The Complete Short Stories of Wilkie Collins. Уилки Коллинз

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      On that evening I risked the worst, and opened my negotiations for the future with “The Queen of Hearts.”

      About an hour after the tea had been removed, and when I happened to be left alone in the room with her, I noticed that she rose suddenly and went to the writing-table. My suspicions were aroused directly, and I entered on the dangerous subject by inquiring if she intended to write to her aunt.

      “Yes,” she said. “I promised to write when the last week came. If you had paid me the compliment of asking me to stay a little longer, I should have returned it by telling you I was sorry to go. As it is, I mean to be sulky and say nothing.”

      With those words she took up her pen to begin the letter.

      “Wait a minute,” I remonstrated. “I was just on the point of begging you to stay when I spoke.”

      “Were you, indeed?” she returned. “I never believed in coincidences of that sort before, but now, of course, I put the most unlimited faith in them!”

      “Will you believe in plain proofs?” I asked, adopting her humor. “How do you think I and my brothers have been employing ourselves all day to-day and all day yesterday? Guess what we have been about.”

      “Congratulating yourselves in secret on my approaching departure,” she answered, tapping her chin saucily with the feather-end of her pen.

      I seized the opportunity of astonishing her, and forthwith told her the truth. She started up from the table, and approached me with the eagerness of a child, her eyes sparkling, and her cheeks flushed.

      “Do you really mean it?” she said.

      I assured her that I was in earnest. She thereupon not only expressed an interest in our undertaking, which was evidently sincere, but, with characteristic impatience, wanted to begin the first evening’s reading on that very night. I disappointed her sadly by explaining that we required time to prepare ourselves, and by assuring her that we should not be ready for the next five days. On the sixth day, I added, we should be able to begin, and to go on, without missing an evening, for probably ten days more.

      “The next five days?” she replied. “Why, that will just bring us to the end of my six weeks’ visit. I suppose you are not setting a trap to catch me? This is not a trick of you three cunning old gentlemen to make me stay on, is it?”

      I quailed inwardly as that dangerously close guess at the truth passed her lips.

      “You forget,” I said, “that the idea only occurred to me after what you said yesterday. If it had struck me earlier, we should have been ready earlier, and then where would your suspicions have been?”

      “I am ashamed of having felt them,” she said, in her frank, hearty way. “I retract the word ‘trap,’ and I beg pardon for calling you ‘three cunning old gentlemen.’ But what am I to say to my aunt?”

      She moved back to the writing-table as she spoke.

      “Say nothing,” I replied, “till you have heard the first story. Shut up the paper-case till that time, and then decide when you will open it again to write to your aunt.”

      She hesitated and smiled. That terribly close guess of hers was not out of her mind yet.

      “I rather fancy,” she said, slyly, “that the story will turn out to be the best of the whole series.”

      “Wrong again,” I retorted. “I have a plan for letting chance decide which of the stories the first one shall be. They shall be all numbered as they are done; corresponding numbers shall be written inside folded pieces of card and well mixed together; you shall pick out any one card you like; you shall declare the number written within; and, good or bad, the story that answers to that number shall be the story that is read. Is that fair?”

      “Fair!” she exclaimed; “it’s better than fair; it makes me of some importance; and I must be more or less than woman not to appreciate that.”

      “Then you consent to wait patiently for the next five days?”

      “As patiently as I can.”

      “And you engage to decide nothing about writing to your aunt until you have heard the first story?”

      “I do,” she said, returning to the writing-table. “Behold the proof of it.” She raised her hand with theatrical solemnity, and closed the paper-case with an impressive bang.

      I leaned back in my chair with my mind at ease for the first time since the receipt of my son’s letter.

      “Only let George return by the first of November,” I thought to myself, “and all the aunts in Christendom shall not prevent Jessie Yelverton from being here to meet him.”

      The Ten Days.

      The First Day.

      Showery and unsettled. In spite of the weather, Jessie put on my Mackintosh cloak and rode off over the hills to one of Owen’s outlying farms. She was already too impatient to wait quietly for the evening’s reading in the house, or to enjoy any amusement less exhilarating than a gallop in the open air.

      I was, on my side, as anxious and as uneasy as our guest. Now that the six weeks of her stay had expired — now that the day had really arrived, on the evening of which the first story was to be read, I began to calculate the chances of failure as well as the chances of success. What if my own estimate of the interest of the stories turned out to be a false one? What if some unforeseen accident occurred to delay my son’s return beyond ten days?

      The arrival of the newspaper had already become an event of the deepest importance to me. Unreasonable as it was to expect any tidings of George at so early a date, I began, nevertheless, on this first of our days of suspense, to look for the name of his ship in the columns of telegraphic news. The mere mechanical act of looking was some relief to my overstrained feelings, although I might have known, and did know, that the search, for the present, could lead to no satisfactory result.

      Toward noon I shut myself up with my collection of manuscripts to revise them for the last time. Our exertions had thus far produced but six of the necessary ten stories. As they were only, however, to be read, one by one, on six successive evenings, and as we could therefore count on plenty of leisure in the daytime, I was in no fear of our failing to finish the little series.

      Of the six completed stories I had written two, and had found a third in the form of a collection of letters among my papers. Morgan had only written one, and this solitary contribution of his had given me more trouble than both my own put together, in consequence of the perpetual intrusion of my brother’s eccentricities in every part of his narrative. The process of removing these quaint turns and frisks of Morgan’s humor — which, however amusing they might have been in an essay, were utterly out of place in a story appealing to suspended interest for its effect — certainly tried my patience and my critical faculty (such as it is) more severely than any other part of our literary enterprise which had fallen my share.

      Owen’s investigations among his papers had supplied us with the two remaining narratives. One was contained in a letter, and the other in the form of a diary, and both had been received by him directly from the writers. Besides these contributions, he had undertaken to help us by some work of his own, and had been engaged for the last four days in molding СКАЧАТЬ