I SAY NO
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Wilkie Collins >> I SAY NO
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"Far away in the North."
"In the North! You don't mean that she has gone back to Mrs.
Delvin?"
"She has gone back--with Mrs. Ellmother to take care of her--at
my express request. You know what Emily is, when there is an act
of mercy to be done. That unhappy man has been sinking (with
intervals of partial recovery) for months past. Mrs. Delvin sent
word to us that the end was near, and that the one last wish her
brother was able to express was the wish to see Emily. He had
been for some hours unable to speak when my wife arrived. But he
knew her, and smiled faintly. He was just able to lift his hand.
She took it, and waited by him, and spoke words of consolation
and kindness from time to time. As the night advanced, he sank
into sleep, still holding her hand. They only knew that he had
passed from sleep to death--passed without a movement or a
sigh--when his hand turned cold. Emily remained for a day at the
tower to comfort poor Mrs. Delvin--and she comes home, thank God,
this evening!"
"I needn't ask if you are happy?" Miss Ladd said.
"Happy? I sing, when I have my bath in the morning. If that isn't
happiness (in a man of my age) I don't know what is!"
"And how are you getting on?"
"Famously! I have turned portrait painter, since you were sent
away for your health. A portrait of Mr. Wyvil is to decorate the
town hall in the place that he represents; and our dear
kind-hearted Cecilia has induced a fascinated mayor and
corporation to confide the work to my hands."
"Is there no hope yet of that sweet girl being married?" Miss
Ladd asked. "We old maids all believe in marriage, Mr.
Morris--though some of us don't own it."
"There seems to be a chance," Alban answered. "A young lord has
turned up at Monksmoor; a handsome pleasant fellow, and a rising
man in politics. He happened to be in the house a few days before
Cecilia's birthday; and he asked my advice about the right
present to give her. I said, 'Try something new in Tarts.' When
he found I was in earnest, what do you think he did? Sent his
steam yacht to Rouen for some of the famous pastry! You should
have seen Cecilia, when the young lord offered his delicious
gift. If I could paint that smile and those eyes, I should be the
greatest artist living. I believe she will marry him. Need I say
how rich they will be? We shall not envy them--we are rich too.
Everything is comparative. The portrait of Mr. Wyvil will put
three hundred pounds in my pocket. I have earned a hundred and
twenty more by illustrations, since we have been married. And my
wife's income (I like to be particular) is only five shillings
and tenpence short of two hundred a year. Moral! we are rich as
well as happy."
"Without a thought of the future?" Miss Ladd asked slyly.
"Oh, Doctor Allday has taken the future in hand! He revels in the
old-fashioned jokes, which used to be addressed to newly-married
people, in his time. 'My dear fellow,' he said the other day,
'you may possibly be under a joyful necessity of sending for the
doctor, before we are all a year older. In that case, let it be
understood that I am Honorary Physician to the family.' The
warm-hearted old man talks of getting me another portrait to do.
'The greatest ass in the medical profession (he informed me) has
just been made a baronet; and his admiring friends have decided
that he is to be painted at full length, with his bandy legs
hidden under a gown, and his great globular eyes staring at the
spectator--I'll get you the job.' Shall I tell you what he says
of Mrs. Rook's recovery?"
Miss Ladd held up her hands in amazement. "Recovery!" she
exclaimed.
"And a most remarkable recovery too," Alban informed her. "It is
the first case on record of any person getting over such an
injury as she has received. Doctor Allday looked grave when he
heard of it. 'I begin to believe in the devil,' he said; 'nobody
else could have saved Mrs. Rook.' Other people don't take that
view. She has been celebrated in all the medical newspapers--and
she has been admitted to come excellent almshouse, to live in
comfortable idleness to a green old age. The best of it is that
she shakes her head, when her wonderful recovery is mentioned.
'It seems such a pity,' she says; 'I was so fit for heaven.' Mr.
Rook having got rid of his wife, is in excellent spirits. He is
occupied in looking after an imbecile old gentleman; and, when he
is asked if he likes the employment, he winks mysteriously and
slaps his pocket. Now, Miss Ladd, I think it's my turn to hear
some news. What have you got to tell me?"
"I believe I can match your account of Mrs. Rook," Miss Ladd
said. "Do you care to hear what has become of Francine?"
Alban, rattling on hitherto in boyish high spirits, suddenly
became serious. "I have no doubt Miss de Sor is doing well," he
said sternly. "She is too heartless and wicked not to prosper."
"You are getting like your old cynical self again, Mr.
Morris--and you are wrong. I called this morning on the agent who
had the care of Francine, when I left England. When I mentioned
her name, he showed me a telegram, sent to him by her father.
'There's my authority,' he said, 'for letting her leave my
house.' The message was short enough to be easily remembered:
'Anything my daughter likes as long as she doesn't come back to
us.' In those cruel terms Mr. de Sor wrote of his own child. The
agent was just as unfeeling, in his way. He called her the victim
of slighted love and clever proselytizing. 'In plain words,' he
said, 'the priest of the Catholic chapel close by has converted
her; and she is now a novice in a convent of Carmelite nuns in
the West of England. Who could have expected it? Who knows how it
may end?"
As Miss Ladd spoke, the bell rang at the cottage gate. "Here she
is!" Alban cried, leading the way into the hall. "Emily has come
home."
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