The Lock and Key Library: Classic Mystery and Detective Stories: Modern English
no fear of the Italians, who had even spared all the little possessions
left in my encampment; and, broken as she was by the excitement and the
hideous catastrophe of the evening, I managed, in one way or another--by
persuasion, encouragement, warmth, and such simple remedies as I could lay
my hand on--to bring her back to some composure of mind and strength of
body.
Day had already come, when a sharp "Hist!" sounded from the thicket. I
started from the ground; but the voice of Northmour was heard adding, in
the most tranquil tones: "Come here, Cassilis, and alone; I want to show
you something."
I consulted Clara with my eyes, and, receiving her tacit permission, left
her alone, and clambered out of the den. At some distance off I saw
Northmour leaning against an elder; and, as soon as he perceived me, he
began walking seaward. I had almost overtaken him as he reached the
outskirts of the wood.
"Look," said he, pausing.
A couple of steps more brought me out of the foliage. The light of the
morning lay cold and clear over that well-known scene. The pavilion was
but a blackened wreck; the roof had fallen in, one of the gables had
fallen out; and, far and near, the face of the links was cicatrized with
little patches of burned furze. Thick smoke still went straight upward in
the windless air of the morning, and a great pile of ardent cinders filled
the bare walls of the house, like coals in an open grate. Close by the
islet a schooner yacht lay to, and a well-manned boat was pulling
vigorously for the shore.
"The 'Red Earl'!" I cried. "The 'Red Earl' twelve hours too late!"
"Feel in your pocket, Frank. Are you armed?" asked Northmour.
I obeyed him, and I think I must have become deadly pale. My revolver had
been taken from me.
"You see, I have you in my power," he continued. "I disarmed you last
night while you were nursing Clara; but this morning--here--take your
pistol. No thanks!" he cried, holding up his hand. "I do not like them;
that is the only way you can annoy me now."
He began to walk forward across the links to meet the boat, and I followed
a step or two behind. In front of the pavilion I paused to see where Mr.
Huddlestone had fallen; but there was no sign of him, nor so much as a
trace of blood.
"Graden Floe," said Northmour.
He continued to advance till we had come to the head of the beach.
"No farther, please," said he. "Would you like to take her to Graden
House?"
"Thank you," replied I; "I shall try to get her to the minister at Graden
Wester."
The prow of the boat here grated on the beach, and a sailor jumped ashore
with a line in his hand.
"Wait a minute, lads!" cried Northmour; and then lower and to my private
ear, "You had better say nothing of all this to her," he added.
"On the contrary!" I broke out, "she shall know everything that I can
tell."
"You do not understand," he returned, with an air of great dignity. "It
will be nothing to her; she expects it of me. Good-by!" he added, with a
nod.
I offered him my hand.
"Excuse me," said he. "It's small, I know; but I can't push things quite
so far as that. I don't wish any sentimental business, to sit by your
hearth a white-haired wanderer, and all that. Quite the contrary: I hope
to God I shall never again clap eyes on either one of you."
"Well, God bless you, Northmour!" I said heartily.
"Oh, yes," he returned.
He walked down the beach; and the man who was ashore gave him an arm on
board, and then shoved off and leaped into the bows himself. Northmour
took the tiller; the boat rose to the waves, and the oars between the
tholepins sounded crisp and measured in the morning air.
They were not yet half way to the "Red Earl," and I was still watching
their progress, when the sun rose out of the sea.
One word more, and my story is done. Years after, Northmour was killed
fighting under the colors of Garibaldi for the liberation of the Tyrol.
Wilkie Collins
_The Dream Woman_
_A Mystery in Four Narratives_
THE FIRST NARRATIVE
INTRODUCTORY STATEMENT OF THE FACTS BY PERCY FAIRBANK
I
"Hullo, there! Hostler! Hullo-o-o!"
"My dear! why don't you look for the bell?"
"I have looked--there is no bell."
"And nobody in the yard. How very extraordinary! Call again, dear."
"Hostler! Hullo, there! Hostler-r-r!"
My second call echoes through empty space, and rouses nobody--produces, in
short, no visible result. I am at the end of my resources--I don't know
what to say or what to do next. Here I stand in the solitary inn yard of a
strange town, with two horses to hold, and a lady to take care of. By way
of adding to my responsibilities, it so happens that one of the horses is
dead lame, and that the lady is my wife.
Who am I?--you will ask.
There is plenty of time to answer the question. Nothing happens; and
nobody appears to receive us. Let me introduce myself and my wife.
I am Percy Fairbank--English gentleman--age (let us say) forty--no
profession--moderate politics--middle height--fair complexion--easy
character--plenty of money.
My wife is a French lady. She was Mademoiselle Clotilde Delorge--when I
was first presented to her at her father's house in France. I fell in love
with her--I really don't know why. It might have been because I was
perfectly idle, and had nothing else to do at the time. Or it might have
been because all my friends said she was the very last woman whom I ought
to think of marrying. On the surface, I must own, there is nothing in
common between Mrs. Fairbank and me. She is tall; she is dark; she is
nervous, excitable, romantic; in all her opinions she proceeds to
extremes. What could such a woman see in me? what could I see in her? I
know no more than you do. In some mysterious manner we exactly suit each
other. We have been man and wife for ten years, and our only regret is,
that we have no children. I don't know what you may think; I call
that--upon the whole--a happy marriage.
So much for ourselves. The next question is--what has brought us into the
inn yard? and why am I obliged to turn groom, and hold the horses?
We live for the most part in France--at the country house in which my wife
and I first met. Occasionally, by way of variety, we pay visits to my
friends in England. We are paying one of those visits now. Our host is an
old college friend of mine, possessed of a fine estate in Somersetshire;
and we have arrived at his house--called Farleigh Hall--toward the close
of the hunting season.
On the day of which I am now writing--destined to be a memorable day in
our calendar--the hounds meet at Farleigh Hall. Mrs. Fairbank and I are
mounted on two of the best horses in my friend's stables. We are quite
unworthy of that distinction; for we know nothing and care nothing about
hunting. On the other hand, we delight in riding, and we enjoy the breezy
Spring morning and the fair and fertile English landscape surrounding us
on every side. While the hunt prospers, we follow the hunt. But when a
check occurs--when time passes and patience is sorely tried; when the
bewildered dogs run hither and thither, and strong language falls from
the lips of exasperated sportsmen--we fail to take any further interest in
the proceedings. We turn our horses' heads in the direction of a grassy
lane, delightfully shaded by trees. We trot merrily along the lane, and
find ourselves on an open common. We gallop across the common, and follow
the windings of a second lane. We cross a brook, we pass through a
village, we emerge into pastoral solitude among the hills. The horses toss
their heads, and neigh to each other, and enjoy it as much as we do. The
hunt is forgotten. We are as happy as a couple of children; we are
actually singing a French song--when in one moment our merriment comes to
an end. My wife's horse sets one of his forefeet on a loose stone, and
stumbles. His rider's ready hand saves him from falling. But, at the first
attempt he makes to go on, the sad truth shows itself--a tendon is
strained; the horse is lame.
What is to be done? We are strangers in a lonely part of the country. Look
where we may, we see no signs of a human habitation. There is nothing for
it but to take the bridle road up the hill, and try what we can discover
on the other side. I transfer the saddles, and mount my wife on my own
horse. He is not used to carry a lady; he misses the familiar pressure of
a man's legs on either side of him; he fidgets, and starts, and kicks up
the dust. I follow on foot, at a respectful distance from his heels,
leading the lame horse. Is there a more miserable object on the face of
creation than a lame horse? I have seen lame men and lame dogs who were
cheerful creatures; but I never yet saw a lame horse who didn't look
heartbroken over his own misfortune.
For half an hour my wife capers and curvets sideways along the bridle
road. I trudge on behind her; and the heartbroken horse halts behind _me_.
Hard by the top of the hill, our melancholy procession passes a
Somersetshire peasant at work in a field. I summon the man to approach us;
and the man looks at me stolidly, from the middle of the field, without
stirring a step. I ask at the top of my voice how far it is to Farleigh
Hall. The Somersetshire peasant answers at the top of _his_ voice:
"Vourteen mile. Gi' oi a drap o' zyder."
I translate (for my wife's benefit) from the Somersetshire language into
the English language. We are fourteen miles from Farleigh Hall; and our
friend in the field desires to be rewarded, for giving us that
information, with a drop of cider. There is the peasant, painted by
himself! Quite a bit of character, my dear! Quite a bit of character!
Mrs. Fairbank doesn't view the study of agricultural human nature with my
relish. Her fidgety horse will not allow her a moment's repose; she is
beginning to lose her temper.
"We can't go fourteen miles in this way," she says. "Where is the nearest
inn? Ask that brute in the field!"
I take a shilling from my pocket and hold it up in the sun. The shilling
exercises magnetic virtues. The shilling draws the peasant slowly toward
me from the middle of the field. I inform him that we want to put up the
horses and to hire a carriage to take us back to Farleigh Hall. Where can
we do that? The peasant answers (with his eye on the shilling):
"At Oonderbridge, to be zure." (At Underbridge, to be sure.)
"Is it far to Underbridge?"
The peasant repeats, "Var to Oonderbridge?"--and laughs at the question.
"Hoo-hoo-hoo!" (Underbridge is evidently close by--if we could only find
it.) "Will you show us the way, my man?" "Will you gi' oi a drap of
zyder?" I courteously bend my head, and point to the shilling. The
agricultural intelligence exerts itself. The peasant joins our melancholy
procession. My wife is a fine woman, but he never once looks at my
wife--and, more extraordinary still, he never even looks at the horses.
His eyes are with his mind--and his mind is on the shilling.
We reach the top of the hill--and, behold on the other side, nestling in
a valley, the shrine of our pilgrimage, the town of Underbridge! Here our
guide claims his shilling, and leaves us to find out the inn for
ourselves. I am constitutionally a polite man. I say "Good morning" at
parting. The guide looks at me with the shilling between his teeth to make
sure that it is a good one. "Marnin!" he says savagely--and turns his back
on us, as if we had offended him. A curious product, this, of the growth
of civilization. If I didn't see a church spire at Underbridge, I might
suppose that we had lost ourselves on a savage island.
II
Arriving at the town, we had no difficulty in finding the inn. The town is
composed of one desolate street; and midway in that street stands the