The Dead Alive
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Wilkie Collins >> The Dead Alive
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THE DEAD ALIVE.
By Wilkie Collins
CHAPTER I.
THE SICK MAN.
"HEART all right," said the doctor. "Lungs all right. No organic
disease that I can discover. Philip Lefrank, don't alarm yourself. You
are not going to die yet. The disease you are suffering from
is--overwork. The remedy in your case is--rest."
So the doctor spoke, in my chambers in the Temple (London); having been
sent for to see me about half an hour after I had alarmed my clerk by
fainting at my desk. I have no wish to intrude myself needlessly on the
reader's attention; but it may be necessary to add, in the way of
explanation, that I am a "junior" barrister in good practice. I come
from the channel Island of Jersey. The French spelling of my name
(Lefranc) was Anglicized generations since--in the days when the letter
"k" was still used in England at the end of words which now terminate
in "c." We hold our heads high, nevertheless, as a Jersey family. It is
to this day a trial to my father to hear his son described as a member
of the English bar.
"Rest!" I repeated, when my medical adviser had done. "My good friend,
are you aware that it is term-time? The courts are sitting. Look at the
briefs waiting for me on that table! Rest means ruin in my case."
"And work," added the doctor, quietly, "means death."
I started. He was not trying to frighten me: he was plainly in earnest.
"It is merely a question of time," he went on. "You have a fine
constitution; you are a young man; but you cannot deliberately overwork
your brain, and derange your nervous system, much longer. Go away at
once. If you are a good sailor, take a sea-voyage. The ocean air is the
best of all air to build you up again. No: I don't want to write a
prescription. I decline to physic you. I have no more to say."
With these words my medical friend left the room. I was obstinate: I
went into court the same day.
The senior counsel in the case on which I was engaged applied to me for
some information which it was my duty to give him. To my horror and
amazement, I was perfectly unable to collect my ideas; facts and dates
all mingled together confusedly in my mind. I was led out of court
thoroughly terrified about myself. The next day my briefs went back to
the attorneys; and I followed my doctor's advice by taking my passage
for America in the first steamer that sailed for New York.
I had chosen the voyage to America in preference to any other trip by
sea, with a special object in view. A relative of my mother's had
emigrated to the United States many years since, and had thriven there
as a farmer. He had given me a general invitation to visit him if I
ever crossed the Atlantic. The long period of inaction, under the name
of _rest_, to which the doctor's decision had condemned me, could
hardly be more pleasantly occupied, as I thought, than by paying a
visit to my relation, and seeing what I could of America in that way.
After a brief sojourn at New York, I started by railway for the
residence of my host--Mr. Isaac Meadowcroft, of Morwick Farm.
There are some of the grandest natural prospects on the face of
creation in America. There is also to be found in certain States of the
Union, by way of wholesome contrast, scenery as flat, as monotonous,
and as uninteresting to the traveler, as any that the earth can show.
The part of the country in which M. Meadowcroft's farm was situated
fell within this latter category. I looked round me when I stepped out
of the railway-carriage on the platform at Morwick Station; and I said
to myself, "If to be cured means, in my case, to be dull, I have
accurately picked out the very place for the purpose."
I look back at those words by the light of later events; and I
pronounce them, as you will soon pronounce them, to be the words of an
essentially rash man, whose hasty judgment never stopped to consider
what surprises time and chance together might have in store for him.
Mr. Meadowcroft's eldest son, Ambrose, was waiting at the station to
drive me to the farm.
There was no forewarning, in the appearance of Ambrose Meadowcroft, of
the strange and terrible events that were to follow my arrival at
Morwick. A healthy, handsome young fellow, one of thousands of other
healthy, handsome young fellows, said, "How d'ye do, Mr. Lefrank? Glad
to see you, sir. Jump into the buggy; the man will look after your
portmanteau." With equally conventional politeness I answered, "Thank
you. How are you all at home?" So we started on the way to the farm.
Our conversation on the drive began with the subjects of agriculture
and breeding. I displayed my total ignorance of crops and cattle before
we had traveled ten yards on our journey. Ambrose Meadowcroft cast
about for another topic, and failed to find it. Upon this I cast about
on my side, and asked, at a venture, if I had chosen a convenient time
for my visit The young farmer's stolid brown face instantly brightened.
I had evidently hit, hap-hazard, on an interesting subject.
"You couldn't have chosen a better time," he said. "Our house has never
been so cheerful as it is now."
"Have you any visitors staying with you?"
"It's not exactly a visitor. It's a new member of the family who has
come to live with us."
"A new member of the family! May I ask who it is?"
Ambrose Meadowcroft considered before he replied; touched his horse
with the whip; looked at me with a certain sheepish hesitation; and
suddenly burst out with the truth, in the plainest possible words:
"It's just the nicest girl, sir, you ever saw in your life."
"Ay, ay! A friend of your sister's, I suppose?"
"A friend? Bless your heart! it's our little American cousin, Naomi
Colebrook."
I vaguely remembered that a younger sister of Mr. Meadowcroft's had
married an American merchant in the remote past, and had died many
years since, leaving an only child. I was now further informed that the
father also was dead. In his last moments he had committed his helpless
daughter to the compassionate care of his wife's relations at Morwick.
"He was always a speculating man," Ambrose went on. "Tried one thing
after another, and failed in all. Died, sir, leaving barely enough to
bury him. My father was a little doubtful, before she came here, how
his American niece would turn out. We are English, you know; and,
though we do live in the United States, we stick fast to our English
ways and habits. We don't much like American women in general, I can
tell you; but when Naomi made her appearance she conquered us all. Such
a girl! Took her place as one of the family directly. Learned to make
herself useful in the dairy in a week's time. I tell you this--she
hasn't been with us quite two months yet, and we wonder already how we
ever got on without her!"
Once started on the subject of Naomi Colebrook, Ambrose held to that
one topic and talked on it without intermission. It required no great
gift of penetration to discover the impression which the American
cousin had produced in this case. The young fellow's enthusiasm
communicated itself, in a certain tepid degree, to me. I really felt a
mild flutter of anticipation at the prospect of seeing Naomi, when we
drew up, toward the close of evening, at the gates of Morwick Farm.
CHAPTER II.
THE NEW FACES.
IMMEDIATELY on my arrival, I was presented to Mr. Meadowcroft, the
father.
The old man had become a confirmed invalid, confined by chronic
rheumatism to his chair. He received me kindly, and a little wearily as
well. His only unmarried daughter (he had long since been left a
widower) was in the room, in attendance on her father. She was a
melancholy, middle-aged woman, without visible attractions of any
sort--one of those persons who appear to accept the obligation of
living under protest, as a burden which they would never have consented
to bear if they had only been consulted first. We three had a dreary
little interview in a parlor of bare walls; and then I was permitted to
go upstairs, and unpack my portmanteau in my own room.
"Supper will be at nine o'clock, sir," said Miss Meadowcroft.
She pronounced those words as if "supper" was a form of domestic
offense, habitually committed by the men, and endured by the women. I
followed the groom up to my room, not over-well pleased with my first
experience of the farm.
No Naomi and no romance, thus far!
My room was clean--oppressively clean. I quite longed to see a little
dust somewhere. My library was limited to the Bible and the
Prayer-book. My view from the window showed me a dead flat in a partial
state of cultivation, fading sadly from view in the waning light. Above
the head of my spruce white bed hung a scroll, bearing a damnatory
quotation from Scripture in emblazoned letters of red and black. The
dismal presence of Miss Meadowcroft had passed over my bedroom, and had
blighted it. My spirits sank as I looked round me. Supper-time was
still an event in the future. I lighted the candles and took from my
portmanteau what I firmly believe to have been the first French novel
ever produced at Morwick Farm. It was one of the masterly and charming
stories of Dumas the elder. In five minutes I was in a new world, and
my melancholy room was full of the liveliest French company. The sound
of an imperative and uncompromising bell recalled me in due time to the
regions of reality. I looked at my watch. Nine o'clock.
Ambrose met me at the bottom of the stairs, and showed me the way to
the supper-room.
Mr. Meadowcroft's invalid chair had been wheeled to the head of the
table. On his right-hand side sat his sad and silent daughter. She
signed to me, with a ghostly solemnity, to take the vacant place on the
left of her father. Silas Meadowcroft came in at the same moment, and
was presented to me by his brother. There was a strong family likeness
between them, Ambrose being the taller and the handsomer man of the
two. But there was no marked character in either face. I set them down
as men with undeveloped qualities, waiting (the good and evil qualities
alike) for time and circumstances to bring them to their full growth.
The door opened again while I was still studying the two brothers,
without, I honestly confess, being very favorably impressed by either
of them. A new member of the family circle, who instantly attracted my
attention, entered the room.
He was short, spare, and wiry; singularly pale for a person whose life
was passed in the country. The face was in other respects, besides
this, a striking face to see. As to the lower part, it was covered with
a thick black beard and mustache, at a time when shaving was the rule,
and beards the rare exception, in America. As to the upper part of the
face, it was irradiated by a pair of wild, glittering brown eyes, the
expression of which suggested to me that there was something not quite
right with the man's mental balance. A perfectly sane person in all his
sayings and doings, so far as I could see, there was still something in
those wild brown eyes which suggested to me that, under exceptionally
trying circumstances, he might surprise his oldest friends by acting in
some exceptionally violent or foolish way. "A little cracked"--that in
the popular phrase was my impression of the stranger who now made his
appearance in the supper-room.
Mr. Meadowcroft the elder, having not spoken one word thus far, himself
introduced the newcomer to me, with a side-glance at his sons, which
had something like defiance in it--a glance which, as I was sorry to
notice, was returned with the defiance on their side by the two young
men.
"Philip Lefrank, this is my overlooker, Mr. Jago," said the old man,
formally presenting us. "John Jago, this is my young relative by
marriage, Mr. Lefrank. He is not well; he has come over the ocean for
rest, and change of scene. Mr. Jago is an American, Philip. I hope you
have no prejudice against Americans. Make acquaintance with Mr. Jago.
Sit together." He cast another dark look at his sons; and the sons
again returned it. They pointedly drew back from John Jago as he
approached the empty chair next to me and moved round to the opposite
side of the table. It was plain that the man with the beard stood high
in the father's favor, and that he was cordially disliked for that or
for some other reason by the sons.
The door opened once more. A young lady quietly joined the party at the
supper-table.
Was the young lady Naomi Colebrook? I looked at Ambrose, and saw the
answer in his face. Naomi Colebrook at last!
A pretty girl, and, so far as I could judge by appearances, a good girl
too. Describing her generally, I may say that she had a small head,
well carried, and well set on her shoulders; bright gray eyes, that
looked at you honestly, and meant what they looked; a trim, slight
little figure--too slight for our English notions of beauty; a strong
American accent; and (a rare thing in America) a pleasantly toned
voice, which made the accent agreeable to English ears. Our first
impressions of people are, in nine cases out of ten, the right
impressions. I liked Naomi Colebrook at first sight; liked her pleasant
smile; liked her hearty shake of the hand when we were presented to
each other. "If I get on well with nobody else in this house," I
thought to myself, "I shall certainly get on well with _you_."
For once in a way, I proved a true prophet. In the atmosphere of
smoldering enmities at Morwick Farm, the pretty American girl and I
remained firm and true friends from first to last. Ambrose made room
for Naomi to sit between his brother and himself. She changed color for
a moment, and looked at him, with a pretty, reluctant tenderness, as
she took her chair. I strongly suspected the young farmer of squeezing
her hand privately, under cover of the tablecloth.
The supper was not a merry one. The only cheerful conversation was the
conversation across the table between Naomi and me.
For some incomprehensible reason, John Jago seemed to be ill at ease in
the presence of his young countrywoman. He looked up at Naomi
doubtingly from his plate, and looked down again slowly with a frown.
When I addressed him, he answered constrainedly. Even when he spoke to
Mr. Meadowcroft, he was still on his guard--on his guard against the
two young men, as I fancied by the direction which his eyes took on
these occasions. When we began our meal, I had noticed for the first
time that Silas Meadowcroft's left hand was strapped up with surgical
plaster; and I now further observed that John Jago's wandering brown
eyes, furtively looking at everybody round the table in turn, looked
with a curious, cynical scrutiny at the young man's injured hand.
By way of making my first evening at the farm all the more embarrassing
to me as a stranger, I discovered before long that the father and sons
were talking indirectly _at_ each other, through Mr. Jago and through
me. When old Mr. Meadowcroft spoke disparagingly to his overlooker of
some past mistake made in the cultivation of the arable land of the
farm, old Mr. Meadowcroft's eyes pointed the application of his hostile
criticism straight in the direction of his two sons When the two sons
seized a stray remark of mine about animals in general, and applied it
satirically to the mismanagement of sheep and oxen in particular, they
looked at John Jago, while they talked to me. On occasions of this
sort--and they happened frequently--Naomi struck in resolutely at the
right moment, and turned the talk to some harmless topic. Every time
she took a prominent part in this way in keeping the peace, melancholy
Miss Meadowcroft looked slowly round at her in stern and silent
disparagement of her interference. A more dreary and more disunited
family party I never sat at the table with. Envy, hatred, malice and
uncharitableness are never so essentially detestable to my mind as when
they are animated by a sense of propriety, and work under the surface.
But for my interest in Naomi, and my other interest in the little
love-looks which I now and then surprised passing between her and
Ambrose, I should never have sat through that supper. I should
certainly have taken refuge in my French novel and my own room.
At last the unendurably long meal, served with ostentatious profusion,
was at an end. Miss Meadowcroft rose with her ghostly solemnity, and
granted me my dismissal in these words:
"We are early people at the farm, Mr. Lefrank. I wish you good-night."
She laid her bony hands on the back of Mr. Meadowcroft's invalid-chair,
cut him short in his farewell salutation to me, and wheeled him out to
his bed as if she were wheeling him out to his grave.
"Do you go to your room immediately, sir? If not, may I offer you a
cigar--provided the young gentlemen will permit it?"
So, picking his words with painful deliberation, and pointing his
reference to "the young gentlemen" with one sardonic side-look at them,
Mr. John Jago performed the duties of hospitality on his side. I
excused myself from accepting the cigar. With studied politeness, the
man of the glittering brown eyes wished me a goodnight's rest, and left
the room.
Ambrose and Silas both approached me hospitably, with their open
cigar-cases in their hands.
"You were quite right to say 'No,'" Ambrose began. "Never smoke with
John Jago. His cigars will poison you."
"And never believe a word John Jago says to you," added Silas. "He is
the greatest liar in America, let the other be whom he may."
Naomi shook her forefinger reproachfully at them, as if the two sturdy
young farmers had been two children.
"What will Mr. Lefrank think," she said, "if you talk in that way of a
person whom your father respects and trusts? Go and smoke. I am ashamed
of both of you."
Silas slunk away without a word of protest. Ambrose stood his ground,
evidently bent on making his peace with Naomi before he left her.
Seeing that I was in the way, I walked aside toward a glass door at the
lower end of the room. The door opened on the trim little farm-garden,
bathed at that moment in lovely moonlight. I stepped out to enjoy the
scene, and found my way to a seat under an elm-tree. The grand repose
of nature had never looked so unutterably solemn and beautiful as it
now appeared, after what I had seen and heard inside the house. I
understood, or thought I understood, the sad despair of humanity which
led men into monasteries in the old times. The misanthropical side of
my nature (where is the sick man who is not conscious of that side of
him?) was fast getting the upper hand of me when I felt a light touch
laid on my shoulder, and found myself reconciled to my species once
more by Naomi Colebrook.
CHAPTER III.
THE MOONLIGHT MEETING.
"I WANT to speak to you," Naomi began "You don't think ill of me for
following you out here? We are not accustomed to stand much on ceremony
in America."
"You are quite right in America. Pray sit down."
She seated herself by my side, looking at me frankly and fearlessly by
the light of the moon.
"You are related to the family here," she resumed, "and I am related
too. I guess I may say to you what I couldn't say to a stranger. I am
right glad you have come here, Mr. Lefrank; and for a reason, sir,
which you don't suspect."
"Thank you for the compliment you pay me, Miss Colebrook, whatever the
reason may be."
She took no notice of my reply; she steadily pursued her own train of
thought.
"I guess you may do some good, sir, in this wretched house," the girl
went on, with her eyes still earnestly fixed on my face. "There is no
love, no trust, no peace, at Morwick Farm. They want somebody here,
except Ambrose. Don't think ill of Ambrose; he is only thoughtless. I
say, the rest of them want somebody here to make them ashamed of their
hard hearts, and their horrid, false, envious ways. You are a
gentleman; you know more than they know; they can't help themselves;
they must look up to _you_. Try, Mr. Lefrank, when you have the
opportunity--pray try, sir, to make peace among them. You heard what
went on at supper-time; and you were disgusted with it. Oh yes, you
were! I saw you frown to yourself; and I know what _that_ means in you
Englishmen."
There was no choice but to speak one's mind plainly to Naomi. I
acknowledged the impression which had been produced on me at
supper-time just as plainly as I have acknowledged it in these pages.
Naomi nodded her head in undisguised approval of my candor.
"That will do, that's speaking out," she said. "But--oh my! you put it
a deal too mildly, sir, when you say the men don't seem to be on
friendly terms together here. They hate each other. That's the word,
Mr. Lefrank--hate; bitter, bitter, bitter hate!" She clinched her
little fists; she shook them vehemently, by way of adding emphasis to
her last words; and then she suddenly remembered Ambrose. "Except
Ambrose," she added, opening her hand again, and laying it very
earnestly on my arm. "Don't go and misjudge Ambrose, sir. There is no
harm in poor Ambrose."
The girl's innocent frankness was really irresistible.
"Should I be altogether wrong," I asked, "if I guessed that you were a
little partial to Ambrose?"
An Englishwoman would have felt, or would at least have assumed, some
little hesitation at replying to my question. Naomi did not hesitate
for an instant.
"You are quite right, sir," she said with the most perfect composure.
"If things go well, I mean to marry Ambrose."
"If things go well," I repeated. "What does that mean? Money?"
She shook her head.
"It means a fear that I have in my own mind," she answered--"a fear,
Mr. Lefrank, of matters taking a bad turn among the men here--the
wicked, hard-hearted, unfeeling men. I don't mean Ambrose, sir; I mean
his brother Silas, and John Jago. Did you notice Silas's hand? John
Jago did that, sir, with a knife."
"By accident?" I asked.
"On purpose," she answered. "In return for a blow."
This plain revelation of the state of things at Morwick Farm rather
staggered me--blows and knives under the rich and respectable roof-tree
of old Mr. Meadowcroft--blows and knives, not among the laborers, but
among the masters! My first impression was like _your_ first
impression, no doubt. I could hardly believe it.
"Are you sure of what you say?" I inquired.
"I have it from Ambrose. Ambrose would never deceive me. Ambrose knows
all about it."
My curiosity was powerfully excited. To what sort of household had I
rashly voyaged across the ocean in search of rest and quiet?
"May I know all about it too?" I said.
"Well, I will try and tell you what Ambrose told me. But you must
promise me one thing first, sir. Promise you won't go away and leave us
when you know the whole truth. Shake hands on it, Mr. Lefrank; come,
shake hands on it."
There was no resisting her fearless frankness. I shook hands on it.
Naomi entered on her narrative the moment I had given her my pledge,
without wasting a word by way of preface.
"When you are shown over the farm here," she began, "you will see that
it is really two farms in one. On this side of it, as we look from
under this tree, they raise crops: on the other side--on much the
larger half of the land, mind--they raise cattle. When Mr. Meadowcroft
got too old and too sick to look after his farm himself, the boys (I
mean Ambrose and Silas) divided the work between them. Ambrose looked
after the crops, and Silas after the cattle. Things didn't go well,
somehow, under their management. I can't tell you why. I am only sure
Ambrose was not in fault. The old man got more and more dissatisfied,
especially about his beasts. His pride is in his beasts. Without saying
a word to the boys, he looked about privately (_I_ think he was wrong
in that, sir; don't you?)--he looked about privately for help; and, in
an evil hour, he heard of John Jago. Do you like John Jago, Mr.
Lefrank?"
"So far, no. I don't like him."
"Just my sentiments, sir. But I don't know: it's likely we may be
wrong. There's nothing against John Jago, except that he is so odd in
his ways. They do say he wears all that nasty hair on his face (I hate
hair on a man's face) on account of a vow he made when he lost his
wife. Don't you think, Mr. Lefrank, a man must be a little mad who
shows his grief at losing his wife by vowing that he will never shave
himself again? Well, that's what they do say John Jago vowed. Perhaps
it's a lie. People are such liars here! Anyway, it's truth (the boys
themselves confess _that_), when John came to the farm, he came with a
first-rate character. The old father here isn't easy to please; and he
pleased the old father. Yes, that's so. Mr. Meadowcroft don't like my
countrymen in general. He's like his sons--English, bitter English, to
the marrow of his bones. Somehow, in spite of that, John Jago got round
him; maybe because John does certainly know his business. Oh yes!
Cattle and crops, John knows his business. Since he's been overlooker,
things have prospered as they didn't prosper in the time of the boys.
Ambrose owned as much to me himself. Still, sir, it's hard to be set
aside for a stranger; isn't it? John gives the orders now. The boys do
their work; but they have no voice in it when John and the old man put
their heads together over the business of the farm. I have been long in
telling you of it, sir, but now you know how the envy and the hatred
grew among the men before my time. Since I have been here, things seem
to get worse and worse. There's hardly a day goes by that hard words
don't pass between the boys and John, or the boys and their father. The
old man has an aggravating way, Mr. Lefrank--a nasty way, as we do call
it--of taking John Jago's part. Do speak to him about it when you get
the chance. The main blame of the quarrel between Silas and John the
other day lies at his door, as I think. I don't want to excuse Silas,
either. It was brutal of him--though he _is_ Ambrose's brother--to
strike John, who is the smaller and weaker man of the two. But it was
worse than brutal in John, sir, to out with his knife and try to stab
Silas. Oh, he did it! If Silas had not caught the knife in his hand
(his hand's awfully cut, I can tell you; I dressed it myself), it might
have ended, for anything I know, in murder--"