs. Jazeph blushed like a young girl. “I 
 think you must have been mistaken, ma’am,” 
 she said, and stooped over the chair-bedstead 
 again. 
 
 Watching her anxiously, Rosamond saw that, 
 while she was affecting to arrange the bedstead, 
 she was doing nothing whatever to prepare it for 
 being slept in. What did that mean? What 
 did her whole conduct mean for the last half- 
 hour? As Mrs, Frankland asked herself those 
 questions, the thrill of a terrible suspicion turned 
 her cold to the very roots of her hair. It had 
 never occurred to her before, but it suddenly 
 struck her now, with the force of positive con- 
 viction, that the new nurse was not in her right 
 senses. 
 
 All that was unaccountable in her behavior— 
 her odd disappearances behind the curtains at 
 the foot of the bed; her lingering, stealthy, over- 
 
184 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 familiar way of using the hair-brush ; her silence 
 at one time, her talkativeness at another; her 
 restlessness, her whispering to herself, her affec- 
 tation of being deeply engaged in doing some- 
 thing which she was not doing at all— every one 
 of her strange actions (otherwise incomprehen- 
 sible) became intelligible in a moment on that 
 one dreadful supposition that she was mad. 
 
 Terrified as she was, Rosamond kept her pres- 
 ence of mind. One of her arms stole instinctive- 
 ly round the child; and she had half raised the 
 other to catch at the bell-rope hanging above her 
 pillow, when she saw Mrs. Jazeph turn and look 
 at her. 
 
 A woman possessed only of ordinary nerve 
 would, probably, at that instant have pulled at 
 the bell-rope in the unreasoning desperation of 
 sheer fright. Rosamond had courage enough to 
 calculate consequences, and to remember that 
 Mrs. Jazeph would have time to lock the door, 
 before assistance could arrive, if she betrayed 
 her suspicions by ringing without first assigning 
 some plausible reason for doing so. She slowly 
 closed her oyes as the nurse looked at her, partly 
 to convey the notion that she was composing her- 
 self to sleep — partly to gain time to think of 
 some safe excuse for summoning her maid. The 
 flurry of her spirits, however, interfered with the 
 exercise of her ingenuity. Minute after minute 
 dragged on heavily, and still she could think of 
 no assignable reason for ringing the bell. 
 
 She was just doubting whether it would not 
 be safest to send Mrs. Jazeph out of the room, 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 185 
 
 on some message to her husband, to lock the 
 door the moment she was alone, and then to 
 ring — she was just doubting whether she would 
 boldly adopt this course of proceeding or not, 
 when she heard the rustle of the nurse’s silk 
 dress approaching the bedside. 
 
 Her first impulse was to snatch at the bell- 
 rope; but fear had paralyzed her hand; she could 
 not raise it from the pillow. 
 
 The rustling of the silk dress ceased. She half 
 unclosed her eyes, and saw that the nurse was 
 stopping midway between the part of the room 
 from which she had advanced and the bedside. 
 There was nothing wild or angry in her look. 
 The agitation which her face expressed was the 
 agitation of perplexity and alarm. She stood 
 rapidly clasping and unclasping her hands, the 
 image of bewilderment and distress — stood so for 
 nearly a minute — then came forward a few steps 
 more, and said inquiringly, in a whisper: 
 
 “Not asleep? not quite asleep yet?” 
 
 Rosamond tried to speak in answer, but 
 the quick beating of her heart seemed to rise 
 up to her very lips, and to stifle the words on 
 them. 
 
 The nurse came on, still with the same per- 
 plexity and distress in her face, to within a foot 
 of the bedside — knelt down by the pillow, and 
 looked earnestly at Rosamond — shuddered a lit- 
 tle, and glanced all round her, as if to make sure 
 that the room was empty — bent forward — hesi- 
 tated — bent nearer, and whispered into her ear 
 these words: 
 
186 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 “ When you go to Porthgenna, keep out of the 
 Myrtle Room!” 
 
 The hot breath of the woman, as she spoke, 
 beat on Rosamond’s cheek, and seemed to fly in 
 one fever-throb through every vein of her body. 
 The nervous shock of that unutterable sensation 
 burst the bonds of the terror that had hitherto 
 held her motionless and speechless. She started 
 up in bed with a scream, caught hold of the 
 bell- rope, and pulled it violently. 
 
 “Oh, hush! hush!” cried Mrs. Jazeph, sink- 
 ing back on her knees, and beating her hands 
 together despairingly with the helpless gesticu- 
 lation of a child. 
 
 Rosamond rang again and again. Hurrying 
 footsteps and eager voices were heard outside on 
 the stairs. It was not ten o’clock yet — nobody 
 had retired for the night — and the violent ring- 
 ing had already alarmed the house. 
 
 The nurse rose to her feet, staggered back from 
 the bedside, and supported herself against the 
 wall of the room, as the footsteps and the voices 
 reached the door. She said not another word. 
 The hands that she had been beating together so 
 violently but an instant before hung down nerve= 
 less at her side. The blank of a great agony 
 spread over all her face, and stilled it awfully. 
 
 The first person who entered the room was 
 Mrs. Frankland’s maid, and the landlady fol- 
 lowed her. 
 
 “Fetch Mr. Frankland,” said Rosamond, 
 faintly, addressing the landlady. “I want to 
 speak to him directly. — You,” she continued. 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 187 
 
 beckoning to the maid, “sit by me here till your 
 master comes. I have been dreadfully fright- 
 ened. Don’t ask me questions; but stop here.” 
 
 The maid stared at her mistress in amazement; 
 then looked round with a disparaging frown at 
 the nurse. When the landlady left the room to 
 fetch Mr. Frankland, she had moved a little 
 away from the wall, so as to command a full 
 view of the bed. Her eyes were fixed with a 
 look of breathless suspense, of devouring anx- 
 iety, on Rosamond’s face. From all her other 
 features the expression seemed to be gone. She 
 said nothing, she noticed nothing. She did not 
 start, she did not move aside an inch, when the 
 landlady returned, and led Mr. Frankland to his 
 wife. 
 
 “Lenny! don’t let the new nurse stop here to- 
 night — pray, pray don’t!” whispered Rosamond, 
 eagerly catching her husband by the arm. 
 
 Warned by the trembling of her hand, Mr. 
 Frankland laid his fingers lightly on her tem- 
 ples and on her heart. 
 
 “Good heavens, Rosamond! what has hap- 
 pened? I left you quiet and comfortable, and 
 now — ” 
 
 “I’ve been frightened, dear — dreadfully fright- 
 ened, by the new nurse. Don’t be hard on her, 
 poor creature ; she is not in her right senses — I 
 am certain she is not. Only get her away quiet- 
 ly — only send her back at once to where she came 
 from. I shall die of the fright, if she stops here. 
 She has been behaving so strangely — she has 
 spoken such words to me — Lenny! Lenny! don’t 
 
188 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 let go of my hand. She came stealing up to me 
 so horribly, just where you are now; she knelt 
 down at my ear, and whispered — oh, such words !” 
 
 “Hush, hush, love!” said Mr. Frankland, get- 
 ting seriously alarmed by the violence of Rosa- 
 mond’s agitation. “Never mind repeating the 
 words now; wait till you are calmer — I beg and 
 entreat of you, wait till you are calmer. I will 
 do everything you wish, if you will only lie 
 down and be quiet, and try to compose yourself 
 before you say another word. It is quite enough 
 for me to know that this woman has frightened 
 yon, and that you wish her to be sent away with 
 as little harshness as possible. We will put off 
 all further explanations till to-morrow morning. 
 I deeply regret now that I did not persist in 
 carrying out my own idea of sending for a proper 
 nurse from London. Where is the landlady?” 
 
 The landlady placed herself by Mr. Frank- 
 land’s side. 
 
 “Is it late?” asked Leonard. 
 
 “Oh no, sir; not ten o’clock yet.” 
 
 “Order a fly to be brought to the door, then, as 
 soon as possible, if you please. Where is the 
 nurse?” 
 
 “Standing behind you, sir, near the wall,” 
 said the maid. 
 
 As Mr. Frankland turned in that direction, 
 Rosamond whispered to him: “Don’t be hard on 
 her, Lenny.” 
 
 The maid, looking with contemptuous curios- 
 ity at Mrs. Jazeph, saw the whole expression of 
 her countenance alter, as those words were 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 189 
 
 spoken. The tears rose thick in her eyes, and 
 flowed down her cheeks. The deathly spell of 
 stillness that had lain on her face was broken in 
 an instant. She drew back again, close to the 
 wall, and leaned against it as before. “Don’t 
 be hard on her !” the maid heard her repeat to 
 herself, in a low sobbing voice. “Don’t be bard 
 on her! Oh, my God! she said that kindly — 
 she said that kindly, at least!” 
 
 “I have no desire to speak to you, or to use 
 you unkindly,” said Mr. Frankland, imperfect- 
 ly hearing what she said. 46 I know nothing of 
 what has happened, and I make no accusations. 
 I find Mrs. Frankland violently agitated and 
 frightened.; I hear her connect that agitation 
 with you — not angrily, but compassionately— 
 and, instead of speaking harshly, I prefer leaving 
 it to your own sense of what is right, to decide 
 whether your attendance here ought not to cease 
 at once. I have provided the proper means for 
 your conveyance from this place; and I would 
 suggest that you should make our apologies to 
 your mistress, and say nothing more than that 
 circumstances have happened which oblige us to 
 dispense with your services.” 
 
 “You have been considerate toward me, sir,” 
 said Mrs, Jazeph, speaking quietly, and with a 
 certain gentle dignity in her manner, “and I will 
 not prove myself unworth} r of your forbearance 
 by saying what I might say in my own defense.” 
 She advanced into the middle of the room, and 
 stopped where she could see Rosamond plainly. 
 Twice she attempted to speak, and twice her 
 
19 ,; 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 voice failed her. At the third effort she suc- 
 ceeded in controlling herself. 
 
 ^ “ Before I go, ma’am.” she said, “I hope you 
 will believe that I have no bitter feeling against 
 you for sending me away. I am not angry — pray 
 remember always that I was not angry, and that 
 I never complained.” 
 
 There was such a forlornness in her face, such 
 a sweet, sorrowful resignation in every tone of 
 her voice during the utterance of these few 
 words, that Rosamond’s heart smote her. 
 
 “Why did you frighten me?” she asked, half 
 relenting. 
 
 “Frighten you? How could I frighten you? 
 Oh, me ! of all the people in the world, how could 
 I frighten you?” 
 
 Mournfully saying those words, the nurse went 
 to the chair on which she had placed her bonnet 
 and shawl, and put them on. The landlady and 
 the maid, watching her with curious eyes, de- 
 tected that she was again weeping bitterly, and 
 noticed with astonishment, at the same time, 
 how neatly she put on her bonnet and shawl. 
 The wasted hands were moving mechanically, 
 and were trembling while they moved — and 
 yet, slight thing though it was, the inexorable 
 instinct of propriety guided their most trifling 
 actions still. 
 
 On her way to the door, she stopped again at 
 passing the bedside, looked through her tears at 
 Rosamond and the child, struggled a little with 
 herself, and then spoke her farewell words — 
 
 “God bless you, and keep you and your child 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 191 
 
 happy and prosperous,” she said. “I am not 
 angry at being sent away. If you ever think of 
 me again, after to-night, please to remember that 
 I was not angry, and that I never complained.” 
 She stood for a moment longer, still weeping, 
 and still looking through her tears at the mother 
 and child — then turned away and walked to the 
 door. Something in the last tones of her voice 
 caused a silence in the room. Of the four per- 
 sons in it not one could utter a word, as the 
 nurse closed the door gently, and went out from 
 them alone. 
 
 CHAPTER Y. 
 
 A COUNCIL OF THREE. 
 
 On the morning after the departure of Mrs. 
 Jazeph, the news that she had been sent away 
 from the Tiger’s Head by Mr. Frankland’s di- 
 rections, reached the doctor’s residence from the 
 inn just as he was sitting down to breakfast. 
 Finding that the report of the nurse’s dismissal 
 was not accompanied by any satisfactory expla- 
 nation of the cause of it, Mr. Orridge refused to 
 believe that her attendance on Mrs. Frankland 
 had really ceased. However, although he de- 
 clined to credit the news, he was so far disturbed 
 by it that he finished his breakfast in a hurry, 
 and went to pay his morning visit at the Tiger’s 
 Head nearly two hours before the time at which 
 he usually attended on his patient. 
 
192 
 
 WORKS OP WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 On his way to the inn, he was met and stopped 
 by the one waiter attached to the establishment. 
 44 1 was just bringing you a message from Mr. 
 Frankland, sir,” said the man. “He wants to 
 see you as soon as possible.” 
 
 4 4 Is it true that Mrs. Frankland’s nurse was 
 sent away last night by Mr. Frankland’s order?” 
 asked Mr. Orridge. 
 
 4 4 Quite true, sir,” answered the waiter. 
 
 The doctor colored, and looked seriously dis- 
 composed. One of the most precious things we 
 have about us — especially if we happen to belong 
 to the medical profession — is our dignity. It 
 struck Mr. Orridge that he ought to have been 
 consulted before a nurse of his recommending 
 was dismissed from her situation at a moment’s 
 notice. Was Mr. Frankland presuming upon 
 his position as a gentleman of fortune? The 
 power of wealth may do much with impunity, 
 but it is not privileged to offer any practical con- 
 tradictions to a man’s good opinion of himself. 
 Never had the doctor thought more disrespect- 
 fully of rank and riches ; never had he been con- 
 scious of reflecting on republican principles with 
 such absolute impartiality, as when he now fol- 
 lowed the waiter in sullen silence to Mr. Frank 
 land’s room. 
 
 44 Who is that?” asked Leonard, when he heard 
 the door open. 
 
 4 4 Mr. Orridge, sir,” said the waiter. 
 
 4 4 Good-morning,” said Mr. Orridge, with self, 
 asserting abruptness and familiarity. 
 
 Mr. Frankland was sitting in an arm-chair, 
 
THE DEAD SECRET* 
 
 193 
 
 with his legs crossed. Mr. Orridge carefully 
 selected another arm-chair, and crossed his legs 
 on the model of Mr. Frankland’s the moment he 
 sat down. Mr. Frankland’s hands were in the 
 pockets of his dressing-gown. Mr. Orridge had 
 no pockets, except in his coat-tails, which he 
 could not conveniently get at; but he put his 
 thumbs into the arm-holes of his waistcoat, and 
 asserted himself against the easy insolence of 
 wealth in that way. It made no difference to 
 him — so curiously narrow is the range of a 
 man’s perceptions when he is insisting on his 
 own importance — that Mr. Frankland was blind, 
 and consequently incapable of being impressed 
 by the independence of his bearing. Mr. Or- 
 ridge’s own dignity was vindicated in Mr. Or- 
 ridge’s own presence, and that was enough. 
 
 “I am glad you have come so early, doctor,” 
 said Mr. Frankland. “ A very unpleasant thing 
 happened here last night. I was obliged to send 
 the new nurse away at a moment’s notice.” 
 
 4 ‘Were you, indeed?” said Mr. Orridge, de- 
 fensively matching Mr. Frankland’s composure 
 by an assumption of the completest indifference. 
 “Aha! were you, indeed?” 
 
 “If there had been time to send and consult 
 you, of course I should have been only too glad 
 to have done so,” continued Leonard; “but it 
 was impossible to hesitate. We were all alarmed 
 by a loud ringing of my wife’s bell ; I was taken 
 up to her room, and found her in a condition of 
 the most violent agitation and alarm. She told 
 me she had been dreadfully frightened by the 
 G— Vol. 16 
 
194 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 new nurse; declared her conviction that the wo- 
 man was not in her right senses; and entreated 
 that I would get her out of the house with as lit- 
 tle delay and as little harshness as possible. Un- 
 der these circumstances, what could I do? I 
 may seem to have been wanting in consideration 
 toward you, in proceeding on my own sole re- 
 sponsibility ; but Mrs. Frankland was in such a 
 state of excitement that I could not tell what 
 might be the consequence of opposing her, or of 
 venturing on any delays; and after the difficulty 
 had been got over, she would not hear of your 
 being disturbed by a summons to the inn. I am 
 sure you will understand this explanation, doc- 
 tor, in the spirit in which I offer it.” 
 
 Mr. Orridge began to look a little confused. 
 His solid substructure of independence was soft- 
 ening and sinking from under him. He sudden- 
 ly found himself thinking of the cultivated man- 
 ners of the wealthy classes; his thumbs slipped 
 mechanically out of the arm-holes of his waist- 
 coat; and, before he well knew what he was 
 about, he was stammering his way through all 
 the choicest intricacies of a complimentary and 
 respectful reply. 
 
 “You will naturally be anxious to know what 
 the new nurse said or did to frighten my wife 
 so,” pursued Mr. Frankland, “I can tell you 
 nothing in detail; for Mrs. Frankland was in 
 such a state of nervous dread last night that I 
 was really afraid of asking for any explanations; 
 and I have purposely waited to make inquiries 
 this morning until you could come here and ac- 
 
THE* DEAD SECRETo 
 
 195 
 
 company me upstairs. You kindly took so much 
 trouble to secure this unlucky woman’s attend- 
 ance, that you have a right to hear all that can 
 be alleged against her, now she has been sent 
 away. Considering all things, Mrs. Frankland 
 is not so ill this morning as I was afraid she 
 would be. She expects to see you with me; and, 
 if you will kindly give me your arm, we will go 
 up to her immediately.” 
 
 On entering Mrs. Frankland’s room, the doc- 
 tor saw at a glance that she had been altered for 
 the worse by the events of the past evening. He 
 remarked that the smile with which she greeted 
 her husband was the faintest and saddest he had 
 seen on her face. Her eyes looked dim and 
 weary, her skin was dry, her pulse was irregu- 
 lar. It was plain that she had passed a wakeful 
 night, and that her mind was not at ease. She 
 dismissed the inquiries of her medical attendant 
 as briefly as possible, and led the conversation 
 immediately, of her own accord, to the subject 
 of Mrs. Jazeph. 
 
 “I suppose you have heard what has hap- 
 pened,” she said, addressing Mr. Orridge. “I 
 can’t tell you how grieved I am about it. My 
 conduct must look in your eyes, as well as in the 
 eyes of the poor unfortunate nurse, the conduct 
 of a capricious, unfeeling woman. I am ready 
 to cry with sorrow and vexation when I remem- 
 ber how thoughtless I was, and how little cour- 
 age I showed. * Oh, Lenny, it is dreadful to hurt 
 the feelings of anybody, but to have pained that 
 unhappy, helpless woman as we pained her, to 
 
196 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE* COLLINS. 
 
 have made her cry so bitter^, to have caused 
 her such humiliation and wretchedness — ” 
 
 “My dear Rosamond,” interposed Mr. Frank- 
 land, “you are lamenting effects, and forgetting 
 causes altogether. Remember what a state of 
 terror I found you in — there must have been some 
 reason for that. Remember, too, how strong 
 your conviction was that the nurse was out of 
 her senses. Surely you have not altered your 
 opinion on that point already?” 
 
 “It is that very opinion, love, that has been 
 perplexing and worrying me all night. I can’t 
 alter it ; I feel more certain than ever that there 
 must be something wrong with the poor creat- 
 ure’s intellect — and yet, when I remember how 
 good-naturedly she came here to help me, and 
 how anxious she seemed to make herself useful, 
 I can’t help feeling ashamed of my suspicions; I 
 can’t help reproaching myself for having been 
 the cause of her dismissal last night. Mr. Or- 
 ridge, did you notice anything in Mrs. Jazeph’s 
 face or manner which might lead you to doubt 
 whether her intellects were quite as sound as they 
 ought to be?” 
 
 “Certainly not, Mrs. Frankland, or I should 
 never have brought her here. I should not have 
 been astonished to hear that she was suddenly 
 taken ill, or that she had been seized with a fit, 
 or that some slight accident, which would have 
 frightened nobody else, had seriously frightened 
 her; but to be told that there is anything ap- 
 proaching to derangement in her faculties, does, 
 1 own, fairly surprise me.” 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 197 
 
 “Can I have been mistaken!” exclaimed Rosa- 
 mond, looking confusedly and self -distrustfully 
 from Mr. Orridge to her husband. “Lenny! 
 Lenny! if I have been mistaken, I shall never 
 forgive myself.’ ’ 
 
 “Suppose you tell us, my dear, what led you 
 to suspect that she was mad?” suggested Mr. 
 Frankland. 
 
 Rosamond hesitated. “Things that are great 
 in one’s own mind,” she said, “seem to get so 
 little when they are put into words. I almost 
 despair of making you understand what good 
 reason I had to be frightened — and then, I am 
 afraid, in trying to do justice to myself, that I 
 may not do justice to the nurse.” 
 
 “Tell your own story, my love, in your own 
 way, and you will be sure to tell it properly,” 
 said Mr. Frankland. 
 
 “And pray remember,” added Mr. Orridge, 
 “that I attach no real importance to my opinion 
 of Mrs. Jazeph. I have not had time enough 
 to form it. Your opportunities of observing her 
 have been far more numerous than mine.” 
 
 Thus encouraged, Rosamond plainly and sim- 
 ply related all that had happened in her room on 
 the previous evening, up to the time when she 
 had closed her eyes and had heard the nurse ap- 
 proaching her bedside. Before repeating the 
 extraordinary words that Mrs. Jazeph had 
 whispered in her ear, she made a pause, and 
 looked earnestly in her husband’s face. 
 
 “Why do you stop?” asked Mr. Frankland. 
 
 “I feel nervous and flurried still, Lenny, when 
 
198 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 I think of the words the nurse said to me, just 
 before I rang the bell.” 
 
 6 4 What did she say? Was it something you 
 would rather not repeat?” 
 
 “No! no! I am most anxious to repeat it, and 
 to hear what you think it means. As I have 
 just told you, Lenny, we had been talking of 
 Porthgenna, and of my project of exploring the 
 north rooms as soon as I got there ; and she had 
 been asking many questions about the old house; 
 appearing, I must say, to be unaccountably in- 
 terested in it, considering she was a stranger.” 
 “Yes?” 
 
 4 4 Well, when she came to the bedside, she 
 knelt down close at my ear, and whispered all 
 on a sudden — 4 When you go to Porthgenna, keep 
 out of the Myrtle Room!’ ” 
 
 Mr. Frankland started. “Is there such a room 
 at Porthgenna?” he asked, eagerly. 
 
 44 1 never heard of it,” said Rosamond. 
 
 “Are you sure of that?” inquired Mr. Or 
 ridge, tip to this moment the doctor had pri- 
 vately suspected that Mrs. Frankland must have 
 fallen asleep soon after he left her the evening 
 before; and that the narrative which sbe was 
 now relating, with ihe sincerest conviction of its 
 reality, was actually derived from nothing but 
 a series of vivid impressions produced by a 
 dream. 
 
 44 1 am certain 1 never heard of such a room,” 
 said Rosamond. 44 1 left Porthgenna at five years 
 old ; and I had never heard of it then. My father 
 often talked of the house in after years; but I 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 199 
 
 am certain that he never spoke of any of the 
 rooms by any particular names; and I can say 
 the same of your father, Lenny, whenever I was 
 in his company after he had bought the place. 
 Besides, don’t you remember, when the builder 
 we sent down to survey the house wrote you that 
 letter, he complained that there were no names 
 of the rooms on the different keys to guide him 
 in opening the doors, and that he could get no 
 information from anybody at Porthgenna on the 
 subject? How could I ever have heard of the 
 Myrtle Room? Who was there to tell me?” 
 
 Mr. Orridge began to look perplexed ; it seemed 
 by no means so certain that Mrs. Frankland had 
 been dreaming, after all. 
 
 “I have thought of nothing else,” said Rosa- 
 mond to her husband, in low, whispering tones. 
 “I can’t get those mysterious words off my mind. 
 Feel my heart, Lenny — it is beating quicker than 
 usual only with saying them over to you. They 
 are such very strange, startling words. What do 
 you think they mean?” 
 
 “ Who is the woman who spoke them? — that is 
 the most important question,” said Mr. Frank- 
 land. 
 
 “But why did she say the words to me? That 
 is what 1 want to know — that is what I must 
 know, if I am ever to feel easy in my mind 
 again!” 
 
 “Gently, Mrs. Franldand, gently!” said Mr. 
 Orridge. “For your child’s sake, as well as for 
 your own, pray try to be calm, and to look at 
 this very mysterious event as composedly as you 
 
200 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 can. If any exertions of mine can throw light 
 upon this strange woman and her still stranger 
 conduct, I will not spare them. I am going to- 
 day to her mistress’s house to see one of the chil- 
 dren; and, depend upon it, I will manage in 
 some way to make Mrs. Jazeph explain herself. 
 Her mistress shall hear every word that you have 
 told me; and I can assure you she is just the sort 
 of downright, resolute woman who will insist 
 on having the whole mystery instantly cleared 
 up.” 
 
 Rosamond’s weary eyes brightened at the 
 doctor’s proposal. “Oh, go at once, Mr. Or- 
 ridge!” she exclaimed — “go at once!” 
 
 “I have a great deal of medical work to do in 
 the town first,” said the doctor, smiling at Mrs 
 Frank! and’s impatience. 
 
 “Begin it, then, without losing another in- 
 stant,” said Rosamond. “The baby is quite 
 well, and I am quite well — we need not detain 
 you a moment, And, Mr. Orridge, pray be as 
 gentle and considerate as possible with the poor 
 woman ; and tell her that I never should have 
 thought of sending her away if I had not been 
 too frightened to know what I was about. And 
 say how sorry I am this morning, and say — ” 
 
 “My dear, if Mrs. Jazeph is really not in her 
 right senses, what would be the use of over- 
 whelming her with all these excuses?” inter- 
 posed Mr. Frankland. “It will be more to the 
 purpose if Mr. Orridge will kindly explain and 
 apologize for us to her mistress.” 
 
 “Go! Don’t stop to talk — pray go at once!” 
 
THE BEAD SECRET. 
 
 201 
 
 cried Rosamond, as the doctor attempted to reply 
 to Mr. Frankland. 
 
 ‘‘Don’t be afraid; no time shall be lost,” said 
 Mr. Orridge, opening the door. “But remember, 
 Mrs. Frankland, I shall expect you to reward 
 your embassador, when he returns from his mis- 
 sion, by showing him that you are a little more 
 quiet and composed than I find you this morn- 
 ing.” With that parting hint, the doctor took 
 his leave. 
 
 “ ‘When you go to Porthgenna, keep out of 
 the Myrtle Room,’ ” repeated Mr. Frankland, 
 thoughtfully. “Those are very strange words, 
 Rosamond. Who can this woman really be? 
 She is a perfect stranger to both of us; we are 
 brought into contact with her by the merest ac- 
 cident ; and we find that she knows something 
 about our own house of which we were both per- 
 fectly ignorant until she chose to speak.” 
 
 “But the warning, Lenny — the warning, so 
 pointedly and mysteriously addressed to me? 
 Oh, if I could only go to sleep at once, and not 
 wake again till the doctor comes back!” 
 
 “My love, try not to count too certainly on our 
 being enlightened, even then. The woman may 
 refuse to explain herself to anybody.” 
 
 “Don’t even hint at such a disappointment as 
 that, Lenny — or I shall be wanting to get up, 
 and go and question her myself! ” 
 
 “Even if you could get up and question her, 
 Rosamond, you might find it impossible to make 
 her answer. She may be afraid of certain con- 
 sequences which we cannot foresee ; and, in that 
 
202 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 case, I can only repeat that it is more than prob- 
 able she will explain nothing — or, perhaps, still 
 more likely that she will coolly deny her own 
 words altogether.” 
 
 4 ‘Then, Lenny, we will put them to the proof 
 for ourselves.” 
 
 “And how can we do that?” 
 
 “By continuing our journey to Porthgenna 
 the moment I am allowed to travel, and by leav- 
 ing no stone unturned when we get there until 
 we have discovered whether there is or is not any 
 room in the old house that ever was known, at 
 any time of its existence, by the name of the 
 Myrtle Room.” 
 
 “And suppose it should turn out that there is 
 such a room?” asked Mr. Frankland, beginning 
 to feel the influence of his wife’s enthusiasm. 
 
 “If it does turn out so,” said Rosamond, her 
 voice rising, and her face lighting up with its 
 accustomed vivacity, “how can you doubt what 
 will happen next? Am I not a woman? And 
 have I not been forbidden to enter the Myrtle 
 Room? Lenny! Lenny! Do you know so little 
 of my half of humanity as to doubt what I should 
 do the moment the room was discovered? My 
 darling, as a matter of course, I should walk 
 into it immediately.” 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 203 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 ANOTHER SURPRISE. 
 
 With all the haste he could make, it was one 
 o’clock in the afternoon before Mr. Orridge’s 
 professional avocations allowed him to set forth 
 in his gig for Mrs. Norbury’s house. He drove 
 there with such good-will that he accomplished 
 the half-hour’s journey in twenty minutes. The 
 footman having heard the rapid approach of the 
 gig, opened the hall door the instant the horse 
 was pulled up before it, and confronted the doc- 
 tor with a smile of malicious satisfaction. 
 
 “Well,” said Mr. Orridge, bustling into the 
 hall, “you were all rather surprised last nighv 
 when the housekeeper came back, I suppose?” 
 
 “Yes, sir, we certainly were surprised when 
 she came back last night, ” answered the foot' 
 man; “but we were still more surprised when 
 she went away again this morning.” 
 
 “Went away! You don’t mean to say she is 
 gone?” 
 
 “Yes, I do, sir — she has lost her place, and 
 gone for good.” The footman smiled again, as 
 he made that reply; and the housemaid, who 
 happened to be on her way downstairs while he 
 was speaking, and to hear what he said, smiled 
 too. Mrs. Jazeph had evidently been no favorite 
 in the servants’ hall. 
 
204 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 Amazement prevented Mr. Orridge from utter- 
 ing another word. Hearing no more questions 
 asked, the footman threw open the door of the 
 breakfast-parlor and the doctor followed him 
 into the room. Mrs. Norbury was sitting near 
 the window in a rigidly upright attitude, in- 
 flexibly watching the proceedings of her invalid 
 child over a basin of beef-tea. 
 
 “I know what you are going to talk about be- 
 fore you open your lips,” said the outspoken lady. 
 “But just look to the child first, and say what 
 you have to say on that subject, if you please, 
 before you enter on any other.” 
 
 The child was examined, was pronounced to 
 be improving rapidly, and was carried away by 
 the nurse to lie down and rest a little. As soon 
 as the door of the room had closed, Mrs. Norbury 
 abruptly addressed the doctor, interrupting him, 
 for the second time, just as he was about to 
 speak. 
 
 “Now, Mr. Orridge,” she said, “I want to tell 
 you something at the outset. I am a remarkably 
 just woman, and I have no quarrel with you. 
 You are the cause of my having been treated 
 with the most audacious insolence by three peo- 
 ple — but you are the innocent cause, and, there- 
 fore, I don’t blame you.” 
 
 “I am really at a loss,” Mr. Orridge began — 
 “quite at a loss, I assure you — ” 
 
 “To know what I mean?” said Mrs. Norbury. 
 “I will soon tell you. Were you not the origi- 
 nal cause of my sending my housekeeper to nurse 
 Mrs. Frankland?” 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 205 
 
 “Yes.” Mr. Orridge could not hesitate to 
 acknowledge that. 
 
 “Well,” pursued Mrs. Norbury, “and the con- 
 sequence of my sending her is, as I said before, 
 that I am treated with unparalleled insolence by 
 no less than three people. Mrs. Frankland takes 
 an insolent whim into her head, and affects to 
 be frightened by my housekeeper. Mr. Frank- 
 land shows an insolent readiness to humor that 
 whim, and hands me back my housekeeper as if 
 she was a bad shilling; and last, and worst of 
 all, my housekeeper herself insults me to my 
 face as soon as she comes back — insults me, Mr. 
 Orridge, to that degree that I give her twelve 
 hours’ notice to leave the place. Don’t begin to 
 defend yourself! I know all about it; I know 
 you had nothing to do with sending her back; I 
 never said you had. All the mischief you have 
 done is innocent mischief. I don’t blame you, 
 remember that — whatever you do, Mr. Orridge, 
 remember that! ” 
 
 “I had no idea of defending myself,” said the 
 doctor, “for I have no reason to do so. But you 
 surprise me beyond all powder of expression when 
 you tell me that Mrs. Jazeph treated you with 
 incivility.” 
 
 “Incivility !” exclaimed Mrs. Norbury. “Don’t 
 talk about incivility — it’s not the word. Impu- 
 dence is the word — brazen impudence. The onty 
 charitable thing to say of Mrs. Jazeph is that she 
 is not right in her head. I never noticed any- 
 thing odd about her myself; but the servants 
 used to laugh at her for being as timid in the 
 
206 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 dark as a child, and for often running away to 
 her candle in her own room when they declined 
 to light the lamps before the night had fairly set 
 in. I never troubled my head about this before; 
 but I thought of it last night, I can tell you, 
 when I found her looking me fiercely in the face, 
 and contradicting me flatly the moment I spoke 
 to her.” 
 
 “I should have thought she was the very last 
 woman in the world to misbehave herself in that 
 way,” answered the doctor. 
 
 “Very well. Now hear what happened when 
 she came back last night,” said Mrs. Norbury. 
 “She got here just as we were going upstairs to 
 bed. Of course, I was astonished; and, of course, 
 I called her into the drawing-room for an explana- 
 tion. There was nothing very unnatural in that 
 course of proceeding, I suppose.' Well, I noticed 
 that her eyes were swollen and red, and that her 
 looks were remarkably wild and queer; but I 
 said nothing, and waited for the explanation. 
 All that she had to tell me was that something 
 she had unintentionally said or done had fright- 
 ened Mrs. Frankland, and that Mrs. Frankland’s 
 husband had sent her away on the spot. I dis- 
 believed this at first — and very naturally, I think 
 —but she persisted in the story, and answered all 
 my questions by declaring that she could tell me 
 nothing more. ‘So then,’ I said, ‘I am to believe 
 that, after I have inconvenienced myself by spar- 
 ing you, and after you have inconvenienced your- 
 self by undertaking the business of nurse, I am 
 to be insulted, and you are to be insulted, by 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 207 
 
 your being sent away from Mrs. Frankland on 
 the very day when you get to her, because she 
 chooses to take a whim into her head?’ ‘I never 
 accused Mrs. Frankland of taking a whim into 
 her head,’ said Mrs. Jazeph, and stares me 
 straight in the face, with such a look as I never 
 saw in her eyes before, after all my five years’ 
 experience of her. 4 What do you mean?’ I 
 
 asked, giving her back her look, I can promise 
 you. ‘Are you base enough to take the treat- 
 ment you have received in the light of a favor?’ 
 ‘I am just enough,’ said Mrs. Jazeph, as sharp 
 as lightning, and still with that same stare 
 straight at me — ‘I am just enough not to blame 
 Mrs. Frankland.’ ‘Oh, you are, are you?’ I 
 said. ‘Then all I can tell you is, that I feel 
 this insult, if you don’t; and that I consider 
 Mrs. Frankland ’s conduct to be the conduct 
 of an ill-bred, impudent, capricious, unfeeling 
 woman.’ Mrs. Jazeph takes a step up to me 
 —takes a step, I give you my word of honor — 
 and says distinctly, in so many words: ‘Mrs. 
 Frankland is neither ill-bred, impudent, capri- 
 cious, nor unfeeling.’ ‘Do you mean to contra- 
 dict me, Mrs. Jazeph?’ I asked. ‘I mean to de- 
 fend Mrs. Frankland from unjust imputations,’ 
 says she. Those were her words, Mr. Orridge 
 — on my honor, as a gentlewoman, those were 
 exactly her words.” 
 
 The doctor’s face expressed the blankest as- 
 tonishment. Mrs. ISTorbury went on : 
 
 “I was in a towering passion — I don’t mind 
 confessing that, Mr. Orridge — but I kept it 
 
208 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIF COLLINS. 
 
 down. ‘Mrs. Jazeph,’ I said, ‘this is language 
 that I am not accustomed to, and that I certainly 
 never expected to hear from your lips. Why 
 you should take it on yourself tc defend Mrs. 
 Frankland for treating us both with contempt, 
 and to contradict me for resenting it, I neither 
 know nor care to know. But I must tell you, 
 in plain words, that I will be spoken to by every 
 person in my employment, from my housekeeper 
 to my scullery - maid, with respect. I would 
 have given warning on the spot to any other 
 servant in this house who had behaved to me as 
 you have behaved.’ She tried to interrupt mo 
 there, but I would not allow her. ‘No,’ I said, 
 ‘you are not to speak to me just yet; you are 
 to hear me out. Any other servant, I tell you 
 again, should have left this place to-morrow 
 morning; but I will be more than just to you. 
 
 I will give you the benefit of your five years’ 
 good conduct in my service. I will leave you 
 the rest of the night to get cool, and to reflect on 
 what has passed between us; and I will not ex- 
 pect you to make the proper apologies to me until 
 the morning.’ You see, Mr. Orridge, I was de- 
 termined to act justly and kindly; I was ready 
 to make allowances — and what do you think she 
 said in return? ‘I am willing to make any apolo- 
 gies, ma’am, for offending you,’ she said, ‘with- 
 out the delay of a single minute; but, whether it / 
 is to-night, or whether it is to-morrow morning, I 
 cannot stand by silent when I hear Mrs. Frank- 
 land charged with acting unkindly, uncivilly, or 
 improperly toward me or toward any one.’ ‘Do 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 209 
 
 you tell me that deliberately, Mrs. Jazeph?’ I 
 asked. ‘I tell it you sincerely, ma’am,’ she an- 
 swered; ‘and I am very sorry to be obliged to do 
 so.’ ‘Pray don’t trouble yourself to be sorry,’ I 
 said, ‘for you may consider yourself no longer in 
 my service. I will order the steward to pay you 
 the usual month’s wages instead of the month’s 
 warning the first thing to-morrow; and I beg that 
 you will leave the house as soon as you conven- 
 iently can afterward.’ ‘I will leave to-morrow, 
 ma’am,’ says she, ‘but without troubling the 
 steward. I beg respectfully, and with many 
 thanks for your past kindness, to decline taking 
 a month’s money which I have not earned by a 
 month’s service.’ And thereupon she courtesies 
 and goes out. That is, word for word, what 
 passed between us, Mr. Orridge. Explain the 
 woman’s conduct in your own way, if you can. 
 I say that it is utterly incomprehensible, unless 
 you agree with me that she was not in her right 
 senses when she came back to this house last 
 night.” 
 
 The doctor began to think, after what he had 
 just heard, that Mrs. Frankland’s suspicions in 
 relation to the new nurse were not quite so un- 
 founded as he had been at first disposed to con- 
 sider them. He wisely ref rained, however, from 
 complicating matters by giving utterance to what 
 he thought; and, after answering Mrs. Norbury 
 in a few vaguely polite words, endeavored to 
 soothe her irritation against Mr. and Mrs. Frank- 
 land by assuring her that he came as the bearer 
 of apologies from both husband and wife, for the 
 
210 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 apparent want of courtesy and consideration in 
 their conduct which circumstances had made 
 inevitable. The offended lady, however, abso- 
 lutely refused to be propitiated. She rose up 
 and waved her hand with an air of great dig- 
 nity. 
 
 “I cannot hear a word more from you, Mr. 
 Orridge,” she said; “ 1 cannot receive any apolo- 
 gies which are made indirectly. If Mr. Frank- 
 land chooses to call and if Mrs, Frankland conde- 
 scends to write to me, I am willing to think no 
 more of the matter. Under any other circum- 
 stances, I must be allowed to keep my present 
 opinions both of the lady and the gentleman. 
 Don’t say another word, and be so kind as to 
 excuse me if I leave you, and go up to the nursery 
 to see how the child is getting on. I am de- 
 lighted to hear that you think her so much bet- 
 ter. Pray call again to-morrow or next day, if 
 you conveniently can. Good-morning!” 
 
 Half amused at Mrs. Horbury, half displeased 
 at the curt tone she adopted toward him, Mr. 
 Orridge remained for a minute or two alone in 
 the breakfast - parlor, feeling rather undecided 
 about what he should do next. He was, by this 
 time, almost as much interested in solving the 
 mystery of Mrs, Jazeph’s extraordinary conduct 
 as Mrs. Frankland herself; and he felt unwill- 
 ing, on all accounts, to go back to the Tiger’s 
 Head, and merely repeat what Mrs. ISTorbury had 
 told him, without being able to complete the nar- 
 rative by informing Mr. and Mrs. Frankland of 
 the direction that the housekeeper had taken on 
 
THE DEAD SECRET, 
 
 211 
 
 leaving her situation. After some pondering, 
 he determined to question the footman, under the 
 pretense of desiring to know if his gig was at the 
 door. The man having answered the bell, and 
 having reported the gig to be ready, Mr. Orridge, 
 while crossing the hall, asked him carelessly if 
 he knew at what time in the morning Mrs. 
 Jazeph had left the place. 
 
 “ About ten o’clock, sir,” answered the foot- 
 man. “ When the carrier came by from the vil- 
 lage, on his way to the station for the eleven 
 o’clock train.” 
 
 “Oh! I suppose he took her boxes?” said Mr. 
 Orridge. 
 
 “And he took her, too, sir,” said the man, 
 with a grin. “She had to ride, for once in her 
 life, at any rate, in a carrier’s cart.” 
 
 On getting back to West Winston, the doctor 
 stopped at the station to collect further particu- 
 lars, before he returned to the Tiger’s Head. 
 No trains, either up or down, happened to be 
 due just at that time. The station-master was 
 reading the newspaper, and the porter was gar- 
 dening on the slope of the embankment. 
 
 “Is the train at eleven in the morning an up- 
 train or a down-train?” asked Mr. Orridge, ad- 
 dressing the porter. 
 
 “A down-train.” 
 
 “Did many people go by it?” 
 
 The porter repeated the names of some of the 
 inhabitants of West Winston. 
 
 “Were there no passengers but passengers 
 from the town?” inquired the doctor. 
 
212 
 
 WORKS OP WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 “Yes, sir. I think there was one stranger — 
 a lady.” 
 
 “Did the station-master issue the tickets for 
 that train?” 
 
 “Yes, sir.” 
 
 Mr. Orridge went on to the station-master. 
 
 “Do you remember giving a ticket this morn- 
 ing, by the eleven o’clock down -train, to a lady 
 traveling alone?” 
 
 The station-master pondered. “I have issued 
 tickets, up and down, to lialf-a-dozen ladies to- 
 day,” he answered, doubtfully. 
 
 “Yes, but I am speaking only of the eleven 
 o’clock train,” said Mr. Orridge. “Try if you 
 can’t remember?” 
 
 “Remember? Stop! I do remember; I know 
 who you mean. A lady who seemed rather flur- 
 ried, and who put a question to me that I am not 
 often asked at this station. She had her veil 
 down, I recollect, and she got here for the eleven 
 o’clock train. Crouch, the carrier, brought her 
 trunk into the office.” 
 
 “That is the woman. Where did she take her 
 ticket for?” 
 
 “For Exeter.” 
 
 “You said she asked you a question?” 
 
 “Yes: a question about what coaches met the 
 rail at Exeter to take travelers into Cornwall. I 
 told her we were rather too far off here to have 
 the correct time-table, and recommended her to 
 apply for information to the Devonshire people 
 when she got to the end of her journey. She 
 seemed a timid, helpless kind of woman to travel 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 213 
 
 alone. Anything wrong in connection with her, 
 sir?” 
 
 “Oh, no! nothing,” said Mr. Orridge, leaving 
 the station-master and hastening back to his gig 
 again. 
 
 When he drew up, a few minutes afterward, 
 at the door of the Tiger’s Head, he jumped out 
 of his vehicle with the confident air of a man 
 who has done all that could be expected of him. 
 It was easy to face Mrs. Frankland with the un- 
 satisfactory news of Mrs. Jazeph’s departure, 
 now that he could add, on the best authority, 
 the important supplementary information that 
 she had gone to Cornwall. 
 
 BOOK IV. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 A PLOT AGAINST THE SECRET. 
 
 Toward the close of the evening, on the day 
 after Mr. Orridge’s interview with Mrs. Nor- 
 bury, the Druid fast coach, running through 
 Cornwall as far as Truro, set down three inside 
 passengers at the door of the booking-office on 
 arriving at its destination. Two of these pas- 
 sengers were an old gentleman and his daughter 3 
 the third was Mrs. Jazepli. 
 
 The father and daughter collected their lug- 
 
214 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 gage and entered the hotel; the outside passen- 
 gers branched off in different directions with as 
 little delay as possible; Mrs. Jazeph alone stood 
 irresolute on the pavement, and seemed uncertain 
 what she should do next. When the coachman 
 good-naturedly endeavored to assist her in arriv- 
 ing at a decision of some kind, by asking whether 
 he could do anything to help her, she started, and 
 looked at him suspiciously; then, appearing to 
 recollect herself, thanked him for his kindness, 
 and inquired, with a confusion of words and a 
 hesitation of manner which appeared very ex- 
 traordinary in the coachman’s eyes, whether 
 she might be allowed to leave her trunk at the 
 booking-office for a little while, until she could 
 return and call for it again. 
 
 Receiving permission to leave her trunk as 
 long as she pleased, she crossed over the princi- 
 pal street of the town, ascended the pavement on 
 the opposite side, and walked down the first turn- 
 ing she came to. On entering the by-street to 
 which the turning led, she glanced back, satis- 
 fied herself that nobody was following or watch- 
 ing her, hastened on a few yards, and stopped 
 again at a small shop devoted to the sale of book- 
 cases, cabinets, work-boxes, and writing-desks. 
 After first looking up at the letters painted over 
 the door— Buschmann, Cabinet-maker, &c.— 
 she peered in at the shop window. A middle- 
 aged man, with a cheerful face, sat behind the 
 counter, polishing a rosewood bracket, and nod- 
 ding briskly at regular intervals, as if he were 
 humming a tune and keeping time to it with his 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 215 
 
 head. Seeing no customers in the shop, Mrs. 
 Jazeph opened the door and walked in. 
 
 As soon as she was inside, she became aware 
 that the cheerful man behind the counter was 
 keeping time, not to a tune of his own hum- 
 ming, but to a tune played by a musical box. 
 The clear ringing notes came from a parlor be- 
 hind the shop, and the air the box was playing 
 was the lovely “Batti, Batti,” of Mozart. 
 
 “Is Mr, Buschmann at home?” asked Mrs. 
 Jazeph. 
 
 “Yes, ma’am,” said the cheerful man, point- 
 ing with a smile toward the door that led into the 
 parlor. “The music answers for him. When- 
 ever Mr. Buschmann’s box is playing, Mr. Busch- 
 mann himself is not far off from it. Did you 
 wish to see him, ma’am?” 
 
 “If there is nobody with him.” 
 
 “Oh, no, he is quite alone. Shall I give any 
 name?” 
 
 Mrs. Jazeph opened her lips to answer, hesi- 
 tated, and said nothing. The shopman, with a 
 quicker delicacy of perception than might have 
 been expected from him, judging by outward 
 appearances, did not repeat the question, but 
 opened the door at once and admitted the visitor 
 to the presence of Mr. Buschmann. 
 
 The shop parlor was a very small room, with 
 an old three-cornered look about it, with a bright 
 green paper on the walls, with a large dried fish 
 in a glass case over the fireplace, with two meer- 
 schaum pipes hanging together on the wall op- 
 posite, and a neat round table placed as accu- 
 
216 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 rately as possible in the middle of the floor. On 
 the table were tea-things, bread, butter, a pot of 
 jam, and a musical box in a quaint, old-fash- 
 ioned case; and by the side of the table sat 
 a little, rosy-faced, white-haired, simple-looking 
 old man, who started up, when the door was 
 opened, with an appearance of extreme confu- 
 sion, and touched the top of the musical box so 
 that it might cease playing when it came to the 
 end of the air. 
 
 “A lady to speak with you, sir,” said the 
 cheerful shopman. “That is Mr. Buschmann, 
 ma’am,” he added, in a lower tone, seeing Mrs. 
 Jazeph stop in apparent uncertainty on entering 
 the parlor. 
 
 “Will you please to take a seat, ma’am?” said 
 Mr. Buschmann, when the shopman had closed 
 the door and gone back to his counter. “Excuse 
 the music; it will stop directly.” He spoke 
 these words in a foreign accent, but with perfect 
 fluency. 
 
 Mrs. Jazeph looked at him earnestly while he 
 was addressing her, and advanced a step or two 
 before she said anything. “Am I so changed?” 
 she asked softly. “So sadly, sadly changed, 
 Uncle Joseph?” 
 
 “Gott im Himmel! it’s her voice — it’s Sarah 
 Leeson!” cried the old man, running up to his 
 visitor as nimbly as if he was a boy again, tak- 
 ing both her hands, and kissing her with an odd, 
 brisk tenderness on the cheek. Although his 
 niece was not at all above the average height of 
 women, Uncle Joseph was so short that he had 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 217 
 
 to raise himself on tiptoe to perform the cere- 
 mony of embracing her. 
 
 ‘ 4 To think of Sarah coming at last!” he said, 
 pressing her into a chair. “After all these years 
 and years, to think of Sarah Leeson coming to 
 see Uncle Joseph again!” 
 
 “Sarah still, but not Sarah Leeson,” said Mrs. 
 Jazeph, pressing her thin, trembling hands firm- 
 ly together, and looking down on the floor while 
 she spoke. 
 
 “Ah! married?” said Mr. Buschmann, gayly. 
 “Married, of course. Tell me all about your 
 husband, Sarah.” 
 
 “He is dead. Dead and forgiven.” She mur- 
 mured the last three words in a whisper to her- 
 self. 
 
 “Ah ! I am so sorry for you ! I spoke too sud- 
 denly, did I not, my child?” said the old man. 
 “Never mind! No, no; I don’t mean that — I 
 mean let us talk of something else. You will 
 have a bit of bread and jam, won’t you, Sarah? 
 — ravishing raspberry jam that melts in your 
 mouth. Some tea, then? So, so, she will have 
 some tea, to be sure. And we won’t talk of our 
 troubles — at least, not just yet. You look very 
 pale, Sarah— very much older than you ought to 
 look — no, I don’t mean that either; I don’t mean 
 to be rude. It was your voice I knew you by, 
 my child — your voice .that your poor Uncle Max 
 always said would have made your fortune if 
 you would only have learned to sing. Here’s 
 his pretty music box going still. Don’t look so 
 downhearted — don’t, pray. Do listen a little to 
 
218 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 the music: you remember the box? — my brother 
 Max’s box? Why, how you look! Have you 
 forgotten the box that the divine Mozart gave to 
 my brother with his own hand, when Max was 
 a boy in the music school at Vienna? Listen! I 
 have set it going again. It’s a song they call 
 ‘Batti, Batti’ ; it’s a song in an opera of Mo- 
 zart’s. Ah! beautiful! beautiful! Your Uncle 
 Max said that all music was comprehended in 
 that one song. I know nothing about music, but 
 I have my heart and my ears, and they tell me 
 that Max was right.” 
 
 Speaking these words with abundant gesticu- 
 lation and amazing volubility, Mr. Buschmann 
 poured out a cup of tea for his niece, stirred it 
 carefully, and, patting her on the shoulder, 
 begged that she would make him happy by 
 drinking it all up directly. As he came close 
 to her to press this request, he discovered that 
 the tears were in her eyes, and that she was try- 
 ing to take her handkerchief from her pocket 
 without being observed. 
 
 “ Don’t mind me,” she said, seeing the old 
 man’s face sadden as he looked at her; “and 
 don’t think me forgetful or ungrateful, Uncle 
 Joseph. I remember the box — I remember every- 
 thing that you used to take an interest in, when 
 I was younger and happier than I am now. 
 When I last saw you, I came to you in trouble; 
 and I come to you in trouble once more. It 
 seems neglectful in me never to have written to 
 you for so many years past; but my life has 
 been a very sad one, and I thought I had no 
 
THE DEAD SECRET, 
 
 219 
 
 right to lay the burden of my sorrow on other 
 shoulders than my own.” 
 
 Uncle Joseph shook his head at these last 
 words, and touched the stop of the musical box. 
 ‘ 4 Mozart shall wait a little,” he said, gravely 
 “till I have told you something. Sarah, hear 
 what I say, and drink your tea, and own to me 
 whether I speak the truth or not. What did I, 
 Joseph Buschmann, tell you, when you first 
 came to me in trouble, fourteen, fifteen, ah more! 
 sixteen years ago, in this town, and in this same 
 house? I said then, what I say again now: 
 ‘Sarah’s sorrow is my sorrow, and Sarah’s joy 
 is my joy;’ and if any man asks me reasons for 
 that, I have three to give him.” 
 
 He stopped to stir up his niece’s tea for the 
 second time, and to draw her attention to it by 
 tapping with the spoon on the edge of the cup. 
 
 “Three reasons,” he resumed. “First, you are 
 my sister’s child — some of her flesh and blood, 
 and some of mine, therefore, also. Second, my 
 sister, my brother, and lastly me myself, we owe 
 to your good English father — all. A little word 
 that means much, and may be said again and 
 again — all. Your father’s friends cry, Fie! 
 Agatha Buschmann is poor! Agatha Busch- 
 mann is foreign! But your father loves the 
 poor German girl, and he marries her in spite of 
 their Fie, Fie. Your father’s friends cry Fie! 
 again; Agatha Buschmann has a musician 
 brother, who gabbles to us about Mozart, and 
 who cannot make to his porridge salt. Your 
 father says, Good! I like his gabble; I like his 
 
220 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 playing; I shall get him people to teach; and 
 while I have pinches of salt in my kitchen, he 
 to his porridge shall have pinches of salt too. 
 Your father’s friends cry Fie! for the third time. 
 Agatha Buschmann has another brother, a little 
 Stupid-Head, who to the other’s gabble can only 
 listen and say Amen. Send him trotting; for 
 the love of Heaven, shut up all the doors and 
 send Stupid-Head trotting, at least. Your fa- 
 ther says, No! Stupid-Head has his wits in his 
 hands; he can cut and carve and polish; help 
 him a little at the starting, and after he shall 
 help himself. They are all gone now but me. 
 Your father, your mother, and Uncle Max — they 
 are all gone. Stupid-Head alone remains to re- 
 member and to be grateful — to take Sarah’s sor- 
 row for his sorrow, and Sarah’s joy for his joy.” 
 
 He stopped again to blow a speck of dust off 
 the musical box. His niece endeavored to speak, 
 but he held up his hand, and shook his forefinger 
 at her warningly. 
 
 “No,” he said. “It is yet my business to talk, 
 and your business to drink tea. Have I not my 
 third reason still? Ah! you look away from me; 
 you know my third reason before I say a word. 
 When I, in my turn, marry, and my wife dies, and 
 leaves me alone with little Joseph, and when the 
 boy falls sick, who comes then, so quiet, so pretty, 
 so neat, with the bright young eyes, and the hands 
 so tender and light? Who helps me with little 
 Joseph by night and by day? Who makes a pil- 
 low for him on her arm when his head is weary? 
 Who holds this, box patiently at his ear? — yes! 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 221 
 
 this box, that the hand of Mozart has touched — 
 who holds it closer, closer always, when little 
 Joseph’s sense grows dull, and he moans for the 
 friendly music that he has known from a baby, 
 the friendly music that he can now so hardly, 
 hardly hear? Who kneels down by Uncle 
 Joseph when his heart is breaking, and says, 
 ‘Oh! hush! hush! The boy is gone where the 
 better music plays, where the sickness shall 
 never waste or the sorrow touch him more’? 
 Who? Ah, Sarah! you cannot forget those days; 
 you cannot forget the Long Ago! When the 
 trouble is bitter, and the burden is heavy, it is 
 cruelty to Uncle Joseph to keep away; it is kind- 
 ness to him to come here. ” 
 
 The recollections that the old man had called 
 up found their way tenderly to Sarah’s heart. 
 She could not answer him; she could only hold 
 out her hand. Uncle Joseph bent down, with a 
 quaint, affectionate gallantry, and kissed it; 
 then stepped back again to his place by the mu- 
 sical box. “Come!” he said, patting it cheer- 
 fully, “we will say no more for a while. Mo- 
 zart’s box, Max’s box, little Joseph’s box, you 
 shall talk to us again!” 
 
 Having put the tiny machinery in motion, he 
 sat down by the table, and remained silent until 
 the air had been played over twice. Then observ- 
 ing that his niece seemed calmer, he spoke to her 
 once more. 
 
 “You are in trouble, Sarah,” he said, quietly. 
 “You tell me that, and I see it is true in your 
 face. Are you grieving for your husband?” 
 
222 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 “I grieve that I ever met him,” she answered. 
 “I grieve that I ever married him. Now that 
 he is dead, I cannot grieve — I can only forgive 
 him.” 
 
 4 6 Forgive him? How you look, Sarah, when 
 you say that! Tell me — ” 
 
 “Uncle Joseph! I have told you that my hus- 
 band is dead, and that I have forgiven him.” 
 “You have forgiven him? He was hard and 
 cruel with you, then? I see; I see. That is the 
 end, Sarah— but the beginning? Is the begin- 
 ning that you loved him?” 
 
 Her pale cheeks flushed; and she turned her 
 head aside. “It is hard and humbling to con- 
 fess it,” she murmured, without raising her 
 eyes; “but you force the truth from me, uncle. 
 I had no love to give to my husband — no love to 
 give to any man.” 
 
 “And yet you married him! Wait! it is not 
 for me to blame. It is for me to find out, not 
 the bad, but the good. Yes, yes; I shall say to 
 myself, she married him when she was poor and 
 helpless; she married him when she should have 
 come to Uncle Joseph instead. I shall say that 
 to myself, and I shall pity, but I shall ask no 
 more.” 
 
 Sarah half reached her hand out to the old 
 man again— then suddenly pushed her chair 
 back, and changed the position in which she was 
 sitting. “It is true that I was poor,” she said, 
 looking about her in confusion, and speaking 
 with difficulty. “But you are so kind and so 
 good, I cannot accept the excuse that your for- 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 223 
 
 bearance makes ror me. I did not marry him 
 because I was poor, but — ” She stopped, clasped 
 her hands together, and pushed her chair back 
 still further from the table. 
 
 “So! so!” said the old man, noticing her con- 
 fusion. “We will talk about it no more.” 
 
 “I had no excuse of love; I had no excuse of 
 poverty,” she said, with a sudden burst of bit- 
 terness and despair. “Uncle Joseph, I married 
 him because I was too weak to persist in saying 
 No! The curse of weakness and fear has fol- 
 lowed me all the days of my life! I said No to 
 him once. I said No to him twice. Oh, uncle, 
 if I could only have said it for the third time! 
 But he followed me, he frightened me, he took 
 away from me all the little will of my own that 
 I had. He made me speak as he wished me to 
 speak, and go where he wished me to go. No, 
 no, no — don’t come to me, uncle; don’t say any- 
 thing. He is gone; he is dead — I have got my 
 release; I have given my pardon! Oh, if I 
 could only go away and hide somewhere ! All 
 people’s eyes seem to look through me; all peo- 
 ple’s words seem to threaten me. My heart has 
 been weary ever since I was a young woman ; 
 and all these long, long years it has never got 
 any rest. Hush! the man in the shop — I forgot 
 the man in the shop. He will hear us; let us 
 talk in a whisper. What made me break out 
 so? I’m always wrong. Oh me! I’m wrong 
 when I speak; I’m wrong when I say nothing; 
 wherever I go and whatever I do, I’m not like 
 other people. I seem never to have grown up in 
 
224 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 my mind since I was a little child. Hark! the 
 man in the shop is moving — has he heard me? 
 Oh, Uncle Joseph! do you think he has heard 
 
 me?” 
 
 Looking hardly less startled than his niece, 
 Uncle Joseph assured her that the door was solid, 
 that the man’s place in the shop was at some 
 distance from it, and that ib was impossible, even 
 if he heard voices in the parlor, that he could 
 also distinguish any words that were spoken in it. 
 
 “You are sure of that?” she whispered, hur- 
 riedly. “Yes, yes, you are sure of that, or you 
 would not have told me so, would you? We 
 may go on talking now. Not about my married 
 life; that is buried and past. Say that I had 
 some years of sorrow and suffering, which I de- 
 served — say that I had other years of quiet, when 
 I was living in service with masters and mis- 
 tresses who were often kind to me when my fel- 
 low-servants were not — say just that much about 
 my life, and it is saying enough. The trouble 
 that I am in now, the trouble that brings me to 
 you, goes back further than the years we have 
 been talking about — goes back, back, back, 
 Uncle Joseph, to the distant day when we last 
 met.” 
 
 “Goes back all through the sixteen years!” 
 exclaimed the* old man, incredulously. “Goes 
 back, Sarah, even to the Long Ago!” 
 
 “Even to that time. Uncle, you remember 
 where I was living, and what had happened to 
 me, when — ” 
 
 “When you came here in secret? When you 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 225 
 
 asked me to hide you? That was the same 
 week, Sarah, when your mistress died; your 
 mistress who lived away west in the old house. 
 You were frightened, then — pale and frightened 
 as I see you now.” 
 
 “As every one sees me! People are always 
 staring at me; always thinking that I am nerv- 
 ous, always pitying me for being ill.” 
 
 Saying these words with a sudden fretfulness, 
 she lifted the tea-cup by her side to her lips, 
 drained it of its contents at a draught, and 
 pushed it across the table to be filled again. “I 
 have come all over thirsty and hot,” she whis- 
 pered. “More tea, Uncle Joseph — more tea.” 
 “It is cold,” said the old man. “Wait till I 
 ask for hot water.” 
 
 “No!” she exclaimed, stopping him as he was 
 about to rise. % “Give it me cold; I like it cold. 
 Let nobody else come in — I can’t speak, if any- 
 body else comes in.” She drew her chair close 
 to her uncle’s, and went on: “You have not for- 
 gotten how frightened I was in that by-gone 
 time — do you remember why I was frightened?” 
 “You were afraid of being followed — that was 
 it, Sarah. I grow old, but my memory keeps 
 young. You were afraid of your master, afraid 
 of his sending servants after you. You had run 
 away; you had spoken no word to anybody; 
 and you spoke little — ah, very, very little — even 
 to Uncle Joseph — even to me.” 
 
 “I told you,” said Sarah, dropping her voice 
 to so faint a whisper that the old man could 
 barely hear her — “I told you that my mistress 
 H— Vol. 16 
 
226 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 had left me a Secret on her death- bed — a Secret 
 in a letter, which I was to give to my master. I 
 told you I had hidden the letter, because I could 
 not bring myself to deliver it, because I would 
 rather die a thousand times over than be ques- 
 tioned about what I knew of it. I told you so 
 much, I know. Did I tell you no more? Did I 
 not say that my mistress made me take an oath 
 on the Bible? — Uncle! are there candles in the 
 room? Are there candles we can light without 
 disturbing anybody, without calling anybody in 
 here?” 
 
 6 4 There are candles and a match-box in my 
 cupboard,” answered Uncle Joseph. “But look 
 out of window, Sarah. It is only twilight — it is 
 not dark yet.” 
 
 “Not outside; but it is dark here.” 
 
 “Where?” 
 
 “In that corner. Let us have candles. I 
 don’t like the darkness when it gathers in cor- 
 ners and creeps along walls.” 
 
 Uncle Joseph looked all round the room in- 
 quiringly; and smiled to himself as he took two 
 candles from the cupboard and lighted them. 
 “You are like the children,” he said, playfully, 
 while he pulled down the window-blind. “You 
 are afraid of the dark.” 
 
 Sarah did not appear to hear him. Her eyes 
 were fixed on the corner of the room which she 
 had pointed out the moment before. When he 
 resumed his place by her side, she never looked 
 round, but laid her hand on his arm, and said to 
 him suddenly — 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 227 
 
 4 ‘ Uncle! Do you believe that the dead can 
 come back to this world, and follow the living 
 everywhere, and see what they do in it?” 
 
 The old man started. “Sarah !” he said, “why 
 do you talk so? Why do you ask me such a 
 question?” 
 
 “Are there lonely hours,” she went on, still 
 never looking away from the corner, still not 
 seeming to hear him, “when you are sometimes 
 frightened without knowing why — frightened 
 all over in an instant, from head to foot? Tell 
 me, uncle, have you ever felt the cold steal round 
 and round the roots of your hair, and crawl bit 
 by bit down your back? I have felt that even in 
 the summer. I have been out of doors, alone on 
 a wide heath, in the heat and brightness of noon, 
 and have felt as if chilly fingers were touching 
 me — chilly, damp, softly creeping fingers. It 
 says in the New Testament that the dead came 
 once out of their graves, and went into the holy 
 city. The dead ! Have they rested, rested al- 
 ways, rested forever, since that time?” 
 
 Uncle Joseph’s simple nature recoiled in be- 
 wilderment from the dark and daring specula- 
 tions to which his niece’s questions led. With- 
 out saying a word, he tried to draw away the 
 arm which she still held; but the only result of 
 the effort was to make her tighten her grasp, and 
 bend forward in her chair so as to look closer 
 still into the corner of the room. 
 
 “My mistress was dying,” she said — “my mis- 
 tress was very near her grave, when she made 
 me take my oath on the Bible. She made me 
 
228 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 swear never to destroy the letter; and I did not 
 destroy it. She made me swear not to take it 
 away with me, if I left the house; and I did not 
 take it away. She would have made me swear, 
 for the third time, to give it to my master, but 
 death was too quick for her — death stopped her 
 from fastening that third oath on my conscience. 
 But she threatened me, uncle, with the dead 
 dampness on her forehead, and the dead white- 
 ness on her cheeks — she threatened to come to 
 me from the other world if I thwarted her — and 
 I have thwarted her!” 
 
 She stopped, suddenly removed her hand from 
 the old man’s arm, and made a strange gesture 
 with it toward the part of the room on which her 
 eyes remained fixed. “Rest, mistress, rest,” she 
 whispered under her breath. “Is my master 
 alive now? Rest, till the drowned rise. Tell 
 him the Secret when the sea gives up her dead.” 
 
 “Sarah! Sarah! you are changed — you are ill 
 — you frighten me!” cried Uncle Joseph, start- 
 ing to his feet. 
 
 She turned round slowly, and looked at him 
 with eyes void of all expression, with eyes that 
 seemed to be staring through him vacantly at 
 something beyond. 
 
 “Gott im Himmel! what does she see?” He 
 looked round as the exclamation escaped him. 
 “Sarah! what is it? Are you faint? Are you 
 ill? Are you dreaming with your eyes open?” 
 
 He took her by both arms and shook her. At 
 the instant when she felt the touch of his hands, 
 she started violently and trembled all over. Their 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 229 
 
 natural expression flew back into her eyes with 
 the rapidity of a flash of light. Without saying 
 a word, she hastily resumed her seat and began 
 stirring the cold tea round and round in her cup, 
 round and round so fast that the liquid overflowed 
 into the saucer. 
 
 “Come! she gets more like herself,” said 
 Uncle Joseph, watching her. 
 
 “More like myself?” she repeated, vacantly. 
 “So! so!” said the old man, trying to soothe 
 her. “ Fou are ill — what the English call out of 
 sort. They are good doctors here. Wait till to- 
 morrow, you shall have the best.” 
 
 “I want no doctors. Don’t speak of doctors* 
 I can’t bear them; they look at me with such 
 curious eyes; they are always prying into me, as 
 if they wanted to find out something. What 
 have we been stopping for? I had so much to 
 say; and we seem to have been stopping just 
 when we ought to have been going on. I am in 
 grief and terror, Uncle Joseph; in grief and ter- 
 ror again about the Secret — ” 
 
 “No more of that!” pleaded the old man. 
 “No more to-night at least!” 
 
 “Why not?” 
 
 “Because you will be ill again with talking 
 about it. You will be looking into that corner 
 and dreaming with your eyes open. You are 
 too ill — yes, yes, Sarah; you are too ill.” 
 
 “I’m not ill! Oh, why does everybody keep 
 telling me that I am ill? Let me talk about it, 
 uncle. I have come to talk about it; I can’t rest 
 till I have told you.” 
 
230 
 
 WORKS OP WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 She spoke with a changing color and an em- 
 barrassed manner, now apparently conscious for 
 the first time that she had allowed words and 
 actions to escape her which it would have been 
 more prudent to have restrained. 
 
 4 4 Don’t notice me again,” she said, with her 
 soft voice, and her gentle, pleading manner. 
 4 4 Don’t notice me if I talk or look as I ought not. 
 I lose myself sometimes, without knowing it; 
 and I suppose 1 lost myself just now. It means 
 nothing, Uncle Joseph — nothing, indeed.” 
 
 Endeavoring thus to re-assure the old man, 
 she again altered the position of her chair, so as 
 to place her back toward the part of the room to 
 which her face had been hitherto turned. 
 
 4 4 Well, well, it is good to hear that,” said 
 Uncle Joseph; 44 but speak no more about the 
 past time, for fear you should lose yourself again. 
 Let us hear about what is now. Yes, yes, give 
 me my way. Leave the Long Ago to me, and 
 take you the present time. I can go back through 
 the sixteen years as well as you. Ah ! you doubt 
 it? Hear me tell you what happened when we 
 last met — hear me prove myself in three words: 
 You leave your place at the old house — you run 
 away here — you stop in hiding with me, while 
 your master and his servants are hunting after 
 you — you start off, when your road is clear, to 
 work for your living, as far away from Cornwall 
 as you can get — I beg and pray you to stop with 
 me, but you are afraid of your master, and away 
 you go. There! that is the whole story of your 
 trouble the last time you came to this house. 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 231 
 
 Leave it so; and tell me what is the cause of 
 your trouble now.” 
 
 “The past cause of my trouble, Uncle Joseph, 
 and the present cause of my trouble are the same. 
 The Secret — ” 
 
 “What! you will go back to that!” 
 
 “I must go back to it.” 
 
 “And why?” 
 
 “Because the Secret is written in a letter — ” 
 
 “Yes; and what of that?” 
 
 “And the letter is in danger of being discov- 
 ered. It is, uncle — it is ! Sixteen years, it has 
 lain hidden — and now, after all that long time, 
 the dreadful chance of its being dragged to light 
 has come like a judgment. The one person in all 
 the world who ought nSver to set eyes on that let- 
 ter is the very person who is most likely to find 
 it!” 
 
 “So! so! Are you very certain, Sarah? How 
 do you know it?” 
 
 “I know it from her own lips. Chance brought 
 us together — ” 
 
 “Us? us? What do you mean by us?” 
 
 “I mean — uncle, you remember that Captain 
 Treverton was my master when I lived at Porth- 
 genna Tower?” 
 
 “I had forgotten his name. But no matter- 
 go on.” 
 
 “When I left myplace, Miss Treverton was a 
 little girl of five years old. She is a married wo- 
 man now — so beautiful, so clever, such a sweet, 
 youthful, happy face ! And she has a child as 
 lovely as herself. Oh, uncle, if you could see 
 
232 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 her! I would give so much if you could only 
 see her!” 
 
 Uncle Joseph kissed his hand and shrugged 
 his shoulders; expressing by the first action hom- 
 age to the lady’s beauty, and by the second res- 
 ignation under the misfortune of not being able 
 to see her. “ Well, well,” he said, philosophi- 
 cally, “put this shining woman by, and let us 
 go on.” 
 
 “Her name is Frankland now,” said Sarah. 
 “A prettier name than Treverton — a much pret- 
 tier name, I think. Her husband is fond of her 
 — I am sure he is. How can he have any heart 
 at all, and not be fond of her?” 
 
 “So! so!” exclaimed Uncle Joseph, looking 
 very much perplexed. fc Good, if he is fond of 
 her — very good. But what labyrinth are we 
 getting into now? Wherefore all this about a 
 husband and a wife? My word of honor, Sarah, 
 but your explanation explains nothing — it only 
 softens my brains.” 
 
 “I must speak of her and of Mr. Frankland, 
 uncle. Porthgenna Tower belongs to her hus- 
 band now, and they are both going to live there.” 
 
 “Ah! we are getting back into the straight 
 road at last.” 
 
 “They are going to live in the very house that 
 holds the Secret; they are going to repair that 
 very part of it where the letter is hidden. She 
 will go into the old rooms — I heard her say so; 
 she will search about in them to amuse her curi- 
 osity ; workman will clear them out, and she will 
 stand by in her idle hours, looking on.” 
 
THE HEAD SECRET. 
 
 233 
 
 “But she suspects nothing of the Secret?” 
 
 “God forbid she ever should!” 
 
 “And there are many rooms in the house? 
 And the. letter in which the Secret is Written is 
 hidden in one of the many ? Why should she 
 hit on that one?” 
 
 “Because I always say the wrong thing! be- 
 cause I always get frightened and lose myself at 
 the wrong time! The letter is hidden in a room 
 called the Myrtle Boom, and I was foolish enough, 
 weak enough, crazed enough, to warn her against 
 going into it.” 
 
 “Ah, Sarah! Sarah! that was a mistake, in- 
 deed.” 
 
 “I can’t tell what possessed me — I seemed to 
 lose my senses when I heard her talking so in- 
 nocently of amusing herself by searching through 
 the old rooms, and when I thought of what she 
 might find there. It was getting on toward 
 night, too; the horrible twilight was gathering 
 in the corners and creeping along the walls. I 
 longed to light the candles, and yet I did not 
 dare, for fear she should see the truth in my 
 face. And when I did light them it was worse. 
 Oh, I don’t know how I did it! I don’t know 
 why I did it! I could have torn my tongue out 
 for saying the words, and still I said them. 
 Other people can think for the best ; other people 
 can act for the best; other people have had a 
 heavy weight laid on their minds, and have not 
 dropped under it as I have. Help me, uncle, 
 for the sake of old times when we were happy 
 — help me with a word of advice.” 
 
234 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 “I will help you; I live to help you, Sarah! 
 No, no, no — you must not look so forlorn ; you 
 must not look at me with those crying eyes. 
 Come! I will advise this minute — but say in 
 what; only say in what.” 
 
 4 4 Have I not told you?” 
 
 4 4 No; you have not told me a word yet.” 
 
 44 1 will tell you now.” 
 
 She paused, looked away distrustfully toward 
 the door leading into the shop, listened a little, 
 and resumed 44 1 am not at the end of my jour- 
 ney yet, Uncle Joseph — I am here on my way to 
 Porthgenna Tower — on my way to the Myrtle 
 Room — on my way, step by step, to the place 
 where the letter lies hid. I dare not destroy it; 
 I dare not remove it; but run what risk I may, 
 1 must take it out of the Myrtle Room.” 
 
 Uncle Joseph said nothing, but he shook his 
 head despondingly. 
 
 44 1 must,” she repeated; 4 4 before Mrs. Prank- 
 land gets to Porthgenna, I must take that letter 
 out of the Mrytle Room. There are places in 
 the old house where I may hide it again — places 
 that she would never think of — places that she 
 would never notice. Only let me get it out of 
 the one room that she is sure to search in, and 
 I know where to hide it from her and from 
 every one forever.” 
 
 Uncle Joseph reflected, and shook his head 
 again — then said: 44 Oneword, Sarah; does Mrs. 
 Frankland know which is the Myrtle Room?” 
 44 I did my best to destroy all tra’ce of that 
 name when I hid the letter; I hope and believe 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 235 
 
 she does not. But she may find out — remember 
 the words I was crazed enough to speak; they 
 will set her seeking for the Myrtle Room ; they 
 are sure to do that.” 
 
 “ And if she finds it? And if she finds the 
 letter?” 
 
 “It will cause misery to innocent people; it 
 will bring death to me> Don’t push your chair 
 from me, uncle! It is not shameful death 1 
 speak of. The worst injury I have done is in- 
 jury to myself; the worst death I have to fear 
 is the death that releases a worn-out spirit and 
 cures a broken heart.” 
 
 “Enough — enough so,” said the old man. “I 
 ask for no secret, Sarah, that is not yours to give. 
 It is all dark to me — very dark, very confused. 
 I look away from it; I look only toward you. 
 Not with doubt, my child, but with pity, and 
 with sorrow, too— sorrow that ever you went 
 near that house of Porthgenna — sorrow that you 
 are now going to it again.” 
 
 “I have no choice, uncle, but to go. If every 
 step on the road to Porthgenna took me nearer 
 and nearer to my death, I must still tread it. 
 Knowing what I know, I can’t rest, I can’t sleep 
 — my very breath won’t come freely — till I have 
 got that letter out of the Myrtle Room. How to 
 do it — oh, Uncle Joseph, how to do it, without 
 being suspected, without being discovered by 
 anybody — that is what I would almost give my 
 life to know! You are a man; you are older 
 and wiser than I am; no living creature ever 
 asked you for help in vain — help me now! my 
 
236 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 only friend in all the world, help me a little with 
 a word of advice!” 
 
 Uncle Joseph rose from his chair, and folded 
 his arms resolutely, and looked his niece full in 
 the face. 
 
 “You will go?” he said. “Cost what it may, 
 you will go? Say, for the last time, Sarah, is it 
 yes or no?” 
 
 “Yes! For the last time, I say Yes.” 
 
 “Good. And you will go soon?” 
 
 “I must go to-morrow. I dare not waste a 
 single day; hours even may be precious for any- 
 thing I can tell.” 
 
 “You promise me, my child, that the hiding 
 of this Secret does good, and that the finding of 
 it will do harm?” 
 
 “If it was the last word I had to speak in this 
 world, I would say Yes!” 
 
 “You promise me, also, that you want noth- 
 ing but to take the letter out of the Myrtle Room, 
 and put it away somewhere else?” 
 
 “Nothing but that.” 
 
 “And it is yours to take and yours to put? No 
 person has a better right to touch it than you?” 
 
 “Now that my master is dead, no person.” 
 
 “Good. You have given me my resolution. 
 I have done. Sit you there, Sarah; and won- 
 der, if you like, but say nothing.” With these 
 words, Uncle Joseph stepped lightly to the door 
 leading into the shop, opened it, and called to 
 the man behind the counter. 
 
 “Samuel, my friend,” he said. “To-morrow 
 I go a little ways into the country with my niece, 
 
THE HEAD SECRET. 
 
 237 
 
 who is this lady here. You keep shop and take 
 orders, and be just as careful as you always are, 
 till I get back. If anybody comes and asks for 
 Mr. Buschmann, say he has gone a little ways 
 into the country, and will be back in a few days. 
 That is all. Shut up the shop, Samuel, my 
 friend, for the night ; and go to your supper. I 
 wish you good appetite, nice victuals, and sound 
 sleep.” 
 
 Before Samuel could thank his master the door 
 was shut again. Before Sarah could say a word, 
 Uncle Joseph’s hand was on her lips, and Uncle 
 J oseph’s handkerchief was wiping away the tears 
 that were now falling fast from her eyes. 
 
 “I will have no more talking, and no more 
 crying,” said the old man. “I am a German, 
 and I glory in the obstinacy of six Englishmen, 
 all rolled into one. To-night you sleep here, to- 
 morrow we talk again of all this. You want 
 me to help you with a word of advice. I will 
 help you with myself, which is better than ad- 
 vice, and I say no more till I fetch my pipe 
 down from the wall there, and ask him to make 
 me think. I smoke and think to-night — I talk 
 and do to-morrow. And you, you go up to bed ; 
 you take Uncle Max’s music-box in your hand, 
 and you let Mozart sing the cradle song before 
 you go to sleep. Yes, yes, my child, there is al- 
 ways comfort in Mozart — better comfort than in 
 crying. What is there to cry about, or to thank 
 about? Is it so great a wonder that I will not 
 let my sister’s child go alone to make a venture 
 in the dark? I said Sarah’s sorrow was my sor- 
 
238 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 row, and Sarah’s joy my joy; and now, if there 
 is no way of escape — if it must indeed be done 
 — I also say: Sarah’s risk to-morrow is Uncle 
 Joseph’s risk to-morrow, too! Good-night, my 
 child — good-night.” 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 OUTSIDE THE HOUSE. 
 
 The next morning wrought no change in the 
 resolution at which Uncle Joseph had arrived 
 overnight. Out of the amazement and confu- 
 sion produced in his mind by his niece’s avowal 
 of the object that had brought her to Cornwall, 
 he had contrived to extract one clear and definite 
 conclusion — that she was obstinately bent on 
 placing herself in a situation of uncertainty, if 
 not of absolute peril. Once persuaded of this, 
 his kindly instincts all sprang into action, his 
 natural firmness on the side of self-sacrifice as- 
 serted itself, and his determination not to let 
 Sarah proceed on her journey alone, followed as 
 a matter of course. 
 
 Strong in the self-denying generosity of his 
 purpose — though strong in nothing else — when 
 he and his niece met in the morning, and when 
 Sarah spoke self-reproachfully of the sacrifice 
 that he was making, of the serious hazards to 
 which he was exposing himself for her sake, he 
 refused to listen to her just as obstinately as he 
 had refused the previous night. There was no 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 239 
 
 need, he said, to speak another word on that 
 subject. If she had abandoned her intention of 
 going to Porthgenna, she had only to say so. If 
 she had not, it was mere waste of breath to talk 
 any more, for he was deaf in both ears to every- 
 thing in the shape of a remonstrance that she 
 could possibly address to him. Having expressed 
 himself in these uncompromising terms, Uncle 
 Joseph abruptly dismissed the subject, and tried 
 to turn the conversation to a cheerful every-day 
 topic by asking his niece how she had passed the 
 night. 
 
 “I was too anxious to sleep,” she answered. 
 “I can’t fight with my fears and misgivings as 
 some people can. All night long they keep me 
 waking and thinking as if it was day.” 
 
 “Thinking about what?” asked Uncle Joseph. 
 “About the letter that is hidden? about the house 
 of Porthgenna? about the Myrtle Room?” 
 
 “About howto get into the Myrtle Room,” 
 she said. “The more I try to plan and ponder, 
 and settle beforehand what I shall do, the more 
 confused and helpless I seem to be. All last 
 night, uncle, I was trying to think of some ex- 
 cuse for getting inside the doors of Porthgenna 
 Tower — and yet, if I was standing on the house- 
 step at this moment, I should not know what to 
 say when the servant and I first came face to 
 face. How are we to persuade them to let us 
 in? How am I to slip out of sight, even if we 
 do get in? Can’t you tell me? — you will try. 
 Uncle Joseph — I am sure you will try. Only 
 help me so far, and I think I can answer for the 
 
240 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 rest. If they keep the keys where they used to 
 keep them in my time, ten minutes to myself is 
 all I should want — ten minutes, only ten short 
 minutes, to make the end of my life easier to me 
 than the beginning has been ; to help me to grow 
 old quietly and resignedly, if it is God’s will 
 that I should live out my years. Oh, how happy 
 people must be who have all the courage they 
 want; who are quick and clever, and have their 
 wits about them! You are readier than I am, 
 uncle; you said last night that you would think 
 about how to advise me for the best — what did 
 your thoughts end in? You will make me so 
 much easier if you will only tell me that.” 
 
 Uncle Joseph nodded assentingly, assumed a 
 look of the profoundest gravity, and slowly laid 
 his forefinger along the side of his nose. 
 
 44 What did I promise you last night?” he said. 
 4 4 Was it not to take my pipe, and ask him to 
 make me think? Good, 1 smoke three pipes, 
 and think three thoughts. My first thought is 
 — Wait! My second thought is, again — Wait! 
 My third thought is yet once more — Wait ! You 
 say you will be easy, Sarah, if I tell you the end 
 of all my thoughts. Good, I have told you. 
 There is the end — you are easy — if is all right.” 
 
 44 Wait?” repeated Sarah, with a look of be- 
 wilderment which suggested anything rather 
 than a mind at ease. 44 I am afraid, uncle, I 
 don’t quite understand. Wait for what? Wait 
 till when?” 
 
 44 Wait till we arrive at the house, to be sure! 
 Wait till we are got outside the door; then is 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 241 
 
 time enough to think how we are to get in,” said 
 Uncle Joseph, with an air of conviction. “You 
 understand now?” 
 
 “Yes — at least I understand better than I did. 
 But there is still another difficulty left. Uncle! 
 I must tell you more than I intended ever to tell 
 anybody — I must tell you that the letter is locked 
 up.” 
 
 “Locked up in a room?” 
 
 “Worse than that — locked up in something 
 inside the room. The key that opens the door 
 — even if I get it — the key that opens the door 
 of the room is not all I want. There is another 
 key besides that, a little key — ” She stopped, 
 with a confused, startled look. 
 
 “A little key that you have lost?” asked Uncle 
 Joseph. 
 
 “I threw it down the well in the village on 
 the morning when I made my escape from 
 Porthgenna. Oh, if I had only kept it about 
 me! If it had only crossed my mind that I 
 might want it again!” 
 
 “Well, well; there is no help for that now. 
 Tell me, Sarah, what the something is which the 
 letter is hidden in.” 
 
 “I am afraid of the very walls hearing 
 me.” 
 
 “What nonsense! Come! whisper it to me.” 
 
 She looked all round her distrustfully, and then 
 whispered into the old man’s ear. He listened 
 eagerly, and laughed when she was silent again. 
 “Bah!” he cried. “If that is all, make yourself 
 happy. As you wicked English people say, it is 
 
242 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 as easy as lying. Why, my child, you can burst 
 him open for yourself.” 
 
 ‘ 4 Burst it open? How?” 
 
 Uncle Joseph went to the window-seat, which 
 was made on the old-fashioned plan, to serve the 
 purpose of a chest as well as a seat. He opened 
 the lid, searched among some tools which lay in 
 the receptacle beneath, and took out a chisel. 
 “See,” he said, demonstrating on the top of the 
 window-seat the use to which the tool was to be 
 put. “You push him in so — crick ! Then you pull 
 him up so — crack ! It is the business of one lit- 
 tle moment — crick ! crack ! — and the lock is done 
 for. Take the chisel yourself, wrap him up in 
 a bit of that stout paper there, and put him in 
 your pocket. What are you waiting for? Do 
 you want me to show you again, or do you think 
 you can do it now for yourself?” 
 
 “I should like you to show me again, Uncle 
 Joseph, but not now — not till we have got to the 
 end of our journey.” 
 
 “Good. Then I may finish my packing up, 
 and go ask about the coach. First and foremost, 
 Mozart must put on his great coat, and travel 
 with us.” He took up the musical box, and 
 placed it carefully in a leather case, which he 
 slung by a strap over one shoulder. “Next, 
 there is my pipe, the tobacco to feed him with, 
 and the matches to set him alight. Last, here 
 is my old German knapsack, which I pack last 
 night. See! here is shirt, night - cap, comb, 
 pocket-handkerchief, sock. Say I am an em- 
 peror, and what do I want more than that? 
 
THE BEAD SECRET, 
 
 243 
 
 Good. I have Mozart, I have the pipe, I have 
 the knapsack. I have — stop! stop! there is the 
 old leather purse; he must not be forgotten. 
 Look! here he is. Listen! Ting, ting, ting! 
 He jingles; he has in his inside money. Aha, 
 my friend, my good Leather, you shall be lighter 
 and leaner before you come home again. So, so 
 —it is all complete; we are ready for the march 
 now, from our tops to our toes. Good-by, Sarah, 
 my child, for a little half-hour; you shall wait 
 here and amuse yourself while I go ask for the 
 coach.” 
 
 When Uncle Joseph came back, he brought his 
 niece information that a coach would pass through 
 Truro in an hour’s time, which would set them 
 down at a stage not more than five or six miles 
 distant from the regular post-town of Porthgenna. 
 The only direct conveyance to the post-town was 
 a night-coach which carried the letter-bags, and 
 which stopped to change horses at Truro at the 
 very inconvenient hour of two o’clock in the 
 morning. Being of opinion that to travel at 
 bed-time was to make a toil of a pleasure, Uncle 
 Joseph recommended taking places in the day- 
 coach, and hiring any conveyance that could be 
 afterward obtained to carry his niece and himself 
 on to the post-town. By this arrangement they 
 would not only secure their own comfort, but 
 gain the additional advantage of losing as little 
 time as possible at Truro before proceeding on 
 their journey to Porthgenna. 
 
 The plan thus proposed was the plan followed. 
 When the coach stopped to change horses, Uncle 
 
244 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 Joseph and his niece were waiting to take their 
 places by it. They found all the inside seats but 
 one disengaged, were set down two hours after- 
 ward at the stage that was nearest to the destina- 
 tion for which they were bound, hired a pony- 
 chaise there, and reached the post-town between 
 one and two o’clock in the afternoon. 
 
 Dismissing their conveyance at the inn, from 
 motives of caution which were urged by Sarah, 
 they set forth to walk across the moor to Porth- 
 genna. On their way out of the town they met 
 the postman returning from his morning’s de- 
 livery of letters in the surrounding district. His 
 bag had been much heavier and his walk much 
 longer that morning than usual. Among the 
 extra letters that had taken him out of his ordi- 
 nary course was one addressed to the housekeeper 
 at Porthgenna Tower, which he had delivered 
 early in the morning, when he first started on 
 his rounds. 
 
 Throughout the whole journey, Uncle Joseph 
 had not made a single reference to the object for 
 which it had been undertaken. Possessing a 
 child’s simplicity of nature, he was also endowed 
 with a child’s elasticity of disposition. The 
 doubts and forebodings which troubled his niece’s 
 spirit, and kept her silent and thoughtful and 
 sad, cast no darkening shadow over the natural 
 sunshine of his mind. If he had really been 
 traveling for pleasure alone, he could not have 
 enjoyed more thoroughly than he did the differ- 
 ent sights and events of the journey. All the 
 happiness which the passing minute had to give 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 245 
 
 him he took as readily and gratefully as if there 
 was no uncertainty in the future, no doubt, diffi- 
 culty, or danger lying in wait for him at the jour- 
 ney’s end. Before he had been half an hour in 
 the coach he had begun to tell the third inside 
 passenger — a rigid old lady, who stared at him 
 in speechless amazement— the whole history of 
 the musical box, ending the narrative by setting 
 it playing, in defiance of all the noise that the 
 rolling wheels could make. When they left the 
 coach, he was just as sociable afterward with the 
 driver of the chaise, vaunting the superiority of 
 German beer over Cornish cider, and making 
 his remarks upon the objects which they passed 
 on the road with the pleasantest familiarity and 
 the heartiest enjoyment of his own jokes. It 
 was not till he and Sarah were well out of the 
 little town, and away by themselves on the great 
 moor which stretched beyond it, that his manner 
 altered, and his talk ceased altogether. After 
 walking on in silence for some little time, with 
 his niece’s arm in his, he suddenly stopped, looked 
 her earnestly and kindly in the face, and laid his 
 hand on hers. 
 
 “ There is yet one thing more I want to ask 
 you, my child,” he said. “ The journey has put 
 it out of my head, but it has been in my heart 
 all the time. When we leave this place of Porth- 
 genna, and get back to my house, you will not 
 goaway? you will not leave Uucle Joseph again? 
 Are you in service still, Sarah. Are you not 
 your own master yet?” 
 
 “I was in service a few days since,” she an- 
 
246 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 swered; “but I am free now. I have lost my 
 place.” 
 
 “Aha! You have lost your place; and why?” 
 “Because I would not hear an innocent person 
 unjustly blamed. Because—” 
 
 She checked herself. But the few words she 
 had said were spoken with such a suddenly 
 heightened color, and with such an extraordi- 
 nary emphasis and resolution of tone, that the 
 old man opened his eyes as widely as possible, 
 and looked at his niece in undisguised astonish- 
 ment. 
 
 “So! so! so!” he exclaimed. “What! You 
 have had a quarrel, Sarah! ” 
 
 “Hush! Don’t ask me any more questions 
 now!” she pleaded, earnestly. “I am too anx- 
 ious and too frightened to answer. Uncle! this 
 is Porthgenna Moor — this is the road I passed 
 over, sixteen years ago, when I ran away to you. 
 Oh! let us get on, pray let us get on! I can’t 
 think of anything now but the house we are so 
 near, and the risk we are going to run.” 
 
 They went on quickly, in silence. Half an 
 hour’s rapid walking brought them to the high- 
 est elevation on the moor, and gave the whole 
 western prospect grandly to their view. 
 
 There, below them, was the dark, lonesome, 
 spacious structure of Porthgenna Tower, with 
 the sunlight already stealing round toward the 
 windows of the west front ! There was the path 
 winding away to it gracefully over the brown 
 moor, in curves of dazzling white! There, lower 
 down, was the solitary old church, with the 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 247 
 
 peaceful burial-ground nestling by its side! 
 There, lower still, were the little scattered 
 roofs of the fishermen’s cottages! And there, 
 beyond all, was the changeless glory of the sea, 
 with its old seething lines of white foam, with 
 the old winding margin of its yellow shores! 
 Sixteen long years — such years of sorrow, such 
 years of suffering, such years of change, counted 
 by the pulses of the living heart! — had passed 
 over the dead tranquillity of Porthgenna, and 
 had altered it as little as if they had all been 
 contained within the lapse of a single day! 
 
 The moments when the spirit within us is 
 most deeply stirred are almost invariably the 
 moments also when its outward manifestations 
 are hardest to detect. Our own thoughts rise 
 above us; our own feelings lie deeper than we 
 can reach. How seldom words can help us, 
 when their help is most wanted! How often 
 our tears are dried up when we most long for 
 them to relieve us! Was there ever a strong 
 emotion in this world that could adequately ex- 
 press its own strength? What third person, 
 brought face to face with the old man and his 
 niece, as they now stood together on the moor, 
 would have suspected, to look at them, that the 
 one was contemplating the landscape with noth- 
 ing more than a stranger’s curiosity, and that 
 the other was viewing it through the recollec- 
 tions of half a lifetime? The eyes of both were 
 dry, the tongues of both were silent, the faces of 
 both were set with equal attention toward the 
 prospect. Even between themselves there was 
 
248 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLTNS. 
 
 no real sympathy, no intelligible appeal from 
 one spirit to the other. The old man’s quiet ad- 
 miration of the view was not more briefly and 
 readily expressed, when they moved forward 
 and spoke to each other, than the customary 
 phrases of assent by which his niece replied to 
 the little that he said. How many moments 
 there are in this mortal life, when, with all our 
 boasted powers of speech, the words of our vo- 
 cabulary treacherously fade out, and the page 
 presents nothing to us but the sight of a perfect 
 blank ! 
 
 Slowly descending the slope of the moor, the 
 uncle and niece drew nearer and nearer to Porth- 
 genna Tower. They were within a quarter of 
 an hour’s walk of the house when Sarah stopped 
 at a place where a second path intersected the 
 main foot-track which they had hitherto been 
 following. On the left hand, as they now stood, 
 the cross-path ran on until it was lost to the eye 
 in the expanse of the moor. On the right hand 
 it led straight to the church. 
 
 “What do we stop for now?” asked Uncle 
 Joseph, looking first in one direction and then in 
 the other. 
 
 “Would you mind waiting for me here a little 
 while, uncle? I can’t pass the church path — ” 
 (she paused, in some trouble how to express her- 
 self) — “without wishing (as I don’t know what 
 may happen after we get to the house), without 
 wishing* to see — to look at something — ” She 
 stopped again, and turned her face wistfully to- 
 ward the church. The tears, which had never 
 
THE DEAD SECRET, 
 
 249 
 
 wetted her eyes at the first view of Porthgenna, 
 were beginning to rise in them now. 
 
 Uncle Joseph’s natural delicacy warned him 
 that it would be best to abstain from asking her 
 for any explanations. 
 
 “Go you where you like, to see what you like, ” 
 he said, patting her on the shoulder. “I shall 
 stop here to make myself happy with my pipe ; 
 and Mozart shall come out of his cage, and sing 
 a little in this fine fresh air.” He unslung the 
 leather case from his shoulder while he spoke, 
 took out the musical box, and set it ringing its 
 tiny peal to the second of the two airs which it 
 was constructed to play — the minuet in Don 
 Giovanni. Sarah left him looking about; care- 
 fully, not for a seat for himself, but for a smooth 
 bit of rock to place the box upon. When he had 
 found this, he lit his pipe, and sat down to his 
 music and his smoking, like an epicure to a good 
 dinner. “Aha!” he exclaimed to himself, look- 
 ing round as composedly at the wild prospect on 
 all sides of him as if he was still in his own lit- 
 tle parlor at Truro — “Aha! Here is a fine big 
 music-room, my friend Mozart, for you to sing in ! 
 Ouf ! there is wind enough in this place to blow 
 your pretty dance-tune out to sea, and give the 
 sailor-people a taste of it as they roll about in 
 their ships.” 
 
 Meanwhile Sarah walked on rapidly toward 
 the church, and entered the inclosure of the lit- 
 tle burial-ground. Toward that same part of it 
 to which she had directed her steps on the morn- 
 ing of her mistress’s death, she now turned her 
 
250 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 face again, after a lapse of sixteen years. Here, 
 at least, the march of time had left its palpable 
 track — its footprints whose marks were graves. 
 How many a little spot of ground, empty when 
 she last saw it, had its mound and its headstone 
 now ! The one grave that she had come to see — 
 the grave which had stood apart in the by-gone 
 days, had companion graves on the right hand 
 and on the left. She could not have singled it 
 out but for the weather stains on the head-stone, 
 which told of storm and rain over it, that had 
 not passed over the rest. The mound was still 
 kept in shape; but the grass grew long, and 
 waved a dreary welcome to her as the wind 
 swept through it. She knelt down by the stone 
 and tried to read the inscription. The black 
 paint which had once made the carved words 
 distinct was all flayed off from them now. To 
 any other eyes but hers the very name of the 
 dead man would have been hard to trace. She 
 sighed heavily as she followed the letters of the 
 inscription mechanically, one by one, with her 
 finger : 
 
 SACRED TO THE MEMORY 
 OF 
 
 $ugt) J) 0 l H) I) e a 1 f 
 
 AGED 26 YEARS. 
 
 HE MET WITH HIS DEATH 
 THROUGH THE FALL OF A ROCK 
 IN 
 
 . PORTIIGENNA MINE, 
 
 DECEMBER 1?TH, 1823. 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 251 
 
 Her hand lingered over the letters after it had 
 followed them to the last line, and she bent for- 
 ward and pressed her lips on the stone. 
 
 6 ‘Better so!” she said to herself, as she rose 
 from her knees and looked down at the inscrip- 
 tion for the last time. “Better it should fade 
 out so ! Fewer strangers’ eyes will see it ; fewer 
 strangers’ feet will follow where mine have been 
 — he will lie all the quieter in the place of his 
 rest!” 
 
 She brushed the tears from her eyes and gath- 
 ered a few blades of grass from the grave — then 
 left the churchyard. Outside the hedge that 
 surrounded the inclosure she stopped for a mo- 
 ment, and drew from the bosom of her dress the 
 little book of Wesley’s Hymns which she had 
 taken with her from the desk in her bedroom 
 on the morning of her flight from Porthgenna. 
 The withered remains of the grass that she had 
 plucked from the grave sixteen years ago lay 
 between the pages still. She added to them the 
 fresh fragments that she had just gathered, re- 
 placed the book in the bosom of her dress, and 
 hastened back over the moor to the spot where 
 the old man was waiting for her. 
 
 She found him packing up the musical box 
 again in its leather case. “A good wind,” he 
 said, holding up the palm of his hand to the 
 fresh breeze that was sweeping over the moor — 
 “A very good wind, indeed, if you take him by 
 himself — but a bitter bad wind if you take him 
 with Mozart. He blows off the tune as if it was 
 the hat on my head. You come back, my child, 
 
252 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 just at the nick of time — just when my pipe is 
 done, and Mozart is ready to travel along the 
 road once more. Ah, have you got the crying 
 look in your eyes again, Sarah? What have you 
 met with to make you cry? So! so! I see — the 
 fewer questions I ask just now, the better you 
 will like me. Good. I have done. No! I 
 have a last question yet. What are we stand- 
 ing here for? why do we not go on?” 
 
 “Yes, yes; you are right, Uncle Joseph; let 
 us go on at once. I shall lose all the little cour- 
 age I have if we stay here much longer looking 
 at the house.” 
 
 They proceeded down the path without an- 
 other moment of delay. When they had reached 
 the end of it, they stood opposite the eastern 
 boundary wall of Porthgenna Tower. The prin- 
 cipal entrance to the house, which had been very 
 rarely used of late years, was in the west front, 
 and was approached by a terrace road that over- 
 looked the sea. The smaller entrance, which 
 was generally used, was situated on the south 
 side of the building, and led through the serv- 
 ants’ offices to the great hall and the west stair- 
 case. Sarah’s old experience of Porthgenna 
 guided her instinctively toward this part of the 
 house. She led her companion on until they 
 gained the southern angle of the east wall — then 
 stopped and looked about her. Since they had 
 passed the postman and had entered on tho moor, 
 they had not set eyes on a living creature; and 
 still, though they were now under the very walls 
 of Porthgenna, neither man, woman, nor child 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 253 
 
 — not even a domestic animal — appeared in 
 view. 
 
 6 ‘It is very lonely here,” said Sarah, looking 
 round her distrustfully; “much lonelier than it 
 used to be.” 
 
 “Is it only to tell me what I can see for myself 
 that you are stopping now?” asked Uncle Joseph, 
 whose inveterate cheerfulness would have been 
 proof against the solitude of Sahara itself. 
 
 “No, no!” she answered, in a quick, anxious 
 whisper. “But the bell we must ring at is so 
 close — only round there — I should like to know 
 what we are to say when we come face to face 
 with the servant. You told me it was time 
 enough to think about that when we were at the 
 door. Uncle! we are all but at the door now. 
 What shall we do?” 
 
 “The first thing to do,” said Uncle Joseph, 
 shrugging his shoulders, “is surely to ring.” 
 
 “Yes — but when the servant comes, what are 
 we to say?” 
 
 “Say?” repeated Uncle Joseph, knitting his 
 eyebrows quite fiercely with the effort of think- 
 ing, and rapping his forehead with his forefinger 
 just under his hat — “Say? Stop, stop, stop, 
 stop! Ah, I have got it ! I know! Make your- 
 self quite easy, Sarah. The moment the door is 
 opened, all the speaking to the servant shall be 
 done by me.” 
 
 “Oh, how you relieve me ! What shall you say?” 
 
 “Say? This — ‘How do you do? We have 
 come to see the house.’ ” 
 
 When he had disclosed that remarkable expe- 
 
254 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 dient for effecting an entrance into Porthgenna 
 Tower, he spread out both his hands interroga- 
 tively, drew back several paces from his niece, 
 and looked at her with the serenely self-satisfied 
 air of a man who has leaped, at one mental 
 bound, from a doubt to a discovery. Sarah 
 gazed at him in astonishment. The expression 
 of absolute conviction on his face staggered her. 
 The poorest of all the poor excuses for gaining 
 admission into the house which she herself had 
 thought of, and had rejected, during the previ- 
 ous night, seemed like the very perfection of arti- 
 fice by comparison with such a childishly simple 
 expedient as that suggested by Uncle Joseph. 
 And yet there he stood, apparently quite con- 
 vinced that he had hit on the means of smooth- 
 ing away all obstacles at once. Not knowing 
 what to say, not believing sufficiently in the 
 validity of her own doubts to venture on openly 
 expressing an opinion either one way or the 
 other, she took the last refuge that was now left 
 open to her — she endeavored to gain time. 
 
 ‘ 6 It is very, very 'good of you, uncle, to take all 
 the difficulty of speaking to the servant on your 
 own shoulders,” she said; the hidden despond- 
 ency at her heart expressing itself, in spite of 
 her, in the faintness of her voice and the forlorn 
 perplexity of her eyes. “But would you mind 
 waiting a little before we ring at the door, and 
 walking up and down for a few minutes by the 
 side of this wall, where nobody is likely to see 
 us? I want to get a little more time to prepare 
 myself for the trial that I have to go through; 
 
THE DEAD SECRETc 
 
 255 
 
 and — and in case the servant makes any diffi- 
 culties about letting us in — I mean difficulties 
 that we cannot just now anticipate— would it not 
 be as well to think of something else to say at 
 the door? Perhaps, if you were to consider 
 again — ” 
 
 “There is not the least need,” interposed Uncle 
 Joseph. “I have only to speak to the servant, 
 and — crick! crack!— you will see that we shall 
 get in. But I will walk up and down as long as 
 you please. There is no reason, because I have 
 done all my thinking in one moment, that you 
 should have done all your thinking in one mo- 
 ment too. No, no, no — no reason at all.” Say- 
 ing those words with a patronizing air and a 
 self-satisfied smile, which would have been irre- 
 sistibly comical under any less critical circum- 
 stances, the old man again offered his arm to his 
 niece, and led her back over the broken ground 
 that lay under the eastern wall of Porthgenna 
 Tower. 
 
 While Sarah was waiting in doubt outside the 
 walls, it hapened, by a curious coincidence, that 
 another person, vested with the highest domestic 
 authority, was also waiting in doubt inside the 
 walls. This person was no other than the house- 
 keeper of Porthgenna Tower; and the cause of 
 her perplexity was nothing less than the letter 
 which had been delivered by the postman that 
 very morning. 
 
 It was a letter from Mrs. Frankland, which 
 had been written after she had held a long con- 
 
256 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 versation with her husband and Mr. Orridge, on 
 receiving the last fragments of information which 
 the doctor was able to communicate in reference 
 to Mrs. Jazeph. 
 
 The housekeeper had read the letter through 
 over and over again, and was more puzzled and 
 astonished by it at every fresh reading. She 
 was now waiting for the return of the steward, 
 Mr. Munder, from his occupations out of doors, 
 with the intention of taking his opinion on the 
 singular communication which she had received 
 from her mistress. 
 
 While Sarah and her uncle were still walking 
 up and down outside the eastern wall, Mr. Mun- 
 der entered the housekeeper’s room. He was one 
 of those tall, grave, benevolent-looking men, 
 with a conical head, a deep voice, a slow step, 
 and a heavy manner, who passively contrive to 
 get a great reputation for wisdom without the 
 trouble of saying or doing anything to deserve 
 it. All round the Porthgenna neighborhood the 
 steward was popularly spoken of as a remarka- 
 bly sound, sensible man; and the housekeeper, 
 although a sharp woman in other matters, in 
 this one respect shared to a large extent in the 
 general delusion. 
 
 “ Good-morning, Mrs. Pentreath,” said Mr. 
 Munder. “Any news to-day?” What a weight 
 and importance his deep voice and his impres- 
 sively slow method of using it, gave to those two 
 insignificant sentences ! 
 
 “News, Mr. Munder, that will astonish you,” 
 replied the housekeeper. “I have received a let- 
 
the dead secret. 
 
 257 
 
 ter this morning from Mrs. Frankland, which is, 
 without any exception, the most mystifying thing 
 of the sort I ever met with. I am told to com* 
 municate the letter to you ; and I have been wait- 
 ing the whole morning to hear your opinion of it. 
 Pray sit down, and give me all your attention— 
 for I do positively assure you that the letter re- 
 quires it.” 
 
 Mr. Munder sat down, and became the picture 
 of attention immediately — not of ordinary atten- 
 tion, which can be wearied, but of judicial atten- 
 tion, which knows no fatigue, and is superior 
 alike to the power of dullness and the power of 
 time. The housekeeper, without wasting the 
 precious minutes — Mr. Munder’s minutes, which 
 ranked next on the scale of importance to a prime 
 minister’s! — opened her mistress’s letter, and, 
 resisting the natural temptation to make a few 
 more prefatory remarks on it, immediately fa- 
 vored the steward with the first paragraph, in 
 the following terms: 
 
 “Mrs. Pentreath — You must be tired of re- 
 ceiving letters from me, fixing a day for the ar- 
 rival of Mr. Frankland and myself. On this, 
 the third occasion of my writing to you about 
 our plans, it will be best, I think, to make no 
 third appointment, .but merely to say that we 
 shall leave West Winston for Porthgenna the 
 moment I can get the doctor’s permission to 
 travel.” 
 
 “So far,” remarked Mrs. Pentreath, placing 
 the letter on her lap, and smoothing it out rather 
 I — Vol. 16 
 
258 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 irritably while she spoke — “so far, there is noth- 
 ing of much consequence. The letter certainly 
 seems to me (between ourselves) to be written in 
 rather poor language — too much like common 
 talking to come up to my idea of what a lady’s 
 style of composition ought to be — but that is a 
 matter of opinion. I can’t say, and I should be 
 the last person to wish to say, that the beginning 
 of Mrs. Frankland’s letter is not, upon the whole, 
 perfectly clear. It is the middle and the end 
 that I wish to consult you about, Mr. Munder.” 
 
 “Just so,” said Mr. Munder. Only two words, 
 but more meaning in them than two hundred in 
 the mouth of an ordinary man ! The housekeeper 
 cleared her throat with extraordinary loudness 
 and elaboration, and read on thus: 
 
 “My principal object in writing these lines is 
 to request, by Mr. Frankland’s desire, that you 
 and Mr. Munder will endeavor to ascertain, as 
 privately as possible, whether a person now 
 traveling in Cornwall — in whom we happen to 
 be much interested— has been yet seen in the 
 neighborhood of Porthgenna. The person in 
 question is know to us by the name of Mrs. Ja- 
 zeph. She is an elderly woman, of quiet, lady- 
 like manners, looking nervous and in delicate 
 health. She dresses, according to our experience 
 of her, with extreme propriety and neatness, and 
 in dark colors. Her eyes have a singular ex- 
 pression of timidity, her voice is particularly soft 
 and low, and her manner is frequently marked 
 by extreme hesitation. I am thus particular in 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 259 
 
 describing her, in case she should not be travel- 
 ing under the name by which we know her. 
 
 4 4 For reasons which it is not necessary to state, 
 both my husband and myself think it probable 
 that, at some former period of her life, Mrs. Ja- 
 zeph may have been connected with the Porth- 
 genna neighborhood. Whether this be the fact 
 or no, it is indisputably certain that she is famil- 
 iar with the interior of Porthgenna Tower, and 
 that she has an interest of some kind, quite in- 
 comprehensible to us, in the house. Coupling 
 these facts with the knowledge we have of her 
 being now in Cornwall, we think it just within 
 the range of possibility that you or Mr. Munder, 
 or some other person in our employment, may 
 meet with her; and we are particularly anxious, 
 if she should by any chance ask to see the house, 
 not only that you should show her over it with 
 perfect readiness and civility, but also that you 
 should take private and particular notice of her 
 conduct from the time when she enters the build- 
 ing to the time when she leaves it. Do not let 
 her out of your sight for a moment; and, if pos- 
 sible, pray get some trustworthy person to follow 
 her unperceived, and ascertain where she goes to 
 after she has quitted the house. It is of the most 
 vital importance that these instructions (strange 
 as they may seem to you) should be implicitly 
 obeyed to the very letter. 
 
 44 1 have only room and time to add that we 
 know nothing to the discredit of this person, and 
 that we particularly desire you will manage mat- 
 ters with sufficient discretion (in case you meet 
 
260 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 with her) to prevent her from having any sus- 
 picion that you are acting under orders, or that 
 you have any especial interest in watching her 
 movements. You will be good enough to com- 
 municate this letter to the steward, and you are 
 at liberty to repeat the instructions in it to any 
 other trustworthy person, if necessary. 
 
 “ Yours truly, Rosamond Frankland. 
 
 “PS. — I have left my room, and the baby is 
 getting on charmingly.” 
 
 4 4 There!” said the housekeeper. 6 4 Who is to 
 make head or tail of that, I should like to know! 
 Did you ever, in all your experience, Mr. Mun- 
 der, meet with such a letter before? Here is a 
 very heavy responsibility laid on our shoulders, 
 without one word of explanation. I have been 
 puzzling my brains about what their interest in 
 this mysterious woman can be the whole morn- 
 ing; and the more I think, the less comes of it. 
 What is your opinion, Mr. Munder? We ought 
 to do something immediately. Is there any 
 course in particular which you feel disposed to 
 point oat?” 
 
 Mr. Munder coughed dubiously, crossed his 
 right leg over his left, put his head critically on 
 one side, coughed for the second time, and looked 
 at the housekeeper. If it had belonged to any 
 other man in the world, Mrs. Pentreath would 
 have considered that the face which now con- 
 fronted hers expressed nothing but the most pro- 
 found and vacant bewilderment. But it was 
 Mr. Munder’s face, and it was only to be 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 261 
 
 looked at with sentiments of respectful expec- 
 tation. 
 
 “I rather think — ” began Mr. Munder. 
 
 “ Yes?” said the housekeeper, eagerly. 
 
 Before another word could be spoken, the maid- 
 servant entered the room to lay the cloth for Mrs. 
 Pentreath’s dinner. 
 
 “ There, there! never mind now, Betsey,” said 
 the housekeeper, impatiently. “Don’t lay the 
 cloth till I ring for you. Mr. Munder and I 
 have something very important to talk about, 
 and we can’t be interrupted just yet.” 
 
 She had hardly said the word, before an inter- 
 ruption of the most unexpected kind happened. 
 The door-bell rang. This was a very unusual 
 occurrence at Porthgenna Tower. The few per- 
 sons who had any occasion to come to the house 
 on domestic business always entered by a small 
 side gate, which was left on the latch in the day- 
 time. 
 
 “Who in the world can that be!” exclaimed 
 Mrs. Pentreath, hastening to the window, which 
 commanded a side view of the lower doorsteps. 
 
 The first object that met her eye when she 
 looked out was a lady standing on the lowest step 
 — a lady dressed very neatly in quiet, dark colors* 
 
 “Good Heavens, Mr. Munder!” cried the 
 housekeeper, hurrying back to the table, and 
 snatching up Mrs. Frankland’s letter, which 
 she had left on it. “There is a stranger wait- 
 ing at the door at this very moment ! a lady ! or, 
 at least, a woman— and dressed neatly, dressed 
 in dark colors! You might knock me down, 
 
262 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 Mr. Munder, with a feather! Stop, Betsey — 
 stop where you are!” 
 
 “I was only going, ma’am, to answer the 
 door,” said Betsey, in amazement. 
 
 “Stop where you are,” reiterated Mrs, Pen- 
 treath, composing herself by a great effort, “I 
 happen to have certain reasons, on this particular 
 occasion, for descending out of my own place and 
 putting myself into yours. Stand out of the 
 way, you staring fool! I am going upstairs to 
 answer that ring at the door myself.” 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 INSIDE THE HOUSE. 
 
 Mrs. Pentreath’s surprise at seeing a lady 
 through the window, was doubled by her amaze- 
 ment at seeing a gentleman when she opened the 
 door. Waiting close to the bell-handle, after he 
 had rung, instead of rejoining his niece on the 
 step, Uncle Joseph stood near enough to the 
 house to be out of the range of view from Mrs. 
 Pentreath’s window. To the housekeeper’s ex- 
 cited imagination, he appeared on the threshold 
 with the suddenness of an apparition-— tbe appa- 
 rition of a little rosy-faced old gentleman, smil- 
 ing, bowing, and taking off his hat with a superb 
 flourish of politeness, which had something quite 
 superhuman in the sweep and the dexterity of it. 
 
 “How do you do? We have come to see the 
 house,” said Uncle Joseph, trying his infallible 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 263 
 
 expedient for gaining admission the instant the 
 door was open. 
 
 Mrs. Pentreath was struck speechless. Who 
 was this familiar old gentleman with the for- 
 eign accent and the fantastic bow? and what did 
 he mean by talking to her as if she was his inti- 
 mate friend? Mrs. Frankland’s letter said not 
 so much, from beginning to end, as one word 
 about him. 
 
 4 4 How do you do? We have come to see the 
 house,” repeated Uncle Joseph, giving his irre- 
 sistible form of salutation the benefit of a second 
 
 trial. 
 
 4 4 So you said just now, sir,” remarked Mrs. 
 Pentreath, recovering self-possession enough to 
 use her tongue in her own defense. “Does the 
 lady,” she continued, looking down over the old 
 man’s shoulder at the step on which his niece 
 was standing — 44 does the lady wish to see the 
 house, too?” 
 
 Sarah’s gently spoken reply in the affirmative, 
 short as it was, convinced the housekeeper that 
 the woman described in Mrs. Frankland’s letter 
 really and truly stood before her. Besides the 
 neat, quiet dress, there was now the softly toned 
 voice, and, when she looked up for a moment, 
 there were the timid eyes also to identify her by! 
 In relation to this one of the two strangers, Mrs. 
 Pentreath, however agitated and surprised she 
 might be, could no longer feel any uncertainty 
 about the course she ought to adopt. But in re- 
 lation to the other visitor, the incomprehensible 
 old foreigner, she was beset by the most bewil- 
 
264 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 dering doubts. Would it be safest to hold to the 
 letter of Mrs. Frankland’s instructions, and ask 
 him to wait outside while the lady was being 
 shown over the house? or would it be best to act 
 on her own responsibility, and to risk giving 
 him admission as well as his companion? This 
 was a difficult point to decide, and therefore one 
 which it was necessary to submit to the superior 
 sagacity of Mr. Munder. 
 
 “Will you step in for a moment, and wait 
 here while I speak to the steward?” said Mrs. 
 Pentreath, pointedly neglecting to notice the 
 familiar old foreigner, and addressing herself 
 straight through him to the lady on the steps 
 below. 
 
 “Thank you very much,” said Uncle Joseph, 
 smiling and bowing, impervious to rebuke. 
 “What did I tell you?” he whispered triumph- 
 antly to his niece, as she passed him on her way 
 into the house. 
 
 Mrs. Pentreath’s first impulse was to go down- 
 stairs at once, and speak to Mr. Munder. But a 
 timely recollection of that part of Mrs. Frank- 
 land’s letter which enjoined her not to lose sight 
 of the lady in the quiet dress, brought her to a 
 stand-still the next moment. She was the more 
 easily recalled to a remembrance of this particu- 
 lar injunction by a curious alteration in the con- 
 duct of the lady herself, who seemed to lose all her 
 diffidence, and to become surprisingly impatient 
 to lead the way into the interior of the house, the 
 moment she had stepped across the threshold. 
 
 “Betsey 1” cried Mrs. Pentreath, cautiously 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 265 
 
 calling to the servant after she had only retired 
 a few paces from the visitors — “ Betsey! ask Mr. 
 Munder to be so kind as to step this way.” 
 
 Mr. Mander presented himself with great de- 
 liberation, and with a certain lowering dignity 
 in his face. He had been accustomed to be 
 treated with deference, and he was not pleased 
 with the housekeeper for unceremoniously leav- 
 ing him the moment she heard the ring at the 
 bell, without giving him time to pronounce an 
 opinion on Mrs. Frankland’s letter. Accord- 
 ingly when Mrs. Pentreath, in a high state of 
 excitement, drew him aside out of hearing, and 
 confided to him, in a whisper, the astounding 
 intelligence that the lady in whom Mr. and Mrs. 
 Frankland were so mysteriouly interested was, 
 at that moment, actually standing before him in 
 the house, he received her communication with 
 an air of the most provoking indifference. It 
 was worse still when she proceeded to state her 
 difficulties — warily keeping her eye on the two 
 strangers all the while. Appeal as respectfully 
 as she might to Mr. Munder’s superior wisdom 
 for guidance, he persisted in listening with a 
 disparaging frown, and ended by irritably con- 
 tradicting her when she ventured to add, in con- 
 clusion, that her own ideas inclined her to as- 
 sume no responsibility, and to beg the foreign 
 gentleman to wait outside while the lady, in 
 conformity with Mrs. Frankland’s instructions, 
 was being shown over the house. 
 
 4 ‘Such may be your opinion, ma’am,” said 
 Mr. Munder, severely. “It is not mine.” 
 
266 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 The housekeeper looked aghast. “Perhaps,” 
 she suggested, deferentially, “you think that the 
 foreign old gentleman would be likely to insist 
 on going over the house with the lady?” 
 
 “Of course I think so,” said Mr. Munder. 
 (He had thought nothing of the sort; his only 
 idea just then being the idea of asserting his own 
 supremacy by setting himself steadily in opposi- 
 tion to any preconceived arrangements of Mrs. 
 Pentreath.) 4 4 Then you would take the respon- 
 sibility of showing them both over the house, 
 seeing that they have both come to the door to- 
 gether?” asked the housekeeper. 
 
 4 4 Of course I would,” answered the steward, 
 with the promptitude of resolution which distin- 
 guishes all superior men. 
 
 4 4 Well, Mr. Munder, I am always glad to be 
 guided by your opinion, and I will be guided by 
 it now,” said Mrs. Pentreath. 44 But, as there 
 will be two people to look after — for I would not 
 trust the foreigner out of my sight on any con- 
 sideration whatever — I must really beg you to 
 share the trouble of showing them over the house 
 along with me. I am so excited and nervous 
 that I don’t feel as if I had all my wits about 
 me — I never was placed in such a position as 
 this before — I am in the midst of mysteries that 
 I don’t understand — and, in short, if I can’t 
 count on your assistance, I won’t answer for it 
 that I shall not make some mistake. I should be 
 very sorry to make a mistake, not only on my own 
 account, but — ” Here the housekeeper stopped, 
 and looked hard at Mr. Munder. 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 267 
 
 “Go on, ma’am,” said Mr. Munder, with cruol 
 composure. 
 
 “Not only on my own account,” resumed Mrs. 
 Pentreath, demurely, “but on yours; for Mrs. 
 Frankland’s letter certainly casts the responsi- 
 bility of conducting this delicate business on 
 your shoulders as well as on mine.” 
 
 Mr. Munder recoiled a few steps, turned red, 
 opened his lips indignantly, hesitated, and closed 
 them again. He was fairly caught in a trap of 
 his own setting. He could not retreat from the 
 responsibility of directing the housekeeper’s con- 
 duct, the moment after he had voluntarily as- 
 sumed it; and he could not deny that Mrs. 
 Frankland’s letter positively and repeatedly re- 
 ferred to him by name. There was only one 
 way of getting out of the difficulty with dignity, 
 and Mr. Munder unblushingly took that way the 
 moment he had recovered self-possession enough 
 to collect himself for the effort. 
 
 “I am perfectly amazed, Mrs. Pentreath, ” he 
 began, with the gravest dignity. “Yes, I re- 
 peat, I am perfectly amazed that you should 
 think me capable of leaving you to go over the 
 house alone, under such remarkable circum- 
 stances as those we are now placed in. No, 
 ma’am! whatever my other faults may be, 
 shrinking from my share of responsibility is not 
 one of them. I don’t require to be reminded of 
 Mrs. Frankland’s letter; and — no! — I don’t re- 
 quire any apologies. I am quite ready, ma’am 
 — quite ready to show the way upstairs when- 
 ever you are.” 
 
268 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 “The sooner the better, Mr. Munder — for there 
 is that audacious old foreigner actually chatter- 
 ing to Betsey now, as if he had known her all 
 bis life!” 
 
 The asserton was quite true. Uncle Joseph 
 was exercising his gift of familiarity on the 
 maid-servant (who had lingered to stare at the 
 strangers, instead of going back to the kitchen), 
 just as he had already exercised it on the old 
 lady passenger in the stage-coach, and on the 
 driver of the pony-chaise which took his niece 
 and himself to the post-town of Porthgenna. 
 While the housekeeper and the steward were 
 holding their private conference, he was keep- 
 ing Betsey in ecstasies of suppressed giggling by 
 the odd questions that he asked about the house, 
 and about how she got on with her work in it. 
 His inquiries had naturally led from the south 
 side of the building, by which he and his com- 
 panion had entered, to the west side, which they 
 were shortly to explore ; and thence round to the 
 north side, which was forbidden ground to every- 
 body in the house. When Mrs. Pentreath came 
 forward with the steward, she overheard this ex- 
 change of question and answer passing between 
 the foreigner and the maid : 
 
 “But tell me, Betzee, my dear,” said Uncle 
 Joseph. “Why does nobody ever go into these 
 mouldy old rooms?” 
 
 “Because there’s a ghost in them,” answered 
 Betsey, with a burst of laughter, as if a series of 
 haunted rooms and a series of excellent jokes 
 meant precisely the same thing. 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 269 
 
 “Hold your tongue directly, and go back to 
 the kitchen,” cried Mrs. Pentreath, indignantly. 
 “The ignorant people about here,” she contin- 
 ued, still pointedly overlooking Uncle Joseph, 
 and addressing herself only to Sarah, “tell ab- 
 surd stories about some old rooms on the unre- 
 paired side of the house, which have not been 
 inhabited for more than half a century past — 
 absurd stories about a ghost; and my servant is 
 foolish enough to believe them.” 
 
 “No, I’m not,” said Betsey, retiring, under 
 protest, to the lower regions. “I don’t believe a 
 word about the ghost — at least not in the day- 
 time.” Adding that important saving clause in 
 a whisper, Betsey unwillingly withdrew from 
 the scene. 
 
 Mrs. Pentreath observed, with some surprise, 
 that the mysterious lady in the quiet dress turned 
 very pale at the mention of the ghost story, and 
 made no remark on it whatever. While she was 
 still wondering what this meant, Mr. Munder 
 emerged into dignified prominence, and loftily 
 addressed himself, not to Uncle Joseph, and not 
 to Sarah, but to the empty air between them. 
 
 “If you wish to see the house,” he said, “you 
 will have the goodness to follow me.” 
 
 With those words, Mr. Munder turned sol- 
 emnly into the passage that led to the foot of the 
 west staircase, walking with that peculiar, slow 
 strut in which all serious-minded English people 
 indulge when they go out to take a little exercise 
 on Sunday. The housekeeper, adapting her pace 
 with feminine pliancy to the pace of the steward, 
 
270 
 
 WOBKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 walked the national Sabbatarian Polonaise by his 
 side, as if she was out with him for a mouthful 
 of fresh air between the services. 
 
 “As I am a living sinner, this going over the 
 house is like going to a funeral!” whispered 
 Uncle Joseph to his niece. He drew her arm 
 into his, and felt, as he did so, that she was 
 trembling. 
 
 “What is the matter?” he asked, under his 
 breath. 
 
 “Uncle! there is something unnatural about 
 the readiness of these people to show us over 
 the house,” was the faintly whispered answer. 
 “What were they talking about just now, out of 
 our hearing? Why did that woman keep her 
 eyes fixed so constantly on me?” 
 
 Before the old man could answer, the house- 
 keeper looked round, and begged, with the sever- 
 est emphasis, that they would be good enough 
 to follow. In less than another minute they 
 were all standing at the foot of the west staircase. 
 
 “Aha!” cried Uncle Joseph, as easy and talk- 
 ative as ever, even in presence of Mr. Munder 
 himself. “A fine big house, and a very good 
 staircase.” 
 
 “We are not accustomed to hear either the 
 house or the staircase spoken of in these terms, 
 sir,” said Mr. Munder, resolving to nip the for- 
 eigner’s familiarity in the bud. “The Guide to 
 West Cornwall, which you would have done well 
 to make yourself acquainted with before you 
 came here, describes Porthgenna Tower as a 
 Mansion, and uses the word Spacious in speaking 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 271 
 
 of the west staircase. I regret to find, sir, that 
 you have not consulted the Guide-book to West 
 Cornwall. ” 
 
 “And why?” rejoined the unabashed German. 
 “What do I want with a book, when I have got 
 you for my guide? Ah, dear sir, but you are 
 not just to yourself! Is not a living guide like 
 you, who talks and walks about, better for me 
 than dead leaves of print and paper? Ah, no, 
 no! I shall not hear another word —I shall not 
 hear you do any more injustice to yourself.” 
 Here Uncle Joseph made another fantastic bow, 
 looked up smiling into the steward’s face, and 
 shook his head several times with an air of 
 friendly reproach. 
 
 Mr. Munder felt paralyzed. He could not 
 have been treated with more ease and indifferent 
 familiarity if this obscure foreign stranger had 
 been an English duke. He had often heard of 
 the climax of audacity; and here it was visibly 
 embodied in one small, elderly individual, who 
 did not rise quite five feet from the ground he 
 stood on ! 
 
 While the steward was swelling with a sense 
 of injury too large for utterance, the housekeeper, 
 followed by Sarah, was slowly ascending the 
 stairs. Uncle Joseph, seeing them go up, hast- 
 ened to join his niece, and Mr Munder, after 
 waiting a little while on the mat to recover him- 
 self, followed the audacious foreigner with the 
 intention of watching his conduct narrowly, and 
 chastising his insolence at the first opportunity 
 with stinging words of rebuke, 
 
272 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 The procession up the stairs thus formed was 
 not, however, closed by the steward; it was fur- 
 ther adorned and completed by Betsey, the serv- 
 ant-maid, who stole out of the kitchen to follow 
 the strange visitors over the house, as closely as 
 she could without attracting the notice of Mrs. 
 Pentreath. Betsey had her share of natural 
 human curiosity and love of change. No such 
 event as the arrival of strangers had ever before 
 enlivened the dreary monotony of Porthgenna 
 Tower within her experience; and she was re- 
 solved not to stay alone in the kitchen while 
 there was a chance of hearing a stray word of 
 the conversation, or catching a chance glimpse 
 of the proceedings among the company upstairs. 
 
 In the meantime, the housekeeper had led the 
 way as far as the first-floor landing, on either 
 side of which the principal rooms in the west 
 front were situated. Sharpened by fear and sus- 
 picion, Sarah’s eyes immediately detected the re- 
 pairs which had been effected in the banisters 
 and stairs of the second flight. 
 
 “You have had workmen in the house?” she 
 said quickly to Mrs. Pentreath. 
 
 “You mean on the stairs?” returned the house- 
 keeper. “Yes, we have had workmen there.” 
 
 “And nowhere else?” 
 
 “No. But they are wanted in other places 
 badly enough. Even here, on the best side of 
 the house, half the bedrooms upstairs are hardly 
 fit to sleep in. They were anything but com- 
 fortable, as I have heard, even in the late Mrs. 
 Treverton’s time; and since she died — ” 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 273 
 
 The housekeeper stopped with a frown and a 
 look of surprise. The lady in the quiet dress, 
 instead of sustaining the reputation for good 
 manners which had been conferred on her in 
 Mrs. Frankland’s letter, was guilty of the un- 
 pardonable discourtesy of turning away from 
 Mrs. Pentreath before she had done speaking. 
 Determined not to allow herself to be imperti- 
 nently silenced in that way, she coldly and dis- 
 tinctly repeated her last words: 
 
 “ And since Mrs. Treverton died—” 
 
 She was interrupted for the second time. The 
 strange lady, turning quickly round again, con- 
 fronted her with a very pale face and a very 
 eager look, and asked, in the most abrupt man- 
 ner, an utterly irrelevant question : 
 
 4 4 Tell me about that ghost story,” she said, 
 “Do they say it is the ghost of a man or of a 
 woman?” 
 
 “I was speaking of the late Mrs. Treverton,” 
 said the housekeeper, in her severest tones of re- 
 proof, “and not of the ghost story about the north 
 rooms. You would have known that, if you had 
 done me the favor to listen to what I said.” 
 
 “I beg your pardon; I beg your pardon a thou- 
 sand times for seeming inattentive! It struck 
 me just then — or, at least, I wanted to know — -” 
 “If you care to know about anything so ab- 
 surd,” said Mrs. Pentreath, mollified by the evi- 
 dent sincerity of the apology that had been offered 
 to her, “the ghost, according to the story, is the 
 ghost of a woman.” 
 
 The strange lady’s face grew whiter than ever; 
 
274 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 and she turned away once more to the open win- 
 dow on the landing. 
 
 “How hot it is!” she said, putting her head 
 out into the air. 
 
 “Hot, with a northeast wind!” exclaimed Mrs. 
 Pentreath, in amazement. 
 
 Here Uncle J\ seph came forward with a polite 
 request to know when they were going to look 
 over the rooms. For the last few minutes he 
 had been asking all sorls of questions of Mr. 
 Munder; and, having received no answers which 
 were not of the shortest and most ungracious kind, 
 had given up talking to the steward in despair. 
 
 Mrs. Pentreath prepared to lead the way into 
 the breakfast-room, library, and drawing-room. 
 All three communicated with each other, and 
 each room had a second door opening on a long 
 passage, the entrance to which was on the right- 
 hand side of the first-floor landing. Before lead- 
 ing the way into these rooms, the housekeeper 
 touched Sarah on the shoulder to intimate that 
 it was time to be moving ou. 
 
 “As for the ghost story,” resumed Mrs. Pen- 
 treath, while she opened the breakfast - room 
 door, “you must apply to the ignorant people 
 who believe in it, if you want to hear it all told. 
 Whether the ghost is an old ghost or a new ghost, 
 and why she is supposed to walk, is more than 
 I can tell you.” In spite of the housekeeper’s 
 affectation of indifference toward the popular 
 superstition, she had heard enough of the ghost- 
 story to frighten her, though she would not con- 
 fess it. Inside the house, or outside the house, 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 275 
 
 nobody much less willing to venture into the 
 north rooms alone could in real truth have been 
 fouud than Mrs. Pentreath herself. 
 
 While the housekeeper was drawing up the 
 blinds in the breakfast- parlor, and while Mr. 
 Munder was opening the door that led out of it 
 into the library, Uncle Joseph stole to his niece’s 
 side and spoke a few words of encouragement to 
 her in his quaint, kindly way. 
 
 “ Courage 1” he whispered. “Keep your wits 
 about you, Sarah, and catch your little opportu- 
 nity whenever you can.” 
 
 “My thoughts! My thoughts!” she answered 
 in the same low key. “This house rouses them 
 all against me. Oh, why did I ever venture 
 into it again!” 
 
 “You had better look at the view from the 
 window now,” said Mrs. Pentreath, after she 
 had drawn up the blind. “It is very much 
 admired.” 
 
 While affairs were in this stage of progress 
 on the first floor of the house, Betsey, who had 
 been hitherto stealing up by a stair at a time 
 from the .hall, and listening with all her ears in 
 the intervals of the ascent, finding that no sound 
 of voices now reached her, bethought herself of 
 returning to the kitchen again, and of looking 
 after the housekeeper’s dinner, which was being 
 kept warm by the fire. She descended to the 
 lower regions, wondering what part of the house 
 the strangers would want to see next, and puz- 
 zling her brains to find out some excuse for at- 
 taching herself to the exploring party. 
 
276 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 After the view from the breakfast-room win- 
 dow had been duly contemplated, the library was 
 next entered. In this room, Mrs. Pentreath, 
 having some leisure to look about her, and em- 
 ploying that leisure in observing the conduct of 
 the steward, arrived at the unpleasant conviction 
 that Mr. Munder was by no means to be depended 
 on to assist her in the important business of 
 watching the proceedings of the two strangers. 
 Doubly stimulated to assert his own dignity by 
 the disrespectfully easy manner in which he had 
 been treated by Uncle Joseph, the sole object of 
 Mr. Munder’s ambition seemed to be to divest 
 himself as completely as possible of the char- 
 acter of guide, which the unscrupulous foreigner 
 sought to confer on him. He sauntered heavily 
 about the rooms, with the air of a casual visitor, 
 staring out of window, peeping into books on 
 tables, frowning at himself in the chimney- 
 glasses — looking, in short, anywhere but where 
 he ought to look. The housekeeper, exasperated 
 by this affectation of indifference, whispered to 
 him irritably to keep his eye on the foreigner, 
 as it was quite as much as she could do to look 
 after the lady in the quiet dress. 
 
 “Very good; very good,” said Mr. Munder, 
 with sulky carelessness. “And where are you 
 going to next, ma’am, after we have been into 
 the drawing-room? Back again, through the 
 library, into the breakfast-room? or out at once 
 into the passage? Be good enough to settle 
 which, as you seem to be in the way of settling 
 everything.” 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 277 
 
 “Into the passage, to be sure,” answered Mrs. 
 Pentreath, “to show the next three rooms beyond 
 these.” 
 
 Mr. Munder sauntered out of the library, 
 through the doorway of communication, into 
 the drawing-room, unlocked the door leading 
 into the passage — then, to the great disgust of 
 the housekeeper, strolled to the fireplace and 
 looked at himself in the glass over it, just as 
 attentively as he had looked at himself in the 
 library mirror hardly a minute before. 
 
 “This is the west drawing-room,” said Mrs. 
 Pentreath, calling to the visitors. “The carving 
 of the stone chimney-piece,” she added, with the 
 mischievous intention of bringing them into the 
 closest proximity to the steward, “is considered 
 the finest thing in the whole apartment.” 
 
 Driven from the looking-glass by this maneu- 
 ver, Mr. Munder provokingly sauntered to the 
 window and looked out. Sarah, still pale and 
 silent— but with a certain unwonted resolution 
 just gathering, as it were, in the lines about her 
 lips — stopped thoughtfully by the chimney-piece 
 when the housekeeper pointed it out to her. Uncle 
 Joseph, looking all round the room in his discur- 
 sive manner, spied, in the furthest corner of it 
 from the door that led into the passage, a beauti- 
 ful maple- wood table and cabinet of a very pecul- 
 iar pattern. His workmanlike enthusiasm was 
 instantly aroused, and he darted across the room 
 to examine the make of the cabinet closely. The 
 table beneath projected a little way in front of 
 it, and, of all the objects in the world, what 
 
278 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 should he see reposing on the flat space cf the 
 projection but a magnificent musical box at least 
 three times the size of his own! 
 
 “Aie! Ai e ! ! Aie!!!” cried Uncle Joseph, in 
 an ascending scale cf admiration, which ended 
 at the very top of his voice. 4 ‘Open him! set 
 him going! let me hear what he plays!” He 
 stopped for want of words to express bis impa- 
 tience, and drummed with both hands on the lid 
 of the musical box in a burst of uncontrollable 
 enthusiasm. 
 
 “Mr. Munder!” exclaimed the housekeeper, 
 hurrying across the room in great indignation. 
 “Why don’t you look? why don’t you stop him? 
 He’s breaking open the musical box. Be quiet, 
 sir! How dare you touch me?” 
 
 “Set him going! set him going!” reiterated 
 Uncle Joseph, dropping Mrs. Fentreath’s arm, 
 which he had seized in his agitation. “Look 
 here ! this by my side is a music box, too ! Set 
 him going! Does he play Mozart? He is three 
 times bigger than ever I saw! See! see! this 
 box of mine — this tiny bit of box that looks noth- 
 ing by the side of yours — it was given to my own 
 brother by the king of all music-composers that 
 ever lived, by the divine Mozart himself. Set 
 the big box going, and you shall hear the little 
 baby-box pipe after ! Ah, dear and good madam, 
 if you love me — ” 
 
 “Sir!!!” exclaimed the housekeeper, redden- 
 ing with virtuous indignation to the very roots 
 of her hair. 
 
 “What do you mean, sir, by addressing such 
 
THE HEAD SECRET. 
 
 279 
 
 outrageous language as that to a respectable 
 female?” inquired Mr. Munder, approaching to 
 the rescue. “Do you think we want your for- 
 eign noises, and your foreign morals, and your 
 foreign profanity here? Yes, sir! profanity. 
 Any man who calls any human individual, 
 whether musical or otherwise, ‘divine/ is a pro- 
 fane man. Who are you, you extremely auda- 
 cious person? Are you an infidel?” 
 
 Before Uncle Joseph could say a word in vin- 
 dication of his principles, before Mr. Munder 
 could relieve himself of any more indignation, 
 they were both startled into momentary silence 
 by an exclamation of alarm from the housekeeper. 
 
 “Where is she?” cried Mrs. Pentreath, stand- 
 ing in the middle of the drawing-room, and look- 
 ing with bewildered eyes all around her. 
 
 The lady in the quiet dress had vanished. 
 
 She was not in the library, not in the break- 
 fast-room, not in the passage outside. After 
 searching in those three places, the housekeeper 
 came back to Mr. Munder with a look of down- 
 right terror in her face, and stood staring at him 
 for a moment perfectly helpless and perfectly si- 
 lent. As soon as she recovered herself she turned 
 fiercely on Uncle Joseph. 
 
 “Where is she? I insist on knowing what 
 has become of her! You cunning, wicked, im- 
 pudent old man! where is* she?” cried Mrs. 
 Pentreath, with no color in her cheeks and no 
 mercy in her eyes. 
 
 “1 suppose she is looking about the house by 
 herself,” said Uncle Joseph. “We shall find 
 
280 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 her surely as we take our walks through the 
 other rooms.” Simple as he was, the old man 
 had, nevertheless, acuteness enough to perceive 
 that he had accidentally rendered the very service 
 to his niece of which she stood in need. If he 
 had been the most artful of mankind, he could 
 have devised no better means of diverting Mrs. 
 Pentreath’s attention from Sarah to himself than 
 the very means which he had just used in per- 
 fect innocence, at the very moment when his 
 thoughts were furthest away from the real ob- 
 ject with which he and his niece had entered 
 the house. “So! so!” thought Uncle Joseph to 
 himself, “while these two angry people were 
 scolding me for nothing, Sarah has slipped away 
 to the room where the letter is. Good ! I have 
 only to wait till she comes back, and to let the 
 two angry people go on scolding me as long as 
 they please.” 
 
 “What are we to do? Mr. Munder! what on 
 earth are we to do?” asked the housekeeper. 
 “We can’t waste the precious minutes staring 
 at each other here. This woman must be found. 
 Stop! she asked questions about the stairs — she 
 looked up at the second floor the moment we got 
 on the landing. Mr. Munder! wait here, and 
 don’t let that foreigner out of your sight for a 
 moment. Wait here while I run up and look 
 into the second-floor passage. All the bedroom 
 doors are locked — 1 defy her to hide herself if 
 she has gone up there.” With those words, the 
 housekeeper ran out of the drawing-room, and 
 breathlessly ascended the second flight of stairs. 
 
THE BEAD SECRET. 
 
 281 
 
 While Mrs. Pentreath was searching on the 
 west side of the house Sarah was hurrying, at 
 the top of her speed, along the lonely passages 
 that led to the north rooms. 
 
 Terrified into decisive action by the desperate 
 nature of the situation, she had slipped out of 
 the drawing-room into the passage the instant 
 she saw Mrs. Pentreath's back turned on her. 
 Without stopping to think, without attempting 
 to compose herself, she ran down the stairs of 
 the first floor, and made straight for the house- 
 keeper’s room. She had no excuses ready, if 
 she had found anybody there, or if she had met 
 anybody on the way. She had formed no plan 
 where to seek for them next, if the keys of the 
 north rooms were not hanging in the place where 
 she still expected to find them. Her mind was 
 lost in confusion, her temples throbbed as if they 
 would burst with the heat at her brain. The 
 one blind, wild, headlong purpose of getting into 
 the Myrtle Room drove her on, gave unnatural 
 swiftness to her trembling feet, unnatural strength 
 to her shaking hands, unnatural courage to her 
 sinking heart. 
 
 She ran into the housekeeper’s room, without 
 even the ordinary caution of waiting for a mo- 
 ment to listen outside the door. No one was 
 there. One glance at the well-remembered nail 
 in the wall showed her the keys still hanging 
 to it in a bunch, as they had hung in the long- 
 past time. She had them in her possession in a 
 moment; aud was away again, along the soli- 
 tary passages that led to the north rooms, thread- 
 
282 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 ing their turnings and windings as if she had left 
 them but the day before; never pausing to listen 
 or to look behind her, never slackening her speed 
 till she was at the top of the back staircase, and 
 had her hand on the locked door that led into the 
 north hall. 
 
 As she turned over the bunch to find the first 
 key that was required, she discovered — what her 
 hurry had hitherto prevented her from noticing 
 — the numbered labels which the builder had 
 methodically attached to all the keys when he 
 had been sent to Porthgenna by Mr. Frankland 
 to survey the house. At the first sight of them, 
 her searching hands paused in their work instan- 
 taneously, and she shivered all over, as if a sud- 
 den chill had struck her. 
 
 If she had been less violently agitated, the 
 discovery of the new labels and the suspicions 
 to which the sight of them instantly gave rise 
 would, in all probability, have checked her further 
 progress. But the confusion of her mind was 
 now too great to allow her to piece together even 
 the veriest fragments of thoughts. Vaguely con- 
 scious of a new terror, of a sharpened distrust 
 that doubled and trebled the headlong impatience 
 which had driven her on thus far, she desperately 
 resumed her search through the bunch of keys. 
 
 One of them had no label; it was larger than 
 the rest — it was the key that fitted the door of 
 communication before which she stood. She 
 turned it in the rusty lock with a strength 
 which, at any other time, she would have been 
 utterly incapable of exerting; she opened the 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 283 
 
 door with a blow of her hand, which burst it 
 away at one stroke from the jambs to which it 
 stuck. Panting for breath, she flew across the 
 forsaken north hall, without stopping for one 
 second to push the door to behind her. The creep- 
 ing creatures, the noisome house- reptiles that 
 possessed the place, crawled away, shadow-like, 
 on either side of her toward the walls. She never 
 noticed them, never turned away for them. Across 
 the hall, and up the stairs at the end of it, she 
 ran, till she gained the open landing at the top 
 — and there she suddenly checked herself in front 
 of the first door. 
 
 The first door of the long range of rooms that 
 opened on the landing; the door that fronted the 
 topmost of the flight of stairs, She stopped; she 
 looked at it — it was not the door she had come 
 to open; and yet she could not tear herself away 
 from it. Scrawled on the panel in white chalk 
 was the figure — “I.” And when she looked 
 down at the bunch of keys in her hands, there 
 was the figure “I.” on a label, answering to it. 
 
 She tried to think, to follow out any one of all 
 the thronging suspicions that beset her to the 
 conclusion at which it might point. The effort 
 was useless; her mind was gone; her bodily 
 senses of seeing and hearing — senses which had 
 now become painfully and incomprehensibly 
 sharpened— seemed to be the sole relics of in- 
 telligence that she had left to guide her. She 
 put her hand over her eyes, and waited a little 
 so, and then went on slowly along the landing, 
 looking at the doors. 
 
284 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 No. “II.,” No. “III.,” No. “IV.,” traced on 
 the panels in the same white chalk, and answer- 
 ing to the numbered labels on the keys, the fig- 
 ures on which were written in ink. No. “IV.” 
 the middle room of the first floor range of 
 eight. She stopped there again, trembling from 
 head to foot. It was the door of the Myrtle 
 Room. 
 
 Did the chalked numbers stop there? She 
 looked on down the landing. No. The four 
 doors remaining were regularly numbered on 
 to “VIII.” 
 
 She came back again to the door of the Myrtle 
 Room, sought out the key labeled with the fig- 
 ure “IV.” — hesitated— and looked back distrust- 
 fully over the deserted hall. 
 
 The canvases of the old family pictures, which 
 she had seen bulging out of their frames in the 
 past time when she hid the letter, had, for the 
 most part, rotted away from them now, and lay 
 in great black ragged strips on the floor of the 
 hall. Islands and continents of damp spread 
 like the map of some strange region over the 
 lofty vaulted ceiling. Cobwebs, heavy with 
 dust, hung down in festoons from broken cor- 
 nices. Dirt stains lay on the stone pavement, 
 like gross reflections of the damp stains on the 
 ceiling. The broad flight of stairs leading up 
 to the open landing before the rooms of the first 
 floor had sunk down bodily toward one side. The 
 banisters which protected the outer edge of the 
 landing were broken away into ragged gaps. 
 The light of day was stained, the air of heaven 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 285 
 
 was stilled, the sounds of earth were silenced in 
 the north hall. 
 
 Silenced? Were all sounds silenced? Or was 
 there something stirring that just touched the 
 sense of hearing, that just deepened the dismal 
 stillness, and no more? 
 
 Sarah listened, keeping her face still set to- 
 ward the hall — listened, and heard a faint sound 
 behind her. Was it outside the door on which 
 her back was turned? Or was it inside — in the 
 Myrtle Room. 
 
 Inside. With the first conviction of that, all 
 thought, all sensation left her. She forgot the 
 suspicious numbering of the doors; she became 
 insensible to the lapse of time, unconscious of 
 the risk of discovery. All exercise of her other 
 faculties was now merged in the exercise of the 
 one faculty of listening. 
 
 It was a still, faint, stealthily rustling sound ; 
 and it moved to and fro at intervals, to and fro 
 softly, now at one end, now at the other of the 
 Myrtle Room. There were moments when it 
 grew suddenly distinct — * other moments when 
 it died away in gradations too light to fellow. 
 Sometimes it seemed to sweep over 1 he floor at a 
 bound — sometimes it crept with slow, continu- 
 ous rustlings that just wavered on the verge of 
 absolute silence. 
 
 Her feet still rooted to the spot on which she 
 stood, Sarah turned her head slowly, inch by 
 inch, toward the door of the Myrtle Room. A 
 moment before, while she was as yet unconscious 
 of the faint sound moving to and fro within it, 
 
286 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 she had been drawing her breath heavily and 
 quickly. She might have been dead now, her 
 bosom was so still, her breathing so noiseless. 
 The same mysterious change came over her face 
 which had altered it when the darkness began 
 to gather in the little parlor at Truro. The same 
 fearful look of inquiry which she had then fixed 
 on the vacant corner of the room was in her eyes 
 now, as they slowly turned on the door. 
 
 “Mistress!” she whispered. “Am I- too late? 
 Are you there before me?” 
 
 The stealthily rustling sound inside paused — 
 renewed itself — died away again faintly; away 
 at the lower end of the room. 
 
 Her eyes still remained fixed on the Myrtle 
 Room, strained, and opened wider and wider — 
 opened as if they would look through the very 
 door itself — opened as if they were watching for 
 the opaque wood to turn transparent and show 
 what was behind it. 
 
 “Over the lonesome floor, over the lonesome 
 floor — how light it moves!” she whispered again. 
 “Mistress! does the black dress I made for you 
 rustle no louder than that?” 
 
 The sound stopped again — then suddenly ad- 
 vanced at one stealthy sweep close to the inside 
 of the door. 
 
 If she could have moved at that moment; if 
 she could have looked down to the line of open 
 space between the bottom of the door and the 
 flooring below, when the faintly rustling sound 
 came nearest to her, she might have seen the 
 insignificant cause that produced it lying self- 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 287 
 
 betrayed under the door, partly outside, partly 
 inside, in the shape of a fragment of faded red 
 paper from the wall of the Myrtle Room. Time 
 and damp had loosened the paper all round the 
 apartment. Two or three yards of it had been 
 torn off by the builder while he was examining 
 the walls— sometimes in large pieces, sometimes 
 in small pieces, just as it happened to come away 
 — and had been thrown down by him on the bare, 
 boarded floor, to become the sport of the wind, 
 whenever it happened to blow through the bro- 
 ken panes of glass in the window. If she had 
 only moved! If she had only looked down for 
 one little second of time! 
 
 She was past moving and past looking: the 
 paroxysm of superstitious horror that possessed 
 her held her still in every limb and every feature. 
 She never started, she uttered no cry, when the 
 rustling noise came nearest. The one outward 
 sign which showed how the terror of its approach 
 shook her to the very soul expressed itself only in 
 the changed action of her right hand, in which 
 she still held the keys. At the instant when the 
 wind wafted the fragment of paper closest to the 
 door, her fingers lost their power of contraction, 
 and became as nerveless and helpless as if she 
 had fainted. The heavy bunch of keys slipped 
 from her suddenly loosened grasp, dropped at 
 her side cn the outer edge of the landing, rolled 
 off through a gap in the broken banister, and fell on 
 the stone pavement below, with a crash which made 
 the sleeping echoes shriek again, as if they were 
 sentient beings writhing under the torture of sound. 
 
288 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 The crash of the falling keys, ringing and 
 ringing again through the stillness, woke her, as 
 it were, to instant consciousness of present events 
 and present perils. She started, staggered back- 
 ward, and raised both her hands wildly to her 
 head — paused so for a few seconds — then made 
 for the top of the stairs with the purpose of de- 
 scending into the hall to recover the keys. 
 
 Before she had advanced three paces the shrill 
 sound of a woman’s scream came from the door 
 of communication at the opposite end of the hall. 
 The scream was twice repeated at a greater dis- 
 tance off, and was followed by a confused noise 
 of rapidly advancing voices and footsteps. 
 
 She staggered desperately a few paces further, 
 and reached the first of the row of doors that 
 opened on the landing. There nature sank ex- 
 hausted; her knees gave way under her— her 
 breath, her sight, her hearing all seemed to fail 
 her together at the same instant — and she dropped 
 down senseless on the floor at the head of the 
 stairs. 
 
 CHAPTER IY. 
 
 MR. MUNDER ON THE SEAT OF JUDGMENT. 
 
 The murmuring voices and the hurrying foot 
 steps came nearer and nearer, then stopped alto- 
 gether. After an interval of silence, one voice 
 called out loudly, “Sarah! Sarah! where are 
 you?” and the next instant Uncle Joseph ap- 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 289 
 
 peared alone in the doorway that led into the 
 north hall, looking eagerly all round him. 
 
 At first the prostrate figure on the landing at 
 the head of the stairs escaped his view. But the 
 second time he looked in that direction the dark 
 dress, and the arm that lay just over the edge of 
 the top stair, caught his eye. With a loud cry 
 of terror and recognition, he flew across the hall 
 and ascended the stairs. Just as he was kneel- 
 ing by Sarah’s side, and raising her head on his 
 arm, the steward, the housekeeper, and the maid, 
 all three crowded together after him into the 
 doorway. 
 
 “Water!” shouted the old man, gesticulating 
 at them wildly with his disengaged hand. “She 
 is here — she has fallen down — she is in a faint ! 
 Water! water!” 
 
 Mr. Munder looked at Mrs. Pentreath, Mrs. 
 Pentreath looked at Betsey, Betsey looked at the 
 ground. All three stood stock-still; all three 
 seemed equally incapable of walking across the 
 ball. If the science of physiognomy be not an 
 entire delusion, the cause of this amazing una- 
 nimity was legibly written in their faces; in 
 other words, they all three looked equally afraid 
 of the ghost. 
 
 “Water, I say! Water!” reiterated Uncle 
 Joseph, shaking his fist at them. “She is in 
 a faint! Are you three at the door there, and 
 not one heart of mercy among you? Water! 
 water! water! Must I scream myself into fits 
 before I can make you hear?” 
 
 “I’ll get the water, ma’am,” said Betsey, “if 
 J — Vol. 16 
 
290 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 you or Mr. Munder will please to take it from 
 here to the top of the stairs.” 
 
 She ran to the kitchen, and came back with a 
 glass of water, which she offered, with a respect- 
 ful courtesy, first to the housekeeper, and then to 
 the steward. 
 
 “How dare you ask us to carry things for 
 you?” said Mrs. Pentreath, backing out of the 
 doorway. 
 
 4 ‘Yes! how dare you ask us?” added Mr. 
 Munder, backing after Mrs. Pentreath. 
 
 “Water!” shouted the old man for the third 
 time. He drew his niece backward a little, so 
 that she could be supported against the wall be- 
 hind her. 44 Water! or I trample down this dun- 
 geon of a place about your ears!” he shouted, 
 stamping with impatience and rage. 
 
 44 If you please, sir, are you sure it’s really the 
 lady who is up there?” asked Betsey, advancing 
 a few paces tremulously with the glass of water. 
 
 44 Am I sure?” exclaimed Uncle Joseph, de- 
 scending the stairs to meet her. 44 What fool’s 
 question is this? Who should it be?” 
 
 “The ghost, sir,” said Betsey, advancing more 
 and more slowly. “The ghost of the north 
 rooms,” 
 
 Uncle Joseph met her a few yards in advance 
 of the foot of the stairs, took the glass of water 
 frrm her with a gesture of contempt, and has- 
 tened back to his niece. As Betsey turned to 
 effect her retreat, the bunch of keys lying on the 
 pavement below the landing caught her eye. 
 After a little hesitation she mustered courage 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 291 
 
 enough to pick them lip, and then ran with them 
 out of the hall as fast as her feet could carry her. 
 
 Meanwhile Uncle Joseph was moistening his 
 niece’s lips with the water, and sprinkling it 
 over her forehead. After a while her breath 
 began to come and go slowly, in faint sighs, the 
 muscles of her face moved a little, and she feebly 
 opened her eyes. They fixed affrightedly on the 
 old man, without any expression of recognition. 
 He made her drink a little water, and spoke to 
 her gently, and so brought her back at last to 
 herself. Her first words were, “Don’t leave 
 me.” Her first action, when she was able to 
 move, was the action of crouching closer to him. 
 
 “ No fear, my child,” he said, soothingly; “I 
 will keep by you. Tell me, Sarah, what has 
 made you faint? What has frightened you so?” 
 
 “Oh, don’t- ask me! For God’s sake, don’t 
 ask me!” 
 
 “There, there! I shall say nothing, then. 
 Another mouthful of water? A little mouth- 
 ful more?” 
 
 “Help me up, uncle; help me to try if I can 
 stand.” 
 
 “Not yet — not quite yet; patience for a little 
 longer.” 
 
 “Oh, help me! help me! 1 want to get away 
 from the sight of those doors. If I can only go 
 as far as the bottom of the stairs I shall be 
 better.” 
 
 “So, so,” said Uncle Joseph, assisting her to 
 rise. “Wait now, and feel your feet on the 
 ground. Lean on me, lean hard, lean heavy. 
 
292 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 Though I am only a light and a little man, I am 
 solid as a rock. Have you been into the room?” 
 he added, in a whisper. “Have you got the 
 letter?” 
 
 She sighed bitterly, and laid her head on his 
 shoulder with a weary despair. 
 
 “ Why, Sarah! Sarah!” heexclaimed. “Have 
 you been all this time away and not got into the 
 room yet?” 
 
 She raised her head as suddenly as she had 
 laid it down, shuddered, and tried feebly to draw 
 him toward the stairs. “I shall never see the 
 Myrtle Room again — never, never, never more!” 
 she said. “Let us go; I can walk; I am strong 
 now. Uncle Joseph, if you love me, take me 
 away from this house; away anywhere, so long 
 as we are in the free air and the daylight again; 
 anywhere, so long as we are out of sight of 
 Porthgenna Tower.” 
 
 Elevating his eyebrows in astonishment, but 
 considerately refraining from asking any more 
 questions, Uncle Joseph assisted his niece to de- 
 scend the stairs. She was still so weak that she 
 was obliged to pause on gaining the bottom of 
 them to recover her strength. Seeing this, and 
 feeling, as he led her afterward across the hall, 
 that she leaned more and more heavily on his 
 arm at every fresh step, the old man, on arriving 
 within speaking distance of Mr. Munder and 
 Mrs. Pentreath, asked the housekeeper if she 
 possessed any restorative drops which she would 
 allow him to administer to his niece. 
 
 Mrs. Pentreath’s reply in the affirmative, 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 293 
 
 though not very graciously spoken, was accom- 
 panied by an alacrity of action which showed 
 that she was heartily rejoiced to take the first 
 fair excuse for returning to the inhabited quarter 
 of the house. Muttering something about show- 
 ing the way to the place where the medicine- 
 chest was kept, she immediately retraced her 
 steps along the passage to her own room; while 
 Uncle Joseph, disregarding all Sarah’s whis- 
 pered assurances that she was well enough to 
 depart without another moment of delay, fol- 
 lowed her silently, leading his niece. 
 
 Mr. Munder, shaking his head, and looking 
 wofully disconcerted, waited behind to lock the 
 door of communication. When he had done 
 this, and had given the keys to Betsey to carry 
 back to their appointed place, he,, in his turn, 
 retired from the scene at a pace indecorously ap- 
 proaching to something like a run. On getting 
 well away from the north hall, however, he re- 
 gained his self-possession wonderfully. He ab- 
 ruptly slackened his pace, collected his scattered 
 wits, and reflected a little, apparently with per- 
 fect satisfaction to himself; for when he entered 
 the housekeeper’s room he had quite recovered his 
 usual complacent solemnity of look and manner. 
 Like the vast majority of densely stupid men, 
 he felt intense pleasure in hearing himself talk, 
 and he now discerned such an opportunity of in- 
 dulging in that luxury, after the events that had 
 just happened in the house, as he seldom en- 
 joyed. There is only one kind of speaker who 
 is quite certain never to break down under any 
 
294 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 stress of circumstances — the man whose capabil- 
 ity of talking does ’not include any dangerous 
 underlying capacity for knowing what he means. 
 Among this favored order of natural orators, 
 Mr. Munder occupied a prominent rank — and he 
 was now vindictively resolved to exercise his 
 abilities on the two strangers, under pretense of 
 asking for an explanation of their conduct, be- 
 fore he could suffer them to quit the house. 
 
 On entering the room, he found TJncle Joseph 
 seated with his niece at the lower end of it, en- 
 gaged in dropping some sal volatile into a glass 
 of water. At the upper end stood the house- 
 keeper with an open medicine-chest on the table 
 before her. To this part of the room. Mr. Mun- 
 der slowly advanced, with a portentous counte- 
 nance; drew. an arm-chair up to the table; sat 
 himself down in it, with extreme deliberation 
 and care in the matter of settling his coat-tails; 
 and immediately became, to all outward appear- 
 ance, the model of a Lord Chief Justice in plain 
 clothes. 
 
 Mrs. Pentreath, conscious from these prepara- 
 tions that something extraordinary was about to 
 happen, seated herself a little behind the stew- 
 ard. Betsey restored the keys to their place on 
 the nail in the wall, and was about to retiro 
 modestly to her proper kitchen sphere, when she 
 was stopped by Mr. Munder. 
 
 “Wait, if you please,” said the steward; “I 
 shall have occasion to call on you presently, 
 young woman, to make a plain statement.” 
 
 Obedient Betsey waited near the door, terrified 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 295 
 
 by the idea that she must have done something 
 wrong, and that the steward was armed with in- 
 scrutable legal power to try, sentence, and pun- 
 ish her for the offense on the spot. 
 
 “Now, sir,” said Mr. Munder, addressing 
 Uncle Joseph as if he was the Speaker of the 
 House of Commons, “if you have done with 
 that sal volatile, and if the person by your side 
 has sufficiently recovered her senses to listen, I 
 should wish to say a word or two to both of 
 you.” 
 
 At this exordium, Sarah tried affrightedly to 
 rise from her chair; but her uncle caught her by 
 the hand, and pressed her back in it. 
 
 “Wait and rest,” he whispered. “I shall take 
 all the scolding on my own shoulder, and do all 
 the talking with my own t ngue. As soon as 
 you are fit to walk again, I promise you this: 
 whether the big man has said his word or two, 
 or has not said it, we will quietly get up and go 
 our ways out of the house.” 
 
 “Up to the present moment,” said Mr. Mun- 
 der, “I have refrained from expressing an opin- 
 ion. The time has now come when, holding a 
 position of trust as I do in this establishment, 
 and being accountable, and indeed responsible, 
 as I am, for what takes place in it, and feeling, 
 as I must, that things cannot be allowed or even 
 permitted to rest as they are— it is my duty to 
 say that I think your conduct is very extraordi- 
 nary.” Directing this forcible conclusi n to his 
 sentence straight at Sarah, Mr. Munder leaned 
 back in his chair, quite full of words, and quite 
 
296 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 empty of meaning, to collect himself comfortably 
 for his next effort. 
 
 “My only desire,” he resumed, with a plaintive 
 impartiality, “is to act fairly by all parties. I 
 don’t wish to frighten anybody, or to startle 
 anybody, or even to terrify anybody. I wish to 
 unravel, or, if you please, to make out, what I 
 may term, with perfect propriety — events. And 
 when I have done that, I should wish to put it to 
 you, ma’am, and to you, sir, whether — I say, I 
 should wish to put it to you both, calmly, and im- 
 partially, and politely, and plainly, and smoothly 
 — and when I say smoothly, I mean quietly — 
 whether you are not both of you bound to ex- 
 plain yourselves.” 
 
 Mr. Munder paused, to let that last irresistible 
 appeal work its way to the consciences of the per- 
 sons whom he addressed. The housekeeper took 
 advantage of the silence to cough, as congrega- 
 tions cough just before the sermon, apparently 
 on the principle of getting rid of bodily infirmi- 
 ties beforehand, in order to give the mind free 
 play for undisturbed intellectual enjoyment. 
 Betsey, following Mrs. Pentreath’s lead, in- 
 dulged in a cough on her own account — of the 
 faint, distrustful sort. Uncle Joseph sat per- 
 fectly easy and undismayed, still holding his 
 niece’s hand in his, and giving it a little squeeze, 
 from time to time, when the steward’s oratory 
 became particularly involved and impressive. 
 Sarah never moved, never looked up, never lost 
 the expression of terrified restraint which had 
 taken possession of her face from the first 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 297 
 
 moment when she entered the housekeeper’s 
 room. 
 
 “Now, what are the facts, and circumstances, 
 and events?” proceeded Mr. Munder, leaning- 
 back in his chair, in calm enjoyment of the 
 sound of his own voice. “You, ma’am, and 
 you, sir, ring at the bell of the door of this 
 Mansion” (here he looked hard at Uncle Joseph, 
 as much as to say, “I don’t give up that point 
 about the house being a Mansion, you see, even 
 on the judgment-seat”)— “you are let in, or, 
 rather, admitted. You, sir, assert that you 
 wish to inspect the Mansion (you say ‘see the 
 house,’ but, being a foreigner, we are not sur- 
 prised at your making a little mistake of that 
 sort); you, ma’am, coincide, and even agree, in 
 that request. What follows? You are shown 
 over the Mansion. It is not usual to show stran- 
 gers over it, but we happen to have certain 
 reasons — ” 
 
 Sarah started. “What reasons?” she asked, 
 looking up quickly. 
 
 Uncle Joseph felt her hand turn cold, and 
 tremble in his. “Hush! hush!” he said, “leave 
 the talking to me.” 
 
 At the same moment, Mrs. Pentreath pulled 
 Mr. Munder warily by the coat-tail, and whis- 
 pered to him to be careful. “Mrs. Frankland’s 
 letter,” she said in his ear, '‘tells us particularly 
 not to let it be suspected that we are acting under 
 orders.” 
 
 “Don’t you fancy, Mrs. Pentreath, that I for- 
 get what I ought to remember,” rejoined Mr. 
 
298 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 Munder — who had forgotten, nevertheless. “ And 
 don’t you imagine that I was going to commit 
 myself” (the very thing which he had just been 
 on the point of doing). “Leave this business in 
 my hands, if you will be so good. — What reasons 
 did you say, ma’am?” he added aloud, address- 
 ing himself to Sarah. “Never you mind about 
 reasons; we have not got to do with them now; 
 we have got to do with facts, and circumstances, 
 and events. I was observing, or remarking, that 
 you, sir, and you, ma’am, were shown, over this 
 Mansion. You were conducted, and indeed led, 
 up the west staircase — the Spacious west stair- 
 case, sir! You were shown with politeness, and 
 even with courtesy, through the breakfast-room, 
 the library, and the drawing-room. In that 
 drawing-room, you, sir, indulge in outrageous, 
 and, 1 will add, in violent language. In that 
 drawing-room, you, ma’am, disappear, or, rather, 
 go altogether out of sight. Such conduct as this, 
 so highly unparalleled, so entirely unprecedented, 
 and so very unusual, causes Mrs. Pentreath and 
 myself to feel — ” Here Mr. Munder stopped, at 
 a loss for a word for the first time. 
 
 “Astonished,” suggested Mrs. Pentreath after 
 a long interval of silence. 
 
 “No, ma’am!” retorted Mr. Munder. “Noth- 
 ing of the sort. We were not at all astonished; 
 we were — surprised. And what followed and 
 succeeded that: What did you and I hear, sir, 
 
 on the first floor?” (looking sternly at Uncle 
 Joseph). “And what did you hear, Mrs. Pen- 
 treath, while you were searching for the miss- 
 
THE HEAD SECRET. 
 
 299 
 
 in g and absent party on the second floor? 
 What?” 
 
 Thus personally appealed to, the housekeeper 
 answered briefly — “A scream.” 
 
 “No! no! no!” said Mr. Munder, fretfully 
 tapping his hand on the table. “A screech, 
 Mrs. Pentreath — a screech. And what is the 
 meaning, purport, and upshot of that screech? — 
 Young woman!” (here Mr. Munder turned sud- 
 denly on Betsey) “we have now traced these ex- 
 traordinary facts and circumstances as far as 
 you. Have the goodness to step forward, and 
 tell us, in the presence of these two parties, how 
 you came to utter, or give, what Mrs. Pentreath 
 calls a scream, but what I call a screech. A 
 plain statement will do, my good girl — quite a 
 plain statement, if you please. And, young 
 woman, one word more — speak up. You un- 
 derstand me? Speak up!” 
 
 Covered with confusion by the public and sol- 
 emn nature of this appeal, Betsey, on starting 
 with her statement, unconsciously followed the 
 oratorical example of no less a person than Mr. 
 Munder himself; that is to say, she spoke on the 
 principle of drowning the smallest possible infu- 
 sion of ideas in the largest possible dilution of 
 words. Extricated from the mesh of verbal en- 
 tanglement in which she contrived to involve it, 
 her statement may be not unfairly represented 
 as simply consisting of the following facts: 
 
 First, Betsey had to relate that she happened 
 to be just taking the lid off a saucepan, on the 
 kitchen fire, when she heard, in the neighbor- 
 
800 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 hood of the housekeeper’s room, a sound of 
 hurried footsteps (vernacularly termed by the 
 witness a “scurrying of somebody’s feet”). 
 Secondly, Betsey, on leaving the kitchen to as- 
 certain what the sound meant, heard the foot- 
 steps retreating rapidly along the passage which 
 led to the north side of the house, and, stimu- 
 lated by curiosity, followed the sound of them for 
 a certain distance. Thirdly, at a sharp turn in 
 the passage, Betsey stopped short, despairing of 
 overtaking the person whose footsteps she heard, 
 and feeling also a sense of dread (termed by the 
 witness, “creeping of the flesh”) at the idea of 
 venturing alone, even in broad daylight, into the 
 ghostly quarter of the house. Fourthly, while 
 still hesitating at the turn in the passage, Betsey 
 heard “the lock of a door go,” and, stimulated 
 afresh by curiosity, advanced a few steps further 
 — then stopped again, debating within herself 
 the difficult and dreadful question, whether it is 
 the usual custom of ghosts, when passing from 
 one place to another, to unlock any closed door 
 which may happen to be in their way, or to save 
 trouble by simply passing through it. Fifthly, 
 after long deliberation, and many false starts — 
 forward toward the north hall and backward 
 toward the kitchen — Betsey decided that it was 
 the immemorial custom of all ghosts to pass 
 through doors, and not unlock them. Sixthly, 
 fortified by this conviction, Betsey went on 
 boldly close to the door, when she suddenly 
 heard a loud report, as of some heavy body fall- 
 ing (graphically termed by the witness a “bang- 
 
THE DEAD SECRET, 
 
 301 
 
 ing scrash”). Seventhly, the noise frightened 
 Betsey out of her wits, brought her heart up 
 into her mouth, and took away her breath. 
 Eightly, and lastly, on recovering breath enough 
 to scream (or screech), Betsey did, with might 
 and main, scream (or screech), running back to- 
 ward the kitchen as fast as her legs would carry 
 her, with all her hair “standing up on end,” and 
 all her flesh “in a crawl” from the crown of her 
 head to the soles of her feet. 
 
 “Just so! just so!” said Mr. Munder, when 
 the statement came to a close — as if the sight of 
 a young woman with all her hair standing on 
 end and all her flesh in a crawl were an ordinary 
 result of his experience of female humanity— 
 “Just so! You may stand back, my good girl 
 — you may stand back. — There is nothing to 
 smile at, sir,” he continued, sternly addressing 
 Uncle Joseph, who had been excessively amused 
 by Betsey’s manner of delivering her evidence. 
 “You would be doing better to carry, or rather 
 transport, your mind back to what followed and 
 succeeded the young woman’s screech. What 
 did we all do, sir? We rushed to the spot, and 
 we ran to the place. And what did we all see, 
 sir? — We saw you , ma’am, lying horizontally 
 prostrate, on the top of the landing of the first of 
 the flight of the north stairs; and we saw those 
 keys, now hanging up yonder, abstracted and 
 purloined, and, as it were, snatched from their 
 place in this room, and lying horizontally pros- 
 trate likewise on the floor of the hall. — There are 
 the facts, the circumstances, and the events, laid, 
 
302 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 
 or rather placed, before you. What have you 
 got to say to them? I call upon you both sol- 
 emnly, and, I will add, seriously ! In my own 
 name, in the name of Mrs. Pentreath, in the 
 name of our employers, in the name of decency, 
 in the name of wonder — what do you mean by 
 it?” 
 
 With that conclusion, Mr. Munder struck his 
 fist on the table, and waited, with a glare of 
 merciless expectation, for anything in the shape 
 of an answer, an explanation, or a defense which 
 the culprits at the bottom of the room might be 
 disposed to offer. 
 
 “Tell him anything,” whispered Sarah to the 
 old man. “Anything to keep him quiet; any- 
 thing to make him let us go! After what I 
 have suffered, these people will drive me mad!” 
 
 Never very quick at inventing an excuse, and 
 perfectly ignorant besides of what had really 
 happened to his niece while she was alone in the 
 north hall, Uncle Joseph, with the best will in 
 the world to prove himself equal to the emer- 
 gency, felt considerable difficulty in deciding 
 what he should say or do. Determined, how- 
 ever, at all hazards, to spare Sarah any useless 
 suffering, and to remove her from the house as 
 speedily as possible, he rose to take the responsi- 
 bility of speaking on himself, looking hard, be- 
 fore he opened his lips, at Mr. Munder, who im- 
 mediately leaned forward on the table with his 
 hand to his ear. Uncle Joseph acknowledged 
 this polite act of attention with one of his fan- 
 tastic bows; and then replied to the whole of the 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 303 
 
 stewards long harangue in these six unanswer- 
 able words : 
 
 “1 wish you good-day, sir!” 
 
 “How dare you wish me anything of the sort!” 
 cried Mr. Muuder, jumping out of his chair in 
 violent indignation. “How dare you trifle with 
 a serious subject and a serious question in that 
 way? Wish me good-day, indeed ! Do you sup- 
 pose I am going to let you out of this house with- 
 out hearing some explanation of the abstracting 
 and purloining and snatching of the keys of the 
 north rooms?” 
 
 “Ah! it is that you want to know?” said 
 Uncle Joseph, stimulated to plunge headlong 
 into an excuse by the increasing agitation and 
 terror of his niece. “See, now! I shall explain. 
 What was it, dear and good sir, that we said 
 w~hen we were first let in? This — 4 We have 
 come to see the house.’ Now there is a north 
 side to the house, and a west side to the house. 
 Good! That is two sides; and I and my niece 
 are two people; and we divide ourselves in two, 
 to see the two sides 1 am the half that goes 
 west, with you and the dear and good lady be- 
 hind there. My niece here is the other half that 
 goes north, all by herself, and drops the keys, and 
 falls into a faint, because in that old part of the 
 house it is what you call musty-fusty, and there 
 is smells of tombs and spiders — and that is all 
 the explanation, and quite enough, too. I wish 
 you good-day, sir.” 
 
 “Damme! if ever I met with the like of you 
 before!” roared Mr. Munder, entirely forgetting 
 
304 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 his dignity, his respectability, and his long 
 words in the exasperation of the moment. 
 “You are going to have it all your own way, 
 are you, Mr. Foreigner? You will walk out of 
 this place when you please, will you, Mr. For- 
 eigner? We will see what the justice of the 
 peace for this district has to say to that,” cried 
 Mr. Munder, recovering his solemn manner and 
 his lofty phraseology. “Property in this house 
 is confided to my care; and unless I hear some 
 satisfactory explanation of the purloining of those 
 keys hanging up there, sir, on that wall, sir, be- 
 fore your eyes, sir— I shall consider it my duty 
 to detain you, and the person with you, until I 
 can get legal advice, and lawful advice, and 
 magisterial advice. Do you hear that, sir?” 
 
 Uncle Joseph’s ruddy cheeks suddenly deep- 
 ened in color, and his face assumed an expression 
 which made the housekeeper rather uneasy, and 
 which had an irresistibly cooling effect on the 
 heat of Mr. Munder’s anger. 
 
 “You will keep us here? You?” said the old 
 man, speaking very quietly, and looking very 
 steadily at the steward. “Now, see. I take this 
 lady (courage, my child, courage ! there is noth- 
 ing to tremble for) —I take this lady with me; I 
 throw that door open, so ! I stand and wait before 
 it; and 1 say to you, ‘Shut that door against us, 
 if you dare.’ ” 
 
 At this defiance, Mr. Munder advanced a few 
 steps, and then stopped. If Uncle Joseph’s 
 steady look at him had wavered for an instant, 
 he would have closed the door. 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 305 
 
 “I say again,” repeated the oldjnan, “shut it 
 against us, if you dare. The laws and customs 
 of your country, sir, have made me an English- 
 man. If you can talk into one ear of a magis- 
 trate, I can talk into the other. If he must 
 listen to you, a citizen of this country, he must 
 listen to me, a citizen of this country also. Say 
 the word, if you please. Do you accuse? or do 
 you threaten? or do you shut the door?” 
 
 Before Mr. Munder could reply to any one of 
 these three direct questions, the housekeeper 
 begged him to return to his chair and to speak 
 to her. As he resumed his place, she whispered 
 to him in warning tones, “Remember Mrs. 
 Frankland’s letter!” 
 
 At the same time, Uncle Joseph, considering 
 that he had waited long enough, took a step for- 
 ward to the door. He was prevented from ad- 
 vancing further by his niece, who caught him 
 suddenly by the arm, and said in his ear, “Look! 
 they are whispering about us again!” 
 
 “Well!” said Mr. Munder, replying to the 
 housekeeper. “1 do remember Mrs. Frankland’s 
 letter, ma’am; and what then?” 
 
 “Hush! not so loud,” whispered Mrs. Pen- 
 treath. “1 don’t presume, Mr. Munder, to differ 
 in opinion with you; but I want to ask one or two 
 questions. Do you think we have any charge 
 that a magistrate would listen to, to bring against 
 these people?” 
 
 Mr. Munder looked puzzled, and seemed, for 
 once in a way, to bo at a loss for an answer. 
 “Does what you remember of Mrs. Frankland’s 
 
306 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS 
 
 letter,” pursued the housekeeper, “incline you to 
 think that she would be pleased at a public ex- 
 posure of what has happened in the house? She 
 tells us to take private notice of that woman’s 
 conduct, and to follow her unperceived when 
 she goes away. I don’t venture on the liberty 
 of advising you, Mr. Munder, but, as far as re- 
 gards myself, 1 wash my hands of all responsi- 
 bility, if we do anything but follow Mrs. Frank- 
 land’s instructions (as she herself tells us) to the 
 letter.” 
 
 Mr. Munder hesitated. Uncle Joseph, who 
 had paused for a minute when Sarah directed his 
 attention to the whispering at the upper end of 
 the room, now drew her on slowly with him to 
 the door. “Betzee, my dear,” he said, address- 
 ing the maid, with perfect coolness and compos- 
 ure, “we are strangers here; will you be so kind 
 to us as to show the way out?” 
 
 Betsey locked at the housekeeper, who mo- 
 tioned to her to appeal for orders to the steward. 
 Mr. Munder was sorely tempted, for the sake of 
 his own importance, to insist on instantly carry- 
 ing out the violent measures to which he had 
 threatened to have recouise; but Mrs. Pentreath’s 
 objections made him pause in spite of himself. 
 
 “Betzee, my dear,” repeated Uncle Joseph, 
 “has all this talking been too much for your 
 ears? has it made you deaf?” 
 
 “Wait!” cried Mr. Munder, impatiently. “I 
 insist on your waiting, sir!” 
 
 “You insist? Well, well, because you are an 
 uncivil man is no reason why I should be an un- 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 307 
 
 civil man too. We will wait a little, sir, if you 
 have anything more to say.” Making that con- 
 cession to the claims of politeness, Uncle Joseph 
 Walked gently backward and forward with his 
 niece in the passage outside the door. 4 4 Sarah, 
 my child, I have frightened the man of the big 
 words,” he whispered. “Try not to tremble so 
 much; we shall soon be out in the fresh air 
 again.” 
 
 In the meantime, Mr. Munder continued his 
 whispered conversation with the housekeeper, 
 making a desperate effort, in the midst of his 
 perplexities, to maintain his customary air of 
 patronage and his customary assumption of su- 
 periority. “There is a great deal of truth, 
 ma’am,” he softly began — “a great deal of 
 truth, certainly, in what you say. But you are 
 talking of the woman, while 1 am talking of the 
 man. Do you mean to tell me that I am to let 
 him go, after what has happened, without at least 
 insisting on his giving me his name and address?” 
 
 “Do you put trust enough in the foreigner to 
 believe that he would give you his right name 
 and address if you asked him?” inquired Mrs. 
 Pentreath. “With submission to your better 
 judgment, I must confess that I don’t. But sup- 
 posing you were to detain him and charge him 
 before the magistrate — and how you are to do 
 that, the magistrate’s house being, I suppose, 
 about a couple of hours’ walk from here, is more 
 than I can tell— you must surely risk offending 
 Mrs. Frankland by detaining the woman and 
 charging the woman as well ; for after all, Mr. 
 
308 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 Munder, though I believe the foreigner to be 
 capable of anything, it was the woman that took 
 the keys, was it not?” 
 
 “Quite so! quite so!” said Mr. Munder, whose 
 sleepy eyes were now opened to this plain and 
 straightforward view of the case for the first time. 
 “I was, oddly enough, putting that point to my- 
 self, Mrs. Pentreath, just before you happened to 
 speak of it. Just so! just so!” 
 
 “I can’t help thinking,” continued the house- 
 keeper, in a mysterious whisper, “that the best 
 plan, and the plan most in accordance with our 
 instructions, is to let them both go, as if we did 
 not care to demean ourselves by any more quar- 
 reling or arguing with them, and to have them 
 followed to the next place they stop at, The 
 gardener’s boy, Jacob, is weeding the broad 
 walk in the west garden this afternoon. These 
 people have not seen him about the premises, and 
 need not see him, if they are let out again by the 
 south door. Jacob is a sharp lad, as you know: 
 and, if he was properly instructed, I really don’t 
 see — ” 
 
 “It is a most singular circumstance, Mrs. 
 Pentreath,” interposed Mr. Munder, with the 
 gravity of consummate assurance; “but when I 
 first sat down to this table, that idea about Jacob 
 occurred to me. What with the effort of speak- 
 ing, and the heat of argument, I got led away 
 from it in the most unaccountable manner — ” 
 
 Here Uncle Joseph, whose stock of patience 
 and politeness was getting exhausted, put his 
 head into the room again. 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 309 
 
 “X shall have one last word to address to you, 
 sir, in a moment,” said Mr. Munder, before the 
 old man could speak. 6 ‘Don’t you suppose that 
 your blustering and your bullying has had any 
 effect on me. It may do with foreigners, sir; but 
 it won’t do with Englishmen, X can tell you.” 
 
 Uncle Joseph shrugged his shoulders, smiled, 
 and rejoined his niece in the passage outside. 
 While the housekeeper and the steward had been 
 conferring together, Sarah had been trying hard 
 to persuade her uncle to profit by her knowledge 
 of the passages that led to the south door, and to 
 slip away unpercieved. But the old man steadily 
 refused to be guided by her advice. “X will not 
 go out of a place guiltily,” he said, “when I 
 have done no harm. Nothing shall persuade me 
 to put myself, or to put you, in the wrong. I 
 am not a man of much wits; but let my con- 
 science guide me, and so long X shall go right. 
 They let us in here, Sarah, of their own accord ; 
 and they shall let us out of their own accord also. ” 
 
 “Mr. Munder! Mr. Munder!” whispered the 
 housekeeper, interfering to stop a fresh explosion 
 of the steward’s indignation, which threatened 
 to break out at the contempt implied by the 
 shrugging of Uncle Joseph’s shoulders, “while 
 you are speaking to that audacious man, shall I 
 slip into the garden and give Jacob his instruc- 
 tions?” 
 
 Mr. Munder paused before answering — tried 
 hard to see a more dignified way out of the di- 
 lemma in which he had placed himself than the 
 way suggested by the housekeeper-failed an- 
 
310 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 tirely to discern anything of the sort — swallowed 
 his indignation at one heroic gulp — and replied 
 emphatically in two words: “Go, ma’am.” 
 
 “What does that mean? what has she gone 
 that way for?” said Sarah to her uncle, in a 
 quick, suspicious whisper, as the housekeeper 
 brushed hastily by them on her way to the west 
 garden. 
 
 Before there was time to answer the question, 
 it was followed by another, put by Mr. Munder. 
 
 “Now, sir!” said the steward, standing in the 
 doorway, with his hands under his coat-tails 
 and his head very high in the air. “Now, sir, 
 and now, ma’am, for my last words. Am 1 to 
 have a proper explanation of the abstracting and 
 purloining of those keys, or am 1 not?” 
 
 “Certainly, sir, you are to have the expla- 
 nation,” replied Uncle Joseph. “It is, if you 
 please, the same explanation that I had the honor 
 of giving to you a little while ago. Do you wish 
 to hear it again? It is all the explanation we 
 have got about us.” 
 
 “Oh! it is, is it?” said Mr. Munder. “Then 
 all 1 have to say to both of you is — leave the 
 house directly! Directly!” he added, in his 
 most coarsely offensive tones, taking refuge in 
 the insolence of authority, from the dim con- 
 sciousness of the absurdity of his own position, 
 which would force itself on him even while he 
 spoke. “Yes, sir!” he continued, growing more 
 and more angry at the composure with which 
 Uncle Joseph listened to him — “Yes, sir! you 
 may bow and scrape, and jabber your broken 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 311 
 
 English somewhere else. I won’t put up with 
 you here. I have reflected with myself, and 
 reasoned with myself, and asked myself calmly 
 — as Englishmen always do — if it is any use 
 making you of importance, and I have come to a 
 conclusion, and that conculsion is — no, it isn’t! 
 Don’t you go away with a notion that your blus- 
 terings and bullyings have had any effect on me. 
 (Show them out, Betsey!) I consider you be- 
 neath — aye, and below! — my notice. Language 
 fails, sir, to express my contempt. Leave the 
 bouse!” 
 
 “And I, sir,” returned the object of all this 
 withering derision, with the most exasperating 
 politeness, “I shall say, for having your con- 
 tempt, what I could by no means have said for 
 having your respect, which is, briefly— thank 
 you. I, the small foreigner, take the contempt 
 of you, the big Englishman, as the greatest com- 
 pliment that can be paid from a man of your 
 composition to a man of mine.” With that, 
 Uncle Joseph made a last fantastic bow, took his 
 niece’s arm and f flowed Betsey along the pass- 
 ages that led to the south door, leaving Mr. Mun- 
 der to compose a fit retort at his leisure. 
 
 Ten minutes later the housekeeper returned 
 breathless to her room, and found the steward 
 walking backward and forward in a high state 
 of irritation. 
 
 “Pray make your mind easy, Mr. Munder,” 
 she said. “They are both clear of the house at 
 last, and Jacob has got them well in view on the 
 path over the moor.” 
 
312 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. . 
 
 CHAPTER Y. 
 
 MOZART PLAYS FAREWELL. 
 
 Excepting that he took leave of Betsey, the 
 servant-maid, with great cordiality, Uncle Jo- 
 seph spoke not another word, after his parting 
 reply to Mr. Munder, until he and his niece were 
 alone again under the east wall of Porthgenna 
 Tower. There he paused, looked up at the house, 
 then at his companion, then back at the house 
 once more, and at last opened his lips to speak. 
 
 “I am sorry, my child,’' he said— -“I am sorry 
 from my heart. This has been what you call in 
 England a bad job.” 
 
 Thinking that he referred to the scene which 
 had just passed in the housekeeper’s room, Sarah 
 asked his pardon for having been the innocent 
 means of bringing him into angry collision with 
 such a person as Mr. Munder, 
 
 “No! no! noP’hecried. “1 was not thinking 
 of the man of the big body and the big words. 
 He made me angry, it is not to be denied; but 
 that is all over and gone now. I put him and 
 his big words away from mo, as 1 kick this stone, 
 here, from the pathway into the road. It is not 
 of your Munders, or your housekeepers, or your 
 Betzees, that 1 now speak —it is of something 
 that is nearer to you and nearer to me also, be- 
 cause I make of your interest my own interest 
 too. I shall tell you what it is while we walk 
 
THE BEAD SECRET. 
 
 313 
 
 on— for I see in your face, Sarah, that you are 
 restless and in fear so long as we stop in the neigh- 
 borhood of this dungeon-house. Come! I am 
 ready for the march. There is the path. Let 
 us go back by it, and pick up our little bag- 
 gages at the inn where we left them, on the 
 other side of this windy wilderness of a place.” 
 
 “Yes, yes, uncle! Let us lose no time; let us 
 walk fast. Don’t be afraid of tiring me; I am 
 much stronger now.” 
 
 They turned into the same path by which they 
 had approached Porthgenna Tower in the after- 
 noon. By the time they had walked over a little 
 more than the first hundred yards of their jour- 
 ney, Jacob, the gardener’s boy, stole out from 
 behind the ruinous inclosure at the north side of 
 the house with his hoe in his hand. The sun 
 had just set, but there was a fine light still over 
 the wide, open surface of the moor; and Jacob 
 paused to let the old man and his niece get fur- 
 ther away from the building before he followed 
 them. The housekeeper’s instructions had di- 
 rected him just to keep them in sight, and no 
 more ; and, if he happened to observe that they 
 stopped and turned round to look behind them, 
 he was to stop, too, and pretend to be digging 
 with his hoe, as if he was at work on the moor- 
 land. Stimulated by the promise of a sixpence, if 
 he was careful to do exactly as he had been told, 
 Jacob kept his instructions in his memory, and 
 kept his eye on the two strangers, and promised 
 as fairly to earn the reward in prospect for him 
 as a boy could. 
 
314 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 “ And now, my child, I shall tell you what it is 
 I am sorry for,” resumed Uncle Joseph, as they 
 proceeded along the path. “X am sorry that we 
 have come out upon this journey, and run our 
 little risk, and had our little scolding, and gained 
 nothing. The word you said in my ear, Sarah, 
 when I was getting you out of the faint (and you 
 should have come out of it sooner, if the muddle- 
 headed people of the dungeon-house had been 
 quicker with the water) — the word you said in 
 my ear was not much, but it was enough to tell 
 me that we have taken this journey in vain. I 
 may hold my tongue, I may make my best face 
 at it, 1 may be content to walk blindfolded with 
 a mystery that lets no peep of daylight into 
 my eyes— but it is not the less true that the one 
 thing your heart was most set on doing, when we 
 started on this journey, is the one thing also that 
 you have not done. 1 know that, if I know noth- 
 ing else; and I say again, it is a bad job — yes, 
 yes, upon my life and faith, there is no disguise 
 to put upon it; it is, in your plainest English, a 
 very bad job.” 
 
 As he concluded the expression of his sympathy 
 in these quaint terms, the dread and distrust, the 
 watchful terror, that marred the natural softness 
 of Sarah’s eyes, disappeared in an expression of 
 sorrowful tenderness, which seemed to give back 
 to them all their beauty. 
 
 “Don’t be sorry forme, uncle,” she said, stop- 
 ping, and gently brushing away with her hand 
 some specks of dust that lay on the collar of his 
 coat. “I have suffered so much and suffered 
 
THE HEAD SECRET. 
 
 315 
 
 so long, that the heaviest disappointments pass 
 lightly over me now.” 
 
 “I won’t hear you say it !” cried Uncle Joseph. 
 “You give me shocks 1 can’t bear when you talk 
 to me in this way. You shall have no more disap- 
 pointments — no, you shall not! I, Joseph Busch- 
 mann, the Obstinate, the Pig-headed, I say 
 it !” 
 
 “The day when 1 shall have no more disappoint- 
 ments, uncle, is not far off now. Let me wait a 
 little longer, and endure a little longer: I have 
 learned to be patient, and to hope for nothing. 
 Fearing and failing, fearing and failing — that 
 has been my life erer since 1 was a young wo- 
 man — the life I have become used to by this 
 time. If you are surprised, as 1 know you must 
 be, at my not possessing myself of the letter, 
 when I had the keys of the Myrtle Boom in my 
 hand, and when no one was near to stop me, re- 
 member the history of my life, and take that as 
 an explanation. Fearing and failing, fearing 
 and failing — if I told you all the truth, I could 
 tell no more than that. Let us walk on, uncle.” 
 
 The resignation in her voice and manner while 
 she spoke was the resignation of despair. It 
 gave her an unnatural self-possession, which 
 altered her, in the eyes of Uncle Joseph, almost 
 past recognition. He looked at her in undis- 
 guised alarm. 
 
 “No!” he said, <c we will not walk on; we will 
 walk back to the dungeon-house; we will make 
 another plan; we will try to get at this devil's 
 imp of a letter in some other way. I care for no 
 
316 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 Munders, no housekeepers, no Betzees — 1 ! I care 
 for nothing but the getting you the one thing 
 you want, and the taking you home again as 
 easy in your mind as I am myself. Come ! let 
 us go back.” 
 
 4 ‘ It is too late to go back.” 
 
 4 ‘How too late? Ah, dismal, dingy, dungeon- 
 house of the devil, how I hate you!” cried Uncle 
 Joseph, looking back over the prospect, and shak- 
 ing both his fists at Porthgenna Tower. 
 
 “It is too late, uncle,” she repeated. “Too 
 late, because the opportunity is lost; too late, be- 
 cause if I could bring it back, I dare not go near 
 the Myrtle Room again. My last hope was to 
 change the hiding-place of the letter — and that 
 last hope I have given up. I have only one ob- 
 ject in life left now; you may help me in it; but 
 I cannot tell you how unless you come on with 
 me at once — unless you say nothing more about 
 going back to Porthgenna Tower.” 
 
 Uncle Joseph began to expostulate. His niece 
 stopped him in the middle of a sentence, by 
 touching him on the shoulder and pointing to 
 a particular spot on the darkening slope of the 
 moor below them. 
 
 “Look!” she said, “there is somebody on the 
 path behind us. Is it a boy or a man?” 
 
 Uncle Joseph looked through the fading light 
 and saw a figure at some little distance. It 
 seemed like the figure of a boy, and he was ap- 
 parently engaged in digging on the moor. 
 
 “Let us turn round and go on at once,” pleaded 
 Sarah, before the old man could answer her. “I 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 317 
 
 can’t say what I want to say to you, uncle, until 
 we are safe under shelter at the inn.” 
 
 They went on until they reached the highest 
 ground on the moor. There they stopped, and 
 looked back again. The rest ot their way lay 
 down hill; and the spot on which they stood was 
 the last point from which a view could be ob- 
 tained of Porthgenna Tower. 
 
 “ We have lost sight of the boy,” said Uncle 
 Joseph, looking over the ground below them. 
 
 Sarah’s younger and sharper eyes bore witness 
 to the truth of her uncle’s words — the view over 
 the moor was lonely now, in every direction, as 
 far as she could see. Before going on again, 
 she moved a little away from the old man, and 
 looked at the tower of the ancient house, rising 
 heavy and black in the dim light, with the dark 
 sea background stretching behind it like a wall. 
 “Never again !” she whispered to herself. “Never, 
 never, never again!” Her eyes wandered away 
 to the church, and to the cemetery inclosure by 
 its side, barely distinguishable now in the shadows 
 of the coming night. “Wait for me a little 
 longer,” she said, looking toward the burial- 
 ground with straining eyes, and pressing her 
 hand on her bosom over the place where the 
 book of Hymns lay hid. “My wanderings are 
 nearly at an end ; the day for my coming home 
 again is not far off!” 
 
 The tears filled her eyes and shut out the view. 
 She rejoined her uncle, and, taking his arm again, 
 drew him rapidly a few steps along the downward 
 path — then checked herself, as if struck by a sud- 
 
318 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 den suspicion, and walked back a few paces to 
 the highest ridge of the ground, “ 1 am not 
 sure,” she said, replying to her companion’s look 
 of surprise — “I am not sure whether v/e have 
 seen the last yet of that boy who was digging on 
 the moor.” 
 
 As the words passed her lips, a figure stole out 
 from behind one of the large fragments of granite 
 rock which were scattered over the waste on all 
 sides of them. It was once more the figure of 
 the boy, and again he began to dig, without the 
 slightest apparent reason, on the barren ground 
 at his feet. 
 
 “Yes, yes, I see,” said Uncle Joseph, as his 
 niece eagerly directed his attention to the suspi- 
 cious figure. “It is the same boy, and he is dig- 
 ging still — and, if you please, what of that?” 
 
 Sarah did not attempt to answer. “Let us get 
 on,” she said, hurriedly. “Let us get on as fast 
 as we can to the inn.” 
 
 They turned again, and took the downward 
 path before them. In less than a minute they 
 had lost sight of Porthgenna Tower, of the old 
 church, and of the whole of the western view. 
 Still, though there was now nothing but the 
 blank darkening moorland to look back at, Sarah 
 persisted in stopping at frequent intervals, as long 
 as there was any light left, to glance behind her. 
 She made no remark, she offered no excuse for 
 thus delaying the journey back to the inn. It 
 was only when they arrived within sight of the 
 lights of the post-town that she ceased looking 
 back, and that she spoke to her companion. The 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 319 
 
 few words she addressed to* him amounted to 
 nothing more than a request that he would ask 
 for a private sitting-room as soon as they reached 
 their place of sojourn for the night. 
 
 They ordered beds at the inn, and were shown 
 into the best parlor to wait for supper. The mo- 
 ment they were alone, Sarah drew a chair close 
 to the old man’s side, and whispered these words 
 in his ear: 
 
 ‘‘Uncle! we have been followed every step of 
 the way from Porthgenna Tower to this place.” 
 
 “So! so! And how do you know that?” in- 
 quired Uncle Joseph. 
 
 “Hush! Somebody may be listening at the 
 door, somebody may be creeping under the win- 
 dow. You noticed that boy who was digging on 
 the moor? — ” 
 
 “Bah! Why, Sarah! do you frighten your- 
 self, do you try to frighten me about a boy?” 
 
 “Oh, not so loud! not so loud! They have 
 laid a trap for us. Uncle! I suspected it when 
 we first entered the doors of Porthgenna Tower; 
 I am sure of it now. What did all that whis- 
 pering mean between the housekeeper and the 
 steward when we first got into the hall? I 
 watched their faces, and 1 know they were talk- 
 ing about us. They were not half surprised 
 enough at seeing us, not half surprised enough 
 at hearing what we wanted. Don’t laugh at me, 
 uncle! There is real danger: it is no fancy of 
 mine. The keys — come closer — the keys of the 
 north rooms have got new labels on them; the 
 doors have all been numbered. Think of that! 
 
320 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 Think of the whispering when we came in, and 
 the whispering afterward, in the housekeeper’s 
 room, when you got up to go away. You noticed 
 the sudden change in that man’s behavior after 
 the housekeeper spoke to him — you must have 
 noticed it? They let us in too easily, and they 
 let us out too easily. No, no! I am not delud- 
 ing myself. There was some secret motive for 
 letting us into the house, and some secret mo- 
 tive for letting us out again. That boy on the 
 moor betrays it, if nothing else does. I saw him 
 following us all the way here, as plainly as I see 
 you. I am not frightened without reason this 
 time. As surely as we two are together in this 
 room, there is a trap laid for us by the people at; 
 Porthgenna Tower!” 
 
 “A trap? What trap? And how? and why? 
 and wherefore?” inquired Uncle Joseph, express- 
 ing bewilderment by waving both his hands 
 rapidly to and fro close before his eyes. 
 
 “They want to make me speak, they want to 
 follow me, they want to find out where I go, 
 they want to ask me questions,” she answered, 
 trembling violently. “Uncle! you remember 
 what I told you of those crazed words I said to 
 Mrs. Frankland — I ought to have cut my tongue 
 out rather than have spoken them! They have 
 done dreadful mischief — lam certain of it — dread- 
 ful mischief already. I have made myself sus- 
 pected ! I shall be questioned, if Mrs Frankland 
 finds me out again. She will try to find me out 
 — we shall be inquired after here — we must de- 
 stroy all trace of where we go to next — we must 
 
THE HEAD SECRET. 
 
 321 
 
 make sure that the people at this inn can answer 
 no questions — oh, Uncle Joseph! whatever we 
 do, let us make sure of that!” 
 
 “Good,” said the old man, nodding his head 
 with a perfectly self-satisfied air. “Be quite 
 easy, my child, and leave it to me to make sure. 
 When you are gone to bed, I shall send for the 
 landlord, and I shall say: ‘Get us a little car- 
 riage, if you please, sir, to take us back again 
 to-morrow to the coach for Truro.’ ” 
 
 “No, no, no! we must not hire a carriage 
 here.” 
 
 “And I say yes, yes, yes! We will hire a car- 
 riage here, because I will, first of all, make sure 
 with the landlord. Listen. I shall say to him: 
 ‘If there come after us people with inquisitive 
 looks in their eyes and uncomfortable questions 
 in their mouths — if you please, sir, hold your 
 tongue.’ Then I shall wink my eye, I shall lay 
 my finger, so, to the side of my nose, I shall give 
 one little laugh that means much — and, crick! 
 crack! I have made sure of the landlord! and 
 there is an end of it!” 
 
 “We must not trust the landlord, uucle — we 
 must not trust anybody. When we leave this 
 place to-morrow, we must leave it on foot, and 
 take care no living soul follows us. Look! here 
 is a map of West Cornwall hanging up on the 
 wall, with roads and cross-roads all marked on 
 it. We may find out beforehand what direction 
 we ought to walk in. A night’s rest will give 
 me all the strength I want; and we have no 
 luggage that we cannot carry. You have noth- 
 K— Yol. 16 
 
322 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 ing but your knapsack, and I have nothing but 
 the liitle carpet-bag you lent me. We can walk 
 six, seven, even ten miles, with resting by the 
 way. Come here and look at the map — pray, 
 pray come and look at the map!’* 
 
 Protesting against the abandonment of his own 
 project, which he declared, and sincerely believed, 
 to be perfectly adapted to meet the emergency in 
 which they were placed, Uncle Joseph joined his 
 niece in examining the map. A little beyond 
 the post-town, a cross-road was marked, run- 
 ning northward at right angles with the high- 
 way that led to Truro, and conducting to an- 
 other road, which looked large enough to be a 
 coach-road, and which led through a town of 
 sufficient importance to have its name printed 
 in capital letters. On discovering this, Sarah 
 proposed that they should follow the cross-road 
 (which did not appear on the map to be more than 
 five or six miles long) on foot, abstaining from 
 taking any conveyance until they had arrived at 
 the town marked in capital letters. By pursu- 
 ing this course they would destroy all trace of 
 their progress after leaving the post-town ; unless, 
 indeed, they were followed on foot from this 
 place, as they had been followed over the moor. 
 In the event of any fresh difficulty of that sort 
 occurring, Sarah had no better remedy to propose 
 than lingering on the road till after nightfall, 
 and leaving it to the darkness to baffle the vigi- 
 lance of any person who might be watching in 
 the distance to see where they went. 
 
 Uncle Joseph shrugged his shoulders resignedly 
 
THE BEAD SECBET. 
 
 323 
 
 when his niece gave her reasons for wishing to 
 continue the journey on foot. “ There is much 
 tramping through dust, and much looking be- 
 hind us, and much spying and peeping and sus- 
 pecting and roundabout walking in all this,” he 
 said. “It is by no means so easy, my child, as 
 making sure of the landlord, and sitting at our 
 ease on the cushions of the stage-coach. But if 
 you will have it so, so shall it be. What you 
 please, Sarah ; what you please — that is all the 
 opinion of my own that I allow myself to have 
 till we are back again at Truro, and are rested 
 for good and all at the end of our journey.” 
 
 “At the end of your journey, uncle: I dare 
 not say at the end of mine.” 
 
 Those few words changed the old man’s face 
 in an instant. His eyes fixed reproachfully on 
 his niece, his ruddy cheeks lost their color, his 
 restless hands dropped suddenly to his sides. 
 “Sarah!” he said, in a low, quiet tone, which 
 seemed to have no relation to the voice in which 
 he spoke on ordinary occasions — “Sarah! have 
 you the heart to leave me again?” 
 
 “Have I tli9 courage to stay in Cornwall? 
 That is the question to ask me, uncle. If I had 
 only my own heart to consult, oh! how gladly I 
 should live under your roof — live under it, if you 
 would let me, to my dying day ! But my lot is 
 not cast for such rest and such happiness as that. 
 The fear that I have of being questioned by Mrs. 
 Frankland drives me away from Porthgenna, 
 away from Cornwall, away from you. Even 
 my dread of the letter being found is hardly so 
 
324 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 great now as my dread of being traced and ques- 
 tioned, I have said what I ought not to have 
 said already. If I find myself in Mrs. Frank- 
 land’s presence again, there is nothing that she 
 might not draw out of me. Oh, my God! to 
 think of that kind-hearted, lovely young woman, 
 who brings happiness with her wherever she 
 goes, bringing terror to me! Terror when her 
 pitying eyes look at me; terror when her kind 
 voice speaks to me; terror when her tender hand 
 touches mine! Uncle! when Mrs. Frankland 
 comes to Porthgeuna, the very children will 
 crowd about her — every creature in that poor 
 village will be drawn toward the light of her 
 beauty and her goodness, as if it was the sun- 
 shine of Heaven itself; and I — I, of all living 
 beings — must shun her as if she was a pesti- 
 lence! The day when she comes into Cornwall 
 is the day when I must go out of it — the day 
 when we two must say farewell. Don’t, don’t 
 add to my wretchedness by asking me if I have 
 the heart to leave you! Fqr my dead mother’s 
 sake, Uncle Joseph, believe that I am grateful, 
 believe that it is not my own will that takes me 
 away when I leave you again.” She sank down 
 on a sofa near her, laid her head, with one long, 
 deep sigh, wearily on the pillow, and spoke no 
 more. 
 
 The tears gathered thick in Uncle Joseph’s 
 eyes as he sat down by her side. He took one 
 of her hands, and patted and stroked it as though 
 he were soothing a little child. “I will bear it 
 as well as I can, Sarah,” he whispered, faintly, 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 325 
 
 “and I will say no more. You will write to me 
 sometimes, when I am left all alone? You will 
 give a little time to Uncle Joseph, for the poor 
 dead mother’s sake?” 
 
 She turned toward him suddenly, and threw 
 both her arms round his neck with a passionate 
 energy that was strangely at variance with her 
 naturally quiet, self- repressed character. “X will 
 write often, dear; I will write always,” she whis- 
 pered, with her head on his bosom. “If I am 
 ever in any trouble or danger, you shall know 
 it.” She stopped confusedly, as if the freedom 
 of her own words and actions terrified her, un- 
 clasped her arms, and, turning away abruptly 
 from the old man, hid her face in her hands. 
 The tyranny of the restraint that governed her 
 whole life was all expressed — how sadly, how 
 eloquently! — in that one little action. 
 
 Uncle Joseph rose from the sofa, and walked 
 gently backward and forward in the room, look- 
 ing anxiously at his niece, but not speaking to 
 her. After a while the servant came in to pre- 
 pare the table for supper. It was a welcome in- 
 terruption, for it obliged Sarah to make an effort 
 to recover her self-possession. After the meal 
 was over, the uncle and niece separated at once 
 for the night, without venturing to exchange an- 
 other word on the subject of their approaching 
 separation. 
 
 When they met the next morning the old man 
 had not recovered his spirits. Although he tried 
 to speak as cheerfully as usual, there was some- 
 thing strangely subdued and quiet about him in 
 
826 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS, 
 
 voice, look and manner. Sarah’s heart smote 
 her as she saw how sadly he was altered by the 
 prospect of their parting. She said a few words 
 of consolation and hope ; bat he only waved his 
 hand negatively, in his quaint foreign manner, 
 and hastened out of the room to find the landlord 
 and ask for the bill. 
 
 Soon after breakfast, to the surprise of the peo- 
 ple at the inn, they set forth to continue their 
 journey on foot, Uncle Joseph carrying his knap- 
 sack on his back, and his niece’s carpet-bag in 
 his hand. When they arrived at the turning 
 that led into the cross-road, they both stopped 
 and looked back. This time they saw nothing 
 to alarm them. There was no living creature 
 visible on the broad highway over which they 
 had been walking for the last quarter of an hour 
 after leaving the inn. 
 
 4 4 The way is clear,” said Uncle Joseph, as 
 they turned into the cross-road. “ Whatever 
 might have happened yesterday, there is nobody 
 following us now.” 
 
 “Nobody that we can see,” answered Sarah. 
 “But I distrust the very stones by the road-side. 
 Let us look back often, uncle, before we allow 
 ourselves to feel secure. The more I think of 
 it, the more I dread the snare that is laid for us 
 by those people at Porthgenna Tower.” 
 
 “You say us, Sarah. Why should they lay a 
 snare for me?” 
 
 “Because they have seen you in my company. 
 You will be safer from them when we are parted; 
 and that is another reason, Uncle Joseph, why 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 327 
 
 we should bear the misfortune of our separation 
 as patiently as we can.” 
 
 “Are you going far, very far away, Sarah, 
 when you leave me?” 
 
 “I dare not stop on my journey till I can feel 
 that I am lost in the great world of London. 
 Don’t look at me so sadly! I shall never for- 
 get my promise; I shall never forget to write. 
 I have friends — not friends like you, but still 
 friends — to whom I can go. I can feel safe from 
 discovery nowhere but in London. My danger 
 is great — it is, it is, indeed ! I know, from what 
 I have seen at Porthgenna, that Mrs. Frankland 
 has an interest already in finding me out; and I 
 am certain that this interest will be increased 
 tenfold when she hears (as she is sure to hear) 
 of what happened yesterday in the house. If 
 they should trace you to Truro, oh, be careful, 
 uncle! be careful how you deal with them; be 
 careful how you answer their questions!” 
 
 “I will answer nothing, my child. But tell 
 me — for I want to know all the little chances 
 that there are of your coming back — tell me, if 
 Mrs. Frankland finds the letter, what shall you 
 do then?” 
 
 At that question, Sarah’s hand, which had 
 been resting languidly on her uncle’s arm while 
 they walked together, closed on it suddenly. 
 “Even if Mrs. Frankland gets into the Myrtle 
 Room,” she said, stopping and looking affright- 
 edly about her while she replied, “she may not 
 find the letter. It is folded up so small; it is 
 hidden in such an unlikely place,” 
 
328 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 4 4 But if she does find it?” 
 
 “If she does, there will be more reason than 
 ever for my being miles and miles away.” 
 
 As she gave that answer, she raised both her 
 hands to her heart and pressed them firmly over 
 it. A slight distortion passed rapidly across her 
 features; her eyes closed; her face flushed all 
 over— then turned paler again than ever. She 
 drew out her pocket-handkerchief, and passed 
 it several times over her face, on which the per- 
 spiration had gathered thickly. The old man, 
 who had looked behind him when his niece 
 stopped, under the impression that she had just 
 seen somebody following them, observed this 
 latter action, and asked if she felt too hot. She 
 shook her head, and took his arm again to go on, 
 breathing, as he fancied, with some difficulty. 
 He proposed that they should sit down by the 
 roadside and rest a little; but she only an- 
 swered, “Not yet.” So they went on for an- 
 other half-hour; then turned to look behind 
 them again, and, still seeing nobody, sat down 
 for a little while to rest on a bank by the way- 
 side. 
 
 After stopping twice more at convenient rest- 
 ing-places, they reached the end of the cross- 
 road. On the highway to which it led them 
 they were overtaken by a man driving an empty 
 cart, who offered to give them a lift as far as 
 the next town. They accepted the proposal 
 gratefully; and, arriving at the town, after 
 a drive of half an hour, were set down at the 
 door of the principal inn. Finding on inquiry 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 329 
 
 at this place that they were too late for the coach, 
 they took a private conveyance which brought 
 them to Truro late in the afternoon. Through- 
 out the whole of the journey, from the time when 
 they left the post-town of Porthgenna to the time 
 when they stopped, by Sarah’s desire, at the 
 coach-office in Truro, they had seen nothing to 
 excite the smallest suspicion that their move- 
 ments were being observed. None of the people 
 whom they saw in the inhabited places, or whom 
 they passed on the road, appeared to take more 
 than the most casual notice of them. 
 
 It was five o’clock when they entered the office 
 at Truro to ask about conveyances running in 
 the direction of Exeter. They were informed 
 that a coach would start in an hour’s time, and 
 that another coach would pass through Truro at 
 eight o’clock the next morning. 
 
 “You will not go to-night?” pleaded Uncle 
 Joseph. “You will wait, my child, and rest 
 with me till to-morrow?” 
 
 “I had better go, uncle, while I have some 
 little resolution left,” was the sad answer. 
 
 “But you are so pale, so tired, so weak.” 
 
 “I shall never be stronger than I am now. 
 Don’t set my own heart against me! It is hard 
 enough to go without that.” 
 
 Uncle Joseph sighed, and said no more. He 
 led the way across the road and down the by- 
 street to his house. The cheerful man in the 
 shop was polishing a piece of wood behind the 
 counter, sitting in the same position in which 
 Sarah had seen him when she first looked through 
 
330 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 the window on her arrival at Truro. He had 
 good news for his master of orders received, but 
 Uncle Joseph listened absently to all that his 
 shopman said, and hastened into the little back 
 parlor without the faintest reflection of its cus- 
 tomary smile on his face. “If I had no shop and 
 no orders, I might go away with you, Sarah,” 
 he said when he and his niece were alone. “ Aie! 
 Aie! the setting out on this journey has been the 
 only happy part of it. Sit down and rest, my 
 child. 1 must put my best face upon it, and get 
 you some tea.” 
 
 When the tea-tray had been placed on the 
 table, he left the room, and returned, after an 
 absence of some little time, with a basket in his 
 hand. When the porter came to carry the lug- 
 gage to the coach-office, he would not allow the 
 basket to be taken away at the same time, but 
 sat down and placed it between his feet while he 
 occupied himself in pouring out a cup of tea for 
 his niece. 
 
 The musical box still hung at his side in its 
 traveling case of leather. As soon as he had 
 poured out the cup of tea, he unbuckled the 
 strap, removed the covering from the box, and 
 placed it on the table near him. His eyes wan- 
 dered hesitatingly toward Sarah, as he did this; 
 he leaned forward, his lips trembling a little, his 
 hand trifling uneasily with the empty leather 
 case that now lay on his knees, and said to her 
 in low, unsteady tones: 
 
 “You will hear a little farewell song of Mo- 
 zart? It may be a long time, Sarah, before he 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 331 
 
 can play to you again. A little farewell song, 
 my child, before you go?” 
 
 His hand stole up gently from the leather case 
 to the table, and set the box playing the same air 
 that Sarah had heard on the evening when she 
 entered the parlor, after her journey from Somer- 
 setshire and found him sitting alone listening to 
 the music. What depths of sorrow there were 
 now in those few simple notes! What mournful 
 memories of past times gathered and swelled in 
 the heart at the bidding of that one little plain- 
 tive melody ! Sarah could not summon the cour- 
 age to lift her eyes to the old man’s face — they 
 might have betrayed to him that she was think- 
 ing of the days when the box that he treasured 
 so dearly played the air they were listening to 
 now by the bedside of his dying child. 
 
 The stop had not been set, and the melody, 
 after it had come to an end, began again. Bat 
 now, after the first few bars, the notes succeeded 
 one another more and more slowly — the air grew 
 less and less recognizable — dropped at last to three 
 notes, following each other at long intervals — 
 then ceased altogether. The chain that governed 
 the action of the machinery had all run out; Mo- 
 zart’s farewell song was silenced on a sudden, 
 like a voice that had broken down. 
 
 The old man started, looked earnestly at his 
 niece, and threw the leather case over the box as 
 if he desired to shut out the sight of it. “The 
 music stopped so,” he whispered to himself, in 
 his own language, “when little Joseph died! 
 Don’t go!” he added, quickly, in English, al- 
 
332 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 most before Sarah had time to feel surprised at 
 the singular change that had taken place in his 
 voice and manner. “ Don’t go ! Think better of 
 it, and stop with me .’ 5 
 
 “I have no choice, uncle, but to leave you — 
 indeed, indeed I have not! You don’t think me 
 ungrateful? Comfort me at the last moment by 
 telling me that!” 
 
 He pressed her hand in silence and kissed her 
 on both cheeks. “My heart is very heavy for 
 you, Sarah,” he said. “The fear has come to 
 me that it is not for your own good that you are 
 going away from Uncle Joseph now!” 
 
 “I have no choice,” she sadly repeated'— “no 
 choice but to leave you.” 
 
 “It is time, then, to get the parting over.’* 
 The cloud of doubt and fear that had altered his 
 face, from the moment when the music came to 
 its untimely end, seemed to darken, when he had 
 said those words. He took up the basket which 
 he had kept so carefully at his feet, and led the 
 way out in silence. 
 
 They were barely in time; the driver was 
 mounting to his seat when they got to the 
 coach-office. “God preserve you, my child, and 
 send you back to me soon, safe and well. Take 
 the basket on your lap; there are some little 
 things in it for your journey.” His voice fal- 
 tered at the last word, and Sarah felt his lips 
 pressed on her hand. The next instant the door 
 was closed, and she saw him dimly through her 
 tears standing among the idlers on the pavement, 
 who were waiting to see the coach drive off* 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 333 
 
 By the time they were a little way out of the 
 town she was able to dry her eyes and look into 
 the basket. It contained a pot of jam and a horn 
 spoon, a small inlaid work-box from the stock in 
 the shop, a piece of foreign-looking cheese, a 
 French roll, and a little paper packet of money, 
 with the words “Don’t be angry” written on it, 
 in Uncle Joseph’s hand. Sarah closed the cover 
 of the basket again, and drew dow;n her veil. 
 She had not felt the sorrow of the parting in all 
 its bitterness until that moment. Oh, how hard 
 it was to be banished from the sheltering home 
 which was offered to her by the one friend she 
 had left in the world! 
 
 While that thought was in her mind, the old 
 man was just closing the door of his lonely par- 
 lor. His eyes wandered to the tea-tray on the 
 table and to Sarah’s empty cup, and he whis- 
 pered to himself in his own language again — 
 
 “The music stopped so when little Joseph 
 died!” 
 
 BOOK V. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 AN OLD FRIEND AND A NEW SCHEME. 
 
 In declaring, positively, that the boy whom 
 she had seen digging on the moor had followed 
 her uncle and herself to the post-town of Forth- 
 
334 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 genna, Sarah had asserted the literal truth. Ja- 
 cob had tracked them to the inn, had waited a 
 little while about the door, to ascertain if there 
 was any likelihood of their continuing their 
 journey that evening, and had then returned to 
 Porthgenna Tower to make his report, and to 
 claim his promised reward. 
 
 The same night, the housekeeper and the stew- 
 ard demoted themselves to the joint production of 
 a letter to Mrs. Frankland, informing her of all 
 that had taken place, from the time when the 
 visitors first made their appearance, to the time 
 when the gardener’s boy had followed them to 
 the door of the inn. The composition was plen- 
 tifully garnished throughout with the flowers of 
 Mr. Munder’s rhetoric, and was, by a necessary 
 consequence, inordinately long as a narrative, 
 and hopelessly confused as a statement of facts. 
 
 It is unnecessary to say that the letter, with 
 all its faults and absurdities, was read by Mrs. 
 Frankland with the deepest interest. Her hus- 
 band and Mr. Orridge, to both of whom she com- 
 municated its contents, were as much amazed 
 and perplexed by it as she was herself. Al- 
 though the discovery of Mrs. Jazeph’s departure 
 for Cornwall had led them to consider it within 
 the range of possibility that she might appear at 
 Porthgenna, and although the housekeeper had 
 been written to by Rosamond under the influ- 
 ence of that idea, neither she nor her husband 
 were quite prepared for such a speedy confirma- 
 tion of their suspicions as they had now received. 
 Their astonishment, however, on first ascertain- 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 335 
 
 in g the general purport of the letter, was as noth- 
 ing compared with their astonishment when they 
 came to those particular passages in it which 
 referred to Uncle Joseph. The fresh element of 
 complication imparted to the thickening mystery 
 of Mrs. Jazeph and the Myrtle Room, by the en- 
 trance of the foreign stranger on the scene, and 
 by his intimate connection with the extraordi- 
 nary proceedings that had taken place in the 
 house, fairly baffled them all. The letter was 
 read again and again; was critically dissected 
 paragraph by paragraph; was carefully anno- 
 tated by the doctor, for the purpose of extricat- 
 ing all the facts that it contained from the mass 
 of unmeaning words in which Mr. Munder had 
 artfully and lengthily involved them; and was 
 finally pronounced, after all the pains that had 
 been taken to render it intelligible, to be the 
 most mysterious and bewildering document that 
 mortal pen had ever produced. 
 
 The first practical suggestion, after the letter 
 had been laid aside in despair, emanated from 
 Rosamond. She proposed that her husband and 
 herself (the baby included, as a matter of course) 
 should start at once for Porthgenna, to question 
 the servants minutely about the proceedings of 
 Mrs. Jazeph and the foreign stranger who had 
 accompanied her, and to examine the premises 
 on the north side of the house, with a view to 
 discovering a clew to the locality of the Myrtle 
 Room, while events were still fresh in the mem- 
 ories of witnesses. The plan thus advocated, 
 however excellent in itself, was opposed by Mr. 
 
336 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 Orridge on medical grounds. Mrs. Frankland 
 had caught cold by exposing herself too careless- 
 ly to the air, on first leaving her room, and the 
 doctor refused to grant her permission to travel 
 for at least a week to come, if not for a longer 
 period. 
 
 The next proposal came from Mr. Frankland. 
 He declared it to be perfectly clear to his mind 
 that the only chance of penetrating the mystery 
 of the Myrtle Room rested entirely on the discov- 
 ery of some means of communicating with Mrs. 
 Jazeph. He suggested that they should not 
 trouble themselves to think of anything uncon- 
 nected with the accomplishment of this purpose; 
 and he proposed that the servant then in attend- 
 ance on him at West Winston — a man who had 
 been in his employment for many years, and 
 whose zeal, activity, and intelligence could be 
 thoroughly depended on — should be sent to Porth- 
 genna forthwith, to start the necessary inquiries, 
 and to examine the premises carefully on the 
 north side of the house. 
 
 This advice was immediately acted on. Ac 
 an hour’s notice the servant started for Corn- 
 wall, thoroughly instructed as to what he was to 
 do, and well supplied with money, in case he 
 found it necessary to employ many persons in 
 making the proposed inquiries. In due course 
 of time he sent a report of his proceedings to his 
 master. It proved to be of a most discouraging 
 nature. 
 
 All trace of Mrs. Jazeph and her companion 
 had been lost at the post-town of Porthgenna. 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 337 
 
 Investigations had been made in every direction, 
 hut no reliable information had been obtained. 
 People in totally different parts of the country 
 declared readily enough that they had seen two 
 persons answering to the description of the lady 
 in the dark dress and the old foreigner; but 
 when they were called upon to state the direc- 
 tion in which the two strangers were traveling, 
 the answers received turned out to be of the most 
 puzzling and contradictory kind. No pains had 
 been spared, no necessary expenditure of money 
 had been grudged; but, so far, no results of the 
 slightest value had been obtained. Whether the 
 lady and the foreigner had gone east, west, north, 
 or south, was more than Mr. Frankland’s serv- 
 ant, at the present stage of the proceedings, could 
 take it on himself to say. 
 
 The report of the examination of the north 
 rooms was not more satisfactory. Here, again, 
 nothing of any importance could be discovered. 
 The servant had ascertained that there were 
 twenty-two rooms on the uninhabited side of 
 the house — six on the ground-floor opening into 
 the deserted garden, eight on the first floor, and 
 eight above that, on the second story. He had 
 examined all the doors carefully from top to bot- 
 tom, and had come to the conclusion that none 
 of them had been opened. The evidence af- 
 forded by the lady’s own actions led to noth- 
 ing. She had, if the testimony of the serv- 
 ant coaid be trusted, dropped the keys on the 
 floor of the hall, She was found, as the house- 
 keeper and the steward asserted, lying, in a faint- 
 
338 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 ing condition, at the top of the landing of the 
 first flight of stairs. The door opposite to her, 
 in this position, showed no more traces of hav- 
 ing been recently opened than any of the other 
 doors of the other twenty- one rooms. "Whether 
 the room to which she wished to gain access was 
 one of the eight on the first floor, or whether she 
 had fainted on her way up to the higher range 
 of eight rooms on the second floor, it was impos- 
 sible to determine. 
 
 The only conclusions that could be fairly drawn 
 from the events that had taken place in the house 
 were two in number. First, it might be taken 
 for granted that the lady had been disturbed be- 
 fore she had been able to use the keys to gain 
 admission to the Myrtle Room. Secondly, it 
 might be assumed, from the position in which 
 she was found on the stairs, and from the evi- 
 dence relating to the dropping of the keys, that 
 the Myrtle Room was not on the ground-floor, 
 but was one of the sixteen rooms situated on the 
 first and second stories. Beyond this the writer 
 of the report had nothing further to mention, ex- 
 cept that he had ventured to decide on waiting at 
 Porthgenna, in the event of his master having 
 any further instructions to communicate. 
 
 What was to be done next? That was neces- 
 sarily the first question suggested by the serv- 
 ant’s announcement of the unsuccessful result of 
 his inquiries at Porthgenna. How it was to be 
 answered was not very easy to discover. Mrs. 
 Frankland had nothing to suggest, Mr. Frank- 
 land had nothing to suggest, the doctor had 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 339 
 
 nothing to suggest. The more industriously 
 they all three hunted through their minds for a 
 new idea, the less chance there seemed to be of 
 their succeeding in finding one. At last, Rcsa- 
 mond proposed, in despair, that they should seek 
 the advice of some fourth person who could be 
 depended on; and asked her husband’s permis- 
 sion to write a confidential statement of their 
 difficulties to the vicar of Long Beekley. Doc- 
 tor Chennery was their oldest friend and adviser; 
 he had known them both as children; he was 
 well acquainted with the history of their fami- 
 lies; he felt a fatherly interest in their fortunes; 
 and he possessed that invaluable quality of plain, 
 clear-headed common-sense which marked him 
 out as the very man who would be most likely, 
 as well as most willing, to help them. 
 
 Mr. Frankland readily agreed to his wife’s 
 suggestion; and Rosamond wrote immediately 
 to Doctor Chennery, informing him of every- 
 thing that had happened since Mrs. Jazeph’s 
 first introduction to her, and asking him for his 
 opinion on the course of proceeding which it 
 would be best for her husband and herself to 
 adopt in the difficulty in which they were now 
 placed. By return of post an answer was re- 
 ceived, which amply justified Rosamond’s reli- 
 ance on her old friend. Doctor Chennery not 
 only sympathized heartily with the eager curi- 
 osity which Mrs. Jazeph’s language and con- 
 duct had excited in the mind of his correspond- 
 ent, but he had also a plan of his own to propose 
 for ascertaining the position of the Myrtle Room, 
 
340 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 The vicar prefaced his suggestion by express- 
 ing a strong opinion against instituting any fur- 
 ther search after Mrs. Jazeph, Judging by the 
 circumstances, as they were related to him, he 
 considered that it would be the merest waste of 
 time to attempt to find her out. Accordingly he 
 passed from that part of the subject at once, and 
 devoted himself to the consideration of the more 
 important question — How Mr. and Mrs. Frank- 
 land were to proceed in the endeavor to discover 
 for themselves the mystery of the Myrtle Room? 
 
 On this point Doctor Chennery entertained a 
 conviction of the strongest kind, and he warned 
 Rosamond beforehand that she must expect to be 
 very much surprised when he came to the state- 
 ment of it. Taking it for granted that she and 
 her husband could not hope to find out where the 
 room was, unless they were assisted by some one 
 better acquainted than themselves with the old 
 local arrangements of the interior of Porthgenna 
 Tower, the vicar declared it to be his opinion 
 that there was only one individual living who 
 could afford them the information they wanted, 
 and that this person was no other than Rosa- 
 mond’s own cross-grained relative, Andrew 
 Treverton. 
 
 This startling opinion Doctor Chennery sup- 
 ported by two reasons. In the first place, An- 
 drew was the only surviving member of the elder 
 generation who had lived at Porthgenna Tower 
 in the by-gone days when all traditions connected 
 with the north rooms were still fresh in the mem- 
 ories of the inhabitants of the house* The people 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 341 
 
 who lived in it now were strangers, who had 
 been placed in their situations by Mr. Frank- 
 land’s father; and the servants employed in 
 former days by Captain Treverton were dead or 
 dispersed. The one available person, therefore, 
 whose recollections were likely to be of any serv- 
 ice to Mr. and Mrs. Frankland, was indisputa- 
 bly the brother of the old owner of Porthgenna 
 Tower. 
 
 In the second place, there was the chance, even 
 if Andrew Treverton’s memory was not to be 
 trusted, that he might possess written or printed 
 information relating to the locality of the Myrtle 
 Room. By his father’s will — which had been 
 made when Andrew was a young man just go- 
 ing to college, and which had not been altered 
 at the period of his departure from England, or 
 at any after-time — he had inherited the choice 
 old collection of books in the library at Porth- 
 genna. Supposing that he still preserved these 
 heirlooms, it was highly probable that there 
 might exist among them some plan, or some de- 
 scription of the house as it was in the olden time, 
 which would supply all the information that was 
 wanted. Here, then, was another valid reason 
 for believing that if a clew to the position of the 
 Myrtle Room existed anywhere, Andrew Trever- 
 ton was the man to lay his hand on it. 
 
 Assuming it, therefore, to be proved that the 
 surly old misanthrope was the only person who 
 could be profitably applied to for the requisite 
 information, the next question was, How to com- 
 municate with him? The vicar understood per- 
 
342 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 fectly that after Andrew’s inexcusably heartless 
 conduct toward her father and mother, it was 
 quite impossible for Rosamond to address any 
 direct application to him. The obstacle, how- 
 ever, might be surmounted by making the neces- 
 sary communication proceed from Doctor Chen- 
 nery. Heartily as the vicar disliked Andrew 
 Treverton personally, and strongly as he disap- 
 proved of the old misanthrope’s principles, he was 
 willing to set aside his own antipathies and ob- 
 jections to serve the interests of his young friends; 
 and he expressed his perfect readiness to write 
 and recall himself to Andrew’s recollection, and 
 to ask, as if it was a matter of antiquarian curi- 
 osity, for information on the subject of the north 
 side of Porthgenna Tower— including, of course, 
 a special request to be made acquainted with the 
 names by which the rooms had been individually 
 known in former days. 
 
 In making this offer, the vicar frankly ac- 
 knowledged that he thought the chances were 
 very much against his receiving any answer at 
 all to his application, no matter how carefully 
 he might word it, with a view to humoring An- 
 drew’s churlish peculiarities. However, consid- 
 ering that, in the present posture of affairs, a 
 forlorn hope was better than no hope at all, he 
 thought it was at least worth while to make the 
 attempt on the plan which he had just suggested. 
 If Mr. and Mrs. Frankland could devise any bet- 
 ter means of opening communications with An- 
 drew Treverton, or if they had discovered any 
 new method of their own for obtaining the in- 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 343 
 
 formation of which they stood in need, Doctor 
 Chennery was perfectly ready to set aside his 
 own opinions and to defer to theirs. 
 
 A very brief consideration of the vicar’s 
 friendly letter convinced Rosamond and her 
 husband that they had no choice but gratefully 
 to accept the offer which it contained. The 
 chances were certainly against the success of 
 the proposed application; but were they more 
 unfavorable than the chances against the success 
 of any unaided investigations at Porthgenna? 
 There was, at least, a faint hope of Doctor Chen- 
 nery ’s request for information producing some 
 results ; but there seemed no hope at all of pene- 
 trating a mystery connected with one room only, 
 by dint of wandering, in perfect ignorance of 
 what to search for, through two ranges of rooms 
 which reached the number of sixteen. Influ- 
 enced by these considerations, Rosamond wrote 
 back to the vicar to thank him for his kindness, 
 and to beg that he would communicate with An- 
 drew Treverton, as he had proposed, without a 
 moment’s delay. 
 
 Doctor Chennery immediately occupied him- 
 self in the composition of the important letter, 
 taking care to make the application on purely 
 antiquarian grounds, and accounting for his as- 
 sumed curiosity on the subject of the interior of 
 Porthgenna Tower by referring to his former 
 knowledge of the Treverton family, and to his 
 natural interest in the old house with which their 
 name and fortunes had been so closely connected. 
 After appealing to Andrew’s early recollections 
 
344 
 
 WORKS OP WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 for the information that he wanted, he ventured 
 a step further, and alluded to the library of old 
 books, mentioning his own idea that there might 
 be found among them some plan or verbal de- 
 scription of the house, which might prove to be 
 of the greatest service, in the event of Mr. Trev- 
 erton’s memory not having preserved all par- 
 ticulars in connection with the names and posi- 
 tions of the north rooms. In conclusion, he took 
 the liberty of mentioning that the loan of any 
 document of the kind to which he had alluded, 
 or the permission to have extracts made from it, 
 would be thankfully acknowledged as a great 
 favor conferred; and he added, in a postscript, 
 that, in order to save Mr. Treverton all trouble, 
 a messenger would call for any answer he might 
 be disposed to give the day after the delivery of 
 the letter. Having completed the application in 
 these terms, the vicar inclosed it under cover to 
 his man of business in London, with directions 
 that it was to be delivered by a trustworthy per- 
 son, and that the messenger was to call again the 
 next morning to know if there was any answer. 
 
 Three days after this letter had been dispatched 
 to its destination — at which time no tidings of 
 any sort had been received from Doctor Chen- 
 nery — Rosamond at last obtained her medical 
 attendant’s permission to travel. Taking leave 
 of Mr. Orridge, with many promises to let him 
 know what progress they made toward discovering 
 the Myrtle Room, Mr. and Mrs. Franklaud turned 
 their backs on West Winston, and for the third 
 time started on the journey to Porthgenna Tower. 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 345 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE BEGINNING OF THE END. 
 
 It was baking-day in the establishment of Mr. 
 Andrew Treverton when the messenger intrusted 
 with Doctor Chennery’s letter found his way to 
 the garden door of the cottage at Bayswater. 
 After he had rung three times, he heard a gruff 
 voice, on the other side of the wall, roaring at 
 him to let the bell alone, and asking who he was, 
 and what the devil he wanted. 
 
 “A letter for Mr. Treverton,” said the mes- 
 senger, nervously backing away from the door 
 while he spoke. 
 
 “ Chuck it over the wall, then, and be off with 
 you!” answered the gruff voice. 
 
 The messenger obeyed both injunctions. He 
 was a meek, modest, elderly man; and when 
 Nature mixed up the ingredients of his disposi- 
 tion, the capability of resenting injuries was not 
 among them. 
 
 The man with the gruff voice — or, to put it in 
 plainer terms, the man Shrowl — picked up the 
 letter, weighed it in his hand, looked at the ad- 
 dress on it with an expression of contemptuous 
 curiosity in his bull-terrier eyes, put it in his 
 waistcoat pocket, and walked around lazily to 
 the kitchen entrance of the cottage. 
 
 In the apartment which would probably have 
 been called the pantry, if the house had belonged 
 
346 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 to civilized tenants, a hand-mill had been set up; 
 and, at the moment when Shrowl made his way 
 to this room, Mr. Treverton was engaged in as- 
 serting bis independence of all the millers in 
 England by grinding his own corn. He paused 
 irritably in turning the handle of the mill when 
 his servant appeared at the door. 
 
 “What do you come here for?” he asked. 
 “When the flour’s ready, I’ll call for you. 
 Don’t let’s look at each other oftener than we 
 can help! I never set eyes on you, Shrowl, but 
 I ask myself whether, in the whole range of cre- 
 ation, there is any animal as ugly as man? I 
 saw a cat this morning on the garden wall, and 
 there wasn’t a single point in which you would 
 bear comparison with him. The cat’s eyes were 
 clear — yours are muddy. The cat’s nose was 
 ’straight— yours is crooked. The cat’s whiskers 
 were clean — yours are dirty. The cat’s coat fit- 
 ted him — yours hangs about you like a sack. I 
 tell you again, Shrowl, the species to which you 
 (and I) belong is the ugliest on the whole face of 
 creation. Don’t let us revolt each other by keep- 
 ing in company any longer. Go away, you last, 
 worst, infirmest freak of Nature — go away!” 
 
 Shrowl listened to this complimentary address 
 with an aspect of surly serenity. When it had 
 come to an end, he took the letter from his waist- 
 coat pocket, without condescending to make any 
 reply. He was, by this time, too thoroughly 
 conscious of his own power over his master to 
 attach the smallest importance to anything Mr. 
 Treverton might say to him. 
 
THE BEAD SECRET. 
 
 347 
 
 “Now you’ve done your talking, suppose you 
 take a look at that,” said Shrowl, dropping the 
 letter carelessly on a deal table by his master’s 
 side. “It isn’t often that people trouble them- 
 selves to send letters to you — is it? I wonder 
 whether your niece has took a fancy to write to 
 you? It was put in the papers the other day 
 that she’d got a son and heir. Open the letter, 
 and see if it’s an invitation to the christening. 
 The company would be sure to want your smil- 
 ing face at the table to make ’em jolly. Just let 
 me take a grind at the mill, while you go out 
 and get a silver mug. The son and heir expects 
 a mug, you know, and his nurse expects half a 
 guinea, and his mamma expects all your fortune. 
 What a pleasure to make the three innocent cree- 
 turs happy! It’s shocking to see you pulling 
 wry faces, like that, over the letter. Lord! 
 lord! where can all your natural affection have 
 gone to? — ” 
 
 “If I only knew where to lay my hand on a 
 gag, I’d cram it into your infernal mouth!” cried 
 Mr. Treverton. “How dare you talk tome about 
 my niece? You wretch! you know I hate her 
 for her mother’s sake. What do you mean by 
 harping perpetually on my fortune? Sooner than 
 leave it to the play-actress’s child, I’d even leave 
 it to you; and sooner than leave it to you, I 
 would take every farthing of it out in a boat, 
 and bury it forever at the bottom of the sea!” 
 Venting his dissatisfaction in these strong terms, 
 Mr. Treverton snatched up Doctor Chennery’s 
 letter, and tore it open in a humor which by no 
 
348 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 means promised favorably for the success of the 
 vicar’s application. 
 
 He read the letter with an ominous scowl on 
 his face, which grew darker and darker as he got 
 nearer and nearer to the end. When he came to 
 the signature his humor changed and he laughed 
 sardonically. ‘ 4 Faithfully yours, Robert Chen- 
 nery,” he repeated to himself. “Yes! faithfully 
 mine, if I humor your whim. And what if I 
 don’t, parson?” He paused, and looked at the 
 letter again, the scowl reappearing on his face 
 as he did so. “There’s a lie of some kind lurk- 
 ing about under these lines of fair writing,” he 
 muttered suspiciously. ie I am not one of his 
 congregation: the law gives him no privilege of 
 imposing on me . What does he mean by mak- 
 ing the attempt?” He stopped again, reflected 
 a little, looked up suddenly at Shrowl, and said 
 to him. 
 
 “Have you lighted the oven fire yet?’* 
 
 “No, I hav’n’t,” answered Shrowl. 
 
 Mr. Treverton examined the letter for the third 
 time — hesitated — then slowly tore it in half, and 
 tossed the two pieces over contemptuously to his 
 servant. 
 
 “Light the fire at once,” he said. “And, if 
 you want paper, there it is for you. Stop!” h© 
 added, after Shrowl had picked up the torn let- 
 ter. “If anybody comes here to-morrow morn- 
 ing to ask for an answer, tell them I gave you 
 the letter to light the fire with, and say that’s 
 the answer.” With those words Mr. Treverton 
 returned to the mill, and began to grind at it 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 349 
 
 again, with a grin of malicious satisfaction on 
 his haggard face. 
 
 Shrowl withdrew into the kitchen, closed the 
 door, and, placing the torn pieces of the letter 
 together on the dresser, applied himself, with 
 the coolest deliberation, to the business of read- 
 ing it. When he had gone slowly and carefully 
 through it, from the address at the beginning to 
 the name at the end, he scratched reflectively for 
 a little while at his ragged beard, then folded the 
 letter up carefully and put it in his pocket. 
 
 “I’ll have another lojk at it later in the day,” 
 he thought to himself, tearing off a piece of an 
 old newspaper to light the fire with. “It strikes 
 me, just at present, that there may be better 
 things done with this letter than burning it.”. 
 
 Resolutely abstaining from taking the letter 
 out of his pocket again until all the duties of the 
 household for that day had been duly performed, 
 Shrowl lit the fire, occupied the morning in mak- 
 ing and baking the bread, and patiently took his 
 turn afterward at digging in the kitchen garden. 
 It was four o’clock in the afternoon before he felt 
 himself at liberty to think of his private affairs, 
 and to venture on retiring into solitude with the 
 object of secretly looking over the letter once 
 more. 
 
 A second perusal of Doctor Chennery’s unlucky 
 application to Mr. Treverton helped to confirm 
 Shrowl in his resolution not to destroy the letter. 
 With great pains and perseverance, and much 
 incidental scratching at his beard, he contrived 
 to make himself master of three distinct points 
 
350 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS, 
 
 in it, which stood out, in his estimation, as pos- 
 sessing prominent and serious importance. 
 
 The first point which he contrived to establish 
 clearly in his mind was that the person who signed 
 the name of Robert Chennery was desirous of ex- 
 amining a plan, or printed account, of the north 
 side of the interior of a certain old house in Corn- 
 wall, called Porthgenna Tower. The second point 
 appeared to resolve itself into this, that Robert 
 Chennery believed some such plan or printed ac- 
 count might be found among the collection of 
 books belonging to Mr. Treverton. The third 
 point was that this same Robert Chennery would 
 receive the loan of the plan or printed account as 
 one of the greatest favors that could be conferred 
 on him. Meditating on the latter fact, with an 
 eye exclusively fixed on the contemplation of his 
 own interests, Shrowl arrived at the conclusion 
 that it might be well worth his while, in a pe- 
 cuniary point of view, to try if he could not 
 privately place himself in a position to oblige 
 Robert Chennery by searching in secret among 
 his master’s books. “It might be worth a five- 
 pound note to me, if I managed it well,” thought 
 Shrowl, putting the letter back in his pocket 
 again, and ascending the stairs thoughtfully to 
 the lumber-rooms at the top of the house. 
 
 These rooms were two in number, were entirely 
 unfurnished, and were littered all over with the 
 rare collection of books which had once adorned 
 the library at Porthgenna Tower. Covered with 
 dust, and scattered in all directions and positions 
 over the floor, lay hundreds and hundreds of vol- 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 351 
 
 umes, cast out of their packing-cases as coals are 
 cast out of their sacks into a cellar. Ancient 
 books, which students would have treasured as 
 priceless, lay in chaotic equality of neglect side 
 by side with modem publications whose chief 
 merit was the beauty of the binding by which 
 they were inclosed. Into this wilderness of scat- 
 tered volumes Shrowl now wandered, fortified by 
 the supreme self-possession of ignorance, to search 
 resolutely for one particular book, with no other 
 light to direct him than the faint glimmer of the 
 two guiding words — Forthgenna Tower. Hav- 
 ing got them firmly fixed in his mind, his next 
 object was to search until he found them printed 
 on the first page of any one of the hundreds of 
 volumes that lay around him. This was, for the 
 time being, emphatically his business in life, and 
 there he now stood, in the largest of the two 
 attics, doggedly prepared to do it. 
 
 He cleared away space enough with his feet to 
 enable him to sit down comfortably on the floor, 
 and then began to look over all the books that 
 lay within arms-length of him. Odd volumes 
 of rare editions of the classics, odd volumes of 
 the English historians, odd volumes of plays by 
 the Elizabethan dramatists, books of travel, 
 books of sermons, books of jests, books of nat- 
 ural history, books of sport, turned up in quaint 
 and rapid succession; but no book containing on 
 the title-page the words “Forthgenna Tower” 
 rewarded the searching industry of Shrowl for 
 the first ten minutes after he had sat himself 
 down on the floor. 
 
352 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 Before removing to another position, and con- 
 tending with a fresh accumulation of literary 
 lumber, he paused and considered a little with 
 himself, whether there might not be some easier 
 and more orderly method than any he had yet 
 devised of working his way through the scat- 
 tered mass of volumes which yet remained to be 
 examined. The result of his reflections was that 
 it would be less confusing to him if he searched 
 through the books in all parts of the room indif- 
 ferently, regulating his selection of them solely 
 by their various sizes; disposing of all the largest 
 to begin with; then, after stowing them away 
 together, proceeding to the next largest, and so 
 going on until he came down at last to the 
 pocket volumes. Accordingly, he cleared away 
 another morsel of vacant space near the wall, 
 and then, trampling over the books as coolly as 
 if they were so many clods of earth on a plowed 
 field, picked out the largest of all the volumes 
 that lay on the floor. 
 
 It was an atlas; Shrowl turned over the maps, 
 reflected, shook his head, and removed the vol- 
 ume to the vacant space which he had cleared 
 close to the wall. 
 
 The next largest book was a magnificently 
 bound collection of engraved portraits of distin- 
 guished characters. Shrowl saluted the distin- 
 guished characters with a grunt of Gothic disap- 
 probation, and carried them off to keep the atlas 
 company against the wall. 
 
 The third largest book lay under several oth- 
 ers. It projected a little at one end, and it was 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 353 
 
 bound in scarlet morocco. In another position, 
 or bound in a quieter color, it would probably 
 have escaped notice. Shrowl drew it out with 
 some difficulty, opened it with a protentous 
 frown of distrust, looked at the title-page — and 
 suddenly slapped his thigh with a great oath of 
 exultation. There were the very two words of 
 which he was in search, staring him in the face, 
 as it were, with all the emphasis of the largest 
 capital letters. 
 
 He took a step toward the door to make sure 
 that his master was not moving in the house; 
 then checked himself and turned back. “What 
 do I care,” thought Shrowl, “whether he sees me 
 or not? If it comes to a tustle betwixt us which 
 is to have his own way, I know who's master 
 and who’s servant in the house by this time.” 
 Composing himself with that reflection, he turned 
 to the first leaf of the book, with the intention of 
 looking it over carefully, page by page, from be- 
 ginning to end. 
 
 The first leaf was a blank. The second leaf 
 had an inscription written at the top of it, in 
 faded ink, which contained these words and ini- 
 tials: “Rare. Only six copies printed. J. A. 
 
 T.” Relow, on the middle of the leaf, was the 
 printed dedication: “To John Arthur Trever- 
 
 ton, Esquire, Lord of the Manor of Porthgenna, 
 One of his Majesty’s Justices of the Peace, 
 F.R.S., etc., etc., etc., this work, in which an 
 attempt is made to describe the ancient and hon- 
 ored Mansion of his Ancestors — ” There were 
 many more lines, filled to bursting with all the 
 L — Vol. 16 
 
854: WORKS OE WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 largest and most obsequious words to be found in 
 the dictionary ; but Shrowl wisely abstained from 
 giving himself the trouble of reading them, and 
 turned over at once to the title-page. 
 
 There were the all-important words: “The 
 
 History and Antiquities of Porthgenna Tower. 
 From the period of its first erection to the present 
 time; comprising interesting genealogical partic- 
 ulars relating to the Treverton family; with an 
 inquiry into the Origin of Gothic Architecture, 
 and a few thoughts on the Theory of Fortifica- 
 tion after the period of the Norman Conquest. 
 By the Reverend Job Dark, D.D., Rector of 
 Porthgenna. The whole adorned with Portraits, 
 Views, and Plans, executed in the highest style 
 of art. Not published. Printed by Spaldock 
 & Grimes, Truro, 1734.” 
 
 That was the title-page. The next leaf con- 
 tained an engraved view of Porthgenna Tower 
 from the West. Then came several pages de- 
 voted to the Origin of Gothic Architecture. 
 Then more pages, explaining the Norman Theory 
 of Fortification. These were succeeded by an- 
 other engraving— Porthgenna Tower from the 
 East. After that followed more reading, under 
 the title of The Treverton Family; and then 
 came the third engraving — Porthgenna Tower 
 from the North. Shrowl paused there, and 
 looked with interest at the leaf opposite the 
 print. It only announced more reading still, 
 about the Erection of the Mansion; and this 
 was succeeded by engravings from family por- 
 traits in the gallery at Porthgenna. Placing his 
 
THE BEAD SECRET. 
 
 355 
 
 left thumb between the leaves to mark the place, 
 Shrowl impatiently turned to the end of the book, 
 to see what he could find there. The last leaf 
 contained a plan of tho stables; the leaf before 
 that presented a plan of the north garden; and 
 on the next leaf, turning backward, was the very 
 thing described in Robert Chennery’s letter — a 
 plan of the interior arrangement of the north side 
 of the house ! 
 
 ShrowPs first impulse on making this discov- 
 ery was to carry the book away to the safest 
 hiding-place he could find for it, preparatory to 
 secretly offering it for sale when the messenger 
 called the next morning for an answer to the let- 
 ter. A little reflection, however, convinced him 
 that a proceeding of this sort bore a dangerously 
 close resemblance to the act of thieving, and 
 might get him into trouble if the person with 
 whom he desired to deal asked him any prelimi- 
 nary questions touching his right to the volume 
 which he wanted to dispose of. The only al- 
 ternative that remained was to make the best 
 copy he could of the Plan, and to traffic with 
 that, as a document which the most scrupulous 
 person in the world need not hesitate to purchase. 
 
 Resolving, after some consideration, to under- 
 go the trouble of making the copy rather than 
 run the risk of purloining the book, Shrowl de- 
 scended to the kitchen, took from one of the 
 drawers of the dresser an old stump of a pen, a 
 bottle of ink, and a crumpled half-sheet of dirty 
 letter-paper, and returned to the garret to copy 
 the Plan as he best might. It was of the sim- 
 
356 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 plesfc kind, and it occupied but a small portion 
 of the page ; yet it presented to his eyes a hope- 
 lessly involved and intricate appearance when 
 he now examined it for the second time. 
 
 The rooms were represented by rows of small 
 squares, with names neatly printed inside them; 
 and the positions of doors, staircases, and pas- 
 sages were indicated by parallel lines of various 
 lengths and breadths. After much cogitation, 
 frowning, and pulling at his beard, it occurred 
 to Shrowl that the easiest method of copying the 
 Plan would be to cover it with the letter-paper 
 — which, though hardly half the size of the page, 
 was large enough to spread over the engraving 
 on it— and then to trace the lines which he saw 
 through the paper as carefully as he could with 
 his pen and ink. He puffed and snorted and 
 grumbled, and got red in the face over his task; 
 but he accomplished it at last — bating certain 
 drawbacks in the shape of blots and smears — in 
 a sufficiently creditable manner; then stopped to 
 let the ink dry and to draw his breath freely, 
 before he attempted to do anything more. 
 
 The next obstacle to be overcome consisted in 
 the difficulty of copying the names of the rooms, 
 which were printed inside the squares. Fortu- 
 nately for Shrowl, who was one of the clumsiest 
 of mankind in the use of the pen, none of the 
 names were very long. As it was, he found the 
 greatest difficulty in writing them in sufficiently 
 small characters to fit into the squares. One 
 name in particular — that of the Myrtle Room — 
 presented combinations of letters, in the word 
 
THE DEAD SECRET 
 
 857 
 
 “Myrtle,” which tried his patience and his fin 
 gers sorely when he attempted to reproduce them. 
 Indeed, the result, in this case, when he had done 
 his best, was so illegible, even to his eyes, that 
 he wrote the word over again in larger characters 
 at the top of the page, and connected it by a 
 wavering line with the square which represented 
 the Myrtle Room. The same accident happened 
 to him in two other instances, and was remedied 
 in the same way. With the rest of the names, 
 however, he succeeded better; and, when he had 
 finally completed the business of transcription by 
 writing the title, “Plan of the North Side,” his 
 copy presented, on the whole, a more respectable 
 appearance than might have been anticipated. 
 After satisfying himself of its accuracy by a 
 careful comparison of it with the original, he 
 folded it up along with Doctor Chennery’s letter, 
 and deposited it in his pocket with a hoarse gasp 
 of relief and a grim smile of satisfaction. 
 
 The next morning the garden door of the cot- 
 tage presented itself to the public eye in the 
 totally new aspect of standing hospitably ajar; 
 and one of the bare posts had the advantage of 
 being embellished by the figure of Shrowl, who 
 leaned against it easily, with his legs crossed, 
 his hands in his pockets, and his pipe in his 
 mouth, looking out for the return of the mes- 
 senger who had delivered Doctor Chennery’s 
 letter the day before. 
 
358 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 APPROACHING THE PRECIPICE. 
 
 Traveling from London to Porthgenna, Mr. 
 and Mrs. Frankland had stopped, on the ninth 
 of May, at the West Winston station. On the 
 eleventh of June they left it again to continue 
 their journey to Cornwall. On the thirteenth, 
 after resting two nights upon the road, they ar- 
 rived toward the evening at Porthgenna Tower. 
 
 There had been storm and rain all the morn- 
 ing; it had lulled toward the afternoon, and at 
 the hour when they reached the house the wind 
 had dropped, a thick white fog hid the sea from 
 view, and sudden showers fell drearily from time 
 to time over the sodden land. Not even a soli- 
 tary idler from the village was hanging about 
 the west terrace as the carriage containing Mr. 
 and Mrs. Frankland, the baby, and the two serv- 
 ants drove up to the house. 
 
 No one was waiting with the door open to re- 
 ceive the travelers; for all hope of their arriving 
 on that day had been given up, and the ceaseless 
 thundering of the surf, as the stormy sea surged 
 in on the beach beneath, drowned the roll of the 
 carriage- wheels over the terrace road. The driver 
 was obliged to leave his seat and ring at the bell 
 for admittance. A minute or more elapsed be- 
 fore the door was opened. With the rain falling 
 sullen and steady on the roof of the carriage, 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 359 
 
 with the raw dampness of the atmosphere pene- 
 trating through all coverings and defenses, with 
 the booming of the surf sounding threateningly 
 near in the dense obscurity of the fog, the young 
 couple waited for admission to their own home, 
 as strangers might have waited who had called 
 at an ill-chosen time. 
 
 When the door was opened at last, the master 
 and mistress, whom the servants would have 
 welcomed with the proper congratulations on 
 any other occasion, were now received with the 
 proper apologies instead. Mr. Munder, Mrs. 
 Pentreath, Betsey, and Mr. Frankland’s man 
 all crowded together in the hall, and all begged 
 pardon confusedly for not having been ready at 
 the door when the carriage drove up. The ap- 
 pearance of the baby changed the conventional 
 excuses of the housekeeper and the maid into con- 
 ventional expressions of admiration ; but the men 
 remained grave and gloomy, and spoke of the 
 miserable weather apologetically, as if the rain 
 and the fog had been of their own making. 
 
 The reason for their persistency in dwelling 
 on this one dreary topic came out while Mr. and 
 Mrs. Frankland were being conducted up the 
 west staircase. The storm of the morning had 
 been fatal to three of the Porthgenna fishermen, 
 who had been lost with their boat at sea, and 
 whose deaths had thrown the whole village into 
 mourning. The servants had done nothing but 
 talk of the catastrophe ever since the intelligence 
 of it had reached them early in the afternoon; 
 and Mr. Munder now thought it his duty to ex- 
 
360 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 plain that the absence of the villagers, on the oc- 
 casion of the arrival of his master and mistress, 
 was entirely attributable to the effect produced 
 among the little community by the wreck of the 
 fishing-boat. Under any less lamentable cir- 
 cumstances the west terrace would have been 
 crowded, and the appearance of the carriage 
 would have been welcomed with cheers. 
 
 4 ‘ Lenny, I almost wish we had waited a little 
 longer before we came here,” whispered Rosa- 
 mond, nervously pressing her husband’s arm. 
 “It is very dreary and disheartening to return 
 to my first home on such a day as this. That 
 story of the poor fishermen is a sad story, love, 
 to welcome me back to the place of my birth. 
 Let us send the first thing to-morrow morning, 
 and see what we can do for the poor helpless 
 women and children. I shall not feel easy in 
 my mind, after hearing that story, till we have 
 done something to comfort them.” 
 
 “I trust you will approve of the repairs, 
 ma’am,” said the housekeeper, pointing to 
 the staircase which led to the second story. 
 
 “The repairs?” said Rosamond, absently. 
 “Repairs! I never hear the word now with- 
 out thinking of the north rooms, and of the 
 plans we devised for getting my poor dear father 
 to live in them. Mrs. Pentreath, I have a host 
 of questions to ask you and Mr. Munder about 
 all the extraordinary things that happened when 
 the mysterious lady and the incomprehensible 
 foreigner came here. But tell me first — this is 
 the west front, 1 suppose? — how far are we from 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 361 
 
 the north rooms? I mean, how long would it 
 take us to get to them, if we wanted to go now 
 to that part of the house?” 
 
 “Oh, dear me, ma’am, not five minutes!” an- 
 swered Mrs. Pentreath. 
 
 “Not five minutes !” repeated Rosamond, whis- 
 pering to her husband again. “Do you hear 
 that, Lenny? In five minutes we might be in 
 the Myrtle Room!” 
 
 “Yet,” said Mr. Frankland, smiling, “in our 
 present state of ignorance, we are just as far from 
 it as if we were at West Winston still.” 
 
 “I can’t think that, Lenny. It may be only 
 my fancy, but now we are on the spot I feel as 
 if we had driven the mystery into its last hid- 
 ing-place. We are actually in the house that 
 holds the Secret; and nothing will persuade me 
 that we are not half-way already toward finding 
 it out. But don’t let us stop on this cold land- 
 ing. Which way are we to go next?” 
 
 “This way, ma’am,” said Mr. Munder, seiz- 
 ing the first opportunity of placing himself in 
 a prominent position. “There is a fire in the 
 drawing-room. Will you allow me the honor 
 of leading and conducting you, sir, to the apart- 
 ment in question?” he added, officiously stretch- 
 ing out his hand to Mr. Frankland. 
 
 “Certainly not !” interposed Rosamond, sharp- 
 ly. She had noticed with her usual quickness 
 of observation that Mr. Munder wanted the deli- 
 cacy of feeling which ought to have restrained 
 him from staring curiously at his blind master 
 in her presence, and she was unfavorably dis- 
 
362 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 posed toward him in consequence. 4 ‘Wherever 
 the apartment in question may happen to be,” 
 she continued, with satirical emphasis, “I will 
 lead Mr. Frankland to it, if you please. If you 
 want to make yourself useful, you had better go 
 on before us and open the door.” 
 
 Outwardly crestfallen, but inwardly indig- 
 nant, Mr. Munder led the way to the drawing- 
 room. The fire burned brightly, the old-fash- 
 ioned furniture displayed itself to the most 
 picturesque advantage, the paper on the walls 
 looked comfortably mellow, the carpet, faded as 
 it was, felt soft and warm under foot. Rosa- 
 mond led her husband to an easy-chair by the 
 fireside, and began to feel at home for the first 
 time. 
 
 “This looks really comfortable,” she said. 
 “When we have shut out that dreary white 
 fog, and the candles are lit, and the tea is on 
 the table, we shall have nothing in the world 
 to complain of. You enjoy this nice warm at- 
 mosphere, don’t you, Lenny? There is a piano 
 in the room, my dear; I can play to you in the 
 evening at Porthgenna just as I used in Lon- 
 don. Nurse, sit down and make yourself and 
 the baby as comfortable as you can. Before we 
 take our bonnets off, I must go away with Mrs. 
 Pentreath and see about the bedrooms. What is 
 your name, you very rosy, good-natured-looking 
 girl? Betsey, is it? Well, then, Betsey, sup- 
 pose you go down and get the tea; and we shall 
 like you all the better if you can contrive to 
 bring us some cold meat with it.” Giving her 
 
THE BEAD SECRET. 
 
 363 
 
 orders in those good-humored terms, and not no- 
 ticing that her husband looked a little uneasy 
 while she was talking so familiarly to a servant, 
 Rosamond left the room in company with Mrs. 
 Pentreath. 
 
 When she returned her face and manner were 
 altered; she looked and spoke seriously and 
 quietly. 
 
 “I hope I have arranged everything for the 
 best, Lenny,” she said. “The airiest and largest 
 room, Mrs. Pentreath tells me, is the room in 
 which my mother died. But I thought we had 
 better not make use of that: I felt as if it chilled 
 and saddened me only to look at it. Further on, 
 along the passage, there is a room that was my 
 nursery. I almost fancied, when Mrs. Pentreath 
 told me she had heard I used to sleep there, that 
 I remembered the pretty little arched doorway 
 leading into the second room — the night-nursery 
 it used to be called in former days. I have 
 ordered the fire to be lighted there, and the beds 
 to be made. There is a third room on the right 
 hand, which communicates with the day-nursery. 
 I think we might manage to establish ourselves 
 very comfortably in the three rooms — if you felt 
 no objection — though they are not so large or so 
 grandly furnished as the company bedrooms. I 
 will change the arrangement, if you like — but 
 the house looks rather lonesome and dreary, just 
 at first — and my heart warms to the old nursery 
 — and I think we might at least try it, to begin 
 with, don’t you, Lenny?” 
 
 Mr. Frankland was quite of his wife’s opinion, 
 
364 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 and was ready to accede to any domestic arrange- 
 ments that she might think fit to make. While 
 he was assuring her of this the tea came up, and 
 the sight of it helped to restore Rosamond to her 
 usual spirits. When the meal was over, she oc- 
 cupied herself in seeing the baby comfortably 
 established for the night, in the room on the right 
 hand which communicated with the day-nursery. 
 That maternal duty performed, she came back to 
 her husband in the drawing-room; and the con- 
 versation between them turned — as it almost al- 
 ways turned now when they were alone — on the 
 two perplexing subjects of Mrs. Jazeph and the 
 Myrtle Room. 
 
 44 1 wish it was not night,” said Rosamond. 
 i4 X should like to begin exploring at once. Mind, 
 Lenny, you must be with me in all my investi- 
 gations. I lend you my eyes, and you give me 
 your advice. You must never lose patience, 
 and never tell me that you can be of no use. 
 How I do wish we were starting on our voyage 
 of discovery at this very moment! But we may 
 make inquiries, at any rate,” she continued, 
 ringing the bell. 44 Let us have the housekeeper 
 and the steward up, and try if we can’t make 
 them tell us something more than they told us 
 in their letter.” 
 
 The bell was answered by Betsey. Rosamond 
 desired that Mr. Munder and Mrs. Pentreath 
 might be sent upstairs. Betsey having heard 
 Mrs. Prankland express her intention of ques- 
 tioning the housekeeper and the steward, guessed 
 why they were wanted, and smiled mysteriously. 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 365 
 
 “Did you see anything of those strange visi- 
 tors who behaved so oddly?” asked Rosamond, 
 detecting the smile. “Yes, I am sure you did. 
 Tell us what you saw. We want to hear every- 
 thing that happened — everything, down to the 
 smallest trifle.” 
 
 Appealed to in these direct terms, Betsey con- 
 trived, with much circumlocution and confusion, 
 to relate what her own personal experience had 
 been of the proceedings of Mrs. Jazeph and her 
 foreign companion. When she had done, Rosa- 
 mond stopped her on her way to the door by ask- 
 ing this question : 
 
 “You say the lady was found lying in a faint ^ 
 ing-fit at the top of the stairs. Have you any 
 notion, Betsey, why she fainted?” 
 
 The servant hesitated. 
 
 “Come! come!” said Rosamond. “You have 
 some notion, I can see. Tell us what it is.” 
 
 “I’m afraid you will be angry with me, 
 ma’am,” said Betsey, expressing embarrass- 
 ment by drawing lines slowty with her fore- 
 finger on a table at her side. 
 
 “Nonsense! I shall only be angry with you if 
 you won’t speak. Why do you think the lady 
 fainted?” 
 
 Betsey drew a very long line with her em- 
 barrassed forefinger, wiped it afterward on her 
 apron, and answered : 
 
 “I think she fainted, if you please, ma’am, 
 because she see the ghost.” 
 
 “The ghost! What*! is there a ghost in the 
 house? Lenny, here is a romance that we never 
 
366 
 
 WOKKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 expected. What sort of ghost is it? Let us 
 have the whole story.” 
 
 The whole story, as Betsey told it, was not of 
 a nature to afford her hearers any extraordinary 
 information, or to keep them very long in sus- 
 pense. The ghost was a lady who had been at 
 a remote period the wife of one of the owners of 
 Porthgenna Tower, and who had been guilty 
 of deceiving her husband in some way unknown. 
 She had been condemned in consequence to walk 
 about the north rooms as long as ever the walls 
 of them held together. She had long, curling, 
 light-brown hair, and very white teeth, and a 
 dimple in each cheek, and was altogether “aw- 
 ful beautiful” to look at. Her approach was 
 heralded to any mortal creature who was un- 
 fortunate enough to fall in her way by the blow- 
 ing of a cold wind, and nobody who had once 
 felt that wind had the slightest chance of ever 
 feeling warm again. That was all Betsey knew 
 about the ghost; and it was in her opinion enough 
 to freeze a person’s blood only to think of it. 
 
 Rosamond smiled, then looked grave again. 
 “I wish you could have told us a little more,” 
 she said. “But, as you cannot, we must try 
 Mrs. Pentreath and Mr. Munder next. Send 
 them up here, if you please, Betsey, as soon as 
 you get downstairs.” 
 
 The examination of the housekeeper and the 
 steward led to no result whatever. Nothing 
 more than they had already communicated in 
 their letter to Mrs. Frankland could be extracted 
 from either of them. Mr. Munder’s dominant 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 367 
 
 idea was that the foreigner had entered the doors 
 of Porthgenna Tower with felonious ideas on the 
 subject of the family plate. Mrs. Pentreath con- 
 curred in that opinion, and mentioned, in connec- 
 tion with it, her own private impression that the 
 lady in the quiet dress was an unfortunate person 
 who had escaped from a madhouse. As to giv- 
 ing a word of advice, or suggesting a plan for 
 solving the mystery, neither the housekeeper nor 
 the steward appeared to think that the rendering 
 of any assistance of that sort lay at all within 
 their province. They took their own practical 
 view of the suspicious conduct of the two stran- 
 gers, and no mortal power could persuade them 
 to look an inch beyond it. 
 
 “Oh, the stupidity, the provoking, impene- 
 trable, pretentious stupidity of respectable En- 
 glish servants !” exclaimed Rosamond, when 
 she and her husband were alone again. “No 
 help, Lenny, to be hoped for from either of those 
 two people. We have nothing to trust to now 
 but the examination of the house to-morrow; and 
 that resource may fail us, like all the rest. What 
 can Doctor Chennery be about? Why did we not 
 hear from him before we left West Winston?” 
 
 “ Patience, Rosamond, patience. We shall 
 see what the post brings to-morrow.” 
 
 “Pray don’t talk about patience, dear! My 
 stock of that virtue was never a very large one, 
 and it was all exhausted ten days ago, at least. 
 Oh, the weeks and weeks I have been vainly ask- 
 ing myself — -Why should Mrs. Jazeph warn me 
 against going into the Myrtle Room? Is she 
 
368 
 
 WORKS OP WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 afraid of my discovering a crime? or afraid of 
 my tumbling through the floor? What did she 
 want to do in the room, when she made that at- 
 tempt to get into it? Why, in the name of won- 
 der, should she know something about this house 
 that I never knew, that my father never knew, 
 that nobody else—” 
 
 “ Rosamond!” cried Mr. Frankland, suddenly 
 changing color, and starting in his chair — “I 
 think I can guess who Mrs. Jazeph is!” 
 
 “Good gracious, Lenny ! What do you mean?” 
 
 “Something in those last words of yours started 
 the idea in my mind the instant you spoke. Do 
 you remember, when we were staying at St. 
 Swithin’s-on-Sea, and talking about the chances 
 for and against our prevailing on your father to 
 live with us here— do you remember, Rosamond, 
 telling me at that time of certain unpleasant as 
 sociations which he had with the house, and men- 
 tioning among them the mysterious disappearance 
 of a servant on the morning of your mother’s 
 death?” 
 
 Rosamond turned pale at the question. “How 
 came we never to think of that before?” she said. 
 
 “You told me,” pursued Mr. Frankland, “that 
 this servant left a strange letter behind her, in 
 which she confessed that your mother had charged 
 her with the duty of telling a secret to your father 
 — a secret that she was afraid to divulge, and 
 that she was afraid of being questioned about. 
 I am right, am I not, in stating those two rea- 
 sons as the reasons she gave for her disappear- 
 ance?” 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 369 
 
 “ Quite right.” 
 
 * ‘And your father never heard of her again?” 
 
 “Never !” 
 
 “It is a bold guess to make, Rosamond, but 
 the impression is strong on my mind that, on the 
 day when Mrs. Jazeph came into your room at 
 West Winston, you and that servant met, and 
 she knew it!” 
 
 “ And the Secret, dear — the Secret she was 
 afraid to tell my father?” 
 
 “Must be in some way connected with the 
 Myrtle Room.” 
 
 Rosamond said nothing in answer. She rose 
 from her chair, and began to walk agitatedly up 
 and down the room. Hearing the rustle of her 
 dress, Leonard called her to him, and, taking 
 her hand, laid his fingers on her pulse, and then 
 lifted them for a moment to her cheek. 
 
 “I wish I had waited until to-morrow morning 
 before I told you my idea about Mrs. Jazeph,” 
 he said. “I have agitated you to no purpose 
 whatever, and have spoiled your chance of a 
 good night’s rest.” 
 
 “No, no! nothing of the kind. Oh, Lenny, 
 how this guess of yours adds to the interest — the 
 fearful, breathless interest— we have in tracing 
 that woman, and in finding out the Myrtle Room. 
 Do you think — ?” 
 
 “I have done with thinking for the night, my 
 dear; and you must have done with it too. We 
 have said more than enough about Mrs. Jazeph 
 already. Change the subject, and I will talk of 
 anything else you please.” 
 
370 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 “It is not so easy to change the subject.” said 
 Rosamond, pouting, and moving away to walk 
 up and down the room again. 
 
 “Then let us change the place, and make it 
 easier that way. I know you think me the most 
 provokingly obstinate man in the world, but 
 there is reason in my obstinacy, and you will ac- 
 knowledge as much when you awake to-morrow 
 morning refreshed by a good night’s rest. Come, 
 let us give our anxieties a holiday. Take me 
 into one of the other rooms, and let me try if I 
 can guess what it is like by touching the furni- 
 ture.” 
 
 The reference to his blindness which the last 
 words contained brought Rosamond to his side 
 in a moment. “You always know best,” she 
 said, putting her arm round his neck and kissing 
 him. “I was looking cross, love, a minute ago, 
 but the clouds are all gone now. We will change 
 the scene, and explore some other room, as you 
 propose.” 
 
 She paused, her eyes suddenly sparkled, her 
 color rose, and she smiled to herself as if some 
 new fancy had that instant crossed her mind. 
 
 “Lenny, I will take you where you shall touch 
 a very remarkable piece of furniture indeed,” 
 she resumed, leading him to the door while she 
 spoke. “We will see if you can tell me at once 
 what it is like. You must not be impatient, 
 mind; and you must promise to touch nothing 
 till you feel me guiding your hand.” 
 
 She drew him after her along the passage, 
 opened the door of the room in which the baby 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 371 
 
 had been put to bed, made a sign to the nurse to 
 be silent, and, leading Leonard up to the cot, 
 guided his hand down gently, so as to let the 
 tips of his fingers touch the child’s cheek. 
 
 “There, sir!” she cried, her face beaming 
 with happiness as she saw the sudden flush of 
 surprise and pleasure which changed her hus- 
 band’s natural quiet, subdued expression in an 
 instant. “What do you say to that piece of fur- 
 niture? Is it a chair, or a table? Or is it the 
 most precious thing in all the house, in all Corn- 
 wall, in all England, in all the world? Kiss it, 
 and see what it is — a bust of a baby by a sculp- 
 tor, or a living cherub by your wife!” She 
 turned, laughing, to the nurse — “Hannah, you 
 look so serious that I am sure you must be hun- 
 gry. Have you had your supper yet?” The 
 woman smiled, and answered that she had ar- 
 ranged to go downstairs, as soon as one of the 
 servants could relieve her in taking care of the 
 child. “Go at once,” said Rosamond. “I will 
 stop here and look after the baby. Get your sup- 
 per and come back again in half an hour.” 
 
 When the nurse had left the room, Rosamond 
 placed a chair for Leonard by the side of the cot, 
 and seated herself on a low stool at his knees. 
 Her variable disposition seemed to change again 
 when she did this; her face grew thoughtful, her 
 eyes softened, as they turned, now on her hus- 
 band, now on the bed in which the child was 
 sleeping by his side. After a minute or two of 
 silence, she took one of his hands, placed it on 
 his knee, and laid her cheek gently down on it. 
 
372 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 “Lenny,” she said, rather sadly, “I wonder 
 whether we are any of us capable of feeling per- 
 fect happiness in this world?” 
 
 “What makes you ask that question, my 
 dear?” 
 
 “I fancy that I could feel perfect happiness, 
 and yet — ” 
 
 “And yet what?” 
 
 “And yet it seems as if, with all my blessings, 
 that blessing was never likely to be granted to 
 me. I should be perfectly happy now but for 
 one little thing. I suppose you can’t guess what 
 that thing is?” 
 
 “I would rather you told me, Rosamond.” 
 “Ever since our child was born, love, I have 
 had a little aching at the heart — especially when 
 we are all three together, as we are now — a little 
 sorrow that I can’t quite put away from me on 
 your account.” 
 
 “On my account! Lift up your head, Rosa- 
 mond, and come nearer to me. I feel something 
 on my hand which tells me that you are crying.” 
 She rose directly and laid her face close to his. 
 “My own love,” she said, clasping her arms fast 
 round him. “My own heart’s darling, you have 
 never seen our child.” 
 
 “Yes, Rosamond, I see him with your eyes.” 
 “Oh, Lenny! I tell you everything I can — 1 
 do my best to lighten the cruel, cruel darkness 
 which shuts you out from that lovely little face 
 lying so close to you! But can I tell you how he 
 looks when he first begins to take notice? can I 
 tell you all the thousand pretty things he will do 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 373 
 
 when he first tries to talk? God has been very 
 merciful to us — but, oh, how much more heavily 
 the sense of your affliction weighs on me now 
 when I am more to you than your wife — now 
 when I am the mother of your child !” 
 
 4 And yet that affliction ought to weigh lightly 
 on your spirits, Rosamond, for you have made it 
 weigh lightly on mine. 5 ’ 
 
 ‘ 4 Have I? Really and truly, have I? It is 
 something noble to live for, Lenny, if I can live 
 for that! It is some comfort to hear you say, as 
 you said just now, that you see with my eyes. 
 They shall always serve you — oh, always! ah 
 ways! — as faithfully as if they were your own. 
 The veriest trifle of a visible thing that I look 
 at with any interest, you shall as good as look at 
 too. I might have had my own little harmless 
 secrets, dear, with another husband; but with 
 you to have even so much as a thought in secret 
 seems like taking the basest, the cruelest advan- 
 tage of your blindness. I do love you so, Lenny! 
 I am so much fonder of you now than I was 
 when we were first married — I never thought I 
 should be, but I am. You are so much hand- 
 somer to me, so much cleverer to me, so much 
 more precious to me in every way. But I am 
 always telling you that, am I not? Do you get 
 tired of hearing me? No? Are you sure of 
 that? Very, very, very sure?” She stopped, 
 and looked at him earnestly, with a smile on her 
 lips, and the tears still glistening in her eyes. 
 Just then the child stirred a little in his cot and 
 drew her attention away. She arranged the bed- 
 
374 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 clothes over him, watched him in silence for a 
 little while, then sat down again on the stool at 
 Leonard’s feet. “Baby has turned his face quite 
 round toward you now,” she said. “Shall I tell 
 you exactly how he looks, and what his bed is 
 like, and how the room is furnished?” 
 
 Without waiting for an answer, she began to 
 describe the child’s appearance and position with 
 the marvelous minuteness of a woman’s observa- 
 tion. While she proceeded, her elastic spirits 
 recovered themselves, and its naturally bright 
 happy expression reappeared on her face. By 
 the time the nurse returned to her post, Rosa- 
 mond was talking with all her accustomed vivac- 
 ity, and amusing her husband with all her ac- 
 customed success. 
 
 When they went back to the drawing-room, 
 she opened the piano and sat down to play. % “I 
 must give you your usual evening concert, 
 Lenny,” she said, “or I shall be talking again 
 on the forbidden subject of the Myrtle Room.” 
 
 She played some of Mr. Frankland’s favorite 
 airs, with a certain union of feeling and fanci- 
 fulness in her execution of the music, which 
 seemed to blend the charm of her own dispo- 
 sition with the charm of the melodies which 
 sprang into life under her touch. After play- 
 ing through the airs she could remember most 
 easily, she ended with the Last Waltz of Weber. 
 It was Leonard’s favorite, and it was always re- 
 served on that account to grace the close of the 
 evening’s performance. 
 
 She lingered longer than usual over the last 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 375 
 
 plaintive notes of the waltz ; then suddenly left 
 the piano, and hastened across the room to the 
 fire-place. 
 
 4 4 Surely it has turned much colder within the 
 last minute or two,” she said, kneeling down on 
 the rug and holding her face and hands over the 
 fire. 
 
 “Has it?” returned Leonard. “I don’t feel 
 any change.” 
 
 “Perhaps I have caught cold,” said Rosa- 
 mond. “Or perhaps,” she added, laughing 
 rather uneasily, “the wind that goes before the 
 ghostly lady of the north rooms has been blow- 
 ing over me. I certainly felt something like a 
 sudden chill, Lenny, while I was playing the 
 last notes of Weber.” 
 
 “Nonsense, Rosamond. You are overfatigued 
 and overexcited. Tell your maid to make you 
 some hot wine and water, and lose no time in 
 getting to bed.” 
 
 Rosamond cowered closer over the fire. “It’s 
 lucky I am not superstitious,” she said, “or I 
 might fancy that I was predestined to see the 
 ghost.” 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 STANDING ON THE BRINK. 
 
 The first night at Porthgenna passed without 
 the slightest noise or interruption of any kind. 
 No ghost, or dream of a ghost, disturbed the 
 soundness of Rosamond’s slumbers. She awoke 
 
376 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 in her usual spirits and her usual health, and 
 was out in the west garden before breakfast. 
 
 The sky was cloudy, and the wind veered 
 about capriciously to all the points of the com- 
 pass. In the course of her walk Rosamond met 
 with the gardener, and asked him what he 
 thought about the weather. The man replied 
 that it might rain again before noon, but that, 
 unless he was very much mistaken, it was going 
 to turn to heat in the course of the next four- 
 and-twenty hours. 
 
 “Pray, did you ever hear of a room on the 
 north side of our old house called the Myrtle 
 Room?” inquired Rosamond. She had resolved, 
 on rising that morning, not to lose a chance of 
 making the all-important discovery for want of 
 asking questions of everybody in the neighbor- 
 hood ; and she began with the gardener accord- 
 ingly. 
 
 “I never heard tell of it, ma’am,” said the 
 man. “But it’s a likely name enough, consider- 
 ing how the myrtles do grow in these parts.” 
 
 “Are there any myrtles growing at the north 
 side of the house?” asked Rosamond, struck 
 with the idea of tracing the mysterious room by 
 searching for it outside the building instead of 
 inside. “I mean close to the walls,” she added, 
 seeing the man look puzzled; “under the win- 
 dows, you know?” 
 
 “I never see anything under the windows in 
 my time but weeds and rubbish,” replied the 
 gardener. 
 
 Just then the breakfast-bell rang. Rosamond 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 377 
 
 returned to the house, determined to explore the 
 north garden, and if she found any relic of a bed 
 of myrtles to mark the window above it, and to 
 have the room which that window lighted opened 
 immediately. She confided this new scheme to 
 her husband. He complimented her on her in- 
 genuity, but confessed that he had no great hope 
 of any discoveries being made out of doors, after 
 what the gardener had said about the weeds and 
 rubbish. 
 
 As soon as breakfast was over, Rosamond rang 
 the bell to order the gardener to be in attend- 
 ance, and to say that the keys of the north rooms 
 would be wanted. The summons was answered 
 by Mr. Frankland’s servant, who brought up 
 with him the morning’s supply of letters, which 
 the postman had just delivered. Rosamond 
 turned them over eagerly, pounced on one with 
 an exclamation of delight, and said to her hus- 
 band — “The Long Beckley postmark! News 
 from the vicar, at last!” 
 
 She opened the letter and ran her eye over it — 
 then suddenly dropped it in her lap with her face 
 all in a glow. “Lenny!” she exclaimed, “there 
 is news here that is positively enough to turn 
 one’s head. I declare the vicar’s letter has quite 
 taken away my breath!” 
 
 “Read it,” said Mr. Frankland; “pray read it 
 at once.” 
 
 Rosamond complied with the request in a very 
 faltering, unsteady voice. Doctor Chonnery be- 
 gan his letter by announcing that his application 
 to Andrew Treverton had remained unanswered; 
 
378 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 but he added that it had, nevertheless, produced 
 results which no one could possibly have antiei- 
 pated. For information on the subject of those 
 results, he referred Mr. and Mis. Frankland to a 
 copy subjoined of a communication marked pri- 
 vate, which he had received from his man of 
 business in London. 
 
 The communication contained a detailed report 
 of an interview which had taken place between 
 Mr. Treverton’s servant and the messenger who 
 had called for an answer to Doctor Chennery’s 
 letter. Shrowl, it appeared, had opened the in- 
 terview by delivering his master’s message, had 
 then produced the vicar’s torn letter and the copy 
 of the Plan, and had announced his readiness to 
 part with the latter for the consideration of a 
 five-pound note. The messenger had explained 
 that he had no power to treat for the document, 
 and had advised Mr. Treverton’s servant to wait 
 on Doctor Chennery’s agent. After some hesi- 
 tation, Shrowl had decided to do this, on pretense 
 of going out on an errand — had seen the agent — 
 had been questioned about how he became pos- 
 sessed of the copy — and, finding that there would 
 be no chance of disposing of it unless he an- 
 swered all inquiries, had related the circum- 
 stances under which the copy had been made. 
 After hearing his statement, the agent had en- 
 gaged to apply immediately for instructions to 
 Doctor Chennery; and had written accordingly, 
 mentioning in a postscript that he had seen the 
 transcribed Plan, and had ascertained that it 
 really exhibited the positions of doors, stair- 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 379 
 
 cases, and rooms, with the names attached to 
 them. 
 
 Resuming his own letter, Doctor Chennery 
 proceeded to say that he must now leave it en- 
 tirely to Mr. and Mrs. Frankland to decide what 
 course they ought to adopt. lie had already 
 compromised himself a little in his own estima- 
 tion, by assuming a character which really did 
 not belong to him, when he made his application 
 to Andrew Treverton; and he felt he could per- 
 sonally venture no further in the affair, either 
 by expressing an opinion or giving any advice, 
 now that it had assumed such a totally new as- 
 pect. He felt quite sure that his young friends 
 would arrive at the wise and the right decision, 
 after they had maturely considered the matter in 
 all its bearings. In that conviction, he had in- 
 structed his man of business not to stir in the 
 affair until he had heard from Mr. Frankland, 
 and to be guided entirely by any directions 
 which that gentleman might give. 
 
 “Directions!” exclaimed Rosamond, crump- 
 ling up the letter in a high state of excitement 
 as soon as she had read to the end of it. “All 
 the directions we have to give may be written in 
 a minute and read in a second! What in the 
 world does the vicar mean by talking about 
 maturo consideration? Of course,” cried Ros- 
 amond, looking, womanlike, straight on to the 
 purpose she had in view, without wasting a 
 thought on the means by which it was to be 
 achieved — “Of course we give the man his five- 
 pound note, and get the Plan by return of post!” 
 
380 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 Mr. Frankland shook his head gravely. 6 ‘ Quite 
 impossible,” he said. “If you think for a mo- 
 ment, my dear, you will surely see that it is out 
 of the question to traffic with a servant for infor- 
 mation that has been surreptitiously* obtained 
 from his master’s library.” 
 
 “Oh, dear! dear! don’t say that!” pleaded 
 Rosamond, looking quite aghast at the view her 
 husband took of the matter. “What harm are 
 we doing, if we give the man his five pounds? 
 He has only made a copy of the Plan ; he has 
 not stolen anything.” 
 
 “He has stolen information, according to my 
 idea of it,” said Leonard. 
 
 “Well, but if he has,” persisted Rosamond, 
 “what harm does it do to his master? In my 
 opinion his master deserves to have the informa- 
 tion stolen, for not having had the common po- 
 liteness to send it to the vicar. We must have 
 the Plan — oh, Lenny, don’t shake your head, 
 please! — we must have it, you know we must! 
 What is the use of being scrupulous with an old 
 wretch (I must call him so, though he is my 
 uncle) who won’t conform to the commonest 
 usages of society? You can’t deal with him — 
 and I am sure the vicar would say so, if he was 
 here — as you would with civilized people, or 
 people in their senses, which everybody says he 
 is not. What use is the Plan of the north rooms 
 to him? And, besides, if it is of any use, he 
 has got the original; so his information is not 
 stolen, after all, because he has got it the whole 
 time — has he not, dear?” 
 
THE DEAD SECRET, 
 
 381 
 
 “Rosamond! Rosamond!” said Leonard, smil- 
 ing at his wife’s transparent sophistries, “you are 
 trying to reason like a Jesuit,” 
 
 “I don’t care who I reason like, love, as long 
 as I get the Plan.” 
 
 Mr. Frankland still shook his head. Finding 
 her arguments of no avail, Rosamond wisely re- 
 sorted to the immemorial weapon of her sex— 
 Persuasion ; using it at such close quarters and 
 to such good purposes that she finally won her 
 husband’s reluctant consent to a species of com- 
 promise, which granted her leave to give direc- 
 tions for purchasing the copied Plan on one 
 condition. 
 
 This condition was that they should send back 
 the Plan to Mr. Treverton as soon as it had served 
 their purpose; making a full acknowledgment to 
 him of the manner in which it had been obtained, 
 and pleading in justification of the proceeding 
 his own want of courtesy in withholding infor- 
 mation, of no consequence in itself, which any 
 one else in his place would have communicated 
 as a matter of course. Rosamond tried hard to 
 obtain the withdrawal or modification of this 
 condition; but her husband’s sensitive pride was 
 not to be touched, on that point, with impunity, 
 even by her light hand. “I have done too much 
 violence already to my own convictions,” he 
 said, “and I will now do no more. If we are 
 to degrade ourselves by dealing with this serv- 
 ant, let us at least prevent him from claiming us 
 as his accomplices. Write in my name, Rosa- 
 mond, to Doctor Chennery’s man of business, 
 
382 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 and say that we are willing to purchase the tran- 
 scribed Plan on the condition that I have stated 
 — which condition he will of course place before 
 the servant in the plainest possible terms.” 
 
 “And suppose the servant refuses to risk losing 
 his place, which he must do if he accepts your 
 condition?” said Rosamond, going rather reluc- 
 tantly to the writing-table. 
 
 “Let us not worry ourselves, my dear, by sup- 
 posing anything. Let us wait and hear what 
 happens, and act accordingly. When you are 
 ready to write, tell me, and I will dictate your 
 letter on this occasion. I wish to make the 
 vicar’s man of business understand that we act 
 as we do, knowing, in the first place, that Mr. 
 Andrew Treverton cannot be dealt with accord- 
 ing to the established usages of society; and 
 knowing in the second place, that the informa- 
 tion which his servant offers to us is contained 
 in an extract from a printed book, and is in no 
 way, directly or indirectly, connected with Mr. 
 Treverton’s private affairs. Now that you have 
 made me consent to this compromise, Rosamond, 
 I must justify it as completely as possible to oth- 
 ers as well as to myself.” 
 
 Seeing that his resolution was firmly settled, 
 Rosamond had tact enough to abstain from say- 
 ing anything more. The letter was written ex- 
 actly as Leonard dictated it. When it had been 
 placed in the post-bag, and when the other let- 
 ters of the morning had been read and answered, 
 Mr. Frankland reminded his wife of the inten- 
 tion she had expressed at breakfast-time of visit- 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 383 
 
 ing the north garden, and requested that she 
 would take him there with her. He candidly 
 acknowledged that, since he had been made ac- 
 quainted with Doctor Chennery’s letter, he would 
 give five times the sum demanded by Shrowl for 
 the copy of the Plan if the Myrtle Room could 
 be discovered, without assistance from any one, 
 before the letter to the vicar’s man of business 
 was put into the post. Nothing would give him 
 so much pleasure, he said, as to be able to throw 
 it into the fire, and to send a plain refusal to 
 treat for the Plan in its place. 
 
 They went into the north garden, and there 
 Rosamond’s own eyes convinced her that she 
 had not the slightest chance of discovering any 
 vestige of a myrtle-bed near any one of the win- 
 dows. From the garden they returned to the 
 house, and had the door opened that led into the 
 north hall. 
 
 They were shown the place on the pavement 
 where the keys had been found, and the place at 
 the top of the first flight of stairs where Mrs. 
 Jazeph had been discovered when the alarm was 
 given. At Mr. Frankland’s suggestion, the door 
 of the room which immediately fronted this spot 
 was opened. It presented a dreary spectacle of 
 dust and dirt and dimness. Some old pictures 
 were piled against one of the walls, some tat- 
 tered chairs were heaped together in the middle 
 of the floor, some broken china lay on the man- 
 tel-piece, and a rotten cabinet, cracked through 
 from top to bottom, stood in one corner. These 
 few relics of the furnishing and fitting-up of the 
 
384 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 room were all carefully examined, but nothing 
 of the smallest importance — nothing tending in 
 the most remote degree to clear up the mystery 
 of the Myrtle Room — was discovered. 
 
 “Shall we have the other doors opened?” in- 
 quired Rosamond when they came out on the 
 landing again. 
 
 “I think it will be useless,” replied her hus- 
 band. “Our only hope of finding out the mys- 
 tery of the Myrtle Room — if it is as deeply hidden 
 from us as I believe it to be — is by searching for 
 it in that room, and no other. The search, to be 
 effectual, must extend, if we find it necessary, to 
 the pulling up of the floor and wainscots — per- 
 haps even to the dismantling of the walls. We 
 may do that with one room when we know where 
 it is, but we cannot, by any process short of pull- 
 ing the whole side of the house down, do it with 
 the sixteen rooms, through which our present 
 ignorance condemns us to wander without guide 
 or clew. It is hopeless enough to be looking for 
 we know not what; but let us discover, if we 
 can, where the four walls are within which that 
 unpromising search must begin and end. Surely 
 the floor of the landing must be dusty? Are 
 there no foot-marks on it, after Mrs. Jazeph’s 
 visit, that might lead us to the right door?” 
 
 This suggestion led to a search for footsteps on 
 the dusty floor of the landing, but nothing of the 
 sort could be found. Matting had been laid down 
 over the floor at some former period, and the sur- 
 face, torn, ragged, and rotten with age, was too 
 uneven in every part to allow the dust to lie 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 385 
 
 smoothly on it. Here and there, where there 
 was a hole through to the boards of the landing, 
 Mr. Frankland’s servant thought he detected 
 marks in the dust which might have been pro- 
 duced by the toe or the heel of a shoe; but these 
 faint and doubtful indications lay yards and 
 yards apart from each other, and to draw any 
 conclusion of the slightest importance from them 
 was simply and plainly impossible. After spend- 
 ing more than an hour in examining the north 
 side of the house, Rosamond was obliged to con- 
 fess that the servants were right when they pre- 
 dicted, on first opening the door in the hall, that 
 she would discover nothing. 
 
 “The letter must go, Lenuy,” she said, when 
 they returned to the breakfast-room. 
 
 “There is no help for it,” answered her hus- 
 band. “Send away the post-bag, and let us say 
 no more about it.” 
 
 The letter was dispatched by that day 5 s post. 
 In the remote position of Porthgenna, and in the 
 unfinished state of the railroad at that time, two 
 days would elapse before an answer from London 
 could be reasonably hoped for. Feeling that it 
 would be better for Rosamond if this period of 
 suspense was passed out of the house, Mr. Frank- 
 land proposed to fill up the time by a little excur- 
 sion along the coast to some places famous for 
 their scenery, which would be likely to interest 
 his wife, and which she might occupy herself 
 pleasantly in describing on the spot for the bene- 
 fit of her husband. This suggestion was imme- 
 diately acted on. The young couple left Porth- 
 M— Vol. 16 
 
386 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 genna, and only returned on the evening of the 
 second day. 
 
 On the morning of the third day the longed- 
 for letter from the vicar’s man of business lay 
 on the table when Leonard and Rosamond en- 
 tered the breakfast- room. Shrowl had decided 
 to accept Mr. Frankland’s condition— first, be- 
 cause he held that any man must be out of his 
 senses who refused a five-pound note when it 
 was offered to him; secondly, because he be- 
 lieved that his master was too absolutely de- 
 pendent on him to turn him away for any cause 
 whatever; thirdly, because, if Mr. Treverton did 
 part with him, he was not sufficiently attached 
 to his place to care at all about losing it. Ac- 
 cordingly the bargain had been struck in five 
 minutes— and there was the copy of the Plan, 
 inclosed with the letter of explanation to attest 
 the fact ! 
 
 Rosamond spread the all-important document 
 out on the table with trembling hands, looked it 
 over eagerly for a few moments, and laid her 
 finger on the square that represented the position 
 of the Myrtle Room. 
 
 “Here it is!” she cried. “Oh, Lenny, how my 
 heart beats! One, two, three, four — the fourth 
 door on the first-floor landing is the door of the 
 Myrtle Room!” 
 
 She would have called at once for the keys of 
 the north rooms; but her husband insisted on her 
 waiting until she had composed herself a little, 
 and until she had taken some breakfast. In 
 spite of all he could say, the meal was hurried 
 
THE HEAD SECRET. 
 
 38? 
 
 over so rapidly that in ten minutes more his 
 wife’s arm was in his, and she was leading him 
 to the staircase. 
 
 The gardener’s prognostication about the 
 weather had been verified: it had turned to heat 
 — heavy, misty, vaporous, dull heat. One white 
 quivering fog-cloud spread thinly over all the 
 heaven, rolled down seaward on the horizon line, 
 and dulled the sharp edges of the distant moor- 
 land view. The sunlight shone pale and trem- 
 bling; the lightest, highest leaves of flowers at 
 open windows were still; the domestic animals 
 lay about sleepily in dark corners. Chance 
 household noises sounded heavy and loud in the 
 languid, airless stillness which the heat seemed 
 to hold over the earth. Down in the servants’ 
 hall, the usual bustle of morning work was sus- 
 pended. When Rosamond looked in, on her way 
 to the housekeeper’s room to get the keys, the 
 women were fanning themselves, and the men 
 were sitting with their coats off. They were all 
 talking peevishly about the heat, and all agree- 
 ing that such a day as that, in the month of June, 
 they had never known and never heard of before. 
 
 Rosamond took the keys, declined the house- 
 keeper’s offer to accompany her, and leading her 
 husband along the passages, unlocked the door of 
 the north hall. 
 
 “How unnaturally cool it is here!” she said, 
 as they entered the deserted place. 
 
 At the foot of the stairs she stopped, and took 
 a firmer hold of her husband’s arm. 
 
 “Is anything the matter?” asked Leonardo 
 
388 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 “Is the change to the damp coolness of this place 
 affecting you in any way?” 
 
 “No, no,” she answered hastily. “I am far 
 too excited to feel either heat or damp, as I might 
 feel them at other times. But, Lenny, suppos- 
 ing your guess about Mrs. Jazeph is right? — ” 
 “Yes?” 
 
 “And supposing we discover the Secret of 
 the Myrtle Room, might it not turn out to be 
 something concerning my father or my mother 
 which we ought not to know? 1 thought of that 
 when Mrs. Pentreath offered to accompany us, and 
 it determined me to come here alone with you.” 
 “It is just likely that the Secret might be 
 something we ought to know,” replied Mr. 
 Frankland, after a moment’s thought. “In any 
 case, my idea about Mrs. Jazeph is, after all, 
 only a guess in the dark. However, Rosamond, 
 if you feel any hesitation — ” 
 
 “No! come what may of it, Lenny, we can’t 
 go back now. Give me your hand again. "We 
 have traced the mystery thus far together, and 
 together we will find it out.” 
 
 She ascended the staircase, leading him after 
 her, as she spoke. On the landing she looked 
 again at the Plan, and satisfied herself that the 
 first impression she had derived from it, of the 
 position of the Myrtle Room, was correct. She 
 counted the doors on to the fourth, and looked 
 out from the bunch the key numbered “IV.,” 
 and put it in the lock. 
 
 Before she turned it she paused, and looked 
 round at her husband. 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 389 
 
 He was standing by her side, with his patient 
 face turned expectantly toward the door. She 
 put her right hand on the key, turned it slowly 
 in the lock, drew him closer to her with her left 
 hand, and paused again. 
 
 “I don’t know what has come to me,” she 
 whispered faintly. “I feel as if I was afraid to 
 push open the door.” 
 
 “Your hand is cold, Rosamond. Wait a little 
 — lock the door again — put it off till another 
 day.” 
 
 He felt his wife’s fingers close tighter and 
 tighter on his hand while he said those words. 
 Then there was an instant — one memorable, 
 breathless instant, never to be forgotten after- 
 ward — of utter silence. Then he heard the 
 sharp, cracking sound of the opening door, and 
 felt himself drawn forward suddenly into a 
 changed atmosphere, and knew that Rosamond 
 and he were in the Myrtle Room. 
 
 CHAPTER Y. 
 
 THE MYRTLE ROOM. 
 
 A broad, square window, with small panes 
 and dark sashes ; dreary yellow light, glimmering 
 through the dirt of half a century crusted on the 
 glass; purer rays striking across the dimness 
 through the fissures of three broken panes ; dust 
 floating upward, pouring downward, rolling 
 smoothly round and round in the still atmos- 
 
390 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 phere; lofty, bare, faded red walls; chairs in 
 confusion, tables placed awry; a tall black book- 
 case, with an open door half dropping from its 
 hinges; a pedestal, with a broken bust lying in 
 fragments at its feet; a ceiling darkened by 
 stains, a floor whitened by dust — such was the 
 aspect of the Myrtle Room when Rosamond first 
 entered it, leading her husband by the hand. 
 
 After passing the doorway, she slowly ad- 
 vanced a few steps, and then stopped, waiting 
 with every sense on the watch, with every fac- 
 ulty strung up to the highest pitch of expectation 
 — waiting in the ominous stillness, in the forlorn 
 solitude, for the vague Something which the 
 room might contain, which might rise visibly 
 before her, which might sound audibly behind 
 her, which might touch her on a sudden from 
 above, from below, from either side. A min- 
 ute or more she breathlessly waited ; and noth- 
 ing appeared, nothing sounded, nothing touched 
 her. The silence and the solitude had their 
 secret to keep, and kept it. 
 
 She looked round at her husband. # His face, 
 so quiet and composed at other times, expressed 
 doubt and uneasiness now. His disengaged 
 hand was outstretched, and moving backward 
 and forward and up and down, in the vain at- 
 tempt to touch something which might enable 
 him to guess at the position in which he was 
 placed. His look and action, as he stood in that 
 new and strange sphere, the mute appeal which 
 he made so sadly and so unconsciously to his 
 wife’s loving help, restored Rosamond’s self- 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 391 
 
 possession by recalling her heart to the dearest 
 of all its interests, to the holiest of all its cares. 
 Her eyes, fixed so distrustfully but the moment 
 before on the dreary spectacle of neglect and ruin 
 which spread around them, turned fondly to her 
 husband’s face, radiant with the unfathomable 
 brightness of pity and love. She bent quickly 
 across him, caught his outstretched arm, and 
 pressed it to his side, 
 
 “Don’t do that, darling,” she said, gently; “I 
 don’t like to see it. It looks as if you had for- 
 gotten that I was with you — as if you were left 
 alone and helpless. What need have you of 
 your sense of touch, when you have got me? 
 Did you hear me open the door, Lenny? Do you 
 know that we are in the Myrtle Room?” 
 
 “What did you see, Rosamond, when you 
 opened the door? What do you see now?” He 
 asked those questions rapidly and eagerly, in a 
 whisper. 
 
 “Nothing but dust and dirt and desolation. 
 The loneliest moor in Cornwall is not so lonely 
 looking as this room; but there is nothing to 
 alarm us, nothing (except one’s own fancy) that 
 suggests an idea of danger of any kind.” 
 
 “ What made you so long before you spoke to 
 me, Rosamond?” 
 
 “I was frightened, love, on first entering the 
 room — not at what I saw, but at my own fan- 
 ciful ideas cf what I might see. I was child 
 enough to be afraid of something starting out of 
 the walls, or of something rising through the 
 floor; in short, of 1 hardly know what. I have 
 
392 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 got over those fears, Lenny, hut a certain dis- 
 trust of the room still clings to me. Do you feel 
 it?” 
 
 “I feel something like it,” he replied uneasily. 
 “ I feel as if the night that is always before my 
 eyes was darker to me in this place than in any 
 other. Where are we standing now?” 
 
 ‘ 4 Just inside the door.” 
 
 “Does the floor look safe to walk on?” He 
 tried it suspiciously with his foot as he put the 
 question. 
 
 ‘ 4 Quite safe,” replied Rosamond. “It would 
 never support the furn’ture that is on it if it was 
 so rotten as to be dangerous. Come across the 
 room with me, and try it.” With these words 
 she led him slowly to the window. 
 
 “The air seems as if it was nearer to me,” he 
 said, bending his face forward toward the lowest 
 of the broken panes. “What is before us now?” 
 
 She told him, describing minutely the size and 
 appearance of the window. He turned from it 
 carelessly, as if that part of the room had no in- 
 terest for him. Rosamond still lingered near the 
 window, to try if she could feel a breath of the 
 outer atmosphere. There was a momentary si- 
 lence, which was broken by her husband. 
 
 “What are you doing now?” he asked anx- 
 iously. 
 
 “I am looking out at one of the broken panes 
 of glass, and trying to get some air,” answered 
 Rosamond. “The shadow of the house is below 
 me, resting on the lonely garden; but there is nc» 
 coolness breathing up from it. 1 see the tall 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 393 
 
 weeds rising straight and still, and the tangled 
 wild -flowers interlacing themselves heavily. 
 There is a tree near me, and the leaves look as if 
 they were all struck motionless. Away to tho 
 left, there is a peep of white sea and tawny sand 
 quivering in the yellow heat. There are no 
 clouds; there is no blue sky. The mist quenches 
 the brightness of the sunlight, and lets nothing 
 but the fire of it through. There is something 
 threatening in the sky, and the earth seems to 
 know it!” 
 
 “But the room! the room!” said Leonard, 
 drawing her aside from the window. “Never 
 mind the view; tell me what the room is like — 
 exactly what it is like. I shall not feel easy 
 about you, Rosamond, if you don’t describe 
 everything to me just as it is.” 
 
 “My darling! You know you can depend on 
 my describing everything. I am only doubting 
 where to begin, and how to make sure of seeing 
 for you what you are likely to think most worth 
 looking at. Here is an old ottoman against the 
 wall — the wall where the window is. I will take 
 off my apron and dust the seat for you ; and then 
 you can sit down and listen comfortably while I 
 tell you before we think of anything else, what 
 the room is like, to begin with. First of all, I 
 suppose, I must make you understand how large 
 it is?” 
 
 “Yes, that is the first thing. Try if you can 
 compare it with any room that I was familiar 
 with before I lost my sight.” 
 
 Rosamond looked backward and forward, from 
 
394 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 wall to wall — then went to the fire-place, and 
 walked slowly down the length of the room, 
 counting her steps. Pacing over the dusty floor 
 with a dainty regularity and a childish satisfac- 
 tion in looking down at the gay pink rosettes on 
 her morning shoes; holding up her crisp, bright 
 muslin dress out of the dirt, and showing the 
 fanciful embroidery of her petticoat, and the 
 glossy stockings that fitted her little feet and 
 ankles like a second skin, she moved through 
 the dreariness, the desolation, the dingy ruin of 
 the scene around her, the most charming living 
 contrast to its dead gloom that youth, health, 
 and beauty could present. 
 
 Arrived at the bottom of the room, she re- 
 flected a little, and said to her husband — 
 
 “Do you remember the blue drawing-room, 
 Lenny, in your father’s house at Long Beckley? 
 I think this room is quite as large, if not larger.” 
 “What are the walls like?” asked Leonard, 
 placing his hand on the wall behind him while 
 he spoke. “They are covered with paper, are 
 they not?” 
 
 “Yes; with faded red paper, except on one side, 
 where strips have been torn off and thrown on the 
 floor. There is wainscoting round the walls. It 
 is cracked in many places, and has ragged holes 
 in it, which seem to have been made by the rats 
 and mice.” 
 
 “Are there any pictures on the walls?” 
 
 “No. There is an empty frame over the fire- 
 place. And opposite — I mean just above where 
 I am standing now — there is a small mirror, 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 395 
 
 cracked iti the center, with broken branches for 
 candlesticks projecting on either side of it. 
 Above that, again, there is a stag’s head and 
 antlers; some of the face has dropped away, and 
 a perfect maze of cobwebs is stretched between 
 the horns. On the other walls there are large 
 nails, with more cobwebs hanging down from 
 them heavy with dirt — but no pictures anywhere. 
 Now you know everything about the walls. 
 What is the next thing? The floor?” 
 
 “1 think, Rosamond, my feet have told me 
 already what the floor is like?” 
 
 “They may have told you that it is bare, dear; 
 but I can tell you more than that. It slopes 
 down from every side toward the middle of the 
 room. It is covered thick with dust, which is 
 swept about, I suppose, by the wind blowing 
 through the broken panes into strange, wavy, 
 feathery shapes that quite hide the floor beneath. 
 Lenny! suppose these boards should be made to 
 take up anywhere ! If we discover nothing to- 
 day, we will have them swept to-morrow. In 
 the meantime, I must go on telling you about 
 the room, must I not? You know already what 
 the size of it is, what the window is like, what 
 the walls are like, what the floor is like. Is there 
 anything else before we come to the furniture. 
 Oh, yes ! the ceiling — for that completes the shell 
 of the room. 1 can’t see much of it, it is so high. 
 There are great cracks and stains from one end 
 to the other, and the plaster has come away in 
 patches in some places. The center ornament 
 seems to be made of alternate rows of small 
 
396 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 plaster cabbages and large plaster lozenges. 
 Two bits of chain hang down from the middle, 
 which, I suppose, once held a chandelier. The 
 cornice is so dingy that I can hardly tell what 
 pattern it represents. It is very broad and heavy, 
 and it looks in some places as if it had once been 
 colored, and that is all I can say about it. Do 
 you feel as if you thoroughly understood the 
 whole room now, Lenny?” 
 
 4 ‘Thoroughly, my love; I have the same clear 
 picture of it in my mind which you always give 
 me of everything you see. You need waste no 
 more time on me. We may now devote our- 
 selves to the purpose for which we came 
 here.” 
 
 At those last words, the smile which had been 
 dawning on Rosamond’s face when her husband 
 addressed her, vanished from it in a moment. 
 She stole close to his side, and, bending down 
 over him, with her arm on his shoulder, said, in 
 low, whispering tones — 
 
 “When we had the other room opened, oppo- 
 site the landing, we began by examining the fur- 
 niture. W e thought — if you remember — that the 
 mystery of the Myrtle Room might be connected 
 with hidden valuables that had been stolen, or 
 hidden papers that ought to have been destroyed, 
 or hidden stains and traces of some crime, which 
 even a chair or a table might betray. Shall we 
 examine the furniture here?” 
 
 “Is there much of it, Rosamond?” 
 
 “More than there was in the other room,” she 
 answered. 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 397 
 
 “More than you can examine in one morn- 
 ing?” 
 
 “No; I think not.” 
 
 “Then begin with the furniture, if you have 
 no better plan to propose. I am but a helpless 
 adviser at such a crisis as this. I must leave the 
 responsibilities of decision, after all, to rest on 
 your shoulders. Yours are the eyes that look 
 and the hands that search; and if the secret of 
 Mrs. Jazeph’s reason for warning you against 
 entering this room is to be found by seeking in 
 the room, you will find it — ” 
 
 “And you will know it, Lenny, as soon as it 
 is found. I won’t hear you talk, love, as if there 
 was any difference between us, or any superiority 
 in my position over yours. Now, let me see. 
 What shall I begin with? The tall book-case 
 opposite the window? or the dingy old writing- 
 table, in the recess behind the fire-place? Those 
 are the two largest pieces of furniture that I can 
 see in the room.” 
 
 “Begin with the book-case, my dear, as you 
 seem to have noticed that first.” 
 
 Rosamond advanced a few steps toward the 
 book-case— then stopped, and looked aside sud- 
 denly to the lower end of the room. 
 
 “Lenny! I forgot one thing, when 1 was tell- 
 ing you about the walls,” she said. “There are 
 two doors in the room besides the door we came 
 in at. They are both in the wall to the right, 
 as I stand now with my back to the window. 
 Each is at the same distance from the corner, 
 and each is of the same size and appearance. 
 
398 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 Don’t you think we ought to open them and see 
 where they lead to?” 
 
 “Certainly. But are the keys in the locks?” 
 
 Rosamond approached more clcsely to the 
 doors, and answered in the affirmative. 
 
 “Open them, then,” said Leonard. “Stop! 
 not by yourself. Take me with you. I don’t 
 like the idea of sitting here, and leaving you to 
 open those doors by yourself.” 
 
 Rosamond retraced her steps to the place where 
 he was sitting, and then led him with her to the 
 door that was furthest from the window. “Sup- 
 pose there should be some dreadful sight behind 
 it!” she said, trembling a little, as she stretched 
 out her hand toward the key. 
 
 “Try to suppose (what is much more probable) 
 that it only leads into another room,” suggested 
 Leonard. 
 
 Rosamond threw the door wide open, sudden- 
 ly. Her husband was right. It merely led into 
 the next room. 
 
 They passed on to the second door. “Can this 
 one serve the same purpose as the other?” said 
 Rosamond, slowly and distrustfully turning the 
 key. 
 
 She opened it as she had opened the first door, 
 put her head inside it for an instant, drew back, 
 shuddering, and closed it again violently, with a 
 faint exclamation of disgust. 
 
 “Don’t be alarmed, Lenny,” she said, leading 
 him away abruptly, “The door only opens on a 
 large, empty cupboard. But there are quantities 
 of horrible, crawling brown creatures about the 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 399 
 
 wall inside. I have shut them in again in their 
 darkness and their secrecy; and now I am going 
 to take you back to your seat, before we find out, 
 next, what the book-case contains.” 
 
 The door of the upper part of the book-case, 
 hanging open and half dropping from its hinges, 
 showed the emptiness of the shelves on one side 
 at a glance. The corresponding door, when 
 Rosamond pulled it open, disclosed exactly the 
 same spectacle of barrenness on the other side. 
 Over every shelf there spread the same dreary 
 accumulation of dust and dirt, without a vestige 
 of a book, without even a stray scrap of paper 
 lying anywhere in a corner to attract the eye, 
 from top to bottom. 
 
 The lower portion of the bookcase was divided 
 into three cupboards. In the door of one of the 
 three, the rusty key remained in the lock. Rosa- 
 mond turned it with some difficulty, and looked 
 into the cupboard. At the back of it were scat- 
 tered a pack of playing-cards, brown with dirt. 
 A morsel of torn, tangled muslin lay among 
 them, which, when Rosamond spread it out, 
 proved to be the remains of a clergyman’s band. 
 In one corner she found a broken corkscrew and 
 the winch of a fishing-rod ; in another, some 
 stumps of tobacco-pipes, a few old medicine bot- 
 tles and a dog’s-eared peddler’s song-book. These 
 were all the objects that the cupboard contained. 
 After Rosamond had scrupulously described each 
 one of them to her husband, just as she found it, 
 she went on to the second cupboard. On trying 
 the door, it turned out not to be locked. On 
 
400 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 looking inside, she discovered nothing but some 
 pieces of blackened cotton wool, and the remains 
 of a jeweler’s packing-case. 
 
 The third door was locked, but the rusty key 
 from the first cupboard opened it. Inside, there 
 was but one object — a small wooden box, banded 
 round with a piece of tape, the two edges of 
 which were fastened together by a seal. Rosa- 
 mond’s flagging interest rallied instantly at this 
 discovery. She described the box to her hus- 
 band, and asked if he thought she was justified 
 in breaking the seal. 
 
 “Can you see anything written on the cover?” 
 he inquired. 
 
 Rosamond carried the box to the window, blew 
 the dust off the top of it, and read, on a parch- 
 ment label nailed to the cover: “Papers. John 
 Arthur Treverton. 1760.” 
 
 “I think you may take the responsibility of 
 breaking the seal,” said Leonard. “If those 
 papers had been of any family importance, they 
 could scarcely have been left forgotten in an old 
 bookcase by your father and his executors.” 
 Rosamond broke the seal, then looked up 
 doubtfully at her husband before she opened 
 the box. “It seems mere waste of time to look 
 into this,” she said. “How can a box that has 
 not been opened since seventeen hundred and 
 sixty help us to discover the mystery of Mrs. 
 Jazeph and the Myrtle Room?” 
 
 “But do we know that it has not been opened 
 since then?” said Leonard. “Might not the 
 tape and seal have been put round it by any- 
 
THE HEAD SECRET. 
 
 401 
 
 body at some more recent period of time? You 
 can judge best, because you can see if there is 
 any inscription on the tape, or any signs to form 
 an opinion by upon the seal.” 
 
 “The seal is a blank, Lenny, except that it has 
 a flower like a forget-me-not in the middle. I 
 can see no mark of a pen on either side of the 
 tape. Anybody in the world might have opened 
 the box before me,” she continued, forcing up 
 the lid easily with her hands, “for the lock is no 
 protection to it. The wood cf the cover is so rot- 
 ten that 1 have pulled the staple out, and left it 
 sticking by itself in the lock below.” 
 
 On examination, the box proved to be full of 
 papers. At the top of the uppermost packet were 
 written these words : “Election expenses. I won 
 by four votes. Price fifty pounds each. J. A. 
 Treverton.” The next layer of papers had no 
 inscription. Rosamond opened them, and read 
 on the first leaf : 4 ‘ Birthday Ode. Respectfully 
 addressed to the Maecenas of modern times in 
 his poetic retirement at Porthgenna.” Below 
 this production appeared a collection of old bills, 
 old notes of invitation, old doctor’s prescriptions, 
 and old leaves of betting-books, tied together with 
 a piece of whipcord. Last of all, there lay on 
 the bottom of the box one thin leaf of paper, the 
 visible side of which presented a perfect blank. 
 Rosamond took it up, turned it to look at the 
 other side, and saw some faint ink-lines crossing 
 each other in various directions, and having let- 
 ters of the alphabet attached to them in certain 
 places. She had made her husband acquainted 
 
402 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 with the contents of all the other papers, as a 
 matter of course; and when she had described 
 this last paper to him, he explained to her that 
 the lines and letters represented a mathematical 
 problem 
 
 “The bookcase tells us nothing,” said Rosa- 
 mond, slowly putting the papers back in the box. 
 “Shall we try the writing-table by the fireplace 
 next?” 
 
 “What does it look like, Rosamond?” 
 
 “It has two rows of drawers down each side; 
 and the whole top is made in an odd, old-fash- 
 ioned way to slope upward, like a very large 
 writing-desk.” 
 
 “Does the top open?” 
 
 Rosamond went to the table, examined it nar- 
 rowly, and then tried to raise the top. “It is 
 made to open, for I see the keyhole,” she said. 
 “But it is locked. And all the drawers,” she 
 continued, trying them one after another, “are 
 locked too.” 
 
 ‘ ‘ Is there no key in any of them ? ’ 5 asked Leonard. 
 
 “Not a sign of one. But the top feels so loose 
 that I really think it might be forced open — as I 
 forced the little box open just now — by a pair of 
 stronger hands than I can boast of. Let me take 
 you to the table, dear; it may give way to your 
 strength, though it will not to mine.” 
 
 She placed her husband’s hands carefully under 
 the ledge formed by the overhanging top of the 
 table. ITe exerted his whole strength to force 
 it up; but in this case the wood was sound, the 
 lock held, and all his efforts were in vain. 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 403 
 
 “Must we send for a locksmith?” asked Rosa- 
 mond, with a look of disappointment. 
 
 “If the table is of any value, we must,” re- 
 turned her husband. “If not, a screwdriver 
 and a hammer will open both the top and the 
 drawers in anybody’s hands.” 
 
 “In that case, Lenny, I wish we had brought 
 them with us when we came into the room, for 
 the only value of the table lies in the secrets that 
 it may be hiding from us. I shall not feel satis- 
 fied until you and I know what there is inside of 
 it ” 
 
 While saying these words, she took her hus- 
 band’s hand to lead him back to his seat. As 
 they passed before the fireplace, he stepped upon 
 the bare stone hearth; and, feeling some new 
 substance under his feet, instinctively stretched 
 out the hand that was free. It touched a marble 
 tablet, with figures on it in bass-relief, which had 
 been let into the middle of the chimney-piece. 
 He stopped immediately, and asked what the 
 object was that his fingers had accidentally 
 touched. 
 
 “A piece of sculpture,” said Rosamond. “I 
 did not notice it before. It is not very large and 
 not particularly attractive, according to my taste. 
 So far as I can tell, it seems to be intended to 
 represent — ” 
 
 Leonard stopped her before she could say any 
 more. “Let me try, for once, if I can’t make 
 a discovery for myself,” he said, a little impa- 
 tiently. “Let me try if my fingers won’t tell 
 me what this sculpture is meant to represent,” 
 
404 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 He passed his hands carefully over the bass- 
 relief (Rosamond watching their slightest move- 
 ment with silent interest, the while), considered 
 a little, and said : 
 
 “Is there not a figure of a man sitting down, 
 in the right-hand corner? And are there not 
 rocks and trees, very stiffly done, high up, at 
 the left-hand side?” 
 
 Rosamond looked at him tenderly, and smiled. 
 “My poor dear !” she said. “Your man sitting 
 down is, in reality, a miniature copy of the fa- 
 mous ancient statue of Niobeand her child; your 
 rocks are marble imitations of clouds, and your 
 stiffly done trees are arrows darting out from 
 some invisible Jupiter or Apollo, or other heathen 
 god. Ah, Lenny, Lenny! you can’t trust your 
 touch, love, as you can trust me!” 
 
 A momentary shade of vexation passed across 
 his face; but it vanished the instant she took his 
 hand again to lead him back to his seat. He 
 drew her to him gently and kissed her cheek. 
 “You are right, Rosamond,” he said. “The 
 one faithful friend to me in my blindness, who 
 never fails, is my wife.” 
 
 Seeing him look a little saddened, and feeling, 
 with the quick intuition of a woman’s affection, 
 that he was thinking of the days when he had 
 enjoyed the blessing of sight, Rosamond returned 
 abruptly, as soon as she saw him seated once 
 more on the ottoman, to the subject of the Myrtle 
 Room. 
 
 “Where shall I look next, dear?” she said. 
 “The bookcase we have examined. The writ- 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 405 
 
 ing- table we must wait to examine. What else 
 is there that has a cupboard or a drawer in it?” 
 She looked round her in perplexity ; then walked 
 away toward the part of the room to which her 
 attention had been last drawn — the part where 
 the fireplace was situated. 
 
 “ I thought I noticed something here, Lenny, 
 when I passed just now with you,” she said, ap- 
 proaching the second recess behind the mantel- 
 piece, corresponding with the recess in which the 
 writing-table stood. 
 
 She looked into the place closely, and detected 
 in a corner, darkened by the shadow of the heavy 
 projecting mantel-piece, a narrow, rickety little 
 table, made of the commonest mahogany — the 
 frailest, poorest, least conspicuous piece of fur- 
 niture in the whole room. She pushed it out 
 contemptuously into the light with her foot. It 
 ran on clumsy old-fashioned casters and creaked 
 wearily as it moved. 
 
 “Lenny, I have found another table,” said 
 Rosamond. “A miserable, forlorn-looking little 
 thing, lost in a corner. I have just pushed it 
 into the light, and I have discovered one drawer 
 in it. ” She paused and tried to open the drawer ; 
 but it resisted her. “Another lock!” she ex- 
 claimed, impatiently. “Even this wretched 
 thing is closed against us!” 
 
 She pushed the table sharply away with her 
 hand, It swayed on its frail legs, tottered, and 
 fell over on the floor — fell as heavily as a table 
 of twice its size — fell with a shock that rang 
 through the room, and repeated itself again 
 
406 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 and again in the echoes of the lonesome north 
 hall. 
 
 Rosamond ran to her husband, seeing him 
 start from his seat in alarm, and told him what 
 had happened. “You call it a little table,” he 
 replied, in astonishment. “It fell like one of the 
 largest pieces of furniture in the room!” 
 
 “Surely there must have been something heavy 
 in the drawer!” said Rosamond, approaching the 
 table with her spirits still fluttered by the shock 
 of its unnaturally heavy fall. After waiting for 
 a few moments to give the dust which it had 
 raised, and which still hung over it in thick lazy 
 clouds, time to disperse, she stooped down and 
 examined it. It was cracked across the top from 
 end to end, and the lock had been broken away 
 from its fastenings by the fall. 
 
 She set the table up again carefully, drew out 
 the drawer, and, after a glance at its contents, 
 turned to her husband. “I knew it,” she said, 
 “I knew there must be something heavy in the 
 drawer. It is full of pieces of copper-ore, like 
 those specimens of my father’s, Lenny, from 
 Porthgerma mine. VYait! I think I feel some- 
 thing else, as far away at the back here as my 
 hand can reach.” 
 
 She extricated from the lumps of ore at the 
 back of the drawer a small circular picture-frame 
 of black wood, about the size of an ordinary 
 hand-glass. It came out with the front part 
 downward, and with the area which its circle 
 inclosed filled up by a thin piece of wood, of the 
 sort which is used at the backs of small frames 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 407 
 
 to keep drawings and engravings steady in them. 
 This piece of wood (only secured to the back of 
 the frame by one nail) had been forced out of its 
 place, probably by the overthrow of the table; and 
 when Rosamond took the frame out of the drawer, 
 she observed between it and the dislodged piece 
 of wood the end of a morsel of paper, apparently 
 folded many times over, so as to occupy the small- 
 es t possible space. She drew out the piece of 
 paper, laid it aside on the table without unfold- 
 ing it, replaced the piece of wood in its proper 
 position, and then turned the frame round, to see 
 if there was a picture in front. 
 
 There was a picture — a picture painted in oils, 
 darkened, but not much faded, by age. It repre- 
 sented the head of a woman, and the figure as 
 far as the bosom. 
 
 The instant Rosamond’s eyes fell on it she 
 shuddered, and hurriedly advanced toward her 
 husband with the picture in her hand. 
 
 “Well, what have you found now?” he in- 
 quired, hearing her approach. 
 
 “A picture,” she answered, faintly, stopping 
 to look at it again. 
 
 Leonard’s sensitive ear detected a change in 
 her voice. ‘ ‘ Is there anything that alarms you in 
 the picture?” he asked, half in jest, half in earnest. 
 
 “There is something that startles me — some- 
 thing that seems to have turned me cold for the 
 moment, hot as the day is,” said Rosamond. 
 “Do you remember the description the servant- 
 girl gave us, on the night we arrived here, of the 
 ghost of the north rooms?” 
 
408 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 “Yes, I remember it perfectly.” 
 
 “Lenny! that description and this picture are 
 exactly alike! Here is the curling, light-brown 
 hair. Here is the dimple on each cheek. Here 
 are the bright regular teeth. Here is that leer- 
 ing, wicked, fatal beauty which the girl tried to 
 describe, and did describe, when she said it was 
 awful!” 
 
 Leonard smiled. “That vivid fancy of yours, 
 my dear, takes strange flights sometimes,” he 
 said, quietly. 
 
 “Fancy!” repeated Rosamond to herself. 
 “How can it be fancy when I see the face? 
 how can. it be fancy when I feel — ” She 
 
 stopped, shuddered again, and, returning has- 
 tily to the table, placed the picture on it, 
 face downward. As she did so, the morsel of 
 folded paper which she had removed from the 
 back of the frame caught her eye. 
 
 “There may be some account of the picture in 
 this,” she said, and stretched out her hand to it. 
 
 It was getting on toward noon. The heat 
 weighed heavier on the air, and the stillness of 
 all things was more intense than ever, as she 
 took up the paper from the table. 
 
 Fold by fold she opened it, and saw that there 
 were written characters inside, traced in ink that 
 had faded to a light, yellow hue. She smoothed 
 it out carefully on the table — then took it up 
 again and looked at the first line of the writing. 
 
 The first line contained only three words — 
 words which told her that the paper with the 
 writing on it was not a description of the picture, 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 409 
 
 but a letter — words which made her start and 
 change color the moment her eye fell upon them. 
 Without attempting to read any further, she 
 hastily turned over the leaf to find out the place 
 where the writing ended. 
 
 It ended at the bottom of the third page; but 
 there was a break in the lines, near the foot of 
 the second page, and in that break there were 
 two names signed. She looked at the uppermost 
 of the two — started again — and turned back in- 
 stantly to the first page. 
 
 Line by line, and word by word, she read 
 through the writing; her natural complexion 
 fading out gradually the while, and a dull, 
 equal whiteness overspreading all her face in 
 its stead. When she had come to the end of 
 the third page, the hand in which she held the 
 letter dropped to her side, and she turned her 
 head slowly toward Leonard. In that position 
 she stood — no tears moistening her eyes, no 
 change passing over her features, no word escap- 
 ing her lips, no movement varying the position 
 of her limbs — in that position she stood, with the 
 fatal letter crumpled up in her cold fingers, look- 
 ing steadfastly, speechlessly, breathlessly at her 
 blind husband. 
 
 He was still sitting as she had seen him a few 
 minutes before, with his legs crossed, his hands 
 clasped together in front of them, and his head 
 turned expectantly in the direction in which he 
 had last heard the sound of his wife’s voice. 
 But in a few moments the intonse stillness in the 
 room forced itself upon his attention. He changed 
 
410 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLTNS. 
 
 his position — listened for a little, turning his head 
 uneasily from side to side, and then called to his 
 wife. 
 
 6 ‘Rosamond!” 
 
 At the sound of his voice her lips moved, and 
 her fingers closed faster on the paper that they 
 held; but she neither stepped forward nor spoke. 
 
 “Rosamond!” 
 
 Her lips moved again — faint traces of expres- 
 sion began to pass shadow-like over the blank 
 whiteness of her face — she advanced one step, 
 hesitated, looked at the letter, and stopped. 
 
 Hearing no answer, he rose, surprised and 
 uneasy. Moving his poor, helpless, wandering 
 hands to and fro before him in the air, he 
 walked forward a few paces, straight out from 
 the wall against which he had been sitting. A 
 chair, which his hands were not held low enough 
 to touch, stood in his way ; and, as he still ad- 
 vanced, he struck his knee sharply against it. 
 
 A cry burst from Rosamond’s lips, as if the 
 pain of the blow had passed, at the instant of 
 its infliction, from her husband to herself. She 
 was by his side in a moment. “You are not 
 hurt, Lenny?” she said, faintly. 
 
 “No, no.” He tried to press his hand on the 
 place where he had struck himself, but she knelt 
 down quickly, and put her own hand there in- 
 stead, nestling her head against him, while she 
 was on her knees, in a strangely hesitating timid 
 way. He lightly laid the hand which she had 
 intercepted on her shoulder. The moment it 
 touched her, her eyes began to soften ; the tears 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 411 
 
 rose in them, and fell slowly one by one down 
 her cheeks. 
 
 “I thought you had left me,” he said. “There 
 was such a silence that I fancied you had gone 
 out of the room.” 
 
 “ Will you come out of it with me now?” Her 
 strength seemed to fail her while she asked the 
 question; her head drooped on her breast, and 
 she let the letter fall on the floor at her side. 
 
 “Are you tired already, Rosamond? Your 
 voice sounds as if you were.” 
 
 “I want to leave the room,” she said, still in 
 the same low, faint, constrained tone. “Is your 
 knee easier, dear? Can you walk now?” 
 
 “Certainly. There is nothing in the world the 
 matter with my knee. If you are tired, Rosa- 
 mond — as I know you are, though you may not 
 confess it — the sooner we leave the room the 
 better.” 
 
 She appeared not to hear the last words he 
 said. Her fingers were working feverishly about 
 her neck and bosom; two bright red spots were 
 beginning to burn in her pale cheeks; her eyes 
 were fixed vacantly on the letter at her side ; her 
 hands wavered about it before she picked it up. 
 For a few seconds she waited on her knees, look- 
 ing at it intently, with her head turned away 
 from her husband — then rose and walked to the 
 fireplace. Among the dust, ashes, and other 
 rubbish at the back of the grate were scattered 
 some old torn pieces of paper. They caught her 
 eye and held it fixed on them. She looked and 
 looked, slowly bending dowm nearer and nearer 
 
4tlZ WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 to the grate. For one moment she held the let- 
 ter out over the rubbish in both hands — the next 
 she drew back shuddering violently, and turned 
 round so as to face her husband again. At the 
 sight of him a faint inarticulate exclamation, 
 half sigh, half sob, burst from her. “Oh, no, 
 no !” she whispered to herself, clasping her hands 
 together fervently, and looking at him with fond, 
 mournful eyes. “Never, never, Lenny — come 
 of it what may!” 
 
 “Were you speaking to me, Rosamond?” 
 “Yes, love. I was saying — ” She paused, 
 and, with trembling fingers, folded up the paper 
 again, exactly in the form in which she had 
 found it. 
 
 “Where are you?” he asked. “Your voice 
 sounds aw'ay from me at the other end of the 
 room again. Where are you?” 
 
 She ran to him, flushed and trembling and 
 tearful, took him by the arm, and, without an 
 instant of hesitation, without the faintest sign 
 of irresolution in her face, placed the folded paper 
 boldly in his hand. “Keep that, Lenny,” she 
 s.,id, turning deadly pale, but still not losing her 
 firmness. “Keep that, and ask me to read it to 
 you as soon as we are out of the Myrtle Room.” 
 “What is it?” he asked. 
 
 “The last thing I have found, love,” she re- 
 plied, looking at him earnestly, with a deep sigh 
 of relief. 
 
 “Is it of any importance ?V 
 Instead of answering, she suddenly caught 
 him to her bosom, clung to him with all the 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 413 
 
 fervor of her impulsive nature, and breathless!} 7 
 and passionately covered his face with kisses. 
 
 “Gently! gently!” said Leonard, laughing. 
 “You take away my breath.” 
 
 She drew back, and stood looking at him in 
 silence, with a hand laid on each of his shoulders. 
 “Oh, my angel!” she murmured, tenderly. “I 
 would give all I have in the world if I could only 
 know how much you love me!” 
 
 “Surely,” he returned, still laughing — “Sure- 
 ly, Rosamond, you ought to know by this time!” 
 “I shall know soon.” She spoke those words 
 in tones so quiet and low that they were barely 
 audible. Interpreting the change in her voice 
 as a fresh indication of fatigue, Leonard invited 
 her to lead him away by holding out his hand. 
 She took it in silence, and guided him slowly to 
 the door. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE TELLING OF THE SECRET. 
 
 On their way back to the inhabited side of 
 the house, Rosamond made no further reference 
 to the subject of the folded paper which she had 
 placed in her husband’s hands. 
 
 All her attention, while they were returning 
 to the west front, seemed to be absorbed in the 
 one act of jealously watching every inch of 
 ground that Leonard walked over, to make sure 
 that it was safe and smooth before she suffered 
 
414 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 him to set his foot on it. Careful and consider- 
 ate as she had always been, from the first day of 
 their married life, whenever she led him from 
 one place to another, she was now unduly, al- 
 most absurdly anxious to preserve him from the 
 remotest possibility of an accident. Finding 
 that he was the nearest to the outside of the open 
 landing when they left the Myrtle Room, she in- 
 sisted on changing places, so that he might be 
 nearest to the wall. While they were descend- 
 ing the stairs, she stopped him in the middle, to 
 inquire if he felt any pain in the knee which he 
 had struck against the chair. At the last step 
 she brought him to a stand-still again, while she 
 moved away the torn and tangled remains of 
 an old mat, for fear one of his feet should catch 
 in it. Walking across the north hall, she en- 
 treated that he would take her arm and lean 
 heavily upon her, because she felt sure that his 
 knee was not quite free from stiffness yet. Even 
 at the short flight of stairs which connected the 
 entrance to the hall with the passages leading to 
 the west side of the house, she twice stopped him 
 on the way down, to place his foot on the sound 
 parts of the steps, which she represented as dam 
 gerously worn away in more places than one* 
 He laughed good-humoredly at her excessive 
 anxiety to save him from all danger of stum- 
 bling, and asked if there was any likelihood, 
 with their numerous stoppages, of getting back 
 to the west side of the house in time for lunch. 
 She was not ready, as usual, with her retort; his 
 laugh found no pleasant echo in hers; she only 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 415 
 
 answered that it was impossible to be too anx- 
 ious about him; and then went on in silence till 
 they reached the door of the housekeeper's room. 
 
 Leaving him for a moment outside, she went 
 in to give the keys back again to Mrs. Pentreath. 
 
 “Dear me, ma’am!” exclaimed the house- 
 keeper, “you look quite overcome by the heat 
 of the day, and the close air of those old rooms. 
 Can I get you a glass of water, or may I give 
 you my bottle of salts?” 
 
 Rosamond declined both offers. 
 
 “May I be allowed to ask, ma’am, if anything 
 has been found this time in the north rooms?” 
 inquired Mrs. Pentreath, hanging up the bunch 
 of keys. 
 
 “Only some old papers,” replied Rosamond, 
 turning away. 
 
 “I beg pardon again, ma’am,” pursued the 
 housekeeper; “but, in case any of the gentry of 
 the neighborhood should call to-day?” 
 
 “We are engaged. No matter who it may be ? 
 we are both engaged.” Answering briefly in 
 these terms, Rosamond left Mrs. Pentreath and 
 rejoined her husband. 
 
 With the same excess of attention and care 
 which she had shown on the way to the house- 
 keeper’s room, she now led him up the west stair- 
 case. The library door happening to stand open, 
 they passed through it on their way to the draw- 
 ing-room, which was the larger and cooler apart- 
 ment of the two. Having guided Leonard to a 
 seat, Rosamond returned to the library, and took 
 from the table a tray containing a bottle of water 
 
416 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 and a tumbler, which she had noticed when she 
 passed through. 
 
 “I may feel faint as well as frightened,” she 
 said quickly to herself, turning round with the 
 tray in her hand to return to the drawing-room. 
 
 After she had put the water down on a table 
 in a corner, she noiselessly locked the door lead- 
 ing into the library, then the door leading into 
 the passage. Leonard, hearing her moving 
 about, advised her to keep quiet on the sofa. 
 She patted him gently on the cheek, and was 
 about to make some suitable answer, when she 
 accidentally beheld her face reflected in the look- 
 ing-glass under which he was sitting. The sight 
 of her own white cheeks and startled eyes sus- 
 pended the words on her lips. She hastened 
 away to the window, to catch any breath of air 
 that might be wafted toward her from the sea. 
 
 The heat-mist still hid the horizon. Nearer, 
 the oily, colorless surface of the water was just 
 visible, heaving slowly, from time to time, in 
 one vast monotonous wave that rolled itself out 
 smoothly and endlessly till it was lost in the 
 white obscurity of the mist. Close on the shore 
 the noisy surf was hushed. No sound came 
 from the beach except at long, wearily long in- 
 tervals, when a quick thump, and a still splash, 
 just audible and no more, announced the fall of 
 one tiny, mimic wave upon the parching sand. 
 On the terrace in front of the house, the change- 
 less hum of summer insects was all that told of 
 life and movement. Not a human figure was to 
 be seen anywhere on the shore; no sign or a sail 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 417 
 
 loomed shadowy through tho heat at sea; no 
 breath of air waved the light tendrils of the 
 creepers that twined up the house-wall, or re- 
 freshed the drooping flowers ranged in the win- 
 dows. Rosamond turned away from the outer 
 prospect, after a moment’s weary contemplation 
 of it. As she looked into the room again, her 
 husband spoke to her. 
 
 “ What precious thing lies hidden in this pa- 
 per?” he asked, producing the letter and smil- 
 ing as he opened it. “Surely there must be 
 something besides writing — some inestimable 
 powder, or some bank-note of fabulous value — 
 wrapped up in all these folds?” 
 
 Rosamond’s heart sank within her as he opened 
 the letter and passed his finger over the writing 
 inside, with a mock expression of anxiety, and a 
 light jest about sharing all treasures discovered 
 at Porthgenna with his wife. 
 
 “I will read it to you directly, Lenny,” she 
 said, dropping into the nearest seat, and lan- 
 guidly pushing her hair back from her temples. 
 “But put it away for a few minutes now, and 
 let us talk of anything else you like that does 
 not remind us of the Myrtle Room. 1 am very 
 capricious, am I not, to be so suddenly weary of 
 the very subject that I have been fondest of talk- 
 ing about for so many weeks past? Tell me, 
 love,” she added, rising abruptly and going to 
 the back of his chair; “do I get worse with my 
 whims and fancies and faults? — or am I im- 
 proved, since the time when we were first 
 married?” 
 
 N — Vol. 16 
 
418 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 He tossed the letter aside carelessly on a table 
 which was always placed by the arm of his chair, 
 and shook his forefinger at her with a frown of 
 comic reproof. “Oh, fie, Rosamond! are you 
 trying to entrap me into paying you compli- 
 ments?’ * 
 
 The light tone that he persisted in adopting 
 seemed absolutely to terrify her. She shrank 
 away from his chair, and sat down again at a 
 little distance from him. 
 
 “I remember I used to offend you,” she con- 
 tinued, quickly and confusedly. “No, no, not 
 to offend — only to vex you a little — by talking 
 too familiarly to the servants. You might al- 
 most have fancied, at first, if you had not known 
 me so well, that it was a habit with me because 
 I had once been a servant myself. Suppose I 
 had been a servant — the servant who had helped 
 to nurse you in your illnesses, the servant who 
 led you about in your blindness more carefully 
 than any one else — would you have thought 
 much, then, of the difference between us? 
 would you — ” 
 
 She stopped. The smile had vanished from 
 Leonard’s face, and he had turned a little away 
 from her. “What is the use, Rosamond, of sup- 
 posing events that never could have happened?” 
 he asked rather impatiently. 
 
 She went to the side- table, poured out some of 
 the water she had brought from the library, and 
 drank it eagerly; then walked to the window 
 and plucked a few of the flowers that were placed 
 there. She threw some of them away again the 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 419 
 
 next moment; but kept the rest in her hand, 
 thoughtfully arranging them so as to contrast 
 their colors with the best effect. When this was 
 done, she put them into her bosom, looked down 
 absently at them, took them out again, and, re- 
 turning to her husband, placed the little nosegay 
 in the button-hole of his coat. 
 
 “Something to make you look gay and bright, 
 love — as I always wish to see you,” she said, 
 seating herself in her favorite attitude at his feet, 
 and looking up at him sadly, with her arms rest- 
 ing on his knees. 
 
 “What are you thinking about, Rosamond?” 
 he asked, after an interval of silence. 
 
 “I was wondering, Lenny, whether any wo- 
 man in the world could be as fond of you as I 
 am. I feel almost afraid that there are others 
 who would ask nothing better than to live and 
 die for you, as well as me. There is something 
 in your face, in your voice, in all your ways — 
 something besides the interest of your sad, sad 
 affliction — that would draw any woman’s heart 
 to you, I think. If I were to die — ” 
 
 “If you were to die!” He started as he re- 
 peated the words after her, and, leaning forward, 
 anxiously laid his hand upon her forehead. “You 
 are thinking and talking very strangely this 
 morning, Rosamond! Are you not well?” 
 
 She rose on her knees and looked closer at him, 
 her face brightening a little, and a faint smile 
 just playing round her lips. “I wonder if you 
 will always be as anxious about me, and as fond 
 of me, as you are now?” she whispered, kissing 
 
420 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 his hand as she removed it from her forehead. 
 He leaned back again in the chair, and told her 
 jestingly not to look too far into the future. The 
 words, lightly as they were spoken, struck deep 
 into her heart. ‘ 4 There are times, Lenny,” she 
 said, ‘ 6 when all one’s happiness in the present de- 
 pends upon one’s certainty of the future.” She 
 looked at the letter, which her husband had left 
 open on a table near him, as she spoke; and, 
 after a momentary struggle with herself, took it 
 in her hand to read it. At the first word her 
 voice failed her ; the deadly paleness overspread 
 her face again ; she threw the letter back on the 
 table, and walked away to the other end of the 
 room. 
 
 “The future?” asked Leonard. “What fut- 
 ure, Rosamond, can you possibly mean?” 
 
 “Suppose I meant our future at Porthgenna?” 
 she said, moistening her dry lips with a few drops 
 of water. “Shall we stay here as long as we 
 thought we should, and be as happy as we have 
 been everywhere else? You told me on the 
 journey that I should find it dull, and that I 
 should be driven to try all sorts of extraordinary 
 occupations to amuse myself. You said you ex- 
 pected that I should begin with gardening and 
 end by writing a novel. A novel!” She ap- 
 proached her husband again, and watched his 
 face eagerly while she went on. “Why not? 
 More women write novels now than men. What 
 is to prevent me from trying? The first great 
 requisite, I suppose, is to have an idea of a 
 story; and that I have got.” She advanced a 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 421 
 
 few steps further, reached the table ou which 
 the letter lay, and placed her hand on it, keep- 
 ing her eyes still fixed intently on Leonard’s 
 face. 
 
 “And what is your idea, Rosamond?” he 
 asked. 
 
 “This,” she replied. “I mean to make the 
 main interest of the story center in two young 
 married people. They shall be very fond of 
 each other — as fond as we are, Lenny — and they 
 shall be in our rank of life. After they have 
 been happily married some time, and when they 
 have got one child to make them love each other 
 more dearly than ever, a terrible discovery shall 
 fall upon them like a thunderbolt. The hus- 
 band shall have chosen for his wife a young lady 
 bearing as ancient a family name as — ” 
 
 “As your name?” suggested Leonard. 
 
 “As the name of the Treverton family,” she 
 continued, after a pause, during which her hand 
 had been restlessly moving the letter to and fro 
 on the table. “The husband shall be well-born 
 — as well-born as you, Lenny — and the terrible 
 discovery shall be, that his wife has no right to 
 the ancient name that she bore when he married 
 her.” 
 
 “I can’t say, my love, that I approve of your 
 idea. Your story will decoy the reader into feel- 
 ing an interest in a woman who turns out to be 
 an impostor.” 
 
 “No!” cried Rosamond, warmly. “A true 
 woman — a woman who never stooped to a de- 
 ception — a woman full of faults and failings, but 
 
422 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS, 
 
 a teller of the truth at all hazards and all sacri- 
 fices. Hear me out, Lenny, before you judge.” 
 Hot tears rushed into her eyes; but she dashed 
 them away passionately, and went on. “The 
 wife shall grow up to womanhood, and shall 
 marry, in total ignorance — mind that! — in total 
 ignorance of her real history. The sudden dis- 
 closure of the truth shall overwhelm her — she 
 shall find herself struck by a calamity which she 
 had no hand in bringing about. She shall be 
 staggered in her very reason by the discovery; 
 it shall burst upon her when she has no one but 
 herself to depend on; she shall have the power 
 of keeping it a secret from her husband with per- 
 fect impunity; she shall be tried, she shall be 
 shaken in her mortal frailness, by one moment 
 of fearful temptation; she shall conquer it, and, 
 of her own free will, she shall tell her husband 
 all that she knows herself. Now, Lenny, what 
 do you call that woman? an impostor?” 
 
 “No: a victim.” 
 
 “Who goes of her own accord to the sacrifice? 
 and who is to be sacrificed?” 
 
 “I never said that.” 
 
 “What would you do with her, Lenny, if you 
 were writing the story? I mean, how would 
 you make her husband behave to her? It is a 
 question in which a man’s nature is concerned, 
 and a woman is not competent to decide it. I 
 am perplexed about how to end the story. How 
 would you end it, love?” As she ceased, her 
 voice sank sadly to its gentlest pleading tones. 
 She came close to him, and twined her fingers in 
 
THE DEAD SECKET. 
 
 423 
 
 his hair fondly. “How would you end it, love?” 
 she repeated, stooping down till her trembling 
 lips just touched his forehead. 
 
 He moved uneasily in his chair, and replied — 
 “I am not a writer of novels, Rosamond.” 
 
 “But how would you act, Lenny, if you were 
 that husband?” 
 
 “It is hard for me to say,” he answered. “I 
 have not your vivid imagination, my dear. I 
 have no power of putting myself, at a moment’s 
 notice, into a position that is not my own, and of 
 knowing how I should act in it.” 
 
 “But suppose your wife was close to you — as 
 close as I am now? Suppose she had just told 
 you the dreadful secret, and was standing before 
 you— as I am standing now — with the happiness 
 of her whole life to come depending on one kind 
 word from your lips? Oh, Lenny, you would 
 not let her drop broken-hearted at ycur feet? 
 You would know, let her birth be what it might, 
 that she was still the same faithful creature who 
 had cherished and served and trusted and wor- 
 shiped you since her marriage-day, and who 
 asked nothing in return but to lay her head on 
 your bosom, and to hear you say that you loved 
 her? You would know that she had nerved her- 
 self to tell the fatal secret, because, in her loyalty 
 and love to her husband, she would rather die 
 forsaken and despised, than live, deceiving him? 
 You would know all this, and you would open 
 your arms to the mother of your child, to the 
 wife of your first love, though she was the lowli- 
 est of all lowly born women in the estimation of 
 
4:U 
 
 WORKS OE WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 the world? Oh, you would, Lenny, I know you 
 would!” 
 
 “ Rosamond! how your hands tremble; how 
 your voice alters! You are agitating yourself 
 about this supposed story of yours, as if you were 
 talking of real events.” 
 
 “You would take her to your heart, Lenny? 
 You would open your arms to her without an 
 instant of unworthy doubt?” 
 
 “Hush! hush! I hope I should.” 
 
 “Hope? only hope? Oh, think again, love, 
 think again; and say you know you should!” 
 “Must I, Rosamond? Then I do say it.” 
 
 She drew back as the words passed his lips, 
 and took the letter from the table. 
 
 “You have not yet asked me, Lenny, to read 
 the letter that I found in the Myrtle Room. I 
 offer to read it now of my own accord.” 
 
 She trembled a little as she spoke those few 
 decisive words, but her utterance of them was 
 clear and steady, as if her consciousness of being 
 now irrevocably pledged to make the disclosure 
 had strengthened her at last to dare all hazards 
 and end all suspense. 
 
 Her husband turned toward the place from 
 which the sound of her voice had reached him, 
 with a mixed expression of perplexity and sur- 
 prise in his face. “You pass so suddenly from 
 one subject to another,” he said, “that I hardly 
 know how to followyou. What in the world, Rosa- 
 mond, takes you, at one jump, from a romantic 
 argument about a situation in a novel, to the 
 plain, practical business of reading an old letter?” 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 425 
 
 “Perhaps there is a closer connection between 
 the two than you suspect,” she answered. 
 
 “A closer connection? What connection? I 
 don’t understand.” 
 
 “The letter will explain.” 
 
 “Why the letter? Why should you not ex- 
 plain?” 
 
 She stole one anxious look at his face, and saw 
 that a sense of something serious to come was 
 now overshadowing his mind for the first time. 
 
 “Rosamond!” he exclaimed, “there is some 
 mystery — ” 
 
 “There are no mysteries between us two,” she 
 interposed quickly. “There never have been 
 any, love; there never shall be.” She moved 
 a little nearer to him to take her old favorite 
 place on his knee, then checked herself and drew 
 back again to the table. Warning tears in her 
 eyes bade her distrust her own firmness, and 
 read the letter where she could not feel the beat- 
 ing of his heart. 
 
 “Did I tell you,” she resumed, after waiting 
 an instant to compose herself, “where I found 
 the folded piece of paper which I put into your 
 hand in the Myrtle Room?” 
 
 “No,” he replied, “I think not.” 
 
 “I found it at the back of the frame of that 
 picture — the picture of the ghostly woman with 
 the wicked face. I opened it immediately, and 
 saw that it was a letter. The address inside, the 
 first line under it, and one of the two signatures 
 which it contained, were in a handwriting that 
 I knew.” 
 
426 
 
 WORKS' OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 “ Whose!” 
 
 “The handwriting of the late Mrs. Treverton.” 
 “Of your mother?” 
 
 “Of the late Mrs. Treverton.” 
 
 “Gracious God, Rosamond! why do you speak 
 of her in that way?” 
 
 “Let me read, and you will know. You have 
 seen, with my eyes, what the Myrtle Room is 
 like; you have seen, with my eyes, every object 
 which the search through it brought to light; 
 you must now see, with my eyes, what this letter 
 contains. It is the Secret of the Myrtle Room.” 
 She bent close over the faint, faded writing, 
 and read these words: 
 
 “To my Husband— 
 
 “We have parted, Arthur, forever, and I have 
 not had the courage to imbitter our farewell by 
 confessing that I have deceived you — cruelly and 
 basely deceived you. But a few minutes since, 
 you were weeping by my bedside and speaking 
 of our child. My wronged, my beloved husband, 
 the little daughter of your heart is not yours, is 
 not mine. She is a love-child, whom I have im- 
 posed on you for mine. Her father was a miner 
 at Porthgenna; her mother is my mind, Sarah 
 Leeson.” 
 
 Rosamond paused, but never raised her head 
 from the letter. She heard her husband lay his 
 hand suddenly on the table; she heard him start 
 to his feet; she heard him draw his breath heavi- 
 ly in one quick gasp; she heard him whisper to 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 437 
 
 himself the instant after— “A love-child !” With 
 a fearful, painful distinctness she heard those 
 three words. The tone in which he whispered 
 them turned her cold. But she never moved, 
 for there was more to read ; and while more re- 
 mained, if her life had depended on it, she could 
 not have looked up. 
 
 In a moment more she went on, and read these 
 lines next : 
 
 “I have many heavy sins to answer for, but 
 this one sin you must pardon, Arthur, for I com- 
 mitted it through fondness for you. That fond- 
 ness told me a secret which you sought to hide 
 from me. That fondness told me that your bar- 
 ren wife would never make your heart all her 
 own until she had borne you a child; and your 
 lips proved it true. Your first words, when you 
 came back from sea, and when the infant was 
 placed in your arms, were — 4 1 have never loved 
 you, Rosamond, as I love you now.’ If you 
 had not said that, I should never have kept my 
 guilty secret. 
 
 "I can add no more, for death is very near me. 
 How the fraud was committed, and what my 
 other motives were, I must leave you to discover 
 from the mother of the child, who writes this 
 under my dictation, and who is charged to give 
 it to you when I am no more. You will be mer- 
 ciful to the poor little creature who bears my 
 name. Be merciful also to her unhappy parent: 
 she is only guilty of too blindly obeying me. If 
 there is anything that mitigates the bitterness of 
 
428 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 my remorse, it is the remembrance that my act 
 of deceit saved the most faithful and the most 
 affectionate of women from shame that she had 
 not deserved. Remember me forgivingly, Ar- 
 thur — words may tell how I have sinned against 
 you; no words can tell how I have loved you!” 
 
 She had struggled on thus far, and had reached 
 the last line on the second page of the letter, when 
 she paused again, and then tried to read the first 
 of the two signatures — “Rosamond Treverton.” 
 She faintly repeated two syllables of that famil- 
 iar Christian name — the name that was on her 
 husband’s lips every hour cf the day ! — and strove 
 to articulate the third, but her voice failed her. 
 All the sacred household memories which that 
 ruthless letter had profaned forever seemed to 
 tear themselves away from her heart at the same 
 moment. With a low, moaning cry she dropped 
 her arms on the table, and laid her head down 
 on them, and hid her face. 
 
 She heard nothing, she was conscious of noth- 
 ing, until she felt a touch on her shoulder — a 
 light touch from a hand that trembled. Every 
 pulse in her body bounded in answer to it, and 
 she looked up. 
 
 Her husband had guided himself near to her 
 by the table. The tears were glistening in his 
 dim, sightless eyes. As she rose and touched 
 him, his arms opened, and closed fast around 
 her. 
 
 “My own Rosamond!” he said, “come tome 
 and be comforted!” 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 429 
 
 BOOK VI 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 UNCLE JOSEPH. 
 
 The day and the night had passed, and the new 
 morning had come, before the husband and wife 
 could trust themselves to speak calmly of the 
 Secret, and to face resignedly the duties and the 
 sacrifices which the discovery of it imposed on 
 them. 
 
 Leonard’s first question referred to those lines 
 in the letter which Rosamond had informed him 
 were in a handwriting that she knew. Finding 
 that he was at a loss to understand what means 
 she could have of forming an opinion on this 
 point, she explained that, after Captain Trever- 
 ton’s death, many letters had naturally fallen 
 into her possession which had been written by 
 Mrs. Treverton to her husband. They treated 
 of ordinary domestic subjects, and she had read 
 them often enough to become thoroughly ae 
 quainted with the peculiarities of Mrs. Trever- 
 ton’s handwriting. It was remarkably large, 
 firm, and masculine in character; and the ad- 
 dress, the line under it, and the uppermost of 
 the two signatures in the letter which had been 
 found in the Myrtle Room, exactly resembled 
 it in every particular. 
 
430 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 The next question related to the body of the let- 
 ter. The writing of this, of the second signature 
 (“Sarah Leesom”), and of the additional lines on 
 the third page, also signed by Sarah Leeson, pro- 
 claimed itself in each case to be the production of 
 the same person. While stating that fact to her 
 husband, Rosamond did not forget to explain to 
 him that, while reading the letter on the previ- 
 ous day, her strength and courage had failed her 
 before she got to the end of it, She added that 
 the postscript which she had thus omitted to read 
 was of importance, because it mentioned the cir- 
 cumstances under which the Secret had been hid- 
 den; and begged that he would listen while she 
 made him acquainted with its contents without 
 any further delay. 
 
 Sitting as close to his side, now, as if they were 
 enjoying their first honeymoon days over again, 
 she read these last lines — the lines which her 
 mother had written sixteen years before, on the 
 morning when she fled from Porthgenna Tower: 
 
 “If this paper should ever be found (which I 
 pray with my whole heart it never may be), I 
 wish to say that I have come to the resolution 
 of hiding it, because I dare not show the writing 
 that it contains to my master, to whom it is ad- 
 dressed. In doing what I now propose to do, 
 though I am acting against my mistress’s last 
 wishes, I am not breaking the solemn engage- 
 ment which she obliged me to make before her 
 on her death-bed. That engagement forbids me 
 to destroy this letter, or to take it away with me 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 431 
 
 if I lea ve the house. I shall do neither — my 
 purpose is to conceal it in the place, of all others, 
 where I think there is least chance of its ever be^ 
 ing found again. Any hardship or misfortune 
 which may follow as a consequence of this de- 
 ceitful proceeding on my part will fall on myself . 
 Others, I believe, in my conscience, will be the 
 happier for the hiding of the dreadful Secret 
 which this letter contains . 5 9 
 
 “There can be no doubt, now,” said Leonard, 
 when his wife had read to the end; “Mrs, 
 Jazeph, Sarah Leeson, and the servant who dis- 
 appeared from Porthgenna Tower, are one and 
 the same person.” 
 
 “Poor creature!” said Rosamond, sighing as 
 she put down the letter. “We know now why 
 she warned me so anxiously not to go into the 
 Myrtle Room. Who can say what she must 
 have suffered when she came as a stranger to my 
 bedside? Oh, what would I not give if I had 
 been less hasty with her! Ic is dreadful to re- 
 member that I spoke to her as a servant whom I 
 expected to obey me; it is worse still to feel that 
 I cannot, even no w, think of her as a child should 
 think of a mother. How can I ever tell her that 
 I know the Secret? how—” She paused, with a 
 heart-sick consciousness of the slur that was cast 
 on her birth ; she paused, shrinking as she thought 
 of the name that her husband had given to her, 
 and of her own parentage, which the laws of 
 society disdained to recognize. 
 
 “ Why do you stop?” asked Leonard. 
 
432 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 “1 was afraid—” she began, and paused again. 
 
 “Afraid,” he said, finishing the sentence for 
 her, “that words of pity for that unhappy woman 
 might wound my sensitive pride by reminding 
 me of the circumstances of your birth? Rosa- 
 mond! I should be unworthy of your matchless 
 truthfulness toward me, if I, on my side, did not 
 acknowledge that this discovery has wounded me 
 as only a proud man can be wounded. My pride 
 has been born and bred in me. My pride, even 
 while I am now speaking to you, takes advan- 
 tage of my first moments of composure, and de- 
 ludes me into doubting, in face of all probability, 
 whether the words you have read to me can, after 
 all, be words of truth. But, strong as that in- 
 born and inbred feeling is — hard as it may be 
 for me to discipline and master it as I ought, and 
 must and will — there is another feeling in my 
 heart that is stronger yet. ” He felt for her hand, 
 and took it in his; then added — “From the hour 
 when you first devoted your life to your blind 
 husband — from the hour when you won all his 
 gratitude, as you had already won all his love, 
 you took a place in his heart, Rosamond, from 
 which nothing, not even such a shock as has 
 now Assailed us, can move you ! High as I have 
 always held the worth of rank in my estimation, 
 I have learned, even before the event of yester- 
 day, to hold the worth of my wife, let her parent- 
 age be what it may, higher still.” 
 
 “Oh, Lenny, Lenny, 1 can’t hear you praise 
 me, if you talk in the same breath as if I had 
 made a sacrifice in marrying you! But for my 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 433 
 
 blind husband I might never have deserved 
 what you have just said of me. When I first 
 read that f :arful letter, I had one moment of vile, 
 ungrateful doubt if your love for me would hold 
 out against the discovery of the Secret. I had 
 one moment of horrible temptation, that drew 
 me away from you when 1 ought to have put the 
 letter into your hand. It was the sight of you, 
 waiting for me to speak again, so innocent of all 
 knowledge of what happened close by you, that 
 brought me back to my senses, and told me what 
 I ought to do. It was the sight of my blind hus- 
 band that made me conquer the temptation to 
 destroy that letter in the first hour of discovering 
 it. Oh, if I had been the hardest-hearted of 
 women, could I have ever taken your hand again 
 — could 1 kiss you, could 1 lie down by your side, 
 and hear you fall asleep, night after night, feel- 
 ing that I had abused your blind dependence on 
 me to serve my own selfish interests? knowing 
 that I had only succeeded in my deceit because 
 your affliction made you incapable of suspecting 
 deception? No, no; I can hardly believe that 
 the basest of women could be guilty of such base- 
 ness as that; and I can claim nothing more for 
 myself than the credit of having been true to my 
 trust. You said yesterday, love, in the Myrtle 
 Room, that the one faithful friend to you in your 
 blindness, who never failed, was your wife. It 
 is reward enough and consolation enough for me, 
 now that the worst is over, to know that you can 
 say so still.” 
 
 ■‘Yes, Rosamond, the worst is over; but we 
 
434 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 must not forget that there may be hard trials 
 still to meet.” 
 
 “Hard trials, love? To what trials do you 
 refer?” 
 
 “Perhaps, Rosamond, I overrate the courage 
 that the sacrifice demands; but, to me, at least, it 
 will be a hard sacrifice of my own feelings to 
 make strangers partakers in the knowledge that 
 we now possess.” 
 
 Rosamond looked at her husband in astonish- 
 ment. “Why need we tell the Secret to any 
 one?” she asked. 
 
 “Assuming that we can satisfy ourselves of 
 the genuineness ot that letter,” he answered, 
 “we shall have no choice but to tell it to stran- 
 gers. Y*ou cannot forget the circumstances under 
 which your father— under which Captain Trev- 
 erton — ” 
 
 “Call him my father,” said Rosamond, sadly. 
 “Remember how he loved me, and how I loved 
 him, and say ‘my father’ still.” 
 
 “I am afraid I must say ‘Captain Treverton’ 
 now,” returned Leonard, “or I shall hardly be 
 able to explain simply and plainly what it is 
 very necessary that you should know. Captain 
 Treverton died without leaving a will. His only 
 property was the purchase-money of this house 
 and estate; and you inherited it, as his next of 
 kin — ” 
 
 Rosamond started back in her chair and clasped 
 her hands in dismay. “Oh, Lenny,” she said 
 simply, “I have thought so much of you, since I 
 found the letter, that I never remembered this!” 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 435 
 
 “It is time to remember it, my love. If you 
 are not Captain Treverton’s daughter, you have 
 no right to one farthing of the fortune that you 
 possess; and it must be restored at once to the 
 person who is Captain Treverton’s next of kin — 
 or, in other words, to his brother. 5 ’ 
 
 “To that man!” exclaimed Rosamond. “To 
 that man who is a stranger to us, who holds our 
 very name in contempt ! Are wo to be made 
 poor that he may be made rich? — ” 
 
 “We are to do what is honorable and just, at 
 any sacrifice of our own interests and ourselves,” 
 said Leonard, firmly. “I believe, Rosamond, 
 that my consent, as your husband, is necessary, 
 according to the law, to effect this restitution. 
 If Mr. Andrew Treverton was the bitterest enemy 
 I had on earth, and if the restoring of this money 
 utterly ruined us both in our worldly circum- 
 stances, I would give it back of my own accord 
 to the last farthing — and so would you!” 
 
 The blood mantled in his cheeks as he spoke. 
 Rosamond looked at him admiringly in silence. 
 “Who would have him less proud,” she thought, 
 fondly, “when his pride speaks in such words as 
 those!” 
 
 “You understand now,” continued Leonard, 
 “that we have duties to perform which will 
 oblige us to seek help from others, and which 
 will therefore render it impossible to keep the 
 Secret to ourselves? If we search all England 
 for her, Sarah Leeson must be found. Our fut- 
 ure actions depend up:n her answers to our in- 
 quiries, upon her testimony to the genuineness of 
 
436 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 that letter. Although I am resolved beforehand 
 to shield myself behind no technical quibbles and 
 delays— although I want nothing hut evidence 
 that is morally conclusive, however legally im- 
 perfect it may be — it is still impossible to proceed 
 without seeking advice immediately. The law- 
 yer who always managed Captain Treverton’s 
 affairs, and who now manages ours, is the proper 
 person to direct us in instituting a search, and to 
 assist us, if necessary, in making the restitution.” 
 “How quietly and firmly you speak of it, 
 Lenny! Will not the abandoning of my fortune 
 be a dreadful loss to us?” 
 
 “We must think of it as a gain to our con- 
 sciences, Rosamond, and must alter our way of 
 life resignedly to suit our altered means. But 
 we need speak no more of that until we are as- 
 sured of the necessity of restoring the money. 
 My immediate anxiety, and your immediate 
 anxiety, must turn now on the discovery of 
 Sarah Leeson — no! on the discovery of your 
 mother; I must learn to call her by that name, 
 or I shall not learn to pity and forgive her.” 
 Rosamond nestled closer to her husband’s side. 
 “Every word you say, love, does my heart good,” 
 she whispered, laying her head on his shoulder. 
 “You will help me and strengthen me, when 
 the time comes, to meet my mother as I ought? 
 Oh, how pale and worn and weary she was when 
 she stood by my bedside, and looked at me and 
 my child! Will it be long before we find her? 
 Is she far away from us, I wonder? or nearer, 
 much nearer than we think?” 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 437 
 
 Before Leonard could answer, he was inter- 
 rupted by a knock at the door, and Rosamond 
 was surprised by the appearance of the maid- 
 servant. Betsey was flushed, excited, and out 
 of breath; but she contrived to deliver intelli- 
 gibly a brief message from Mr. Munder, the 
 steward, requesting permission to speak to Mr. 
 Frankland, or to Mrs. Frankland, on business of 
 importance. 
 
 “What is it? What does he want?” asked 
 Rosamond. 
 
 “I think, ma’am, he wants to know whether 
 he had better send for the constable or not,” an- 
 swered Betsey. 
 
 ‘ ‘ Send for the constable !” repeated Rosamond. 
 “Are there thieves in the house in broad day- 
 light?” ’ 
 
 “Mr. Munder says he don’t know but what it 
 may be worse than thieves,” replied Betsey. 
 “It’s the foreigner again, if you please, ma’am. 
 He come up and rung at the door as bold as 
 brass, and asked if he could see Mrs. Frank- 
 land.” 
 
 “ The foreigner !” exclaimed Rosamond, laying 
 her hand eagerly on her husband’s arm. 
 
 “Yes, ma’am,” said Betsey. “Him as come 
 here to go over the house along with the lady — ” 
 
 Rosamond, with characteristic impulsiveness, 
 started to her feet. “Let me go down!” she 
 began. 
 
 “Wait,” interposed Leonard, catching her by 
 the hand. “There is not the least need for you 
 to go downstairs. — Show the foreigner up here,” 
 
438 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 he continued, addressing himself to Betsey, “and 
 tell Mr. Munder that we will take the manage- 
 ment of this business into our own hands.” 
 
 Rosamond sat down again by her husband’s 
 side. “This is a very strange accident,” she 
 said, in a low, serious tone. “It must be some- 
 thing more than mere chance that puts the clew 
 into our hands, at the moment when we least 
 expected to find it.” 
 
 The door opened for the second time, and there 
 appeared, modestly, on the threshold, a little old 
 man, with rosy cheeks and long white hair. A 
 small leather case was slung by a strap at his 
 side, and the stem of a pipe peeped out of the 
 breast-pocket of his coat. He advanced one step 
 into the room, stopped, raised both his hands, 
 with his felt hat crumpled up in them, to his 
 heart, and made five fantastic bows in quick 
 succession — two to Mrs. Frankland, two to her 
 husband, and one to Mrs. Frankland again, as 
 an act of separate and special homage to the lady. 
 Never had Rosamond seen a more complete em- 
 bodiment in human form of perfect innocence 
 and perfect harmlessness than the foreigner who 
 was described in the housekeeper’s letter as an 
 audacious vagabond, and who was dreaded by 
 Mr. Munder as something worse than a thief! 
 
 “Madam and good sir,” said the old man, ad- 
 vancing a little nearer at Mrs. Frankland’s in- 
 vitation, “I ask your pardon for intruding my- 
 self. My name is Joseph Buschmann. I live 
 in the town of Truro, where I work in cabinets 
 and tea-caddies, and other shining woods. I am 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 439 
 
 also, if you please, the same little foreign man 
 who was scolded by the big major-domo when I 
 came to see the house. All that I ask of your 
 kindness is, that you will let me say for my 
 errand here and for myself, and for another per- 
 son who is very near to my love — one little word. 
 I will be but few minutes, madam and good sir, 
 and then I will go my ways again, with my best 
 wishes and my best thanks.” 
 
 “Pray consider, Mr. Buschmann, that our 
 time is your time,” said Leonard. “We have 
 no engagement whatever which need oblige you 
 to shorten your visit. I must tell you before- 
 hand, in order to prevent any embarrassment on 
 either side, that I have the misfortune to be 
 blind. I can promise you, however, my best 
 attention as far as listening goes. Rosamond, 
 is Mr, Buschmann seated?” 
 
 Mr. Buschmann was still standing near the 
 door, and was expressing sympathy by bowing 
 to Mr. Frankland again, and crumpling his felt 
 hat once more over his heart. 
 
 “Pray come nearer and sit down,” said Rosa- 
 mond. “And don’t imagine for one moment 
 that any opinion of the steward’s has the least 
 influence on us, or that we feel it at all neces- 
 sary for you to apologize for what took place the 
 last time you came to this house. We have an 
 interest — a very great interest,” she added, with 
 her usual hearty frankness, “in hearing anything 
 that you have to tell us. You are the person of 
 all others whom we are, just at this time—” 
 She stopped, feeling her foot touched by her 
 
440 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 husband’s, and rightly interpreting the action 
 as a warning not to speak too unrestrainedly to 
 the visitor before he had explained his object in 
 coming to the house. 
 
 Looking very much pleased, and a little sur- 
 prised, also, when he heard Rosamond’s last 
 words, Uncle Joseph drew a chair near to the 
 table by which Mr. and Mrs. Frankland were 
 sitting, crumpled his felt hat up smaller than 
 ever, and put it in one of his side pockets, drew 
 from the other a little packet of letters, placed 
 them on his knees as he sat down, patted them 
 gently with both hands, and entered on his ex- 
 planation in these terms: 
 
 “ Madam and good sir,” he began, “ before I 
 can say comfortably my little word, I must, with 
 your leave, travel backward to the last time 
 when I came to this house in company with 
 my niece.” 
 
 “Your niece!” exclaimed Rosamond and 
 Leonard, both speaking together. 
 
 “My niece, Sarah,” said Uncle Joseph, “the 
 only child of my sister Agatha. It is for the 
 love of Sarah, if you please, that I am here now. 
 She is the one last morsel of my flesh and blood 
 that is left to me in the world. The rest, they 
 are all gone! My wife, my little Joseph, my 
 brother Max, my sister Agatha and the husband 
 she married, the good and noble Englishman, 
 Leeson — they are all, all gone!” 
 
 “Leeson,” said Rosamond, pressing her hus- 
 band’s hand significantly under the table. “Your 
 niece’s name is Sarah Leeson?” 
 
THE HE A H SECRET. 
 
 441 
 
 Uncle Joseph sighed and shook his head. “One 
 day,” he said, “of all the days in the year the 
 evilmost for Sarah, she changed that name 0 Of 
 the man she married — who is dead now, madam 
 — it is little or nothing that I know but this: His 
 name was Jazeph, and he used her ill, for which 
 I think him the First Scoundrel! Yes,” ex- 
 claimed Uncle Joseph, with the nearest ap- 
 proach to anger and bitterness which his nat- 
 ure was capable of making, and with an idea 
 that he was using one of the strongest superla- 
 tives in the language — “Yes! if he was to come 
 to life again at this very moment of time, I 
 would say it of him to his face—Englishman 
 Jazbph, you are the First Scoundrel!” 
 
 Rosamond pressed her husband’s hand for the 
 second time. If their own convictions had not 
 already identified Mrs. Jazeph with Sarah Lee- 
 son, the old man’s last words must have amply 
 sufficed to assure them that both names had been 
 borne by the same person. 
 
 “Well, then, I shall now travel backward to 
 the time when I was here with Sarah, my niece,” 
 resumed Uncle Joseph. “I must, if you please, 
 speak the truth in this business, or, now that I 
 am already backward where I want to be, I shall 
 stick fast in my place, and get on no more for 
 the rest cf my life. Sir and good madam, will 
 you have the great kindness to forgive me and 
 Sarah, my niece, if I confess that it was not to 
 see the house that we came here and rang at the 
 bell, and gave deal of trouble, and wasted much 
 breath of the big major-domos with the scolding 
 
442 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 that we got. It was only to do one curious little 
 thing that we came together to this place — or, 
 no, it was all about a secret of Sarah’s, which 
 is still as black and dark to me as the middle of 
 the blackest and darkest night that ever was in 
 the world — and as I nothing knew about it, ex- 
 cept that there was no harm in it to anybody or 
 anything, and that Sarah was determined to go, 
 and that I could not let her go by herself ; as also 
 for the good reason that she told me she had the 
 best right of anybody to take the letter and to 
 hide it again, seeing that she was afraid of its 
 being found if longer in that room she left it, 
 which was the room where she had hidden it be- 
 fore — why, so it happened that I — no, that she — 
 no, no, that I — Ach Gott!” cried Uncle Joseph, 
 striking his forehead in despair, and relieving 
 himself by an invocation in his own language. 
 44 I am lost in my own muddlement; and where- 
 abouts the right place is, and how I am to get 
 myself back into it, as I am a living sinner, is 
 more than I know!” 
 
 4 ‘There is not the least need to go back on our 
 account,” said Rosamond, forgetting all caution 
 and self-restraint in her anxiety to restore the old 
 man’s confidence and composure. “Pray don’t 
 try to repeat your explanations, We know al- 
 ready — ” 
 
 44 We will suppose,” said Leonard, interposing 
 abruptly before his wife could add another word, 
 
 4 4 that we know already everything you can de- 
 sire to tell us in relation to your niece’s secret, 
 and to your motives for desiring to see the house.” 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 443 
 
 “You will suppose that!” exclaimed Uncle 
 Joseph, looking greatly relieved. “Ah! thank 
 you, sir, and you, good madam, a thousand 
 times for helping me out of my own muddle- 
 menfc with a ‘Suppose.’ I am all over confu- 
 sion from my tops to my toes; but I can go on 
 now, I think, and lose myself no more. So! 
 Let us say it in this way: I and Sarah, my 
 niece, are in the house — that is the first ‘Sup- 
 pose.’ I and Sarah, my niece, are out of the 
 house — -that is the second ‘ Suppose. ’ Good ! now 
 we go on once more. On my way back to my 
 own home at Truro, I am frightened for Sarah, 
 because of the faint she fell into on your stairs 
 here, and because of a look in her face that it 
 makes me heavy at my heart to see. Also, I am 
 sorry for her sake, because she has not done that 
 one curious little thing which she came into the 
 house to do. I fret about these same matters, 
 but I console myself too; and my comfort is that 
 Sarah will stop with me in my house at Truro, 
 and that I shall make her happy and well again, 
 as soon as we are settled in our life together. 
 Judge, then, sir, what a blow falls on me when 
 I hear that she will not make her home where 
 I make mine. Judge you, also, good madam, 
 what my surprise must be, when I ask for her 
 reason, and she tells me she must leave Uncle 
 Joseph, because she is afraid of being found out 
 by you.” He stopped, and looked anxiously at 
 Rosamond’s face, saw it sadden and turn away 
 from him after he had spoken his last words. 
 “Are you sorry, madam, for Sarah, my niece? do 
 
4:4:4 WORKS OF WILKIE COLT, INS. 
 
 you pity her?” he asked, with a little hesitation 
 and trembling in his voice. 
 
 “I pity her with my whole heart,” said Rosa- 
 mond, warmly. 
 
 “And with my whole heart, for that pity I 
 thank you!” rejoined Uncle Joseph. “Ah, 
 madam, your kindness gives me the courage 
 to go on, and to tell you that we parted from 
 each other on the day of our getting back to 
 Truro ! When she came to see me this time, it 
 was years and years, long and lonely and very 
 many, since we two had met. I was afraid that 
 many more would pass again and I tried to make 
 her stop with me to the very last. But she had 
 still the same fear to drive her away — the fear 
 of being found and put to the question by you. 
 So, with the tears in her eyes (and in mine), and 
 the grief at her heart (and at mine), she went 
 away to hide herself in the empty bigness of the 
 great city, London, which swallows up all peo- 
 ple and all things that pour into it, and which 
 has now swallowed up Sarah, my niece, with 
 the rest. 4 My child, you will write sometimes 
 to Uncle Joseph,’ I said, and she answered me: 
 4 1 will write often.’ It is three weeks now since 
 that time, and here, on my knee, are four letters 
 she has written to me. I shall ask your leave 
 to put them down open before you, because they 
 will help me to get on further yet with what I 
 must say, and because I see in your face, madam, 
 that you are indeed sorry for Sarah, my niece, 
 from your heart.” 
 
 He untied the packet of letters, opened them, 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 445 
 
 kissed them one by one, and put them down in 
 a row on the table, smoothing them out carefully 
 with his hand, and taking great pains to arrange 
 them all in a perfectly straight line. A glance 
 at the first of the little series showed Rosamond 
 that the handwriting in it was the same as the 
 handwriting in the body of the letter which had 
 been found in the Myrtle Room. 
 
 “There is not much to read,” said Uncle 
 Joseph. “But if you will look through them 
 first, madam, I can tell you after all the reason 
 for showing them that I have.” 
 
 The old man was right. There was very little 
 to read in the letters, and they grew progressively 
 shorter as they became more recent in date. All 
 four were written in the formal, conventionally 
 correct style of a person taking up the pen with 
 a fear of making mistakes in spelling and gram- 
 mar, and were equally destitute of any personal 
 particulars relative to the writer; all four anx- 
 iously entreated that Uncle Joseph would not be 
 uneasy, inquired after his health, and expressed 
 gratitude and love for him as warmly as their 
 timid restraints of style would permit; all four 
 contained, these two questions relating to Rosa- 
 mond — First, had Mrs. Frankland arrived yet 
 at Porthgenna Tower? Second, if she had ar- 
 rived, what had Uncle Joseph heard about her? 
 And, finally, all four gave the same instructions 
 f or addressing an answer — “Please direct to me, 
 ‘S. J., Post-office, Smith Street, London’ ” — fol- 
 lowed by the same apology, “Excuse my not giv- 
 ing my address, in case of accidents ; for even in 
 
446 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS, 
 
 London I am still afraid of being followed and 
 found out. I send every morning for letters; so 
 1 am sure to get your answer.” 
 
 “I told you, madam,” said the old man, when 
 Rosamond raised her head from the letters, “that 
 I was frightened and sorry for Sarah when she 
 left me. Now see, if you please, why I got more 
 frightened and more sorry yet, when I have all 
 the four letters that she writes to me. They be- 
 gin here, with the first, at my left hand; and 
 they grow shorter, and shorter, and shorter, as 
 they get nearer to my right, till the last is but 
 eight little lines. Again, see, if you please. The 
 writing of the first letter, here, at my left hand, 
 is very fine — I mean it is very fine to me, be- 
 cause I love Sarah, and because I write very 
 badly myself; but it is not so good in the sec- 
 ond letter — it shakes a little, it blots a little, it 
 crooks itself a little in the last lines. In the 
 third it is worse — more shake, more blot, more 
 crook. In the fourth, where there is least to do, 
 there is still more shake, still more blot, still 
 more crook, than in all the other three put to- 
 gether. I see this; I remember that she was 
 weak and worn and weary when she left me, 
 and I say to myself, 4 She is ill, though she will 
 not tell it, for the writing betrays her!’ ” 
 
 Rosamond looked down again at the letters, 
 and followed the significant changes for the 
 worse in the handwriting, line by line, as the 
 old man pointed them out. 
 
 “Isay to myself that,” he continued; “I wait, 
 and think a little ; and I hear my own heart whis- 
 
THK DEAD SECRET. 
 
 44 ? 
 
 per to me, ‘Go you, Uncle Joseph, to London, 
 and, while there is yet time, bring her back to 
 be cured and comforted and made happy in your 
 own home!’ After that 1 wait, and think a lit- 
 tle again — not about leaving my business; I 
 would leave it forever sooner than Sarah should 
 come to harm — but about what I am to do to 
 get her to come back. That thought makes me 
 look at the letters again; the letters show me 
 always the same questions about Mistress Frank- 
 land; I see it plainly as my own hand before 
 me that I shall never get Sarah, my niece, back, 
 unless I can make easy her mind about those 
 questions of Mistress Frankland’s that she dreads 
 as if there was death to her in every one of them. 
 I seo it! it makes my pipe go out; it drives me 
 up from my chair ; it puts my hat on my head ; it 
 brings me here, where I have once intruded my- 
 self already, and where I have no right, I know, 
 to intrude myself again; it makes me beg and 
 pray now, of your compassion for my niece and 
 of your goodness for me, that you will not deny 
 me the means of bringing Sarah back. If I may 
 only say to her, I have seen Mistress Frankland, 
 and she has told me with her own lips that she 
 will ask none of those questions that you fear 
 so much — if I may only say that, Sarah will 
 come back with me, and I shall thank you 
 every day of my life for making me a happy 
 man!” 
 
 The simple eloquence of his words, the inno- 
 cent earnestness of his manner, touched Rosa- 
 mond to the heart. “I will do anything, I will 
 
448 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 promise anything,” she answered, eagerly, “to 
 help you to bring her back! If she will only let 
 me see her, I promise not to say one word that 
 she would not wish me to say ; I promise not to 
 ask one question — no, not one — that it will pain 
 her to answer. Oh, what comforting message 
 can I send besides? what can I say — ?” She 
 stopped confusedly, feeling her husband’s foot 
 touching hers again. 
 
 “Ah, say no more! say no more!” cried Uncle 
 Joseph, tying up his little packet of letters, with 
 his eyes sparkling and his ruddy face all in a 
 glow. “Enough said to bring Sarah back! 
 enough said to make me grateful for all my 
 life! Oh, I am so happy, so happy, so happy 
 —my skin is too small to hold me!” He tossed 
 up the packet of letters into the air, caught it, 
 kissed it, and put it back again in his pocket, all 
 in an instant. 
 
 “You are not going?” said Rosamond. 
 “Surely you are not going yet?” 
 
 “It is my loss to go away from here, which 
 I must put up with, because it is also my gain 
 to get sooner to Sarah,” replied Uncle Joseph. 
 “For that reason only, I shall ask your pardon 
 if I take my leave with my heart full of thanks, 
 and go my ways home again.” 
 
 “When do you propose to start for London, 
 Mr. Buschmann?” inquired Leonard. 
 
 “To-morrow, in the morning early, sir,” re- 
 plied Uncle Joseph. “I shall finish the work 
 that I must do to-night, and shall leave the rest 
 to Samuel (who is my very good friend, and my 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 449 
 
 shopman too), and shall then go to Sarah by the 
 first coach.’ ’ 
 
 “May I ask for your niece’s address in Lon- 
 don, in case we wish to write to you?” 
 
 “She gives me no address, sir, but the post- 
 office; for even at the great distance of London, 
 the same fear that she had all the way from this 
 house still sticks to her. But here is the place 
 where I shall get my own bed,” continued the 
 old man, producing a small shop card. “It is 
 the house of a countryman of my own, a fine 
 baker of buns, sir, and a very good man indeed.” 
 
 “Have you thought of any plan for finding out 
 your niece’s address?” inquired Rosamond, copy- 
 ing the direction on the card while she spoke. 
 
 “Ah, yes — for I am always quick at making 
 my plans,” said Uncle Joseph. “I shall present 
 myself to the master of the post, and to him I 
 shall say just this and no more — ‘ Good-morning, 
 sir. I am the man who writes the letters to S. 
 J. She is my niece, if you please; and all that 
 I want to know is — Where does she live?’ There 
 is something like a plan, I think? Aha!” He 
 spread out both his hands interrogatively, and 
 looked at Mrs. Frankland with a self-satisfied 
 smile. 
 
 “I am afraid,” said Rosamond, partly amused, 
 partly touched by his simplicity, “that the people 
 at the post-office are not at all likely to be trusted 
 with the address. I think you would do better 
 to take a letter with you, directed to ‘S. J.’; to 
 deliver it in the morning when letters are received 
 from the country ; to wait near the door, and then 
 O— VOL. 16 
 
450 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 to follow the person who is sent by your niece (as 
 she tells you herself) to ask for letters for S. J.” 
 “You think that is better?” said Uncle Joseph, 
 secretly convinced that his own idea was unques- 
 tionably the most ingenious of the two. “Good ! 
 The least little word that you say to me, madam, 
 is a command that I follow with all my heart.” 
 He took the crumpled felt hat out of his pocket, 
 and advanced to say farewell, when Mr. Frank- 
 land spoke to him again. 
 
 “If you find your niece well, and willing to 
 travel,” said Leonard, “you will bring her back 
 to Truro at once? And you will let us know 
 when you are both at home again?” 
 
 “At once, sir,” said Uncle Joseph. “To both 
 these questions, I say, At once.” 
 
 “If a week from this time passes,” continued 
 Leonard, “and we hear nothing from you, we 
 must conclude, then, either that some unfore- 
 seen obstacle stands in the way of your return, 
 or that your fears on your niece’s account have 
 been but too well-founded, and that she is not 
 able to travel?” 
 
 “Yes, sir; so let it be. But I hope you will 
 hear from me before the week is out.” 
 
 “Oh, so do I ! most earnestly, most anxiously!” 
 said Rosamond. “You remember my message?” 
 “1 have got it here, every word of it,” said 
 Uncle Joseph, touching his heart. He raised 
 the hand which Rosamond held out to him to his 
 lips. “I shall try to thank you better when I 
 have come back,” he said. “For all your kind- 
 ness to me and to my niece, God bless you both, 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 451 
 
 and keep you happy, till we meet again.” With 
 these words, he hastened to the door, waved his 
 hand gayly, with the old crumpled hat in it, and 
 went out. 
 
 “Dear, simple, warm-hearted old man!” said 
 Rosamond, as the door closed. “'I wanted to 
 tell him everything, Lenny. Why did you stop 
 me?” 
 
 “My love, it is that very simplicity which you 
 admire, and which I admire, too, that makes me 
 cautious. At the first sound of his voice I felt 
 as warmly toward him as you do; but the more 
 I heard him talk the more convinced I became 
 that it would be rash to trust him, at first, for 
 fear of his disclosing too abruptly to your mother 
 that we know her secret, Our chance of win- 
 ning her confidence and obtaining an interview 
 with her depends, I can see, upon our own tact 
 in dealing with her exaggerated suspicions and 
 her nervous fears. That good old man, with the 
 best and kindest intentions in the world, might 
 ruin everything. He will have done all that we 
 can hope for, and all that we can wish, if he 
 only succeeds in bringing her back to Truro,” 
 
 “But if he fails? — if anything happens? — if 
 she is really ill?” 
 
 “Let us wait till the week is over, Rosamond. 
 It will be time enough then to decide what we 
 shall do next.” 
 
452 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 WAITING AND HOPING. 
 
 The week of expectation passed, and no tid- 
 ings from Uncle Joseph reached Porthgenna 
 Tower. 
 
 On the eighth day Mr. Frankland sent a mes- 
 senger to Truro, with orders to find out the cabi- 
 net-maker’s shop kept by Mr. Buschmann, and 
 to inquire of the person left in charge there 
 whether he had received any news from his mas- 
 ter. The messenger returned in the afternoon, 
 and brought word that Mr. Buschmann had writ- 
 ten one short note to his shopman since his de- 
 parture, announcing that he had arrived safely 
 toward nightfall in London; that he had met 
 with a hospitable welcome from his countryman, 
 the German baker; and that he had discovered 
 his niece’s address, but had been prevented from 
 seeing her by an obstacle which he hoped would 
 be removed at his next visit. Since the delivery 
 of that note, no further communication had been 
 received from him, and nothing therefore was 
 known of the period at which he might be ex- 
 pected to return. 
 
 The one fragment of intelligence thus obtained 
 was not of a nature to relieve the depression of 
 spirits which the doubt and suspense of the past 
 week had produced in Mrs. Frankland. Her 
 husband endeavored to combat the oppression of 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 453 
 
 mind from which she was suffering, by remind- 
 ing her that the ominous silence of Uncle Joseph 
 might be just as probably occasioned by his 
 niece’s unwillingness as by her inability to re- 
 turn with him to Truro. Remembering the ob- 
 stacle at which the old man’s letter hinted, and 
 taking also into consideration her excessive sen- 
 sitiveness and her unreasoning timidity, he de- 
 clared it to be quite possible that Mrs. Frank- 
 land’s message, instead of re-assuring her, might 
 only inspire her with fresh apprehensions, and 
 might consequently strengthen her resolution to 
 keep herself out of reach of all communications 
 from Porthgenna Tower. 
 
 Rosamond listened patiently while this view 
 of the case was placed before her, and acknowl- 
 edged that the reasonableness of it was beyond 
 dispute; but her readiness in admitting that her 
 husband might be right and that she might be 
 wrong was accompanied by no change for the 
 better in the condition of her spirits. The inter- 
 pretation which the old man had placed upon the 
 alteration for the worse in Mrs. Jazeph’s hand- 
 writing had produced a vivid impression on her 
 mind, which had been strengthened by her own 
 recollection of her mother’s pale, worn face when 
 they met as strangers at "West Winston. Rea- 
 son, therefore, as convincingly as he might, Mr. 
 Frankland was unable to shake his wife’s con- 
 viction that the obstacle mentioned in Uncle 
 Joseph’s letter, and the silence which he had 
 maintained since, were referable alike to the ill- 
 ness of his niece. 
 
454 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 The return of the messenger from Truro sug- 
 gested, besides this topic of discussion, another 
 question of much greater importance. After 
 having waited one day beyond the week that 
 had been appointed, what was the proper course 
 of action for Mr. and Mrs. Frankland now to 
 adopt, in the absence of any information from 
 London or from Truro to decide their future 
 proceedings? 
 
 Leonard’s first idea was to write immediately 
 to Uncle Joseph, at the address which he had 
 given on the occasion of his visit to Porthgenna 
 Tower. When this project was communicated 
 to Rosamond, she opposed it, on the ground that 
 the necessary delay before the answer to the let- 
 ter could arrive would involve a serious waste of 
 time, when it might, for aught they knew to the 
 contrary, be of the last importance to them not to 
 risk the loss of a single day. If illness prevented 
 Mrs. Jazepli from traveling, it would be neces- 
 sary to see her at once, because that illness might 
 increase. If she were only suspicious of their 
 motives, it was equally important to open per- 
 sonal communications with her before she could 
 find an opportunity of raising some fresh obsta- 
 cle, and of concealing herself again in some place 
 of refuge which Uncle Joseph himself might not 
 be able to trace. 
 
 The truth of these conclusions was obvious, 
 but Leonard hesitated to adopt them, because 
 they involved the necessity of a journey to Lon- 
 don. If he went there without his wife, his 
 blindness placed him at the mercy of strangers 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 455 
 
 and servants, in conducting investigations of the 
 most delicate and most private nature. If Rosa- 
 mond accompanied him, it would be necessary 
 to risk all kinds of delays and inconveniences by 
 taking the child with them on a long and weari- 
 some journey of more than two hundred and 
 fifty miles. 
 
 Rosamond met both these difficulties with her 
 usual directness and decision. The idea of her 
 husband traveling anywhere, under any circum- 
 stances, in his helpless, dependent state, without 
 having her to attend on him, she dismissed at 
 once as too- preposterous for consideration. The 
 second objection, of subjecting the child to the 
 chances and fatigues of a long journey, she met 
 by proposing that they should travel to Exeter at 
 their own time and in their own conveyance, 
 and that they should afterward insure plenty of 
 comfort and plenty of room by taking a carriage 
 to themselves when they reached the railroad at 
 Exeter. After thus smoothing away the diffi- 
 culties which seemed to set themselves in oppo- 
 sition to the journey, she again reverted to the 
 absolute necessity of undertaking it. She re- 
 minded Leonard of the serious interest that they 
 both had in immediately obtaining Mrs. Jazeph’s 
 testimony to the genuineness of the letter which 
 had been found in the Myrtle Room, as well as 
 in ascertaining all the details of the extraordi- 
 nary fraud which had been practiced by Mrs. 
 Treverton on her husband. She pleaded also her 
 own natural anxiety to make all the atonement 
 in her power for the pain she must have uncon- 
 
456 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 sciously inflicted, in the bedroom at West Win- 
 ston, on the person of all others whose failings 
 and sorrows she was most bound to respect ; and 
 having thus stated the motives which urged her 
 husband and herself to lose no time in communi- 
 cating personally with Mrs. Jazeph, she again 
 drew the inevitable conclusion that there was no 
 alternative, in the position in which they were 
 now placed, but to start forthwith on the jour- 
 ney to London. 
 
 A little further consideration satisfied Leonard 
 that the emergency was of such a nature as to 
 render all attempts to meet it by half-measures 
 impossible. He felt that his own convictions 
 agreed with his wife’s; and he resolved accord- 
 ingly to act at once, without further indecision 
 or further delay. Before the evening was over, 
 the servants at Porthgenna were amazed by re- 
 ceiving directions to pack the trunks for travel- 
 ing, and to order horses at the post-town for an 
 early hour the next morning. 
 
 On the first day of the journey, the travelers 
 started as soon as the carriage was ready, rested 
 on the road toward noon, and remained for the 
 night at Liskeard. On the second day they ar- 
 rived at Exeter, and slept there. On the third 
 day they reached London by the railway, be- 
 tween six and seven o’clock in the evening. 
 
 When they were comfortably settled for the 
 night at their hotel, and when an hour’s rest and 
 quiet had enabled them to recover a little after the 
 fatigues of the journey, Rosamond wrote two 
 notes under her husband’s direction. The first 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 457 
 
 was addressed to Mr. Buschmann : it simply in- 
 formed him of their arrival, and of their earnest 
 desire to see him at the hotel as early as possible 
 the next morning, and it concluded by cautioning 
 him to wait until he had seen them before he 
 announced their presence in London to his niece. 
 
 The second note was addressed to the family 
 solicitor, Mr. Nixon — the same gentleman who, 
 more than a year since, had written, at Mrs. 
 Frankland’s request, the letter which informed 
 Andrew Treverton of his brother’s decease, and 
 of the circumstances under which the Captain 
 had died. All that Rosamond now wrote, in her 
 husband’s name and her own, to ask of Mr. 
 Nixon, was that he would endeavor to call at 
 their hotel on his way to business the next morn- 
 ing, to give his opinion on a private matter of 
 great importance, which had obliged them to 
 undertake the journey from Porthgenna to Lon- 
 don. This note, and the note to Uncle Joseph, 
 were sent to their respective addresses by a mes- 
 senger on the evening when they were writften. 
 
 The first visitor who arrived the next morning 
 was the solicitor — a clear-headed, fluent, polite 
 old gentleman, who had known Captain Trever- 
 ton and his father before him. He came to the 
 hotel fully expecting to be consulted on some 
 difficulties connected with the Porthgenna estate, 
 which the local agent was perhaps unable to set- 
 tle, and which might be of too confused and in- 
 tricate a nature to be easily expressed in writing. 
 When he heard what the emergency really was, 
 and when the letter that had been found in the 
 
458 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 Myrtle Room was placed in his hands, it is not 
 too much to say that, for the first time in the 
 course of a long life and a varied practice among 
 all sorts and conditions of clients, sheer aston- 
 ishment utterly paralyzed Mr. Nixon’s faculties, 
 and bereft him for some moments of the power 
 of uttering a single word. 
 
 When, however, Mr. Frankland proceeded 
 from making the disclosure to announcing his 
 resolution to give up the purchase-money of 
 Porthgenna Tower, if the genuineness of the let- 
 ter could be proved to his own satisfaction, the 
 old lawyer recovered the use of his tongue im- 
 mediately, and protested against his client’s in- 
 tention with the sincere warmth of a man who 
 thoroughly understood the advantage of being 
 rich, and who knew what it was to gain and to 
 lose a fortune of forty thousand pounds. 
 
 Leonard listened with patient attention while 
 Mr. Nixon argued from his professional point of 
 view against regarding the letter, taken by it- 
 self, as a genuine document, and against ac- 
 cepting Mrs. Jazeph’s evidence, taken with it, 
 as decisive on the subject of Mrs. Frankland’s 
 real parentage. He expatiated on the improba- 
 bility of Mrs. Treverton’s alleged fraud upon 
 her husband having been committed without 
 other persons besides her maid and herself being 
 in the secret. He declared it to be in accordance 
 with all received experience of human nature 
 that one or more of those other persons must 
 have spoken of the secret either from malice or 
 from want of caution, and that the consequent 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 459 
 
 exposure of the truth must, in the course of so 
 long a period as twenty-two years, have come to 
 the knowledge of some among the many people 
 in the West of England, as well as in London, 
 who knew the Treverton family personally or by 
 reputation. From this objection he passed to 
 another, which admitted the possible genuine- 
 ness of the letter as a written document; but 
 which pleaded the probability of its having been 
 produced under the influence of some mental de- 
 lusion on Mrs. Treverton’s part, which her maid 
 might have had an interest in humoring at the 
 time, though she might have hesitated, after her 
 mistress’s death, at risking the possible conse- 
 quences of attempting to profit by the imposture. 
 Having stated this theory, as one which not only 
 explained the writing of the letter, but the hid- 
 ing of it also, Mr. Nixon further observed, in 
 reference to Mrs. J azeph, that any evidence she 
 might give was of little or no value in a legal 
 point of view, from the difficulty — or, he might 
 say, the impossibility— of satisfactorily identify- 
 ing the infant mentioned in the letter with the 
 lady whom he had now the honor of addressing 
 as Mrs. Frankland, and whom no unsubstanti- 
 ated document in existence should induce him 
 to believe to be any other than the daughter of 
 his old friend and client, Captain Treverton. 
 
 Having heard the lawyer’s objections to the 
 end, Leonard admitted their ingenuity, but ac- 
 knowledged at the same time that they had pro- 
 duced no alteration in his impression on the sub- 
 ject of the letter, or in his convictions as to the 
 
460 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 course of duty which he felt bound to follow. 
 He would wait, Tie said, for Mrs. Jazeph’s testi- 
 mony before he acted decisively; but if that 
 testimony were of such a nature, and were 
 given in such a manner, as to satisfy him that 
 his wife had no moral right to the fortune that 
 she possessed, he would restore it at once to the 
 person who had — Mr. Andrew Treverton. 
 
 Finding that no fresh arguments or sugges- 
 tions could shake Mr. Frankland’s resolution, 
 and that no separate appeal to Rosamond had 
 the slightest effect in stimulating her to use her 
 influence for the purpose of inducing her hus- 
 band to alter his determination ; and feeling con- 
 vinced, moreover, from all that he heard, that 
 Mr. Frankland would, if he was opposed by 
 many more objections, either employ another 
 professional adviser, or risk committing some 
 fatal legal error by acting for .himself in the 
 matter of restoring the money, Mr. Nixon at last 
 consented, under protest, to give his client what 
 help he needed in case it became necessary to 
 hold communication with Andrew Treverton. 
 He listened with polite resignation to Leonard’s 
 brief statement of the questions that he intended 
 to put to Mrs. Jazeph; and said, with the slight- 
 est possible dash of sarcasm, when it came to his 
 turn to speak, that they were excellent questions 
 in a moral point of view, and would doubtless 
 produce answers which would be full of interest 
 of the most romantic kind. “But,” he added, 
 “as you have one child already, Mr. Frankland, 
 and as you may, perhaps, if I may venture on 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 461 
 
 suggesting such a thing, have more in the course 
 of 3^ears ; and as those children, when they grow 
 up, may hear of the loss of their mother’s fort- 
 une, and may wish to know why it was sacri- 
 ficed, I should recommend — resting the matter 
 on family grounds alone, and not going further 
 to make a legal point of it also — that you pro- 
 cure from Mrs. Jazeph, besides the viva voce 
 evidence you propose to extract (against the 
 admissibility of which, in this case, I again 
 protest), a written declaration, which you may 
 leave behind you at your death, and which may 
 justify you in the eyes of your children, in case 
 the necessity for such justification should arise 
 at some future period.” 
 
 This advice was too plainly valuable to be 
 neglected. At Leonard’s request, Mr. Nixon 
 drew out at once a form of declaration, affirm- 
 ing the genuineness of the letter addressed by 
 the late Mrs. Treverton on her deathbed to her 
 husband, since also deceased, and bearing wit- 
 ness to the truth of the statements therein con- 
 tained, both as regarded the fraud practiced on 
 Captain Treverton and the asserted parentage 
 of the child. Telling Mr. Frankland that he 
 would do well to have Mrs. Jazeph’s signature 
 to this document attested by the names of two 
 competent witnesses, Mr. Nixon handed the dec- 
 laration to Rosamond to read aloud to her hus- 
 band, and, finding that no objection was made 
 to any part of it, and that he could be of no 
 further use in the present early stage of the 
 proceedings, rose to take his leave. Leonard 
 
462 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS 
 
 engaged to communicate with him again in the 
 course of the day, if necessary; and he retired, 
 reiterating his protest to the last, and declaring 
 that he had never met with such an extraordi- 
 nary case and such a self-willed client before in 
 the whole course of his practice. 
 
 Nearly an hour elapsed after the departure of 
 the lawyer before any second visitor was an- 
 nounced. At the expiration of that time, the 
 welcome sound of footsteps was heard approach- 
 ing the door, and Uncle Joseph entered the room. 
 
 Rosamond’s observation, stimulated by anx- 
 iety, detected a change in his look and manner 
 the moment he appeared. His face was harassed 
 and fatigued* and his gait, as he advanced into 
 the room, had lost the briskness and activity 
 which so quaintly distinguished it when she saw 
 him, for the first time, at Porthgenna Tower. 
 He tried to add to his first words of greeting an 
 apology for being late; but Rosamond inter- 
 rupted him, in her eagerness to ask the first 
 important question. 
 
 “We know that you have discovered her ad- 
 dress,” she said, anxiously, “but we know noth- 
 ing more. Is she as you feared to find her? Is 
 she ill?” 
 
 The old man shook his head sadly. “When I 
 showed you her letter,” he said, “what did I 
 tell you? She is so ill, madam, that not even 
 the message your kindness gave to me will do 
 her any good.” 
 
 Those few simple words struck Rosamond’s 
 heart with a strange fear, which silenced her 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 463 
 
 against her own will when she tried to speak 
 again. Uncle Joseph understood the anxious 
 look she fixed on him, and the quick sign she 
 made toward the chair standing nearest to the 
 sofa on which she and her husband were sitting. 
 There he took his place, and there he confided to 
 them all that h.9 had to tell. 
 
 He had followed, he said, the advice which 
 Rosamond had given to him at Porthgenna, by 
 taking a letter addressed to “S. J.” to the post- 
 office the morning after his arrival in London. 
 The messenger— a maid-servant — had called to 
 inquire, as was anticipated, and had left the 
 post-office with his letter in her hand. He had 
 followed her to a lodging-house in a street near, 
 had seen her let herself in at the door, and had 
 then knocked and inquired for Mrs. Jazeph. The 
 door was answered by an old woman, who looked 
 like the landlady; and the reply was that no one 
 of that name lived there. He had then explained 
 that he wished to see the person for whom let- 
 ters were sent to the neighboring post-office, 
 addressed to “S. J.”; but the old woman had 
 answered, in the surliest way, that they had noth- 
 ing to do with anoi^mous people or their friends 
 in that house, and had closed the door in his 
 face. Upon this he had gone back to his friend, 
 the German baker, to get advice; and had been 
 recommended to return, after allowing some lit- 
 tle time to elapse, to ask if he could see the serv- 
 ant who waited on the lodgers, to describe his 
 niece’s appearance, and to put half a crown into 
 the girl’s hand to help her to understand what 
 
464 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 he wanted. He had followed these directions, 
 and had discovered that his niece was lying ill 
 in the house, under the assumed name of 4 4 Mrs. 
 James.” A little persuasion (after the present 
 of the half-crown) had induced the girl to go up- 
 stairs and announce his name. After that there 
 were no more obstacles to be overcome, and he 
 was conducted immediately to the room occupied 
 by his niece. 
 
 He was inexpressibly shocked and startled 
 when he saw her by the violent nervous agita- 
 tion which she manifested as he approached her 
 bedside. But he did not lose heart and hope 
 until he had communicated Mrs. Frankland’s 
 message, and had found that it failed altogether 
 in producing the reassuring effect on her spirits 
 which he had trusted and believed that it would 
 exercise. Instead of soothing, it seemed to ex- 
 cite and alarm her afresh. Among a host of 
 minute inquiries about Mrs. Frankland’s looks, 
 about her manner toward him, about the exact 
 words she had spoken, all of which he was able 
 to answer more or less to her satisfaction, she 
 had addressed two questions to him, to which he 
 was utterly unable to reply. The first of the 
 questions was, Whether Mrs. Frankland had 
 said anything about the Secret? The second 
 was, Whether she had spoken any chance word 
 to lead to the suspicion that she had found out 
 the situation of the Myrtle Room? 
 
 The doctor in attendance had come in, the old 
 man added, while he was still sitting by his 
 niece’s bedside, and still trying ineffectually to 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 465 
 
 induce her to accept the friendly and reassuring 
 language of Mrs. Frankland’s message. After 
 making some inquiries and talking a little while 
 on indifferent matters, the doctor had privately 
 taken him aside; had informed him that the 
 pain over the region of the heart and the diffi- 
 culty in breathing, which were the symptoms of 
 which his niece complained, were more serious 
 in their nature than persons uninstructed in 
 medical matters might be disposed to think; 
 and had begged him to give her no more mes- 
 sages from any one, unless he felt perfectly sure 
 beforehand that they would have the effect of 
 clearing her mind, at once and forever, from the 
 secret anxieties that now harassed it — anxieties 
 which he might rest assured were aggravating 
 her malady day by day, and rendering all the 
 medical help that could be given of little or no 
 avail. 
 
 Upon this, after sitting longer with his niece, 
 and after holding counsel with himself, he had 
 resolved to write privately to Mrs. Frankland 
 that evening, after getting back to his friend’s 
 house. The letter had taken him longer to com- 
 pose than any one accustomed to writing would 
 believe. At last, after delays in making a fair 
 copy from many rough drafts, and delays in 
 leaving his task to attend to his niece, he had 
 completed a letter narrating what had happened 
 since his arrival in London, in language which 
 he hoped might be understood. Judging by 
 comparison of dates, this letter must have 
 crossed Mr. and Mrs. Frankland on the road. 
 
466 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 It contained nothing more than he had just been 
 relating with his own lips — except that it also 
 communicated, as- a proof that distance had not 
 diminished the fear which tormented his niece’s 
 mind, the explanation she had given to him of 
 her concealment of her name, and of her choice 
 of an abode among strangers, when she had 
 friends in London to whom she might have gone. 
 That explanation it was perhaps needless to have 
 lengthened the letter by repeating, for it only 
 involved his saying over again, in substance, 
 what he had already said in speaking of the 
 motive which had forced Sarah to part from him 
 at Truro. 
 
 With last words such as those, the sad and 
 simple story of the old man came to an end. 
 After waiting a little to recover her self-posses- 
 sion and to steady her voice, Rosamond touched 
 her husbanrl to draw his attention to herself, and 
 whispered to him — 
 
 “I may say all, now, that I wished to say at 
 Porthgenna?” 
 
 “All,” he answered. “If you can trust your- 
 self, Rosamond, it is fittest that he should hear it 
 from your lips.” 
 
 After the first natural burst of astonishment 
 was over, the effect of the disclosure of the Secret 
 on Uncle Joseph exhibited the most striking con- 
 trast that can be imagined to the effect of it on 
 Mr. Nixon. No shadow of doubt darkened the 
 old man’s face, not a word of objection dropped 
 from his lips. The one emotion excited in him 
 was simple, unreflecting, unalloyed delight. He 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 467 
 
 sprang to his feet with all his natural activity, 
 his eyes sparkled again with all their natural 
 brightness; one moment he clapped his hands 
 like a child; the next he caught up his hat, and 
 entreated Rosamond to let him lead her at once 
 to his niece’s bedside. “If you will only tell 
 Sarah what you have just told me,” he cried, 
 hurrying across the room to open the door, “you 
 will give her back her courage, you will raise 
 her up from her bed, you will cure her before 
 the day is out!” 
 
 A warning word from Mr Frankland stopped 
 him on a sudden, and brought him back, silent 
 and attentive, to the chair that he had left the 
 moment before. 
 
 “Think a little of what the doctor told you,” 
 said Leonard. “The sudden surprise which has 
 made you so happy might do fatal mischief to 
 your niece. Before we take the responsibility of 
 speaking to her on a subject which is sure to 
 agitate her violently, however careful we may 
 be in introducing it, we ought first, I think, for 
 safety’s sake, to apply to the doctor for advice.” 
 
 Rosamond warmly seconded her husband’s 
 suggestion, and, with her characteristic impa- 
 tience of delay, proposed that they should find 
 out the medical man immediately. Uncle Joseph 
 announced — a little unwillingly, as it seemed — 
 in answer to her inquiries, that he knew the 
 place of the doctor’s residence, and that he was 
 generally to be found at home before one o’clock 
 in the afternoon. It was then just half-past 
 twelve; and Rosamond, with her husband’s ap- 
 
468 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 proval, rang the bell at once to send for a 
 cab. 
 
 She was about to leave the room to put on her 
 bonnet, after giving the necessary order, when 
 the old man stopped her by asking, with some 
 appearance of hesitation and confusion, if it 
 was considered necessary that he should go to 
 the doctor with Mr. and Mrs. Frankland; add- 
 ing, before the question could be answered, that 
 he would greatly prefer, if there was no objec- 
 tion to it on their parts, being left to wait at the 
 hotel to receive any instructions they might wish 
 to give him on their return. Leonard immedi- 
 ately complied with his request, without inquir- 
 ing into his reasons for making it ; but Rosa- 
 mond’s curiosity was aroused, and she asked why 
 he preferred remaining by himself at the hotel 
 to going with them to the doctor. 
 
 4 ‘I like him not,” said the old man. “When 
 he speaks about Sarah, he looks and talks as if 
 he thought she would never get up from her bed 
 again.” Answering in those brief words, he 
 walked away uneasily to the window, as if he 
 desired to say no more. 
 
 The residence of the doctor was at some little 
 distance, but Mr. and Mrs. Frankland arrived 
 there before one o’clock, and found him at home. 
 He was a young man, with a mild, grave face, 
 and a quiet, subdued manner. Daily contact 
 with suffering and sorrow had perhaps prema- 
 turely steadied and saddened his character. 
 Merely introducing her husband and herself to 
 him, as persons who were deeply interested in 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 469 
 
 his patient at the lodging-house, Rosamond left 
 it to Leonard to ask the first questions relating to 
 the condition of her mother’s health. 
 
 The doctor’s answer was ominously prefaced 
 by a few polite words, which were evidently in- 
 tended to prepare his hearers for a less hopeful 
 report than they might have come there expect- 
 ing to receive. Carefully divesting the subject 
 of all professional technicalities, he told them 
 that his patient was undoubtedly affected with 
 serious disease of the heart. The exact nature 
 of this disease he candidly acknowledged to be 
 a matter of doubt, which various medical men 
 might decide in various ways. According to 
 the opinion which he had himself formed from 
 the symptoms, he believed that the patient’s 
 malady was connected with the artery which 
 conveys blood directly from the heart through 
 the system. Having found her singularly un- 
 willing to answer questions relating to the nature 
 of her past life, he could only guess that the dis- 
 ease was of long standing; that it w'as originally 
 produced by some great mental shock, followed 
 by long-wearing anxiety (of which her face 
 showed palpable traces) ; and that it had been 
 seriously aggravated by the fatigue of a jour- 
 ney to London, which she acknowledged she had 
 undertaken at a time when great nervous ex- 
 haustion rendered her totally unfit to travel. 
 Speaking according to this view of the case, it 
 was his painful duty to tell her friends that any 
 violent emotion would unquestionably put her 
 life in danger. At the same time, if the mental 
 
470 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 uneasiness from which she was now suffering 
 could be removed, and if she could be placed in 
 a quiet, comfortable country home, among people 
 who would be unremittingly careful in keeping 
 her composed, and in suffering her to want for 
 nothing, there was reason to hope that the prog- 
 ress of the disease might be arrested, and that 
 her life might be spared for some years to come. 
 
 Rosamond’s heart bounded at the picture of the 
 future which her fancy drew from the sugges- 
 tions that lay hidden in the doctor’s last words. 
 “She can command every advantage you have 
 mentioned, and more, if more is required!” she 
 interposed eagerly, before her husband could 
 speak again. “Oh, sir, if rest among kind 
 friends is all that her poor weary heart wants, 
 thank God we can give it!” 
 
 “We can give it,” said Leonard, continuing 
 the sentence for his wife, “if the doctor will sanc- 
 tion our making a communication to his patient, 
 which is of a nature to relieve her of all anixety, 
 but which, it is necessary to add, she is at pres- 
 ent quite unprepared to receive.” 
 
 “May I ask,” said the doctor, “who is to be 
 intrusted with the responsibility of making the 
 communication you mention?” 
 
 “There are two persons who could be intrusted 
 with it,” answered Leonard. “One is the old 
 man whom you have seen by your patient’s bed- 
 side. The other is my wife.” 
 
 “In that case,” rejoined the doctor, looking at 
 Rosamond, “there can be no doubt that this lady 
 is the fittest person to undertake the duty .’ 2 He 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 471 
 
 paused, and reflected for a moment; then added 
 — “May I inquire, however, before I venture on 
 guiding your decision one way or the other, 
 whether the lady is as familiarly known to my 
 patient, and is on the same intimate terms with 
 her, as the old man?” 
 
 “1 am afraid 1 must answer No to both those 
 questions,” replied Leonard. “And I ought, 
 perhaps, to tell you, at the same time, that your 
 patient believes my wife to be now in Cornwall. 
 Her first appearance in the sick-room would, I 
 fear, cause great surprise to the sufferer, and 
 possibly some little alarm as well.” 
 
 “Under those circumstances,” said the doctor, 
 “the risk of trusting the old man, simple as he 
 is, seems to be infinitely the least risk of the two 
 — for the plain reason that his presence can cause 
 her no surprise. However unskillfully he may 
 break the news, he will have the great advantage 
 over this lady of not appearing unexpectedly at 
 the bedside. If the hazardous experiment must 
 be tried — and I assume that it must, from what 
 you have said — you have no choice, I think, but 
 to trust it, with proper cautions and instructions, 
 to the old man to carry out.” 
 
 After arriving at that conclusion, there was 
 no more to be said on either side, The interview 
 terminated, and Rosamond and her husband 
 hastened back to give Uncle Joseph his instruc- 
 tions at the hotel. 
 
 As they approached the door of their sitting- 
 room they were surprised by hearing the sound 
 of music inside. On entering, they found the 
 
4?2 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 old man crouched upon a stool, listening to a 
 shabby little musical box which was placed on a 
 table close by him, and which was playing an 
 air that Rosamond recognized immediately as 
 the “Batti, Batti” of Mozart. 
 
 “I hope you will pardon me for making music 
 to keep myself company while you were away,” 
 said Uncle Joseph, starting up in some little con- 
 fusion, and touching the stop of the box. “This 
 is, if you please, of all my friends and compan- 
 ions, the oldest that is left. The divine Mozart, 
 the king of all the composers that ever lived, 
 gave it with his own hand, madam, to my broth- 
 er, when Max was a boy in the music school at 
 Vienna. Since my niece left me in Cornwall, I 
 have not had the heart to make Mozart sing to 
 me out of this little bit of box until to-day. Now 
 that you have made me happy about Sarah again, 
 my ears ache once more for the tiny ting-ting 
 that has always the same friendly sound to my 
 heart, travel where I may. But enough so!” 
 said the old man, placing the box in the leather 
 case by his side, which Rosamond had noticed 
 there when she first saw him at Porthgenna. “I 
 shall put back my singing-bird into his cage, and 
 shall ask, when that is done, if you will be pleased 
 to tell me what it is that the doctor has said?” 
 
 Rosamond answered his request by relating 
 the substance of the conversation which had 
 passed between her husband and the doctor. She 
 then, with many preparatory cautions, proceeded 
 to instruct the old man how to disclose the dis- 
 covery of the Secret to his niece. She told him 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 m 
 
 that the circumstances in connection with it must 
 be first stated, not as events that had really hap- 
 pened, but as events that might be supposed to 
 have happened. She put the words that he 
 would have to speak into his mouth, choosing 
 the fewest and the plainest that would answer 
 the purpose; she showed him how he might glide 
 almost imperceptibly from referring to the dis- 
 covery as a thing that might be supposed, to re- 
 ferring to it as a thing that had really happened; 
 and she impressed upon him, as most important 
 of all, to keep perpetually before his niece’s mind 
 the fact that the discovery of the Secret had not 
 awakened one bitter feeling or one resentful 
 thought toward her, in the minds of either of 
 the persons who had been so deeply interested in 
 finding it out. 
 
 Uncle Joseph listened with unwavering atten- 
 tion until Rosamond had done; then rose from 
 his seat, fixed his eyes intently on her face, and 
 detected an expression of anxiety and doubt in it 
 which he rightly interpreted as referring to him- 
 self. 
 
 “May I make you sure, before I go away, that 
 I shall forget nothing?” he asked, very earnestly. 
 “I have no head to invent, it is true; but I have 
 something in me that can remember, and the 
 more especially when it is for Sarah’s sake. If 
 you please, listen now, and hear if I can say to 
 you over again all that you have said to me?” 
 
 Standing before Rosamond, with something in 
 his look and manner strangely and touchingly 
 suggestive of the long-past days of his childhood, 
 
474 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 and of the time when he had said his earliest 
 lessons at his mother’s knee, he now repeated, 
 from first to last, the instructions that had been 
 given to him, with a verbal exactness, with an 
 easy readiness of memory, which, in a man of 
 his age, was nothing less than astonishing. 
 “Have I kept it all as I should?” he asked sim- 
 ply, when he had come to an end. “And may I 
 go my ways now, and take my good news to 
 Sarah’s bedside?” 
 
 It was still necessary to detain him, while 
 Rosamond and her husband consulted together 
 on the best and safest means of following up the 
 avowal that the Secret was discovered by the an- 
 nouncement of their own presence in London. 
 
 After some consideration, Leonard asked his 
 wife to produce the document which the lawyer 
 had drawn out that morning, and to write a few 
 lines, from his dictation, on the blank side of the 
 paper, requesting Mrs. Jazeph to read the form 
 of declaration, and to affix her signature to it, if 
 she felt that it required her, in every particular, 
 to affirm nothing that was not the exact truth. 
 When this had been done, and when the leaf on 
 which Mrs. Frankland had written had been 
 folded outward, so that it might be the first page 
 to catch the eye, Leonard directed that the paper 
 should be given to the old man, and explained to 
 him what he was to do with it, in these words: 
 
 “When you have broken the news about the 
 Secret to your niece,” he said, “and when you 
 have allowed her full time to compose herself, if 
 she asks questions about my wife and myself (as 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 475 
 
 I believe she will), hand that paper to her for 
 answer, and beg her to read it. Whether she is 
 willing to sign it or not, she is sure to inquire 
 how you came by it. Tell her in return that you 
 have received it from Mrs. Frankland — using the 
 word ‘received,’ so that she may believe at first 
 that it was sent to you from Porthgenna by post. 
 If you find that she signs the declaration, and 
 that she is not much agitated after doing so, then 
 tell her, in the same gradual way in which you 
 tell the truth about the discovery of the Secret, 
 that my wife gave the paper to you with her own 
 hands, and that she is now in London—” 
 
 “Waiting and longing to see her,” added 
 'Rosamond. “You, who forget nothing, will 
 not, I am sure, forget to say that.” 
 
 The little compliment to his powers of memory 
 made Uncle Joseph color with pleasure, as if he 
 was a boy again. Promising to prosre worthy of 
 the trust reposed in him, and engaging to come 
 back and relieve Mrs. Frankland of all suspense 
 before the day was out, he took his leave, and 
 went forth hopefully on his momentous errand. 
 
 Rosamond watched him from the window, 
 threading his way in and out among the throng 
 of passengers on the pavement, until he was lost 
 to view. How nimbly the light little figure sped 
 away out of sight! How gayly the unclouded 
 sunlight poured down on the cheerful bustle in 
 the street! The whole being of the great city 
 basked in the summer glory of the day; all its 
 mighty pulses beat high, and all its myriad 
 voices whispered of hope! 
 
476 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE STORY OF THE PAST. 
 
 The afternoon wore away and the evening 
 came, and still there were no signs of Uncle 
 Joseph’s return. 
 
 Toward seven o’clock Rosamond was sum- 
 moned by the nurse, who reported that the 
 child was awake and fretful. After soothing 
 and quieting him, she took him back with her 
 to the sitting-room, having first, with her usual 
 consideration for the comfort of any servant 
 whom she employed, sent the nurse downstairs, 
 with a leisure hour at her own disposal, after 
 the duties of the day. “I don’t like to be away 
 from you, Lenny, at this anxious time,” she said, 
 when she rejoined her husband; “so I have 
 brought the child in here. He is not likely to 
 be troublesome again, and the having him to 
 take care of is really a relief to me in our present 
 state of suspense.” 
 
 The clock on the mantel-piece chimed the half 
 hour past seven. The carriages in the street 
 were following one another more and more 
 rapidly, filled with people in full dress, on 
 their way to dinner, or on their way to the 
 opera. The hawkers were shouting proclama- 
 tions of news in the neighboring square, with 
 the second editions of the evening papers under 
 their arms. People who had been serving be 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 477 
 
 hind the counter all day were standing at the 
 shop door to get a breath of fresh air. Work- 
 ing men were trooping homeward, now singly, 
 now together, in weary, shambling gangs. Idlers, 
 who had come out after dinner, were lighting 
 cigars at corners of streets, and looking about 
 them, uncertain which way they should turn 
 their steps next. It was just that transitional 
 period of the evening at which the street-life of 
 the day is almost over, and the street-life of the 
 night has not quite began — jast the time, also, 
 at which Rosamond, after vainly trying to find 
 relief from the weariness of waiting by looking 
 out of window, was becoming more and more 
 deeply absorbed in her own anxious thoughts — 
 when her attention was abruptly recalled to 
 events* in the little world about her by the open- 
 ing of the room door. She looked up imme- 
 diately from the child lying asleep on her lap, 
 and saw that Uncle Joseph had returned at last. 
 
 The old man came in silently, with the form of 
 declaration which he had taken away with him, 
 by Mr. Rrankland’s desire, open in his hand. As 
 he approached nearer to the window, Rosamond 
 noticed that his face looked as if it had grown 
 strangely older during the few hours of his ab- 
 sence. He came close up to her, and still not 
 saying a word, laid his trembling forefinger low 
 down on the open paper, and held it before her 
 so that she could look at the place thus indicated 
 without rising from her chair. 
 
 His silence and the change in his face struck 
 her with a sudden dread which made her hesi- 
 
4?8 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 tate before she spoke to him. 4 ‘Have you told 
 her all?” she asked, after a moment’s delay, 
 putting the question in low, whispering tones, 
 and not heeding the paper. 
 
 “This answers tliat I have,” he said, still 
 pointing to the declaration, “See! here is the 
 name, signed in the place that was left for it — 
 signed by her own hand.” 
 
 Rosamond glanced at the paper. There in- 
 deed was the signature, “S. Jazeph”; and un- 
 derneath it were added, in faintly traced lines 
 of parenthesis, these explanatory words: “For- 
 merly, Sarah Leeson,” 
 
 “Why don’t you speak?” exclaimed Rosa- 
 mond, looking at him in growing alarm. “Why 
 don’t you tell us how she bore it?” 
 
 “Ah! don’t ask me, don’t ask me!” he an- 
 swered, shrinking back from her hand, as she 
 tried in her eagerness to lay it on his arm. “I 
 forgot nothing, I said the words as you taught 
 me to say them — I went the roundabout way to 
 the truth with my tongue; but my face took 
 the short cut, and got to the end first. * Pray, 
 of your goodness to me, ask nothing about it! 
 Be satisfied, if you please, with knowing that 
 she is better and quieter and happier now. The 
 bad is over and past, and the good is all to come. 
 If I tell you how she looked, if I tell you what 
 she said, if I tell you all that happened when 
 first she knew the truth, the fright will catch me 
 round the heart again, and all the sobbing and 
 crying that I have swallowed down will rise once 
 more and choke me. I must keep my head clear 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 479 
 
 and my eyes dry— or how shall I say to you all 
 the things that I have promised Sarah, as I love 
 my own soul and hers, to tell, before I lay my- 
 self down to rest to-night?” He stopped, took 
 out a coarse little cotton pocket-handkerchief, 
 with a flaring white pattern on a dull blue ground, 
 and dried a few tears that bad risen in his eyes 
 while he was speaking. “My life has had so 
 much happiness in it,” he said, self-reproach- 
 fully, looking at Rosamond, “that my courage, 
 when it is wanted f or the time of trouble, is not 
 easy to find. And yet, I am German! all my 
 nation are philosophers! — why is it that I alone 
 am as soft in my brains, and as weak in my 
 heart, as the pretty little baby there, that is lying 
 asleep in your lap?” 
 
 “Don’t speak again; don’t tell us anything till 
 you feel more composed, ’ ’ said Rosamond. “ We 
 are relieved from our worst suspense now that 
 we know you have left her quieter and better. 
 I will ask no more questions; at least,” she 
 added, after a pause, “I will only ask one.” 
 She stopped; and her eyes wandered inquiringly 
 toward Leonard. He had hitherto been listen- 
 ing with silent interest to all that had passed ; 
 but he now interposed gently, and advised his 
 wife to wait a little before she ventured on say- 
 ing anything more. 
 
 “It is such an easy question to answer,” 
 pleaded Rosamond. “I only wanted to hear 
 whether she has got my message — whether she 
 knows that I am waiting and longing to see her, 
 if she will but let me come?” 
 
480 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 ‘‘Yes, yes,” said the old man, nodding to Rosa- 
 mond with an air of relief. “That question is 
 easy ; easier even than you think, for it brings 
 me straight to the beginning of all that I have 
 got to say.” 
 
 He had been hitherto walking restlessly about 
 the room; sitting down one moment, and getting 
 up the next. He now placed a chair for himself 
 midway between Rosamond — who was sitting, 
 with the child, near the window —and her hus- 
 band, who occupied the sofa at the lower end of 
 the room. In this position, which enabled him 
 to address himself alternately to Mr. and Mrs. 
 Frankland without difficulty, he soon recovered 
 composure enough to open his heart unreservedly 
 to the interest of his subject. 
 
 “When the worst was over and past,” he said, 
 addressing Rosamond — “when she could listen 
 and when I could speak, the first words of com- 
 fort that I said to her were the words of your 
 message. Straight she looked at me, with doubt- 
 ing, fearing eyes. ‘Was her husband there to 
 hear her?’ she says. ‘Did he look angry? did 
 he look sorry? did he change ever so little, when 
 you got that message from her?’ And I said: 
 ‘No; no change, no anger, no sorrow — nothing 
 like it.’ And she said again: ‘Has it made be- 
 tween them no misery? has it nothing wrenched 
 away of all the love and all the happiness that 
 binds them the one to the other?’ And once more 
 I answered to that, ‘No! no misery, no wrench. 
 See now! I shall go my ways at once to the good 
 wife, and fetch her here to answer for the good 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 481 
 
 husband with her own tongue. 5 While I speak 
 those words there flies out over all her face a 
 look — no, not a look — a light, like a sun-flash. 
 While I can count one, it lasts; before I can 
 count two, it is gone; the face is all dark again; 
 it is turned away from me on the pillow, and I 
 see the hand that is outside the bed begin to 
 crumple up the sheet. ‘I shall go my ways, 
 then, and fetch the good wife,’ I say again. 
 And she says, ‘No, not yet. I must not see her, 
 I dare not see her till she knows — ;’ and there 
 she stops, and the hand crumples up the sheet 
 again, and softly, softly, I say to her: ‘Knows 
 what?’ and she answers me, ‘What I, her mother, 
 cannot tell her to her face, for shame. ’ And I 
 say, ‘So, so, my child! tell it not, then — tell it 
 not at all.’ She shakes her head at me, and 
 wrings her two hands together, like this, on the 
 bed-cover. ‘I must tell it,’ she says. ‘I must 
 rid my heart of all that has been gnawing, 
 gnawing, gnawing at it, or how shall 1 feel the 
 blessing that the seeing her will bring to me, if 
 my conscience is only clear?’ Then she stops a 
 little, and lifts up her two hands, so, and cries 
 out loud, ‘Oh, will God’s mercy show me no 
 way of telling it that will spare me before my 
 child!’ And I say, ‘Hush, then! there is a way. 
 Tell it to Uncle Joseph, who is the same as father 
 to you! Tell it to Uncle Joseph, whose little son 
 died in your arms; whose tears your hand wiped 
 away, in the grief time long ago. Tell it, my 
 child, to me; and I shall take the risk, and the 
 shame (if there is shame), of telling it again. I, 
 P— Vol 16 
 
482 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 with nothing to speak for me but my white hair; 
 I, with nothing to help me but my heart that 
 means no harm — I shall go to that good and true 
 woman, with the burden of her mother’s grief 
 to lay before her; and, in my soul of souls I 
 believe it, she will not turn away!’ ” 
 
 He paused, and looked at Rosamond. Her 
 head was bent down over her child ; her tears 
 were dropping slowly, one by one, on the bosom 
 of his little white dress. Waiting a moment to 
 collect herself before she spoke, she held out her 
 hand to the old man, and firmly and gratefully 
 met the look he fixed on her. “Oh, goon, go 
 on!” she said. “Let me prove to you that 
 your generous confidence in me is not mis- 
 placed/” 
 
 “I knew it was not, from the first, as surely 
 as I know it now!” said Uncle Joseph. “And 
 Sarah, when I had spoken to her, she knew it 
 too. She was silent for a little; she cried for 
 a little; she leaned over from the pillow and 
 kissed me here, on my cheek, as I sat by the 
 bedside; and then she looked back, back, back, 
 in her mind, to the Long Ago, and very quietly, 
 very slowly, with her eyes looking into my eyes, 
 and her hand resting so in mine, she spoke the 
 words to me that I must now speak again to you, 
 who sit here to-day as her judge, before you go 
 to her to-morrow as her child.” 
 
 “Not as her judge!” said Rosamond. “I 
 can not, I must not hear you say that.” 
 
 “I speak her words, not mine,” rejoined the 
 old man, gravely. “Wait before you bid me 
 
THE BEAD BECHET. 
 
 483 
 
 change them for others — wait till you know the 
 end.” 
 
 He drew his chair a little nearer to Rosamond, 
 paused for a minute or two to arrange his recol- 
 lections, and to separate them one from the 
 other; then resumed. 
 
 “As Sarah- began with me,” he said, “so I, 
 for my part, must begin also — which means to 
 say, that I go down now through the years that 
 are past, to the time when my niece went out to 
 her first service. You know that the sea-cap- 
 tain, the brave and good man Treverton, took 
 for his wife an artist on the stage — what they 
 call play-actress here? A grand, big woman, 
 and a handsome; with a life and a spirit and 
 a will in her that is not often seen; a woman of 
 the sort who can say, We will do this thing, or 
 that thing— and do it in the spite and face of all 
 the scruples, all the obstacles, all the oppositions 
 in the world, To this lady there comes for maid 
 to wait upon her, Sarah, my niece — a young girl 
 then, pretty and kind and gentle, and very, very 
 shy. Out of many others who want the place, 
 and who are bolder and bigger and quicker girls, 
 Mistress Treverton, nevertheless, picks Sarah. 
 This is strange, but it is stranger yet that Sarah, 
 on her part, when she comes out of her first fears 
 and doubts, and pains of shyness about herself, 
 gets to be fond with all her heart of that grand 
 and handsome mistress, who has a life and a 
 spirit and a will of the sort that is not often seen. 
 This is strange to say, but it is also, as I know 
 from Sarah’s own lips, every word of it true.” 
 
484 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 “True beyond a doubt, ” said Leonard. “Most 
 strong attachments are formed between people 
 who are unlike each other.” 
 
 “So the life they led in that ancient house of 
 Porthgenna began happily for them all,” con- 
 tinued the old man. “The love that the mistress 
 had for her husband was so full in her heart that 
 it overflowed in kindness to everybody who was 
 about her, and to Sarah, her maid, before all the 
 rest. She would have nobody but Sarah to read 
 to her, to work for her, to dress her in the morn- 
 ing and the evening, and to undress her at night. 
 She was as familiar as a sister might have been 
 with Sarah, when they two were alone, in the 
 long days of rain. It was the game of her idle 
 time — the laugh that she liked most — to astonish 
 the poor country maid, who had never so much 
 as seen what a theater’s inside was like, by dress- 
 ing in fine clothes, and painting her face, and 
 speaking and doing all that she had done on the 
 theater-scene in the days that were before her 
 marriage. The more she puzzled Sarah with 
 these jokes and pranks of masquerade, the better 
 she was always pleased. For a year this easy, 
 happy life went on in the ancient house — happy 
 for all the servants — happier still for the master 
 and mistress, but for the want of one thing to 
 make the whole complete, one little blessing that 
 was always hoped for, and that never came — the 
 same, if you please, as the blessing in the long 
 white frock, with the plump, delicate face and 
 the tiny arms, that I see before me now.” 
 
 He paused, to point the allusion by nodding 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 485 
 
 and smiling at the child in Rosamond’s lap; then 
 resumed. 
 
 “As the new year gets on,” he said, “Sarah 
 sees in the mistress a change. The good sea- 
 captain is a man who loves children, and is fond 
 of getting to the house all the little boys and 
 girls of his friends round about. He plays with 
 them, he kisses them, he makes them presents 
 — he is the best friend the little boys and girls 
 love ever had. The mistress, who should be their 
 best friend, too, looks on and says nothing — 
 looks on, red sometimes, and sometimes pale; 
 goes away into her room where Sarah is at work 
 for her, and walks about and finds fault; and 
 one day lets the evil temper fly out of her at her 
 tongue, and says: 6 Why have I got no child for 
 my husband to be fond of? Why must he kiss 
 and play always with the children of other 
 women? They take his love away for something 
 that is not mine. I hate those children and their 
 mothers too!’ It is her passion that speaks then, 
 but it speaks what is near the truth for all that. 
 She will not make friends with any of those 
 mothers; the ladies she is familiar-fond with 
 are the ladies who have no children, or the 
 ladies whose families are all upgrotvn. You 
 think that was wrong of the mistress?” 
 
 He put the question to Rosamond, who was 
 toying thoughtfully with one of the baby’s hands 
 which was resting in hers. “I think Mrs. Trev- 
 erton was very much to be pitied,” she answered, 
 gently lifting the child’s hand to her lips. 
 
 “Then 1, for my part, think so too,” said Uncle 
 
486 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 Joseph. “To be pitied? — yes! To be more pitied 
 some months after, when there is still no child 
 and no hope of a child, and the good sea-captain 
 says, one day, 4 1 rust here, I get old with much 
 idleness; I want to be on the sea again. I shall 
 ask for a ship. ’ And he asks for a ship, and 
 they give it him; and he goes away on his 
 cruises — with much kissing and fondness at 
 parting from his wife — but still he goes away. 
 And when he is gone, the mistress comes in 
 again where Sarah is at work for her on a fine 
 new gown, and snatches it away, and casts it 
 down on the floor, and throws after it all the 
 fine jewels she has got on her table, and stamps 
 and cries with the misery and the passion that is 
 in her. 4 1 would give all those fine things, and 
 go in rags for the rest of my life, to have a child !’ 
 she says. 4 I am losing my husband’s love: he 
 would never have gone away from me if I had 
 brought him a child!’ Then she looks in the 
 glass, and says between her teeth: 4 Yes! yes! 
 I am a fine woman, with a fine figure, and I 
 would change places with the ugliest, crookedest 
 wretch in all creation if I could only have a 
 child!’ And then she tells Sarah that the Cap- 
 tain’s brother spoke the vilest of all vile words 
 of her, when she was married, because she was 
 an artist on the stage; and she says, 4 If I have 
 no child, who but he — the rascal-monster that I 
 wish I could kill ! — who but he will come to pos- 
 sess all that the Captain has got?’ And then 
 she cries again, and says, 4 I am losing his love 
 — ah, I know it, I know it! — I am losing his 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 487 
 
 love!’ Nothing that Sarah can say will alter 
 her thoughts about that. And the months go 
 on, and the sea-captain comes back, and still 
 there is always the same secret grief growing 
 and growing in the mistress’s heart — growing 
 and growing till it is now the third year since 
 the marriage, and there is no hope yet of a child; 
 and once more the sea-captain gets tired on the 
 land, and goes off again for his cruises— long 
 cruises, this time; away, away, away, at the 
 other end of the world.” 
 
 Here Uncle Joseph paused once more, appar- 
 ently hesitating a little about how he should go 
 on with the narrative. His mind seemed to be 
 soon relieved of its doubts, but his face saddened, 
 and his tones sank lower, when he addressed 
 Rosamond again. 
 
 “I must, if you please, go away from the mis- 
 tress now,” he said, “and get back to Sarah, my 
 niece, and say one word also of a mining man, 
 with the Cornish name of Polwheal. This was 
 a young man that worked well and got good 
 wage, and kept a good character. He lived 
 with his mother in the little village that is near 
 the ancient house; and, seeing Sarah from time 
 to time, took much fancy to her, and she to him. 
 So the end came that the marriage- promise was 
 between them given and taken; as it happened, 
 about the time when the sea-captain was back 
 after his first cruises, and just when he was 
 thinking of going away in a ship again. ‘ Against 
 the marriage-promise nor he nor the lady his 
 wife had a word to object, for the miner, Pol- 
 
488 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS 
 
 wheal, had good wage and kept a good character. 
 Only the mistress said that the loss of Sarah 
 would be sad to her — very sad ; and Sarah an- 
 swered that there was yet no hurry to part. So 
 the weeks go on, and the sea-captain sails away 
 again for his long cruises; and about the same 
 time also the mistress finds out that Sarah frets, 
 and looks not like herself, and that the miner, 
 Polwheal, he lurks here and lurks there, round 
 about the house; and she says to herself, ‘So! 
 so! Am I standing too much in the way of this 
 marriage? For Sarah’s sake, that shall not be!’ 
 And she calls for them both one evening, and 
 talks to them kindly, and sends away to put up 
 the banns next morning the young man Pol- 
 wheal. That night, it is his turn to go down 
 into the Porthgenna mine, and work after the 
 hours of the day. With his heart all light, down 
 into that dark he goes. When he rises to the 
 world again, it is the dead body of him that is 
 drawn up — the dead body, with a-11 the young 
 life, by the fall of a rock, crushed out in a mo- 
 ment. The news flies here; the news flies there. 
 With no break, with no warning, with no com- 
 fort near, it comes on a sudden to Sarah, my 
 niece. When to her sweetheart that evening she 
 had said good-by, she was a young, pretty girl; 
 when, six little weeks after, she, from the sick- 
 bed where the shock threw her, got up, all her 
 youth was gone, all her hair was gray, and in 
 her eyes the fright-look was fixed that has never 
 left them since.” 
 
 The simple words drew the picture of the 
 
THE DEAD SECRET 
 
 489 
 
 miner’s death, and of all that followed it, with 
 a startling distinctness — with a fearful reality. 
 Rosamond shuddered, and looked at her husband. 
 “Oh, Lenny!” she murmured, “the first news of 
 your blindness was a sore trial to me — but what 
 was it to this!” 
 
 “Pity her!” said the old man. “Pity her for 
 what she suffered then ! Pity her for what came 
 after, that was worse ! Yet five, six, seven weeks 
 pass, after the death of the mining man, and 
 Sarah in the body suffers less, but in the mind 
 suffers more. The mistress, who is kind and 
 good to her as any sister could be, finds out, lit- 
 tle by little, something in her face which is not 
 the pain-look, nor the fright-look, nor the grief- 
 look; something which the eyes can see, but 
 which the tongue cannot put into words. She 
 looks and thinks, looks and thinks, till there 
 steals into her mind a doubt which makes her 
 tremble at herself, which drives her straight for- 
 ward into Sarah’s room, which sets her eyes 
 searching through and through Sarah to her in- 
 most heart. 4 There is something on your mind be- 
 sides your grief for the dead and gone, ’ she says, 
 and catches Sarah by both the arms before she 
 can turn way, and looks her in the face, front to 
 front, with curious eyes, that search and suspect 
 steadily. 4 The miner man, Polwheal,’ she says; 
 ‘my mind misgives me about the miner man, 
 Polwheal, Sarah! I have been more friend to 
 you than mistress. As your friend I ask you 
 now — tell me all the truth?’ The question waits ; 
 but no word of answer ! only Sarah struggles to 
 
490 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 get away, and the mistress holds her tighter yet, 
 and goes on and says, ‘I know that the marriage- 
 promise passed between you and miner Pol wheal; 
 1 know that if ever there was truth in man, there 
 was truth in him; I know that he went out from 
 this place to put the banns up, for you and for 
 him, in the church. Have secrets from all the 
 world besides, Sarah, but have none from me. 
 Tell me, this minute — teil me the truth! Of all 
 the lost creatures in this big, wide world, are 
 you — V Before she can say the words that are 
 next to come, Sarah falls on her knees, and cries 
 out suddenly to be let go away to hide and die, 
 and be heard of no more. That was all the an- 
 swer she gave. It was enough for the truth then ; 
 it is enough for the truth now.” 
 
 He sighed bitterly, and ceased speaking for a 
 little while. No voice broke the reverent silence 
 that followed his last words. The one living 
 sound that stirred in the stillness of the room 
 was the light breathing of the child as he lay 
 asleep in his mother’s arms. 
 
 4 ‘ That was all the answer,” repeated the old 
 man, “and the mistress who heard it says noth- 
 ing for some time after, but still looks straight 
 forward into Sarah’s face, and grows paler and 
 paler the longer she looks — paler and paler, till 
 on a sudden she starts, and at one flash the red 
 flies back into her face. ‘No,’ she says-, whisper- 
 ing and looking at the door, ‘once your friend, 
 Sarah, always your friend. Stay in this house, 
 keep your own counsel, do as I bid you, and 
 leave the rest to me.’ And with that she turns 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 491 
 
 round quick on her heel, and falls to walking up 
 and down the room — faster, faster, faster, till 
 she is out of breath. Then she pulls the bell 
 with an angry jerk, and calls out loud at the 
 door — ‘The horses! 1 want to ride;’ then turns 
 upon Sarah — ‘My gown for riding in ! Pluck up 
 your heart, poor creature ! On my life and hon- 
 or, I will save you. My gowrq my gown, then; 
 I am mad for a gallop in the open air!’ And 
 she goes out, in a fever of the blood, and gallops, 
 gallops, till the horse reeks again, and the groom 
 man who rides after her wonders if she is mad. 
 When she comes back, for all that ride in the 
 air, she is not tired. The whole evening after, 
 she is now walking about the room, and now 
 striking loud tunes all mixed up together on the 
 piano. At the bed-time, she cannot rest. Twice, 
 three times in the night she frightens Sarah by 
 coming in to see how she does, and by saying 
 always those same words over again i ‘Keep your 
 own counsel, do as I bid you, and leave the rest 
 to me.’ In the morning she lies late, sleeps, gets 
 up very pale and quiet, and -says to Sarah, ‘No 
 word more between us two of what happened 
 yesterday — no word till the time comes when you 
 fear the eyes of every stranger who looks at you. 
 Then I shall speak again. Till that time let us 
 be as we were before I put the question yester- 
 day, and before you told the truth!’ ” 
 
 At this point he broke the thread of the narra- 
 tive again, explaining as he did so that his mem- 
 ory was growing confused about a question of 
 time, which he wished to state correctly in intro- 
 
492 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 ducing the series of events that were next to be 
 described. 
 
 “Ah, well! well!” he said, shaking his head, 
 after vainly endeavoring to pursue the lost recol- 
 lection. “For once, I must acknowledge that I 
 forget. Whether it was two months, or whether 
 it was three, after the mistress said those last 
 words to Sarah, I know not — but at the end of 
 the one time or of the other she one morning 
 orders her carriage and goes away alone to Truro. 
 In the evening she comes back with two large 
 flat baskets. On the cover of the one there is a 
 card, and written on it are the letters c 3. L.’ On 
 the cover of the other there is a card, and written 
 on it are the letters 'R. T.’ The baskets are 
 taken into the mistress’s room, and Sarah is 
 called, and the mistress says to her, 'Open the 
 basket with S. L. on it; for those are the letters 
 of your name, and the things in it are yours.’ 
 Inside there is first a box, which holds a grand 
 bonnet of black lace; then a fine dark shawl; 
 then black silk of the best kind, enough to make 
 a gown; then linen'and siuff for the under gar- 
 ments, all of the finest sort. 'Make up those 
 things to fit yourself,’ says the mistress. 'You 
 are so much littler than I, that to make the 
 things up new is less trouble than, from my fit 
 to yours, to alter old gowns.’ Sarah, to all this, 
 says in astonishment, 'Why?’ And the mistress 
 answers, 'I will have no questions. Remember 
 what I said — Keep your own counsel, and leave 
 the rest to me!’ So she goes out; and the next 
 thing she does is to send for the doctor to see her. 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 493 
 
 He asks what is the matter; gets for answer that 
 Mistress Treverton feels strangely, and not like 
 herself ; also that she thinks the soft air of Corn- 
 wall makes her weak. The days pass, and the 
 doctor comes and goes, and, say what he may, 
 those two answers are always the only two that 
 he can get. All this time Sarah is at work; and 
 when she has done, the mistress says, ‘Now for the 
 other basket, with R. T. on it; for those are the 
 letters of my name, and the things in it are mine.’ 
 Inside this, there is first a box which holds a 
 common bonnet of black straw; then a coarse 
 dark shawl ; then a gown of good common black 
 stuff ; then linen, and other things for the under 
 garments, that are only of the sort called second 
 best. ‘Make up all that rubbish,’ says the mis- 
 tress, ‘to fit me. No questions! You have 
 always done as I told you; do as I tell you now, 
 or you are a lost woman.’ When the rubbish is 
 made up, she tries it on, and looks in the glass, 
 and laughs in a way that is wild and desperate 
 to hear, ‘Do I make a fine, buxom, comely ser- 
 vant-woman?’ she says. ‘Ha! but I have acted 
 that part times enough in my past days on the 
 theater -scene.’ And then she takes off the 
 clothes again, and bids Sarah pack them up at 
 once in one trunk, and pack the things she has 
 made for herself in another. ‘The doctor orders 
 me to go away out of this damp, soft Cornwall 
 climate, to where the air is fresh and dry and 
 cheerful-keen,’ she says, and laughs again, till 
 the room rings with it. At the same time Sarah 
 begins to pack, and takes some knick-knack 
 
494 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS, 
 
 things off the table, and among them a brooch 
 which has on it a likeness of the sea-captain’s face. 
 The mistress sees her, turns white in the cheeks, 
 trembles all over, snatches the brooch away and 
 locks it up in the cabinet in a great hurry, as if 
 the look of it frightened her. C I shall leave that 
 behind me,’ she says, and turns round on her 
 heel, and goes quickly out of the room. You 
 guess now what the thing was that Mistress 
 Treverton had it in her mind to do?” 
 
 He addressed the question to Rosamond first, 
 and then repeated it to Leonard. They both an- 
 swered in the affirmative, and entreated him to 
 go on. 
 
 “You guess?” he said. “It is more than 
 Sarah, at that time, could do. What with the 
 misery in her own mind, and the strange ways 
 and strange words of her mistress, the wits that 
 were in her were all confused. Nevertheless, 
 what her mistress has said to her, that she has 
 always done; and together alone those two from 
 the house of Porthgenna drive away. Not a 
 word says the mistress till they have got to the 
 journey’s end for the first day, and are stopping 
 at their inn among strangers for the night. 
 Then at last she speaks out. ‘Put you on, Sarah, 
 the good linen and the good gown to-morrow,’ 
 she says, € but keep the common bonnet and the 
 common shawl till we get into the carriage again. 
 I shall put on the coarse linen and the coarse 
 gown, and keep the good bonnet and shawl. We 
 shall pass so the people at the inn, on our way 
 to the carriage, without very much risk of sur- 
 
THE DEAD SECRET* 
 
 495 
 
 prising them by our change of gown. When we 
 are out on the road again, we can change bon- 
 nets and shawls in the carriage — and then, it is 
 all do.ne. You are the married lady, Mrs. Trev- 
 erton, and 1 am your maid who waits on you, 
 Sarah Leeson.’ At that, the glimmering on 
 Sarah’s mind breaks in at last: she shakes with 
 the fright it gives her, and all she can say is, 
 ‘Oh, mistress! for the love of Heaven, what is 
 it you mean to do?’ ‘X mean,’ the mistress 
 answers, ‘to save you, my faithful servant, from 
 disgrace and ruin; to prevent every penny that 
 the captain has got from going to that rascal- 
 monster, his brother, who slandered me; and, 
 last and most, I mean to keep my husband from 
 going away to sea again, by making him love 
 me as he has never loved me yet. Must I say 
 more, you poor, afflicted, frightened creature — 
 or is it enough so?’ And all that Sarah can an- 
 swer, is to cry bitter tears, and to say faintly 
 ‘No.’ ‘Do you doubt,’ says the mistress, and 
 grips her by the arm, and looks her close in the 
 face with fierce eyes — ‘Do you doubt which is 
 best, to cast yourself into the world forsaken and 
 disgraced and ruined, or to save yourself from 
 shame, and make a friend of me for the rest of 
 your life? You weak, wavering, baby woman, 
 if you cannot decide for yourself, I shall for you. 
 As I will, so it shall be! To-morrow, and the 
 day after that, we go on and on, up to the north, 
 where my good fool of a doctor says the air is 
 cheerful-keen— up to the north, where nobody 
 knows me or has heard my name. I, the maid, 
 
496 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 shall spread the report that you, the lady, are 
 weak in your health. No strangers shall you 
 see, but the doctor and the nurse, when the times 
 to call them comes. Who they may be, I .know 
 not ; but this 1 do know, that the one and the 
 other will :$erve our purpose without the least 
 suspicion of what it is; and that when we get 
 back to Cornwall again, the secret between us 
 two will to no third person have been trusted, 
 and will remain a Dead Secret to the end of the 
 world?’ With all the strength of the strong will 
 that is in her, at the hush of night and in a house 
 of strangers, she speaks those words to the wo- 
 man of all women the most frightened, and most 
 afflicted, the most helpless, the most ashamed. 
 What need to say the end? On that night Sarah 
 first stooped her shoulders to the burden that has 
 weighed heavier and heavier on them with every 
 year, for all her after-life. ” 
 
 “How many days did they travel toward the 
 north?” asked Rosamond, eagerly. “Where did 
 the journey end? In England or in Scotland?” 
 “In England,” answered Uncle Joseph. “But 
 the name of the place escapes my foreign tongue. 
 It was a little town by the side of the sea — the 
 great sea that washes between my country and 
 yours. There they stopped, and there they 
 waited till the time came to send for the doc- 
 tor and the nurse. And as Mistress Treverton 
 had said it should be, so, from the first to the 
 last, it was. The doctor and the nurse, and the 
 people of the house were all strangers; and to 
 this day, if they still live, they believe that 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 4-97 
 
 Sarah was the sea-captain’s wife, and that Mis- 
 tress Treverton was the maid who waited on her. 
 Not till they were far back on their way home 
 with the child did the two change gowns again, 
 and return each to her proper place. The first 
 friend at Porthgenna that the mistress sends for 
 to show the child to, when she gets back, is the 
 doctor who lives there. 'Did you think what 
 was the matter with me, when you sent me away 
 to change the air?’ she says, and laughs. And 
 the doctor, he laughs too, and says, ‘Yes, surely! 
 but I was too cunning to say what 1 thought in 
 those early days, because, at such times, there is 
 always fear of a mistake. And you found the 
 fine dry air so good for you that you stopped?’ 
 he says. ‘Well, that was right! right for your- 
 self and right also for the child. ’ And the doc- 
 tor laughs again and the mistress with him, and 
 Sarah, who stands by and hears them, feels as if 
 her heart would burst within her, with the hor- 
 ror, and the misery, and the shame of that de- 
 ceit. When the doctor’s back is turned, she goes 
 down on her knees, and begs and prays with all 
 her soul that the mistress will repent, and send 
 her away with her child, to be heard of at Porth- 
 genna no more. The mistress, with that tyrant 
 will of hers, has but four words of answer to 
 give — ‘It is too late!’ Five weeks after, the sea- 
 captain comes back, and the ‘Too late’ is a truth 
 that no repentance can ever alter more. The 
 mistress’s cunning hand that has guided the de- 
 ceit from the first, guides it always to the last — 
 guides it so that the captain, for the love of her 
 
498 
 
 WORKS OP WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 and of the child, goes back to the sea no more — 
 guides it till the time when she lays her down 
 on the bed to die, and leaves all the burden of 
 the secret, and all the guilt of the confession, to 
 Sarah — to Sarah, who, under the tyranny of that 
 tyrant will, has lived in the house, for five long 
 years, a stranger to her own child!” 
 
 “Five years!” murmured Rosamond, raising 
 the baby gently in her arms, till his face touched 
 hers. “Oh, me! five long years a stranger to 
 the blood of her blood, to the heart of her 
 heart!” 
 
 “And all the years after!” said the old man. 
 “The lonesome years and years among strangers, 
 with no sight of the child that was growing up, 
 with no heart to pour the story of her sorrow into 
 the ear of any living creature, not even into 
 mine! ‘Better,’ I said to her, when she could 
 speak to me no more, and when her face was 
 turned away again on the pillow — ‘a thousand 
 times better, my child, if you had told the Se- 
 cret!’ ‘Could I tell it,’ she said, ‘to the master 
 who trusted me? Could I tell it afterward to the 
 child, whose birth was a reproach to me? Could 
 she listen to the story of her mother’s shame, told 
 by her mother’s lips? How will she listen to it 
 now, Uncle Joseph, when she hears it from you? 
 Remember the life she has led, and the high 
 place she has held in the world. How can she 
 forgive me? How can she ever look at me in 
 kindness again?’ ” 
 
 “You never left her,” cried Rosamond, inter- 
 posing before he could say more — “surely, sure- 
 
THE HEAD SECRET. 
 
 499 
 
 ly, 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, C 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 Rosa- 
 mond. “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 (1 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!” 
 
500 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE CLOSE OF BAY. 
 
 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 pre- 
 vious evening, written by Leonard’s desire, to 
 invite him to breakfast. Before the lawyer with- 
 drew, he had settled with Mr. and Mrs. Prank- 
 land 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, announc- 
 ing his intention of calling upon Andrew Trev- 
 erton that afternoon, on private business of im- 
 portance 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 previ- 
 ous evening. He declared that it had made her 
 look happier, stronger, younger, all in a mo- 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 501 
 
 ment; 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 pros- 
 pect 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 recog- 
 nized 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 
 
502 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 she wished to secure, and whose readiness to 
 receive her cordially was a matter of doubt. 
 
 The first person whom they sa w after the door 
 was opened was the doctor. He advanced to- 
 ward 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 improve- 
 ment, 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 particu- 
 lar symptom of her mental condition which sur- 
 prised 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 extraordi- 
 nary 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 DEAD SECRET. 
 
 503 
 
 the room. She looks and talks at perfect va- 
 cancy, as you or I might look or talk at some 
 one who was really standing and listening to us. 
 The old man, her uncle, tells me that he first ob- 
 served this when she came to see him (in Corn- 
 wall, 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 ques- 
 tion on the old superstitious subject of the re-ap- 
 pearance 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 imag- 
 ines 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-morraw, 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 rpeak of it 
 afterward. Yon have evidently considerable in- 
 fluence over her, and you might therefore sue- 
 
504 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 ceed 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 unre- 
 servedly 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 long- 
 ing 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 com- 
 posed,” 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 sun- 
 shine, 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 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 505 
 
 hand to his lips, and softly and quickly de- 
 scended 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 pil- 
 lows of the bed, the head resting on them, and 
 the face turned toward hers. As she stepped 
 across the threshold, that face changed ; the eye- 
 lids 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 gen- 
 erous impulses up to this time. She ran to the 
 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 
 
506 
 
 WORKS OF "WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 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 bon- 
 net, 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 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 507 
 
 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 1 want to have done 
 with sorrow now.” 
 
 While she spoke those words, while her eyes 
 were fixed with wistful eagerness on her daugh- 
 ter’s face, the whole instinct of neatness was still 
 mechanically at work in her weak, wasted fin- 
 gers. Rosamond had tossed her gloves from her 
 on the bed but the minute before; and already 
 her mother had taken them up, and was smooth- 
 ing them out carefully and folding them neatly 
 together, all the while she spoke. 
 
 “Call me ‘mother’ again,” she said, as Rosa- 
 mond 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. “1 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!” 
 
508 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 said Rosamond, taking her mother’s hand, as 
 she was accustomed to take her child’s, and plac- 
 ing 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 igno- 
 rance? 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 fright- 
 ening 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, Rosa- 
 mond, 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 Porth. 
 genna; 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 DEAD SECRET. 
 
 509 
 
 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. 4 Hush ! Rosie, 
 dear,’ he said, 4 don’t cry any more for poor 
 mamma. Think of poor papa, and try to com* 
 fort him!’ There, my love — there was the bit- 
 terest 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! 
 4 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 Se- 
 cret? 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!” 
 
 44 Don’t speak of it now!” said Rosamond. 
 44 Don’t let us refer again to the past: I know all 
 I ought to know, all I wish to know of it. We 
 will talk of the future, mother, and of happier 
 times to come. Let me tell you about my hus- 
 band. If any words can praise him as he ought 
 to be praised, and thank him as he ought to be 
 thanked, I am sure mine ought — I am sure yours 
 will ! Let me tell you what he said and what 
 he did when I read to him the letter that I found 
 in the Myrtle Room. Yes, yes, do let me!” 
 Warned by a remembrance of the doctor’s last 
 
510 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 injunctions; trembling in secret, as she felt un- 
 der her hand the heavy, toilsome, irregular heav- 
 ing of her mother’s heart, as she saw the rapid 
 changes of color, from pale to red, and from red 
 to pale again, that fluttered across her mother’s 
 face, she resolved to let no more words pass be- 
 tween them which were of a nature to recall 
 painfully the sorrows and the suffering of the 
 years that were gone. After describing the in- 
 terview between her husband and herself which 
 ended in the disclosure of the Secret, she led her 
 mother, with compassionate abruptness, to speak 
 of the future, of the time when she would be able 
 to travel again, of the happiness of returning to- 
 gether to Cornwall, of the little festival they 
 might hold on arriving at Uncle Joseph’s house 
 in Truro, and of the time after that, when they 
 might go on still further to Porthgenna, or per- 
 haps to some other place where new scenes and 
 new faces might help them to forget all sad asso- 
 ciations which it was best to think of no more. 
 
 Rosamond was still speaking on these topics, 
 her mother was still listening to her with grow- 
 ing interest in every word that she said, when 
 Uncle Joseph returned. He brought in with 
 him a basket of flowers and a basket of fruit, 
 which he held up in triumph at the foot of his 
 niece’s bed. 
 
 “I have been walking about, my child, in the 
 fine bright sunshine,” he said, “and waiting to 
 give your face plenty of time to look happy, so 
 that I might see it again as I want to see it al- 
 ways, for the rest of my life. Aha, Sarah ! it is 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 511 
 
 I who have brought the right doctor to cure 
 you!” he added gayly, looking at Rosamond. 
 “She has made you better already. Wait but a 
 little while longer, and she shall get you up 
 from your bed again, with your two cheeks as 
 red, and your heart as light, and your tongue as 
 fast to chatter as mine. See the fine flowers and 
 the fruit I have bought that is nice to your eyes, 
 and nice to your nose, and nicest of all to put 
 into your mouth! If is festival-time with us to- 
 day, and we must make the room bright, bright, 
 bright, all over. And then, there. is your dinner 
 to come soon; I have seen it on the dish—a 
 cherub among chicken-f o*wls ! And, after that, 
 there is your fine sound sleep, with Mozart to 
 sing the cradle song, and with me to sit for 
 watch, and to go downstairs when you wake up 
 again, and fetch your cup of tea. Ah, my child, 
 my child, what a fine thing it is to have come 
 at last to this festival-day!” 
 
 With a bright look at Rosamond, and with 
 both his hands full of flowers, he turned away 
 from his niece to begin decorating the room. 
 Except when she thanked the old man for the 
 presents he had brought, her attention had never 
 wandered, all the while he had been speaking, 
 from her daughter’s face; and her first words, 
 when he was silent again, were addressed to 
 Rosamond alone. 
 
 “While I am happy with my child,” she said, 
 “I am keeping you from yours . 1, of all per- 
 
 sons, ought to be the last to part you from each 
 other too long. Go back now, my love, to your 
 
512 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 husband and your child ; and leave me to my 
 grateful thoughts and my dreams of better 
 times. 5 ’ 
 
 “If you please, answer Yes to that, for your 
 mother’s sake,” said Uncle Joseph, before Rosa- 
 mond could reply. “The doctor says she must 
 take her repose in the day as well as her repose 
 in the night. And how shall I get her to close 
 her eyes, so long as she has the temptation to 
 keep them open upon you?” 
 
 Rosamond felt the truth of those last words, 
 and consented to go back for a few hours to the 
 hotel, on the understanding that she was to re- 
 sume her place at the bedside in the evening. 
 After making this arrangement, she waited long 
 enough in the room to see the meal brought up 
 which Uncle Joseph had announced, and to aid 
 the old man in encouraging her mother to par- 
 take of it. When the tray had been removed, 
 and when the pillows of the bed had been com- 
 fortably arranged by her own hands, she at last 
 prevailed on herself to take leave. 
 
 Her mother’s arms lingered round her neck; 
 her mother’s cheek nestled fondly against hers. 
 “Go, my dear, go now, or I shall get too selfish 
 to part with you even for a few hours,” mur- 
 mured the sweet voice, in the lowest, softest 
 tones. “My own Rosamond! I have no words 
 to bless you that are good enough ; no words to 
 thank you that will speak as gratefully for me 
 as they ought ! Happiness has been long in 
 reaching me — but, oh, how mercifully it has 
 come at last!” 
 
THE DEAD SECRET, 
 
 513 
 
 Before she passed the door, Rosamond stopped 
 and looked back into the room. The table, the 
 mantel-piece, the little framed prints oil the wall 
 were bright with flowers; the musical box was 
 just playing the first sweet notes of the air from 
 Mozart; Uncle Joseph was seated already in his 
 accustomed place by the bed, with the basket of 
 fruit on his knees; the pale, worn face on the 
 pillow was tenderly lighted up by a smile; peace 
 and comfort and repose, all mingled together 
 happily in the picture of the sick-room, all joined 
 in leading Rosamond’s thoughts to dwell quietly 
 on the hope of a happier time. 
 
 Three hours passed. The last glory of the 
 sun was lighting the long summer day to its 
 rest in the western heaven, when Rosamond 
 returned to her mother’s bedside. 
 
 She entered the room softly. The one window 
 in it looked toward the west, and on that side of 
 the bed the chair was placed which Uncle Joseph 
 had occupied when she left him, and in which 
 she now found him still seated on her return. 
 He raised his fingers to his lips, and looked 
 toward the bed, as she opened the door. Her 
 mother was asleep, with her hand resting in the 
 hand of the old man. 
 
 As Rosamond noiselessly advanced, she saw 
 that Uncle Joseph’s eyes looked dim and weary. 
 The constraint of the position that he occupied, 
 which made it impossible for him to move with- 
 out the risk of awakening his niece, seemed to 
 be beginning to fatigue him. Rosamond re- 
 Q— Vol. 16 
 
514 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 moved her bonnet and shawl, and made a sign 
 to him to rise and let her take his place. 
 
 “Yes, yes!” she whispered, seeing him reply 
 by a shake of the head. “Let me take my turn, 
 while you go out a little and enjoy the cool even- 
 ing air. There is no fear of waking her; her 
 hand is not clasping yours, but only resting in 
 it —let me steal mine into its place gently, and 
 we shall not disturb her.” 
 
 She slipped her hand under her mother’s while 
 she spoke. Uncle Joseph smiled as he rose from 
 his chair, and resigned his place to her. “You 
 will have your way,” he said; “you are too quick 
 and sharp for an old man like me.” 
 
 “Has she been long asleep?” asked Rosamond. 
 
 “Nearly two hours,” answered Uncle Joseph. 
 “But it has not been the good sleep I wanted for 
 her — a dreaming, talking, restless sleep. It is 
 only ten little minutes since she has been so quiet 
 as you see her now.” 
 
 “Surely you let in too much light?” whispered 
 Rosamond, looking round at the window, through 
 which the glow of the evening sky poured warmly 
 into the room. 
 
 “No, no!” he hastily rejoined. “Asleep or 
 awake, she always wants the light. If I go 
 away for a little while, as you tell me, and if 
 it gets on to be dusk before I come back, light 
 both those candles on the chimney-piece. I 
 shall try to be here again before that; but if 
 the time slips by too fast for me, and if it so 
 happens that she wakes and talks strangely, and 
 looks much away from you into that far corner 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 515 
 
 of the room there, remember that the matches 
 and the candles are together on the chimney- 
 piece, and that the sooner you light them after 
 the dim twilight- time, the better it will be.” 
 With those words he stole on tiptoe to the door 
 and went out. 
 
 His parting directions recalled Rosamond to 
 a remembrance of what had passed between the 
 doctor and herself that morning. She looked 
 round again anxiously to the window. 
 
 The sun was just sinking beyond the dis- 
 tant house-tops; the close of day was not far 
 off. 
 
 As she turned her head once more toward the 
 bed, a momentary chill crept over her. She 
 trembled a little, partly at the sensation itself, 
 partly at the recollection it aroused of that other 
 chill which had struck her in the solitude of the 
 Myrtle Room. 
 
 Stirred by the mysterious sympathies of touch, 
 her mother’s hand at the same instant moved in 
 hers, and over the sad peacefulness of the weary 
 face there fluttered a momentary trouble — the 
 flying shadow of a dream. The pale, parted lips 
 opened, closed, quivered, opened again; the toil- 
 ing breath came and went quickly and more 
 quickly; the head moved uneasily on the pillow; 
 the eyelids half unclosed themselves; low, faint, 
 moaning sounds poured rapidly from the lips — 
 changed ere long to half-articulated sentences — 
 then merged softly into intelligible speech, and 
 uttered these words : 
 
 “Swear that you will not destroy this paper! 
 
516 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 Swear that you will not take this paper away 
 with you if you leave the house!’’ 
 
 The words that followed these were whispered 
 so rapidly and so low that Rosamond’s ear failed 
 to catch them. They were followed by a short 
 silence. Then the dreaming voice spoke again 
 suddenly, and spoke louder. 
 
 “Where? where? where?” it said. “In the 
 bookcase? In the table : drawer? — Stop! stop! 
 In the picture of the ghost — ” 
 
 The last words struck cold on Rosamond’s 
 heart. She drew back suddenly with a move- 
 ment of alarm — checked herself the instant after, 
 and bent down over the pillow again. But it 
 was too late. Her hand had moved abruptly 
 when she drew back, and her mother awoke with 
 a start and a faint cry — with vacant, terror- 
 stricken eyes and with the perspiration standing 
 thick on her forehead. 
 
 “Mother!” cried Rosamond, raising her on 
 the pillow. “I have come back. Don’t you 
 know me?” 
 
 “Mother?” she repeated, in mournful, ques- 
 tioning tones — “Mother?” At the second repe- 
 tition of the word a bright flush of delight and 
 surprise broke out on her face, and she clasped 
 both arms suddenly round her daughter’s neck. 
 “Oh, my own Rosamond!” she said. “If I had 
 ever been used to waking up and seeing your 
 dear face look at me, I should have known you 
 sooner, in spite of my dream ! Did you wake 
 me, my love? or did I wake myself?” 
 
 “I am afraid I awoke you, mother.” 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 517 
 
 “Don’t say ‘afraid.’ I would wake from the 
 sweetest sleep that ever woman had to see your 
 face and to hear you say ‘mother’ to me. You 
 have delivered me, my love, from the terror of 
 one of my dreadful dreams. Oh, Rosamond! I 
 think I should live to be happy in your love, If 
 I could only get Porthgenna Tower out of my 
 mind — if I could only never remember again the 
 bed-chamber where my mistress died, and the 
 room were I hid the letter — ” 
 
 “We will try and forget Porthgenna Tower 
 now,” said Rosamond. “Shall we talk about 
 other places where I have lived, which you have 
 never seen? Or shall I read to you, mother? 
 Have you got any book here that you are fond 
 of?” 
 
 She looked across the bed at the table on the 
 other side. There was nothing on it but some 
 bottles of medicine, a few of Uncle Joseph’s flow- 
 ers in a glass of water, and a little oblong work- 
 box. She looked round at the chest of drawers 
 behind her — there were no books placed on the 
 top of it. Before she turned toward the bed 
 again, her eyes wandered aside to the window. 
 The sun was lost beyond the distant house-tops; 
 the close of day was near at hand. 
 
 “If I could forget! Oh, me, if I could only 
 forget!” said her mother, sighing wearily, and 
 beating her hand on the coverlid of the bed. 
 
 “Are you well enough, dear, to amuse your- 
 self with work?” asked Rosamond, pointing to 
 the little oblong box on the table, and trying to 
 lead the conversation to a harmless, every-day 
 
518 
 
 WORKS OK WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 topic, by asking questions about it. 4 4 What 
 work do you do? May I look at it?” 
 
 Her face lost its weary, suffering look, and 
 brightened once more into a smile. “There is 
 no work there,” she said. “All the treasures I 
 had in the world, till you came to see me, are 
 shut up in that one little box. Open it, my love, 
 and look inside.” 
 
 Rosamond obeyed, placing the box on the bed 
 where her mother could see it easily. The first 
 object that she discovered inside was a little 
 book, in dark, worn-binding. It was an old 
 copy of Wesley’s Hymns. Some withered 
 blades of grass lay between its pages; and on 
 one of its blank leaves was this inscription — 
 “Sarah Leeson, her book. The gift of Hugh 
 Pol wheal.” 
 
 ' “Look at it, my dear,” said her mother. “I 
 want you to know it again. When my time 
 comes to leave you, Rosamond, lay it on my 
 bosom with your own dear hands, and put a lit- 
 tle morsel of your hair with it, and bury me in 
 the grave in Porthgenna churchyard, where he 
 has been waiting for me to come to him so many 
 weary years. The other things in the box, Rosa- 
 mond, belong to you; they are little stolen keep- 
 sakes that used to remind me of my child, when 
 I was alone in the world. Perhaps, years and 
 years hence, when your brown hair begins to 
 grow gray like mine, you may like to show these 
 poor trifles to your children when you talk about 
 me. Don’t mind telling them, Rosamond, how 
 your mother sinned and how she suffered — you 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 519 
 
 can always let these little trifles speak for her at 
 the end. The least of them will show that she 
 always loved you.” 
 
 She took out of the box a morsel of neatly 
 folded white paper, which had been placed un- 
 der the book of Wesley’s Hymns, opened it, and 
 showed her daughter a few faded laburnum 
 leaves that lay inside. C< 1 took these from your 
 bed, Rosamond, when I came, as a stranger, to 
 nurse you at West Winston. I tried to take a 
 ribbon out of your trunk, love, after I had taken 
 the flowers — a ribbon that I knew had been round 
 your neck. But the doctor came near at the 
 time, and frightened me.” 
 
 She folded the paper up again, laid it aside on 
 the table, and drew from the box next a small 
 print which had been taken from the illustrations 
 to a pocket-book. It represented a little girl, in 
 gypsy-hat, sitting by the water-side, and weav- 
 ing a daisy chain. As a design, it was worth- 
 less; as a print, it had not even the mechanical 
 merit of being a good impression. Underneath 
 it a line was written in faintly penciled letters 
 —“Rosamond when I last saw her:” 
 
 “It was never pretty enough for you,” she 
 said. “But still there was something in it that 
 helped me to remember what my own love was 
 like when she was a little girl.” 
 
 She put the engraving aside with the laburnum 
 leaves, and took from the box a leaf of a copy- 
 book, folded in two, out of which there dropped 
 a tiny strip of paper, covered with small printed 
 letters. She looked at the strip of paper first. 
 
520 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 ‘‘The advertisement of your marriage, Rosa- 
 mond,” she said. “I used to be fond of read- 
 ing it over and over again to myself when I was 
 alone, and trying to fancy how you looked and 
 what dress you wore. If I had only known 
 when you were going to be married, I would 
 have ventured into the church, my love, to look 
 at you and at your husband. But that was not to 
 be — and perhaps it was best so, for the seeing 
 you in that stolen way might only have made 
 my trials harder to bear afterward. I have had 
 no other keepsake to remind me of you, Rosa- 
 mond, except this leaf out of your first copy- 
 book. The nurse-maid at Porthgenna tore up 
 the rest one day to light the fire, and I took this 
 leaf when she was not looking. See! you had 
 not got as far as words then — you could only 
 do up-si rokes and down-strokes. Oh me! how 
 many times I have sat looking at this one leaf 
 of paper, and trying to fancy that I saw your 
 small child’s hand traveling over it, with the 
 pen held tight in the rosy little fingers. I think 
 I have cried oftener, my darling, over that first 
 copy of yours than over all my other keepsakes 
 put together.” 
 
 Rosamond turned aside her face toward the 
 window to hide the tears which she could re- 
 strain no longer. 
 
 As she wiped them away, the first sight of the 
 darkening sky warned her that the twilight dim- 
 ness was coming soon. How dull and faint the 
 glow in the west looked now! how near it was 
 to the close of day ! 
 
THE DEAD dECRET. 
 
 521 
 
 When she turned toward the bed again, her 
 mother was still looking at the leaf of the copy- 
 book. 
 
 “That nurse-maid who tore up all the rest of 
 it to light the fire,” she said, “was a kind friend 
 to me in those early days at Porthgenna. She 
 used sometimes to let me put you to bed, Rosa- 
 mond ; and never asked questions, or teased me, 
 as the rest of them did. She risked the loss of 
 her place by being so good to me. My mistress 
 was afraid of my betraying myself and betray- 
 ing her if I was much in the nursery, and she 
 gave orders that I was not to go there, because 
 it was not my place. None of the other women- 
 servants were so often stopped from playing with 
 you and kissing you, Rosamond, as I was. But 
 the nurse-maid — God bless and prosper her for it ! 
 — stood my friend. I often lifted you into your 
 little cot, my love, and wished you good-night, 
 when my mistress thought I w'as at work in her 
 room. You used to say you liked your nurse bet- 
 ter than you liked me, but you never told me so 
 fretfully ; and you always put your laughing lips 
 up to mine whenever I asked you for a kiss.” 
 
 Rosamond laid her hand gently on the pillow 
 by the side of her mother’s. “Try to think less 
 of the past, dear, and more of the future,” she 
 whispered, pleadingly; “try to think of the time 
 when my child will help you to recall those old 
 days without their sorrow — the time when you 
 will teach him to put his lips up to yours, as I 
 used to put mine.” 
 
 “I will try, Rosamond — but my only thoughts 
 
522 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 of the future, for years and years past, have been 
 thoughts of meeting you in heaven. If my sins 
 are forgiven, how shall we meet there? Shall 
 you be like my little child to me — the child I 
 never saw again after she was five years old? I 
 wonder if the mercy of God will recompense me 
 for our long separation on earth? I wonder if 
 you will first appear to me in the happy world 
 with your child’s face, and be what you should 
 have been to me on earth, my little angel that I 
 can carry in my arms? If we pray in heaven, 
 shall I teach you your prayers there, as some 
 comfort to me for never having taught them to 
 you here?” 
 
 She paused, smiled sadly, and, closing her eyes, 
 gave herself in silence to the dream-thoughts that 
 were still floating in her mind. Thinking that 
 she might sink to rest again if she was left un- 
 disturbed, Rosamond neither moved nor spoke. 
 After watching the peaceful face for some time, 
 she became conscious that the light was fading 
 on it slowly. As that conviction impressed itself 
 on her, she looked round at the window once 
 more. 
 
 The western clouds wore their quiet twilight 
 colors already: the close of day had come. 
 
 The moment she moved the chair she felt her 
 mother’s hand on her shoulder. When she turned 
 again toward the bed, she saw her mother’s eyes 
 open and looking at her — looking at her, as she 
 thought, with a change in their expression, a 
 change to vacancy. 
 
 “Why do 1 talk of heaven?” she said, turn- 
 
THE BEAD SECRET. 
 
 523 
 
 ing her face suddenly toward the darkening sky, 
 and speaking in low, muttering tones. 4 6 How 
 do I know 1 am fit to go there? And yet, Rosa- 
 mond, I am not guilty of breaking my oath to 
 my mistress. You can say for me that I never 
 destroyed the letter, and that I never took it 
 away with me when I left the house. 1 tried to 
 get it out of the Myrtle Room ; but I only wanted 
 to hide it somewhere else. I never thought to 
 take it away from the house: I never meant to 
 break my oath.” 
 
 4 4 It will be dark soon, mother. Let me get up 
 for one moment to light the candles.” 
 
 Her hand crept softly upward, and clung fast 
 round Rosamond’s neck. 
 
 44 I never swore to give him the letter, ” she 
 said. “There was no crime in the hiding of it. 
 You found it in a picture, Rosamond? They 
 used to call it a picture of the Porthgenna ghost. 
 Nobody knew how old it was, or when it came 
 into the house. My mistress hated it, because 
 the painted face had a strange likeness to hers. 
 She told me, when first I lived at Porthgenna, 
 to take it down from the wall and destroy it. 
 I was afraid to do that; so I hid it away, before 
 ever you were born, in the Myrtle Room. You 
 found the letter at the back of the picture, Rosa- 
 mond? And yet that was a likely place to hide 
 it in. Nobody had ever found the picture. Why 
 should anybody find the letter that was hid in 
 it?” 
 
 44 Let me get a light, mother! I am sure you 
 would like to h?ve a light!” 
 
524 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 “No! no light now. Giv~e the darkness time 
 to gather down there in the corner of the room. 
 Lift me up close to you, and let me whisper.” 
 The clinging arm tightened its grasp as Rosa- 
 mond raised her in the bed. The fading light 
 from the window fell full on her face, and was 
 reflected dimly in her vacant eyes. 
 
 “I am waiting for something that comes at 
 dusk, before the candles are lighted,” she whis- 
 pered, in low, breathless tones. “My mistress! 
 — down there!” And she pointed away to the 
 furthest corner of the room near the door. 
 
 “Mother! for God’s sake, what is it! what has 
 changed you so?” 
 
 “That’s right! say ‘mother.’ If she does 
 come , she can’t stop when she hears you call 
 me ‘mother,’ when she sees us together at last, 
 loving and knowing each other in spite of her. 
 Oh, my kind, tender, pitying child! if you can 
 only deliver me from her, how long may I live 
 yet! — how happy we may both be!” 
 
 “Don’t talk so ! don’t look so ! Tell me quietly 
 — dear, dear mother, tell me quietly.” 
 
 “Hush! hush! 1 am going to tell you. She 
 threatened me on her death- bed, if I thwarted 
 her — she said she would come to me from the 
 other world. Rosamond! I have thwarted her 
 and she has kept her promise — all my life since, 
 she has kept her promise ! Look ! Down there !” 
 Her left arm was still clasped round Rosa- 
 mond’s neck. She stretched her right arm out 
 toward the far corner of the room, and shook her 
 hand slowly at the empty air. 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 525 
 
 “Look!” she said. “There she is as she always 
 comes to me at the close of day — with the coarse, 
 black dress on, that my guilty hands made for 
 her — with the smile that there was on her face 
 when she asked me if she looked like a servant. 
 Mistress ! mistress ! Oh, rest at last ! the Secret 
 is ours no longer! Rest at last! my child is my 
 own again! Rest, at last; and come between us 
 no more!” 
 
 She ceased, panting for breath; and laid her 
 hot, throbbing cheek against the cheek of her 
 daughter. “Call me ‘mother’ again!” she whis- 
 pered. “Say it loud; and send her away from 
 me forever!” 
 
 Rosamond mastered the terror that shook her 
 in every limb, and pronounced the word. 
 
 Her mother leaned forward a little, still gasp- 
 ing heavily for breath, and looked with strain- 
 ing eyes into the quiet twilight dimness at the 
 lower end of the room. 
 
 “Gone!!!” she cried suddenly, with a scream 
 of exultation. “Oh, merciful, merciful God! 
 gone at last !” 
 
 The next instant she sprang up on her knees in 
 the bed. For one awful moment her eyes shone 
 in the gray twilight with a radiant, unearthly 
 beauty, as they fastened their last look of fond- 
 ness on her daughter’s face. “Oh, my love! my 
 angel!” she murmured, “how happy we shall be 
 together now!” As she said the words, she 
 twined her arms round Rosamond’s neck, and 
 pressed her lips rapturously on the lips of her 
 child. 
 
526 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 The kiss lingered till her head sank forward 
 gently on Rosamond’s bosom — lingered, till the 
 time of God’s mercy came, and the weary heart 
 rested at last. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 FORTY THOUSAND POUNDS. 
 
 No popular saying is more commonly accepted 
 than the maxim which asserts that Time is the 
 great consoler; and, probably, no popular saying 
 more imperfectly expresses the truth. The work 
 that we must do, the responsibilities that we 
 must undertake, the example that we must set 
 to others — these are the great consolers, for these 
 apply the first remedies to the malady of grief. 
 Time possesses nothing but the negative virtue 
 of helping it to wear itself out. Who that has 
 observed at all, has not perceived that those 
 among us who soonest recover from the shock of 
 a great grief for the dead are those who have the 
 most duties to perform toward the living? When 
 the shadow of calamity rests on our houses, the 
 question with us is not how much time will 
 suffice to bring back the sunshine to us again, 
 but how much occupation have we got to force 
 us forward into the place where the sunshine is 
 waiting for us to come? Time may claim many 
 victories, but not the victory over grief. The 
 great consolation for the loss of the dead who 
 are gone is to be found in the great necessity of 
 thinking of the living who remain. 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 527 
 
 The history of Rosamond’s daily life, now 
 that the darkness of a heavy affliction had fallen 
 on it, was in itself the sufficient illustration of 
 this truth. It was not the slow lapse of time 
 that helped to raise her up again, but the neces- 
 sity which, would not wait for time — the neces- 
 sity which made her remember what was due to 
 ths husband who sorrowed with her, to the child 
 whose young life was linked to hers, and to the 
 old man whose helpless grief found no support 
 but in the comfort she could give, learned no les- 
 son of resignation but from the example she could 
 set. 
 
 From the first the responsibility of sustaining 
 him had rested on her shoulders alone. Before 
 the close of day had been counted out, by the first 
 hour of the night, she had been torn from the 
 bedside by the necessity of meeting him at the 
 door, and preparing him to know that he was 
 entering the chamber of death. To guide the 
 dreadful truth gradually and gently, till it stood 
 face to face with him, to support him under the 
 shock of recognizing it, to help his mind to re- 
 cover after the inevitable blow had struck it at 
 last — these were the sacred duties which claimed 
 all the devotion that Rosamond had to give, and 
 which forbade her heart, for his sake, to dwell 
 selfishly on its own grief. 
 
 He looked like a man whose faculties had been 
 stunned past recovery. He would sit for hours 
 with the musical box by his side, patting it ab- 
 sently from time to time, and whispering to 
 himself, as he looked at it, but never attempting 
 
528 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 to set it playing. It Was the one memorial left 
 that reminded him of all the joys and sorrows, 
 the simple family interests and affections of his 
 past life. When Rosamond first sat by his side 
 and took his hand to comfort him, he looked 
 backward and forward with forlorn eyes from 
 her compassionate face to the musical box, and 
 vacantly repeated to himself the same words over 
 and over again: “They are all gone — my brother 
 Max, my wife, my little Joseph, my sister Aga- 
 tha, and Sarah, my niece! I and my little bit 
 of box are left alone together in the world. Mo- 
 zart can sing no more. He has sung to the last 
 of them now!” 
 
 The second day there was no change in him. 
 On the third, Rosamond placed the book of 
 Hymns reverently on her mother’s bosom, laid a 
 lock of her own hair round it, and kissed the sad, 
 peaceful face for the last time. 
 
 The old man was with her at that silent leave- 
 taking, and followed her away when it was over. 
 By the side of the coffin, and afterward, when 
 she took him back with her to her husband, he 
 was still sunk in the same apathy of grief which 
 had overwhelmed him from the first. But when 
 they began to speak of the removal of the re- 
 mains the next day to Porthgenna churchyard, 
 they noticed that his dim eyes brightened sud- 
 denly, and that his wandering attention followed 
 every word they said. After a while he rose 
 from his chair, approached Rosamond, and 
 looked anxiously in her face. “I think I could 
 bear it better if you would let me go with her,” 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 529 
 
 he said. “We two should have gone back to 
 Cornwall together, if she had lived. Will you 
 let us still go back together now that she has 
 died?” 
 
 Rosamond gently remonstrated, and tried to 
 make him see that it was best to leave the re- 
 mains to be removed under the charge of her hus- 
 band’s servant, whose fidelity could be depended 
 on, and whose position made him the fittest per- 
 son to be charged with cares and responsibilities 
 which near relations were not capable of under- 
 taking with sufficient composure. She told him 
 that her husband intended to stop in London, to 
 give her one day of rest and quiet, which she ab- 
 solutely needed, and that they then proposed to 
 return to Cornwall in time to be at Porthgenna 
 before the funeral took place; and she begged 
 earnestly that he would not think of separating 
 his lot from theirs at a time of trouble and trial 
 when they ought to be all three most closely 
 united by the ties of mutual sympathy and mut- 
 ual sorrow. 
 
 He listened silently and submissively while 
 Rosamond was speaking, but he only repeated 
 his simple petition when she had done. The one 
 idea in his mind now was the idea of going back 
 to Cornwall with all that was left on earth of 
 his sister’s child. Leonard and Rosamond both 
 saw that it would be useless to oppose it, both 
 felt that it would be cruelty to keep him with 
 them, and kindness to let him go away. After 
 privately charging the servant to spare him all 
 trouble and difficulty, to humor him by acceding 
 
530 
 
 WORKS OP WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 to any wishes that he might express, and to give 
 him all possible protection and help without ob- 
 truding either officiously on his attention, they ' 
 left him free to follow the one purpose of his 
 heart which still connected him with the inter- 
 ests and events of the passing day. “I shall 
 thank you better soon,” he said at leave-taking, 
 “for letting me go away out of this din of Lon- 
 don with all that is left to me of Sarah, my niece. 
 
 I will dry up my tears as well as I can, and try 
 to have more courage when we meet again.” 
 
 On the next day, when they were alone, Rosa- 
 mond and her husband sought refuge from the 
 oppression cf the present in speaking together of 
 the future, and of the influence which the change 
 in their fortunes ought to be allowed to exercise 
 on their plans and projects for the time to come. 
 After exhausting this topic, the conversation 
 turned next on the subject of their friends, and 
 on the necessity of communicating to some of 
 the oldest of their associates the events which 
 .had followed the discovery in the Myrtle Room. 
 
 The first name on their lips while they were 
 considering this question was the name of Doc 
 tor Chennery; and Rosamond, dreading the 
 effect on her spirits of allowing her mind to 
 remain unoccupied, volunteered to write to the 
 vicar at once, referring briefly to what had hap- 
 pened since they had last communicated with 
 him, and asking him to fulfill that year an en- 
 gagement of long standing, which he had made 
 with her husband and herself, to spend his au- 
 tumn holiday with them at Porthgenna Tower, 
 
the Head secret. 
 
 531 
 
 Rosamond’s heart yearned for a sight of her old 
 friend; and she knew him well enough to be as- 
 sured that a hint at the affliction which had be- 
 fallen her, and at the hard trial which she had 
 undergone, would be more than enough to bring 
 them together the moment Doctor Chennery 
 could make his arrangements for leaving home. 
 
 The writing of this letter suggested recollec- 
 tions which called to mind another friend, whose 
 intimacy with Leonard and Rosamond was of 
 recent date, but whose connection with the ear- 
 lier among the train of circumstances which had 
 led to the discovery of the Secret entitled him to 
 a certain share in their confidence. This friend 
 was Mr. Orridge, the doctor at West Winston, 
 who had accidentally been the means of bringing 
 Rosamond’s mother to her bedside. To him she 
 now wrote, acknowledging the promise which 
 she had made on leaving West Winston to com- 
 municate the result of their search for the Myr- 
 tle Room; and informing him that it had ter- 
 minated in the discovery of some very sad events, 
 of a family nature, which were now numbered 
 with the events of the past. More than this it 
 was not necessary to say to a friend who occu- 
 pied such a position toward them as that held 
 by Mr. Orridge. 
 
 Rosamond had written the address of this sec- 
 ond letter 4 , and was absently drawing lines on 
 the blotting-paper with her pen, when she was 
 startled by hearing a contention of angry voices 
 in the passage outside. Almost before she had 
 time to wonder what the noise meant, the door 
 
532 
 
 WORKS OF WILKfE COLLINS, 
 
 was violently pushed open, and a tall, shabbily 
 dressed, elderly man, with a peevish haggard 
 face, and a ragged gray beard, stalked in, fol- 
 lowed indignantly by the head waiter of the 
 hotel. 
 
 “I have three times told this person,” began 
 the waiter, with a strong emphasis on the word 
 4 ‘person,” “that Mr. and Mrs. Frankland — ” 
 
 “Were not at home,” broke in the shabbily 
 dressed man, finishing the sentence for the 
 waiter. “Yes, you told me that; and I told 
 you that the gift of speech was only used by 
 mankind for the purpose of telling lies, and that 
 consequently I didn’t believe you. You have 
 told a lie. Here are Mr. and Mrs. Frankland 
 both at home. I come on business, and I mean 
 to ha ^e five minutes’ talk with them. I sit 
 down unasked, and I announce my own name — 
 Andrew Treverton.” 
 
 With those words, he took his seat coolly on 
 the nearest chair. Leonard’s cheeks reddened 
 with anger while he was speaking, but Rosamond 
 interposed before her husband could say a word. 
 
 “It is useless, love, to be angry with him,” 
 she whispered. “The quiet way is the best way 
 with a man like that.” She made a sign to the 
 waiter, which gave him permission to leave the 
 room — then turned to Mr. Treverton. “You 
 have forced your presence on us, sir,” she said 
 quietly, “at a time when a very sad affliction 
 makes us quite unfit for contentions of any kind. 
 We are willing to show more consideration for 
 your age than you have shown for our grief. If 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 533 
 
 you have anything to say to my husband, he is 
 ready to control himself and to hear you quietly, 
 for my sake.” 
 
 “And I shall be short with him and with you, 
 for my own sake,” rejoined Mr. Treverton. 
 “No woman has ever yet had the chance of 
 sharpening her tongue long on me, or ever shall. 
 I have come here to say three things. First, 
 your lawyer has told me all about the discovery 
 in the Myrtle Room, and how you made it. 
 Secondly, I have got your money. Thirdly, I 
 mean to keep it. What do you think of that?” 
 
 “I think you need not give yourself the trouble 
 of remaining in the room any longer, if your only 
 object in coming here is to tell us what we know 
 already,” replied Leonard. “We know you have 
 got the money; and we never doubted that you 
 meant to keep it.” 
 
 “You are quite sure of that, I suppose?” said 
 Mr. Treverton. “Quite sure you have no linger- 
 ing hope that any future twists and turns of the 
 law will take the money out of my pocket again 
 and put it back into yours? It is only fair to 
 tell you that there is not the shadow of a chance 
 of any such thing ever happening, or of my ever 
 turning generous and rewarding you of my own 
 accord for the sacrifice you have made. I have 
 been to Doctors’ Commons, I hav'e taken out a 
 grant of administration, I have got the money 
 legally, I have lodged it safe at my banker’s, 
 and I have never had one kind feeling in my 
 heart since I was born. That was my brother’s 
 character of me, and he knew more of my dis- 
 
534 
 
 WORKS OP WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 position, of course, than any one else. Once 
 again, I tell you both, not a farthing of all that 
 large fortune will ever return to either of you . 55 
 
 “And once again I tell you” said Leonard, 
 “that we have no desire to hear what we know 
 already. It is a relief to my conscience and to 
 my wife’s to have resigned a fortune which we 
 had no right to possess; and I speak for her as 
 well as for myself when I tell you that your at- 
 tempt to attach an interested motive to our re- 
 nunciation of that money is an insult to us both 
 which you ought to have been ashamed to offer.” 
 “That is your opinion, is it?” said Mr. Trever- 
 ton. “You, who have lost the money, speak to 
 me, who have got it, in that manner, do you? — 
 Pray, do you approve of your husband’s treating 
 a rich man who might make both your fortunes 
 in that way?” he inquired, addressing himself 
 sharply to Rosamond. 
 
 “Most assuredly I approve of it,” she answered. 
 “I never agreed with him more heartily in my 
 life than I agree with him now.” 
 
 “Oh!” said Mr. Treverton. “Then it seems 
 you care no more for the loss of the money than 
 he does?” 
 
 “He has told you already,” said Rosamond, 
 “that it is as great a relief to my conscience as to 
 his, to have given it up.” 
 
 Mr. Treverton carefully placed a thick stick 
 which he carried with him upright between his 
 knees, crossed his hands on the top of it, rested 
 his chin on them, and, in that investigating po- 
 sition, stared steadily in Rosamond’s face. 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 535 
 
 44 1 rather wish I had brought Shrowl here 
 with me,” he said to himself. 44 I should like 
 him to have seen this. It staggers me, and I 
 rather think it would have staggered him. Both 
 these people,” continued Mr. Treverton, look- 
 ing perplexedly from Rosamond to Leonard, 
 and from Leonard back again to Rosamond, 
 4 4 are, to all outward appearance, human beings. 
 They walk on their hind legs, they express 
 ideas readily b} r uttering articulate sounds, 
 they have the usual allowance of features, and 
 in respect of weight, height, and size, they ap- 
 pear to me to be mere average human creatures 
 of the regular civilized sort. And yet, there they 
 sit, taking the loss of a fortune of forty thousand 
 pounds as easily as Croesus, King of Lydia, 
 might have taken the loss of a half-penny!” 
 
 He rose, put on his hat, tucked the thick stick 
 under his arm, and advanced a few steps toward 
 Rosamond. 
 
 44 1 am going now,” he said. 4 4 Would you like 
 to shake hands?” 
 
 Rosamond turned her back on him contemptu- 
 ously. 
 
 Mr. Treverton chuckled with an air of supreme 
 satisfaction. 
 
 Meanwhile Leonard, who sat near the fire- 
 place, and whose color was rising angrily once 
 more, had been feeling for the bell-rope, and had 
 just succeeded in getting it into his hand as Mr. 
 Treverton approached the door. 
 
 4 ‘Don’t ring, Lenny,” said Rosamond. 4 4 He 
 is going of his own accord. 5 ' 
 
536 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 Mr. Treverton stepped out into the passage — 
 then glanced back into the room with an expres- 
 sion of puzzled curiosity on his face, as if he was 
 looking into a cage which contained two animals 
 of a species that he had never heard of before. 
 “I have seen some strange sights in my time,” 
 he said to himself. “I have had some queer ex- 
 perience of this trumpery little planet, and of the 
 creatures who inhabit it — but I never was stag- 
 gered yet by any human phenomenon as I am 
 staggered now by those two.” He shut the door 
 without saying another word, and Rosamond 
 heard him chuckle to himself again as he walked 
 away along the passage. 
 
 Ten minutes afterward the waiter brought up 
 a sealed letter addressed to Mrs. Frankland. It 
 had been written, he said, in the coffee-room of 
 the hotel by the “person” who had intruded 
 himself into Mr. and Mrs. Frankland’s presence. 
 After giving it to the waiter to deliver, he had 
 gone away in a hurry, swinging his thick stick 
 complacently, and laughing to himself. 
 
 Rosamond opened the letter. 
 
 On one side of it was a crossed check, drawn 
 in her name, for Forty Thousand Pounds. 
 
 On the other side were these lines of explana- 
 tion: 
 
 “Take your money back again. First, because 
 you and your husband are the only two people I 
 have ever met with who are not likely to be 
 made rascals by being made rich. Secondly, 
 because you have told the truth, when letting it 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 537 
 
 out meant losing money, and keeping it in, sav- 
 ing a fortune. Thirdly, because you are not the 
 child of the player- woman. Fourthly, because 
 you can’t help yourself — for I shall leave it to 
 you at my death, if you won’t have it now. 
 Good-by. Don’t come and see me, don’t write 
 grateful letters to me, don’t invite me into the 
 country, don’t praise my generosity, and, above 
 all things, don’t have anything more to do with 
 Shrowl. Andrew Treverton.” 
 
 The first thing Rosamond did, when she and 
 her husband had a little recovered from their as- 
 tonishment, was to disobey the injunction which 
 forbade her to address any grateful letters to Mr. 
 Treverton. The messenger, who was sent with 
 her note to Bays water, returned without an an- 
 swer, and reported that he had received direc- 
 tions from an invisible man, with a gruff voice, 
 to throw it over the garden wall, and to go away 
 immediately after, unless he wanted to have his 
 head broken. 
 
 Mr. Nixon, to whom Leonard immediately 
 sent word of what had happened, volunteered 
 to go to Bayswater the same evening, and make 
 an attempt to see Mr. Treverton on Mr. and Mrs. 
 Frankland’s behalf. He found Timon of Lon- 
 don more approachable than he had anticipated. 
 The misanthrope was, for once in his life, in a 
 good humor. This extraordinary change in him 
 had been produced by the sense of satisfaction 
 which he experienced in having just turned 
 Shrowl out of his situation, on the ground that 
 
538 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 his master was not fit company for him after 
 having committed such an act of folly as giving 
 Mrs. Frankland back her forty thousand pounds. 
 
 “I told him,” said Mr. Treverton, chuckling 
 over his recollection of the parting scene between 
 his servant and himself — “I told him that 1 
 could not possibly expect to merit his continued 
 approval after what I had done, and that I could 
 not think of detaining him in his place under 
 the circumstances. I begged him to view my 
 conduct as leniently as he could, because the first 
 cause that led to it was, after all, his copying the 
 plan of Porthgenna, which guided Mrs. Frank- 
 land to the discovery in the Myrtle Room. I 
 congratulated him on having got a reward of 
 five pounds for being the means of restoring a 
 fortune of forty thousand; and I bowed him out 
 with a polite humility that half drove him mad. 
 Shrowl and I have had a good many tussles in 
 our time; he was always even with me till to- 
 day, and now I’ve thrown him on his back at 
 last!” 
 
 Although Mr. Treverton was willing to talk 
 of the defeat and dismissal of Shrowl as long as 
 the lawyer would listen to him, he was perfectly 
 unmanageable on the subject of Mrs Frankland, 
 when Mr. Nixon tried to turn the conversation 
 to that topic. He would hear no messages — he 
 would give no promise of any sort for the future. 
 All that he could be prevailed on to say about 
 himself and his own projects was that he in- 
 tended to give up the house at Bayswater, and to 
 travel again for the purpose of studying human 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 539 
 
 nature, in different countries, on a plan that he 
 had not tried yet — the plan of endeavoring to find 
 out the good that there might be in people as well 
 as the bad. He said the idea had been suggested 
 to his mind by his anxiety to ascertain whether 
 Mr. and Mrs. Frankland were perfectly excep- 
 tional human beings or not, At present, he was 
 disposed to think that they were, and that his 
 travels were not likely to lead to anything at all 
 remarkable in the shape of a satisfactory result. 
 Mr. Nixon pleaded hard for something in the 
 shape of a friendly message to take back, along 
 with the news of his intended departure. The 
 request produced nothing but a sardonic chuckle, 
 followed by this parting speech, delivered to the 
 lawyer at the garden gate, 
 
 “Tell those two superhuman people,” said 
 Timon of London, “that I may give up my trav- 
 els in disgust when they least expect it; and that 
 I may possibly come back to look at them again 
 — I don’t personally care about either of them — 
 but I should like to get one satisfactory sensation 
 more out of the lamentable spectacle of humanity 
 before I die.” 
 
540 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE DAWN OF A NEW LIFE. 
 
 Four days afterward, Rosamond and Leonard 
 and Uncle Joseph met together in the cemetery of 
 the church of Porthgenua. 
 
 The earth to which we all return had closed 
 over Her : the weary pilgrimage of Sarah Leeson 
 had come to its quiet end at last. The miner’s 
 grave from which she had twice plucked in secret 
 her few memorial fragments of grass had given 
 her the home, in death, which, in life, she had 
 never known. The roar of the surf was stilled 
 to a low murmur before it reached the place of 
 her rest; and the wind that swept joyously over 
 the open moor paused a little when it met the 
 old trees that watched over the graves, and 
 wound onward softly through the myrtle hedge 
 which held them all embraced alike in its circle 
 of lustrous green. 
 
 Some hours had passed since the last words of 
 the burial service had been read. The fresh turf 
 was heaped already over the mound, and the old 
 headstone with the miner’s epitaph on it had 
 been raised once more in its former place at the 
 head of the grave. Rosamond was reading the 
 inscription softly to her husband. Uncle Joseph 
 had walked a little apart from them while she 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 541 
 
 was thus engaged, and had knelt down by him- 
 self at the foot of the mound. He was fondly 
 smoothing and patting the newly laid turf — as 
 he had often smoothed Sarah’s hair in the long 
 past days of her youth — as he had often patted 
 her hand in the after-time, when her heart was 
 weary and her hair was gray. 
 
 ‘ 6 Shall we add any new words to the old, worn 
 letters as they stand now?” said Rosamond, 
 when she had read the inscription to the end. 
 “There is a blank space left on the stone. Shall 
 we fill it, love, with the initials of my mother’s 
 name, and the date of her death? I feel some- 
 thing in my heart which seems to tell me to do 
 that, and to do no more.” 
 
 “So let it be, Rosamond,” said her husband. 
 “That short and simple inscription is the fittest 
 and the best.” 
 
 She looked away, as he gave that answer, to 
 the foot of the grave, and left him for a moment 
 to approach the old man. “Take my hand, 
 Uncle Joseph,” she said, and touched him gently 
 on the shoulder. “Take my hand and let us go 
 back together to the house.” 
 
 He rose as she spoke and looked at her doubt- 
 fully. The musical box inclosed in its well-worn 
 leather case lay on the grave near the place where 
 he had been kneeling. Rosamond took it up 
 from the grass and slung it in the old place at 
 his side which it had always occupied when he 
 *vas away from home. He sighed a little as he 
 thanked her. “Mozart can sing no more,” he 
 said. “He has sung to the last of them now!” 
 
542 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 “ Don’t say ‘to the last,’ yet,” said Rosamond 
 — “don’t say ‘to the last,’ Uncle Joseph, while I 
 am alive. Surely Mozart will sing to me, for 
 my mother’s sake?” 
 
 A smile — the first she had seen since the time 
 of their grief— trembled faintly round his lips. 
 “There is comfort in that,” he said; “there is 
 comfort for Uncle Joseph still, in hearing that.” 
 
 “Take my hand,” she repeated softly. “Come 
 home with us now.” 
 
 He looked down wistfully at the grave. “I 
 will follow you,” he said, “if you will go on 
 before me to the gate.” 
 
 Rosamond took her husband’s arm, and guided 
 him to the path that led out of the churchyard. 
 As they passed from sight, Uncle Joseph knelt 
 down once more at the foot of the grave, and 
 pressed his lips on the fresh turf. 
 
 “Good-by, my child,” he whispered, and laid 
 his cheek for a moment against the grass before 
 he rose again. 
 
 At the gate, Rosamond was waiting for him. 
 Her right hand was resting on her husband’s 
 arm; her left hand was held out for Uncle Joseph 
 to take. 
 
 “How cool the breeze is!” said Leonard. 
 “How pleasantly the sea sounds! Surely this 
 is a fine summer day!” 
 
 “The calmest and loveliest of the year,” said 
 Rosamond. “The only clouds on the sky are 
 clouds of shining white; the only shadows over 
 the moor lie light as down on the heather. Oh, 
 Lenny, it is such a different day from that day 
 
THE DEAD SECRET. 
 
 543 
 
 of dull oppression and misty heat when we found 
 the letter in the Myrtle Room! Even the dark 
 tower of our old house, yonder, looks its bright- 
 est and best, as if it waited to welcome us to the 
 beginning of a new life. I will make it a happy 
 life to you, and to Uncle Joseph, if I can — happy 
 as the sunshine we are walking in now. You 
 shall never repent, love, if I can help it, that 
 you have married a wife who has no claim of 
 her own to the honors of a family name.” 
 
 “I can never repent my marriage, Rosamond, 
 because I can never forget the lesson that my 
 wife has taught me.” 
 
 44 What lesson, Lenny?” 
 
 44 An old one, my dear, which some of us can 
 never learn too often. The highest honors, Rosa- 
 mond, are those which no accident can take 
 away — the honors that are conferred by Love 
 and Truth.” 
 
 END OF 44 THE DEAD SECRET.” 
 

MISS BERTHA AND THE 
 YANKEE. 
 
 [preliminary statements of witnesses for 
 
 THE DEFENSE, COLLECTED AT THE OFFICE 
 OF THE SOLICITOR.] 
 
 No. 1 . — Miss Bertha Laroche , of Nettlegrove 
 Hall , testifies and says:— 
 
 I. 
 
 Toward the middle of June, in the year 
 1817, I went to take the waters at Maples worth, 
 in Derbyshire, accompanied by my nearest rela- 
 tive — my aunt. 
 
 I am an only child ; and I was twenty-one years 
 old at my last birthday. On coming cf age I in- 
 herited a house and lands in Derbyshire, together 
 with a fortune in money of one hundred thousand 
 pounds. The only education which I have re- 
 ceived has been obtained within the last two or 
 three years of my life; and I have thus far seen 
 nothing of Society, in England or in any other 
 civilized part of the world. I can be a compe- 
 tent witness, it seems, in spite of these disadvan- 
 tages. Anyhow, I mean to tell the truth. 
 
 R— Yol. 16 (545) 
 
546 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 My father was a French colonist in the island 
 of Saint Domingo, He died while I was very 
 young; leaving to my mother and to me just 
 enough to live on, in the remote part of the isl- 
 and in which our little property was situated. 
 My mother was an Englishwoman. Her deli- 
 cate health made it necessary for her to leave 
 me, for many hours of the day, under the care of 
 our household slaves. I can never forget their 
 kindness to me; but, unfortunately, their igno- 
 rance equaled their kindness. If we had been 
 rich enough to send to France or England for a 
 competent governess we might have done very 
 well. But we were not rich enough. I am 
 ashamed to say that I was nearly thirteen years 
 old before I had learned to read and write cor- 
 rectly. 
 
 Four more years passed — and then there came 
 a wonderful event in our lives, which was noth- 
 ing less than the change from Saint Domingo to 
 England. 
 
 My mother was distantly related to an ancient 
 and wealthy English family. She seriously of- 
 fended those proud people by marrying an ob- 
 scure foreigner, who had nothing to live on but 
 his morsel of land in the West Indies. Having 
 no expectations from her relatives, my mother 
 preferred happiness with the man she loved to 
 every other consideration ; and I, for one, think 
 she was right. From that moment she was cast 
 off by the head of the family. For eighteen 
 years of her life, as wife, mother, and widow, 
 no letters came to her from her English home. 
 
MISS BERTHA AND THE YANKEE. 547 
 
 We had just celebrated m3 r seventeenth birthday 
 when the first letter came. It informed my 
 mother that no less than three lives, which stood 
 between her and the inheritance of certain por- 
 tions of the family property, had been swept 
 away by death. The estate and the fortune 
 which I have already mentioned had fallen to 
 her in due course of law, and her surviving rel- 
 atives were magnanimously ready to forgive 
 her at last! 
 
 We wound up our affairs at Saint Domingo, 
 and we went to England to take possession of 
 our new wealth. 
 
 At first, the return to her native air seemed to 
 have a beneficial effect on my mother’s health. 
 But it was a temporary improvement only. Her 
 constitution had been fatally injured by the West 
 Indian climate, and just as we had engaged a 
 competent person to look after my neglected edu- 
 cation, my constant attendance was needed at 
 my mother’s bedside. We loved each other 
 dearly, and we wanted no strange nurses to 
 come between us. My aunt (my mother’s sis- 
 ter) relieved me of my cares in the intervals 
 when I wanted rest. 
 
 For seven sad months our dear sufferer lin- 
 gered. I have only one remembrance to comfort 
 me; my mother’s last kiss was mine — she died 
 peacefully with her head on my bosom. 
 
 I was nearly nineteen years old before I had' 
 sufficiently rallied my courage to be able to think 
 seriously of myself and my prospects. 
 
 At that age one does not willingly submit one’s 
 
548 
 
 YORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 self for the first time to the authority of a gov- 
 erness. Having my aunt for a companion and 
 protectress, 1 proposed to engage my own masters 
 and to superintend my own education. 
 
 My plans failed to meet with the approval of 
 the head of the family. He declared (most un- 
 justly, as the event proved) that my aunt was 
 not a fit person to take care of me. She had 
 passed all the later years of her life in retire- 
 ment. A good creature, he admitted, in her own 
 way, but she had no knowledge of the world, 
 and no firmness of character. The right person 
 to act as my chaperon, and to superintend my 
 education, was the high .-minded and accom- 
 plished woman who had taught his own 
 daughters. 
 
 I declined, with all needful gratitude and re- 
 spect, to take his advice. The bare idea of liv- 
 ing with a stranger so soon after my mother’s 
 death revolted me. Besides, I liked my aunt, 
 and my aunt liked me. Being made acquainted 
 with my decision, the head of the family cast me 
 off, exactly as he had cast off my mother before 
 me. 
 
 So I lived in retirement with my good aunt, 
 and studied industriously to improve my mind 
 until my twenty - first birthday came. I was 
 now an heiress, privileged to think and act for 
 myself. My aunt kissed me tenderly. We talked 
 of my poor mother, and we cried in each other’s 
 arms on the memorable day that made a wealthy 
 woman of me. In a little time more, other troubles 
 than vain regrets for the dead were to try me, 
 
MISS BERTHA AND THE YANKEE. 
 
 549 
 
 and other tears were to fill my eyes than the 
 tears which I had given to the memory of my 
 mother. 
 
 II. 
 
 I may now return to my visit, in June, 1817. 
 to the healing springs at Maplesworth. 
 
 This famous inland watering-place was only 
 between nine and ten miles from my new home 
 called Nettlegrove Hall. I had been feeling 
 weak and out of spirits for some months, and 
 our medical adviser recommended change of 
 scene and a trial of the waters at Maplesworthc 
 My aunt and I established ourselves in comfort- 
 able apartments, with a letter of introduction to 
 the chief doctor in the place. This otherwise 
 harmless and worthy man proved, strangely 
 enough, to be the innocent cause of the trials 
 and troubles which beset me at the outset of my 
 new life. 
 
 The day after we had presented our letter of 
 introduction, we met the doctor on the public 
 walk. He was accompanied by two strangers, 
 both young men, and both (so far as my ignorant 
 opinion went) persons of same distinction, judg- 
 ing by their dress and manners. The doctor said 
 a few kind words to us, and rejoined his two 
 companions. Both the gentlemen looked at me, 
 and both took off their hats as my aunt and I 
 proceeded on our walk. 
 
 I own I thought occasionally of the well-bred 
 strangers during the rest of the day, especial!}" 
 
550 
 
 WOBKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 of the shortest of the two, who was also the hand- 
 somest of the two to my thinking. If this con- 
 fession seems rather a bold one, remember, if you 
 please, that I had never been taught to conceal 
 my feelings at Saint Domingo, and that the 
 events which followed our arrival in England 
 had kept me completely secluded from the society 
 of other young ladies of my age. 
 
 The next day, while I was drinking my glass 
 of healing water (extremely nasty water, by the 
 way) the doctor joined us. 
 
 While he was asking me about my health, the 
 two strangers made their appearance again, and 
 took off their hats again. They both looked ex- 
 pectantly at the doctor, and the doctor (in per- 
 formance of a promise which he had already 
 made, as I privately suspected) formally intro- 
 duced them to my aunt and to me. First (I put 
 the handsomest man first) Captain Arthur S tan- 
 wick, of the army, home from India on leave, 
 and staying at Maples worth to take the waters; 
 secondly, Mr. Lionel Varleigh, of Boston, in 
 America, visiting England, after traveling all 
 over Europe, and stopping at Maplesworth to 
 keep company with his friend the Captain. 
 
 On their introduction, the two gentlemen, ob- 
 serving, no doubt, that I was a little shy, forbore 
 delicately from pressing their society on us. 
 
 Captain Stan wick, with a beautiful smile, and 
 with teeth worthy of the smile, stroked his whisk- 
 ers, and asked me if I had found any benefit from 
 taking the waters. He afterward spoke in great 
 praise of the charming scenery in the neighbor- 
 
MISS BERTHA AND THE YANKEE. 
 
 551 
 
 hood of Maplesworth, and then, turning away, 
 addressed his next words to my aunt. Mr. Var- 
 leigh took his place. Speaking with perfect 
 gravity, and with no whiskers to stroke, he 
 said: 
 
 “I have once tried the waters here out of curi- 
 osity. I can sympathize, miss, with the expres- 
 sion which I observed on your face when you 
 emptied your glass just now. Permit me to offer 
 you something nice to take the taste cf the waters 
 out of your mouth,” He produced from his 
 pocket a beautiful little box fdled with sugar- 
 plums. “I bought it in Paris,” he explained. 
 “Having lived a good deal in Prance, I have 
 got into a habit of making little presents of this 
 sort to ladies and children. I wouldn’t let the 
 doctor see it, miss, if I were you. He has the 
 usual medical prejudice against sugar- plums.” 
 With that quaint warning, he, too, made his 
 bow and discreetly withdrew, 
 
 Thinking it over afterward, I acknowledged 
 to myself that the English Captain — although 
 he was the handsomest man of the two, and pos- 
 sessed the smoothest manners — had failed, never- 
 theless, to overcome my shyness. The American 
 traveler’s unaffected sincerity and good-humor, 
 on the other hand, set me quite at my ease. I 
 could look at him and thank him, and feel amused 
 at his sympathy with the grimace I had made, 
 after swallowing the ill-flavored waters. And 
 yet, while I lay awake at night, wondering 
 whether we should meet our new acquaintances 
 on the next day, it was the English Captain that 
 
552 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 I most wanted to see again, and not the Ameri- 
 can traveler! At the time, I set this down to 
 nothing more important than my own perversity. 
 Ah, dear! dear! I know better than that now. 
 
 The next morning brought the doctor to our 
 hotel on a special visit to my aunt. He invented 
 a pretext for sending me into the next room, 
 which was so plainly a clumsy excuse that my 
 curiosity was aroused. I gratified my curiosity. 
 Must I make my confession plainer still? Must 
 I acknowledge that I was mean enough to listen 
 on the other side of the door? 
 
 I heard my dear innocent old aunt say: 4 ‘Doc- 
 tor! I hope you don’t see anything alarming in 
 the state of Bertha’s health.” 
 
 The doctor burst out laughing. “My dear 
 madam! there is nothing in the state of the 
 young lady’s health which need cause the small- 
 est anxiety to you or to me. The object of my 
 visit is to justify myself for presenting those two 
 gentlemen to you yesterday. They are both 
 greatly struck by Miss Bertha’s beauty, and 
 they both urgently entreated me to introduce 
 them. Such introductions, I need hardly say, 
 are marked exceptions to my general rule. In 
 ninety-nine cases out of a hundred I should have 
 said No. In the cases cf Captain Stanwick and 
 Mr. Yarleigh, however, I saw no reason to hesi- 
 tate. Permit me to assure you that I am not in- 
 truding on your notice two fortune-hunting ad- 
 venturers. They are both men of position and 
 men of property. The family of the Stan wicks 
 has been well known to me for years; and Mr, 
 
MISS BERTHA AND THE YANKEE. 
 
 553 
 
 Varleigh brought me a letter from my oldest liv- 
 ing friend, answering for him as a gentleman in 
 the highest sense of the word. He is the wealth- 
 iest man of the two; and it speaks volumes for 
 him, in my opinion, that he has preserved his 
 simplicity of character after a long residence in 
 such places as Paris and Vienna. Captain S tan- 
 wick has more polish and ease of manner, but, 
 looking under the surface, I rather fancy there 
 may be something a little impetuous and domi- 
 neering in his temper. However, we all have 
 our faults. I can only say, for both these young 
 friends of mine, that you need feel no scruple 
 about admitting them to your intimacy, if they 
 happen to please you — and your niece. Having 
 now, I hope, removed any doubts which may 
 have troubled you, pray recall Miss Bertha. I 
 am afraid I have interrupted you in discussing 
 your plans for the day.” 
 
 The smoothly eloquent doctor paused for the 
 moment; and I darted away from the door. 
 
 Our plans for the day included a drive through 
 the famous scenery near the town. My two ad- 
 mirers met us on horseback. Here, again, the 
 Captain had the advantage over his friend. His 
 seat in the saddle and his riding-dress were both 
 perfect things in their way. The Englishman 
 rode on one side of the carriage and the Ameri- 
 can on the other. They both talked well, but 
 Mr. Varleigh had seen more of the world in gen- 
 eral than Captain Stan wick, and he made him- 
 self certainly the more interesting and more 
 amusing companion of the two. 
 
554 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 On our way back my admiration was excited 
 by a thick wood, beautifully situated on rising 
 ground at a little distance from the high-road. 
 “Oh, dear, 53 I said, “how I should like to take 
 a walk in that wood! 3 ’ Idle, thoughtless words; 
 but, oh, what remembrances crowd on me as I 
 think of them now ! 
 
 Captain Stan wick and Mr. Varleigh at once 
 dismounted and offered themselves as my escort. 
 The coachman warned them to be careful ; people 
 had often lost themselves, he said, in that wood. 
 I asked the name of it. The name was Herne 
 Wood, My aunt was not very willing to leave 
 her comfortable seat in the carriage, but it ended 
 in her going with us. 
 
 Before we entered the wood, Mr. Varleigh 
 noted the position of the high-road by his pocket- 
 compass. Captain Stanwick laughed at him, 
 and offered me his arm. Ignorant as I was of 
 the ways of the world and the rules of coquetry, 
 my instinct (I suppose) warned me not to dis- 
 tinguish one of the gentlemen too readily at the 
 expense of the other. I took my aunt’s arm and 
 settled it in that way. 
 
 A winding path led us into the wood. 
 
 On a nearer view, the place disappointed me; 
 the further we advanced, the more horribly 
 gloomy it grew. The thickly - growing trees 
 shut out th9 light; the damp stole over me lit- 
 tle by little until I shivered ; the undergrowth 
 of bushes and thickets rustled at intervals mys- 
 teriously, as some invisible creeping creature 
 passed through it. At a turn in the path we 
 
MISS BERTHA AND THE YANKEE. 
 
 555 
 
 reached a sort of clearing, and saw the sky and 
 the sunshine once more. But, even here, a dis- 
 agreeable incident occurred. A snake wound 
 his undulating way across the open space, pass- 
 ing close by me, and I was fool enough to scream.. 
 The Captain killed the creature with his riding- 
 cane, taking a pleasure in doing it which I did 
 not like to see. 
 
 We left the clearing and tried another path, 
 and then another. And still the horrid wood 
 preyed on my spirits. I agreed with my aunt 
 that we should do well to return to the carriage. 
 On our way back we missed the right path, and 
 lost ourselves for the moment. Mr. Varleigh 
 consulted his compass, and pointed in one direc- 
 tion. Captain Stan wick, consulting nothing but 
 his own jealous humor, pointed in the other. 
 We followed Mr. Varleigh’s guidance, and got 
 back to the clearing. He turned to the Captain, 
 and said, good-humoredly: “You see the com- 
 pass was right.” Capt in Stanwick answered, 
 sharply: “There are more ways than one out of 
 an English wood; you talk as if we were in one 
 of your American forests.” 
 
 Mr. Varleigh seemed to be at a loss to under- 
 stand his rudeness: there was a pause. The two 
 men looked at each other, standing face to face 
 on the brown earth of the clearing — the English- 
 man’s ruddy countenance, light auburn hair and 
 whiskers, and well-opened bold blue eyes, con- 
 trasting with the pale complexion, the keenly- 
 observant look, the dark closely-cut hair, and 
 the delicately-lined face of the American. It 
 
556 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 was only for a moment: I had barely time to 
 feel uneasy before they controlled themselves 
 and led us back to the carriage, talking as pleas- 
 antly as if nothing had happened. For days 
 afterward, nevertheless, that scene in the clear- 
 ing — the faces and figures of the two men, the 
 dark line of trees hemming them in on all sides, 
 the brown circular patch of ground on which 
 they stood — haunted my memory, and got in the 
 way of my brighter and happier thoughts. When 
 my aunt inquired if I had enjoyed the day, I sur- 
 prised her by saying No. And when she asked 
 why, I could only answer: “It was all spoiled 
 by Herne Wood.” 
 
 III. 
 
 Three weeks passed. 
 
 The terror of those dreadful days creeps over 
 me again when I think of them. I mean to tell 
 the truth without shrinking; but I may at least 
 consult my own feelings by dwelling on certain 
 particulars as briefly as I can. I shall describe 
 my conduct toward the two men who courted 
 me in the plainest terms, if I say that I distim 
 guished neither of them. Innocently and stupidly 
 I encouraged them both. 
 
 In books, women are generally represented as 
 knowing their own minds in matters which re- 
 late to love and marriage. This is not my ex- 
 perience of myself. Day followed day; and, 
 
MISS BERTHA AND THE YANKEE. 557 
 
 ridiculous as it may appear, I could not decide 
 which of my two admirers I liked best! 
 
 Captain Stanwick was, at first, the man of my 
 choice. While he kept his temper under control, 
 he charmed me. But when he let it escape him, 
 he sometimes disappointed, sometimes irritated 
 me. In that frame of mind I turned for relief 
 to Lionel Varleigh, feeling that he was the more 
 gentle and the more worthy man of the two, and 
 honestly believing, at such times, that I pre- 
 ferred him to his rival. For the first few days 
 after our visit to Herne Wood I had excellent 
 opportunities of comparing them. They paid 
 their visits to us together, and they divided their 
 attentions carefully between me and my aunt. 
 At the end of the week, however, they began to 
 present themselves separately. If I had possessed 
 any experience of the natures of men, I might 
 have known what this meant, and might have 
 seen the future possibility of some more serious 
 estrangement between the two friends, of which 
 1 might be the unfortunate cause. As it was, I 
 never once troubled my head about what might 
 be passing out of my presence. Whether they 
 came together, or whether they came separately, 
 their visits were always agreeable to me, and 
 I thought of nothing and cared for nothing 
 more. 
 
 But the time that was to enlighten me was not 
 far off. 
 
 One day Captain Stanwick called much earlier 
 than usual. My aunt had not yet returned from 
 her morning walk. The Captain made some ex> 
 
558 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 case for presenting himself under these circum- 
 stances which I have now forgotten. 
 
 Without actually committing himself to a pro- 
 posal of marriage he spoke with such tender feel- 
 ing, he managed his hold on my inexperience so 
 delicately, that he entrapped me into saying some 
 words, on my side, which I remembered with a 
 certain dismay as soon as 1 was left alone again. 
 In half an hour more, Mr. Lionel Varleigh was 
 announced as my next visitor. I at once noticed 
 a certain disturbance in his look and manner 
 which was quite new in my experience of him. 
 I offered him a chair. To my surprise he de- 
 clined to take it. 
 
 “I must trust to your indulgence to permit 
 me to put an embarrassing question to you/’ he 
 began. “It; rests with you, Miss Laroche, to 
 decide whether I shall remain here, or whether I 
 shall relieve you of my presence by leaving the 
 room.” 
 
 “What can you possibly mean?” 1 asked. 
 
 “Is it your wish,” he went on, “that I should 
 pay you no more visits except in Captain Stan- 
 wick’s company, or by Captain Stan wick’s ex- 
 press permission?” 
 
 My astonishment deprived me for the moment 
 of the power of answering him. “Do you really 
 mean that Captain Stanwick has forbidden you 
 to call on me?” I asked as soon as I could speak. 
 
 “I have exactly repeated what Captain Stan- 
 wick said to me half an hour since,” Lionel Var- 
 leigh answered. 
 
 In my indignation at hearing this* T entirely 
 
MISS BERTHA AND THE YANKEE. 
 
 559 
 
 forgot the rash words of encouragement which 
 the Captain had entrapped me into speaking to 
 him. When I think of it now, 1 am ashamed 
 to repeat the language in which I resented this 
 man’s presumptuous assertion of authority over 
 me. Having committed one act of indiscretion 
 already, my anxiety to assert my freedom of ac- 
 tion hurried me into committing another. I 
 bade Mr. Varleigh welcome whenever he chose 
 to visit me, in terms which made his face flush 
 under the emotions of pleasure and surprise which 
 I had aroused in him. My wounded vanity ac- 
 knowledged no restraints. I signed to him to 
 take a seat on the sofa at my side; I engaged to 
 go to his lodgings the next day, with my aunt, 
 and see the collection of curiosities which he had 
 amassed in the course of his travels. I almost 
 believe, if he had tried to kiss me, that I was 
 angry enough with the Captain to have let him 
 do it! 
 
 Remember what my life had been — remember 
 how ignorantly I had passed the precious days 
 of my youth, how insidiously a sudden accession 
 of wealth and importance had encouraged my 
 folly and my pride — and try, like good. Chris- 
 tians, to make some allowance for me! 
 
 My aunt came in from her walk, before Mr, 
 Yarleigh’s visit had ended. She received him 
 rather coldly, and he perceived it. After re- 
 minding me of our appointment for the next 
 day, he took his leave. 
 
 4 4 What appointment does Mr. Varleigh mean?” 
 my aunt asked, as soon as we were alone. “Is 
 
560 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 it wise, under the circumstances, to make ap- 
 pointments with Mr. Yarleigh?” she said, when 
 1 had answered her question. I naturally in- 
 quired what she meant. My aunt replied, “I 
 have met Captain Stanwick while I was out 
 walking. He has told me something which I 
 am quite at a loss to understand. Is it possible, 
 Bertha, that you have received a proposal of 
 marriage from him favorably, without saying 
 one word about your intentions to me?” 
 
 I instantly denied it. However rashly I might 
 have spoken, I had certainly said nothing to 
 justify Captain Stanwick in claiming me as his 
 promised wife. In his mean fear of a fair rivalry 
 with Mr. Yarleigh, he had deliberately misinter- 
 preted me. “If 1 1 marry either of the two,” I 
 said, “it will be Mr. Yarleigh!” 
 
 My aunt shook her head. “These two gentle- 
 men seem to be both in love with you, Bertha. 
 It is a trying position for you between them, 
 and I am afraid you have acted with some in- 
 discretion. Captain Stanwick tells me that he 
 and his friend have come to a separation already. 
 I fear you are the cause of it. Mr. Yarleigh has 
 left the hotel at which he was staying with the 
 Captain, in consequence of a disagreement be- 
 tween them this morning. You were not aware 
 of that when you accepted his invitation. Shall 
 I write an excuse for you? We must, at least, 
 put off the visit, my dear, until you have set 
 yourself right with Captain Stanwick.” 
 
 I began to feel a little alarmed, but I was too 
 obstinate to yield without a struggle. “Give 
 
MI?S BERTHA AND THE YANKEE. 
 
 561 
 
 me time to think over it,” I said. “To write 
 an excuse seems like acknowledging the Cap- 
 tain’s authority. Let us wait till to-morow 
 morning. ’ ’ 
 
 IV. 
 
 The morning brought with it another visit 
 from Captain Stanwick. This time my aunt was 
 present. He looked at her without speaking, 
 and turned to me, with his fiery temper showing 
 itself already in his eyes. 
 
 “I have a word to say to you in private,” he 
 began. 
 
 “I have no secrets from my aunt,” I answered. 
 “Whatever you have to say, Captain Stanwick, 
 may be said here.” 
 
 He opened his lips to reply, and suddenly 
 checked himself. He was controlling his anger 
 by so violent an effort that it turned his ruddy 
 face pale. For the moment he conquered his 
 temper — he addressed himself to me with the 
 outward appearance cf respect at least. 
 
 “Has that man Varleigh lied?” he asked; 
 “or have you given him hopes, too— after what 
 you said to me yesterday?” 
 
 “I said nothing to you yesterday which gives 
 you any right to put that question to me,” I re- 
 joined. “You have entirely misunderstood me, 
 if you think so.” 
 
 My aunt attempted to say a few temperate 
 words, in the hope of soothing him. He waved 
 
502 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 his hand, refusing to listen to her, and advanced 
 closer to me. 
 
 “ You have misunderstood me,” he said, “if 
 you think I am a man to be made a plaything 
 of in the hands of a coquette!” 
 
 My aunt interposed once more, with a resolu- 
 tion which I had not expected from her. 
 
 “Captain Stan wick,” she said, “you are for- 
 getting yourself.” 
 
 He paid no heed to her ; he persisted in speak- 
 ing to me. “It is my misfortune to love you,” 
 he burst out. “My whole heart is set on you. 
 I mean to be your husband, and no other man 
 living shall stand in my way. After what you 
 said to me yesterday, I have a right to consider 
 that you have favored my addresses. This is 
 not a mere flirtation. Don’t think it! I say it’s 
 the passion of a life! Do you hear? It’s the 
 passion of a man’s whole life! I am not to be 
 trifled with. I have had a night of sleepless 
 misery about you — I have suffered enough for 
 you — and you’re not worth it. Don’t laugh! 
 This is no laughing matter. Take care, Bertha! 
 Take care!” 
 
 My aunt rose from her chair. She astonished 
 me. On all ordinary occasions the most retir- 
 ing, the most feminine of women, she now walked 
 up to Captain Stanwick and looked him full in 
 the face, without flinching for an instant. 
 
 “You appear to have forgotten that you are 
 speaking in the presence of two ladies,” she said. 
 “Alter your tone, sir, or I shall be obliged to take 
 my niece out of the room.” 
 
MISS BERTHA AND THE YANKEE. 
 
 563 
 
 Half angry, half frightened, I tried to speak 
 in my turn. My aunt signed to me to be silent. 
 The Captain drew back a step as if he felt her 
 reproof. But his eyes, still fixed on me, were as 
 fiercely bright as ever. There the gentleman’s 
 superficial good-breeding failed to hide the nat- 
 ural man beneath. 
 
 “I will leave you in undisturbed possession of 
 the room,” he said to my aunt with bitter polite- 
 ness. “Before I go, permit me to give your niece 
 an opportunity of reconsidering her conduct be- 
 fore it is too late.” My aunt drew back, leaving 
 him free to speak to me. After considering for a 
 moment, he laid his hand firmly, but not roughly, 
 on my arm. “You have accepted Lionel Var- 
 leigh’s invitation to visit him,” he said, “under 
 pretense of seeing his curiosities. Think again 
 before you decide on keeping that engagement. 
 If you go to Varleigh to-morrow, you will repent 
 it to the last day of your life.” Saying those 
 words, in atone which made me tremble in spite 
 of myself, he walked to the door. As he laid 
 his hand on the lock, he turned toward me for 
 the last time. “I forbid you to go to Varleigh’s 
 lodgings,” he said, very distinctly and quietly. 
 “Understand what I tell you. I forbid it.” 
 
 With those words he left us. 
 
 My aunt sat down by me and took my hand 
 kindly. “There is only one thing to be done,” 
 she said; “we must return at once to Nettlegrove. 
 If Captain Stanwick attempts to annoy you in 
 your own house, we have neighbors who will pro- 
 tect us, and we have Mr. Loring, our rector, to 
 
564 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS, 
 
 appeal to for advice. As for Mr. Varleigh, I will 
 write our excuses myself before we go away.” 
 
 She put out her hand to ring the bell and order 
 the carriage. I stopped her. My childish pride 
 urged me to assert myself in some way, after the 
 passive position that I had been forced to occupy 
 during the interview with Captain Stanwick. 
 
 “No,” I said, “it is not acting fairly toward 
 Mr. Varleigh to break our engagement with him. 
 Let us return to Nettlegrove by all means, but 
 let us first call on Mr. Varleigh and take our 
 leave. Are we to behave rudely to a gentleman 
 who has always treated us with the utmost con- 
 sideration, because Captain Stanwick has tried 
 to frighten us by cowardly threats? The com- 
 monest feeling of self-respect forbids it.” 
 
 My aunt protested against this outbreak of 
 folly with perfect temper and good sense. But 
 my obstinacy (my firmness as I thought it!) was 
 immovable. I left her to choose between going 
 with me to Mr. Varleigh, or letting me go to 
 him by myself. Finding it useless to resist, 
 she decided, it is needless to say, on going with 
 me. 
 
 We found Mr. Varleigh very courteous, but 
 more than usually grave and quiet. Our visit 
 only lasted for a few minutes; my aunt using 
 the influence of her age and her position to 
 shorten it. She mentioned family affairs as 
 the motive which recalled us to Nettlegrove. I 
 took it on myself to invite Mr. Varleigh to visit 
 me at my own house. He bowed and thanked 
 me, without engaging himself to accept the in- 
 
HISS BERTHA AND THE YANKEE. 
 
 565 
 
 vitation. When I offered him my hand at part- 
 ing, he raised it to his lips, and kissed it with a 
 fervor that agitated me. His eyes looked into 
 mine with a sorrowful admiration, with a linger- 
 ing regret, as if they were taking their leave of 
 me for a long while. “Don’t forget me!” he 
 whispered, as he stood at the door, while I fol- 
 lowed my aunt out. “Come to Nettlegrove,” I 
 whispered back. His eyes dropped to the ground ; 
 he let me go without a word more. 
 
 This, I declare solemnly, was all that passed 
 at our visit. By some unexpressed consent 
 among us, no allusion whatever was made to 
 Captain Stan wick; not even his name was men- 
 tioned. I never knew that the two men had 
 met, just before we called on Mr. Varleigh, 
 Nothing was said which could suggest to me 
 the slightest suspicion of any arrangement for 
 another meeting between then later in the day. 
 Beyond the vague threats which had escaped 
 Captain Stanwick’s lips — threats which I own 
 I was rash enough to despise — I had no warning 
 whatever of the dreadful events which happened 
 at Maplesworth on the day after our return to 
 Nettlegrove Hall. 
 
 I can only add that I am ready to submit to 
 any questions that may be put to me. Pray 
 don’t think me a heartless woman. My worst 
 fault was ignorance. In those days, I knew 
 nothing of the false pretenses under which men 
 hide what is selfish and savage in their natures 
 from the women whom it is their interest to 
 deceive. 
 
566 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLTNS. 
 
 No. 2 . — Julius Bender , fencing-master , fes- 
 tifies and says: — 
 
 I am of German nationality; established in 
 England as teacher of the use of the sword and 
 the pistol since the beginning of the present year. 
 
 Finding business slack in London, it unfortu- 
 nately occurred to me to try what I could do in 
 the country. I had heard of Maples worth as a 
 place largely frequented by visitors on account 
 of the scenery, as well as by invalids in need of 
 taking the waters; and I opened a gallery there 
 at the beginning of the season of 1817, for fenc- 
 ing and pistol practice. About the visitors I had 
 not been deceived; there were plenty cf idle 
 young gentlemen among them who might have 
 been expected to patronize my establishment. 
 They showed the most barbarous indifference 
 to the noble art of attack and defense — came 
 by twos and threes, looked at my gallery, and 
 never returned. My small means began to fail 
 me. After paying my expenses, I was really at 
 my wits’ end to find a few pounds to go on with, 
 in the hope of better days. 
 
 One gentleman, I remember, who came to see 
 me, and who behaved most liberally. 
 
 He described himself as an American, and said 
 he had traveled a great deal. As my ill luck 
 would have it, he stood in no need of my instruc- 
 tions. On the two or three occasions when he 
 amused himself with my foils and my pistols, he 
 proved to be one of the most expert swordsmen 
 and one of the finest shots that I ever met with. 
 
MISS BERTHA AND THE YANKEE. 
 
 56? 
 
 It was not wonderful: he had by nature cool 
 nerves and a quick eye ; and he had been taught 
 by the masters of the art in Vienna and Paris. 
 
 Early in July — the 9fch or 10th of the month, 
 I think — I was sitting aLne in my gallery, look- 
 ing ruef ally enough at the last two sovereigns 
 in my purse, when a gentleman was announced 
 who wanted a lesson. “A private lesson,” he 
 said, with emphasis, looking at the man who 
 cleaned and took care of my weapons. 
 
 I sent the man out of the room. The stranger 
 (an Englishman, and, as I fancied, judging by 
 outward appearances, a military man as well) 
 took from his pocket-book a fifty-pound bank- 
 note, and held it up before me. “I have a heavy 
 wager depending on a fencing match,” he said, 
 “and 1 have no time to improve myself. Teach 
 me a trick which will make me a match for a 
 man skilled in the use of the foil, and keep the 
 secret — and there are fifty pounds for you.” 
 
 I hesitated. I did. indeed hesitate, poor as I 
 was. But this devil of a man held his bank- 
 note before me whichever way I looked, and I 
 had only two pounds left in the world ! 
 
 “Are you going to fight a duel?” I asked. 
 
 “I have already told you what I am going to 
 do,” he answered. 
 
 I waited a little. The infernal bank-note still 
 tempted me. In spite of myself, I tried him 
 again. 
 
 “If I teach you the trick,” 1 persisted, “will 
 you undertake to make no bad use of your 
 lesson?” 
 
568 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS, 
 
 “Yes/ 9 he said, impatiently enough. 
 
 I was not quite satisfied yet. 
 
 “Will you promise it, on your word of honor?” 
 1 asked. 
 
 “Of course I will,” he answered. “Take the 
 money, and don’t keep me waiting any longer.” 
 
 I took the money, and I taught him the trick — 
 and I regretted it almost as soon as it was done. 
 Not that I knew, mind, of any serious conse- 
 quences that followed; for I returned to London 
 the next morning. My sentiments were those of 
 a man of honor, who felt that he had degraded 
 his art, and who could not be quite sure that 
 he might not have armed the hand of an assassin 
 as well. I have no more to say. 
 
 No. 3 . — Thomas Outwater , servant to Cap- 
 tain Stanwick, testifies and says : — 
 
 If I did not firmly believe my master to be 
 out of his senses, no punishment that I could re- 
 ceive would prevail upon me to tell of him what 
 I am going to tell now. 
 
 But I say he is mad, and therefore not ac- 
 countable for what he has done — mad for love of 
 a young woman. If I could have my way, I 
 should like to twist her neck, though she is a 
 lady, and a great heiress into the bargain. Be- 
 fore she came between them, my master and Mr. 
 Varleigh weie more like brothers than anything 
 else. She set them at variance, and whether she 
 
MISS BERTHA AND THE YANKEE. 
 
 569 
 
 meant to do it or not is all the same to me. I 
 own I took a dislike to her when I first saw her. 
 She was one of the light-haired, blae-eyed sort, 
 with an innocent look and a snaky waist— 
 not at all to be depended on, as I have found 
 them. 
 
 I hear I am not expected to give an account of 
 the disagreement between the two gentlemen, of 
 which this lady was the cause. I am to state 
 what I did in Maplesworth, and what I saw af- 
 terward in Herne Wood. Poor as I am, I would 
 give a five-pound note to anybody who could do 
 it for me. Unfortunately, I must do it for 
 myself. 
 
 On the 10th of J uly, in the evening, my mas- 
 ter went, for the second time that day, to Mr. 
 Yarleigh’s lodgings. 
 
 I am certain of the date, because it was the 
 day of publication of the town newspaper, and 
 there was a law report in it which set everybody 
 talking. There had been a duel with pistols, a 
 day or two before, between a resident in the 
 town and a visitor, caused by some dispute 
 about horses, Nothing very serious came of 
 the meeting. One of the men only was hurt, 
 and the wound proved to be of no great im- 
 portance. The awkward part of the matter was 
 that the constables appeared on the ground, be- 
 fore the wounded man had been removed. He 
 and his two seconds were caught, and the pris- 
 oners were committed for trial. Dueling (the 
 magistrates said) was an inhuman and unchris- 
 tian practice, and they were determined to put 
 
570 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 the law in force and stop it. This sentence 
 made a great stir in the town, and fixed the 
 date, as T have just said, in my mind. 
 
 Having been accidentally within hearing of 
 some of the disputes concerning Miss Laroche 
 between my master and Mr. Varleigh, I had my 
 misgivings about the Captain’s second visit to 
 the friend with whom he had quarreled already. 
 A gentleman called on him, soon after he had 
 gone out, on important business. This gave me 
 an excuse for following him to Mr. Yarleigh’s 
 rooms with the visitor’s card, and I took the 
 opportunity. 
 
 I heard them at high words on my way up^ 
 stairs, and waited a little on the landing. The 
 Captain was in one of his furious rages; Mr. 
 Varleigh was firm and cool as usual. After list- 
 ening for a minute, or so, I heard enough (in 
 my opinion) to justify me in entering the room. 
 I caught my master in the act of lifting his cane 
 — threatening to strike Mr. Varleigh. He in- 
 stantly dropped his hand, and turned on me in a 
 fury at my intrusion. Taking no notice of this 
 outbreak of temper, 1 gave him his friend’s card, 
 and went out. A talk followed in voices too 
 low for me to hear outside the room, and then 
 the Captain approached the door. I got out of 
 his way, feeling very uneasy about what was to 
 come next. I could not presume to question Mr. 
 Varleigh. The only thing I could think of was 
 to tell the young lady’s aunt what I had seen 
 and heard, and to plead with Miss Laroche her- 
 self to make peace between them. When I in- 
 
MISS BERTHA AND THE YANKEE. 
 
 571 
 
 quired for the ladies at their lodgings, I was told 
 that they had left Maplesworth. 
 
 I saw no more of the Captain that night 
 The next morning he seemed to be quite him- 
 self again. He said to me, “ Thomas, I am going 
 sketching in Herne Wood. Take the paint-box 
 and the rest of it, and put this into the carriage.” 
 He handed me a packet as thick as my arm, 
 and about three feet long, done up in many folds 
 of canvas. I made bold to ask what it was. He 
 answered that it was an artist’s sketching um- 
 brella, packed for traveling. 
 
 In an hour’s time, the carriage stopped on the 
 road below Herne Wood. My master said he 
 would carry his sketching things himself, and I 
 was to wait with the carriage. In giving him 
 the so-called umbrella, I took the occasion of his 
 eye being off me for the moment to pass my hand 
 over it carefully; and I felt, through the canvas, 
 the hilt of a sword. As an old soldier, I could 
 not be mistaken — the hilt of a sword. 
 
 What I thought, on making this discovery, 
 does not much matter. What I did was to watch 
 the* Captain into the wood, and then to follow 
 him. 
 
 I tracked him along the path to where there 
 was a clearing in the midst of the trees. There 
 he stopped, and I got behind a tree. He undid 
 the canvas, and produced two swords concealed 
 in the packet. If I had felt any doubts before, I 
 was certain of what was coming now. A duel 
 without seconds or witnesses, by way of keeping 
 the town magistrates in the dark— a duel be- 
 
572 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLUNfc. 
 
 tween my master and Mr. Yarleigh! As his 
 name came into my mind, the man himself ap- 
 peared, making his way into the clearing from 
 the other side of the wood. 
 
 What could I do to stop it? No human crea- 
 ture was in sight. The nearest village was a 
 mile away, reckoning from the further side of 
 the wood. The coachman was a stupid old man, 
 quite useless in a difficulty, even if I had had 
 time enough to go back to the road and summon 
 him to help me. While I was thinking about 
 it, the Captain and Mr. Yarleigh had stripped to 
 their shirts and trousers. When they crossed 
 their swords, I could stand it no longer — I burst 
 in on them. “For God Almighty’s sake, gen- 
 tlemen,” I cried out, “don’t fight without sec- 
 onds!” My master turned on me, like the mad- 
 man he was, and threatened me with the point 
 of his sword. Mr. V"arleigh pulled me back out 
 of harm’s way. “Don’t be afraid,” he whis- 
 pered, as he led me back to the verge of the 
 clearing; “I have chosen the sword instead of 
 the pistol expressly to spare his life.” 
 
 Those noble words (spoken by as brave 'and 
 true a man as ever breathed) quieted me. I 
 knew Mr. Yarleigh had earned the repute of be- 
 ing one of the finest swordsmen in Europe. 
 
 The duel began. I was placed behind my 
 master, and was consequently opposite to his 
 antagonist. The Captain stood on his defense, 
 waiting for the other to attack. Mr. Yarleigh 
 made a pass. I was opposite the point of his 
 sword; I saw it touch the Captain’s left shoul- 
 
MISS BERTHA AND THE YANKEE, 573 
 
 der. In the same instant of time my master 
 struck up his opponent’s sword with his own 
 weapon, seized Mr. Varleigh’s right wrist in 
 his left hand, and passed his sword clean through 
 Mr. Yarleigh’s breast. He fell, the victim of a 
 murderous trick — fell without a word or a cry. 
 
 The Captain turned slowly, and faced me with 
 his bloody sword in his hand. I can’t tell you 
 how he looked; I can only say that the sight of 
 him turned me faint with terror. I was at Wat- 
 erloo — I am no coward. But I tell you the cold 
 sweat poured down my face like water. I should 
 have dropped if I had not hel(J by the branch of 
 a tree. 
 
 My master waited until I had in a measure 
 recovered myself. “Feel if his heart beats,” he 
 said, pointing to the man on the ground. 
 
 I obeyed. He was dead — the heart was still; 
 the beat of the pulse was gone. I said, “You 
 have killed him !” 
 
 The Captain made no answer. He packed up 
 the two swords again in the canvas, and put 
 them under his arm. Then he told me to follow 
 him with the sketching materials. I drew back 
 from him without speaking; there was a horrid 
 hollow sound in his voice that I did not like. 
 “Do as I tell you,” he said: “you have yourself 
 to thank for it if I refuse to lose sight of you 
 now,” I managed to say that he might trust me 
 to say nothing. He refused to trust me; he put 
 out his hand to take hold of me. I could not 
 stand that. “I’ll go with you,” I said; “don’t 
 touch me I” We reached the carriage and re- 
 
574 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 turned to Mapleswcrth. The same day we trav- 
 eled by post to London. 
 
 In London I contrived to give the Captain the 
 slip. By the first coach the next morning I went 
 back to Maplesworth, eager to hear what had 
 happened, and if the body had been found. Not 
 a word of news reached me; nothing seemed to 
 be known of the duel in Herne Wood. 
 
 I went to the wood — on foot, fearing that I 
 might be traced if I hired a carriage. The coun- 
 try round was as solitary as usual. Not a crea- 
 ture was near when I entered the wood; not 
 a creature was near when I looked into the 
 clearing. 
 
 There was nothing on the ground. The body 
 was gone. 
 
 No. 4. — The Reverend Alfred Loving , Rector 
 of Nettlegrove , testifies and says : — 
 
 I. 
 
 Early in the month of October, 1817, I was 
 informed that Miss Bertha Laroche had called 
 at my house, and wished to see me in private. 
 
 I had first been presented to Miss Laroche on 
 her arrival, with her aunt, to take possession of 
 her property at Nettlegrove Hall. My opportu- 
 nities of improving my acquaintance with her 
 had not been so numerous as I could have de- 
 sired, and I sincerely regretted it. She had pro- 
 
MISS BERTHA AND THE YANKEE. 
 
 575 
 
 duced a very favorable impression on me. Sin- 
 gularly inexperienced and impulsive — with an 
 odd mixture of shyness and vivacity in her man- 
 ner, and subject now and then to outbursts of 
 vanity and petulance which she was divertingly 
 incapable of concealing — I could detect, never- 
 theless, under the surface the signs which told 
 of a true and generous nature, of a simple and 
 pure heart. Her personal appearance, I should 
 add, was attractive in a remarkable degree. 
 There was something in it so peculiar, and at 
 the same time so fascinating, that I am con- 
 scious it may have prejudiced me in her favor. 
 For fear of this acknowledgment being misun- 
 derstood, I think it right to add that I am old 
 enough to be her grandfather, and that I am 
 also a married man. 
 
 I told the servant to show Miss Laroche into 
 my study. 
 
 The moment she entered the room, her appear- 
 ance alarmed me: she looked literally panic- 
 stricken. I offered to send for my wife; she 
 refused the proposal. I entreated her to take 
 time at least to compose herself. It was not in 
 her impulsive nature to do this. She said, “Give 
 me your hand to encourage me, and let me speak 
 while I can.” I gave her my hand, poor soul. 
 I said, “Speak to me, my dear, as if I were your 
 father.” 
 
 So far as I could understand the incoherent 
 statement which she addressed to me, she had 
 been the object of admiration (while visiting 
 Maples worth) of two gentlemen, who both de- 
 
576 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 sired to marry her. Hesitating between them, 
 and perfectly inexperienced in such matters, she 
 had been the unfortunate cause of enmity be- 
 tween the rivals, and had returned to Nettle- 
 grove, at her aunt’s suggestion, as the best 
 means of extricating herself from a very embar- 
 rassing position. The removal failing to allevi- 
 ate her distressing recollections of what had hap- 
 pened, she *and her aunt had tried a further 
 change by making a tour of two months on the 
 Continent. She had returned in a more quiet 
 frame of mind. To her great surprise, she had 
 heard nothing of either of her two suitors, from 
 the day when she left Maplesworth to the day 
 when she presented herself at my rectory. 
 
 Early that morning she was walking, after 
 breakfast, in the park at Nettlegrove when she 
 heard footsteps behind her. She turned, and 
 found herself face to face with one of her suitors 
 at Maplesworth. I am informed that there is 
 no necessity now for my suppressing the name. 
 The gentleman was Captain Stan wick. 
 
 He was so fearfully changed for the worse 
 that she hardly knew him again. 
 
 After his first glance at her, he held his hand 
 over his bloodshot eyes as if the sunlight hurs 
 them. Without a word to prepare her for the 
 disclosure, he confessed that he had killed Mr. 
 Varleigh in a duel. His remorse (he declared) 
 had unsettled his reason : only a few days had 
 passed since he had been released from confine- 
 ment in an asylum. 
 
 “You are the cause of it,” he said wildly. “It 
 
MISS BERTHA AND THE YANKEE. 
 
 577 
 
 is for love of you. I have but one hope left to 
 li ve for — my hope in you. If you cast me off, 
 my mind is made up. I will give my life for 
 the life that I have taken; 1 will die by my own 
 hand. Look at me, and you will see that I am 
 in earnest. My future as a living man depends 
 on your decision. Think of it to-day, and meet 
 me here to-morrow. Not at this time; the horrid 
 daylight feels like fire in my eyes, and goes like 
 fire to my brain. Wait till sunset — you will 
 find me here.” 
 
 He left her as suddenly as he had appeared. 
 When she had sufficiently recovered herself to 
 be able to think, she decided on saying nothing 
 of what had happened to her aunt. She took her 
 way to the rectory to seek my advice 
 
 It is needless to encumber my narrative by any 
 statement of the questions which I felt it my duty 
 to put to her under these circumstances. 
 
 My inquiries informed me that Captain Stan- 
 wick had in the first instance produced a favor- 
 able impression on her. The less showy quali- 
 ties of Mr. Varleigh had afterward grown on 
 her liking; aided greatly by the repelling effect 
 on her mind of (he Captain’s violent language 
 and conduct when he had reason to suspect that 
 his rival was being preferred to him. When she 
 knew the horrible news of Mr. Varleigh’s death, 
 she “knew her own heart” (to repeat her exact 
 words to me) by the shock that she felt. Toward 
 Captain Stanwick the only feeling of which she 
 was now conscious was, naturally, a feeling of 
 the strongest aversion. 
 
 S— Vol. 16 
 
578 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 My own course in this difficult and painful 
 matter appeared to me to be clear. 
 
 “It is your duty as a Christian to see this mis- 
 erable man again,” I said. “And it is my duty, 
 as your friend and pastor, to sustain you under 
 the trial. I will go with you to-morrow to the 
 place of meeting. 
 
 II. 
 
 The next evening we found Captain Stan wick 
 waiting for us in the park. 
 
 He drew back on seeing me. I explained to 
 him, temperately and firmly, what my position 
 was. With sullen looks he resigned himself to 
 endure my presence. By degrees 1 won his com 
 fidence. My first impression of him remains un- 
 shaken — the man’s reason was unsettled. I 
 suspected that the assertion of his release was 
 a falsehood, and that he had really escaped from 
 the asylum. It was impossible to lure him into 
 telling me where the place was. He was too 
 cunning to do this — too cunning to say anything 
 about his relations, when I tried to turn the talk 
 that way next. On the other hand, he spoke 
 with a revolting readiness of the crime that he 
 had committed, and of his settled resolution to 
 destroy himself if Miss Laroche refused to be his 
 wife. “I have nothing else to live for; I am 
 alone in the world,” he said. “Even my servant 
 has deserted me. He knows how 1 killed Lionel 
 
MISS BERTHA AND THE YANKEE. 
 
 579 
 
 Varleigh.” He paused and spoke his next words 
 in a whisper to me. “I killed him by a trick — 
 he was the best swordsman of the two.” 
 
 This confession was so horrible that I could 
 only attribute it to an insane delusion. On press- 
 ing my inquiries, I found that the same idea 
 must have occurred to the poor wretch’s rela- 
 tions, and to the doctors who signed the certifi- 
 cates for placing him under medical care. This 
 conclusion (as I afterward heard) was greatly 
 strengthened by the fact that Mr. Yarleigh’s 
 body had not been found on the reported scene 
 of the duel. As to the servant, he had deserted 
 his master in London, and had never reappeared. 
 So far as my poor judgment went, the question 
 before me was not of delivering a self-accused 
 murderer to justice (with no corpse to testify 
 against him), but of restoring an insane man 
 to the care of the persons who had been appointed 
 to restrain him. 
 
 I tried to test the strength of his delusion in 
 an interval when he was not urging his shocking 
 entreaties on Miss Laroche. 
 
 “How do you know that you killed Mr. Var- 
 leigh?” I said. 
 
 He looked at me with a wild terror in his 
 eyes. Suddenly he lifted his right hand, and 
 shook it in the air, with a moaning cry, which 
 was unmistakably a cry of pain. “Should 1 
 see his ghost,” he asked, “if I had not killed 
 him? I know it, by the pain that wrings me 
 in the hand that stabbed him. Always in my 
 right hand ! always the same pain at the moment 
 
580 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 when I see him!” He stopped and ground his 
 teeth in the agony and reality of his delusion. 
 “Look!” he cried. “Look between the two trees 
 behind you. There he is— with his dark hair, 
 and his shaven face, and his steady look ! There 
 he is, standing before me as he stood in the wood, 
 with his eyes on my eyes, and his sword feeling 
 mine!” He turned to Miss Laroche. “Do you 
 see him too?” he asked eagerly. “Tell me the 
 truth. My whole life depends on your telling 
 me the truth.” 
 
 She controlled herself with a wonderful cour- 
 age. “1 don’t see him,” she answered. 
 
 He took out his handkerchief, and passed it 
 over his face with a gasp of relief. “There is 
 my last chance!” he said. “If she will be true 
 to me — if she will be always near me, morning, 
 noon, and night, I shall be released from the 
 sight of him. See ! he is fading away already! 
 Gone!” he cried, with a scream of exultation. 
 He fell on his knees, and looked at Miss Laroche 
 like a savage adoring his idol. “Will you cast 
 me off now?” he asked, humbly. “Lionel was 
 fond of you in his lifetime. His spirit is a mer- 
 ciful spirit. He shrinks from frightening you; 
 he has left me for your sake ; he will release me 
 for yonr sake. Pity me, take me to live with 
 you — and I shall never see him again!” 
 
 It was dreadful to hear him. I saw that the 
 poor girl could endure no more. “Leave us,” 
 I whispered to her; “I will join you at the 
 house.” 
 
 He heard me, and instantly placed himself 
 
MISS BERTHA AND THE YANKEE. 581 
 
 between us, s ‘Let her promise, or she shan’t 
 go.” 
 
 She felt, as I felt, the imperative necessity of 
 saying anything that might soothe him. At a 
 sign from me she gave him her promise to return. 
 
 He was satisfied — he insisted on kissing her 
 hand, and then he let her go. I had by this time 
 succeeded in inducing him to trust me. He pro- 
 posed, of his own accord, that I should accom- 
 pany him to the inn in the village at which 
 he had been staying. The landlord (naturally 
 enough distrusting his wretched guest) had 
 warned him that morning to find some other 
 place of shelter. I engaged to use my influence 
 with the man to make him change his purpose, 
 and I succeeded in effecting the necessary ar- 
 rangements for having the poor wretch properly 
 looked after. On my return to my own house, 
 I wrote to a brother magistrate living near me, 
 and to the superintendent of our county asylum, 
 requesting them to consult with me on the best 
 means of lawfully restraining Captain Stanwick 
 until we could communicate with his relations. 
 Could I have done more than this? The event 
 of the next morning answered that question — 
 answered it at once and forever. 
 
 III. 
 
 Presenting myself at Nettlegrove Hall toward 
 sunset, to take charge of Miss Laroche, I was met 
 
582 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 by an obstacle in the shape of a protest from her 
 aunt. 
 
 This good lady had been informed of the ap- 
 pearance of Captain Sfcanwick in the park, and 
 she strongly disapproved of encouraging any 
 further communication with him on the part 
 of her niece. She also considered that I had 
 failed in my duty in still leaving the Captain 
 at liberty. I told her that I was only waiting 
 to act on the advice of competent persons, who 
 would arrive the next day to consult with me; 
 and I did my best to persuade her of the wisdom 
 of the course that I had taken in the meantime. 
 Miss Laroche, on her side, was resolved to be 
 true to the promise that she had given. Be- 
 tween us, we induced her aunt to yield on certain 
 conditions. 
 
 4 ‘I know the part of the park in which the 
 meeting is to take place,” the old lady said; 4 4 it is 
 my niece’s favorite walk. If she is not brought 
 back to me in half an hour’s time, I shall send 
 the men-servants to protect her.” 
 
 The twilight was falling when we reached the 
 appointed place. We found Captain Stan wick 
 angry and suspicious; it was not easy to pacify 
 him on the subject of our delay. His insanity 
 seemed to me to be now more marked than ever. 
 He had seen, or dreamed of seeing, the ghost dur- 
 ing the past night. For the first time (he said) the 
 apparition of the dead man had spoken to him. 
 In solemn words it had condemned him to ex- 
 piate his crime by giving his life for the life that 
 he had taken. It had warned him not to insist on 
 
MISS BEBTHA AND THE YANKEE. 583 
 
 marriage with Bertha Laroche: “She shall share 
 your punishment if she shares your life. And 
 you shall know it by this sign — She shall see 
 me as you see me.” 
 
 I tried to compose him. He shook his head 
 in immovable despair. “No,” he answered; “if 
 she sees him when I see him, there ends the one 
 hope of release that holds me to life. It will be 
 good-by between us, and good-by forever!” 
 
 We had walked on, while we were speaking, 
 to a part of the park through which there flowed 
 a rivulet of clear water. On the further bank 
 the open ground led down into a wooded valley. 
 On our side of the stream rose a thick plantation 
 of fir-trees, intersected by a winding path. Cap- 
 tain Stanwick stopped as we reached the place. 
 His eyes rested, in the darkening twilight, on 
 the narrow space pierced by the path among the 
 trees. On a sudden he lifted his right hand, with 
 the same cry of pain which we had heard before; 
 with his left hand he took Miss Laroche by the 
 arm. “There!” he said. “Look where I look! 
 Do you see him there?” 
 
 As the words passed his lips, a dimly- visible 
 figure appeared, advancing toward us along the 
 path. 
 
 Was it the figure of a living man? or was it 
 the creation of my own excited fancy? . Before 
 I could ask myself the question, the man ad- 
 vanced a step nearer to us. A last gleam of the 
 dying light fell on his face through an opening 
 in the trees. At the same instant Miss Laroche 
 started back from Captain Stanwick with a 
 
584 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 scream of terror. She would have fallen if I 
 had not been near enough to support her. The 
 Captain was instantly at her side again. “Speak! 53 
 he cried. “Do you see it, too? 55 
 
 She was just able to say “Yes” before she 
 fainted in my arms. 
 
 He stooped over her, and touched her cold 
 cheek with his lips. “Good-by! 55 he said, in 
 tones suddenly and strangely changed to the 
 most exquisite tenderness. “Good-by, forever! 55 
 
 He leaped the rivulet; he crossed the open 
 ground; he was lost to sight in the valley be- 
 yond. 
 
 As he disappeared, the visionary man among 
 the fir-trees advanced; passed in silence; crossed 
 the rivulet at a bound ; and vanished as the figure 
 of the Captain had vanished before him. 
 
 I was left alone with the swooning woman. 
 Not a sound, far or near, broke the stillness of 
 the coming night. 
 
 No. 5. — Mr. Frederic Darnel , Member of the 
 College of Surgeons , testifies and says : — 
 
 In the intervals of my professional duty I am 
 •accustomed to occupy myself in studying Botany, 
 assisted by a friend and neighbor, whose tastes 
 in this respect resemble my own. When I can 
 spare an hour or two from my patients, we go 
 cut together searching for specimens. Our fa- 
 vorite place is Herne Wood. It is rich in mate- 
 rial for the botanist, and it is only a mile distant 
 from the village in which I live. 
 
MISS BERTHA AND THE YANKEE, 585 
 
 Early in July, my friend and I made a dis- 
 covery in the wood of a very alarming and un- 
 expected kind. We found a man in the clearing, 
 prostrated by a dangerous wound, and to all ap- 
 pearance dead. 
 
 We carried him to the gamekeeper’s cottage 
 on the outskirts of the wood, and on the side of 
 it nearest to our village. He and his boy were 
 out, but the light cart in which he makes his 
 rounds, in the remoter part of his master’s prop- 
 erty, was in the outhouse. While my friend was 
 putting the horse to, I examined the stranger’s 
 wound. It had been quite recently inflicted, and 
 I doubted whether it had (as yet, at any rate) 
 really killed him. I did what I could with the 
 linen and cold water which the gamekeeper’s 
 wife offered to me, and then my friend and I re- 
 moved him carefully to my house in the cart. I 
 applied the necessary restoratives, and I had the 
 pleasure of satisfying myself that the vital pow- 
 ers had revived. He was perfectly unconscious, 
 of course, but the action of the heart became dis- 
 tinctly perceptible, and I had hopes. 
 
 In a few days more I felt fairly sure of him. 
 Then the usual fever set in. I was obliged, in 
 justice to his friends, to search his clothes in 
 presence of a witness. We found his handker- 
 chief, his purse, and his cigar-case, and nothing 
 more. Ho letters or visiting cards; nothing 
 marked on his clothes but initials. There was 
 no help for it but to wait to identify him until 
 he could speak. 
 
 When that time came, he acknowledged to me 
 
586 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 that he had divested himself purposely of any 
 clew to his identity, in the fear (if some mis- 
 chance happened to him) of the news of it reach- 
 ing his father and mother abruptly, by means of 
 the newspapers. He had sent a letter to his 
 bankers in London, to be forwarded to his pa- 
 rents, if the bankers neither saw him nor heard 
 from him in a month’s time. His first act was 
 to withdraw this letter. The other particulars 
 which he communicated to me are, I am told, 
 already known. I need only add that I will- 
 ingly kept his secret, simply speaking of him in 
 the neighborhood as a traveler from foreign parts 
 who had met with an accident. 
 
 His convalescence was a long one. It was the 
 beginning of October before he was completely 
 restored to health. When he left us he went to 
 London. He behaved most liberally to me; and 
 we parted with sincere good wishes on either 
 side. 
 
 No. 6. — Mr. Lionel Varleigh, of Boston 
 U.S.A., testifies and says : — 
 
 My first proceeding, on my recovery, was to 
 go to the relations of Captain Stan wick in Lon» 
 don, for the purpose of making inquiries about 
 him. 
 
 I do not wish to justify myself at the expense 
 of that miserable man. It is true that I loved 
 Miss Laroche too dearly to yield her to any rival 
 except at her own wish. It is also true that 
 Captain Stanwick more than once insulted me, 
 
MISS BERTHA AND THE YANKEE, 587 
 
 and that I endured it. He had suffered from 
 sunstroke in India, and in his angry moments 
 he was hardly a responsible being. It was only 
 when he threatened me with personal chastise 
 ment that my patience gave way. We met 
 sword in hand. In my mind was the resolu- 
 tion to spare his life. In his mind was the reso- 
 lution to kill me. I have forgiven him. I will 
 say no more. 
 
 His relations informed me of the symptoms of 
 insane delusion which he had shown after the 
 duel; of his escape from the asylum in which he 
 had been confined ; and of the failure to find him 
 again. 
 
 The moment I heard this news the dread 
 crossed my mind that Stanwick had found his 
 way to Miss Laroche. In an hour more I was 
 traveling to Uettlegrove Hall. 
 
 I arrived late in the evening, and found Miss 
 Laroche’s aunt in great alarm about her niece’s 
 safety. The young lady was at that very mo- 
 ment speaking to Stanwick in the park, with 
 only an old man (the rector) to protect her. I 
 volunteered to go at once, and assist in taking 
 care of her. A servant accompanied me to show 
 me the place of meeting. We heard voices in- 
 distinctly, but saw no one. The servant pointed 
 to a path through the fir-trees. I went on quick- 
 ly by myself, leaving the man within call. In 
 a few minutes I came upon them suddenly, at a 
 little distance from me, on the bank of a stream. 
 
 The fear of seriously alarming Miss Laroche, 
 if I showed myself too suddenly, deprived me 
 
588 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 for a moment of my presence of mind. Pausing 
 to consider what it might be best to do, I was 
 less completely protected from discovery by the 
 trees than I had supposed. She had seen me; I 
 heard her cry of alarm. The instant afterward 
 I saw Stanwick leap over the rivulet and take to 
 flight. That action roused me. Without stop- 
 ping for a word of explanation, I pursued 
 him. 
 
 Unhappily, I missed my footing in the obscure 
 light, and fell on the open ground beyond the 
 stream. When I had gained my feet once more, 
 Stanwick had disappeared among the trees which 
 marked the boundary of the park beyond me. I 
 could see nothing of him, and I could hear noth- 
 ing of him, when I came out on the high-road. 
 There I met with a laboring man who showed 
 me the way to the village. From the inn I sent 
 a letter to Miss Laroche’s aunt, explaining what 
 had happened, and asking leave to call at the 
 Hall on the next day. 
 
 Early in the morning the rector came to me 
 at the inn. He brought sad news. Miss La- 
 roche was suffering from a nervous attack, and 
 my visit to the Hall must be deferred. Speaking 
 next of the missing man, I heard all that Mr. 
 Loring could tell me. My intimate knowledge 
 of Stanwick enabled me to draw my own con- 
 clusion from the facts. The thought instantly 
 crossed my mind that the poor wretch might 
 have committed his expiatory suicide at the 
 very spot on which he had attempted to kill me. 
 Leaving the rector to institute the necessary 
 
MISS BERTHA AND THE YANKEE. 
 
 589 
 
 inquiries, I took post-horses to Maplesworth on 
 my way to Herne Wood. 
 
 Advancing from the high-road to the wood, I 
 saw two persons at a little distance from me — a 
 man in the dress of a gamekeeper, and a lad. I 
 was too much agitated to take any special notice 
 of them; I hurried along the path which led to 
 the clearing. My presentiment had not misled 
 me. There he lay, dead on the scene of the duel, 
 with a blood-stained razor by his side! I fell on 
 my knees by the corpse; I took his cold hand in 
 mine; and I thanked God that I had forgiven 
 him in the first days of my recovery. 
 
 I was still kneeling, when I felt myself seized 
 from behind. I struggled to my feet, and con- 
 fronted the gamekeeper. He had noticed my 
 hurry in entering the wood; his suspicions had 
 been aroused, and he and the lad had followed 
 me. There was blood on my clothes, there was 
 horror in my face. Appearances were plainly 
 against me ; I had no choice but to accompany 
 the gamekeeper to the nearest magistrate. 
 
 My instructions to my solicitor forbade him to 
 vindicate my innocence by taking any technical 
 legal objections to the action of the magistrate 
 or of the coroner. I insisted on my witnesses 
 being summoned to the lawyer’s office, and al- 
 lowed to state, in their own way, what they 
 could truly declare on my behalf ; and I left my 
 defense to be founded upon the materials thus 
 obtained. In the meanwhile I was detained in 
 custody, as a matter of course. 
 
 With this event the tragedy of the duel reached 
 
590 
 
 WORKS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 its culminating point. I was accused of murder- 
 ing the man who had attempted to take my life! 
 
 This last incident having been related, all that 
 is worth noticing in my contribution to the pres- 
 ent narrative comes to an end. I was tried in 
 due course of law. The evidence taken at my 
 solicitor’s office was necessarily altered in form, 
 though not in substance, by the examination to 
 which the witnesses were subjected in a court of 
 justice. So thoroughly did our defense satisfy 
 the jury, that they became restless toward the 
 close of the proceedings, and returned their ver- 
 dict of Not Guilty without quitting the box. 
 
 When I was a free man again, it is surely 
 needless to dwell on the first use that I made of 
 my honorable acquittal. Whether I deserved 
 the enviable place that I occupied in Bertha’s 
 estimation, it is not for me to say. Let me 
 leave the decision to the lady who has ceased 
 to be Miss Laroche — I mean the lady who has 
 been good enough to become my wife. 
 
 END OF VOLUME SIXTEEN. 
 
.