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

I have made myself suspected! I shall be questioned, if Mrs. Frankland finds me out again. She will try to find me out⁠—we shall be inquired after here⁠—we must destroy all trace of where we go to next⁠—we must make sure that the people at this inn can answer no questions⁠—oh, Uncle Joseph! whatever we do, let us make sure of that!”

“Good,” said the old man, nodding his head with a perfectly self-satisfied air. “Be quite easy, my child, and leave it to me to make sure. When you are gone to bed, I shall send for the landlord, and I shall say, ‘Get us a little carriage, if you please, Sir, to take us back again tomorrow to the coach for Truro.’ ”

“No, no, no! we must not hire a carriage here.”

“And I say, yes, yes, yes! We will hire a carriage here, because I will, first of all, make sure with the landlord. Listen. I shall say to him, ‘If there come after us people with inquisitive looks in their eyes and uncomfortable questions in their mouths⁠—if you please, Sir, hold your tongue.’ Then I shall wink my eye, I shall lay my finger, so, to the side of my nose, I shall give one little laugh that means much⁠—and, crick! crack! I have made sure of the landlord! and there is an end of it!”

“We must not trust the landlord, uncle⁠—we must not trust anybody. When we leave this place tomorrow, we must leave it on foot, and take care no living soul follows us. Look! here is a map of West Cornwall hanging up on the wall, with roads and crossroads all marked on it. We may find out beforehand what direction we ought to walk in. A night’s rest will give me all the strength I want; and we have no luggage that we can not carry. You have nothing but your knapsack, and I have nothing but the little carpetbag you lent me. We can walk six, seven, even ten miles, with resting by the way. Come here and look at the map⁠—pray, pray come and look at the map!”

Protesting against the abandonment of his own project, which he declared, and sincerely believed, to be perfectly adapted to meet the emergency in which they were placed, Uncle Joseph joined his niece in examining the map. A little beyond the post-town, a crossroad was marked, running northward at right angles with the highway that led to Truro, and conducting to another road, which looked large enough to be a coach-road, and which led through a town of sufficient importance to have its name printed in capital letters. On discovering this, Sarah proposed that they should follow the crossroad (which did not appear on the map to be more than five or six miles long) on foot, abstaining from taking any conveyance until they had arrived at the town marked in capital letters. By pursuing this course, they would destroy all trace of their progress after leaving the post-town⁠—unless, indeed, they were followed on foot from this place, as they had been followed over the moor. In the event of any fresh difficulty of that sort occurring, Sarah had no better remedy to propose than lingering on the road till after nightfall, and leaving it to the darkness to baffle the vigilance of any person who might be watching in the distance to see where they went.

Uncle Joseph shrugged his shoulders resignedly when his niece gave her reasons for wishing to continue the journey on foot. “There is much tramping through dust, and much looking behind us, and much spying and peeping and suspecting and roundabout walking in all this,” he said. “It is by no means so easy, my child, as making sure of the landlord, and sitting at our ease on the cushions of the stagecoach. But if you will have it so, so shall it be. What you please, Sarah; what you please⁠—that is all the opinion of my own that I allow myself to have till we are back again at Truro, and are rested for good and all at the end of our journey.”

“At the end of your journey, uncle: I dare not say at the end of mine.”

Those few words changed the old man’s face in an instant. His eyes fixed reproachfully on his niece, his ruddy cheeks lost their color, his restless hands dropped suddenly to his sides. “Sarah!” he said, in a low, quiet tone, which seemed to have no relation to the voice in which he spoke on ordinary occasions⁠—“Sarah! have you the heart to leave me again?”

“Have I the courage to stay in Cornwall? That is the question to ask me, uncle. If I had only my own heart to consult, oh! how gladly I should live under your roof⁠—live under it, if you would let me, to my dying day! But my lot is not cast for such rest and such happiness as that. The fear that I have of being questioned by Mrs. Frankland drives me away from Porthgenna, away from Cornwall, away from you. Even my dread of the letter being found is hardly so great now as my dread of being traced and questioned. I have said what I ought not to have said already. If I find myself in Mrs. Frankland’s presence again, there is nothing that she might not draw out of me. Oh, my God! to think of that kindhearted, lovely young woman, who brings happiness with her wherever she goes, bringing terror to me! Terror when her pitying eyes look at me; terror when her kind voice speaks to me; terror when her tender hand touches mine! Uncle! when Mrs. Frankland comes to Porthgenna, the very children will crowd about her⁠—every creature in that poor village will be drawn toward the light of her beauty and her goodness, as if it was the sunshine of Heaven itself; and I⁠—I, of all living beings⁠—must shun her as if she was a pestilence! The day