‘Oh, don’t think _you_ are in question now,’ said the lady with an
arch smile; ‘wait to the end of the story. My husband came home one
day in a state of great excitement. He had in his pocket a copy of the
_Weekly Dredger_, which contained an instalment of a serial story just
commenced.
“Read that,” he cried. When I had finished: “Now, what do you think?”
‘But I was trembling all over with terror.
“What’s the matter?” he cried.
“O Charles!” I said, “if I did not know it was impossible, I should say
that no one but my late husband could have written this.”
‘So strongly was I penetrated with this idea, that for a long time I
forbade him to make any inquiry after the author. At last we were so
pressed to supply another novel that I consented that he should make
inquiries. The story in the _Weekly Dredger_, we found, had become
so grotesque and bizarre, that finally the editor brought it to an
abrupt close himself, refusing to take any more of it; and he made no
difficulty whatever about telling our business agent in confidence the
name of the writer. I must tell you we had found it necessary to employ
an agent, Mr Smith, who has served us faithfully enough, but who was
never permitted to see my husband. Well, Charles wrote cautiously to
the author of this queer story, who, it seemed, lived in France; asking
him to send specimens of his stories, and specifying the quantity
required for possible publication, with his terms. We had in reply a
pile of manuscript. Judge of the relief I felt when I found that the
handwriting was quite unfamiliar to me. His terms were so low that
we had no difficulty in undertaking to accept all his work. For some
seventy pounds a year we secured everything he wrote. A great deal of
the stuff was utterly useless to us, but every now and then he gave us
the framework of a powerful story. Well, all of a sudden he turns sulky
and refuses to send any more. Charlie would have found some one to
supply his place, no doubt. But now I come to the great misfortune of
my life’—with faltering voice—‘the death of my dear husband.’
‘Your husband dead!’ I cried, quite unprepared for the announcement.
‘Yes, he is dead; and unhappy me, I have not been able to mourn his
loss except in secret and with precautions. The funeral even was
conducted with as much caution as if he had been a felon, and we had
been ashamed of having to own that he had belonged to us. And he was
the kindest, most affectionate——
‘But it was his own wish,’ she went on after a pause. ‘He planned out
everything. You see that although our writings—compilations should I
call them?’ she said with a faint attempt at a smile—‘brought us in a
nice income, yet we were pleasure-loving people, and had always been
accustomed to plenty of society, and we had saved nothing out of it.
We have two children, a boy at Rugby, and a daughter at an expensive
school; and there is poor Charlie’s sister, the lady who accompanies
me, and she has no one else to depend upon but me. Besides, as Charlie
urged before he died: “_I_ am not Collingwood Dawson,” he said; “why
should my death be the cause of his? Keep him alive, old woman, to be
a support to you and the children and Lizzie.” Those were almost his
last words, dear brave fellow!’ She rose and left the room, overcome by
uncontrollable emotion.
My thoughts, after Mrs Collingwood quitted me, were rather of a serious
turn. I reflected that my own interests were bound up in the same
cause, and that my own livelihood hung very much upon keeping up Mr
Collingwood Dawson as a going concern. It was too late to go back now.
If I had gained experience I had lost connection. My own place had been
filled up. Mr Collingwood Dawson had become as necessary to me as to
the widow and her family. Still the idea of a person who never died,
who enjoyed a sort of corporate existence, or like the living Buddha,
transferred his identity from one body to another, a being who could go
on writing novels and publishing them till the crack of doom, struck
one with a kind of awe.
As a relief to the troubled current of my thoughts I took up a
newspaper which Mrs Collingwood had brought with her. It was
the _Hebdomadal Review_, the number containing the review of
Collingwood Dawson’s last novel. I turned to the page with a kind
of pleased excitement, for the short abstract that I had seen in
the advertisement, as you have seen, was calculated to give me the
impression that the critique was an appreciative one. It was so short
that I have no scruple in giving it _in extenso_: ‘If it be necessary,
and we suppose it is, that silly ill-educated people should be supplied
with the morbid trash suited to their high capacity, there is no reason
why Mr Collingwood Dawson should not cater for their wants. We can
say of his novel that it is very good stuff of the kind. The pity is
that there should be so many readers for this kind of stuff. We only
hope that young ladies of the class who find Mr Dawson’s compilations
acceptable, will not be unduly led away from the paramount claims of
seam and gusset and band by the enticing interest of his story.’
Satire like this does not hit very hard, however, and my only feeling
after the first disappointment was of amusement at the ingenuity that
had been able to extract the sting from it and secure the latent honey.
One word, however, seemed dangerous—‘compilations.’ Was it possible
that the critic had discovered the composite nature of Mr Collingwood
Dawson?
* * * * *
‘Can you lend me five pounds?’ said a gruff voice behind me. I turned
and saw the squat figure of M. Houlot close to my chair.
It was an embarrassing question. There was nothing in M. Houlot’s
appearance to invite confidence—at all events to the extent of five
pounds. At the same time, M. Houlot had in my mind loomed into
considerable importance, for since I had heard Mrs Collingwood’s
story, I had identified him with the third portion of Mr Collingwood
Dawson.
‘Oh, if it requires consideration, don’t think about it,’ said Houlot
roughly. ‘I won’t trouble you.’
‘Stop a minute,’ I replied; ‘wait. I don’t know whether I have the
money. I must ask my wife.’
‘Oh, you are one of the wretched slaves of a petticoat, are you?’ said
Houlot with a rasping laugh. ‘I should have thought you had lived
through _that_ stage of your development.’
‘As she will be the principal sufferer if the money should not be
returned, she is entitled to a voice in the matter.’
‘Look here! If it comes to asking your wife, I’ll withdraw my request.
I know what that means, well enough. But if you are afraid of not
getting your money back, I’ll give you security.—What security? Why,
manuscripts worth ten, twenty pounds. I should say, if I were some
people—of priceless value.’
‘Ah!’ I said to myself, ‘there is Houlot, who has quarrelled with his
bread-and-butter, and now he comes to me to borrow money to go on with.
Would it not be better to send for Mrs Collingwood, to see if this is
really the man who supplies her with her plots; and if so, to make the
peace between them, and get him to continue the supply?’
Mrs Collingwood saved me the trouble of sending for her. I saw her
coming across the garden to the pavilion. She was composed now and
cheerful; she led one of my girls by the hand, and was telling her a
story, I fancy, in which the child seemed uncommonly interested.
Houlot was standing leaning against the mantelpiece with his back to
the doorway, and under his arm his stick, which he was rubbing with the
point of his hook, as was his custom when vexed. I saw Mrs Collingwood
coming in at the doorway—door and windows were wide open. All of a
sudden her face whitened all over, and she tottered backwards. I ran
to her assistance; but when I reached the garden, she had already
disappeared within the house.
‘Am I a hobgoblin, that I frighten people?’ said Houlot savagely,
coming to the door. ‘Where’s that woman who ran away?’
I made no reply; and he went on rubbing his stick with the iron hook,
apparently in a very evil temper.
‘I want that money particularly. I want to go to England and expose
this Collingwood Dawson, to strip him of his borrowed plumes, and shew
the British public what a daw this fellow is whom they admire. Come;
give me this five pounds, and let me go.’
‘I can’t say anything more to you just now,’ I replied. ‘I will let you
know to-morrow.’
‘That will lose me two days; I want to start to-morrow.’
‘I can’t help it. I can’t let you have the money now.’
Houlot saw that I was in some flurry and confusion, and thought
probably that I was afraid of him, and that by bullying me a little he
should get what he wanted.
‘Come now!’ he cried; ‘go and get me that money. I know what I know,
and I am not to be stopped for a paltry five-pound note.’
My reply was to shew him the door. He scowled at me, fingered his stick
as if he had a mind to hit me, thought better of it seemingly, and went
out growling inarticulately.
‘Where is he, that man?’ cried Mrs Collingwood meeting me in the
doorway of the house, looking quite livid with fear. ‘What do you know
of him? Where does he come from?’
‘He is your correspondent, the author of your plots.’
‘Ah, then is he my husband!’ she cried in a voice that, though low and
subdued, was full of anguish. ‘What a wretched being am I, to have seen
him!’
‘It would have been worse still had he seen you,’ I muttered. ‘Come,
Mrs Collingwood—come into the garden, into the open air; you will be
better there. Take my arm; keep up your heart; all will be well yet.’
‘Where is he? where is he?’ was all she could say.
‘He is gone; you are quite safe.’
We began to pace up and down the garden together, she wringing her
hands and writhing with pain and emotion.
‘Do consider,’ I said, ‘that he has kept out of the way all these
years, and that he is not likely to trouble you now.’
‘Oh! I can’t bear to think. The children—poor Charlie, what will become
of us all?’
‘The children will take no harm,’ I said, ‘if you act prudently. All
will be well; and your late husband is out of the reach of any trouble.’
‘Ah yes, poor Charlie! I wish I had died with him. Even now he may be
reproaching me! How dreadful, dreadful it all is!’
I could not give her much consolation; for besides these troubles of
the heart, other and less manageable difficulties I saw were impending.
At the first blush it was impossible to say what would become of us all
in this imbroglio. Certainly if any one were entitled to be considered
Collingwood Dawson, it was the man who had originated the works by
which he had obtained his fame. On the other hand, he would never have
had any success himself. No publisher would have looked twice at books
which were so violent and coarse. All the labour and pains that had
been taken in bringing his writings into an acceptable form, were they
to go for nothing? And was it to be allowed that a man who had thrown
off all ties and abandoned his place in the world, should resume them
when other people had made them worth possessing? It seemed not; and
yet the law would be on his side.
There was only one consoling feature in the position—the man had no
money. He could not move without that; and if he had been able to
obtain it from any other source, he would hardly have come to borrow
from a stranger; but this was a very frail barrier after all. He might,
if he were determined to get back to England, find his way to the
nearest port, and get passed home by the consul as a distressed British
subject. Why he had not gone over to England when he first discovered
the use that had been made of his talents, was probably because he
waited to complete some work he had in hand, which might serve as an
introduction to the publishers, and a sort of voucher for his claim.
Was there, however, no possibility of mistake? Was it perfectly
certain that this was the missing husband? Mrs Collingwood had no hope
that there was any error. She knew him perfectly. It was impossible
that there should be two such people in the world together, identical
in mind and in person. That his handwriting had so completely changed,
seemed to her unaccountable; but it did not move her faith in his
identity. And an explanation was soon found for this; for he had lost
his right hand since his flight, and consequently wrote with his left.
I said just now that I could give Mrs Collingwood no comfort; but there
was one thing that bound us all together and insured sympathy between
us: we were so to speak all in the same boat. Our livelihood depended
upon keeping up the integrity of Collingwood Dawson.