The Woman in White (59 page)

"Drop it!" said Sir Percival, rudely turning his back on us. "If
you haven't sense enough to know what is best for yourself other
people must know it foe you. The arrangement is made and there is
an end of it. You are only wanted to do what Miss Halcombe has
done for you—"

"Marian?" repeated her Ladyship, in a bewildered manner; "Marian
sleeping in Count Fosco's house!"

"Yes, in Count Fosco's house. She slept there last night to break
the journey, and you are to follow her example, and do what your
uncle tells you. You are to sleep at Fosco's to-morrow night, as
your sister did, to break the journey. Don't throw too many
obstacles in my way! don't make me repent of letting you go at
all!"

He started to his feet, and suddenly walked out into the verandah
through the open glass doors.

"Will your ladyship excuse me," I whispered, "if I suggest that we
had better not wait here till Sir Percival comes back? I am very
much afraid he is over-excited with wine."

She consented to leave the room in a weary, absent manner.

As soon as we were safe upstairs again, I did all I could to
compose her ladyship's spirits. I reminded her that Mr. Fairlie's
letters to Miss Halcombe and to herself did certainly sanction,
and even render necessary, sooner or later, the course that had
been taken. She agreed to this, and even admitted, of her own
accord, that both letters were strictly in character with her
uncle's peculiar disposition—but her fears about Miss Halcombe,
and her unaccountable dread of sleeping at the Count's house in
London, still remained unshaken in spite of every consideration
that I could urge. I thought it my duty to protest against Lady
Glyde's unfavourable opinion of his lordship, and I did so, with
becoming forbearance and respect.

"Your ladyship will pardon my freedom," I remarked, in conclusion,
"but it is said, 'by their fruits ye shall know them.' I am sure
the Count's constant kindness and constant attention, from the
very beginning of Miss Halcombe's illness, merit our best
confidence and esteem. Even his lordship's serious
misunderstanding with Mr. Dawson was entirely attributable to his
anxiety on Miss Halcombe's account."

"What misunderstanding?" inquired her ladyship, with a look of
sudden interest.

I related the unhappy circumstances under which Mr. Dawson had
withdrawn his attendance—mentioning them all the more readily
because I disapproved of Sir Percival's continuing to conceal what
had happened (as he had done in my presence) from the knowledge of
Lady Glyde.

Her ladyship started up, with every appearance of being
additionally agitated and alarmed by what I had told her.

"Worse! worse than I thought!" she said, walking about the room,
in a bewildered manner. "The Count knew Mr. Dawson would never
consent to Marian's taking a journey—he purposely insulted the
doctor to get him out of the house."

"Oh, my lady! my lady!" I remonstrated.

"Mrs. Michelson!" she went on vehemently, "no words that ever were
spoken will persuade me that my sister is in that man's power and
in that man's house with her own consent. My horror of him is
such, that nothing Sir Percival could say and no letters my uncle
could write, would induce me, if I had only my own feelings to
consult, to eat, drink, or sleep under his roof. Put my misery of
suspense about Marian gives me the courage to follow her anywhere,
to follow her even into Count Fosco's house."

I thought it right, at this point, to mention that Miss Halcombe
had already gone on to Cumberland, according to Sir Percival's
account of the matter.

"I am afraid to believe it!" answered her ladyship. "I am afraid
she is still in that man's house. If I am wrong, if she has
really gone on to Limmeridge, I am resolved I will not sleep to-
morrow night under Count Fosco's roof. My dearest friend in the
world, next to my sister, lives near London. You have heard me,
you have heard Miss Halcombe, speak of Mrs. Vesey? I mean to
write, and propose to sleep at her house. I don't know how I
shall get there—I don't know how I shall avoid the Count—but to
that refuge I will escape in some way, if my sister has gone to
Cumberland. All I ask of you to do, is to see yourself that my
letter to Mrs. Vesey goes to London to-night, as certainly as Sir
Percival's letter goes to Count Fosco. I have reasons for not
trusting the post-bag downstairs. Will you keep my secret, and
help me in this? it is the last favour, perhaps, that I shall ever
ask of you."

I hesitated, I thought it all very strange, I almost feared that
her ladyship's mind had been a little affected by recent anxiety
and suffering. At my own risk, however, I ended by giving my
consent. If the letter had been addressed to a stranger, or to
any one but a lady so well known to me by report as Mrs. Vesey, I
might have refused. I thank God—looking to what happened
afterwards—I thank God I never thwarted that wish, or any other,
which Lady Glyde expressed to me, on the last day of her residence
at Blackwater Park.

The letter was written and given into my hands. I myself put it
into the post-box in the village that evening.

We saw nothing more of Sir Percival for the rest of the day.

I slept, by Lady Glyde's own desire, in the next room to hers,
with the door open between us. There was something so strange and
dreadful in the loneliness and emptiness of the house, that I was
glad, on my side, to have a companion near me. Her ladyship sat
up late, reading letters and burning them, and emptying her
drawers and cabinets of little things she prized, as if she never
expected to return to Blackwater Park. Her sleep was sadly
disturbed when she at last went to bed—she cried out in it
several times, once so loud that she woke herself. Whatever her
dreams were, she did not think fit to communicate them to me.
Perhaps, in my situation, I had no right to expect that she should
do so. It matters little now. I was sorry for her, I was indeed
heartily sorry for her all the same.

The next day was fine and sunny. Sir Percival came up, after
breakfast, to tell us that the chaise would be at the door at a
quarter to twelve—the train to London stopping at our station at
twenty minutes after. He informed Lady Glyde that he was obliged
to go out, but added that he hoped to be back before she left. If
any unforeseen accident delayed him, I was to accompany her to the
station, and to take special care that she was in time for the
train. Sir Percival communicated these directions very hastily—
walking here and there about the room all the time. Her ladyship
looked attentively after him wherever he went. He never once
looked at her in return.

She only spoke when he had done, and then she stopped him as he
approached the door, by holding out her hand.

"I shall see you no more," she said, in a very marked manner.
"This is our parting—our parting, it may be for ever. Will you
try to forgive me, Percival, as heartily as I forgive YOU?"

His face turned of an awful whiteness all over, and great beads of
perspiration broke out on his bald forehead. "I shall come back,"
he said, and made for the door, as hastily as if his wife's
farewell words had frightened him out of the room.

I had never liked Sir Percival, but the manner in which he left
Lady Glyde made me feel ashamed of having eaten his bread and
lived in his service. I thought of saying a few comforting and
Christian words to the poor lady, but there was something in her
face, as she looked after her husband when the door closed on him,
that made me alter my mind and keep silence.

At the time named the chaise drew up at the gates. Her ladyship
was right—Sir Percival never came back. I waited for him till
the last moment, and waited in vain.

No positive responsibility lay on my shoulders, and yet I did not
feel easy in my mind. "It is of your own free will," I said, as
the chaise drove through the lodge-gates, "that your ladyship goes
to London?"

"I will go anywhere," she answered, "to end the dreadful suspense
that I am suffering at this moment."

She had made me feel almost as anxious and as uncertain about Miss
Halcombe as she felt herself. I presumed to ask her to write me a
line, if all went well in London. She answered, "Most willingly,
Mrs. Michelson."

"We all have our crosses to bear, my lady," I said, seeing her
silent and thoughtful, after she had promised to write.

She made no reply—she seemed to be too much wrapped up in her own
thoughts to attend to me.

"I fear your ladyship rested badly last night," I remarked, after
waiting a little.

"Yes," she said, "I was terribly disturbed by dreams."

"Indeed, my lady?" I thought she was going to tell me her dreams,
but no, when she spoke next it was only to ask a question.

"You posted the letter to Mrs. Vesey with your own hands?"

"Yes, my lady."

"Did Sir Percival say, yesterday, that Count Fosco was to meet me
at the terminus in London?"

"He did, my lady."

She sighed heavily when I answered that last question, and said no
more.

We arrived at the station, with hardly two minutes to spare. The
gardener (who had driven us) managed about the luggage, while I
took the ticket. The whistle of the train was sounding when I
joined her ladyship on the platform. She looked very strangely,
and pressed her hand over her heart, as if some sudden pain or
fright had overcome her at that moment.

"I wish you were going with me!" she said, catching eagerly at my
arm when I gave her the ticket.

If there had been time, if I had felt the day before as I felt
then, I would have made my arrangements to accompany her, even
though the doing so had obliged me to give Sir Percival warning on
the spot. As it was, her wishes, expressed at the last moment
only, were expressed too late for me to comply with them. She
seemed to understand this herself before I could explain it, and
did not repeat her desire to have me for a travelling companion.
The train drew up at the platform. She gave the gardener a
present for his children, and took my hand, in her simple hearty
manner, before she got into the carriage.

"You have been very kind to me and to my sister," she said—"kind
when we were both friendless. I shall remember you gratefully, as
long as I live to remember any one. Good-bye—and God bless you!"

She spoke those words with a tone and a look which brought the
tears into my eyes—she spoke them as if she was bidding me
farewell for ever.

"Good-bye, my lady," I said, putting her into the carriage, and
trying to cheer her; "good-bye, for the present only; good-bye,
with my best and kindest wishes for happier times."

She shook her head, and shuddered as she settled herself in the
carriage. The guard closed the door. "Do you believe in dreams?"
she whispered to me at the window. "My dreams, last night, were
dreams I have never had before. The terror of them is hanging
over me still." The whistle sounded before I could answer, and the
train moved. Her pale quiet face looked at me for the last time—
looked sorrowfully and solemnly from the window. She waved her
hand, and I saw her no more.

Towards five o'clock on the afternoon of that same day, having a
little time to myself in the midst of the household duties which
now pressed upon me, I sat down alone in my own room, to try and
compose my mind with the volume of my husband's Sermons. For the
first time in my life I found my attention wandering over those
pious and cheering words. Concluding that Lady Glyde's departure
must have disturbed me far more seriously than I had myself
supposed, I put the book aside, and went out to take a turn in the
garden. Sir Percival had not yet returned, to my knowledge, so I
could feel no hesitation about showing myself in the grounds.

On turning the corner of the house, and gaining a view of the
garden, I was startled by seeing a stranger walking in it. The
stranger was a woman—she was lounging along the path with her
back to me, and was gathering the flowers.

As I approached she heard me, and turned round.

My blood curdled in my veins. The strange woman in the garden was
Mrs. Rubelle!

I could neither move nor speak. She came up to me, as composedly
as ever, with her flowers in her hand.

"What is the matter, ma'am?" she said quietly.

"You here!" I gasped out. "Not gone to London! Not gone to
Cumberland!"

Mrs. Rubelle smelt at her flowers with a smile of malicious pity.

"Certainly not," she said. "I have never left Blackwater Park."

I summoned breath enough and courage enough for another question.

"Where is Miss Halcombe?"

Mrs. Rubelle fairly laughed at me this time, and replied in these
words—

"Miss Halcombe, ma'am, has not left Blackwater Park either."

When I heard that astounding answer, all my thoughts were startled
back on the instant to my parting with Lady Glyde. I can hardly
say I reproached myself, but at that moment I think I would have
given many a year's hard savings to have known four hours earlier
what I knew now.

Mrs. Rubelle waited, quietly arranging her nosegay, as if she
expected me to say something.

I could say nothing. I thought of Lady Glyde's worn-out energies
and weakly health, and I trembled for the time when the shock of
the discovery that I had made would fall on her. For a minute or
more my fears for the poor ladies silenced me. At the end of that
time Mrs. Rubelle looked up sideways from her flowers, and said,
"Here is Sir Percival, ma'am, returned from his ride."

I saw him as soon as she did. He came towards us, slashing
viciously at the flowers with his riding-whip. When he was near
enough to see my face he stopped, struck at his boot with the
whip, and burst out laughing, so harshly and so violently that the
birds flew away, startled, from the tree by which he stood.