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

The maid, looking with contemptuous curiosity at Mrs. Jazeph, saw the whole expression of her countenance alter, as those words were spoken. The tears rose thick in her eyes, and flowed down her cheeks. The deathly spell of stillness that had lain on her face was broken in an instant. She drew back again, close to the wall, and leaned against it as before. “Don’t be hard on her!” the maid heard her repeat to herself, in a low sobbing voice. “Don’t be hard on her! Oh, my God! she said that kindly⁠—she said that kindly, at least!”

“I have no desire to speak to you, or to use you unkindly,” said Mr. Frankland, imperfectly hearing what she said. “I know nothing of what has happened, and I make no accusations. I find Mrs. Frankland violently agitated and frightened; I hear her connect that agitation with you⁠—not angrily, but compassionately⁠—and, instead of speaking harshly, I prefer leaving it to your own sense of what is right, to decide whether your attendance here ought not to cease at once. I have provided the proper means for your conveyance from this place; and I would suggest that you should make our apologies to your mistress, and say nothing more than that circumstances have happened which oblige us to dispense with your services.”

“You have been considerate toward me, Sir,” said Mrs. Jazeph, speaking quietly, and with a certain gentle dignity in her manner, “and I will not prove myself unworthy of your forbearance by saying what I might say in my own defense.” She advanced into the middle of the room, and stopped where she could see Rosamond plainly. Twice she attempted to speak, and twice her voice failed her. At the third effort she succeeded in controlling herself.

“Before I go, ma’am,” she said, “I hope you will believe that I have no bitter feeling against you for sending me away. I am not angry⁠—pray remember always that I was not angry, and that I never complained.”

There was such a forlornness in her face, such a sweet, sorrowful resignation in every tone of her voice during the utterance of these few words, that Rosamond’s heart smote her.

“Why did you frighten me?” she asked, half relenting.

“Frighten you? How could I frighten you? Oh me! of all the people in the world, how could I frighten you?”

Mournfully saying those words, the nurse went to the chair on which she had placed her bonnet and shawl, and put them on. The landlady and the maid, watching her with curious eyes, detected that she was again weeping bitterly, and noticed with astonishment, at the same time, how neatly she put on her bonnet and shawl. The wasted hands were moving mechanically, and were trembling while they moved⁠—and yet, slight thing though it was, the inexorable instinct of propriety guided their most trifling actions still.

On her way to the door, she stopped again at passing the bedside, looked through her tears at Rosamond and the child, struggled a little with herself, and then spoke her farewell words⁠—

“God bless you, and keep you and your child happy and prosperous,” she said. “I am not angry at being sent away. If you ever think of me again, after tonight, please to remember that I was not angry, and that I never complained.”

She stood for a moment longer, still weeping, and still looking through her tears at the mother and child⁠—then turned away and walked to the door. Something in the last tones of her voice caused a silence in the room. Of the four persons in it not one could utter a word, as the nurse closed the door gently, and went out from them alone.

On the morning after the departure of Mrs. Jazeph, the news that she had been sent away from the Tiger’s Head by Mr. Frankland’s directions, reached the doctor’s residence from the inn just as he was sitting down to breakfast. Finding that the report of the nurse’s dismissal was not accompanied by any satisfactory explanation of the cause of it, Mr. Orridge refused to believe that her attendance on Mrs. Frankland had really ceased. However, although he declined to credit the news, he was so far disturbed by it that he finished his breakfast in a hurry, and went to pay his morning visit at the Tiger’s Head nearly two hours before the time at which he usually attended on his patient.

On his way to the inn, he was met and stopped by the one waiter attached to the establishment. “I was just bringing you a message from Mr. Frankland, Sir,” said the man. “He wants to see you as soon as possible.”

“Is it true that Mrs. Frankland’s nurse was sent away last night by Mr. Frankland’s order?” asked Mr. Orridge.

“Quite true, Sir,” answered the waiter.

The doctor colored, and looked seriously discomposed. One of the most precious things we have about us⁠—especially if we happen to belong to the medical profession⁠—is our dignity. It struck Mr. Orridge that he ought to have been consulted before a nurse of his recommending was dismissed from her situation at a moment’s notice. Was Mr. Frankland presuming upon his position as a gentleman of fortune? The power of wealth may do much with impunity, but it is not privileged to offer any practical contradictions to a man’s good opinion of himself. Never had the doctor thought more disrespectfully of rank and riches; never had he been conscious of reflecting on republican principles with such absolute impartiality, as when he now followed the waiter in sullen silence to Mr. Frankland’s room.

“Who is that?” asked Leonard, when he heard the door open.

“Mr. Orridge, Sir,” said the waiter.

“Good morning,” said Mr. Orridge, with self-asserting abruptness and familiarity.

Mr. Frankland was sitting in an armchair, with his legs crossed. Mr. Orridge carefully selected another armchair, and crossed his legs on the model of Mr. Frankland’s the moment he sat down. Mr. Frankland’s hands were in the pockets of his dressing-gown. Mr. Orridge had no pockets, except in his coattails, which he could not conveniently get