The Woman in White
by
Wilkie Collins
Part 8 out of 14
on my left hand just brushed my cheek as I lightly rested my head
against the railing.
The first sounds that reached me from below were caused by the
opening or closing (most probably the latter) of three doors in
succession--the doors, no doubt, leading into the hall and into
the rooms on each side of the library, which the Count had pledged
himself to examine. The first object that I saw was the red spark
again travelling out into the night from under the verandah,
moving away towards my window, waiting a moment, and then
returning to the place from which it had set out.
"The devil take your restlessness! When do you mean to sit down?"
growled Sir Percival's voice beneath me.
"Ouf! how hot it is!" said the Count, sighing and puffing wearily.
His exclamation was followed by the scraping of the garden chairs
on the tiled pavement under the verandah--the welcome sound which
told me they were going to sit close at the window as usual. So
far the chance was mine. The clock in the turret struck the
quarter to twelve as they settled themselves in their chairs. I
heard Madame Fosco through the open window yawning, and saw her
shadow pass once more across the white field of the blind.
Meanwhile, Sir Percival and the Count began talking together
below, now and then dropping their voices a little lower than
usual, but never sinking them to a whisper. The strangeness and
peril of my situation, the dread, which I could not master, of
Madame Fosco's lighted window, made it difficult, almost
impossible, for me, at first, to keep my presence of mind, and to
fix my attention solely on the conversation beneath. For some
minutes I could only succeed in gathering the general substance of
it. I understood the Count to say that the one window alight was
his wife's, that the ground floor of the house was quite clear,
and that they might now speak to each other without fear of
accidents. Sir Percival merely answered by upbraiding his friend
with having unjustifiably slighted his wishes and neglected his
interests all through the day. The Count thereupon defended
himself by declaring that he had been beset by certain troubles
and anxieties which had absorbed all his attention, and that the
only safe time to come to an explanation was a time when they
could feel certain of being neither interrupted nor overheard.
"We are at a serious crisis in our affairs, Percival," he said,
"and if we are to decide on the future at all, we must decide
secretly to-night."
That sentence of the Count's was the first which my attention was
ready enough to master exactly as it was spoken. From this point,
with certain breaks and interruptions, my whole interest fixed
breathlessly on the conversation, and I followed it word for word.
"Crisis?" repeated Sir Percival. "It's a worse crisis than you
think for, I can tell you."
"So I should suppose, from your behaviour for the last day or
two," returned the other coolly. "But wait a little. Before we
advance to what I do NOT know, let us be quite certain of what I
DO know. Let us first see if I am right about the time that is
past, before I make any proposal to you for the time that is to
come."
"Stop till I get the brandy and water. Have some yourself."
"Thank you, Percival. The cold water with pleasure, a spoon, and
the basin of sugar. Eau sucree, my friend--nothing more.
"Sugar-and-water for a man of your age!--There! mix your sickly
mess. You foreigners are all alike."
"Now listen, Percival. I will put our position plainly before
you, as I understand it, and you shall say if I am right or wrong.
You and I both came back to this house from the Continent with our
affairs very seriously embarrassed "
"Cut it short! I wanted some thousands and you some hundreds, and
without the money we were both in a fair way to go to the dogs
together. There's the situation. Make what you can of it. Go
on."
"Well, Percival, in your own solid English words, you wanted some
thousands and I wanted some hundreds, and the only way of getting
them was for you to raise the money for your own necessity (with a
small margin beyond for my poor little hundreds) by the help of
your wife. What did I tell you about your wife on our way to
England?--and what did I tell you again when we had come here, and
when I had seen for myself the sort of woman Miss Halcombe was?"
"How should I know? You talked nineteen to the dozen, I suppose,
just as usual."
"I said this: Human ingenuity, my friend, has hitherto only
discovered two ways in which a man can manage a woman. One way is
to knock her down--a method largely adopted by the brutal lower
orders of the people, but utterly abhorrent to the refined and
educated classes above them. The other way (much longer, much
more difficult, but in the end not less certain) is never to
accept a provocation at a woman's hands. It holds with animals,
it holds with children, and it holds with women, who are nothing
but children grown up. Quiet resolution is the one quality the
animals, the children, and the women all fail in. If they can
once shake this superior quality in their master, they get the
better of HIM. If they can never succeed in disturbing it, he
gets the better of THEM. I said to you, Remember that plain truth
when you want your wife to help you to the money. I said,
Remember it doubly and trebly in the presence of your wife's
sister, Miss Halcombe. Have you remembered it? Not once in all
the implications that have twisted themselves about us in this
house. Every provocation that your wife and her sister could
offer to you, you instantly accepted from them. Your mad temper
lost the signature to the deed, lost the ready money, set Miss
Halcombe writing to the lawyer for the first time "
"First time! Has she written again?"
"Yes, she has written again to-day."
A chair fell on the pavement of the verandah--fell with a crash,
as if it had been kicked down.
It was well for me that the Count's revelation roused Sir
Pemival's anger as it did. On hearing that I had been once more
discovered I started so that the railing against which I leaned
cracked again. Had he followed me to the inn? Did he infer that I
must have given my letters to Fanny when I told him I had none for
the post-bag. Even if it was so, how could he have examined the
letters when they had gone straight from my hand to the bosom of
the girl's dress?
"Thank your lucky star," I heard the Count say next, "that you
have me in the house to undo the harm as fast as you do it. Thank
your lucky star that I said No when you were mad enough to talk of
turning the key to-day on Miss Halcombe, as you turned it in your
mischievous folly on your wife. Where are your eves? Can you look
at Miss Halcombe and not see that she has the foresight and the
resolution of a man? With that woman for my friend I would snap
these fingers of mine at the world. With that woman for my enemy,
I, with all my brains and experience--I, Fosco, cunning as the
devil himself, as you have told me a hundred times--I walk, in
your English phrase, upon egg-shells! And this grand creature--I
drink her health in my sugar-and-water--this grand creature, who
stands in the strength of her love and her courage, firm as a
rock, between us two and that poor, flimsy, pretty blonde wife of
yours--this magnificent woman, whom I admire with all my soul,
though I oppose her in your interests and in mine, you drive to
extremities as if she was no sharper and no bolder than the rest
of her sex. Percival! Percival! you deserve to fail, and you HAVE
failed."
There was a pause. I write the villain's words about myself
because I mean to remember them--because I hope yet for the day
when I may speak out once for all in his presence, and cast them
back one by one in his teeth.
Sir Percival was the first to break the silence again.
"Yes, yes, bully and bluster as much as you like," he said
sulkily; "the difficulty about the money is not the only
difficulty. You would be for taking strong measures with the
women yourself--if you knew as much as I do."
"We will come to that second difficulty all in good time,"
rejoined the Count. "You may confuse yourself, Percival, as much
as you please, but you shall not confuse me. Let the question of
the money be settled first. Have I convinced your obstinacy? have
I shown you that your temper will not let you help yourself?--Or
must I go back, and (as you put it in your dear straightforward
English) bully and bluster a little more?"
"Pooh! It's easy enough to grumble at ME. Say what is to be done--
that's a little harder."
"Is it? Bah! This is what is to be done: You give up all direction
in the business from to-night--you leave it for the future in my
hands only. I am talking to a Practical British man--ha? Well,
Practical, will that do for you?"
"What do you propose if I leave it all to you?"
"Answer me first. Is it to be in my hands or not?"
"Say it is in your hands--what then?"
"A few questions, Percival, to begin with. I must wait a little
yet, to let circumstances guide me, and I must know, in every
possible way, what those circumstances are likely to be. There is
no time to lose. I have told you already that Miss Halcombe has
written to the lawyer to-day for the second time."
"How did you find it out? What did she say?"
"If I told you, Percival, we should only come back at the end to
where we are now. Enough that I have found it out--and the
finding has caused that trouble and anxiety which made me so
inaccessible to you all through to-day. Now, to refresh my memory
about your affairs--it is some time since I talked them over with
you. The money has been raised, in the absence of your wife's
signature, by means of bills at three months--raised at a cost
that makes my poverty-stricken foreign hair stand on end to think
of it! When the bills are due, is there really and truly no
earthly way of paying them but by the help of your wife?"
"None."
"What! You have no money at the bankers?"
"A few hundreds, when I want as many thousands."
"Have you no other security to borrow upon?"
"Not a shred."
"What have you actually got with your wife at the present moment?"
"Nothing but the interest of her twenty thousand pounds--barely
enough to pay our daily expenses."
"What do you expect from your wife?"
"Three thousand a year when her uncle dies."
"A fine fortune, Percival. What sort of a man is this uncle?
Old?"
"No--neither old nor young."
"A good-tempered, freely-living man? Married? No--I think my
wife told me, not married."
"Of course not. If he was married, and had a son, Lady Glyde
would not be next heir to the property. I'll tell you what he is.
He's a maudlin, twaddling, selfish fool, and bores everybody who
comes near him about the state of his health."
"Men of that sort, Percival, live long, and marry malevolently
when you least expect it. I don't give you much, my friend, for
your chance of the three thousand a year. Is there nothing more
that comes to you from your wife?"
"Nothing."
"Absolutely nothing?"
"Absolutely nothing--except in case of her death."
"Aha! in the case of her death."
There was another pause. The Count moved from the
verandah to the gravel walk outside. I knew that he had moved by
his voice. "The rain has come at last," I heard him say. It had
come. The state of my cloak showed that it had been falling
thickly for some little time.
The Count went back under the verandah--I heard the chair creak
beneath his weight as he sat down in it again.
"Well, Percival," he said, "and in the case of Lady Glyde's death,
what do you get then?"
"If she leaves no children----"
"Which she is likely to do?"
"Which she is not in the least likely to do----"
"Yes?"
"Why, then I get her twenty thousand pounds."
"Paid down?"
"Paid down."
They were silent once more. As their voices ceased Madame Fosco's
shadow darkened the blind again. Instead of passing this time, it
remained, for a moment, quite still. I saw her fingers steal
round the corner of the blind, and draw it on one side. The dim
white outline of her face, looking out straight over me, appeared
behind the window. I kept still, shrouded from head to foot in my
black cloak. The rain, which was fast wetting me, dripped over
the glass, blurred it, and prevented her from seeing anything.
"More rain!" I heard her say to herself. She dropped the blind,
and I breathed again freely.
The talk went on below me, the Count resuming it this time.
"Percival! do you care about your wife?"
"Fosco! that's rather a downright question."
"I am a downright man, and I repeat it."
"Why the devil do you look at me in that way?"
"You won't answer me? Well, then, let us say your wife dies before
the summer is out----"
"Drop it, Fosco!"
"Let us say your wife dies----"
"Drop it, I tell you!"
"In that case, you would gain twenty thousand pounds, and you
would lose----"
"I should lose the chance of three thousand a year."
"The REMOTE chance, Percival--the remote chance only. And you
want money, at once. In your position the gain is certain--the
loss doubtful."
"Speak for yourself as well as for me. Some of the money I want
has been borrowed for you. And if you come to gain, my wife's
death would be ten thousand pounds in your wife's pocket. Sharp
as you are, you seem to have conveniently forgotten Madame Fosco's
legacy. Don't look at me in that way! I won't have it! What with
your looks and your questions, upon my soul, you make my flesh
creep!"
"Your flesh? Does flesh mean conscience in English? speak of your
wife's death as I speak of a possibility. Why not? The
respectable lawyers who scribble-scrabble your deeds and your
wills look the deaths of living people in the face. Do lawyers
make your flesh creep? Why should I? It is my business to-night to
clear up your position beyond the possibility of mistake, and I
have now done it. Here is your position. If your wife lives, you
pay those bills with her signature to the parchment. If your wife
dies, you pay them with her death."
As he spoke the light in Madame Fosco's room was extinguished, and
the whole second floor of the house was now sunk in darkness,
"Talk! talk!" grumbled Sir Percival. "One would think, to hear
you, that my wife's signature to the deed was got already."
"You have left the matter in my hands," retorted the Count, "and I
have more than two months before me to turn round in. Say no more
about it, if you please, for the present. When the bills are due,
you will see for yourself if my 'talk! talk!' is worth something,
or if it is not. And now, Percival, having done with the money
matters for to-night, I can place my attention at your disposal,
if you wish to consult me on that second difficulty which has
mixed itself up with our little embarrassments, and which has so
altered you for the worse, that I hardly know you again. Speak,
my friend--and pardon me if I shock your fiery national tastes by
mixing myself a second glass of sugar-and-water."
"It's very well to say speak," replied Sir Percival, in a far more
quiet and more polite tone than he had yet adopted, "but it's not
so easy to know how to begin."
"Shall I help you?" suggested the Count. "Shall I give this
private difficulty of yours a name? What if I call it--Anne
Catherick?"
"Look here, Fosco, you and I have known each other for a long
time, and if you have helped me out of one or two scrapes before
this, I have done the best I could to help you in return, as far
as money would go. We have made as many friendly sacrifices, on
both sides, as men could, but we have had our secrets from each
other, of course--haven't we?"
"You have had a secret from me, Percival. There is a skeleton in
your cupboard here at Blackwater Park that has peeped out in these
last few days at other people besides yourself."
"Well, suppose it has. If it doesn't concern you, you needn't be
curious about it, need you?"
"Do I look curious about it?"
"Yes, you do."
"So! so! my face speaks the truth, then? What an immense
foundation of good there must be in the nature of a man who
arrives at my age, and whose face has not yet lost the habit of
speaking the truth!--Come, Glyde! let us be candid one with the
other. This secret of yours has sought me: I have not sought it.
Let us say I am curious--do you ask me, as your old friend, to
respect your secret, and to leave it, once for all, in your own
keeping?"
"Yes--that's just what I do ask."
"Then my curiosity is at an end. It dies in me from this moment."
"Do you really mean that?"
"What makes you doubt me?"
"I have had some experience, Fosco, of your roundabout ways, and I
am not so sure that you won't worm it out of me after all."
The chair below suddenly creaked again--I felt the trellis-work
pillar under me shake from top to bottom. The Count had started
to his feet, and had struck it with his hand in indignation.
"Percival! Percival!" he cried passionately, "do you know me no
better than that? Has all your experience shown you nothing of my
character yet? I am a man of the antique type! I am capable of the
most exalted acts of virtue--when I have the chance of performing
them. It has been the misfortune of my life that I have had few
chances. My conception of friendship is sublime! Is it my fault
that your skeleton has peeped out at me? Why do I confess my
curiosity? You poor superficial Englishman, it is to magnify my
own self-control. I could draw your secret out of you, if I
liked, as I draw this finger out of the palm of my hand--you know
I could! But you have appealed to my friendship, and the duties of
friendship are sacred to me. See! I trample my base curiosity
under my feet. My exalted sentiments lift me above it. Recognise
them, Percival! imitate them, Percival! Shake hands--I forgive
you."
His voice faltered over the last words--faltered, as if he were
actually shedding tears!
Sir Percival confusedly attempted to excuse himself, but the Count
was too magnanimous to listen to him.
"No!" he said. "When my friend has wounded me, I can pardon him
without apologies. Tell me, in plain words, do you want my help?"
"Yes, badly enough."
"And you can ask for it without compromising yourself?"
"I can try, at any rate."
"Try, then."
"Well, this is how it stands:--I told you to-day that I had done
my best to find Anne Catherick, and failed."
"Yes, you did."
"Fosco! I'm a lost man if I DON'T find her."
"Ha! Is it so serious as that?"
A little stream of light travelled out under the verandah, and
fell over the gravel-walk. The Count had taken the lamp from the
inner part of the room to see his friend clearly by the light of
it.
"Yes!" he said. "Your face speaks the truth this time. Serious,
indeed--as serious as the money matters themselves."
"More serious. As true as I sit here, more serious!"
The light disappeared again and the talk went on.
"I showed you the letter to my wife that Anne Catherick hid in the
sand," Sir Percival continued. "There's no boasting in that
letter, Fosco--she DOES know the Secret."
"Say as little as possible, Percival, in my presence, of the
Secret. Does she know it from you?"
"No, from her mother."
"Two women in possession of your private mind--bad, bad, bad, my
friend! One question here, before we go any farther. The motive
of your shutting up the daughter in the asylum is now plain enough
to me, but the manner of her escape is not quite so clear. Do you
suspect the people in charge of her of closing their eyes
purposely, at the instance of some enemy who could afford to make
it worth their while?"
"No, she was the best-behaved patient they had--and, like fools,
they trusted her. She's just mad enough to be shut up, and just
sane enough to ruin me when she's at large--if you understand
that?"
"I do understand it. Now, Percival, come at once to the point,
and then I shall know what to do. Where is the danger of your
position at the present moment?"
"Anne Catherick is in this neighbourhood, and in communication
with Lady Glyde--there's the danger, plain enough. Who can read
the letter she hid in the sand, and not see that my wife is in
possession of the Secret, deny it as she may?"
"One moment, Percival. If Lady Glyde does know the Secret, she
must know also that it is a compromising secret for you. As your
wife, surely it is her interest to keep it?"
"Is it? I'm coming to that. It might be her interest if she cared
two straws about me. But I happen to be an encumbrance in the way
of another man. She was in love with him before she married me--
she's in love with him now--an infernal vagabond of a drawing-
master, named Hartright."
"My dear friend! what is there extraordinary in that? They are all
in love with some other man. Who gets the first of a woman's
heart? In all my experience I have never yet met with the man who
was Number One. Number Two, sometimes. Number Three, Four, Five,
often. Number One, never! He exists, of course--but I have not
met with him."
"Wait! I haven't done yet. Who do you think helped Anne Catherick
to get the start, when the people from the mad-house were after
her? Hartright. Who do you think saw her again in Cumberland?
Hartright. Both times he spoke to her alone. Stop! don't
interrupt me. The scoundrel's as sweet on my wife as she is on
him. He knows the Secret, and she knows the Secret. Once let
them both get together again, and it's her interest and his
interest to turn their information against me."
"Gently, Percival--gently! Are you insensible to the virtue of
Lady Glyde?"
"That for the virtue of Lady Glyde! I believe in nothing about her
but her money. Don't you see how the case stands? She might be
harmless enough by herself; but if she and that vagabond
Hartright----"
"Yes, yes, I see. Where is Mr. Hartright?"
"Out of the country. If he means to keep a whole skin on his
bones, I recommend him not to come back in a hurry."
"Are you sure he is out of the country?"
"Certain. I had him watched from the time he left Cumberland to
the time he sailed. Oh, I've been careful, I can tell you! Anne
Catherick lived with some people at a farm-house near Limmeridge.
I went there myself, after she had given me the slip, and made
sure that they knew nothing. I gave her mother a form of letter
to write to Miss Halcombe, exonerating me from any bad motive in
putting her under restraint. I've spent, I'm afraid to say how
much, in trying to trace her, and in spite of it all, she turns up
here and escapes me on my own property! How do I know who else may
see her, who else may speak to her? That prying scoundrel,
Hartright, may come back with-out my knowing it, and may make use
of her to-morrow----"
"Not he, Percival! While I am on the spot, and while that woman is
in the neighbourhood, I will answer for our laying hands on her
before Mr. Hartright--even if he does come back. I see! yes, yes,
I see! The finding of Anne Catherick is the first necessity--make
your mind easy about the rest. Your wife is here, under your
thumb--Miss Halcombe is inseparable from her, and is, therefore,
under your thumb also--and Mr. Hartright is out of the country.
This invisible Anne of yours is all we have to think of for the
present. You have made your inquiries?"
"Yes. I have been to her mother, I have ransacked the village--
and all to no purpose."
"Is her mother to be depended on?"
"Yes."
"She has told your secret once."
"She won't tell it again."
"Why not? Are her own interests concerned in keeping it, as well
as yours?"
"Yes--deeply concerned."
"I am glad to hear it, Percival, for your sake. Don't be
discouraged, my friend. Our money matters, as I told you, leave
me plenty of time to turn round in, and I may search for Anne
Catherick to-morrow to better purpose than you. One last question
before we go to bed."
"What is it?"
"It is this. When I went to the boat-house to tell Lady Glyde
that the little difficulty of her signature was put off, accident
took me there in time to see a strange woman parting in a very
suspicious manner from your wife. But accident did not bring me
near enough to see this same woman's face plainly. I must know
how to recognise our invisible Anne. What is she like?"
"Like? Come! I'll tell you in two words. She's a sickly likeness
of my wife."
The chair creaked, and the pillar shook once more. The Count was
on his feet again--this time in astonishment.
"What!!!" he exclaimed eagerly.
"Fancy my wife, after a bad illness, with a touch of something
wrong in her head--and there is Anne Catherick for you," answered
Sir Percival.
"Are they related to each other?"
"Not a bit of it."
"And yet so like?"
"Yes, so like. What are you laughing about?"
There was no answer, and no sound of any kind. The Count was
laughing in his smooth silent internal way.
"What are you laughing about?" reiterated Sir Percival.
"Perhaps at my own fancies, my good friend. Allow me my Italian
humour--do I not come of the illustrious nation which invented the
exhibition of Punch? Well, well, well, I shall know Anne Catherick
when I see her--and so enough for to-night. Make your mind easy,
Percival. Sleep, my son, the sleep of the just, and see what I
will do for you when daylight comes to help us both. I have my
projects and my plans here in my big head. You shall pay those
bills and find Anne Catherick--my sacred word of honour on it, but
you shall! Am I a friend to be treasured in the best corner of
your heart, or am I not? Am I worth those loans of money which
you so delicately reminded me of a little while since? Whatever
you do, never wound me in my sentiments any more. Recognise them,
Percival! imitate them, Percival! I forgive you again--I shake
hands again. Good-night!"
Not another word was spoken. I heard the Count close the library
door. I heard Sir Percival barring up the window-shutters. It
had been raining, raining all the time. I was cramped by my
position and chilled to the bones. When I first tried to move,
the effort was so painful to me that I was obliged to desist. I
tried a second time, and succeeded in rising to my knees on the
wet roof.
As I crept to the wall, and raised myself against it, I looked
back, and saw the window of the Count's dressing-room gleam into
light. My sinking courage flickered up in me again, and kept my
eyes fixed on his window, as I stole my way back, step by step,
past the wall of the house.
The clock struck the quarter after one, when I laid my hands on
the window-sill of my own room. I had seen nothing and heard
nothing which could lead me to suppose that my retreat had been
discovered.
X
June 20th.--Eight o'clock. The sun is shining in a clear sky. I
have not been near my bed--I have not once closed my weary wakeful
eyes. From the same window at which I looked out into the
darkness of last night, I look out now at the bright stillness of
the morning.
I count the hours that have passed since I escaped to the shelter
of this room by my own sensations--and those hours seem like
weeks.
How short a time, and yet how long to ME--since I sank down in the
darkness, here, on the floor--drenched to the skin, cramped in
every limb, cold to the bones, a useless, helpless, panic-stricken
creature.
I hardly know when I roused myself. I hardly know when I groped
my way back to the bedroom, and lighted the candle, and searched
(with a strange ignorance, at first, of where to look for them)
for dry clothes to warm me. The doing of these things is in my
mind, but not the time when they were done.
Can I even remember when the chilled, cramped feeling left me, and
the throbbing heat came in its place?
Surely it was before the sun rose? Yes, I heard the clock strike
three. I remember the time by the sudden brightness and
clearness, the feverish strain and excitement of all my faculties
which came with it. I remember my resolution to control myself,
to wait patiently hour after hour, till the chance offered of
removing Laura from this horrible place, without the danger of
immediate discovery and pursuit. I remember the persuasion
settling itself in my mind that the words those two men had said
to each other would furnish us, not only with our justification
for leaving the house, but with our weapons of defence against
them as well. I recall the impulse that awakened in me to
preserve those words in writing, exactly as they were spoken,
while the time was my own, and while my memory vividly retained
them. All this I remember plainly: there is no confusion in my
head yet. The coming in here from the bedroom, with my pen and
ink and paper, before sunrise--the sitting down at the widely-
opened window to get all the air I could to cool me--the ceaseless
writing, faster and faster, hotter and hotter, driving on more and
more wakefully, all through the dreadful interval before the house
was astir again--how clearly I recall it, from the beginning by
candle-light, to the end on the page before this, in the sunshine
of the new day!
Why do I sit here still? Why do I weary my hot eyes and my burning
head by writing more? Why not lie down and rest myself, and try to
quench the fever that consumes me, in sleep?
I dare not attempt it. A fear beyond all other fears has got
possession of me. I am afraid of this heat that parches my skin.
I am afraid of the creeping and throbbing that I feel in my head.
If I lie down now, how do I know that I may have the sense and the
strength to rise again?
Oh, the rain, the rain--the cruel rain that chilled me last night!
Nine o'clock. Was it nine struck, or eight? Nine, surely? I am
shivering again--shivering, from head to foot, in the summer air.
Have I been sitting here asleep? I don't know what I have been
doing.
Oh, my God! am I going to be ill?
Ill, at such a time as this!
My head--I am sadly afraid of my head. I can write, but the lines
all run together. I see the words. Laura--I can write Laura, and
see I write it. Eight or nine--which was it?
So cold, so cold--oh, that rain last night!--and the strokes of
the clock, the strokes I can't count, keep striking in my head----
* * * * * * * * * *
Note
[At this place the entry in the Diary ceases to be legible. The
two or three lines which follow contain fragments of words only,
mingled with blots and scratches of the pen. The last marks on
the paper bear some resemblance to the first two letters (L and A)
of the name of Lady Glyde.
On the next page of the Diary, another entry appears. It is in a
man's handwriting, large, bold, and firmly regular, and the date
is "June the 21st." It contains these lines--]
POSTSCRIPT BY A SINCERE FRIEND
The illness of our excellent Miss Halcombe has afforded me the
opportunity of enjoying an unexpected intellectual pleasure.
I refer to the perusal (which I have just completed) of this
interesting Diary.
There are many hundred pages here. I can lay my hand on my heart,
and declare that every page has charmed, refreshed, delighted me.
To a man of my sentiments it is unspeakably gratifying to be able
to say this.
Admirable woman!
I allude to Miss Halcombe.
Stupendous effort!
I refer to the Diary.
Yes! these pages are amazing. The tact which I find here, the
discretion, the rare courage, the wonderful power of memory, the
accurate observation of character, the easy grace of style, the
charming outbursts of womanly feeling, have all inexpressibly
increased my admiration of this sublime creature, of this
magnificent Marian. The presentation of my own character is
masterly in the extreme. I certify, with my whole heart, to the
fidelity of the portrait. I feel how vivid an impression I must
have produced to have been painted in such strong, such rich, such
massive colours as these. I lament afresh the cruel necessity
which sets our interests at variance, and opposes us to each
other. Under happier circumstances how worthy I should have been
of Miss Halcombe--how worthy Miss Halcombe would have been of ME.
The sentiments which animate my heart assure me that the lines I
have just written express a Profound Truth.
Those sentiments exalt me above all merely personal
considerations. I bear witness, in the most disinterested manner,
to the excellence of the stratagem by which this unparalleled
woman surprised the private interview between Percival and myself--
also to the marvellous accuracy of her report of the whole
conversation from its beginning to its end.
Those sentiments have induced me to offer to the unimpressionable
doctor who attends on her my vast knowledge of chemistry, and my
luminous experience of the more subtle resources which medical and
magnetic science have placed at the disposal of mankind. He has
hitherto declined to avail himself of my assistance. Miserable
man!
Finally, those sentiments dictate the lines--grateful,
sympathetic, paternal lines--which appear in this place. I close
the book. My strict sense of propriety restores it (by the hands
of my wife) to its place on the writer's table. Events are
hurrying me away. Circumstances are guiding me to serious issues.
Vast perspectives of success unroll themselves before my eyes. I
accomplish my destiny with a calmness which is terrible to myself.
Nothing but the homage of my admiration is my own. I deposit it
with respectful tenderness at the feet of Miss Halcombe.
I breathe my wishes for her recovery.
I condole with her on the inevitable failure of every plan that
she has formed for her sister's benefit. At the same time, I
entreat her to believe that the information which I have derived
from her Diary will in no respect help me to contribute to that
failure. It simply confirms the plan of conduct which I had
previously arranged. I have to thank these pages for awakening
the finest sensibilities in my nature--nothing more.
To a person of similar sensibility this simple assertion will
explain and excuse everything.
Miss Halcombe is a person of similar sensibility.
In that persuasion I sign myself,
Fosco.
THE STORY CONTINUED BY FREDERICK FAIRLIE, ESQ., OF LIMMERIDGE
HOUSE[2]
[2] The manner in which Mr. Fairlie's Narrative and other
Narratives that are shortly to follow it, were originally
obtained, forms the subject of an explanation which will appear at
a later period.
It is the grand misfortune of my life that nobody will let me
alone.
Why--I ask everybody--why worry ME? Nobody answers that question,
and nobody lets me alone. Relatives, friends, and strangers all
combine to annoy me. What have I done? I ask myself, I ask my
servant, Louis, fifty times a day--what have I done? Neither of us
can tell. Most extraordinary!
The last annoyance that has assailed me is the annoyance of being
called upon to write this Narrative. Is a man in my state of
nervous wretchedness capable of writing narratives? When I put
this extremely reasonable objection, I am told that certain very
serious events relating to my niece have happened within my
experience, and that I am the fit person to describe them on that
account. I am threatened if I fail to exert myself in the manner
required, with consequences which I cannot so much as think of
without perfect prostration. There is really no need to threaten
me. Shattered by my miserable health and my family troubles, I am
incapable of resistance. If you insist, you take your unjust
advantage of me, and I give way immediately. I will endeavour to
remember what I can (under protest), and to write what I can (also
under protest), and what I can't remember and can't write, Louis
must remember and write for me. He is an ass, and I am an
invalid, and we are likely to make all sorts of mistakes between
us. How humiliating!
I am told to remember dates. Good heavens! I never did such a
thing in my life--how am I to begin now?
I have asked Louis. He is not quite such an ass as I have
hitherto supposed. He remembers the date of the event, within a
week or two--and I remember the name of the person. The date was
towards the end of June, or the beginning of July, and the name
(in my opinion a remarkably vulgar one) was Fanny.
At the end of June, or the beginning of July, then, I was
reclining in my customary state, surrounded by the various objects
of Art which I have collected about me to improve the taste of the
barbarous people in my neighbourhood. That is to say, I had the
photographs of my pictures, and prints, and coins, and so forth,
all about me, which I intend, one of these days, to present (the
photographs, I mean, if the clumsy English language will let me
mean anything) to present to the institution at Carlisle (horrid
place!), with a view to improving the tastes of the members (Goths
and Vandals to a man). It might be supposed that a gentleman who
was in course of conferring a great national benefit on his
countrymen was the last gentleman in the world to be unfeelingly
worried about private difficulties and family affairs. Quite a
mistake, I assure you, in my case.
However, there I was, reclining, with my art-treasures about me,
and wanting a quiet morning. Because I wanted a quiet morning, of
course Louis came in. It was perfectly natural that I should
inquire what the deuce he meant by making his appearance when I
had not rung my bell. I seldom swear--it is such an
ungentlemanlike habit--but when Louis answered by a grin, I think
it was also perfectly natural that I should damn him for grinning.
At any rate, I did.
This rigorous mode of treatment, I have observed, invariably
brings persons in the lower class of life to their senses. It
brought Louis to HIS senses. He was so obliging as to leave off
grinning, and inform me that a Young Person was outside wanting to
see me. He added (with the odious talkativeness of servants),
that her name was Fanny.
"Who is Fanny?"
"Lady Glyde's maid, sir."
"What does Lady Glyde's maid want with me .
"A letter, sir----"
"Take it."
"She refuses to give it to anybody but you, sir."
"Who sends the letter?"
"Miss Halcombe, sir."
The moment I heard Miss Halcombe's name I gave up. It is a habit
of mine always to give up to Miss Halcombe. I find, by
experience, that it saves noise. I gave up on this occasion.
Dear Marian!
"Let Lady Glyde's maid come in, Louis. Stop! Do her shoes creak?"
I was obliged to ask the question. Creaking shoes invariably
upset me for the day. I was resigned to see the Young Person, but
I was NOT resigned to let the Young Person's shoes upset me.
There is a limit even to my endurance.
Louis affirmed distinctly that her shoes were to be depended upon.
I waved my hand. He introduced her. Is it necessary to say that
she expressed her sense of embarrassment by shutting up her mouth
and breathing through her nose? To the student of female human
nature in the lower orders, surely not.
Let me do the girl justice. Her shoes did NOT creak. But why do
Young Persons in service all perspire at the hands? Why have they
all got fat noses and hard cheeks? And why are their faces so
sadly unfinished, especially about the corners of the eyelids? I
am not strong enough to think deeply myself on any subject, but I
appeal to professional men, who are. Why have we no variety in
our breed of Young Persons?
"You have a letter for me, from Miss Halcombe? Put it down on the
table, please, and don't upset anything. How is Miss Halcombe?"
"Very well, thank you, sir."
"And Lady Glyde?"
I received no answer. The Young Person's face became more
unfinished than ever, and I think she began to cry. I certainly
saw something moist about her eyes. Tears or perspiration? Louis
(whom I have just consulted) is inclined to think, tears. He is
in her class of life, and he ought to know best. Let us say,
tears.
Except when the refining process of Art judiciously removes from
them all resemblance to Nature, I distinctly object to tears.
Tears are scientifically described as a Secretion. I can
understand that a secretion may be healthy or unhealthy, but I
cannot see the interest of a secretion from a sentimental point of
view. Perhaps my own secretions being all wrong together, I am a
little prejudiced on the subject. No matter. I behaved, on this
occasion, with all possible propriety and feeling. I closed my
eyes and said to Louis--
"Endeavour to ascertain what she means."
Louis endeavoured, and the Young Person endeavoured. They
succeeded in confusing each other to such an extent that I am
bound in common gratitude to say, they really amused me. I think
I shall send for them again when I am in low spirits. I have just
mentioned this idea to Louis. Strange to say, it seems to make
him uncomfortable. Poor devil!
Surely I am not expected to repeat my niece's maid's explanation
of her tears, interpreted in the English of my Swiss valet? The
thing is manifestly impossible. I can give my own impressions and
feelings perhaps. Will that do as well? Please say, Yes.
My idea is that she began by telling me (through Louis) that her
master had dismissed her from her mistress's service. (Observe,
throughout, the strange irrelevancy of the Young Person. Was it
my fault that she had lost her place?) On her dismissal, she had
gone to the inn to sleep. (I don't keep the inn--why mention it
to ME?) Between six o'clock and seven Miss Halcombe had come to
say good-bye, and had given her two letters, one for me, and one
for a gentleman in London. (I am not a gentleman in London--hang
the gentleman in London!) She had carefully put the two letters
into her bosom (what have I to do with her bosom?); she had been
very unhappy, when Miss Halcombe had gone away again; she had not
had the heart to put bit or drop between her lips till it was near
bedtime, and then, when it was close on nine o'clock, she had
thought she should like a cup of tea. (Am I responsible for any
of these vulgar fluctuations, which begin with unhappiness and end
with tea?) Just as she was WARMING THE POT (I give the words on
the authority of Louis, who says he knows what they mean, and
wishes to explain, but I snub him on principle)--just as she was
warming the pot the door opened, and she was STRUCK OF A HEAP (her
own words again, and perfectly unintelligible this time to Louis,
as well as to myself) by the appearance in the inn parlour of her
ladyship the Countess. I give my niece's maid's description of my
sister's title with a sense of the highest relish. My poor dear
sister is a tiresome woman who married a foreigner. To resume:
the door opened, her ladyship the Countess appeared in the
parlour, and the Young Person was struck of a heap. Most
remarkable!
I must really rest a little before I can get on any farther. When
I have reclined for a few minutes, with my eyes closed, and when
Louis has refreshed my poor aching temples with a little eau-de-
Cologne, I may be able to proceed.
Her ladyship the Countess----
No. I am able to proceed, but not to sit up. I will recline and
dictate. Louis has a horrid accent, but he knows the language,
and can write. How very convenient!
Her ladyship, the Countess, explained her unexpected appearance at
the inn by telling Fanny that she had come to bring one or two
little messages which Miss Halcombe in her hurry had forgotten.
The Young Person thereupon waited anxiously to hear what the
messages were, but the Countess seemed disinclined to mention them
(so like my sister's tiresome way!) until Fanny had had her tea.
Her ladyship was surprisingly kind and thoughtful about it
(extremely unlike my sister), and said, "I am sure, my poor girl,
you must want your tea. We can let the messages wait till
afterwards. Come, come, if nothing else will put you at your
ease, I'll make the tea and have a cup with you." I think those
were the words, as reported excitably, in my presence, by the
Young Person. At any rate, the Countess insisted on making the
tea, and carried her ridiculous ostentation of humility so far as
to take one cup herself, and to insist on the girl's taking the
other. The girl drank the tea, and according to her own account,
solemnised the extraordinary occasion five minutes afterwards by
fainting dead away for the first time in her life. Here again I
use her own words. Louis thinks they were accompanied by an
increased secretion of tears. I can't say myself. The effort of
listening being quite as much as I could manage, my eyes were
closed.
Where did I leave off? Ah, yes--she fainted after drinking a cup
of tea with the Countess--a proceeding which might have interested
me if I had been her medical man, but being nothing of the sort I
felt bored by hearing of it, nothing more. When she came to
herself in half an hour's time she was on the sofa, and nobody was
with her but the landlady. The Countess, finding it too late to
remain any longer at the inn, had gone away as soon as the girl
showed signs of recovering, and the landlady had been good enough
to help her upstairs to bed.
Left by herself, she had felt in her bosom (I regret the necessity
of referring to this part of the subject a second time), and had
found the two letters there quite safe, but strangely crumpled.
She had been giddy in the night, but had got up well enough to
travel in the morning. She had put the letter addressed to that
obtrusive stranger, the gentleman in London into the post, and had
now delivered the other letter into my hands as she was told.
This was the plain truth, and though she could not blame herself
for any intentional neglect, she was sadly troubled in her mind,
and sadly in want of a word of advice. At this point Louis thinks
the secretions appeared again. Perhaps they did, but it is of
infinitely greater importance to mention that at this point also I
lost my patience, opened my eyes, and interfered.
"What is the purport of all this?" I inquired.
My niece's irrelevant maid stared, and stood speechless.
"Endeavour to explain," I said to my servant. "Translate me,
Louis."
Louis endeavoured and translated. In other words, he descended
immediately into a bottomless pit of confusion, and the Young
Person followed him down. I really don't know when I have been so
amused. I left them at the bottom of the pit as long as they
diverted me. When they ceased to divert me, I exerted my
intelligence, and pulled them up again.
It is unnecessary to say that my interference enabled me, in due
course of time, to ascertain the purport of the Young Person's
remarks.
I discovered that she was uneasy in her mind, because the train of
events that she had just described to me had prevented her from
receiving those supplementary messages which Miss Halcombe had
intrusted to the Countess to deliver. She was afraid the messages
might have been of great importance to her mistress's interests.
Her dread of Sir Percival had deterred her from going to
Blackwater Park late at night to inquire about them, and Miss
Halcombe's own directions to her, on no account to miss the train
in the morning, had prevented her from waiting at the inn the next
day. She was most anxious that the misfortune of her fainting-fit
should not lead to the second misfortune of making her mistress
think her neglectful, and she would humbly beg to ask me whether I
would advise her to write her explanations and excuses to Miss
Halcombe, requesting to receive the messages by letter, if it was
not too late. I make no apologies for this extremely prosy
paragraph. I have been ordered to write it. There are people,
unaccountable as it may appear, who actually take more interest in
what my niece's maid said to me on this occasion than in what I
said to my niece's maid. Amusing perversity!
"I should feel very much obliged to you, sir, if you would kindly
tell me what I had better do," remarked the Young Person.
"Let things stop as they are," I said, adapting my language to my
listener. "I invariably let things stop as they are. Yes. Is
that all?"
"If you think it would be a liberty in me, sir, to write, of
course I wouldn't venture to do so. But I am so very anxious to
do all I can to serve my mistress faithfully----"
People in the lower class of life never know when or how to go out
of a room. They invariably require to be helped out by their
betters. I thought it high time to help the Young Person out. I
did it with two judicious words--
"Good-morning."
Something outside or inside this singular girl suddenly creaked.
Louis, who was looking at her (which I was not), says she creaked
when she curtseyed. Curious. Was it her shoes, her stays, or her
bones? Louis thinks it was her stays. Most extraordinary!
As soon as I was left by myself I had a little nap--I really
wanted it. When I awoke again I noticed dear Marian's letter. If
I had had the least idea of what it contained I should certainly
not have attempted to open it. Being, unfortunately for myself,
quite innocent of all suspicion, I read the letter. It
immediately upset me for the day.
I am, by nature, one of the most easy-tempered creatures that ever
lived--I make allowances for everybody, and I take offence at
nothing. But as I have before remarked, there are limits to my
endurance. I laid down Marian's letter, and felt myself--justly
felt myself--an injured man.
I am about to make a remark. It is, of course, applicable to the
very serious matter now under notice, or I should not allow it to
appear in this place.
Nothing, in my opinion, sets the odious selfishness of mankind in
such a repulsively vivid light as the treatment, in all classes of
society, which the Single people receive at the hands of the
Married people. When you have once shown yourself too considerate
and self-denying to add a family of your own to an already
overcrowded population, you are vindictively marked out by your
married friends, who have no similar consideration and no similar
self-denial, as the recipient of half their conjugal troubles, and
the born friend of all their children. Husbands and wives TALK of
the cares of matrimony, and bachelors and spinsters BEAR them.
Take my own case. I considerately remain single, and my poor dear
brother Philip inconsiderately marries. What does he do when he
dies? He leaves his daughter to ME. She is a sweet girl--she is
also a dreadful responsibility. Why lay her on my shoulders?
Because I am bound, in the harmless character of a single man, to
relieve my married connections of all their own troubles. I do my
best with my brother's responsibility--I marry my niece, with
infinite fuss and difficulty, to the man her father wanted her to
marry. She and her husband disagree, and unpleasant consequences
follow. What does she do with those consequences? She transfers
them to ME. Why transfer them to ME? Because I am bound, in the
harmless character of a single man, to relieve my married
connections of all their own troubles. Poor single people! Poor
human nature!
It is quite unnecessary to say that Marian's letter threatened me.
Everybody threatens me. All sorts of horrors were to fall on my
devoted head if I hesitated to turn Limmeridge House into an
asylum for my niece and her misfortunes. I did hesitate,
nevertheless.
I have mentioned that my usual course, hitherto, had been to
submit to dear Marian, and save noise. But on this occasion, the
consequences involved in her extremely inconsiderate proposal were
of a nature to make me pause. If I opened Limmeridge House as an
asylum to Lady Glyde, what security had I against Sir Percival
Glyde's following her here in a state of violent resentment
against ME for harbouring his wife? I saw such a perfect labyrinth
of troubles involved in this proceeding that I determined to feel
my ground, as it were. I wrote, therefore, to dear Marian to beg
(as she had no husband to lay claim to her) that she would come
here by herself, first, and talk the matter over with me. If she
could answer my objections to my own perfect satisfaction, then I
assured her that I would receive our sweet Laura with the greatest
pleasure, but not otherwise.
I felt, of course, at the time, that this temporising on my part
would probably end in bringing Marian here in a state of virtuous
indignation, banging doors. But then, the other course of
proceeding might end in bringing Sir Percival here in a state of
virtuous indignation, banging doors also, and of the two
indignations and bangings I preferred Marian's, because I was used
to her. Accordingly I despatched the letter by return of post.
It gained me time, at all events--and, oh dear me! what a point
that was to begin with.
When I am totally prostrated (did I mention that I was totally
prostrated by Marian's letter?) it always takes me three days to
get up again. I was very unreasonable--I expected three days of
quiet. Of course I didn't get them.
The third day's post brought me a most impertinent letter from a
person with whom I was totally unacquainted. He described himself
as the acting partner of our man of business--our dear, pig-headed
old Gilmore--and he informed me that he had lately received, by
the post, a letter addressed to him in Miss Halcombe's
handwriting. On opening the envelope, he had discovered, to his
astonishment, that it contained nothing but a blank sheet of
notepaper. This circumstance appeared to him so suspicious (as
suggesting to his restless legal mind that the letter had been
tampered with) that he had at once written to Miss Halcombe, and
had received no answer by return of post. In this difficulty,
instead of acting like a sensible man and letting things take
their proper course, his next absurd proceeding, on his own
showing, was to pester me by writing to inquire if I knew anything
about it. What the deuce should I know about it? Why alarm me as
well as himself? I wrote back to that effect. It was one of my
keenest letters. I have produced nothing with a sharper
epistolary edge to it since I tendered his dismissal in writing to
that extremely troublesome person, Mr. Walter Hartright.
My letter produced its effect. I heard nothing more from the
lawyer.
This perhaps was not altogether surprising. But it was certainly
a remarkable circumstance that no second letter reached me from
Marian, and that no warning signs appeared of her arrival. Her
unexpected absence did me amazing good. It was so very soothing
and pleasant to infer (as I did of course) that my married
connections had made it up again. Five days of undisturbed
tranquillity, of delicious single blessedness, quite restored me.
On the sixth day I felt strong enough to send for my photographer,
and to set him at work again on the presentation copies of my art-
treasures, with a view, as I have already mentioned, to the
improvement of taste in this barbarous neighbourhood. I had just
dismissed him to his workshop, and had just begun coquetting with
my coins, when Louis suddenly made his appearance with a card in
his hand.
"Another Young Person?" I said. "I won't see her. In my state of
health Young Persons disagree with me. Not at home."
"It is a gentleman this time, sir "
A gentleman of course made a difference. I looked at the card.
Gracious Heaven! my tiresome sister's foreign husband, Count
Fosco.
Is it necessary to say what my first impression was when I looked
at my visitor's card? Surely not! My sister having married a
foreigner, there was but one impression that any man in his senses
could possibly feel. Of course the Count had come to borrow money
of me.
"Louis," I said, "do you think he would go away if you gave him
five shillings?"
Louis looked quite shocked. He surprised me inexpressibly by
declaring that my sister's foreign husband was dressed superbly,
and looked the picture of prosperity. Under these circumstances
my first impression altered to a certain extent. I now took it
for granted that the Count had matrimonial difficulties of his own
to contend with, and that he had come, like the rest of the
family, to cast them all on my shoulders.
"Did he mention his business?" I asked.
"Count Fosco said he had come here, sir, because Miss Halcombe was
unable to leave Blackwater Park."
Fresh troubles, apparently. Not exactly his own, as I had
supposed, but dear Marian's. Troubles, anyway. Oh dear!
"Show him in," I said resignedly.
The Count's first appearance really startled me. He was such an
alarmingly large person that I quite trembled. I felt certain
that he would shake the floor and knock down my art-treasures. He
did neither the one nor the other. He was refreshingly dressed in
summer costume--his manner was delightfully self-possessed and
quiet--he had a charming smile. My first impression of him was
highly favourable. It is not creditable to my penetration--as the
sequel will show--to acknowledge this, but I am a naturally candid
man, and I DO acknowledge it notwithstanding.
"Allow me to present myself, Mr. Fairlie," he said. "I come from
Blackwater Park, and I have the honour and the happiness of being
Madame Fosco's husband. Let me take my first and last advantage
of that circumstance by entreating you not to make a stranger of
me. I beg you will not disturb yourself--I beg you will not
move."
"You are very good," I replied. "I wish I was strong enough to
get up. Charmed to see you at Limmeridge. Please take a chair."
"I am afraid you are suffering to-day," said the Count.
"As usual," I said. "I am nothing but a bundle of nerves dressed
up to look like a man."
"I have studied many subjects in my time," remarked this
sympathetic person. "Among others the inexhaustible subject of
nerves. May I make a suggestion, at once the simplest and the
most profound? Will you let me alter the light in your room?
"Certainly--if you will be so very kind as not to let any of it in
on me."
He walked to the window. Such a contrast to dear Marian! so
extremely considerate in all his movements!
"Light," he said, in that delightfully confidential tone which is
so soothing to an invalid, "is the first essential. Light
stimulates, nourishes, preserves. You can no more do without it,
Mr. Fairlie, than if you were a flower. Observe. Here, where you
sit, I close the shutters to compose you. There, where you do NOT
sit, I draw up the blind and let in the invigorating sun. Admit
the light into your room if you cannot bear it on yourself.
Light, sir, is the grand decree of Providence. You accept
Providence with your own restrictions. Accept light on the same
terms."
I thought this very convincing and attentive. He had taken me in
up to that point about the light, he had certainly taken me in.
"You see me confused," he said, returning to his place--"on my
word of honour, Mr. Fairlie, you see me confused in your
presence."
"Shocked to hear it, I am sure. May I inquire why?"
"Sir, can I enter this room (where you sit a sufferer), and see
you surrounded by these admirable objects of Art, without
discovering that you are a man whose feelings are acutely
impressionable, whose sympathies are perpetually alive? Tell me,
can I do this?"
If I had been strong enough to sit up in my chair I should, of
course, have bowed. Not being strong enough, I smiled my
acknowledgments instead. It did just as well, we both understood
one another.
"Pray follow my train of thought," continued the Count. "I sit
here, a man of refined sympathies myself, in the presence of
another man of refined sympathies also. I am conscious of a
terrible necessity for lacerating those sympathies by referring to
domestic events of a very melancholy kind. What is the inevitable
consequence? I have done myself the honour of pointing it out to
you already. I sit confused."
Was it at this point that I began to suspect he was going to bore
me? I rather think it was.
"Is it absolutely necessary to refer to these unpleasant matters?"
I inquired. "In our homely English phrase, Count Fosco, won't
they keep?"
The Count, with the most alarming solemnity, sighed and shook his
head.
"Must I really hear them?"
He shrugged his shoulders (it was the first foreign thing he had
done since he had been in the room), and looked at me in an
unpleasantly penetrating manner. My instincts told me that I had
better close my eyes. I obeyed my instincts.
"Please break it gently," I pleaded. "Anybody dead?"
"Dead!" cried the Count, with unnecessary foreign fierceness.
"Mr. Fairlie, your national composure terrifies me. In the name
of Heaven, what have I said or done to make you think me the
messenger of death?"
"Pray accept my apologies," I answered. "You have said and done
nothing. I make it a rule in these distressing cases always to
anticipate the worst. It breaks the blow by meeting it half-way,
and so on. Inexpressibly relieved, I am sure, to hear that nobody
is dead. Anybody ill?"
I opened my eyes and looked at him. Was he very yellow when he
came in, or had he turned very yellow in the last minute or two? I
really can't say, and I can't ask Louis, because he was not in the
room at the time.
"Anybody ill?" I repeated, observing that my national composure
still appeared to affect him.
"That is part of my bad news, Mr. Fairlie. Yes. Somebody is
ill."
"Grieved, I am sure. Which of them is it?"
"To my profound sorrow, Miss Halcombe. Perhaps you were in some
degree prepared to hear this? Perhaps when you found that Miss
Halcombe did not come here by herself, as you proposed, and did
not write a second time, your affectionate anxiety may have made
you fear that she was ill?"
I have no doubt my affectionate anxiety had led to that melancholy
apprehension at some time or other, but at the moment my wretched
memory entirely failed to remind me of the circumstance. However,
I said yes, in justice to myself. I was much shocked. It was so
very uncharacteristic of such a robust person as dear Marian to be
ill, that I could only suppose she had met with an accident. A
horse, or a false step on the stairs, or something of that sort.
"Is it serious?" I asked.
"Serious--beyond a doubt," he replied. "Dangerous--I hope and
trust not. Miss Halcombe unhappily exposed herself to be wetted
through by a heavy rain. The cold that followed was of an
aggravated kind, and it has now brought with it the worst
consequence--fever."
When I heard the word fever, and when I remembered at the same
moment that the unscrupulous person who was now addressing me had
just come from Blackwater Park, I thought I should have fainted on
the spot.
"Good God!" I said. "Is it infectious?"
"Not at present," he answered, with detestable composure. "It may
turn to infection--but no such deplorable complication had taken
place when I left Blackwater Park. I have felt the deepest
interest in the case, Mr. Fairlie--I have endeavoured to assist
the regular medical attendant in watching it--accept my personal
assurances of the uninfectious nature of the fever when I last saw
it."
Accept his assurances! I never was farther from accepting anything
in my life. I would not have believed him on his oath. He was
too yellow to be believed. He looked like a walking-West-Indian-
epidemic. He was big enough to carry typhus by the ton, and to
dye the very carpet he walked on with scarlet fever. In certain
emergencies my mind is remarkably soon made up. I instantly
determined to get rid of him.
"You will kindly excuse an invalid," I said--"but long conferences
of any kind invariably upset me. May I beg to know exactly what
the object is to which I am indebted for the honour of your
visit?"
I fervently hoped that this remarkably broad hint would throw him
off his balance--confuse him--reduce him to polite apologies--in
short, get him out of the room. On the contrary, it only settled
him in his chair. He became additionally solemn, and dignified,
and confidential. He held up two of his horrid fingers and gave
me another of his unpleasantly penetrating looks. What was I to
do? I was not strong enough to quarrel with him. Conceive my
situation, if you please. Is language adequate to describe it? I
think not.
"The objects of my visit," he went on, quite irrepressibly, "are
numbered on my fingers. They are two. First, I come to bear my
testimony, with profound sorrow, to the lamentable disagreements
between Sir Percival and Lady Glyde. I am Sir Percival's oldest
friend--I am related to Lady Glyde by marriage--I am an eye-
witness of all that has happened at Blackwater Park. In those
three capacities I speak with authority, with confidence, with
honourable regret. Sir, I inform you, as the head of Lady Glyde's
family, that Miss Halcombe has exaggerated nothing in the letter
which she wrote to your address. I affirm that the remedy which
that admirable lady has proposed is the only remedy that will
spare you the horrors of public scandal. A temporary separation
between husband and wife is the one peaceable solution of this
difficulty. Part them for the present, and when all causes of
irritation are removed, I, who have now the honour of addressing
you--I will undertake to bring Sir Percival to reason. Lady Glyde
is innocent, Lady Glyde is injured, but--follow my thought here!--
she is, on that very account (I say it with shame), the cause of
irritation while she remains under her husband's roof. No other
house can receive her with propriety but yours. I invite you to
open it."
Cool. Here was a matrimonial hailstorm pouring in the South of
England, and I was invited, by a man with fever in every fold of
his coat, to come out from the North of England and take my share
of the pelting. I tried to put the point forcibly, just as I have
put it here. The Count deliberately lowered one of his horrid
fingers, kept the other up, and went on--rode over me, as it were,
without even the common coach-manlike attention of crying "Hi!"
before he knocked me down.
"Follow my thought once more, if you please," he resumed. "My
first object you have heard. My second object in coming to this
house is to do what Miss Halcombe's illness has prevented her from
doing for herself. My large experience is consulted on all
difficult matters at Blackwater Park, and my friendly advice was
requested on the interesting subject of your letter to Miss
Halcombe. I understood at once--for my sympathies are your
sympathies--why you wished to see her here before you pledged
yourself to inviting Lady Glyde. You are most right, sir, in
hesitating to receive the wife until you are quite certain that
the husband will not exert his authority to reclaim her. I agree
to that. I also agree that such delicate explanations as this
difficulty involves are not explanations which can be properly
disposed of by writing only. My presence here (to my own great
inconvenience) is the proof that I speak sincerely. As for the
explanations themselves, I--Fosco--I, who know Sir Percival much
better than Miss Halcombe knows him, affirm to you, on my honour
and my word, that he will not come near this house, or attempt to
communicate with this house, while his wife is living in it. His
affairs are embarrassed. Offer him his freedom by means of the
absence of Lady Glyde. I promise you he will take his freedom,
and go back to the Continent at the earliest moment when he can
get away. Is this clear to you as crystal? Yes, it is. Have you
questions to address to me? Be it so, I am here to answer. Ask,
Mr. Fairlie--oblige me by asking to your heart's content."
He had said so much already in spite of me, and he looked so
dreadfully capable of saying a great deal more also in spite of
me, that I declined his amiable invitation in pure self-defence.
"Many thanks," I replied. "I am sinking fast. In my state of
health I must take things for granted. Allow me to do so on this
occasion. We quite understand each other. Yes. Much obliged, I
am sure, for your kind interference. If I ever get better, and
ever have a second opportunity of improving our acquaintance "
He got up. I thought he was going. No. More talk, more time for
the development of infectious influences--in my room, too--
remember that, in my room!
"One moment yet," he said, "one moment before I take my leave. I
ask permission at parting to impress on you an urgent necessity.
It is this, sir. You must not think of waiting till Miss Halcombe
recovers before you receive Lady Glyde. Miss Halcombe has the
attendance of the doctor, of the housekeeper at Blackwater Park,
and of an experienced nurse as well--three persons for whose
capacity and devotion I answer with my life. I tell you that. I
tell you, also, that the anxiety and alarm of her sister's illness
has already affected the health and spirits of Lady Glyde, and has
made her totally unfit to be of use in the sick-room. Her
position with her husband grows more and more deplorable and
dangerous every day. If you leave her any longer at Blackwater
Park, you do nothing whatever to hasten her sister's recovery, and
at the same time, you risk the public scandal, which you and I,
and all of us, are bound in the sacred interests of the family to
avoid. With all my soul, I advise you to remove the serious
responsibility of delay from your own shoulders by writing to Lady
Glyde to come here at once. Do your affectionate, your
honourable, your inevitable duty, and whatever happens in the
future, no one can lay the blame on you. I speak from my large
experience--I offer my friendly advice. Is it accepted--Yes, or
No?"
I looked at him--merely looked at him--with my sense of his
amazing assurance, and my dawning resolution to ring for Louis and
have him shown out of the room expressed in every line of my face.
It is perfectly incredible, but quite true, that my face did not
appear to produce the slightest impression on him. Born without
nerves--evidently born without nerves.
"You hesitate?" he said. "Mr. Fairlie! I understand that
hesitation. You object--see, sir, how my sympathies look straight
down into your thoughts!--you object that Lady Glyde is not in
health and not in spirits to take the long journey, from Hampshire
to this place, by herself. Her own maid is removed from her, as
you know, and of other servants fit to travel with her, from one
end of England to another, there are none at Blackwater Park. You
object, again, that she cannot comfortably stop and rest in
London, on her way here, because she cannot comfortably go alone
to a public hotel where she is a total stranger. In one breath, I
grant both objections--in another breath, I remove them. Follow
me, if you please, for the last time. It was my intention, when I
returned to England with Sir Percival, to settle myself in the
neighbourhood of London. That purpose has just been happily
accomplished. I have taken, for six months, a little furnished
house in the quarter called St. John's Wood. Be so obliging as to
keep this fact in your mind, and observe the programme I now
propose. Lady Glyde travels to London (a short journey)--I myself
meet her at the station--I take her to rest and sleep at my house,
which is also the house of her aunt--when she is restored I escort
her to the station again--she travels to this place, and her own
maid (who is now under your roof) receives her at the carriage-
door. Here is comfort consulted--here are the interests of
propriety consulted--here is your own duty--duty of hospitality,
sympathy, protection, to an unhappy lady in need of all three--
smoothed and made easy, from the beginning to the end. I
cordially invite you, sir, to second my efforts in the sacred
interests of the family. I seriously advise you to write, by my
hands, offering the hospitality of your house (and heart), and the
hospitality of my house (and heart), to that injured and
unfortunate lady whose cause I plead to-day."
He waved his horrid hand at me--he struck his infectious breast--
he addressed me oratorically, as if I was laid up in the House of
Commons. It was high time to take a desperate course of some
sort. It was also high time to send for Louis, and adopt the
precaution of fumigating the room.
In this trying emergency an idea occurred to me--an inestimable
idea which, so to speak, killed two intrusive birds with one
stone. I determined to get rid of the Count's tiresome eloquence,
and of Lady Glyde's tiresome troubles, by complying with this
odious foreigner's request, and writing the letter at once. There
was not the least danger of the invitation being accepted, for
there was not the least chance that Laura would consent to leave
Blackwater Park while Marian was lying there ill. How this
charmingly convenient obstacle could have escaped the officious
penetration of the Count, it was impossible to conceive--but it
HAD escaped him. My dread that he might yet discover it, if I
allowed him any more time to think, stimulated me to such an
amazing degree, that I struggled into a sitting position--seized,
really seized, the writing materials by my side, and produced the
letter as rapidly as if I had been a common clerk in an office.
"Dearest Laura, Please come, whenever you like. Break the journey
by sleeping in London at your aunt's house. Grieved to hear of
dear Marian's illness. Ever affectionately yours." I handed these
lines, at arm's length, to the Count--I sank back in my chair--I
said, "Excuse me--I am entirely prostrated--I can do no more.
Will you rest and lunch downstairs? Love to all, and sympathy, and
so on. Good-morning."
He made another speech--the man was absolutely inexhaustible. I
closed my eyes--I endeavoured to hear as little as possible. In
spite of my endeavours I was obliged to hear a great deal. My
sister's endless husband congratulated himself, and congratulated
me, on the result of our interview--he mentioned a great deal more
about his sympathies and mine--he deplored my miserable health--he
offered to write me a prescription--he impressed on me the
necessity of not forgetting what he had said about the importance
of light--he accepted my obliging invitation to rest and lunch--he
recommended me to expect Lady Glyde in two or three days' time--he
begged my permission to look forward to our next meeting, instead
of paining himself and paining me, by saying farewell--he added a
great deal more, which, I rejoice to think, I did not attend to at
the time, and do not remember now. I heard his sympathetic voice
travelling away from me by degrees--but, large as he was, I never
heard him. He had the negative merit of being absolutely
noiseless. I don't know when he opened the door, or when he shut
it. I ventured to make use of my eyes again, after an interval of
silence--and he was gone.
I rang for Louis, and retired to my bathroom. Tepid water,
strengthened with aromatic vinegar, for myself, and copious
fumigation for my study, were the obvious precautions to take, and
of course I adopted them. I rejoice to say they proved
successful. I enjoyed my customary siesta. I awoke moist and
cool.
My first inquiries were for the Count. Had we really got rid of
him? Yes--he had gone away by the afternoon train. Had he
lunched, and if so, upon what? Entirely upon fruit-tart and cream.
What a man! What a digestion!
Am I expected to say anything more? I believe not. I believe I
have reached the limits assigned to me. The shocking
circumstances which happened at a later period did not, I am
thankful to say, happen in my presence. I do beg and entreat that
nobody will be so very unfeeling as to lay any part of the blame
of those circumstances on me. I did everything for the best. I am
not answerable for a deplorable calamity, which it was quite
impossible to foresee. I am shattered by it--I have suffered
under it, as nobody else has suffered. My servant, Louis (who is
really attached to me in his unintelligent way), thinks I shall
never get over it. He sees me dictating at this moment, with my
handkerchief to my eyes. I wish to mention, in justice to myself,
that it was not my fault, and that I am quite exhausted and
heartbroken. Need I say more?
THE STORY CONTINUED BY ELIZA MICHELSON
(Housekeeper at Blackwater Park)
I
I am asked to state plainly what I know of the progress of Miss
Halcombe's illness and of the circumstances under which Lady Glyde
left Blackwater Park for London.
The reason given for making this demand on me is, that my
testimony is wanted in the interests of truth. As the widow of a
clergyman of the Church of England (reduced by misfortune to the
necessity of accepting a situation), I have been taught to place
the claims of truth above all other considerations. I therefore
comply with a request which I might otherwise, through reluctance
to connect myself with distressing family affairs, have hesitated
to grant.
I made no memorandum at the time, and I cannot therefore be sure
to a day of the date, but I believe I am correct in stating that
Miss Halcombe's serious illness began during the last fortnight or
ten days in June. The breakfast hour was late at Blackwater Park--
sometimes as late as ten, never earlier than half-past nine. On
the morning to which I am now referring, Miss Halcombe (who was
usually the first to come down) did not make her appearance at the
table. After the family had waited a quarter of an hour, the
upper housemaid was sent to see after her, and came running out of
the room dreadfully frightened. I met the servant on the stairs,
and went at once to Miss Halcombe to see what was the matter. The
poor lady was incapable of telling me. She was walking about her
room with a pen in her hand, quite light-headed, in a state of
burning fever.
Lady Glyde (being no longer in Sir Percival's service, I may,
without impropriety, mention my former mistress by her name,
instead of calling her my lady) was the first to come in from her
own bedroom. She was so dreadfully alarmed and distressed that
she was quite useless. The Count Fosco, and his lady, who came
upstairs immediately afterwards, were both most serviceable and
kind. Her ladyship assisted me to get Miss Halcombe to her bed.
His lordship the Count remained in the sitting-room, and having
sent for my medicine-chest, made a mixture for Miss Halcombe, and
a cooling lotion to be applied to her head, so as to lose no time
before the doctor came. We applied the lotion, but we could not
get her to take the mixture. Sir Percival undertook to send for
the doctor. He despatched a groom, on horseback, for the nearest
medical man, Mr. Dawson, of Oak Lodge.
Mr. Dawson arrived in less than an hour's time. He was a
respectable elderly man, well known all round the country, and we
were much alarmed when we found that he considered the case to be
a very serious one.
His lordship the Count affably entered into conversation with Mr.
Dawson, and gave his opinions with a judicious freedom. Mr.
Dawson, not over-courteously, inquired if his lordship's advice
was the advice of a doctor, and being informed that it was the
advice of one who had studied medicine unprofessionally, replied
that he was not accustomed to consult with amateur physicians.
The Count, with truly Christian meekness of temper, smiled and
left the room. Before he went out he told me that he might be
found, in case he was wanted in the course of the day, at the
boat-house on the banks of the lake. Why he should have gone
there, I cannot say. But he did go, remaining away the whole day
till seven o'clock, which was dinner-time. Perhaps he wished to
set the example of keeping the house as quiet as possible. It was
entirely in his character to do so. He was a most considerate
nobleman.
Miss Halcombe passed a very bad night, the fever coming and going,
and getting worse towards the morning instead of better. No nurse
fit to wait on her being at hand in the neighbourhood, her
ladyship the Countess and myself undertook the duty, relieving
each other. Lady Glyde, most unwisely, insisted on sitting up
with us. She was much too nervous and too delicate in health to
bear the anxiety of Miss Halcombe's illness calmly. She only did
herself harm, without being of the least real assistance. A more
gentle and affectionate lady never lived--but she cried, and she
was frightened, two weaknesses which made her entirely unfit to be
present in a sick-room.
Sir Percival and the Count came in the morning to make their
inquiries.
Sir Percival (from distress, I presume, at his lady's affliction
and at Miss Halcombe's illness) appeared much confused and
unsettled in his mind. His lordship testified, on the contrary, a
becoming composure and interest. He had his straw hat in one hand,
and his book in the other, and he mentioned to Sir Percival in my
hearing that he would go out again and study at the lake. "Let us
keep the house quiet," he said. "Let us not smoke indoors, my
friend, now Miss Halcombe is ill. You go your way, and I will go
mine. When I study I like to be alone. Good-morning, Mrs.
Michelson."
Sir Percival was not civil enough--perhaps I ought in justice to
say, not composed enough--to take leave of me with the same polite
attention. The only person in the house, indeed, who treated me,
at that time or at any other, on the footing of a lady in
distressed circumstances, was the Count. He had the manners of a
true nobleman--he was considerate towards every one. Even the
young person (Fanny by name) who attended on Lady Glyde was not
beneath his notice. When she was sent away by Sir Percival, his
lordship (showing me his sweet little birds at the time) was most
kindly anxious to know what had become of her, where she was to go
the day she left Blackwater Park, and so on. It is in such little
delicate attentions that the advantages of aristocratic birth
always show themselves. I make no apology for introducing these
particulars--they are brought forward in justice to his lordship,
whose character, I have reason to know, is viewed rather harshly
in certain quarters. A nobleman who can respect a lady in
distressed circumstances, and can take a fatherly interest in the
fortunes of an humble servant girl, shows principles and feelings
of too high an order to be lightly called in question. I advance
no opinions--I offer facts only. My endeavour through life is to
judge not that I be not judged. One of my beloved husband's
finest sermons was on that text. I read it constantly--in my own
copy of the edition printed by subscription, in the first days of
my widowhood--and at every fresh perusal I derive an increase of
spiritual benefit and edification.
There was no improvement in Miss Halcombe, and the second night
was even worse than the first. Mr. Dawson was constant in his
attendance. The practical duties of nursing were still divided
between the Countess and myself, Lady Glyde persisting in sitting
up with us, though we both entreated her to take some rest. "My
place is by Marian's bedside," was her only answer. "Whether I am
ill, or well, nothing will induce me to lose sight of her."
Towards midday I went downstairs to attend to some of my regular
duties. An hour afterwards, on my way back to the sick-room, I
saw the Count (who had gone out again early, for the third time)
entering the hall, to all appearance in the highest good spirits.
Sir Percival, at the same moment, put his head out of the library
door, and addressed his noble friend, with extreme eagerness, in
these words--
"Have you found her?"
His lordship's large face became dimpled all over with placid
smiles, but he made no reply in words. At the same time Sir
Percival turned his head, observed that I was approaching the
stairs, and looked at me in the most rudely angry manner possible.
"Come in here and tell me about it," he said to the Count.
"Whenever there are women in a house they're always sure to be
going up or down stairs."
"My dear Percival," observed his lordship kindly, "Mrs. Michelson
has duties. Pray recognise her admirable performance of them as
sincerely as I do! How is the sufferer, Mrs. Michelson?"
"No better, my lord, I regret to say."
"Sad--most sad!" remarked the Count. "You look fatigued, Mrs.
Michelson. It is certainly time you and my wife had some help in
nursing. I think I may be the means of offering you that help.
Circumstances have happened which will oblige Madame Fosco to
travel to London either to-morrow or the day after. She will go
away in the morning and return at night, and she will bring back
with her, to relieve you, a nurse of excellent conduct and
capacity, who is now disengaged. The woman is known to my wife as
a person to be trusted. Before she comes here say nothing about
her, if you please, to the doctor, because he will look with an
evil eye on any nurse of my providing. When she appears in this
house she will speak for herself, and Mr. Dawson will be obliged
to acknowledge that there is no excuse for not employing her.
Lady Glyde will say the same. Pray present my best respects and
sympathies to Lady Glyde."
I expressed my grateful acknowledgments for his lordship's kind
consideration. Sir Percival cut them short by calling to his
noble friend (using, I regret to say, a profane expression) to
come into the library, and not to keep him waiting there any
longer.
I proceeded upstairs. We are poor erring creatures, and however
well established a woman's principles may be she cannot always
keep on her guard against the temptation to exercise an idle
curiosity. I am ashamed to say that an idle curiosity, on this
occasion, got the better of my principles, and made me unduly
inquisitive about the question which Sir Percival had addressed to
his noble friend at the library door. Who was the Count expected
to find in the course of his studious morning rambles at
Blackwater Park? A woman, it was to be presumed, from the terms of
Sir Percival's inquiry. I did not suspect the Count of any
impropriety--I knew his moral character too well. The only
question I asked myself was--Had he found her?
To resume. The night passed as usual without producing any change
for the better in Miss Halcombe. The next day she seemed to
improve a little. The day after that her ladyship the Countess,
without mentioning the object of her journey to any one in my
hearing, proceeded by the morning train to London--her noble
husband, with his customary attention, accompanying her to the
station.
I was now left in sole charge of Miss Halcombe, with every
apparent chance, in consequence of her sister's resolution not to
leave the bedside, of having Lady Glyde herself to nurse next.
The only circumstance of any importance that happened in the
course of the day was the occurrence of another unpleasant meeting
between the doctor and the Count.
His lordship, on returning from the station, stepped up into Miss
Halcombe's sitting-room to make his inquiries. I went out from
the bedroom to speak to him, Mr. Dawson and Lady Glyde being both
with the patient at the time. The Count asked me many questions
about the treatment and the symptoms. I informed him that the
treatment was of the kind described as "saline," and that the
symptoms, between the attacks of fever, were certainly those of
increasing weakness and exhaustion. Just as I was mentioning
these last particulars, Mr. Dawson came out from the bedroom.
"Good-morning, sir," said his lordship, stepping forward in the
most urbane manner, and stopping the doctor, with a high-bred
resolution impossible to resist, "I greatly fear you find no
improvement in the symptoms to-day?"
"I find decided improvement," answered Mr. Dawson.
"You still persist in your lowering treatment of this case of
fever?" continued his lordship.
"I persist in the treatment which is justified by my own
professional experience," said Mr. Dawson.
"Permit me to put one question to you on the vast subject of
professional experience," observed the Count. "I presume to offer
no more advice--I only presume to make an inquiry. You live at
some distance, sir, from the gigantic centres of scientific
activity--London and Paris. Have you ever heard of the wasting
effects of fever being reasonably and intelligibly repaired by
fortifying the exhausted patient with brandy, wine, ammonia, and
quinine? Has that new heresy of the highest medical authorities
ever reached your ears--Yes or No?"
"When a professional man puts that question to me I shall be glad
to answer him," said the doctor, opening the door to go out. "You
are not a professional man, and I beg to decline answering you."
Buffeted in this inexcusably uncivil way on one cheek, the Count,
like a practical Christian, immediately turned the other, and
said, in the sweetest manner, "Good-morning, Mr. Dawson."
If my late beloved husband had been so fortunate as to know his
lordship, how highly he and the Count would have esteemed each
other!
Her ladyship the Countess returned by the last train that night,
and brought with her the nurse from London. I was instructed that
this person's name was Mrs. Rubelle. Her personal appearance, and
her imperfect English when she spoke, informed me that she was a
foreigner.
I have always cultivated a feeling of humane indulgence for
foreigners. They do not possess our blessings and advantages, and
they are, for the most part, brought up in the blind errors of
Popery. It has also always been my precept and practice, as it
was my dear husband's precept and practice before me (see Sermon
XXIX. in the Collection by the late Rev. Samuel Michelson, M.A.),
to do as I would be done by. On both these accounts I will not
say that Mrs. Rubelle struck me as being a small, wiry, sly
person, of fifty or thereabouts, with a dark brown or Creole
complexion and watchful light grey eyes. Nor will I mention, for
the reasons just alleged, that I thought her dress, though it was
of the plainest black silk, inappropriately costly in texture and
unnecessarily refined in trimming and finish, for a person in her
position in life. I should not like these things to be said of
me, and therefore it is my duty not to say them of Mrs. Rubelle.
I will merely mention that her manners were, not perhaps
unpleasantly reserved, but only remarkably quiet and retiring--
that she looked about her a great deal, and said very little,
which might have arisen quite as much from her own modesty as from
distrust of her position at Blackwater Park; and that she declined
to partake of supper (which was curious perhaps, but surely not
suspicious?), although I myself politely invited her to that meal
in my own room.
At the Count's particular suggestion (so like his lordship's
forgiving kindness!), it was arranged that Mrs. Rubelle should not
enter on her duties until she had been seen and approved by the
doctor the next morning. I sat up that night. Lady Glyde
appeared to be very unwilling that the new nurse should be
employed to attend on Miss Halcombe. Such want of liberality
towards a foreigner on the part of a lady of her education and
refinement surprised me. I ventured to say, "My lady, we must all
remember not to be hasty in our judgments on our inferiors--
especially when they come from foreign parts." Lady Glyde did not
appear to attend to me. She only sighed, and kissed Miss
Halcombe's hand as it lay on the counterpane. Scarcely a
judicious proceeding in a sick-room, with a patient whom it was
highly desirable not to excite. But poor Lady Glyde knew nothing
of nursing--nothing whatever, I am sorry to say.
The next morning Mrs. Rubelle was sent to the sitting-room, to be
approved by the doctor on his way through to the bedroom.
I left Lady Glyde with Miss Halcombe, who was slumbering at the
time, and joined Mrs. Rubelle, with the object of kindly
preventing her from feeling strange and nervous in consequence of
the uncertainty of her situation. She did not appear to see it in
that light. She seemed to be quite satisfied, beforehand, that
Mr. Dawson would approve of her, and she sat calmly looking out of
window, with every appearance of enjoying the country air. Some
people might have thought such conduct suggestive of brazen
assurance. I beg to say that I more liberally set it down to
extraordinary strength of mind.
Instead of the doctor coming up to us, I was sent for to see the
doctor. I thought this change of affairs rather odd, but Mrs.
Rubelle did not appear to be affected by it in any way. I left
her still calmly looking out of the window, and still silently
enjoying the country air.
Mr. Dawson was waiting for me by himself in the breakfast-room.
"About this new nurse, Mrs. Michelson," said the doctor.
"Yes, sir?"
"I find that she has been brought here from London by the wife of
that fat old foreigner, who is always trying to interfere with me.
Mrs. Michelson, the fat old foreigner is a quack."
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