I Say No, Wilkie Collins [top 10 books of all time TXT] 📗

“You’re breaking your promise!” cried Mrs. Rook. “You false girl, you’re breaking your promise!”

She snatched at the veil, and put it on again. The sight of her face, momentary as it had been, reassured Emily. Her wild eyes, made wilder still by the blurred stains of rouge below them, half washed away—her disheveled hair, with streaks of gray showing through the dye—presented a spectacle which would have been grotesque under other circumstances, but which now reminded Emily of Mr. Rook’s last words; warning her not to believe what his wife said, and even declaring his conviction that her intellect was deranged. Emily drew back from the bed, conscious of an overpowering sense of self-reproach. Although it was only for a moment, she had allowed her faith in Mirabel to be shaken by a woman who was out of her mind.

“Try to forgive me,” she said. “I didn’t willfully break my promise; you frightened me.”

Mrs. Rook began to cry. “I was a handsome woman in my time,” she murmured. “You would say I was handsome still, if the clumsy fools about me had not spoiled my appearance. Oh, I do feel so weak! Where’s my medicine?”

The bottle was on the table. Emily gave her the prescribed dose, and revived her failing strength.

“I am an extraordinary person,” she resumed. “My resolution has always been the admiration of every one who knew me. But my mind feels—how shall I express it?—a little vacant. Have mercy on my poor wicked soul! Help me.”

“How can I help you?”

“I want to recollect. Something happened in the summer time, when we were talking at Netherwoods. I mean when that impudent master at the school showed his suspicions of me. (Lord! how he frightened me, when he turned up afterward at Sir Jervis’s house.) You must have seen yourself he suspected me. How did he show it?”

“He showed you my locket,” Emily answered.

“Oh, the horrid reminder of the murder!” Mrs. Rook exclaimed. “I didn’t mention it: don’t blame Me. You poor innocent, I have something dreadful to tell you.”

Emily’s horror of the woman forced her to speak. “Don’t tell me!” she cried. “I know more than you suppose; I know what I was ignorant of when you saw the locket.”

Mrs. Rook took offense at the interruption.

“Clever as you are, there’s one thing you don’t know,” she said. “You asked me, just now, who the pocketbook belonged to. It belonged to your father. What’s the matter? Are you crying?”

Emily was thinking of her father. The pocketbook was the last present she had given to him—a present on his birthday. “Is it lost?” she asked sadly.

“No; it’s not lost. You will hear more of it directly. Dry your eyes, and expect something interesting—I’m going to talk about love. Love, my dear, means myself. Why shouldn’t it? I’m not the only nice-looking woman, married to an old man, who has had a lover.”

“Wretch! what has that got to do with it?”

“Everything, you rude girl! My lover was like the rest of them; he would bet on race-horses, and he lost. He owned it to me, on the day when your father came to our inn. He said, ‘I must find the money—or be off to America, and say good-by forever.’ I was fool enough to be fond of him. It broke my heart to hear him talk in that way. I said, ‘If I find the money, and more than the money, will you take me with you wherever you go?’ Of course, he said Yes. I suppose you have heard of the inquest held at our old place by the coroner and jury? Oh, what idiots! They believed I was asleep on the night of the murder. I never closed my eyes—I was so miserable, I was so tempted.”

“Tempted? What tempted you?”

“Do you think I had any money to spare? Your father’s pocketbook tempted me. I had seen him open it, to pay his bill overnight. It was full of bank-notes. Oh, what an overpowering thing love is! Perhaps you have known it yourself.”

Emily’s indignation once more got the better of her prudence. “Have you no feeling of decency on your deathbed!” she said.

Mrs. Rook forgot her piety; she was ready with an impudent rejoinder. “You hot-headed little woman, your time will come,” she answered. “But you’re right—I am wandering from the point; I am not sufficiently sensible of this solemn occasion. By-the-by, do you notice my language? I inherit correct English from my mother—a cultivated person, who married beneath her. My paternal grandfather was a gentleman. Did I tell you that there came a time, on that dreadful night, when I could stay in bed no longer? The pocketbook—I did nothing but think of that devilish pocketbook, full of bank-notes. My husband was fast asleep all the time. I got a chair and stood on it. I looked into the place where the two men were sleeping, through the glass in the top of the door. Your father was awake; he was walking up and down the room. What do you say? Was he agitated? I didn’t notice. I don’t know whether the other man was asleep or awake. I saw nothing but the pocketbook stuck under the pillow, half in and half out. Your father kept on walking up and down. I thought to myself, ‘I’ll wait till he gets tired, and then I’ll have another look at the pocketbook.’ Where’s the wine? The doctor said I might have a glass of wine when I wanted it.”

Emily found the wine and gave it to her. She shuddered as she accidentally touched Mrs. Rook’s hand.

The wine helped the sinking woman.

“I must have got up more than once,” she resumed. “And more than once my heart must have failed me. I don’t clearly remember what I did, till the gray of the morning came. I think that must have been the last time I looked through the glass in the door.”

She began to tremble. She tore the veil off her face. She cried out piteously, “Lord, be merciful to me a sinner! Come here,” she said to Emily. “Where are you? No! I daren’t tell you what I saw; I daren’t tell you what I did. When you’re pos sessed by the devil, there’s nothing, nothing, nothing you can’t do! Where did I find the courage to unlock the door? Where did I find the courage to go in? Any other woman would have lost her senses, when she found blood on her fingers after taking the pocketbook—”

Emily’s head swam; her heart beat furiously—she staggered to the door, and opened it to escape from the room.

“I’m guilty of robbing him; but I’m innocent of his blood!” Mrs. Rook called after her wildly. “The deed was done—the yard door was wide open, and the man was gone—when I looked in for the last time. Come back, come back!”

Emily looked round.

“I can’t go near you,” she said, faintly.

“Come near enough to see this.”

She opened her bed-gown at the throat, and drew up a loop of ribbon over her head. ‘The pocketbook was attached to the ribbon. She held it out.

“Your father’s book,” she said. “Won’t you take your father’s book?”

For a moment, and only for a moment, Emily was repelled by the profanation associated with her birthday gift. Then, the loving remembrance of the dear hands that had so often touched that relic, drew the faithful daughter back to the woman whom she abhorred. Her eyes rested tenderly on the book. Before it had lain in that guilty bosom, it had been his book. The beloved memory was all that was left to her now; the beloved memory consecrated it to her hand. She took the book.

“Open it,” said Mrs. Rook.

There were two five-pound bank-notes in it.

“His?” Emily asked.

“No; mine—the little I have been able to save toward restoring what I stole.”

“Oh!” Emily cried, “is there some good in this woman, after all?”

“There’s no good in the woman!” Mrs. Rook answered desperately. “There’s nothing but fear—fear of hell now; fear of the pocketbook in the past time. Twice I tried to destroy it—and twice it came back, to remind me of the duty that I owed to my miserable soul. I tried to throw it into the fire. It struck the bar, and fell back into the fender at my feet. I went out, and cast it into the well. It came back again in the first bucket of water that was drawn up. From that moment, I began to save what I could. Restitution! Atonement! I tell you the book found a tongue—and those were the grand words it dinned in my ears, morning and night.” She stooped to fetch her breath—stopped, and struck her bosom. “I hid it here, so that no person should see it, and no person take it from me. Superstition? Oh, yes, superstition! Shall tell you something? You may find yourself superstitious, if you are ever cut to the heart as I was. He left me! The man I had disgraced myself for, deserted me on the day when I gave him the stolen money. He suspected it was stolen; he took care of his own cowardly self—and left me to the hard mercy of the law, if the theft was found out. What do you call that, in the way of punishment? Haven’t I suffered? Haven’t I made atonement? Be a Christian—say you forgive me.”

“I do forgive you.”

“Say you will pray for me.”

“I will.”

“Ah! that comforts me! Now you can go.”

Emily looked at her imploringly. “Don’t send me away, knowing no more of the murder than I knew when I came here! Is there nothing, really nothing, you can tell me?”

Mrs. Rook pointed to the door.

“Haven’t I told you already? Go downstairs, and see the wretch who escaped in the dawn of the morning!”

“Gently, ma’am, gently! You’re talking too loud,” cried a mocking voice from outside.

“It’s only the doctor,” said Mrs. Rook. She crossed her hands over her bosom with a deep-drawn sigh. “I want no doctor, now. My peace is made with my Maker. I’m ready for death; I’m fit for Heaven. Go away! go away!”

CHAPTER LXII.

DOWNSTAIRS.

In a moment more, the doctor came in—a brisk, smiling, self-sufficient man—smartly dressed, with a flower in his button-hole. A stifling odor of musk filled the room, as he drew out his handkerchief with a flourish, and wiped his forehead.

“Plenty of hard work in my line, just now,” he said. “Hullo, Mrs. Rook! somebody has been allowing you to excite yourself. I heard you, before I opened the door. Have you been encouraging her to talk?” he asked, turning to Emily, and shaking his finger at her with an air of facetious remonstrance.

Incapable of answering him; forgetful of the ordinary restraints of social intercourse—with the one doubt that preserved her belief in Mirabel, eager for confirmation—Emily signed to this stranger to follow her into a corner of the room, out of hearing. She made no excuses: she took no notice of his look of surprise. One hope was all she could feel, one word was all she could say, after that second assertion of Mirabel’s guilt. Indicating Mrs. Rook by a glance at the bed, she whispered the word:

“Mad?”

Flippant and familiar, the doctor imitated her; he too looked at the bed.

“No more mad than you are, miss. As I said just now, my patient has been exciting herself; I daresay she has talked a little wildly in consequence. Hers isn’t a brain to give way, I can tell you. But there’s somebody else—”

Emily had fled from the room. He had destroyed her last fragment of