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

bilious philosophy, don’t quite forget the cloud over the two trees. Look up at it now⁠—it is getting darker and bigger already.” III The Bride and Bridegroom

Under the roof of a widowed mother, Miss Mowlem lived humbly at St. Swithin’s-on-Sea. In the spring of the year eighteen hundred and forty-four, the heart of Miss Mowlem’s widowed mother was gladdened by a small legacy. Turning over in her mind the various uses to which the money might be put, the discreet old lady finally decided on investing it in furniture, on fitting up the first floor and the second floor of her house in the best taste, and on hanging a card in the parlor window to inform the public that she had furnished apartments to let. By the summer the apartments were ready, and the card was put up. It had hardly been exhibited a week before a dignified personage in black applied to look at the rooms, expressed himself as satisfied with their appearance, and engaged them for a month certain, for a newly married lady and gentleman, who might be expected to take possession in a few days. The dignified personage in black was Captain Treverton’s servant, and the lady and gentleman, who arrived in due time to take possession, were Mr. and Mrs. Frankland.

The natural interest which Mrs. Mowlem felt in her youthful first lodgers was necessarily vivid in its nature; but it was apathy itself compared to the sentimental interest which her daughter took in observing the manners and customs of the lady and gentleman in their capacity of bride and bridegroom. From the moment when Mr. and Mrs. Frankland entered the house, Miss Mowlem began to study them with all the ardor of an industrious scholar who attacks a new branch of knowledge. At every spare moment of the day, this industrious young lady occupied herself in stealing upstairs to collect observations, and in running downstairs to communicate them to her mother. By the time the married couple had been in the house a week, Miss Mowlem had made such good use of her eyes, ears, and opportunities that she could have written a seven days’ diary of the lives of Mr. and Mrs. Frankland with the truth and minuteness of Mr. Samuel Pepys himself.

But, learn as much as we may, the longer we live the more information there is to acquire. Seven days’ patient accumulation of facts in connection with the honeymoon had not placed Miss Mowlem beyond the reach of further discoveries. On the morning of the eighth day, after bringing down the breakfast tray, this observant spinster stole upstairs again, according to custom, to drink at the spring of knowledge through the keyhole channel of the drawing-room door. After an absence of five minutes she descended to the kitchen, breathless with excitement, to announce a fresh discovery in connection with Mr. and Mrs. Frankland to her venerable mother.

“Whatever do you think she’s doing now?” cried Miss Mowlem, with widely opened eyes and highly elevated hands.

“Nothing that’s useful,” answered Mrs. Mowlem, with sarcastic readiness.

“She’s actually sitting on his knee! Mother, did you ever sit on father’s knee when you were married?”

“Certainly not, my dear. When me and your poor father married, we were neither of us flighty young people, and we knew better.”

“She’s got her head on his shoulder,” proceeded Miss Mowlem, more and more agitatedly, “and her arms round his neck⁠—both her arms, mother, as tight as can be.”

“I won’t believe it,” exclaimed Mrs. Mowlem, indignantly. “A lady like her, with riches, and accomplishments, and all that, demean herself like a housemaid with a sweetheart. Don’t tell me, I won’t believe it!”

It was true though, for all that. There were plenty of chairs in Mrs. Mowlem’s drawing-room; there were three beautifully bound books on Mrs. Mowlem’s Pembroke table (the Antiquities of St. Swithins, Smallridge’s Sermons, and Klopstock’s Messiah in English Prose)⁠—Mrs. Frankland might have sat on purple morocco leather, stuffed with the best horsehair, might have informed and soothed her mind with archaeological diversions, with orthodox native theology, and with devotional poetry of foreign origin⁠—and yet, so frivolous is the nature of woman, she was perverse enough to prefer doing nothing, and perching herself uncomfortably on her husband’s knee!

She sat for some time in the undignified position which Miss Mowlem had described with such graphic correctness to her mother⁠—then drew back a little, raised her head, and looked earnestly into the quiet, meditative face of the blind man.

“Lenny, you are very silent this morning,” she said. “What are you thinking about? If you will tell me all your thoughts, I will tell you all mine.”

“Would you really care to hear all my thoughts?” asked Leonard.

“Yes; all. I shall be jealous of any thoughts that you keep to yourself. Tell me what you were thinking of just now! Me?”

“Not exactly of you.”

“More shame for you. Are you tired of me in eight days? I have not thought of anybody but you ever since we have been here. Ah! you laugh. Oh, Lenny, I do love you so; how can I think of anybody but you? No! I shan’t kiss you. I want to know what you were thinking about first.”

“Of a dream, Rosamond, that I had last night. Ever since the first days of my blindness⁠—Why, I thought you were not going to kiss me again till I had told you what I was thinking about!”

“I can’t help kissing you, Lenny, when you talk of the loss of your sight. Tell me, my poor love, do I help to make up for that loss? Are you happier than you used to be? and have I some share in making that happiness, though it is ever so little?”

She turned her head away as she spoke, but Leonard was too quick for her. His inquiring fingers touched her cheek. “Rosamond, you are crying,” he said.

“I crying!” she answered, with a sudden assumption of gayety. “No,” she continued, after a moment’s pause. “I will never deceive you, love, even in the veriest trifle. My eyes serve