No Name, Wilkie Collins [reading the story of the TXT] 📗

the object of it is. Do you remember what I said to you about Mr. Vanstone’s will when you came here from Scotland to join me?”

“Yes, ma’am. You told me you had been left out of the will altogether. I’m sure my fellow-servant would never have been one of the witnesses if she had known⁠—”

“Never mind that now. I don’t blame your fellow-servant⁠—I blame nobody but Mrs. Lecount. Let me go on with what I was saying. It is not at all certain that Mrs. Lecount can do me the mischief which Mrs. Lecount intended. There is a chance that my lawyer, Mr. Loscombe, may be able to gain me what is fairly my due, in spite of the will. The chance turns on my discovering a letter which Mr. Loscombe believes, and which I believe, to be kept privately in Admiral Bartram’s possession. I have not the least hope of getting at that letter if I make the attempt in my own person. Mrs. Lecount has poisoned the admiral’s mind against me, and Mr. Vanstone has given him a secret to keep from me. If I wrote to him, he would not answer my letter. If I went to his house, the door would be closed in my face. I must find my way into St. Crux as a stranger⁠—I must be in a position to look about the house, unsuspected⁠—I must be there with plenty of time on my hands. All the circumstances are in my favor, if I am received into the house as a servant; and as a servant I mean to go.”

“But you are a lady, ma’am,” objected Louisa, in the greatest perplexity. “The servants at St. Crux would find you out.”

“I am not at all afraid of their finding me out,” said Magdalen. “I know how to disguise myself in other people’s characters more cleverly than you suppose. Leave me to face the chances of discovery⁠—that is my risk. Let us talk of nothing now but what concerns you. Don’t decide yet whether you will, or will not, give me the help I want. Wait, and hear first what the help is. You are quick and clever at your needle. Can you make me the sort of gown which it is proper for a servant to wear⁠—and can you alter one of my best silk dresses so as to make it fit yourself⁠—in a week’s time?”

“I think I could get them done in a week, ma’am. But why am I to wear⁠—”

“Wait a little, and you will see. I shall give the landlady her week’s notice tomorrow. In the interval, while you are making the dresses, I can be learning the parlormaid’s duties. When the house-servant here has brought up the dinner, and when you and I are alone in the room⁠—instead of your waiting on me, as usual, I will wait on you. (I am quite serious; don’t interrupt me!) Whatever I can learn besides, without hindering you, I will practice carefully at every opportunity. When the week is over, and the dresses are done, we will leave this place, and go into other lodgings⁠—you as the mistress and I as the maid.”

“I should be found out, ma’am,” interposed Louisa, trembling at the prospect before her. “I am not a lady.”

“And I am,” said Magdalen, bitterly. “Shall I tell you what a lady is? A lady is a woman who wears a silk gown, and has a sense of her own importance. I shall put the gown on your back, and the sense in your head. You speak good English; you are naturally quiet and self-restrained; if you can only conquer your timidity, I have not the least fear of you. There will be time enough in the new lodging for you to practice your character, and for me to practice mine. There will be time enough to make some more dresses⁠—another gown for me, and your wedding-dress (which I mean to give you) for yourself. I shall have the newspaper sent every day. When the advertisement appears, I shall answer it⁠—in any name I can take on the spur of the moment; in your name, if you like to lend it to me; and when the housekeeper asks me for my character, I shall refer her to you. She will see you in the position of mistress, and me in the position of maid⁠—no suspicion can possibly enter her mind, unless you put it there. If you only have the courage to follow my instructions, and to say what I shall tell you to say, the interview will be over in ten minutes.”

“You frighten me, ma’am,” said Louisa, still trembling. “You take my breath away with surprise. Courage! Where shall I find courage?”

“Where I keep it for you,” said Magdalen⁠—“in the passage-money to Australia. Look at the new prospect which gives you a husband, and restores you to your child⁠—and you will find your courage there.”

Louisa’s sad face brightened; Louisa’s faint heart beat quick. A spark of her mistress’s spirit flew up into her eyes as she thought of the golden future.

“If you accept my proposal,” pursued Magdalen, “you can be asked in church at once, if you like. I promise you the money on the day when the advertisement appears in the newspaper. The risk of the housekeeper’s rejecting me is my risk⁠—not yours. My good looks are sadly gone off, I know. But I think I can still hold my place against the other servants⁠—I think I can still look the parlormaid whom Admiral Bartram wants. There is nothing for you to fear in this matter; I should not have mentioned it if there had been. The only danger is the danger of my being discovered at St. Crux, and that falls entirely on me. By the time I am in the admiral’s house you will be married, and the ship will be taking you to your new life.”

Louisa’s face, now brightening with hope, now clouding again with fear, showed plain signs of the struggle which it cost her to decide.