CHAPTER IV

von Wilkie Collins

The signing of the Will turned out to be much quicker than I had expected. It felt rushed, almost disrespectfully so. Samuel, the footman, was called in to act as a second witness, and the pen was placed immediately in my aunt’s hand. I felt a strong urge to say a few fitting words for this significant moment, but Mr. Bruff’s demeanor made me think it was best to hold back while he was present. In less than two minutes, it was all done, and Samuel—unaware of what I might have said—had gone back downstairs.

Mr. Bruff folded the Will and glanced in my direction, seemingly unsure whether I intended to leave him alone with my aunt. I had my mission of mercy to fulfill, and my bag of treasured books was ready on my lap. He might as well have tried to move St. Paul’s Cathedral just by staring at it as to think he could move me. One thing I couldn’t deny about him—likely due to his worldly experience—was that he was quick to read the room. I seemed to leave him with the same impression I had left on the cab driver. That man had also muttered something profane and hurried away, leaving me in control of the situation.

Once we were alone, my aunt settled back on the sofa and, with a hint of embarrassment, brought up her Will.

“I hope you don’t feel neglected, Drusilla,” she said. “I intend to give you your little legacy, my dear, with my own hand.”

This was my golden opportunity! I seized it immediately. I opened my bag and pulled out the first book on top. It was an early edition—only the twenty-fifth—of the famous anonymous work, believed to be by the esteemed Miss Bellows, titled *The Serpent at Home*. The book aims to reveal how the Evil One lurks in the most seemingly innocent actions of our daily lives. The chapters most suitable for women include “Satan in the Hair Brush,” “Satan behind the Looking Glass,” “Satan under the Tea Table,” and “Satan out of the Window,” among others.

“Please pay attention to this valuable book, dear aunt, and you’ll give me everything I ask for.” With that, I handed it to her, opened to a highlighted passage—one continuous flow of passionate prose! The subject? Satan among the Sofa Cushions.

Poor Lady Verinder, reclining thoughtlessly on her own sofa cushions, glanced at the book and handed it back to me, looking more flustered than ever.

“I’m afraid, Drusilla,” she said, “I’ll have to wait until I feel a bit better before I can read that. The doctor—”

The moment she mentioned the doctor, I knew what was coming. Time and again in my past experiences with my suffering fellow beings, members of the notoriously skeptical medical profession had intervened between me and my mission of mercy, claiming that the patient needed peace and that the last thing they wanted was the influence of Miss Clack and her books. This same blind materialism, working insidiously behind my back, was now trying to rob me of the only claim my poverty allowed me—my right to spiritually support my ailing aunt.

“The doctor tells me,” my misguided relative continued, “that I’m not feeling well today. He forbids me from seeing any strangers and insists that if I read at all, it should only be light and entertaining books. ‘Do nothing, Lady Verinder, to tire your mind or raise your pulse’—those were his last words, Drusilla, when he left me today.”

There was no choice but to yield again—for now, at least. Any direct assertion of the vastly greater importance of my mission compared to that of the doctor would only provoke him to exploit my aunt’s vulnerabilities and threaten to abandon her care. Fortunately, there are many ways to plant good seeds, and few people know those ways better than I do.

“You might feel stronger in an hour or two,” I said. “Or you could wake up tomorrow morning with a sense that something is missing, and even this humble book might be able to fill that gap. Will you let me leave it with you, aunt? The doctor can hardly object to that!”

I tucked the book under the sofa cushions, half in and half out, right next to her handkerchief and her smelling bottle. Every time her hand reached for either of those, it would brush against the book. Sooner or later—who knows?—the book might end up touching her. After setting that up, I thought it best to leave.

“Let me leave you to rest, dear aunt; I’ll come by again tomorrow,” I said, glancing casually toward the window as I spoke. It was filled with flowers in boxes and pots. Lady Verinder had a deep affection for these delicate treasures and often got up to admire and smell them. A new idea struck me. “Oh! May I take a flower?” I asked, making my way to the window without being noticed. Instead of taking a flower, I added one—a book from my bag, which I left to surprise my aunt among the geraniums and roses.

Then a happy thought occurred to me: “Why not do the same for her, poor dear, in every room she enters?” I quickly said my goodbyes and crossed the hall, slipping into the library. Samuel, thinking I had already left, came up to let me out and then went back downstairs.

On the library table, I spotted two of the “amusing books” that the skeptical doctor had recommended. I immediately covered them with two of my own cherished publications. In the breakfast room, I found my aunt’s favorite canary singing in its cage. She always fed the bird herself, and some groundsel was scattered on a table beneath the cage. I tucked a book among the groundsel.

In the drawing room, I found even more opportunities to empty my bag. My aunt’s favorite musical pieces were laid out on the piano. I slipped in two more books among the sheets of music. I placed another in the back drawing room, under some unfinished embroidery that I knew belonged to Lady Verinder.

A small room opened off the back drawing room, separated by curtains instead of a door. My aunt’s simple old-fashioned fan rested on the mantel. I opened my ninth book to a particularly special passage and used the fan as a bookmark to keep the place.

Then I debated whether to venture upstairs, risking an encounter with the person in the cap ribbons if they happened to be in the upper part of the house. But what of it? It’s a poor soul who fears insult. I climbed the stairs, ready to face whatever might come.

The house was quiet and empty—it must have been the servants’ tea time. My aunt’s room was straight ahead. The miniature of my late uncle, Sir John, hung on the wall opposite the bed, and it seemed to smile at me, as if urging me to leave a book.

There were tables on either side of my aunt’s bed. She was a restless sleeper and often needed various things at night. I placed a book near the matches on one side and another under the box of chocolate drops on the other. Whether she needed a light or a sweet treat, there would be a precious publication waiting to catch her eye and silently say, “Come, try me! Try me!”

But one book remained at the bottom of my bag, and only one room was left unexplored—the bathroom, which opened off the bedroom. I peeked inside, and that inner voice that never steers me wrong whispered, “You’ve met her everywhere else; meet her at the bath, and your work is done.”

I noticed a dressing gown draped over a chair. It had a pocket, and I slipped my last book into it. Can words express the exquisite sense of duty fulfilled when I slipped out of the house, unnoticed, and found myself in the street with my empty bag under my arm? Oh, my worldly friends, chasing the elusive phantom of pleasure through the tangled paths of indulgence, how easy it is to find happiness if you simply choose to be good!

That night, as I folded my things and reflected on the true riches I had scattered throughout my wealthy aunt’s house, I felt as carefree as I had in childhood. I was so light-hearted that I sang a verse of the Evening Hymn. I was so light-hearted that I fell asleep before I could sing another. Just like a child again! Just like a child again!

I spent that blissful night in peace. When I woke the next morning, I felt young again! I might add that I looked young too, but I’m not one to dwell on the concerns of my own fleeting body. So I’ll leave that out.

Around lunchtime—not for the sake of food, but to ensure I’d find my dear aunt—I put on my bonnet to head to Montagu Square. Just as I was ready, the maid from the lodgings where I was staying peeked in and said, “Lady Verinder’s servant is here to see Miss Clack.”

At that time in my life, I was living on the parlour floor in London. The front parlour served as my sitting room. It was small, with a low ceiling and minimal furnishings, but it was impeccably tidy. I glanced into the hallway to see which of Lady Verinder’s servants was looking for me. It was Samuel, the young footman—a polite, rosy-cheeked fellow with an eager expression and a helpful demeanor. I had always felt a certain connection to Samuel and wanted to share a few serious thoughts with him. So, I invited him into my room.

He entered, carrying a large parcel under his arm. When he set it down, he seemed startled. “My lady’s love, Miss; and I was told to say you’d find a letter inside.” After delivering his message, the young footman looked as if he wanted to escape.

I held him back to ask a few more questions. Could I see my aunt if I went to Montagu Square? No, she had gone out for a drive. Miss Rachel was with her, and Mr. Ablewhite had joined them in the carriage as well. It struck me as odd that Mr. Godfrey, who was usually so dedicated to his charitable work, would be out driving like a carefree man. I stopped Samuel at the door to ask a few more questions. Miss Rachel was going to a ball that night, and Mr. Ablewhite had planned to come for coffee and accompany her. There was a morning concert scheduled for the next day, and Samuel had been tasked with getting tickets for a large group, including one for Mr. Ablewhite. “All the tickets might be gone, Miss,” he said, looking anxious. “I need to run and get them right away!” With that, he dashed off, leaving me alone with my troubling thoughts.

That evening, we had a special meeting of the Mothers’ Small-Clothes Conversion Society, called specifically to seek Mr. Godfrey’s advice and support. Instead of helping our sisterhood, which was struggling under an overwhelming influx of trousers that threatened to overwhelm us, he had chosen to go for coffee in Montagu Square and then attend a ball! The next afternoon was supposed to be the Festival of the British Ladies’ Servants’ Sunday Sweetheart Supervision Society, and instead of being there as the heart and soul of our struggling organization, he had committed to being part of a group of socialites at a morning concert! What did this mean? It meant that our Christian Hero was about to reveal a new side of himself to me, one that would link him to one of the most shocking betrayals of modern times.

But back to the events of that day. Alone in my room, I turned my attention to the parcel that had seemed to intimidate the young footman so much. Had my aunt sent me my long-promised inheritance? Would it be cast-off clothes, worn-out silver spoons, or outdated jewelry? Ready to accept whatever it might be, I opened the parcel—and what did I find? The twelve precious publications I had scattered around the house the day before, all returned to me at the doctor’s orders! No wonder the youthful Samuel had looked uneasy when he brought the parcel to me! No wonder he had hurried away after delivering his dismal message! As for my aunt’s letter, it simply conveyed her fear of disobeying her doctor.

What was I to do now? With my upbringing and principles, I had no doubt in my mind.

Once I was grounded in my conscience and committed to a path of clear purpose, a true Christian never falters. Neither public nor private pressures can sway us once we have found our mission. Taxation might follow our mission; riots might arise from it; wars could be a consequence as well. Yet we press on with our work, undeterred by the world’s distractions. We rise above reason; we transcend ridicule; we see through our own eyes, hear with our own ears, and feel with our own hearts. What a glorious privilege! And how is it earned? Ah, my friends, spare yourselves the fruitless inquiry! We are the only ones who can earn it—because we are the only ones who are always right.

In the case of my misguided aunt, the next step in my unwavering commitment became clear to me.

Preparation by my clerical friends had fallen short because my aunt, Lady Verinder, was hesitant. The books I had hoped would help had also failed, thanks to the doctor’s stubborn disbelief. So, what was left to try? The next approach was simple: Preparation by Little Notes. Instead of sending the books back, I decided to extract key passages, have them copied by various hands, and address them as letters to my aunt. Some would be mailed, while others would be discreetly placed around the house, just like I had done the day before. As letters, they wouldn’t raise any suspicion; once opened, they could be read.

I wrote some of the letters myself. “Dear Aunt, may I ask for a moment of your attention?” and “Dear Aunt, I was reading last night and came across this passage,” were among my lines. Other letters were penned by my dedicated collaborators from the Mothers’-Small-Clothes group. “Dear Madam, please forgive the interest of a true, albeit humble, friend,” and “Dear Madam, may I surprise you with a few encouraging words?” Using these polite phrases, we reintroduced my cherished passages in a way that even the doctor’s skeptical nature wouldn’t suspect. By the time evening fell, I had a dozen awakening letters ready for my aunt instead of a dozen awakening books. I arranged to send six immediately through the post and kept six in my pocket for personal delivery the next day.

Shortly after two o’clock, I was back in the fray, making more friendly inquiries to Samuel at Lady Verinder’s door.

My aunt had a rough night. She was in the same room where I had witnessed her Will, resting on the sofa, trying to catch some sleep.

I decided to wait in the library, hoping to see her. In my eagerness to distribute the letters, I completely forgot to ask about Rachel. The house was quiet, and it was past the time when the concert began. I assumed she and her group of pleasure-seekers, including Mr. Godfrey, were all at the concert, so I focused on my task while I still had the chance.

My aunt’s morning correspondence, including the six awakening letters I had posted the night before, lay unopened on the library table. She clearly hadn’t felt up to tackling a pile of letters, and the sheer number might intimidate her if she entered the library later. I placed one of my new letters on the mantelpiece, hoping its solitary position would pique her curiosity. I intentionally dropped another letter on the floor in the breakfast room. The first servant to enter would likely think my aunt had dropped it and would make sure to return it to her. With that groundwork laid on the ground floor, I dashed upstairs to spread my little blessings across the drawing-room.

Just as I entered the front room, I heard a gentle knock at the street door—a soft, considerate tap. Before I could slip back to the library, where I was supposed to be waiting, the young footman was already in the hall, answering the door. I thought little of it; in my aunt’s current state, visitors were generally not allowed. To my shock, the soft knock turned out to be an exception. I heard Samuel’s voice below, responding to questions I couldn’t catch, then clearly saying, “Upstairs, if you please, sir.” Moments later, I heard footsteps—definitely a man’s footsteps—approaching the drawing room. Who could this unexpected visitor be? Almost immediately, the answer came to me: who else could it be but the doctor?

Under normal circumstances, I would have allowed myself to be seen in the drawing room. It wouldn’t have been unusual for me to grow tired of the library and seek a change of scenery upstairs. But my pride wouldn’t let me face the man who had insulted me by returning my books. I quickly slipped into the small third room that connected to the back drawing room and drew the curtains to close off the doorway. If I waited there for just a minute or two, the usual outcome would unfold: the doctor would be led to my aunt’s room.

I waited for a minute or two, then a bit longer. I could hear the visitor pacing back and forth, restless. He was muttering to himself, and I thought I recognized the voice. Had I been wrong? Was it not the doctor after all, but someone else? Mr. Bruff, perhaps? No, something deep inside me insisted it wasn’t Mr. Bruff. Whoever it was, he continued to talk to himself.

I carefully pulled aside the heavy curtains just a fraction and listened closely.

The words I caught were, “I’ll do it today!” And the voice belonged to Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite.