Мертвая комната. Уровень 2 / The Dead Secret. Уилки Коллинз

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СКАЧАТЬ servant, took a candle and obeyed. When he opened the kitchen-door, a long row of bells met his eye on the wall opposite. Above each of them was painted the title of the servant whom it was specially intended to summon.

      Mathew passed quickly along the passage, and knocked at an oak door at the end of it. No answer. He opened the door and looked into the room. It was dark and empty.

      “Sarah is not in the housekeeper's room[3],” said Mathew to his fellow-servant in the kitchen.

      “She is in her own room, then,” rejoined the other. “Go up and tell her that she is wanted[4] by her mistress.”

      The bell rang again as Mathew went out.

      “Quick! Quick!” cried Robert.

      Mathew knocked at another oak door. A low, clear, sweet voice, inside the room answered him. In a few hasty words Mathew told his errand. The door was quietly and quickly opened, and Sarah Leeson confronted him, with a candle in her hand.

      She was not tall, not handsome, shy and irresolute in manner. Her cheeks lost their roundness and their natural color. Her lips faded to an unhealthy paleness. But her hair was thick and soft, it grew as gracefully, as the hair of a young girl; but it was as gray as the hair of an old woman.

      She stood for an instant speechless. Her hand was trembling while she held the candlestick. She shook her head, and thanked Mathew, then passed before him quickly.

      The room in which Mrs. Treverton lay was on the floor beneath. Sarah knocked at the door. It was opened by Captain Treverton.

      “Go in,” he said. “She does not wish the nurse; she only wishes for you. Call me if the doctor-” His voice faltered, and he hurried away.

      Sarah Leeson looked after her master attentively – with an eager terror in her eyes. She listened for a moment outside the door of the room and whispered affrightedly to herself,

      “Did she tell him?”

      Then she opened the door, with a visible effort; and went in.

      Mrs. Treverton's chamber was a large, lofty room in the western front of the house.

      “Mistress,” said Sarah Leeson, “my master has left the room, and has sent me here in his place.”

      “Light! Give me more light.”

      The feebleness of mortal sickness was in the voice; but the accent of the speaker sounded resolute. The strong nature of the mistress and the weak nature of the maid came out, even in that short interchange of words.

      Sarah lit two candles and placed them hesitatingly on a table by the bedside. She waited for a moment and then undrew the curtains.

      The disease of Mrs. Treverton was one of the most terrible of all the maladies that afflict humanity. The hand of Death was signing to her already from the Gates of the Grave.

      Mrs. Treverton held up her hand.

      “Bolt the door,” she said, with the accent of resolution. “Bolt the door. Let no one in.”

      “No one?” repeated Sarah, faintly. “Not the doctor? Not even my master?”

      “Not the doctor – not even your master,” said Mrs. Treverton, and pointed to the door.

      The hand was weak; but it was the gesture of command.

      Sarah bolted the door, returned irresolutely to the bedside, and said in a whisper:

      “Have you told my master?”

      “No,” was the answer. “I sent for him, to tell him. I love him so dearly! And I wanted to tell him, but he talked of the child. Sarah! He did nothing but talk of the child. That silenced me.”

      Sarah clasped her hands over her face, and groaned to herself,

      “Oh, what will happen! What will happen now!”

      Mrs. Treverton's eyes softened and moistened when she spoke of her love for her husband. She lay silent for a few minutes. Then she turned her head uneasily toward the chair in which her attendant was sitting, and spoke again.

      “Look for my medicine,” said she; “I want it.”

      Sarah stood up.

      “The doctor,” she said. “Let me call the doctor.”

      “No! The medicine – look for the medicine.”

      “Which bottle? The opiate – ”

      “No. Not the opiate. The other.”

      Sarah took a bottle from the table. She looked attentively at the direction on the label, and said that it was not yet time to take that medicine again.

      “Give me the bottle.”

      “Oh, don't ask me! The doctor said it was as bad as poison, if you took too much.”

      Mrs. Treverton's clear gray eyes began to flash. The rosy flush deepened on her cheeks. The commanding hand was raised again.

      “Take the cork out of the bottle,” she said, “and give it to me. I want strength. No matter whether I die in an hour's time or a week's. Give me the bottle.”

      “No, no – not the bottle!” said Sarah. “There are two doses left. Wait, wait till I get a glass.”

      She turned again toward the table. At the same instant Mrs. Treverton raised the bottle to her lips, and drained it of its contents.

      “She has killed herself!” cried Sarah.

      She ran in terror to the door.

      “Stop!” said the voice from the bed, more resolute than ever, already. “Stop! Come back and help me.”

      Sarah came back; and added one more to the many pillows which supported the dying woman's head and shoulders.

      “Did you unbolt the door?” Mrs. Treverton asked.

      “No.”

      “I forbid you to go near it again. Get my writing-case, and the pen and ink, from the cabinet near the window.”

      Sarah went to the cabinet and opened it. The writing-case, with a sheet of note-paper on it, was placed upon Mrs. Treverton's knees. Mrs. Treverton paused, closed her eyes for a minute, and sighed heavily. Then she began to write: To my Husband.

      “Oh, no! no! For God's sake, don't write it!” Sarah cried. “Don't write it to him if you can't tell it to him. Let the Secret die with you and die with me!”

      “The Secret must be told,” answered Mrs. Treverton. “My husband must know it. I tried to tell him, and my courage failed me. I can not trust you to tell him. It must be written. Take the pen, and write what I tell you.”

      Sarah wept bitterly.

      “You have been with me ever since my marriage,” Mrs. Treverton went on. “You have been my friend more than my servant. Do you refuse my last request? Fool! Listen to me. Write, or I shall not rest in my grave. Write, or I will come to you from the other world!”

      Sarah СКАЧАТЬ