The New Magdalen. Wilkie Collins
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returned to the business of filling up the form. “Pardon me for pressing the question,” he said. “You know what German discipline is by this time. What is your name?”
She answered him recklessly, defiantly, without fairly realizing what she was doing until it was done.
“Grace Roseberry,” she said.
The words were hardly out of her mouth before she would have given everything she possessed in the world to recall them.
“Miss?” asked Horace, smiling.
She could only answer him by bowing her head.
He wrote: “Miss Grace Roseberry”—reflected for a moment—and then added, interrogatively, “Returning to her friends in England?” Her friends in England? Mercy’s heart swelled: she silently replied by another sign. He wrote the words after the name, and shook the sandbox over the wet ink. “That will be enough,” he said, rising and presenting the pass to Mercy; “I will see you through the lines myself, and arrange for your being sent on by the railway. Where is your luggage?”
Mercy pointed toward the front door of the building. “In a shed outside the cottage,” she answered. “It is not much; I can do everything for myself if the sentinel will let me pass through the kitchen.”
Horace pointed to the paper in her hand. “You can go where you like now,” he said. “Shall I wait for you here or outside?”
Mercy glanced distrustfully at Ignatius Wetzel. He was again absorbed in his endless examination of the body on the bed. If she left him alone with Mr. Holmcroft, there was no knowing what the hateful old man might not say of her. She answered:
“Wait for me outside, if you please.”
The sentinel drew back with a military salute at the sight of the pass. All the French prisoners had been removed; there were not more than half-a-dozen Germans in the kitchen, and the greater part of them were asleep. Mercy took Grace Roseberry’s clothes from the corner in which they had been left to dry, and made for the shed—a rough structure of wood, built out from the cottage wall. At the front door she encountered a second sentinel, and showed her pass for the second time. She spoke to this man, asking him if he understood French. He answered that he understood a little. Mercy gave him a piece of money, and said: “I am going to pack up my luggage in the shed. Be kind enough to see that nobody disturbs me.” The sentinel saluted, in token that he understood. Mercy disappeared in the dark interior of the shed.
Left alone with Surgeon Wetzel, Horace noticed the strange old man still bending intently over the English lady who had been killed by the shell.
“Anything remarkable,” he asked, “in the manner of that poor creature’s death?”
“Nothing to put in a newspaper,” retorted the cynic, pursuing his investigations as attentively as ever.
“Interesting to a doctor—eh?” said Horace.
“Yes. Interesting to a doctor,” was the gruff reply.
Horace good-humoredly accepted the hint implied in those words. He quitted the room by the door leading into the yard, and waited for the charming Englishwoman, as he had been instructed, outside the cottage.
Left by himself, Ignatius Wetzel, after a first cautious look all round him, opened the upper part of Grace’s dress, and laid his left hand on her heart. Taking a little steel instrument from his waistcoat pocket with the other hand, he applied it carefully to the wound, raised a morsel of the broken and depressed bone of the skull, and waited for the result. “Aha!” he cried, addressing with a terrible gayety the senseless creature under his hands. “The Frenchman says you are dead, my dear—does he? The Frenchman is a Quack! The Frenchman is an Ass!” He lifted his head, and called into the kitchen. “Max!” A sleepy young German, covered with a dresser’s apron from his chin to his feet, drew the curtain, and waited for his instructions. “Bring me my black bag,” said Ignatius Wetzel. Having given that order, he rubbed his hands cheerfully, and shook himself like a dog. “Now I am quite happy,” croaked the terrible old man, with his fierce eyes leering sidelong at the bed. “My dear, dead Englishwoman, I would not have missed this meeting with you for all the money I have in the world. Ha! you infernal French Quack, you call it death, do you? I call it suspended animation from pressure on the brain!”
Max appeared with the black bag.
Ignatius Wetzel selected two fearful instruments, bright and new, and hugged them to his bosom. “My little boys,” he said, tenderly, as if they were his children; “my blessed little boys, come to work!” He turned to the assistant. “Do you remember the battle of Solferino, Max—and the Austrian soldier I operated on for a wound on the head?”
The assistant’s sleepy eyes opened wide; he was evidently interested. “I remember,” he said. “I held the candle.”
The master led the way to the bed.
“I am not satisfied with the result of that operation at Solferino,” he said; “I have wanted to try again ever since. It’s true that I saved the man’s life, but I failed to give him back his reason along with it. It might have been something wrong in the operation, or it might have been something wrong in the man. Whichever it was, he will live and die mad. Now look here, my little Max, at this dear young lady on the bed. She gives me just what I wanted; here is the case at Solferino once more. You shall hold the candle again, my good boy; stand there, and look with all your eyes. I am going to try if I can save the life and the reason too this time.”
He tucked up the cuffs of his coat and began the operation. As his fearful instruments touched Grace’s head, the voice of the sentinel at the nearest outpost was heard, giving the word in German which permitted Mercy to take the first step on her journey to England:
“Pass the English lady!”
The operation proceeded. The voice of the sentinel at the next post was heard more faintly, in its turn: “Pass the English lady!”
The operation ended. Ignatius Wetzel held up his hand for silence and put his ear close to the patient’s mouth.
The first trembling breath of returning life fluttered over Grace Roseberry’s lips and touched the old man’s wrinkled cheek. “Aha!” he cried. “Good girl! you breathe—you live!” As he spoke, the voice of the sentinel at the final limit of the German lines (barely audible in the distance) gave the word for the last time:
“Pass the English lady!”
SECOND SCENE.—MABLETHORPE HOUSE.
PREAMBLE.
THE place is England.
The time is winter, in the year eighteen hundred and seventy.
The persons are, Julian Gray, Horace Holmcroft, Lady Janet Roy, Grace Roseberry, and Mercy Merrick.
CHAPTER VI. LADY JANET’S COMPANION.
IT is a glorious winter’s day. The sky is clear, the frost is hard, the ice bears for skating.
The dining-room of the ancient mansion called Mablethorpe House, situated in the London suburb of Kensington, is famous among artists and other persons of taste for the carved wood-work, of Italian origin, which covers the walls on three sides. On the fourth side the march of modern improvement has broken in, and has va ried and brightened the scene by means of a conservatory, forming an entrance to the room through a winter-garden of rare plants and flowers. On your right hand, as you stand fronting the conservatory, the monotony of the paneled wall is relieved by a quaintly patterned door of old inlaid wood, leading into the library, and thence, across the great hall, to the other reception-rooms of the house. A corresponding door on the left hand gives access to the billiard-room, to the smoking-room