JAMES WILDER
It is about six months ago. I was in a very bad way. I was walking
along the south side of Russell Square one day--the 17th of September I
remember now--and thinking to myself how I should pay my landlady the
three weeks' rent owing to her.
Deeply as I was trying to think I could not help noticing a man coming
towards me, striding along with his hat tilted back from his forehead,
his head in the air, and looking just like a person walking in his
sleep. I made way to let him pass, then suddenly I felt him grasp me by
the arm and I heard him say "Ah!"
I knew at once--how shall I put it--that he only wanted to speak to me,
that he had mistaken me for someone he knew, and as I looked in his
face I did not feel a bit afraid, although his face was strange enough,
goodness knows.
"What is your name?" he asked.
"Jane Seymour," I replied, for it was my name, at least the name I went
under.
"Ah!" he said, and his hand fell from my arm. I never saw a person look
so disappointed as he looked just then; I heard him muttering something
like "always the same, disappointment, death," then he turned to go,
and I broke into tears.
I was hungry and I had no money; he had seemed almost friendly, and now
he was going--I could scarcely speak, I leaned up against the railings,
I remember trying to hide a hole in my glove, for I had determined on
telling him my real name.
"Well?" he said, "Well?"
"My name is Beatrice Sinclair," I answered; "that is my real name."
Then I stopped crying, for I was absolutely frightened, _such_ a
change came over this strange man; two large tears ran down his face,
he clasped his hands together with the fingers across the backs of each
hand, and I thought for one moment that he was a lunatic, then somehow
I _knew_ that he was not.
"Beatrice Sinclair," he muttered to me in a low voice, as if afraid of
someone else hearing him, "Beatrice Sinclair, oh, Beatrice! the time
I have been searching for you, the three weary years, the nights of
terror; but it is over now, thank God! thank God."
I felt very strange as he said all this. I knew well that this man was
not in love with me; I had no relations, so he could not be a relation,
and yet I knew in a horribly certain kind of manner that he knew me,
that he had been searching for me, and--had found me.
A hansom cab was passing, he hailed it and we both got in, then I heard
him giving directions to the driver, "No.--Berkeley Square," he said,
"and drive quick."
"You look pale and sick," that was the only thing he said during our
drive. But the way in which he said it was very queer. He did not seem
in the least to care whether I was pale or sick, and yet he had seemed
so glad to find me, "Can he be mad after all?" thought I.
The cab stopped at a large house in Berkeley Square, and we got out; he
gave the driver half-a-sovereign, and without waiting for the change
went up the steps, and opened the door with a latch-key; "Come on," he
said, beckoning to me, and I followed.
We entered a great hall with a floor of polished oak; I saw jars of
flowers standing here and there, and idols half hidden by palms and
long feathery grasses.
He opened a door and motioned me to enter a room, and I went in,
feeling horrible in my shabby clothes amongst all this splendour.
It was a library. He told me to sit down, and I sat in a great
easy-chair, looking about me whilst he went to a window, and stood for
nearly a minute looking out, jingling money in his pocket, but not
speaking a word.
--Oh, this writing makes my head ache so, and this cough, cough, cough,
that tears me from morning till night!--
Well, he stood at the window without speaking, and I kept trying to
hide my boots under my skirt; but I looked about me, and noticed
everything in the room at the same time.
The books were all set in narrow bookcases, and between the bookcases
there were spaces occupied by pictures, and I never had seen such
strange pictures before. They were just like pictures of ghosts,
beautiful faces nearly all of them, but they seemed like faces made out
of mist, if you understand me. Over the mantelpiece stood a portrait of
an old man with grey hair, and on the gold frame of this picture was
written in black letters the name, "Swedenborg."
At last my companion turned from the window, wheeled a chair close to
me, and sat down.
"Now," he said, "I want you to tell me all you know about your family.
I want to make perfectly sure that you _are_ the person for whom I have
been seeking. Tell me unreservedly, it will be to your advantage."
He had taken his gloves off now, and I saw that his hands, very white
and delicate-looking, were absolutely covered with the most exquisite
rings.
"Mine is a very old family," I said. "We lived once in a castle in the
North of England, Castle Sinclair."
"Yes, yes."
"My father was an officer. He was very extravagant. He died in India. I
was sent to school in England, then I became a governess--then--then--"
"You need not tell me the rest," he said, "I know it. Yes, you are
indeed Beatrice Sinclair." He looked at me in a gloomy manner. Then
"You have spoken frankly," he said, "and I shall do the same. My name
is James Wilder."
He paused, and looked at me hard, but I said nothing.
"Ah!" he continued, "you know nothing of the past, then? Perhaps it
is better so, but I must tell you some of it, so that you may do what
I require you to do. Listen. In the reign of King Charles the First a
terrible tragedy happened. A member of the Wilder family did a fearful
wrong upon a member of the Sinclair family. No family feud took place,
because Gerald Wilder, who had committed this wrong, expiated it by
suicide, but a blind, reasonless, unintentional feud has been going on
between the two houses ever since. The house of Sinclair has warred
with our family in a strange and fearful manner. All the eldest sons of
our house have been slain before the age of twenty by--a Sinclair. My
eldest brother was slain by your father's brother."
"My father's brother?"
"Yes, they were out shooting together. My brother was shot dead by
your uncle. It was an accident; no one was to blame, but fate. Now the
fortunes of the two families have been altering during all these years.
The house of Wilder is at its zenith. Speaking in a worldly sense, I
am worth at least fifty thousand a year, at _least_, and the house of
Sinclair?--you are its last representative, how much are you worth?"
"Less than nothing."
"Let us be friends then, let us be friends," said Wilder, in a voice
full of supplication. How strange it sounded to hear a man like this,
wealthy and great, asking for _my_ friendship. "Let us be friends,--the
two last representatives of these great houses must forgive each other.
Love can heal this awful wound, and the house of Wilder shall not be
extinct. Oh, God is great and good, he will sanction this love even
though you are what you are."
He was walking up and down the room as he spoke. "Does he want me to
love _him_?" I thought.
Then he stopped.
"You have no money?"
"None."
He went to a desk and drew out a cheque-book, scribbled for a moment,
tore off a cheque, and brought it to me.
I looked at it: it was a cheque on the British Linen Company's Bank for
five hundred pounds. I felt just as if I were drunk, the books in the
cases seemed to dance.
"This can't be for me," I remember saying; "or do you want me to do
some dreadful thing, that you offer me all this money----"
I stopped, for he was smiling at me such a melancholy, kind smile,
it told me at once that I had nothing to fear from him. He called me
"child," and took my hand and kissed it--I felt so ashamed of my glove,
but he did not seem to notice the holes in it, nor how old it was.
"Yes," he said, "the money is for you; you must buy yourself beautiful
clothes and some jewellery. I am going to send you to the north of
England, to do what has to be done. You must start on the day after
to-morrow; have no fear, I wish you to do nothing sinful or wrong, but
rather the best work mortal ever did; you shall be provided for. I
will set aside a fund for you under trustees; it is an act of piety,
not charity, for in saving the last of the Sinclairs from want I am
doing an act which may expiate the sin our house committed. Beatrice
Sinclair, you shall never want again, never be cold or hungry."
I was crying like a child. When I could cry no more he began speaking
again.
"You must stay in this house until you start, that is, if you please.
My carriage shall take you to all the shops you require to visit; by
the way, spend _all_ that money on clothes. I will give you a note
to the jewellers with whom I deal in Bond Street, and you can supply
yourself with all the jewellery you require; don't think about the
expense. You are beautiful by nature, but I wish you to be as beautiful
as art can make you. Then, again, you will require dressing-bags and
portmanteaux, and such things. I will give you a note to the best firm
in London. I need not speak to you on matters of taste; you are a
lady--I only say this, spare no expense. Is that cheque sufficient?"
"More than sufficient." I felt dazed and strange. Did he intend to
marry me? Why was he sending me to the north of England? But it was
delightful, I could not describe my feelings.
"Now you must have some food," he said, getting up and moving to the
door as he spoke. "Come with me to the dining-room."