The Dead Secret, Wilkie Collins [best historical biographies .TXT] 📗

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.

“I say to myself that,” he continued; “I wait, and think a little; and I hear my own heart whisper 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 I wait, and think a little 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 Frankland; 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 see 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 myself 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 innocent earnestness of his manner, touched Rosamond to the heart. “I will do anything, I will 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.

“Tomorrow, in the morning early, Sir,” replied Uncle Joseph. “I shall finish the work that I must do tonight, and shall leave the rest to Samuel (who is my very good friend, and my shopman too), and shall then go to Sarah by the first coach.”

“May I ask for your niece’s address in London, 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, copying 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 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 unquestionably 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. Frankland 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