The Woman in White (71 page)

A little more than a fortnight passed, and no answer came.

At the end of that time a lady (the same elderly lady whom they
had seen at the station) called in a cab, and said that she came
from Lady Glyde, who was then at an hotel in London, and who
wished to see Mrs. Clements, for the purpose of arranging a future
interview with Anne. Mrs. Clements expressed her willingness
(Anne being present at the time, and entreating her to do so) to
forward the object in view, especially as she was not required to
be away from the house for more than half an hour at the most.
She and the elderly lady (clearly Madame Fosco) then left in the
cab. The lady stopped the cab, after it had driven some distance,
at a shop before they got to the hotel, and begged Mrs. Clements
to wait for her for a few minutes while she made a purchase that
had been forgotten. She never appeared again.

After waiting some time Mrs. Clements became alarmed, and ordered
the cabman to drive back to her lodgings. When she got there,
after an absence of rather more than half an hour, Anne was gone.

The only information to be obtained from the people of the house
was derived from the servant who waited on the lodgers. She had
opened the door to a boy from the street, who had left a letter
for "the young woman who lived on the second floor" (the part of
the house which Mrs. Clements occupied). The servant had
delivered the letter, had then gone downstairs, and five minutes
afterwards had observed Anne open the front door and go out,
dressed in her bonnet and shawl. She had probably taken the
letter with her, for it was not to be found, and it was therefore
impossible to tell what inducement had been offered to make her
leave the house. It must have been a strong one, for she would
never stir out alone in London of her own accord. If Mrs.
Clements had not known this by experience nothing would have
induced her to go away in the cab, even for so short a time as
half an hour only.

As soon as she could collect her thoughts, the first idea that
naturally occurred to Mrs. Clements was to go and make inquiries
at the Asylum, to which she dreaded that Anne had been taken back.

She went there the next day, having been informed of the locality
in which the house was situated by Anne herself. The answer she
received (her application having in all probability been made a
day or two before the false Anne Catherick had really been
consigned to safe keeping in the Asylum) was, that no such person
had been brought back there. She had then written to Mrs.
Catherick at Welmingham to know if she had seen or heard anything
of her daughter, and had received an answer in the negative.
After that reply had reached her, she was at the end of her
resources, and perfectly ignorant where else to inquire or what
else to do. From that time to this she had remained in total
ignorance of the cause of Anne's disappearance and of the end of
Anne's story.

Thus far the information which I had received from Mrs. Clements—
though it established facts of which I had not previously been
aware—was of a preliminary character only.

It was clear that the series of deceptions which had removed Anne
Catherick to London, and separated her from Mrs. Clements, had
been accomplished solely by Count Fosco and the Countess, and the
question whether any part of the conduct of husband or wife had
been of a kind to place either of them within reach of the law
might be well worthy of future consideration. But the purpose I
had now in view led me in another direction than this. The
immediate object of my visit to Mrs. Clements was to make some
approach at least to the discovery of Sir Percival's secret, and
she had said nothing as yet which advanced me on my way to that
important end. I felt the necessity of trying to awaken her
recollections of other times, persons, and events than those on
which her memory had hitherto been employed, and when I next spoke
I spoke with that object indirectly in view.

"I wish I could be of any help to you in this sad calamity," I
said. "All I can do is to feel heartily for your distress. If
Anne had been your own child, Mrs. Clements, you could have shown
her no truer kindness—you could have made no readier sacrifices
for her sake."

"There's no great merit in that, sir," said Mrs. Clements simply.
"The poor thing was as good as my own child to me. I nursed her
from a baby, sir, bringing her up by hand—and a hard job it was
to rear her. It wouldn't go to my heart so to lose her if I
hadn't made her first short clothes and taught her to walk. I
always said she was sent to console me for never having chick or
child of my own. And now she's lost the old times keep coming
back to my mind, and even at my age I can't help crying about her—
I can't indeed, sir!"

I waited a little to give Mrs. Clements time to compose herself.
Was the light that I had been looking for so long glimmering on
me—far off, as yet—in the good woman's recollections of Anne's
early life?

"Did you know Mrs. Catherick before Anne was born?" I asked.

"Not very long, sir—not above four months. We saw a great deal
of each other in that time, but we were never very friendly
together."

Her voice was steadier as she made that reply. Painful as many of
her recollections might be, I observed that it was unconsciously a
relief to her mind to revert to the dimly-seen troubles of the
past, after dwelling so long on the vivid sorrows of the present.

"Were you and Mrs. Catherick neighbours?" I inquired, leading her
memory on as encouragingly as I could.

"Yes, sir—neighbours at Old Welmingham."

"OLD Welmingham? There are two places of that name, then, in
Hampshire?"

"Well, sir, there used to be in those days—better than three-and-
twenty years ago. They built a new town about two miles off,
convenient to the river—and Old Welmingham, which was never much
more than a village, got in time to be deserted. The new town is
the place they call Welmingham now—but the old parish church is
the parish church still. It stands by itself, with the houses
pulled down or gone to ruin all round it. I've lived to see sad
changes. It was a pleasant, pretty place in my time."

"Did you live there before your marriage, Mrs. Clements?"

"No, sir—I'm a Norfolk woman. It wasn't the place my husband
belonged to either. He was from Grimsby, as I told you, and he
served his apprenticeship there. But having friends down south,
and hearing of an opening, he got into business at Southampton.
It was in a small way, but he made enough for a plain man to
retire on, and settled at Old Welmingham. I went there with him
when he married me. We were neither of us young, but we lived
very happy together—happier than our neighbour, Mr. Catherick,
lived along with his wife when they came to Old Welmingham a year
or two afterwards."

"Was your husband acquainted with them before that?"

"With Catherick, sir—not with his wife. She was a stranger to
both of us. Some gentlemen had made interest for Catherick, and
he got the situation of clerk at Welmingham church, which was the
reason of his coming to settle in our neighbourhood. He brought
his newly-married wife along with him, and we heard in course of
time she had been lady's-maid in a family that lived at Varneck
Hall, near Southampton. Catherick had found it a hard matter to
get her to marry him, in consequence of her holding herself
uncommonly high. He had asked and asked, and given the thing up
at last, seeing she was so contrary about it. When he HAD given
it up she turned contrary just the other way, and came to him of
her own accord, without rhyme or reason seemingly. My poor
husband always said that was the time to have given her a lesson.
But Catherick was too fond of her to do anything of the sort—he
never checked her either before they were married or after. He
was a quick man in his feelings, letting them carry him a deal too
far, now in one way and now in another, and he would have spoilt a
better wife than Mrs. Catherick if a better had married him. I
don't like to speak ill of any one, sir, but she was a heartless
woman, with a terrible will of her own—fond of foolish admiration
and fine clothes, and not caring to show so much as decent outward
respect to Catherick, kindly as he always treated her. My husband
said he thought things would turn out badly when they first came
to live near us, and his words proved true. Before they had been
quite four months in our neighbourhood there was a dreadful
scandal and a miserable break-up in their household. Both of them
were in fault—I am afraid both of them were equally in fault."

"You mean both husband and wife?"

"Oh, no, sir! I don't mean Catherick—he was only to be pitied. I
meant his wife and the person—"

"And the person who caused the scandal?"

"Yes, sir. A gentleman born and brought up, who ought to have set
a better example. You know him, sir—and my poor dear Anne knew
him only too well."

"Sir Percival Glyde?"

"Yes, Sir Percival Glyde."

My heart beat fast—I thought I had my hand on the clue. How
little I knew then of the windings of the labyrinths which were
still to mislead me!

"Did Sir Percival live in your neighbourhood at that time?" I
asked.

"No, sir. He came among us as a stranger. His father had died
not long before in foreign parts. I remember he was in mourning.
He put up at the little inn on the river (they have pulled it down
since that time), where gentlemen used to go to fish. He wasn't
much noticed when he first came—it was a common thing enough for
gentlemen to travel from all parts of England to fish in our
river."

"Did he make his appearance in the village before Anne was born?"

"Yes, sir. Anne was born in the June month of eighteen hundred
and twenty-seven—and I think he came at the end of April or the
beginning of May."

"Came as a stranger to all of you? A stranger to Mrs. Catherick as
well as to the rest of the neighbours?"

"So we thought at first, sir. But when the scandal broke out,
nobody believed they were strangers. I remember how it happened
as well as if it was yesterday. Catherick came into our garden
one night, and woke us by throwing up a handful of gravel from the
walk at our window. I heard him beg my husband, for the Lord's
sake, to come down and speak to him. They were a long time
together talking in the porch. When my husband came back upstairs
he was all of a tremble. He sat down on the side of the bed and
he says to me, 'Lizzie! I always told you that woman was a bad
one—I always said she would end ill, and I'm afraid in my own
mind that the end has come already. Catherick has found a lot of
lace handkerchiefs, and two fine rings, and a new gold watch and
chain, hid away in his wife's drawer—things that nobody but a
born lady ought ever to have—and his wife won't say how she came
by them.' 'Does he think she stole them?' says I. 'No,' says he,
'stealing would be bad enough. But it's worse than that, she's
had no chance of stealing such things as those, and she's not a
woman to take them if she had. They're gifts, Lizzie—there's her
own initials engraved inside the watch—and Catherick has seen her
talking privately, and carrying on as no married woman should,
with that gentleman in mourning, Sir Percival Glyde. Don't you
say anything about it—I've quieted Catherick for to-night. I've
told him to keep his tongue to himself, and his eyes and his ears
open, and to wait a day or two, till he can be quite certain.' 'I
believe you are both of you wrong,' says I. 'It's not in nature,
comfortable and respectable as she is here, that Mrs. Catherick
should take up with a chance stranger like Sir Percival Glyde.'
'Ay, but is he a stranger to her?' says my husband. 'You forget
how Catherick's wife came to marry him. She went to him of her
own accord, after saying No over and over again when he asked her.
There have been wicked women before her time, Lizzie, who have
used honest men who loved them as a means of saving their
characters, and I'm sorely afraid this Mrs. Catherick is as wicked
as the worst of them. We shall see,' says my husband, 'we shall
soon see.' And only two days afterwards we did see."

Mrs. Clements waited for a moment before she went on. Even in
that moment, I began to doubt whether the clue that I thought I
had found was really leading me to the central mystery of the
labyrinth after all. Was this common, too common, story of a
man's treachery and a woman's frailty the key to a secret which
had been the life-long terror of Sir Percival Glyde?

"Well, sir, Catherick took my husband's advice and waited," Mrs.
Clements continued. "And as I told you, he hadn't long to wait.
On the second day he found his wife and Sir Percival whispering
together quite familiar, close under the vestry of the church. I
suppose they thought the neighbourhood of the vestry was the last
place in the world where anybody would think of looking after
them, but, however that may be, there they were. Sir Percival,
being seemingly surprised and confounded, defended himself in such
a guilty way that poor Catherick (whose quick temper I have told
you of already) fell into a kind of frenzy at his own disgrace,
and struck Sir Percival. He was no match (and I am sorry to say
it) for the man who had wronged him, and he was beaten in the
cruelest manner, before the neighbours, who had come to the place
on hearing the disturbance, could run in to part them. All this
happened towards evening, and before nightfall, when my husband
went to Catherick's house, he was gone, nobody knew where. No
living soul in the village ever saw him again. He knew too well,
by that time, what his wife's vile reason had been for marrying
him, and he felt his misery and disgrace, especially after what
had happened to him with Sir Percival, too keenly. The clergyman
of the parish put an advertisement in the paper begging him to
come back, and saying that he should not lose his situation or his
friends. But Catherick had too much pride and spirit, as some
people said—too much feeling, as I think, sir—to face his
neighbours again, and try to live down the memory of his disgrace.
My husband heard from him when he had left England, and heard a
second time, when he was settled and doing well in America. He is
alive there now, as far as I know, but none of us in the old
country—his wicked wife least of all—are ever likely to set eyes
on him again."