Complete Works of Wilkie Collins (1221 page)

“Is Zo in the house?” he inquired.

“Nobody’s in the house, sir. It’s to be let, if you please, as soon as the furniture can be moved.”

“Do you know where Zo is? I mean, Mr. Gallilee’s youngest child.”

“I’m sorry to say, sir, I’m not acquainted with the family.”

He waited at the door, apparently hesitating what to do next. “I’ll go upstairs,” he said suddenly; “I want to look at the house. You needn’t go with me; I know my way.”

“Thank you kindly, sir!”

He went straight to the schoolroom.

The repellent melancholy of an uninhabited place had fallen on it already. The plain furniture was not worth taking care of: it was battered and old, and left to dust and neglect. There were two common deal writing desks, formerly used by the two girls. One of them was covered with splashes of ink: varied here and there by barbarous caricatures of faces, in which dots and strokes represented eyes, noses, and mouths. He knew whose desk this was, and opened the cover of it. In the recess beneath were soiled tables of figures, torn maps, and dogs-eared writing books. The ragged paper cover of one of these last, bore on its inner side a grotesquely imperfect inscription: —
my cop book zo.
He tore off the cover, and put it in the breast pocket of his coat.

“I should have liked to tickle her once more,” he thought, as he went down stairs again. The polite old woman opened the door, curtsying deferentially. He gave her half a crown. “God bless you, sir!” she burst out, in a gush of gratitude.

He checked himself, on the point of stepping into the street, and looked at her with some curiosity. “Do you believe in God?” he asked.

The old woman was even capable of making a confession of faith politely. “Yes, sir,” she said, “if you have no objection.”

He stepped into the street. “I wonder whether she is right?” he thought. “It doesn’t matter; I shall soon know.”

The servants were honestly glad to see him, when he got home. They had taken it in turn to sit up through the night; knowing his regular habits, and feeling the dread that some accident had happened. Never before had they seen him so fatigued. He dropped helplessly into his chair; his gigantic body shook with shivering fits. The footman begged him to take some refreshment. “Brandy, and raw eggs,” he said. These being brought to him, he told them to wait until he rang — and locked the door when they went out.

After waiting until the short winter daylight was at an end, the footman ventured to knock, and ask if the master wanted lights. He replied that he had lit the candles for himself. No smell of tobacco smoke came from the room; and he had let the day pass without going to the labouratory. These were portentous signs. The footman said to his fellow servants, “There’s something wrong.” The women looked at each other in vague terror. One of them said, “Hadn’t we better give notice to leave?” And the other whispered a question: “Do you think he’s committed a crime?”

Towards ten o’clock, the bell rang at last. Immediately afterwards they heard him calling to them from the hall. “I want you, all three, up here.”

They went up together — the two women anticipating a sight of horror, and keeping close to the footman.

The master was walking quietly backwards and forwards in the room: the table had pen and ink on it, and was covered with writings. He spoke to them in his customary tones; there was not the slightest appearance of agitation in his manner.

“I mean to leave this house, and go away,” he began. “You are dismissed from my service, for that reason only. Take your written characters from the table; read them, and say if there is anything to complain of.” There was nothing to complain of. On another part of the table there were three little heaps of money. “A month’s wages for each of you,” he explained, “in place of a month’s warning. I wish you good luck.” One of the women (the one who had suggested giving notice to leave) began to cry. He took no notice of this demonstration, and went on. “I want two of you to do me a favour before we part. You will please witness the signature of my Will.” The sensitive servant drew back directly. “No!” she said, “I couldn’t do it. I never heard the Death-Watch before in winter time — I heard it all last night.”

The other two witnessed the signature. They observed that the Will was a very short one. It was impossible not to notice the only legacy left; the words crossed the paper, just above the signatures, and only occupied two lines: “I leave to Zoe, youngest daughter of Mr. John Gallilee, of Fairfield Gardens, London, everything absolutely of which I die possessed.” Excepting the formal introductory phrases, and the statement relating to the witnesses — both copied from a handy book of law, lying open on the table — this was the Will.

The female servants were allowed to go downstairs; after having been informed that they were to leave the next morning. The footman was detained in the dining-room.

“I am going to the labouratory,” the master said; “and I want a few things carried to the door.”

The big basket for waste paper, three times filled with letters and manuscripts; the books; the medicine chest; and the stone jar of oil from the kitchen — these, the master and the man removed together; setting them down at the labouratory door. It was a still cold starlight winter’s night. The intermittent shriek of a railway whistle in the distance, was the only sound that disturbed the quiet of the time.

“Good night!” said the master.

The man returned the salute, and walked back to the house, closing the front door. He was now more firmly persuaded than ever that something was wrong. In the hall, the women were waiting for him. “What does it mean?” they asked. “Keep quiet,” he said; “I’m going to see.”

In another minute he was posted at the back of the house, behind the edge of the wall. Looking out from this place, he could see the light of the lamps in the labouratory streaming through the open door, and the dark figure of the master coming and going, as he removed the objects left outside into the building. Then the door was shut, and nothing was visible but the dim glow that found its way to the skylight, through the white blind inside.

He boldly crossed the open space of ground, resolved to try what his ears might discover, now that his eyes were useless. He posted himself at the back of the labouratory, close to one of the side walls.

Now and then, he heard — what had reached his ears when he had been listening on former occasions — the faint whining cries of animals. These were followed by new sounds. Three smothered shrieks, succeeding each other at irregular intervals, made his blood run cold. Had three death-strokes been dealt on some suffering creatures, with the same sudden and terrible certainty? Silence, horrible silence, was all that answered. In the distant railway there was an interval of peace.

The door was opened again; the flood of light streamed out on the darkness. Suddenly the yellow glow was spotted by the black figures of small swiftly-running creatures — perhaps cats, perhaps rabbits — escaping from the labouratory. The tall form of the master followed slowly, and stood revealed watching the flight of the animals. In a moment more, the last of the liberated creatures came out — a large dog, limping as if one of its legs was injured. It stopped as it passed the master, and tried to fawn on him. He threatened it with his hand. “Be off with you, like the rest!” he said. The dog slowly crossed the flow of light, and was swallowed up in darkness.

The last of them that could move was gone. The death shrieks of the others had told their fate.

But still, there stood the master alone — a grand black figure, with its head turned up to the stars. The minutes followed one another: the servant waited, and watched him. The solitary man had a habit, well known to those about him, of speaking to himself; not a word escaped him now; his upturned head never moved; the bright wintry heaven held him spellbound.

At last, the change came. Once more the silence was broken by the scream of the railway whistle.

He started like a person suddenly roused from deep sleep, and went back into the labouratory. The last sound then followed — the locking and bolting of the door.

The servant left his hiding-place: his master’s secret, was no secret now. He hated himself for eating that master’s bread, and earning that master’s money. One of the ignorant masses, this man! Mere sentiment had a strange hold on his stupid mind; the remembrance of the poor wounded dog, companionable and forgiving under cruel injuries, cut into his heart like a knife. His thought at that moment, was an act of treason to the royalty of Knowledge, — ”I wish to God I could lame
him,
as he has lamed the dog!” Another fanatic! another fool! Oh, Science, be merciful to the fanatics, and the fools!

When he got back to the house, the women were still on the look-out for him. “Don’t speak to me now,” he said. “Get to your beds. And, mind this — let’s be off to-morrow morning before
he
can see us.”

There was no sleep for him when he went to his own bed.

The remembrance of the dog tormented him. The other lesser animals were active; capable of enjoying their liberty and finding shelter for themselves. Where had the maimed creature found a refuge, on that bitter night? Again, and again, and again, the question forced its way into his mind. He could endure it no longer. Cautiously and quickly — in dread of his extraordinary conduct being perhaps discovered by the women — he dressed himself, and opened the house door to look for the dog.

Out of the darkness on the step, there rose something dark. He put out his hand. A persuasive tongue, gently licking it, pleaded for a word of welcome. The crippled animal could only have got to the door in one way; the gate which protected the house-enclosure must have been left open. First giving the dog a refuge in the kitchen, the footman — rigidly performing his last duties — went to close the gate.

At his first step into the enclosure he stopped panic-stricken.

The starlit sky over the labouratory was veiled in murky red. Roaring flame, and spouting showers of sparks, poured through the broken skylight. Voices from the farm raised the first cry — ”Fire! fire!”

At the inquest, the evidence suggested suspicion of incendiarism and suicide. The papers, the books, the oil betrayed themselves as combustible materials, carried into the place for a purpose. The medicine chest was known (by its use in cases of illness among the servants) to contain opium. Adjourned inquiry elicited that the labouratory was not insured, and that the deceased was in comfortable circumstances. Where were the motives? One intelligent man, who had drifted into the jury, was satisfied with the evidence. He held that the desperate wretch had some reason of his own for first poisoning himself, and then setting fire to the scene of his labours. Having a majority of eleven against him, the wise juryman consented to a merciful verdict of death by misadventure. The hideous remains of what had once been Benjulia, found Christian burial. His brethren of the torture-table, attended the funeral in large numbers. Vivisection had been beaten on its own field of discovery. They honoured the martyr who had fallen in their cause.

CHAPTER LXIII.

The life of the New Year was still only numbered by weeks, when a modest little marriage was celebrated — without the knowledge of the neighbours, without a crowd in the church, and even without a wedding-breakfast.

Mr. Gallilee (honoured with the office of giving away the bride) drew Ovid into a corner before they left the house. “She still looks delicate, poor dear,” he said. “Do you really consider her to be well again?”

“As well as she will ever be,” Ovid answered. “Before I returned to her, time had been lost which no skill and no devotion can regain. But the prospect has its bright side. Past events which might have cast their shadow over all her life to come, have left no trace in her memory. I will make her a happy woman. Leave the rest to me.”

Teresa and Mr. Mool were the witnesses; Maria and Zo were the bridesmaids: they had only waited to go to church, until one other eagerly expected person joined them. There was a general inquiry for Miss Minerva. Carmina astonished everybody, from the bride-groom downwards, by announcing that circumstances prevented her best and dearest friend from being present. She smiled and blushed as she took Ovid’s arm. “When we are man and wife, and I am quite sure of you,” she whispered, “I will tell
you,
what nobody else must know. In the meantime, darling, if you can give Frances the highest place in your estimation — next to me — you will only do justice to the noblest woman that ever lived.”