Complete Works of Wilkie Collins (1445 page)

“Why?”

“Because her mistress loves you still. Such a woman as this would like to absorb the whole affection of her mistress in herself. You laugh. She is a servant, and a common person. How can such a person conceive an affection so strong as to become a passion for one so superior? But it is true. It is perfectly well known, and there have been many recorded instances of such a woman, say a servant, greatly inferior in station, conceiving a desperate affection for her mistress, accompanied by the fiercest jealousy. Fanny Mere is jealous — and of you. She hates you; she wants your wife to hate you. She would like nothing better than to go back to her mistress with the proofs in her hand of such acts on your part — such acts, I say,” he chose his next words carefully, “as would keep her from you for ever.”

“She’s a devil, I dare say,” said Lord Harry, carelessly. “What do I care? What does it matter to me whether a lady’s maid, more or less, hates me or loves me?”

“There spoke the aristocrat. My lord, remember that a lady’s maid is a woman. You have been brought up to believe, perhaps, that people in service are not men and women. That is a mistake — a great mistake. Fanny Mere is a woman — that is to say, an inferior form of man; and there is no man in the world so low or so base as not to be able to do mischief. The power of mischief is given to every one of us. It is the true, the only Equality of Man — we can all destroy. What? a shot in the dark; the striking of a lucifer match; the false accusation; the false witness; the defamation of character; — upon my word, it is far more dangerous to be hated by a woman than by a man. And this excellent and faithful Fanny, devoted to her mistress, hates you, my lord, even more” — he paused and laughed — ”even more than the charming Mrs. Vimpany hates her husband. Never mind. To-morrow we see the last of Fanny Mere. She goes; she leaves her patient rapidly recovering. That is the fact that she carries away — not the fact she hoped and expected to carry away. She goes to-morrow and she will never come back again.”

The next morning the doctor paid a visit to his patient rather earlier than usual. He found the man going on admirably: fresh in colour, lively and cheerful, chatting pleasantly with his nurse.

“So,” said Dr. Vimpany, after the usual examination and questions, “this is better than I expected. You are now able to get up. You can do so by-and-by, after breakfast; you can dress yourself, you want no more help. Nurse,” he turned to Fanny, “I think that we have done with you. I am satisfied with the careful watch you have kept over my patient. If ever you think of becoming a nurse by profession, rely on my recommendation. The experiment,” he added, thoughtfully, “has fully succeeded. I cannot deny that it has been owing partly to the intelligence and patience with which you have carried out my instructions. But I think that your services may now be relinquished.”

“When am I to go, sir?” she asked, impassively.

“In any other case I should have said, ‘Stay a little longer, if you please. Use your own convenience.’ In your case I must say, ‘Go to your mistress.’ Her ladyship was reluctant to leave you behind. She will be glad to have you back again. How long will you take to get ready?”

“I could be ready in ten minutes, if it were necessary.”

“That is not necessary. You can take the night mail
via
Dieppe and Newhaven. It leaves Paris at 9.50. Give yourself an hour to get from station to station. Any time, therefore, this evening before seven o’clock will do perfectly well. You will ask his lordship for any letters or messages he may have.”

“Yes, sir,” Fanny replied. “With your permission, sir, I will go at once, so as to get a whole day in Paris.”

“As you please, as you please,” said the doctor, wondering why she wanted a day in Paris; but it could have nothing to do with his sick man. He left the room, promising to see the Dane again in an hour or two, and took up a position at the garden gate through which the nurse must pass. In about half an hour she walked down the path carrying her box. The doctor opened the gate for her.

“Good-bye, Fanny,” he said. “Again, many thanks for your care and your watchfulness — especially the latter. I am very glad,” he said, with what he meant for the sweetest smile, but it looked like a grin, “that it has been rewarded in such a way as you hardly perhaps expected.”

“Thank you, sir,” said the girl. “The man is nearly well now, and can do without me very well indeed.”

“The box is too heavy for you, Fanny. Nay, I insist upon it: I shall carry it to the station for you.”

It was not far to the station, and the box was not too heavy, but Fanny yielded it. “He wants to see me safe out of the station,” she thought.

“I will see her safe out of the place,” he thought.

Ten minutes later the doors of the
salle d’attente
were thrown open, the train rolled in, and Fanny was carried away.

The doctor returned thoughtfully to the house. The time was come for the execution of his project. Everybody was out of the way.

“She is gone,” he said, when Lord Harry returned for breakfast at eleven. “I saw her safely out of the station.”

“Gone!” his confederate echoed: “and I am alone in the house with you and — and —
 
— ”

“The sick man — henceforth, yourself, my lord, yourself.”

CHAPTER L

IN THE ALCOVE

THE doctor was wrong. Fanny Mere did return, though he did not discover the fact.

She went away in a state of mind which is dangerous when it possesses a woman of determination. The feminine mind loves to understand motives and intentions; it hates to be puzzled. Fanny was puzzled. Fanny could not understand what had been intended and what was now meant. For, first, a man, apparently dying, had been brought into the house — why? Then the man began slowly to recover, and the doctor, whose attentions had always been of the most slender character, grew more morose every day. Then he suddenly, on the very day when he sent her away, became cheerful, congratulated the patient on his prospect of recovery, and assisted in getting him out of bed for a change. The cook having been sent away, there was now no one in the house but the Dane, the doctor, and Lord Harry.

Man hunts wild creatures; woman hunts man. Fanny was impelled by the hunting instinct. She was sent out of the house to prevent her hunting; she began to consider next, how, without discovery, she could return and carry on the hunt.

Everything conspired to drive her back: the mystery of the thing; the desire to baffle, or at least to discover, a dark design; the wish to be of service to her mistress; and the hope of finding out something which would keep Iris from going back to her husband. Fanny was unable to comprehend the depth of her mistress’s affection for Lord Harry; but that she was foolishly, weakly in love with him, and that she would certainly return to him unless plain proofs of real villainy were prepared — so much Fanny understood very well. When the omnibus set her down, she found a quiet hotel near the terminus for Dieppe. She spent the day walking about — to see the shops and streets, she would have explained; to consider the situation, she should have explained. She bought a new dress, a new hat, and a thick veil, so as to be disguised at a distance. As for escaping the doctor’s acuteness by any disguise should he meet her face to face, that was impossible. But her mind was made up — she would run any risk, meet any danger, in order to discover the meaning of all this.

Next morning she returned by an omnibus service which would allow her to reach the cottage at about a quarter-past eleven. She chose this time for two reasons: first, because breakfast was sent in from the restaurant at eleven, and the two gentlemen would certainly be in the
salle ‘a manger
over that meal; and, next, because the doctor always visited his patient after breakfast. She could, therefore, hope to get in unseen, which was the first thing.

The spare bedroom — that assigned to the patient — was on the ground-floor next to the dining-room; it communicated with the garden by French windows, and by a small flight of steps.

Fanny walked cautiously along the road past the garden-gate; a rapid glance assured her that no one was there; she hastily opened the gate and slipped in. She knew that the windows of the sick-room were closed on the inner side, and the blinds were still down. The patient, therefore, had not yet been disturbed or visited. The windows of the dining-room were on the other side of the house. The woman therefore slipped round to the back, where she found, as she expected, the door wide open. In the hall she heard the voices of the doctor and Lord Harry and the clicking of knives and forks. They were at breakfast.

One thing more — What should she say to Oxbye? What excuse should she make for coming back? How should she persuade him to keep silence about her presence? His passion suggested a plan and a reason. She had come back, she would tell him, for love of him, to watch over him, unseen by the doctor, to go away with him when he was strong enough to travel. He was a simple and a candid soul, and he would fall into such a little innocent conspiracy. Meantime, it would be quite easy for her to remain in the house perfectly undisturbed and unknown to either of the gentlemen.

She opened the door and looked in.

So far, no reason would be wanted. The patient was sleeping peacefully. But not in the bed. He was lying, partly dressed and covered with a blanket, on the sofa. With the restlessness of convalescence he had changed his couch in the morning after a wakeful night, and was now sleeping far into the morning.

The bed, as is common in French houses, stood in an alcove. A heavy curtain hung over a rod, also in the French manner. Part of this curtain lay over the head of the bed.

The woman perceived the possibility of using the curtain as a means of concealment. There was a space of a foot between the bed and the wall. She placed herself, therefore, behind the bed, in this space, at the head, where the curtain entirely concealed her. Nothing was more unlikely than that the doctor should look behind the bed in that corner. Then with her scissors she pierced a hole in the curtain large enough for her to see perfectly without the least danger of being seen, and she waited to see what would happen.

She waited for half an hour, during which the sleeping man slept on without movement, and the voices of the two men in the
salle ‘a manger
rose and fell in conversation. Presently there was silence, broken only by an occasional remark. “They have lit their cigars,” Fanny murmured; “they will take their coffee, and in a few minutes they will be here.”

When they came in a few minutes later, they had their cigars, and Lord Harry’s face was slightly flushed, perhaps with the wine he had taken at breakfast — perhaps with the glass of brandy after his coffee.

The doctor threw himself into a chair and crossed his legs, looking thoughtfully at his patient. Lord Harry stood over him.

“Every day,” he said, “the man gets better.”

“He has got better every day, so far,” said the doctor.

“Every day his face gets fatter, and he grows less like me.”

“It is true,” said the doctor.

“Then — what the devil are we to do?”

“Wait a little longer,” said the doctor.

The woman in her hiding-place hardly dared to breathe.

“What?” asked Lord Harry. “You mean that the man, after all — ”

“Wait a little longer,” the doctor repeated quietly.

“Tell me” — Lord Harry bent over the sick man eagerly — ”you think —
 
— ”

“Look here,” the doctor said. “Which of us two has had a medical education — you, or I?”

“You, of course.”

“Yes; I, of course. Then I tell you, as a medical man, that appearances are sometimes deceptive. This man, for instance — he looks better; he thinks he is recovering; he feels stronger. You observe that he is fatter in the face. His nurse, Fanny Mere, went away with the knowledge that he was much better, and the conviction that he was about to leave the house as much recovered as such a patient with such a disorder can expect.”

“Well?”

“Well, my lord, allow me to confide in you. Medical men mostly keep their knowledge in such matters to themselves. We know and recognise symptoms which to you are invisible. By these symptoms — by those symptoms,” he repeated slowly and looking hard at the other man, “I know that this man — no longer Oxbye, my patient, but — another — is in a highly dangerous condition. I have noted the symptoms in my book” — he tapped his pocket — ”for future use.”