The Woman in White (54 page)

"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?

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.