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WILKIE COLLINS'S NOVELS.

Crown 8vo. cloth extra, 31. 61^. each ; post 8vo. boards, ^s. each ;

cloth limp, 2^. 6ii. each.

ANTONINA.

THE Frozen deep. I

BASIL.

THE LAW AND THE LADY.

HIDE AND SEEK.

THE TWO DESTINIES.

AFTER DARK.

THE HAUNTED HOTEL.

THE DEAD SECRET.

THE FALLEN LEAVES.

THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.

JEZEBEL'S DAUGHTER.

THE WOMAN IN WHITE.

THE BLACK ROBE.

NO NAME.

HEART AND SCIENCE.

MY MISCELLANIES.

'I SAY NO."

ARMADALE.

A ROGUE'S LIFE.

THE MOONSTONE.

THE EVIL GENIUS.

MAN AND WIFE.

LITTLE NOVELS.

POOR MISS FINCH.

THE LEGACY OF CAIN.

MISS OR MRS.?

BLIND LOVE.

THE NEW MAGDALEN.

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE.

1 THE MOONSTONE.

THE WOMAN IN WHITE and T

HE MOONSTONE in One Volume,

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London : CHATTO & WINDL

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THE

WOMAN IN WHITE

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WILKIE COLLINS

THE

WOMAN IN WHITE

LIBRARY EDITION

WITH A PORTRAIT

LONDON
CHATTO & WINDUS
1896

9 4 34 7 7

BRYAN WALLER PROCTER

FROM ONE OF HIS YOUNGER BRETHREN IN LITERATURE
WHO SINCERELY VALUES HIS FRIENDSHIP

AND WHO GRATEFULLY REMEMPERS
MANY HAPPY HOURS SPENT IN HIS HOUSE

PREFACE

* The Woman in White ' has been received with such
marked favour by a very large circle of readers, that this
volume scarcely stands in need of any prefatory introduction
on my part. All that it is necessary for me to say may be
summed up in a few words.

I have endeavoured, by careful correction and revision, to
make my story as worthy as I could of a continuance of the
public approval. Certain technical errors which had escaped
me while I was writing the book are here rectified. None of
these little blemishes in the slightest degree interfered with
the interest of the narrative — but it was as well to remove
them at the first opportunity, out of respect to my readers ;
and in this edition, accordingly, they exist no more.

Some doubts having been expressed, in certain captious
quarters, about the correct presentation of the legal ' points '
incidental to the story, I may be permitted to mention that
I spared no pains — in this instance, as in all others — to pre-
serve myself from unintentionally misleading my readers. A
solicitor of great experience in his profession most kindly and
carefully guided my steps, whenever the course of the narra-
tive led me into the labyrinth of the Law% Every doubtful
question was submitted to this gentleman, before I ventured
on putting pen to paper ; and all the proof-sheets which re-
ferred to legal matters were corrected by his hand before the
story was published. I can add, on high judicial authority,
that these precautions were not taken in vain. The ' law ' in
this book has been discussed, since its publication, by more
than one competent tribunal, and has been decided to be
sound.

One word more, before I conclude, in acknowledgment of
the heavy debt of gratitude which I owe to the reading public.

ix a

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

It is no affectation on my part to say that the success of
this book has been especially welcome to me, because it im-
plied the recognition of a literary principle which has guided
me since I first addressed my readers in the character of a
novelist.

I have always held the old-fashioned opinion that the
primary object of a work of fiction should be to tell a story ;
and I have never believed that the novelist who properly per-
formed this first condition of his art, was in danger, on
that account, of neglecting the delineation of character — for
this plain reason, that the effect produced by any narrative of
events is essentially dependent, not on the events themselves,
but on the human interest which is directly connected with
them. It may be possible, in novel-writing, to present
characters successfully without telling a story ; but it is not
possible to tell a story successfully without presenting charac-
ters ; their existence, as recognisable realities, being the sole
condition on which the story can be effectively told. The
only narrative which can hope to lay a strong hold on the
attention of readers, is a narrative which interests them about
men and women — for the perfectly obvious reason that they
are men and women themselves.

The reception accorded to * The Woman in White ' has
practically confirmed these opinions, and has satisfied me that
I may trust to them in the future. Here is a novel which has
met with a very kind reception, because it is a Story ; and
here is a story, the interest of which — as I know by the testi-
mony, voluntarily addressed to me, of the readers themselves
— is never disconnected from the interest of character.
'Laura,' 'Miss Halcombe,' and 'Anne Catherick ; ' 'Count
Fosco,' ' Mr. Fairlie,' and ' Walter Hartright ; ' have made
friends for me wherever they have made themselves known.
I hope the time is not far distant when I may meet those
friends again, and when I may try, through the medium of
new characters, to awaken their interest in another story.

Harley Street, London
February 1861.

CONTENTS

THE FIRST EPOCH

PAGE

THE STORY BEGUN BY WALTER HARTRIGHT, OF CLEMENT'S

INN, TEACHER OF DRAWING I

THE STORY CONTINUED BY VINCENT GILMORE, OF CHANCERY

LANE, SOLICITOR I09

THE STORY CONTINUED BY MARIAN HALCOMBE, IN EXTRACTS

FROM HER DIARY . . 14I

THE SECOND EPOCH

THE STORY CONTINUED BY MARIAN HALCOMBE . . . . 172

THE STORY CONTINUED BY FREDERICK FAIRLIE, ESQ., OF

LIMMERIDGE HOUSE 302

THE STORY CONTINUED BY ELIZA MICHELSON, HOUSEKEEPER

AT BLACKWATER PARK 319

THE STORY CONTINUED IN SEVERAL NARRATIVES . . . 357

I. The Narrative of Hester Tinhorn, Cook in the Service of
Count Fosco. 2. The Narrative of the Doctor. 3. The
Narrative of Jane Gould. 4. The Narrative of the Tomb-
stone. 5. The Narrative of Walter Hartright.
xi

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

THE THIRD EPOCH

PAGE

THE STORY CONTIXUED BY WALTER HARTRIGHT . . . 369

THE STORY COxVTINUED BY MRS. CATHERICK .... 475

THE STORY CONTINUED BY WALTER H.\RTRICHT . . . 487

THE STORY CONTINUED BY ISIDOR OTTAVIO BALDASSARE

FOSCO 540

THE STORY CONCLUDED BY WALTER HARTRIGHT . • • 553

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

7he Story begun by Walter Hartright, of Clements fiitt,
Teacher of Drauing

This Is the storj of what a Woman's patience can endure,
and what a Man's resolution can achieve.

If the machinery of the Law could be depended on to
tathom every case of suspicion, and to conduct every process
of mquiry, with moderate assistance only from the lubricatino-
mfluences of oil of gold, the events which fill these pao-et
might have claimed their share of the public attention in a
Court of Justice.

But the Law is still, in certain inevitable cases, the pre-
engaged servant of the long purse, -and the story is left to
be told, for the first time, in this place. As the Judge miirht
once have heard it, so the Reader shall hear it now. No cir
cumstance of importance, from the beginning to the end of the
disclosure, shall be related on hearsay evidence. When the
writer of these introductory lines (Walter Hartright by name)
happens to be more closely connected than others with the
incidents to be recorded, he will describe them in his own
person. When his experience fails, he will retire from the
position of narrator, and his task will be continued, from the
point at which he has left it off, by other persons who can
speak to the circumstances under notice from their own
knowledge, just as clearly and positively as he has spoken
betore them. ^

Thus the story here presented will be told by more than
one pen, as the story of an offence against the laws is told in
Lourt by more than one witness— with the same object in
both cases, to present the truth always in its most direct and
most intelligible aspect, and to trace the course of one com-
plete series of events, by making the persons who have been

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

most closely connected with them, at each successive stagfe,
relate their own experience, word for word.

Let Walter Hartright, teacher of drawing, aged twenty-
eight years, be heard first.

It was the last day of July. The long hot summer was
drawing to a close, and we, the weary pilgrims of the London
pavement, were beginning to think of the cloud-shadows on
the cornfields, and the autumn breezes on the seashore.

For my own poor part, the fading summer left me out of
health, out of spirits, and, if the truth must be told, out of
money as well. During the past year I had not m.anaged my
professional resources as carefully as usual, and my extrava-
gance now limited me to the prospect of spending the autumn
economically between my mother's cottage at Hampstead
and my own chambers in town.

The evening, I remember, was still and cloudy ; the
London air was at its heaviest ; the distant hum of the
street traffic was at its faintest ; the small pulse of the life
within me and the great heart of the city around me seemed
to be sinking in unison, languidly and more languidly, with
the sinking sun. I roused myself from the book which I waa
dreaming over rather than reading, and left my chambers to
meet the cool night air in the suburbs. It was one of the
two evenings in every week which I was accustomed to spend
with my mother and my sister. So I turned my steps north-
ward, in the direction of Hampstead.

Events which I have yet to relate make it necessary to
mention in this place that my father had been dead some
years at the period of which I am now writing ; and that my
sister Sarah and I were the sole survivors of a family of five
children. My father was a drawing-master before me. His
exertions had made him highly successful in his profession,
and his affectionate anxiety to provide for the future of those
who were dependent on his labours had impelled him, from
the time of his marriage, to devote to the insuring of his life
a much larger portion of his income than most men consider
it necessary to set aside for that purpose. Thanks to his
admirable prudence and self-denial, my mother and sister
were left, after his death, as independent of the world as they
had been during- his lifetime. I succeeded to his connection,
and had every reason to feel grateful for the prospect that
awaited me at my starting- in life.

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

The quiet twilig-ht was still trembling on the topmost
ridges of the Heath, and the view of London below me had
sunk into a black gulf in the shadow of the cloudy night,
when I stood before the gate of my mother's cottage. I had
hardly rung the bell before the house-door was opened
violently ; my worthy Italian friend. Professor Pesca, ap-
peared in the servant's place, and darted out joyously to re-
ceive me, with a shrill foreign parody on an English cheer.

On his own account, and, I must be allowed to add, on
mine also, the Professor merits the honour of a formal intro-
duction. Accident has made him the starting-point of the
strange family story which it is the purpose of these pages to
unfold.

I had first become acquainted v/ith my Italian friend by
meeting him at certain great houses, where he taught his own
language and I taught drawing. All I then knew of the
history of his life was that he had once held a situation in the
University of Padua ; that he had left Italy for political
reasons (the nature of which he uniformly declined to mention
to anyone) ; and that he had been for many years respectably
established in London as a teacher of languages.

Without being actually a dwarf — for he was perfectly
well-proportioned from head to foot — Pesca was, I think,
the smallest human being I ever saw out of a show-room.
Remarkable anywhere by his personal appearance, he was
still further distinguished among the rank and file of man-
kind by the harmless eccentricity of his character. The
ruling idea of his life appeared to be that he was bound to
show his gratitude to the country which had afforded him an
asylum and a means of subsistence by doing his utmost to
turn himself into an Englishman. Not content with paying
the nation in general the compliment of invariably carrying
an umbrella, and invariably wearing gaiters and a white hat,
the Professor further aspired to become an Englishman in his
habits and amusements, as well as in his personal appearance.
Finding us distinguished as a nation by our love of athletic
exercises, the little man, in the innocence of his heart, devoted
himself impromptu to all our English sports and pastimes
whenever he had the opportunity of joining them, firmly
persuaded that he could adopt our national amusements of
the field by an eff"ort of will, precisely as he had adopted our
national gaiters and our national white hat.

I had seen him risk his limbs blindly at a fox-hunt and in
a cricket-field, and soon afterwards I saw him risk his life,
just as blindly, in the sea at Brighton.

3 B2

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

We had met there accidentally, and were bathing tog-ether.
If we had been engaged in any exercise peculiar to my own
nation, I should, of course, have looked after Pesca carefully ;
but as foreigners are generally quite as well able to take care
of themselves in the water as Englishmen, it never occurred
to me that the art of swimming might merely add one more
to the list of manly exercises which the Professor believed
that he could learn impromptu. Soon after we had both
struck out from shore I stopped, finding my friend did not
gain on me, and turned round to look for him. To my
horror and amazement I saw nothing between m.e and the
beach but two little white arms, which struggled for an
instant above the surface of the water, and then disappeared
from view. When I dived for him the poor little man was lying
quietly coiled up at the bottom in a hollow of shingle, looking
by many degrees smaller than I had ever seen him look before.
During the few minutes that elapsed while I was taking him
in the air revived him, and he ascended the steps of the
machine with my assistance. With the partial recovery of
his animation came the return of his wonderful delusion on
the subject of swimming. As soon as his chattering teeth
would let him speak, he smiled vacantly, and said he thought
it must have been the Cramp.

When he had thoroughly recovered himself and had joined
me on the beach, his warm Southern nature broke through
all artificial English restraints in a moment. He overwhelmed
me with the wildest expressions of affection— exclaimed pas-
sionately, in his exaggerated Italian v/ay, that he would hold
his life henceforth at my disposal— and declared that he
should never be happy again until he had found an oppor-
tunity of proving his gratitude by rendering me some service
which I might remember, on my side, to the end of my days.

I did my best to stop the torrent of his tears and protesta-
tions by persisting in treating the whole adventure as a good
subject for a joke, and succeeded at last, as I imagined, in
lessening Pesca's overwhelming sense of obligation to me.
Little did I think then — little did I think afterwards, when our
pleasant holiday had drawn to an end — that the opportunity
of serving me for which my grateful companion so ardently
longed was soon to come, that he was eagerly to seize it on
the instant, and that by so doing he was to turn the whole
current of my existence into a new channel, and to alter me
to myself almost past recognition.

Yet so it was. If I had not dived for Professor Pesca
when he lay under vrater on his shingle bed, I should, in all

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

human probability, never have been connected with the story
which these pages will relate — should never, perhaps, have
heard even the name of the woman who has lived in all my
thoughts, who has possessed herself of all my energies, who
has become the one guiding influence that now directs the
purpose of my life.

Ill

Pesca's face and manner, on the evening when we confronted
each other at my mother's gate, were more than sufficient to
inform me that something extraordinary had happened. It
was quite useless, however, to ask him for an immediate
explanation. I could only conjecture, while he was dragging
me in by both hands, that (knowing my habits) he had come
to the cottage to make sure of meeting me that night, and
that he had some news to tell of an unusually agreeable kind.

We both bounced into the parlour in a highly abrupt and
undignified manner. My mother sat by the open window,
laughing and fanning herself. Pesca was one of her especial
favourites, and his wildest eccentricities were always pardon-
able in her eyes. Poor dear soul ! from the first moment
when she found out that the little Professor was deeply and
gratefully attached to her son, she opened her heart to him
unreservedly, and took all his puzzling foreign peculiarities for
granted, without so much as attempting to understand any
one of them.

My sister Sarah, with all the advantages of youth, was,
strangely enough, less pliable. She did full justice to Pesca's
excellent qualities of heart ; but she could not accept him
implicitly, as my mother accepted him, for my sake. Her
insular notions of propriety rose in perpetual revolt against
Pesca's constitutional contempt for appearances ; and she was
always more or less undisguisedly astonished at her mother's
familiarity with the eccentric little foreigner. I have ob-
served, not only in my sister's case, but in the instances of
others, that we of the young generation are nothing like so
hearty and so impulsive as some of our elders. I constantly
see old people flushed and excited by the prospect of some
anticipated pleasure which altogether fails to ruffle the tran-
quillity of their serene grandchildren. Are we, I wonder,
quite such genuine bo3'S and girls now as our seniors were in
their time ? Has the great advance in education taken rather
too long a stride ; and are we, in these modern days, just the
least trifle in the world too well brought up ?

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

Without attempting to answer those questions decisively,
I may at least record that I never saw my mother and my
sister together in Pesca's society without finding my mother
much the younger woman of the two. On this occasion, for
example, while the old lady was laughing heartily over the
boyish manner in which we tumbled into the parlour, Sarah
was perturbedly picking up the broken pieces of a teacup,
which the Professor had knocked off the table in his precipi-
tate advance to meet me at the door.

' I don't know what would have happened. Waiter,' said
my mother, ' if you had delayed much longer. Pesca has
been half-mad with impatience ; and I have been half-mad
with curiosity. The Professor has brought some wonderful
news with him, in which he says you are concerned ; and he
has cruelly refused to give us the smallest hint of it till his
friend Walter appeared.'

' Very provoking ; it spoils the Set,' muttered Sarah to
herself, mournfully absorbed over the ruins of the broken cup.

While these words were being spoken, Pesca, happily and
fussily unconscious of the irreparable wrong which the
crockery had suffered at his hands, was dragging a large
armchair to the opposite end of the room, so as to command
us all three, in the character of a public speaker addressing
an audience. Having turned the chair with its back towards
us, he jumped into it on his knees, and excitably addressed
his small congregation of three from an impromptu pulpit.

' Now, my good dears,' began Pesca (who always said

* good dears ' when he meant ' worthy friends '), ' listen to
me. The time has come — I recite my good news — I speak
at last.'

* Hear, hear ! ' said my mother, humouring the joke.
'The next thing he will break, mamma,' whispered Sarah,

'will be the back of the best armchair.'

' I go back into my life, and I address myself to the
noblest of created beings,' continued Pesca, vehemently
apostrophising my unworthy self over the top rail of the chair.

* Who found me dead at the bottom of the sea (through
Cramp) ; and who pulled me up to the top ; and what did I
say when I got into my own life and my own clothes again ? '

* Much more than was at all necessary,' I answered, as
doggedly as possible ; for the least encouragement in con-
nection with this subject invariably let loose the Professor's
emotions in a flood of tears.

' I said,' persisted Pesca, * that my life belonged to my
dear friend, Walter, for the rest of my days — and so it does.

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

I said that I should never be happy ag-ahi till I had found the
opportunity of doing a good Something for Walter — and I
have never been contented with myself till this most blessed
day. Now,' cried the enthusiastic little man at the top of his
voice, * the overflowing happiness bursts out of me at every
pore of my skin, like a perspiration ; for on my faith, and
soul, and honour, the something is done at last, and the only
word to say now is — Right-all-right.'

It may be necessary to explain here that Pesca prided
himself on being a perfect Englishman in his language, as
well as in his dress, manners, and amusements. Having
picked up a few of our most familiar colloquial expressions, he
scattered them about over his conversation whenever they
happened to occur to him, turning them, in his high relish for
their sound and his general ignorance of their sense, into
compound words and repetitions of his own, and always
running them into each other, as if they consisted of one
long syllable.

' Among the fine London houses v.'here I teach the lan-
guage of my native country,' said the Professor, rushing
into his long-deferred explanation without another word of
preface, 'there is one, mighty fine, in the big place called
Portland. You all know where that is ? Yes, yes — course-
of-course. The fine house, my good dears, has got inside it
a fine family. A Mamma, fair and fat ; three young Misses,
fair and fat ; two young Misters, fair and fat ; and a Papa,
the fairest and the fattest of all, who is a mighty merchant,
up to his eyes in gold — a fine man once, but seeing that he
has got a naked head and two chins, fine no longer at the
present time. Now mind ! I teach the sublime Dante to the
young Misses, and ah ! — m3'-soul-bless-my-soul ! — it is not in
human language to say how the sublime Dante puzzles the
pretty heads of all three ! No matter — all in good time —
and the more lessons the better for me. Now mind !
Imagine to yourselves that I am teaching the young Misses
to-day, as usual. We are all four of us down together in
the Hell of Dante. At the Seventh Circle — but no matter
for that : all the Circles are alike to the three young Misses,
fair and fat — at the Seventh Circle, nevertheless, my pupils
are sticking fast ; and I, to set them going again, recite,
explain, and blow myself up red-hot with useless enthusiasm,
when — a creak of boots in the passage outside, and in comes
the golden Papa, the mighty merchant with the naked head
and the two chins. Ha ! my good dears, I am closer than
you think for to the business now. Have you been patient

THE WOxMAN IN WHITE

so far, or have you said to yourselves " Deuce-what-the-
deuce ! Pesca is long-winded to-nig-ht ? " '

We declared that we were deeply interested. The Pro-
fessor went on :

' In his hand the g-olden Papa has a letter ; and after he
has made his excuse for disturbing us in our Infernal Reg-ion
with the common mortal Business of the house, he addresses
himself to the three young- Misses, and beg-ins, as you
English begin everything in this blessed world that you have
to say, with a great O. " O, my dears," savs the mighty

merchant, " I have got here a letter from my frie'nd, Mr. "

(the name has slipped out of my mind ; but no matter ; we
shall come back to that ; yes, yes— right-all-right). So the
Papa says, " I have got a letter from my friend, the Mister ;
and he wants a recommend from me of a drawing-master to
go down to his house in the country." My-soul-bless-my-
soul ! when I heard the golden Papa say those words, if I had
been big enough to reach up to him I should have put my
arms round his neck and pressed him to my bosom in a long
and grateful hug. As it was, I only bounced upon my chair!
My seat was on thorns, and my soul was on fire to speak ;
but I held my tongue and let Papa go on. " Perhaps you
know," says this good man of monev, twiddling his friend's
letter this way and that in his golden fingers and thumbs,
"perhaps you know, my dears, of a drawing-master that I
can recommend ? " The three young Misses all look at each
other, and then say (with the indispensable great O to be"-in),

"O, dear no, Papa! But here is Mr. Pesca " At'' the

mention of myself I can hold no longer— the thought of you,
my good dears, mounts like blood to my head— I start from
my seat, as if a spike had grown up from the ground through
the bottom of my chair— I address myself to the mighty
merchant, and I say (English phrase), " Dear sir, I have the
man ! The first and foremost drawing-master of the world !
Recommend him by the post to-night, and send him off, bag
and baggage " (English phrase again— ha !), "send him off,
bag and baggage, by the train to-morrow ! " " Stop, stop,"
says Papa, " is he a foreigner or an Englishman ? " " Eng-
lish to the bone of his back," I answer. "Respectable?"
says Papa. " Sir," I say (for this last question of his out-
rages me, and I have done being familiar with him), "Sir,
the mimortal fire of genius burns in this Englishman's bosom,'
and, what is more, his father had it before him ! " " Never
mind," says the golden barbarian of a Papa, "never mind
about his genius, Mr. Pesca. We don't want genius in this

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

country unless it is accompanied by respectability — and then
we are very glad to have it, very g"lad indeed. Can your
friend produce testimonials — letters that speak to his cha-
racter?" I wave my hand negligently. "Letters?" I
say. "Ha! my-soul-bless-my-soul ! I should think so,
indeed ! Volumes of letters and portfolios of testimonials,
if you like?" "One or two will do," says this man of
phlegm and money. " Let him send them to me, with
his name and address. And — stop, stop, Mr. Pesca — ■
before you go to your friend, you had better take a note."
" Bank-note !" I say, indignantly. *'No bank-note, if you
please, till my brave Englishman has earned it first."
" Bank-note ! " says Papa, in a great surprise, " who talked
of bank-note ? I mean a note of the terms — a memorandum
of what he is expected to do. Go on with your lesson, Mr.
Pesca, and I will give you the necessary extract from my
friend's letter." Down sits the man of merchandise and
money to his pen, ink, and paper; and down I go once
again into the Hell of Dante, with my three young Misses
after me. In ten minutes' time the note is written, and the
boots of Papa are creaking themselves away in the passage
outside. From that moment, on my faith, and soul, and
honour, I know nothing more ! The glorious thought that I
have caught my opportunity at last, and that my grateful
service for my dearest friend in the world is as good as done
already, flies up into my head and makes me drunk. How I
pull my young Misses and myself out of our Infernal Region
again, how my other business is done afterwards, how my
little bit of dinner slides itself down my throat, I know no
more than a man in the moon. Enough for me, that here I
am, with the mighty merchant's note in my hand, as large as
life, as hot as fire, and as happy as a king ! Ha ! ha ! ha !
right-right-right-all-right ! ' Here the Professor waved the
memorandum of terms over his head, and ended his long and
voluble narrative with his shrill Italian parody on an English
cheer.

My mother rose the moment he had done, with flushed
cheeks and brightened eyes. She caught the little man
warmly by both hands.

* My dear, good Pesca,' she said, * I never doubted your
true affection for Walter — but I am more than ever persuaded
of it now ! '

' I am sure we are very much obliged to Professor Pesca,
for Walter's sake,' added Sarah. She half rose, while she
spoke, as if to approach the armchair, in her turn ; but,

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

observing that Pesca was rapturously kissing my mother's
hands, looked serious, and resumed her seat. * If the fami-
liar little man treats my mother in that way, how will he
treat me? ' Faces sometimes tell truth ; and that was unques-
tionably the thought in Sarah's mind, as she sat down again.

Although I myself was gratefully sensible of the kindness
of Pesca's motives, my spirits were hardly so much elevated
as they ought to have been by the prospect of future employ-
ment now placed before me. When the Professor had quite
done with my mother's hand, and when I had warmly thanked
him for his interference on my behalf, I asked to be allowed
to look at the note of terms which his respectable patron
had drawn up for my inspection.

Pesca handed me the paper, with a triumphant flourish of
the hand.

* Read ! ' said the little man, majestically. ' I promise you,
my friend, the writing of the golden Papa speaks with a
tongue of trumpets for itself.'

The note of terms was plain, straightforward, and com-
prehensive, at any rate. It informed me.

First, That Frederick Fairlie, Esq., of Limmeridge House,
Cumberland, wanted to engage the services of a thoroughly
competent drawing-master, for a period of four months
certain.

Secondly, That the duties which the master was expected
to perform would be of a twofold kind. He was to super-
intend the instruction of two young ladies in the art of paint-
ing in water-colours ; and he was to devote his leisure time,
afterwards, to the business of repairing and mounting a
valuable collection of drawings, which had been suffered to
fall into a condition of total neglect.

Thirdly, That the terms offered to the person who should
undertake and properly perform these duties were four
guineas a week ; that he was to reside at Limmeridge House ;
and that he was to be treated there on the footing of a
gentleman.

Fourthly, and lastly. That no person need think of apply-
ing for this situation unless he could furnish the most un-
exceptionable references to character and abilities. The
references were to be sent to Mr. Fairlie's friend in London,
who was empowered to conclude all necessary arrangements.
These instructions were followed by the name and address of
Pesca's employer in Portland-place — and there the note, or
memorandum, ended.

The prospect which this offer of an engagement held out

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

was certainly an attractive one. The employment was
likely to be both easy and agreeable ; it was proposed to me
at the autumn time of the year, when I Avas least occupied ;
and the terms, judging by my personal experience in my
profession, were surprisingly liberal. I knew this ; I knew
that I ought to consider myself very fortunate if I succeeded
in securing the offered employment — and yet, no sooner had I
read the memorandum than I felt an inexplicable unwilling-
ness within me to stir in the matter. I had never in the
whole of my previous experience found my duty and my
inclination so painfully and so unaccountably at variance as I
found them now.

* Oh, Walter, your father never had such a chance as
this ! ' said my mother, when she had read the note of terms
and had handed it back to me.

' Such distinguished people to know,' remarked Sarah,
straightening herself in her chair ; ' and on such gratifying
terms of equality too ! '

* Yes, yes ; the terms, in every sense, are tempting
enough,' I replied, impatiently. ' But before I send in my
testimonials, I should like a little time to consider '

' Consider ! ' exclaimed my mother. ' W^hy, Walter,
what is the matter with you ? '

' Consider ! ' echoed my sister. * What a very extra-
ordinary thing to say, under the circumstances ! '

* Consider ! ' chimed in the Professor. * What is there to
consider about ? Answer me this ! Have you not been
complaining of your health, and have you not been longing
for what you call a smack of the country breeze ? Well !
there in your hand is the paper that offers you perpetual
choking mouthfuls of country breeze, for four months' time.
Is it not so ? Ha ? Again — you want money. Well ! Is
four golden guineas a week nothing ? My-soul-bless-my-
soul ! only give it to me — and my boots shall creak like the
golden Papa's, with a sense of the overpowering richness of
the man who walks in them ! Four guineas a week, and,
more than that, the charming society of two young Misses ;
and, more than that, your bed, your breakfast, your dinner,
your gorging English teas and lunches and drinks of foaming
beer, all for nothing — why, Walter, my dear good friend — ■
deuce-what-the-deuce ! — for the first time in my life I have
not eyes enough in my head to look, and wonder at you ! '

Neither my mother's evident astonishment at my be-
haviour, nor Pesca's fervid enumeration of the advantages
offered to me by the new employment, had any effect in

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

shaking my unreasonable disinclination to go to Limmeridge
House. After starting all the petty objections that I could
think of to going to Cumberland ; and after hearing them
answered, one after another, to my own complete discom-
fiture, I tried to set up a last obstacle by asking what was to
become of my pupils in London, while I was teaching Mr.
Fairlie's young ladies to sketch from nature. The obvious
answer to this was, that the greater part of them would be
away on their autumn travels, and that the few who remained
at home might be confided to the care of one of my brother
drawing-masters, whose pupils I had once taken off his hands
under similar circumstances. My sister reminded me that
this gentleman had expressly placed his services at my
disposal, during the present season, in case I wished to leave
town ; my mother seriously appealed to me not to let an idle
caprice stand in the way of my own interests and my own
health ; and Pesca piteously entreated that I would not
wound him to the heart, by rejecting the first grateful offer of
service that he had been able to make to the friend who had
saved his life.

The evident sincerity and affection which inspired these
remonstrances would have influenced any man with an atom
of good feeling in his composition. Though I could not
conquer my own unaccountable perversity, I had at least
virtue enough to be heartily ashamed of it, and to end the
discussion pleasantly by giving way, and promising to do all
that was wanted of me.

The rest of the evening passed merrily enough in
humorous anticipations of my coming life with the two young
ladies in Cumberland. Pesca, inspired by our national
grog, which appeared to get into his head, in the most
marvellous manner, five minutes after it had gone down his
throat, asserted his claims to be considered a complete
Englishman by making a series of speeches in rapid succes-
sion ; proposing my mother's health, my sister's health, my
health, and the healths, in mass, of Mr. Fairlie and the two
young Misses ; pathetically returning thanks himself, immedi-
ately afterwards, for the whole party. ' A secret, W^alter,' said
my little friend confidentially, as we walked home together.
' I am flushed by the recollection of my own eloquence. My
soul bursts itself with ambition. One of these days, I go into
your noble Parliament. It is the dream of my whole life to
be Honourable Pesca, M.P. ! '

The next morning I sent my testimonials to the Professor's
employer in Portland-place. Three days passed ; and I

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

concluded, with secret satisfaction, that my papers had not
been found sufficiently explicit. On the fourth day, however,
an answer came. It announced that Mr. Fairlie accepted my
services, and requested me to start for Cumberland imme-
diately. All the necessary instructions for my journey were
carefully and clearly added in a postscript.

I made my arrangements, unwilling-ly enough, for leaving
London early the next day. Towards evening Pesca looked
in, on his way to a dinner-party, to bid me good-bye.

' I shall dry my tears in your absence,' said the Professor,
gaily, ' with this glorious thought. It is my auspicious hand
that has given the first push to your fortune in the world. Go,
my friend ! When your sun shines in Cumberland (English
proverb), in the name of heaven, make your hay. Marry one
of the two young Misses ; become Honourable Hartright,
M.P. ; and when you are on the top of the ladder, remember
that Pesca, at the bottom, has done it all ! '

I tried to laugh with my little friend over his parting jest,
but my spirits were not to be commanded. Something jarred
in me almost painfully, while he was speaking his light
farev\-eli v»'ords.

When I was left alone again, nothing remained to be
dene but to walk to the Hampstead Cottage and bid my
mother and Sarah gcod-bye.

The heat had been painfully oppressive all day ; and it was
now a close and sultry night.

My mother and sister had spoken so many last words,
and had begged me to wait another five minutes so many
times, that it was nearly midnight when the servant locked
the garden-gate behind me. I walked forward a few paces
on the shortest way back to London ; then stopped and
hesitated.

The moon was full and broad in the dark blue starless
sky ; and the broken ground of the Heath looked wild enough,
in the mysterious light, to be hundreds of miles away from
the great city that lay beneath it. The idea of descending
any sooner than I could help into the heat and gloom of
London repelled me. The prospect of going to bed in my
airless chambers, and the prospect of gradual suffocation,
seemed, in my present restless frame of mind and body, to be
one and the same thing. I determined to stroll home in the

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

purer air, by the most roundabout way I could take ; to
follow the white v.-inding- paths across the lonely Heath ; and
to approach London through its most open suburb by striking
into the Finchley-road, and so getting back, in the cool of
the new niorning, by the western side of the Regent's Park.

I wound my way down slowly over the Heath, enjoying
the divine stillness of the scene, and admiring the soft alter-
nations of light and shade as they follov/ed each other over
the broken ground on every side of me. So long as I was
proceeding through this first and prettiest part of my night-
walk, my mind remained passively open to the impressions
produced by the view ; and I thought but little on any
subject— indeed, so far as my own sensations were concerned,
I can hardly say that I thought at all.

But when I had left the Heath, and had turned into the
by-road, where there was less to see, the ideas naturally
engendered by the approaching change in my habits and
occupations gradually drew more and more of my attention
exclusively to themselves. By the time I had arrived at the
end of the road, I had become completely absorbed in my
own fanciful visions of Limmeridge House, of Mr. Fairlie, and
of the tv/o ladies whose practice in the art of water-colour
painting I was so soon to superintend.

I had now arrived at that particular point of my walk
where four roads met — the road to Hampstead, along which
I had returned ; the road to Finchley ; the road to West
End ; and the road back to London. I had mechanically
turned in this latter direction, and was strolling along the
lonely high-road — idly wondering, I remember, what the
Cumberland young ladies would look like — when, in one
moment, every drop of blood in my body was brought to a
stop by the touch of a hand laid lightly and suddenly on my
shoulder from behind me.

I turned on the instant, with my fingers tightening round
the handle of my stick.

There, in the middle of the broad, bright high-road^there,
as if it had that moment sprung out of the earth or dropped
from the heaven — stood the figure of a solitary Woman,
dressed from head to foot in white garments ; her face bent
in grave inquiry on mine, her hand pointing to the dark cloud
over London, as I faced her.

I was far too seriously startled by the suddenness with
which this extraordinary apparition stood before me, in the
dead of night and in that lonely place, to ask what she wanted.
The strange woman spoke first.

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

* Is that the road to London ? ' she said.

I looked attentively at her, as she put that singular
question to me. It was then nearly one o'clock. All I could
discern distinctly by the moonlight, was a colourless, youth-
ful face, meagre and sharp to look at, about the cheeks and
chin ; large, grave, wistfully-attentive eyes ; nervous, un-
certain lips ; and light hair of a pale, brownish-yellow hue.
There was nothing wild, nothing immodest in her manner :
it was quiet and self-controlled, a little melancholy and a
little touched by suspicion ; not exactly the manner of a lady,
and, at the same time, not the manner of a woman in the
humblest rank of life. The voice, little as I had yet heard of
it, had something curiously still and mechanical in its tones,
and the utterance was remarkably rapid. She held a small
bag in her hand : and her dress — bonnet, shawl, and gown
all of white — was, so far as I could guess, certainly not
composed of very delicate or very expensive materials. Her
figure was slight, and rather above the average height — her
gait and actions free from the slightest approach to extra-
vagance. This was all that I could observe of her, in the dim
light and under the perplexingly-strange circumstances of our
meeting. What sort of a woman she was, and how she came
to be out alone in the high-road, an hour after midnight,
I altogether failed to guess. The one thing of which I felt
certain was, that the grossest of mankind could not hav-e
misconstrued her motive in speaking, even at that suspiciously
late hour and in that suspiciously lonely place.

' Did you hear me ? ' she said, still quietly and rapidly,
and without the least fretfulness or impatience. ' I asked if
that was the way to London.'

* Yes,' I replied, ' that is the way : it leads to St. John's
Wood and the Regent's Park. You must excuse my not
answering you before. I was rather startled by your sudden
appearance in the road ; and I am, even now, quite unable to
account for it.'

* You don't suspect me of doing anything wrong, do you ?
I have done nothing wrong. I have met with an accident —
I am very unfortunate in being here alone so late. Why do
you suspect me of doing wrong ? '

She spoke with unnecessary earnestness and agitation,
and shrank back from me several paces. I did my best to
reassure her.

* Pray don't suppose that I have any idea of suspecting
you,' I said, ' or any other wish than to be of assistance to
you, if I can. I only wondered at your appearance in the

THE WOI^IAN IN WHITE

road, because it seemed to me to be empty the instant before
1 saw you.

She turned, and pointed back to a place at the junction of
the road to Lonaon and the road to Hampstead, where there
was a gap m the hedge.

• I heard you coming,' she said, ' and hid there to see what
sort of man you \yere, before I risked speaking. I doubted
and feared about it till you passed ; and then I was obliged
to steal after you, and touch you.' ^

Steal after me and touch me ? Why not call to me ?
Strange, to say the least of it.

' May I trust you ? ' she asked. ' You don't think the
worse of me because I have met with an accident?' She
stopped m confusion ; shifted her bag from one hand to the
other ; and sighed bitterly.

The londiness and helplessness of the woman touched me.
The natural impulse to assist her and to spare her, got The
better of the judgment the caution, the worldly tact, vvh ch
an older wiser, and colder man might have summoned to help
him in this strange emergency. P

' u'-}r u^""^ ^'"'! ""^ ^°- ^">' harmless purpose,' I said.
If It troubles you to explain j-our strange situation to me
don t think of returning to the subject again. I have no
right to ask you for any explanations. Tdl me how I can
help you ; and if I can, I will.' ^w i can

' You are very kind, and I am very, very thankful to have
met you. The first touch of womanly tenderness that I hid
heard from her trembled in her voice as she said the words
but no tears glistened in those large, wistfully-attentive eves
of hers, which were still fixed on me. ' I have only been' in

and I know nothing about that side of it, yonder Can I
get a fly or a carriage of any kind ? Is it too late ? ' I don't
know. If you could show me where to get a fly-and if ySu
will only promise not to interfere with me, and to let me
leave you, when and how I please-I have a friend in London
who will be gad to receive me-I want nothing else-S
you promise ? ° "

She looked anxiously up and down the road ; shifted her

wofd'"^' Win To "" '""t^" '''' ^^^-' -Peated the
words. Will you promise :> ' and looked hard in my face

^wth a pleading fear and confusion that it troubled me to

What could I do ? Here was a stranger utterlv and
helplessly at my inercy-^and that stranger a forlorn woman.

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

No house was near ; no one was passing whom I could
consult ; and no earthly right existed on my part to give me
a power of control over her, even if I had known how to
exercise it. I trace these lines, self-distrustfullv, with the
shadows of after-events darkening the very paper 'l write on •
and still I say, what could I do ? '

What I did do, was to try and gain time by questioning her.

' Are you sure that your friend in London will receive you
at such a late hour as this .^ ' I said.

' Quite sure. Only say you will let me leave you when
and how I please— only say you won't interfere with me.
Will you promise ? '

As she repeated the words for the third time, she came
close to me and laid her hand, with a sudden gentle
stealthmess, on my bosom— a thin hand ; a cold hand (when
I removed it with mine), even on that sultry night. Remember
that I was young ; remember that the hand which touched
me was a woman's.

* Will you promise ? '

•Yes.'

One word ! The little familiar word that is on every-
body's lips, every hour in the day. Oh me ! and I tremble,
now, when I write it.

We set our faces towards London, and walked on together
in the first still hour of the new day— I, and this woman,
\yhose name, whose character, whose story, whose objects in>
life, whose very presence by my side, at that moment, were
fathomless mysteries to me. It was like a dream. Was I
Walter Hartright ? Was this the well-known, uneventful
road, where holiday people strolled on Sundays? Had I
really left, little more than an hour since, the quiet, decent,
conventionally-domestic atmosphere of my mother's cottage ?
I was too bewildered— too conscious also of a vague sense* of
something like self-reproach — to speak to my strange com-
panion for some minutes. It was her voice again that first
broke the silence between us.

' I want to ask you something,' she said, suddenly. * Do
you know many people in London ? '

' Yes, a great many.'

' Many men of rank and title ? ' There was an un-
mistakable tone of suspicion in the strange question. I hesi-
tated about answering it.

' Some,' I said, after a moment's silence.

' Many '—she came to a full stop, and looked me
searchmgly in the face—' many men of the rank of Baronet ? '

17 c

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

Too much astonished to reply, I questioned her in my turn.

* Why do you ask ? '

* Because I hope, for my own sake, there is one Baronet
that you don't know.'

* Will you tell me his name ? '

' I can't — I daren't — I forget myself, when I mention it.'
She spoke loudly and almost fiercely, raised her clenched hand
in the air, and shook it passionately ; then, on a sudden, con-
trolled herself again, and added, in tones lowered to a whisper :
' Tell me which of them you know.'

I could hardly refuse to humour her in such a trifle, and
I mentioned three names. Tv/o, the names of fathers of
families whose daughters I taught ; one, the nam.e of a
bachelor who had once taken me a cruise in his yacht, to
make sketches for him.

' Ah ! you don'^ know him,' she said, with a sigh of relief.
* Are you a man of rank and title yourself ? '

' Far from it. I am only a drawing-master.'

As the reply passed my lips — a little bitterly, perhaps — she
took my arm with the abruptness which characterised all her
actions.

' Not a man of rank and title,' she repeated to herself.
' Thank God ! I may trust /n'm.'

I had hitherto contrived to master my curiosity out of
consideration for my companion ; but it got the better of me,
now.

' I am afraid you have serious reason to complain of some
man of rank and title ? ' I said. ' I am afraid the Baronet,
whose name you are unwilling to mention to me, has done
you some grievous wTong? Is he the cause of your being
out here at this strange time of night ? '

' Don't ask me ; don't make me talk of it,' she answered.
' I'm not fit, now. I have been cruelly used and cruelly
wronged. You will be kinder than ever, if you will walk on
fast, and not speak to me. I sadly want to quiet myself, if I
can.'

We moved forward again at a quick pace ; and for half
an hour, at least, not a word passed on either side. From
time to time, being forbidden to make any more inquiries, I
stole a look at her face. It was always the same ; the lips
close shut, the brow frowning, the eyes looking straight for-
ward, eagerly and yet absently. We had reached the first
houses, and were close on the new Wesleyan College, before
her set features relaxed, and she spoke once more.

* Do you live in London ? ' she said.

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

*Yes.' As I answered, it struck me that she might have
formed some intention of appealing- to m^e for assistance or
advice, and that I ought to spare her a possible disappoint-
ment by warning her of my approaching absence from home.
So I added : * But to-morrow I shall be away from London
for some time. I am going into the country.'

' Where ? ' she asked. ' North, or south ? '

'North — to Cumberland.'

* Cumberland ! ' she repeated the word tenderly. ' Ah ! I
vv'ish I was going there too. I was once happy in Cumber-
land.'

I tried again to lift the veil that hung between this
woman and me.

' Perhaps you were born,' I said, ' in the beautiful Lake
country.'

' No,' she answered. ' I was born in Hampshire ; but I
once^went to school for a little while in Cumberland. Lakes ?
I don't remember any lakes. It's Limmeridge village, and
Limmeridge House, I should like to see again.'

It was my turn, now, to stop suddenly. In the excited
state of my curiosity, at that moment, the chance reference
to Mr. Fairlie's place of residence, on the lips of my strange
companion, staggered me with astonishment.

' Did you hear anybody calling after us ? ' she asked, look-
ing up and down the road affrightedly, the instant I stopped.

* No, no. I was only struck by the name of Limmeridge
House — I heard it mentioned by some Cumberland people a
few days since.'

* Ah ! not jny people. Mrs. Fairlie is dead ; and her hus-
band is dead ; and their little girl may be married and gone
away by this time. I can't say who lives at Limmeridge now.
If any more are left there of that name, I only know I love
them, for Mrs. Fairlie's sake.'

She seemed about to say more ; but while she was speak-
ing, we came within view of the turnpike, at the top of tlie
Avenue-road. Her hand tightened round my arm, and she
looked anxiously at the gate before us.

' Is the turnpike man looking out ? ' she asked.

He was not looking out ; no one else was near the place
when we passed through the gate. The sight of the gas-
lamps and liouses seem.ed to agitate her, and to make her im-
patient.

' This is London,' she said. ' Do you see any carriage I
can get ? I am tired and frightened. I want to shut myself
in, and be driven away.'

19 C2

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

I explained to her that we must walk a little further to gfct
to a cabstand, unless we were fortunate enoug-h to meet with
an empty vehicle ; and then tried to resume the subject of
Cumberland. It was useless. The idea of shutting- herself
in, and being- driven away, had now g-ot full possession of her
mind. She could think and talk of nothing else.

W^e had hardly proceeded a third of the way down the
Avenue-road, when I saw a cab draw up at a house a few
doors below us, on the opposite side of the way. A g-entle-
man got out and let himself in at the garden door. I hailed
the cab, as the driver mounted the box again. When we
crossed the road, my companion's impatience increased to
such an extent that she almost forced me to run.

' It's so late,' she said. ' I am only in a hurry because it's
so late.'

' I can't take you, sir, if you're not going towards Totten-
ham-court-road,' said the driver, civilly, when I opened the
cab door. * My horse is dead beat, and I can't get him no
further than the stable.'

'Yes, yes. That will do for me. I'm going that way — •
I'm going that way.' She spoke with breathless eagerness,
and pressed by me into the cab.

I had assured myself that the man was sober i:s well as
civil, before I let her enter the vehicle. And now, when she
was seated inside, I entreated her to let me see her set down
safely at her destination.

' No, no, no,' she said, vehemently. ' I'm quite safe, and
quite happy now. If you are a gentleman, remember your
promise. Let him drive on, till I stop him. Thank you — oh !
thank you, thank you ! '

My hand was on the cab door. She caught it in hers,
kissed it, and pushed it away. The cab drove off at the same
moment — I started into the road, with some vague idea of
stopping it again, I hardly knew why — hesitated from dread
of frightening and distressing her — called, at last, but not
loudly enough to attract the driver's attention. The sound
of the wheels grew fainter in the distance — the cab melted
into the black shadows on the road — the woman in white was
gone.

Ten minutes, or more, had passed. I was still on the
same side of the way ; now mechanically walking forward a
few paces ; now stopping again absently. At one moment, I
found myself doubting the reality of my own adventure ; at
another, I was perplexed and distressed by an uneasy sense

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

of having done wrong-, which yet left me confusedly ig-norant
of how I could have done right. I hardly knew where I was
going, or what I meant to do next ; I was conscious of
nothmgr but the confusion of my own thoughts, when I was
abruptly recalled to myself— awakened I might almost say-
by the sound of rapidly approaching wheels close behind me.
I was on the dark side of the road, in the thick shadow of
some garden trees, when I stopped to look round. On the
opposite, and lighter side of the way, a short distance below
me, a policeman was strolling along in the direction of the
Regent's Park.

The carriage passed me— an open chaise driven by two
men. -^

'Stop ! ' cried one. ' There's a policeman. Let's ask him.'

The horse was instantly pulled up, a few yards beyond the
dark place where I stood.

' Policeman ! ' cried the first speaker. ' Have you seen a
woman pass this way ? '

' What sort of woman, sir ? '

* A woman in a lavender-coloured gown '

' No, no,' interposed the second man. ' The clothes we
gave her were found on her bed. She must have gone away
in the clothes she wore when she came to us. In white
policeman. A woman in white.' '

' I haven't seen her, sir.'

* If you, or any of your men meet with the woman, stop
her, and send her in careful keeping to that address. I'll pay
all expenses, and a fair reward into the bargain.'

The policeman looked at the card that was handed down
to him.

I Why are we to stop her, sir ? What has she done ? '
' Done ! She has escaped from my Asylum. Don't for-
get : a woman in white. Drive on.'

* She has escaped from my Asylum ! '

I cannot say with truth that the terrible inference which
those words suggested flashed upon me like a new revelation,
borne of the strange questions put to me by the woman in
white, after my ill-considered promise to leave her free to
act as she pleased, had suggested the conclusion either that
she was naturally flighty and unsettled, or that some recent
shock of terror had disturbed the balance of her faculties.

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

But the idea of absolute insanity which we all associate with
the very name of an Asylum, had, I can honestly declare,
never occurred to me, in connexion Vvith her. I had seen
nothing, in her language or her actions, to justify it at the
time ; and, even with the new light thrown on her by the
words which the straiiger had addressed to the policeman, I
could see nothing to justify it now.

What had I done ? Assisted the victim of the most
horrible of all false imprisonments to escape ; or cast loose
on the wide world of London an unfortunate creature, whose
actions it was my duty, and every man's duty, mercifully to
control ? I turned sick at heart when the question occurred
to me, and when I felt self-reproachfully that it v/as asked
too late.

In the disturbed state of my mind, it was useless to think
of going to bed, when I at last got back to my chambers
in Clement's Inn. Before many hours elapsed it would be
necessary to start on my journey to Cumberland. I sat
down and tried, first to sketch, then to read — but the
woman in white got between me and my pencil, between me
and my book. Had the forlorn creature come to any harm ?
That was my first thought, though I shrank selfishly from
confronting it. Other thoughts followed, on which it was
less harrowing to dwell. Where had she stopped the cab ?
What had become of her now ? Had she been traced and
captured by the men in the chaise ? Or was she still capable
of controlling her own actions ; and were we two following
our widely-parted roads towards one point in the mysterious
future, at which we were to meet once more ?

It was a relief when the hour cam.e to lock my door, to
bid farewell to London pursuits, London pupils, and London
friends, and to be in movement again towards new interests
and a new life. Even the bustle and confusion at the railway
terminus, so wearisome and bewildering at other times, roused
me and did me good.

My travelling instructions directed me to go to Carlisle,
and then to diverge by a branch railway which ran in the
direction of the coast. As a misfortune to begin with, our
engine broke down between Lancaster and Carlisle. The
delay occasioned by this accident caused me to be too late
for the branch train, by which I was to have gone on im-
mediately. I had to wait some hours ; and when a later
train finally deposited me at the nearest station to LImmerldge
House, it was past ten, and the night was so dark that I

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

could hardly see my way to the pony-chaise which Mr. Fairlie
had ordered to be in waiting- for me.

The driver was evidently discomposed by the lateness of
my arrival. He was in that state of highly-respectful sulki-
ness which is peculiar to English servants. We drove away
slowly through the darkness in perfect silence. The roads
were bad, and the dense obscurity of the night increased
the difficulty of getting over the ground quickly. It was, by
my watch, nearly an hour and a half from the time of our
leaving the station before I heard the sound of the sea in
the distance, and the crunch of our wheels on a smooth
gravel drive. We had passed one gate before entering the
drive, and we passed another before we drew up at the house.
I was received by a solemn man-servant out of livery, was
informed that the family had retired for the night, and was
then led into a large and lofty room where my supper Vv'as
awaiting me, in a forlorn manner, at one extremity of a lone-
some mahog-any wilderness of dining-table.

I was too tired and out of spirits to eat or drink much,
especially with the solemn servant waiting on me as elabo-
rately as if a small dinner-party had arrived at the house
instead of a solitary man. In a quarter of an hour I was
ready to be taken up to my bedchamber. The solemn servant
conducted me into a prettily furnished room— said, ' Break-
fast at nine o'clock, sir ' — looked all round him to see that
everything was in its proper place — -and noiselessly withdrev\\

' What shall I see in my dreams to-night ? ' I thought to
myself, as I put out the candle ; ' the woman in white ? or
the unknown inhabitants of this Cumberland mansion ? ' It
was a strange sensation to be sleeping in the house, like a
friend of the family, and yet not to know one of the inmates
even by sight !

When I rose the next morning and drew up my blind, the
sea opened before me joyously under the broad August
sunlight, and the distant coast of Scotland fringed the horizon
with its lines of melting blue.

The view was such a surprise, and such a change to me,
after my weary London experience of brick and mortar
landscape, that I seemed to burst into a new life and a new
set of thoughts the moment I looked at it. A confused
sensation of having suddenly lost my familiarity with the
past, without acquiring any additional clearness of idea i»>

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

reference to the present or the future, took possession of my
mind. Circumstances that were but a few days old, faded
back in my memory, as if they had happened months and
months since. Pesca's quaint announcement of the means
by which he had procured me my present employment ; the
farewell evening- I had passed with my mother and sister ;
even my mysterious adventure on the way home from Hamp-
stead — had all become like events which might have occurred
at some former epoch of my existence. Although the
woman in white was still in my mind, the image of her
seemed to have grown dull and faint already.

A little before nine o'clock I descended to the ground-
floor of the house. The solemn man-servant of the night
before met me wandering- among the passages, and com-
passionately showed me the way to the breakfast-room.

My first glance round me, as the man opened the door,
disclosed a well-furnished breakfast-table, standing in the
middle of a long room, with many windows in it. I looked
from the table to the window farthest from me, and saw
a lady standing- at it, with her back turned towards me.
The instant my eyes rested on her, I was struck by the rare
beauty of her form, and by the unaffected grace of her
attitude. Her figure was tall, yet not too tall ; comely and
well-developed, yet not fat ; her head set on her shoulders
with an easy, pliant firmness ; her waist, perfection in the
eyes of a man, for it occupied its natural place, it filled out
its natural circle, it was visibly and delightfully undeformed
by stays. She had not heard my entrance into the room ;
and I allowed myself the luxury of admiring- her for a few
moments, before I moved one of the chairs near me, as the
least embarrassing means of attracting her attention. She
turned towards me immediately. The easy elegance of
every movement of her limbs and body as soon as she began
to advance from the far end of the room, set me in a flutter
of expectation to see her face clearly. She left the window
— and I said to myself. The lady is dark. She moved
forward a few steps — and I said to myself, The lady is
young. She approached nearer — and I said to myself (with
a sense of surprise which words fail me to express), The lady
is ugly !

Never was the old conventional maxim, that Nature
cannot err, more flatly contradicted — never was the fair
promise of a lovely figure more strangely and startlingly belied
by the face and head that crowned it. The lady's complexion
was almost swarthy, and the dark down on her upper lip

THE Vv^OMAN IN WHITE

was almost a moustache. She had a large, firm, masculine
mouth and jaw ; prominent, piercing, resolute brown eyes ;
and thick, coal-black hair, growing unusually low down on
her forehead. Her expression — bright, frank, and intelligent
— appeared, while she was silent, to be altogether wanting
in those feminine attractions of gentleness and pliability,
without which the beauty of the handsomest woman alive is
beauty incomplete. To see such a face as this set on
shoulders that a sculptor would have longed to model — to be
charmed by the modest graces of action through which the
symmetrical limbs betrayed their beauty when they moved,
and then to be almost repelled by the masculine form and
masculine look of the features in which the perfectly shaped
figure ended — was to feel a sensation oddly akin to the
helpless discomfort familiar to us all in sleep, when we
recognise yet cannot reconcile the anomalies and contradic-
tions of a dream.

' Mr. Hartright ? ' said the lady interrogatively ; her dark
face lighting up with a smile, and softening and growing
womanly the moment she began to speak. * We resigned
all hope of you last night, and went to bed as usual. Accept
my apologies for our apparent want of attention ; and allow
me to introduce myself as one of your pupils. Shall we
shake hands ? I suppose we must come to it sooner or later
— and why not sooner ? '

These odd words of welcome were spoken in a clear,
ringing, pleasant voice. The offered hand— rather large,
but beautifully formed — was given to me with the easy,
unaffected self-reliance of a highly-bred woman. We sat
down together at the breakfast-table in as cordial and custom-
ary a manner as if we had known each other for years,
and had met at Limmeridge House to talk over old times
by previous appointment.

' I hope you come here good-humouredly determined to
make the best of your position,' continued the lady. ' You
will have to begin this morning by putting up with no other
company at breakfast than mine. My sister is in her own
room, nursing that essentially feminine malady, a slight
headache ; and her old governess, Mrs. Vesey, is charitably
attending on her with restorative tea. My uncle, Mr. Fairlie,
never joins us at any of our meals : he is an invalid, and
keeps bachelor state in his own apartments. There is nobody
else in the house but me. Two young ladies have been
staying here, but they went away yesterday, in despair ; and
no wonder. All through their visit (in consequence of Mr.

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

Fairlie's invalid condition) we produced no such convenience
in the house as a flirtable, danceable, small-talkable creature
of the male sex ; and the consequence was, we did nothing
but quarrel, especially at dinner-time. How can you expect
four women to dine together alone every day, and not quarrel ?
We are such fools, we can't entertain each other at table.
You see I don't think much of my own sex, Mr. Hartright —
v.'hich will you have, tea or coffee ? — no woman does think
much of her own sex, although few of them confess it as
freely as I do. Dear me, you look puzzled. Why ? Are
you wondering what yovi will have for breakfast ? or are you
surprised at my careless way of talking ? In the first case,
I advise you, as a friend, to have nothing to do with that
cold ham at your elbow, and to wait till the omelette comes
in. In the second case, I will give you some tea to compose
your spirits, and do all a woman can (which is very little, by-
the-by) to hold my tongue.'

She handed me my cup of tea, laughing gaily. Her light
flow of talk, and her lively familiarity of manner with a total
stranger, were accompanied by an unaffected naturalness and
an easy inborn confidence in herself and her position, which
would have secured her the respect of the most audacious
man breathing. While it was impossible to be formal and
reserved in her company, it was more than impossible to take
the faintest vestige of a liberty with her, even in thought.
I felt this instinctively, even while I caught the infection of
her own bright gaiety of spirits — even while I did my best to
answer her in her ov/n frank, lively way.

' Yes, yes,' she said, when I had suggested the only ex-
planation I could offer, to account for my perplexed looks,
' I understand. You are such a perfect stranger in the house,
that you are puzzled by my familiar references to the Vv^orthy
inhabitants. Natural enough : I ought to have thought of it
before. At any rate, I can set it right now. Suppose I
begin with myself, so as to get done with that part of the
subject as soon as possible ? My name is Marian Halcombe ;
and I am as inaccurate, as women usually are, in calling Mr.
Fairlie my uncle, and Miss Fairlie my sister. My mother
was twice married : the first time to Mr. Halcombe, my
father ; the second time to Mr. Fairlie, my half-sister's father.
Except that we are both orphans, we are in every respect as
unlike each other as possible. My father was a poor man,
and Miss Fairlie's father was a rich man. I have got nothing,
and she has a fortune. I am dark and ugly, and she is fair
and pretty. Everybody thinks me crabbed and odd (with

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

perfect justice) ; and everybody thinks her sweet-tempered
and charming' (with more justice still). In short, she is an

ang-el ; and I am Try some of that marmalade, Mr.

Hartright, and finish the sentence, in the name of female pro-
priety, for yourself. What am I to tell you about Mr.
Fairlie ? Upon my honour, I hardly know. He is sure to
send for you after breakfast, and you can study him for your-
self. In the meantime, I may inform you, first, that he is
the late Mr. Fairlie's younger brother ; secondly, that he is a
single man ; and, thirdly, that he is Miss Fairlie's guardian.
I won't live without her, and she can't live without me ; and
that is how I come to be at Limmeridge House. My sister
and I are honestly fond of each other ; which, you will say,
is perfectly unaccountable, under the circumstances, and I
quite agree with you — but so it is. You must please both of
us, Mr. Hartright, or please neither of us : and, what is still
more trying, you will be throvs^n entirely upon our society.
Mrs. Vesey is an excellent person, who possesses all the
cardinal virtues, and counts for nothing ; and Mr. Fairlie is
too great an invalid to be a companion for anybody. I don't
know what is the matter vvith him, and the doctors don't
know what is the matter with him, and he doesn't know
himself what is the matter with him. We all say it's on the
nerves, and we none of us know what we mean when we say
it. However, I advise you to humour his little peculiarities,
when you see him to-day. Admire his collection of coins,
prints, and water-colour drawings, and you will win his
heart. Upon my word, if you can be contented with a quiet
country life, I don't see why you should not get on very well
here. From breakfast to lunch, Mr. Fairlie's drawings wijl
occupy you. After lunch. Miss Fairlie and I shoulder our
sketch-books, and go out to misrepresent nature, under your
directions. Drawing is her favourite whim, mind, not mine.
Women can't draw — their minds are too flighty, and their
eyes are too inattentive. No matter — my sister likes it ; so
I waste paint and spoil paper, for her sake, as composedly as
any woman in England. As for the evenings, I think we can
help you through them. Miss Fairlie plays delightfully. For
my own poor part, I don't know one note of music from the
other ; but I can match you at chess, backgammon, ^cart6,
and (with the inevitable female drawbacks) even at billiards
as well. What do you think of the programme ? Can you
reconcile yourself to our quiet, regular life ? or do you mean
to be restless, and secretly thirst for change and adventure,
in the humdrum atm.osphere of Limmeridge House ? '

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

She had run on thus far, in her gracefully bantering- way,
With no other interruptions on my part than the unimportant
replies which politeness required of me. The turn of the ex-
pression, however, in her last question, or rather the one
chance word, ' adventure,' lightly as it fell from her lips,
recalled my thoughts to my meeting with the woman in white,
and urged me to discover the connection which the stranger's
own reference to Mrs. Fairlie informed me must once have
existed between the nameless fugitive from the Asylum, and
the former mistress of Limmeridge House.

' Even if I were the most restless of mankind,' I said, ' I
should be in no danger of thirsting after adventures for some
time to come. The very night before I arrived at this house,
I met with an adventure ; and the wonder and excitement of
it, I can assure you, Miss Halcombe, will last me for the
whole term of my stay in Cumberland, if not for a much
longer period.'

' You don't say so, Mr. Hartright ! May I hear it ? '

' You have a claim to hear it. The chief person in the
adventure was a total stranger to me, and may perhaps be
a total stranger to you ; but she certainly mentioned the name
of the late Mrs. Fairlie in terms of the sincerest g-ratitude and
regard.'

' Mentioned my mother's name ! You interest me inde-
scribably. Pray go on.'

I at once related the circumstances under which I had met
the woman in white, exactly as they had occurred ; and I re-
peated what she had said to me about Mrs. Fairlie and
Limmeridge House, word for word.

Miss Halcombe's bright resolute eyes looked eagerly into
mine, from the beginning of the narrative to the end. Her
face expressed vivid interest and astonishment, but nothing-
more. She was evidently as far from knowing of any clue to
the mystery as I was myself.

' Are you quite sure of those words referring to my
mother ? ' she asked.

' Quite sure,' I replied. ' Whoever she may be, the
woman was once at school in the village of Limmeridge, was
treated with especial kindness by Mrs. Fairlie, and, in grateful
remembrance of that kindness, feels an affectionate interest
in all surviving members of the family. She knew that Mrs.
Fairlie and her husband were both dead ; and she spoke of
Miss Fairlie as if they had known each other when they were
children.'

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

'You said, I Lhink, that .-^hc denied bcloiiirinf'- to this
place t ° ^

* Yes, she told me she came from Hampshire.'

* And you entirely failed to find out her name ? '

* Entirely.'

'Yery strange. I think you were quite justified, Mr.
Hartright, m giving the poor creature her liberty, for she
seems to have done nothing in your presence to show herself
unnt to enjoy it. But I wish you had been a little mora
resolute about findmg out her name. We must really clear
up this mystery, in some way. You had better not speak of
It yet to Mr. Fairhe, or to my sister. They are both of them,
I am certain, quite as ignorant of who the woman is, and of
what her past history in connexion with us can be, as I am
myself. But they are also, in widely different ways, rather
ner\'ous and sensitive ; and you would onlv fidget one and
alarm the other to no purpose. As for myself, I am all aflame
with curiosity, and I devote my whole energies to the business
of discovery from this moment. When my mother came here
after her second marriage, she certainly established the
village school just as it exists at the present time. But the
old teachers are all dead, or gone elsewhere ; and no enlighten-
ment is to be hoped for from that quarter. The only other

alternative I can think of '

At this point we were interrupted bv the entrance of the
servant, with a message from Mr. Fairl'ie, intimating that he
would be glad to see me, as soon as I had done breakfast.

* Wait in the hall,' said Miss Halcombe, answering the
servant for me, in her quick, ready way. * Mr. Hartright will
come out directly. I was about to say,' she went on, address-
ing me again, ' that my sister and I have a large collection of
my mother's letters, addressed to my father and to hers. In
the absence of any other means of getting information, I will
pass the morning in looking over my mother's correspondence
with Mr. Fairlie. He was fond of London, and was con-
stantly away from his country home ; and she v.as accustomed,
at such times, to write and report to him how things went on
at Limmeridge. Her letters are full of references to the
school in which she took so strong an interest ; and I think
It more than likely that I may have discovered something
when we meet again. The luncheon hour is two, Mr. Hart-
right. I shall have the pleasure of introducing you to my
sister by that time, and we will occupy the afternoon in driving
round the neighbourhood and showing you all our pet points
of view. Till two o'clock, then, farewell.'

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

She nodded to me with the hvely grace, the delightful refine-
ment of familiarity, which characterised all that she did and
all that she said ; and disappeared by a door at the lower end
of the room. As soon as she had left me, I turned my steps
towards the hall, and followed the servant on my way, for the
first time, to the presence of Mr. Fairlie.

VII

My conductor led me up-stairs into a passage which took us
back to the bedchamber in which I had slept during the past
night ; and opening the door next to it, begged me to look
in.

* I have my master's orders to show you your own sitting-
room, sir,' said the man, ' and to inquire if you approve of
the situation and the light.'

I must have been hard to please, indeed, if I had not
approved of the room, and of everything about it. The bow-
window looked out on the same lovely view which I had
admired, in the morning, from my bedroom. The furniture
was the perfection of luxury and beauty ; the table in the
centre was bright with gaily bound books, elegant conveni-
ences for writing, and beautiful flowers ; the second table, near
the windov/, was covered with all the necessary materials for
mounting water-colour drawings, and had a little easel
attached to it, which I could expand or fold up at will ; the
walls were hung with gaily tinted chintz ; and the floor was
spread with Indian matting in maize-colour and red. It was
the prettiest and most luxurious little sitting-room I had ever
seen ; and I admired it with the warmest enthusiasm.

The solemn servant was far too highly trained to betray
the slightest satisfaction. He bowed with icy deference when
my terms of eulogy were all exhausted, and silently opened
the door for me to go out into the passage again.

We turned a corner, and entered a long second passage,
ascended a short flight of stairs at the end, crossed a small
circular upper hall, and stopped in front of a door covered
u'lth dark baize. The servant opened this door, and led me
on a few yards to a second ; opened that also, and disclosed
two curtains of pale sea-green silk hanging before us ; raised
one of them noiselessly ; softly uttered the words, * Mr. Hart-
right,' and left me.

I found myself in a large, lofty room, with a magnificent
carved ceiling, and with a carpet over the floor, so thick and
soft that it felt like piles of velvet under my feet. One side

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

of the room was occupied by a long- bookcase of some rare
inlaid wood that was quite new to me. It was not more than
six feet high, and the top was adorned with statuettes in
marble, ranged at regular distances one from the other. On
the opposite side stood two antique cabinets ; and between
them, and above them, hung a picture of the Virgin and Child,
protected by glass, and bearing Raphael's name on the gilt
tablet at the bottom of the frame. On my right hand and on
my left, as I stood inside the door, were chiffoniers and little
stands in buhl and marqueterie, loaded with figures in Dres-
den china, with rare vases, ivory ornaments, and toys and
curiosities that sparkled at all points with gold, silver, and
precious stones. At the lower end of the room, opposite to
mc, the windows were concealed and the sunlight was
tempered by large blinds of the same pale sea-green colour as
the curtains over the door. The light thus produced was
dcliciously soft, mysterious, and subdued ; it fell equally upon
all the objects in the room ; it helped to intensify the deep
silence, and the air of profound seclusion tliat possessed the
place ; and it surrounded, with an appropriate halo of repose,
the solitary figure of the master of the house, leaning back,
listlessly composed, in a large easy-chair, with a reading-easel
fastened on one of its arms, and a little table on the other.

If a man's personal appearance, when he is out of his
dressing-room, and when he has passed forty, can be accepted
as a safe guide to his time of life — which is more than doubtful
— Mr, Fairlie's age, when I saw him, might have been reason-
ably computed at over fifty and under sixty years. His beard-
less face was thin, v.-orn, and transparently pale, but not
wrinkled ; his nose was high and hooked ; his eyes were of a
dim grayish blue, large, prominent, and rather red round the
rims of the eyelids ; his hair was scanty, soft to look at, and
of that light sandy colour which is the last to disclose its own
changes towards gray. He was dressed in a dark frock-coat,
of some substance much thinner than cloth, and in waistcoat
and trousers of spotless white. His feet were effeminately
small, and were clad in buff-coloured silk stockings, and little
womanish bronze-leather slippers. Two rings adorned his
white delicate hands, the value of which even my inexperienced
observation detected to be all but priceless. Upon the whole,
he had a frail, languidly- fretful, over-refined look — something
singularly and unpleasantly delicate in its association with a
man, and, at the same time, something which could by no
possibility have looked natural and appropriate if it had been
transferred to the personal appearance of a woman. My

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

morning's experience of Miss Halcombe had predisposed me
to be pleased with everybody in the house ; but my sympa-
thies shut themselves up resolutely at the first sight of Mr.
Fairlie.

On approaching nearer to him, I discovered that he was not
so entirely without occupation as I had at first supposed.
Placed amid the other rare and beautiful objects on a large
round table near him, was a dwarf cabinet in ebony and silver,
containing coins of all shapes and sizes, set out in little
drawers lined with dark purple velvet. One of these drawers
lay on the small table attached to his chair ; and near it were
some tiny jewellers' brushes, a washleather * stump,' and
a little bottle of liquid, all waiting to be used in various ways
for the removal of any accidental impurities which might be
discovered on the coins. His frail white fingers were listlessly
toying with something which looked, to my uninstructed eyes,
like a dirty pewter medal with ragged edges, when I advanced
within a respectful distance of his chair, and stopped to make
my bow.

' So glad to possess you at Limmeridge, Mr. Hartright,'
he said in a querulous, croaking voice, which combined, in
anything but an agreeable manner, a discordantly high tone
with a drowsily languid utterance. ' Pray sit down. And
don't trouble yourself to move the chair, please. In the
wretched state of my nerv'es, movement of any kind is ex-
quisitely painful to me. Have you seen your studio ? Will
it do ? '

* I have just come from seeing the room, Mr. Fairlie ; and
I assure you '

He stopped me in the middle of the sentence, by closing his
eyes, and holding up one of his white hands imploringly, I
paused in astonishment ; and the croaking voice honoured me
with this explanation :

' Pray excuse me. But could you contrive to speak in a
lower key ? In the wretched state of my nerves, loud sound
of any kind is indescribable torture to me. You will pardon
an invalid ? I only say to you what the lamentable state of
my health obliges me to say to everybody. Yes. And you
really like the room ? '

' I could wish for nothing prettier and nothing more com-
fortable,' I answered, dropping my voice, and beginning to
discover already that Mr. Fairlie's selfish aflfectation and Mr.
Fairlie's wretched nerves meant one and the same thing.

' So glad. You will find your position here, Mr. Hartright,
properly recognised. There is none of the horrid English

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

barbarity of feeling- about the social position of an artist, In
this house. So much of my early life has been passed abroad,
that I have quite cast my insular skin in that respect. I wish
I could say the same of the gentry — detestable word, but I
suppose I must use it — of the gentry in the neighbourhood.
They are sad Goths in Art, Mr. Hartright. People, I do
assure you, who would have opened their eyes in astonishment,
if they had seen Charles the Fifth pick up Titian's brush for him.
Do you mind putting this tray of coins back in the cabinet,
and giving me the next one to it ? In the wretched state of
my nerves, exertion of any kind is unspeakably disagreeable
to me. Yes. Thank you.'

As a practical commentary on the liberal social theory
which he had just favoured me by illustrating, Mr. Fairlie's
cool request rather amused me. I put back one drawer and
gave him the other, with all possible politeness. He began
trifling with the new set of coins and the little brushes imme-
diately ; languidly looking at them and admiring them all the
time he was speaking to me.

' A thousand thanks and a thousand excuses. Do you like
coins ? Yes ? So glad we have another taste in common
besides our taste for Art. Now, about the pecuniary arrange-
ments between us — do tell me — are they satisfactory ? '

' Most satisfactory, Mr. Fairlie.'

' So glad. And — what next ? Ah ! I remember. Yes.
In reference to the consideration which you are good enough
to accept for giving me the benefit of your accomplishments
in art, my steward will wait on you at the end of the first week,
to ascertain your wishes. And — what next ? Curious, is it
not ? I had a great deal more to say ; and I appear to have
quite forgotten it. Do you mind touching the bell ? In that
corner. Yes. Thank you.'

I rang ; and a new servant noiselessly made his appearance
— a foreigner, with a set smile and perfectly brushed hair — a
valet every inch of him.

' Louis,' said Mr. Fairlie, dreamily dusting the tips of his
fingers with one of the tiny brushes for the coins, * I made
some entries in my tablettes this morning. Find my tablettes.
A thousand pardons, Mr. Hartright, I'm afraid I bore you.'

As he wearily closed his eyes again, before I could answer,
and as he did most assuredly bore me, I sat silent, and looked
up at the Madonna and Child by Raphael. In the m.ean time,
the valet left the room, and returned shortly with a little ivory
book. Mr. Fairlie, after first relieving himself by a g-entle
sigh, let the book drop open with one hand, and held up the

n ^ n

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

tiny brush with the other, as a sign to the servant to wait for
further orders.

* Yes. Just so ! ' said Mr. Fairlie, consulting the tablettes.
* Louis, take down that portfoHo.' He pointed, as he spoke,
to several portfolios placed near the window, on mahogany
stands. ' No. Not the one with the green back — that con-
tains my Rembrandt etchings, Mr. Hartright. Do you like
etchings ? Yes ? So glad we have another taste in common.
The portfolio with the red back, Louis. Don't drop it ! You
have no idea of the tortures I should suffer, Mr. Hartright,
if Louis dropped that portfolio. Is it safe on the chair? Do
you think it safe, Mr. Hartright ? Yes ? So glad. Will
you oblige me by looking at the drawings, if you really think
they are quite safe. Louis, go away. What an ass you
are. Don't you see me holding the tablettes ? Do you
suppose I want to hold them ? Then why not relieve me of
the tablettes without being told ? A thousand pardons, Mr.
Hartright ; servants are such asses, are they not ? Do tell
me — what do you think of the drawings ? They have come
from a sale in a shocking state — I thought they smelt of
horrid dealers' and brokers' fingers when I looked at them
last. Can you undertake them ? '

Although my nerves were not delicate enough to detect
the odour of plebeian fingers which had offended Mr. Fairlie's
nostrils, my taste was sufficiently educated to enable me to
appreciate the value of the drawings, while I turned them
over. They were, for the most part, really fine specimens of
English water-colour Art ; and they had deserved much
better treatment at the hands of their former possessor than
they appeared to have received.

'The drawings,' I answered, 'require careful straining
and mounting ; and. In my opinion, they are well worth '

'I beg your pardon,' interposed Mr. Fairlie. 'Do you
mind my closing my eyes while you speak ? Even this light
is too much for them. Yes ? '

'I was about to say that the drawings are well worth all
the time and trouble '

Mr. Fairlie suddenly opened his eyes again, and rolled them
with an expression of helpless alarm in the direction of the
window.

' I entreat you to excuse me, Mr. Hartright,' he said in
a feeble flutter. ' But surely I hear some horrid children in
the garden — my private garden — below ? '

' I can't say, Mr. Fairlie. I heard nothing myself.'

* Oblige me — you have been so very good in humouring

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

rrty poor nerves — oblige me by lifting- up a corner of the blind.
Don't let the sun in on me, Mr. Hartright ! Have you got
the blind up ? Yes ? Then will you be so very kind as to
look into the garden and make quite sure ? '

I complied with this new request. The garden was care-
fully walled in, all round. Not a human creature, large or
small, appeared in any part of the sacred seclusion. I
reported that gratifying fact to Mr. Fairlie.

* A thousand thanks. My fancy, I suppose. There are
no children, thank Heaven, in the house ; but the servants
(persons born without nerves) will encourage the children
from the village. Such brats — oh, dear me, such brats !
Shall I confess it, Mr. Hartright ? — I sadly want a reform
in the construction of children. Nature's only idea seems to
be to make them machines for the production of incessant
noise. Surely our delightful Raffaello's conception is infinitely
preferable ? '

He pointed to the picture of the Madonna, the upper part
of which represented the conventional cherubs of Italian Art,
celestially provided with sitting accommodation for their chins,
on balloons of buff-coloured cloud.

* Quite a model family ! ' said Mr. Fairlie, leering at the
cherubs. * Such nice round faces, and such nice soft wings,
and — nothing else. No dirty little legs to run about on, and
no noisy little lungs to scream with. How immeasurably
superior to the existing construction ! I will close my eyes
again, if you will allow me. And you really can manage the
drawings ? So glad. Is there anything else to settle ? if
there is, I think I have forgotten it. Shall we ring for Louis
again ? '

Being, by this time, quite as anxious, on my side, as Mr.
Fairlie evidently was on his, to bring the interview to a
speedy conclusion, I thought I would try to render the
summoning of the servant unnecessary, by offering the
requisite suggestion on my own responsibility.

* The only point, Mr. P'airlie, that remains to be discussed,'
I said, * refers, I think, to the instruction in sketching v.hicli
I am engaged to communicate to the two young ladies.'

' Ah ! just so,' said Mr. Fairlie. ' I wish I felt strong
enough to go into that part of the arrangement — but I don't.
The ladies, who profit by your kind services, Mr. Hartright,
must settle, and decide and so on, for themselves. My niece
is fond of your charming art. She knows just enough about
it to be conscious of her own sad defects. Please take pains
with her. Yes. Is there anything else ? No. We quite

35 i>2

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

understand each other — don't we ? I have no right to detahi
you any longer from your delightful pursuit — have I ? So
pleasant to have settled everything — such a sensible relief to
have done business. Do you mind ringing for Louis to carry
the portfolio to your own room ? '

' I will carry it there, myself, Mr, Fairlie, if you will allow
me.'

' Will you really ? Are you strong enough ? How nice
to be so strong ! Are you sure you won't drop it ? So glad
to possess you at Limmeridge, Mr. Hartright. I am such a
sufferer that I hardly dare hope to enjoy much of your society.
Would you mind taking great pains not to let the doors bang,
and not to drop the portfolio ? Thank you. Gently with the
curtains, please — the slightest noise from them goes through
me like a knife. Yes. Good morning ! '

When the sea-green curtains were closed, and when the
two baize doors were shut behind me, I stopped for a moment
in the little circular hall beyond, and drew a long, luxurious
breath of relief. It was like coming to the surface of the
water after deep diving, to find myself once more on the out-
side of Mr. Fairlie's room.

As soon as I was comfortably established for the morning
in my pretty little studio, the first resolution at which I arrived
was to turn my steps no more in the direction of the apart-
ments occupied by the master of the house, except in the very
improbable event of his honouring me with a special invitation
to pay him another visit. Having settled this satisfactory
plan of future conduct, ill reference to Mr. Fairlie, I soon
recovered the serenity of temper of which my employer's
haughty familiarity and impudent politeness had, for the
moment, deprived me. The remaining hours of the morning
passed away pleasantly enough, in looking over the drawings,
arranging them in sets, trimming their ragged edges, and
accomplishing the other necessary preparations in anticipation
of the business of mounting them. I ought, perhaps, to have
made more progress than this ; but, as the luncheon time
drew near, I grew restless and unsettled, and felt unable to
fix my attention on work, even though that work was only of
the humble manual kind.

At two o'clock, I descended again to the breakfast-room,
a little anxiously. Expectations of some interest were
connected with my approaching reappearance in that part of
the house. My introduction to Miss Fairlie was now close at
hand ; and, if Miss Halcombe's search through her mother's

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

letters had produced the result which she anticipated, the
time had come for clearing up the mystery of the woman in
white.

VIII.

When * enterea the room, I found Miss Halcombe and an
elderly lady seated at the luncheon-table.

The elderly lady, when I was presented to her, proved to
be Miss Fairlie's former g-overness, Mrs. Vesey, who had
been briefly described to me by my lively companion at the
breakfast-table, as possessed of * all the cardinal virtues, and
counting for nothing.' I can do little more than offer my
humble testimony to the truthfulness of Miss Halcombe's
sketch of the old lady's character. Mrs. Vesey looked the
personification of human composure, and female amiability.
A calm enjoyment of a calm existence beamed in drowsy
smiles on her plump, placid face. Some of us rush through
life, and some of us saunter through life. Mrs. Vesey sat
through life. Sat in the house, early and late ; sat in the
garden ; sat in unexpected window-seats in passages ; sat
(on a camp-stool) when her friends tried to take her out walk-
ing ; sat before she looked at anything, before she talked of
anything, before she answered, Yes, or No, to the commonest
question — always with the same serene smile on her lips, the
same vacantly attentive turn of her head, the same snugly-
comfortable position of her hands and arms, under every
possible change of domestic circumstances. A mild, a com-
pliant, an unutterably tranquil and harmless old lady, who
never by any chance suggested the idea that she had been
actually alive since the hour of her birth. Nature has so
much to do in this world, and is engaged in generating such
a vast variety of co-existent productions, that she must surely
be now and then too flurried and confused to distinguish
between the different processes that she is carrying on at the
same time. Starting from this point of view, it will always
remain my private persuasion that Nature was absorbed in
making cabbages when Mrs. Vesey was born, and that the
good lady suff'ered the consequences of a vegetable preoccu-
pation in the mind of the Mother of us all.

* Now, Mrs. Vesey,' said Miss Halcombe, looking brighter,
sharper, and readier than ever, by contrast with the undemon-
strative old lady at her side, ' what will vou have ? A
cutlet ? '

Mrs. Vesey crossed her dimpled hands on the edge of the
table ; smiled placidly ; and said, ' Yes, dear.'

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* What is that opposite Mr. Hartright ? Boiled chicken,
is it not ? I thought you Hked boiled chicken better than
cutlet, Mrs. Vesey ? '

Mrs. Vesey took her dimpled hands off the edg-e of the
table and crossed them on her lap instead ; nodded contem-
platively at the boiled chicken, and said, ' Yes, dear.'

' Well, but which will you have, to-day ? Shall Mr. Hart-
right give you some chicken ? or shall I give you some
cutlet ? '

Mrs. Vesey put one of her dimpled hands back again on
the edge of the table ; hesitated drowsily ; and said, ' Which
you please, dear.'

* Mercy on me ! it's a question for your taste, my good
lady, not for mine. Suppose you have a little of both ? and
suppose you begin with the chicken, because Mr. Hartright
looks devoured by anxiety to carve for you.'

Mrs. Vesey put the other dimpled hand back on the edge
of the table ; brightened dimly, one moment ; went out again,
the next ; bowed obediently, and said, ' If you please, sir.'

Surely a mild, a compliant, an unutterably tranquil and
harmless old lady ? But enough, perhaps, for the present, of
Mrs. Vesey.

All this time, there were no signs of Miss Fairlie. We
finished our luncheon ; and still she never appeared. Miss
Halcombe, whose quick eye nothing escaped, noticed the
looks that I cast, from time to time, in the direction of the
door.

'I understand you, Mr. Hartright,' she said; 'you are
wondering what has become of your other pupil. She has
been down stairs, and has got over her headache ; but has not
sufficiently recovered her appetite to join us at lunch. If you
will put yourself under my charge, I think I can undertake to
find her somewhere in the garden.'

She took up a parasol, lying on a chair near her, and led
the way out, by a long window at the bottom of the room,
which opened on to the lawn. It is almost unnecessary to
say that we left Mrs. Vesey still seated at the table, with her
dimpled hands still crossed on the edge of it ; apparently
settled in that position for the rest of the afternoon.

As we crossed the law^n. Miss Halcombe looked at me
significantly, and shook her head.

'That mysterious adventure of yours,' she said, 'still
remains involved in its own appropriate midnight darkness.
I have been all the morning looking over my mother's letters,

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and I have made no discoveries yet. However, don't despair,
Mr. Hartright. This is a matter of curiosity ; and you have
g"0t a woman for your ally. Under such conditions success is
certain, sooner or later. The letters are not exhausted. I
have three packets still left, and you may confidently rely on
my spending the whole evening over them.'

Here, then, was one of my anticipations of the morning still
unfulfilled. I began to wonder, next, whether my introduction
to Miss Fairlie would disappoint the expectations that I had
been forming of her since breakfast-time.

* And how did 3'ou get on with Mr. Fairlie ? ' inquired Miss
Halcombe, as we left the lawn and turned into a shrubbery.
'Was he particularly nervous this morning? Never mind
considering about your answer, Mr. Hartright. The mere
fact of )'our being obliged to consider is enough forme. I see
in your face that he 7vas particularly nervous ; and, as I am
amiably unwilling to throw you into the same condition, I ask
no more.'

We turned off into a winding path while she was speaking,
and approached a pretty summer-house, built of wood, in the
form of a miniature Swiss chalet. The one room of the
summer-house, as we ascended the steps of the door, was
occupied by a young lady. She was standing near a rustic
table, looking out at the inland view of moor and hill presented
by a gap in the trees, and absently turning over the leaves of
a little sketch-book that lay at her side. This was Miss
Fairlie.

How can I describe her? How can I separate her from
my own sensations, and from all that has happened in the
later time ? How can I see her again as she looked when my
eyes first rested on her — as she should look, now, to the
eyes that are about to see her in these pages ?

The water-colour drawing that I made of Laura Fairlie, at
an after period, in the place and attitude in which I first saw
her, lies on my desk while I write. I look at it, and there
dawns upon me brightly, from the dark greenish-brown
background of the summer-house, a light, youthful figure,
clothed in a simple muslin dress, the pattern of it formed by
broad alternate stripes of delicate blue and white. A scarf
of the same material sits crisply and closely round her
shoulders, and a little straw hat of the natural colour, plainly
and sparingly trimmed with ribbon to match the gown, covers
her head, and throws its soft pearly shadow over the upper
part of her face. Her hair is of so faint and pale a brown — not
flaxen, and yet almost as light ; not golden, and yet almost as

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

glossy — that it nearly melts, here and there, nito the shadow of
the hat. It is plainly parted and drawn back over her ears, and
the line of it ripples naturally as it crosses her forehead. The
eyebrows are rather darker than the hair ; and the eyes are of
that soft, limpid, turquoise blue, so often sung by the poets, so
seldom seen in real life. Lovely eyes in colour, lovely eyes in
form — large and tender and quietly thoughtful — but beautiful
above all things in the clear truthfulness of look that dwells in
their inmost depths, and shines through all their changes of
expression with the light of a purer and a better world. The
charm — most gently and yet most distinctly expressed — which
they shed over the whole face, so covers and transforms its
little natural human blemishes elsewhere, that it is difficult to
estimate the relative merits and defects of the other features.
It is hard to see that the lower part of the face is too delicately
refined away towards the cliin to be in full and fair proportion
with the upper part ; that the nose, in escaping the aquiline
bend (always hard and cruel in a woman, no matter how
abstractedly perfect it maj' be), has erred a little in the other
extreme, and has missed the ideal straightness of line ; and
that the sweet, sensitive lips are subject to a slight nervous
contraction, when she smiles, which draws them upward a
little at one corner, towards the cheek. It might be possible
to note these blemishes in another woman's face, but it is not
easy to dwell on them in hers, so subtly are they connected
with all that is individual and characteristic in her expression,
and so closely does the expression depend for its full play and
life, in every other feature, on the moving impulse of the eyes.
Does my poor portrait of her, my fond, patient labour of
long and happy days, show me these things ? Ah, how few
of them are in the dim mechanical drawing, and how many in
the mind with which I regard it ! A fair, delicate girl, in a
pretty light dress, trifling with the leaves of a sketch-book,
while she looks up from it with truthful, innocent blue eyes
— that is all the drawing can say ; all, perhaps, that even the
deeper reach of thought and pen can say in their language,
either. The woman who first gives life, light, and form to
our shadowy conceptions of beauty, fills a void in our spiritual
nature that has remained unknown to us till she appeared.
Sympathies that lie too deep for words, too deep almost for
thoughts, are touched, at such times, by other charms than
those which the senses feel and which the resources of ex-
pression can realise. The mystery which underlies the beauty
of women is never raised above the reach of all expression
until it has claimed kindred with the deeper mystery in our own

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

souls. Then, and then only, has it passed beyond the narrow
region on which light falls, in this world, from the pencil and
the pen.

Think of her as you thought of the first woman who
quickened the pulses within you that the rest of her sex had
no art to stir. Let the kind, candid blue eyes meet yours, as
they met mine, with the one matchless look which we both
remember so well. Let her voice speak the music that you
once loved best, attuned as sweetly to your ear as to mine.
Let her footstep, as she comes and goes, in these pages, be
like that other footstep to whose airy fall your own heart once
beat time. Take her as the visionary nursling of your own
fancy ; and she will grow upon you, all the more clearly, as
the living woman who dwells in mine.

Among the sensations that crowded on me, when my eyes
first looked upon her — familiar sensations which we all know,
which spring to life in most of our hearts, die again in so
many, and renew their bright existence in so few — there was
one that troubled and perplexed me ; one that seemed
strangely inconsistent and unaccountably out of place in Miss
Fairlie's presence.

Mingling with the vivid impression produced by the charm
of her fair face and head, her sweet expression, and her win-
ning simplicity of manner, was another impression, which, in
a shadowy way, suggested to me the idea of something
wanting. At one time it seemed like something wanting in
her ; at another, like something wanting in myself, which
hindered me from understanding her as I ought. The im-
pression was always strongest, in the most contradictory
manner, when she looked at me ; or, in other words, when I
was most conscious of the harmony and charm of her face,
and yet, at the same time, most troubled by the sense of an
incompleteness which it was impossible to discover. Some-
thing wanting, something wanting — and where it was, and
what it was, I could not say.

The effect of this curious caprice of fancy (as I thought it
then) was not of a nature to set me at my ease, during a
first interview with Miss Fairlie. The few kind words of
welcome which she spoke found me hardly self-possessed
enough to thank her in the customary phrases of reply.
Observing my hesitation, and no doubt attributing it, natu-
rally enough, to some momentary shyness on my part, Miss
Halcombe took the business of talking, as easily and readily
as usual, into her own hands.

' Look there, Mr. Hartright,' she said, pointing to the

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

sketch-book on the table, and to the Httle delicate wandering
hand that was still trifling vv'ith it. ' Surely you will acknow-
ledge that your model pupil is found at last ? The moment she
hears that you are in the house, she seizes her inestimable
sketch-book, looks universal Nature straight in the face, .and
longs to begin ! '

Miss Fairlie laughed with a ready good-humour, which
broke out as brightly as if it had been part of the sunshine
above us, over her lovely face.

' I must not take credit to myself where no credit is due,'
she said, her clear, truthful blue eyes looking alternately at
Miss Halcombe and at me. ' Fond as I am of drawing, I am
so conscious of my own ignorance that I am more afraid than
anxious to begin. Now I know you are here, Mr. Hartright,
I find myself looking over my sketches, as I used to look over
my lessons when I was a little girl, and when I was sadly
afraid that I should turn out not fit to be heard.'

She made the confession very prettily and simply, and, with
quaint, childish earnestness, drew the sketch-book away close
to her own side of the table. Miss Halcombe cut the knot of the
little embarrassment forthwith, in her resolute, downright way.

'Good, bad, or indifferent,' she said, ' the pupil's sketches
must pass through the fiery ordeal of the master's judgment — ■
and there's an end of it. Suppose we take them with us in
the carriage, Laura, and let Mr. Hartright see them, for
the first time, under circumstances of perpetual jolting and
interruption ? If we can only confuse him all through the
drive, between Nature as it is, when he looks up at the view,
and Nature as it is not, when he looks down again at our
sketch-books, we shall drive him into the last desperate
refuge of paying us compliments, and shall slip through his
professional fingers with our pet feathers of vanity all un-
ruffled.'

' I hope Mr. Hartright will pay me no compliments,'
said Miss Fairlie, as we all left the summer-house.

' May I venture to inquire why you express that hope ? '
I asked.

' Because I shall believe all that you say to me,' she
answered, simply. In those few words she unconsciously
gave me the key to her whole character ; to that generous
trust in others which, in her nature, grew innocently out of
the sense of her own truth. I only knew it intuitively then.
I know it by experience now.

We merely waited to rouse good Mrs. Vesey from the
place which she still occupied at the deserted luncheon-table,

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before we entered the open carriage for our promised drive
The old lady and Miss Halcombe occupied the back seat ;
and Miss Fairlie and I sat together in front, with the sketch-
book open between us, fairly exhibited at last to my pro-
fessional eyes. .All serious criticism on the drawings, even if
I had been disposed to volunteer it, was rendered impossible
by Miss Halcombe's lively resolution to see nothing but the
ridiculous side of the Fine Arts, as practised by herself, her
sister, and ladies in general. I can remember the conversa-
tion that passed far more easily than the sketches that I
mechanically looked over. That part of the talk, especially,
in which Miss Fairlie took any share is still as vividly impressed
on my memory as if I had heard it only a few hours ago.

Yes ! let me acknowledge that, on this first day, I let the
charm of her presence lure me from the recollection of myself
and my position. The most trifling of the questions that she
put to me, on the subject of using her pencil and mixing her
colours ; the slightest alterations of expression in the lovely
eyes that looked into mine, with such an earnest desire to
learn all that I could teach, and to discover all that I could
show, attracted more of my attention than the finest view we
passed through, or the grandest changes of light and shade,
as they flowed into each other over the v/aving moorland and
the level beach. At any time, and under any circumstances
of human interest, is it not strange to see how little real hold
the objects of the natural world amid which v.e live can gain
on our hearts and minds ? We go to Nature for comfort in
trouble, and sympathy in joy, only in books. Admiration
of those beauties of the inanimate world, which modern
poetry so largely and so eloquently describes, is not, even in
the best of us, one of the original instincts of our nature. As
children, we none of us possess it. No uninstructed man or
woman possesses it. Those whose lives are most exclusively
passed amid the ever-changing wonders of sea and land are
also those who are most universally insensible to every aspect
of Nature not directly associated with the human interest of
their calling. Our capacity of appreciating the beauties of
the earth we live on is, in truth, one of the civilised accom-
plishments which we all learn, as an Art ; and, more, that
very capacity is rarely practised by any of us except when our
minds are most indolent and most unoccupied. How much
share have the attractions of Nature ever had in the pleasurable
or painful interests and emotions of ourselves or our friends ?
What space do they ever occupy in the thousand little narra-
tives of personal experience which pass every day by word of

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mouth from one of us to the other? All that our mhids can
compass, all that our hearts can learn, can be accomplished
with equal certainty, equal profit, and equal satisfaction to
ourselves, in the poorest as in the richest prospect that the
face of the earth can show. There is surely a reason for this
want of inborn sympathy between the creature and the crea-
tion around it, a reason which may perhaps be found in the
widely differing- destinies of man and his earthly sphere. The
grandest mountain prospect that the eye can range over is
appointed to annihilation. The smallest human interest that
the pure heart can feel is appointed to immortality.

We had been out nearly three hours, when the carnage
again passed through the gates of Limmeridge House.

On our way back, I had let the ladies settle for themselves
the first point of view which they were to sketch, under my
instructions, on the afternoon of the next day. When they
withdrew to dress for dinner, and when I was alone again in
my little sitting-room, my spirits seemed to leave me on a
sudden. I felt ill at ease and dissatisfied with myself, I
hardly knew why. Perhaps I was now conscious, for the
first time, of having enjoyed our drive too much in the char-
acter of a guest, and too little in the character of a drawing-
master. Perhaps that strange sense of something wanting,
either in Miss Fairlie or in myself, which had perplexed me
when I was first introduced to her, haunted me still. Any-
how, it was a relief to my spirits when the dinner-hour called
me out of my solitude, and took me back to the society of
the ladies of the house.

I was struck, on entering the drawing-room, by the
curious contrast, rather in material than in colour, of the
dresses which they now wore. While Mrs. Vesey and Miss
Halcombe were richly clad (each in the manner most be-
coming to her age), the first in silver-gray, and the second in
that delicate primrose-yellow colour which matches so well
with a dark complexion and black hair. Miss Fairlie was
unpretendingly and almost poorly dressed in plain w'hite
muslin. It was spotlessly pure : it was beautifully put on ;
but still it was the sort of dress which the wife or daughter
of a poor man might have worn ; and it made her, so far as
externals went, look less affluent in circumstances than her
own governess. At a later period, when I learnt to know
more of Miss Fairlie's character, I discovered that this curious
contrast, on the wrong side, was due to her natural delicacy
of feeling and natural intensity of aversion to the slightest
personal display of her own wealth. Neither Mrs. Vesey nor

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

Miss Halcombe could ever induce her to let the advantage in
dress desert the two ladies who were poor, to lean to the side
of the one lady who was rich.

When the dinner was over, we returned together to the
drawing-room. Although Mr. Fairlie (emulating the magni-
ficent condescension of the monarch who had picked up Titian's
brush for him) had instructed his butler to consult my wishes
in relation to the wine that I might prefer after dinner, I was
resolute enough to resist the temptation of sitting in solitary
grandeur among bottles of my own choosing, and sensible
enough to ask the ladies' permission to leave the table with
them habitually, on the civilised foreign plan, during the
period of my residence at Limmeridge House.

The drawing-room, to which we had now withdrawn for
the rest of the evening, was on the ground-floor, and was of
the same shape and size as the breakfast-room. Large glass
doors at the lower end opened on to a terrace, beautifully
ornamented along its whole length with a profusion of flowers.
The soft, hazy twilight was just shading leaf and blossom
alike into harmony with its own sober hues, as we entered
the room ; and the sweet evening scent of the flowers met us
with its fragrant welcome through the open glass doors.
Good Mrs. Vesey (always the first of the party to sit down)
took possession of an arm-chair in a corner, and dozed off"
comfortably to sleep. At my request. Miss Fairlie placed
herself at the piano. As I followed her to a seat near the
instrument, I saw Miss Halcombe retire into a recess of one
of the side windows, to proceed with the search through her
mother's letters by the last quiet rays of the evening light.

How vividly that peaceful home-picture of the drawing-
room comes back to me while I write ! From the place
where I sat I could see Miss Halcombe's graceful figure, half
of it in soft light, half in mysterious shadow, bending intently
over the letters in her lap ; while, nearer to me, the fair
profile of the player at the piano was just delicately defined
against the faintly deepening background of the inner wall of
the room. Outside, on the terrace, the clustering flowers and
long grasses and creepers waved so gently in the light
evening air, that the sound of their rustling never reached us.
The sky was without a cloud ; and the dawning mystery of
moonlight began to tremble already in the region of the
eastern heaven. The sense of peace and seclusion soothed
all thought and feeling into a rapt, unearthly repose ; and the
balmy quiet that deepened ever with the deepening light,
seemed to hover over us with a gentler influence still, when

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there stole upon it from the piano the heavenly tenderness of
the music of Mozart. It was an evening of sights and sounds
never to forget.

We all sat silent in the places we had chosen — Mrs. Vesey
still sleeping, Miss Fairlie still playing, Miss Halcombe still
reading — till the light failed us. By this time the moon had
stolen round to the terrace, and soft, mysterious rays of light
were slanting already across the lower end of the room. The
change from the twilight obscurity was so beautiful, that we
banished the lamps, by common consent, when the servant
brought them in ; and kept the large room unlighted, except
by the glimmer of the two candles at the piano.

For half an hour more, the music still went on. After
that, the beauty of the moonlight view on the terrace tempted
Miss Fairlie out to look at it, and I followed her. When the
candles at the piano had been lighted, Miss Halcombe had
changed her place, so as to continue her examination of the
letters by their assistance. We left her, on a low chair, at
one side of the instrument, so absorbed over her reading that
she did not seem to notice when we moved.

We had been out on the terrace together, just in front of
the glass doors, hardly so long as five minutes, I should
think ; and Miss Fairlie was, by my advice, just tying her
white handkerchief over her head as a precaution against the
night air — when I heard Miss Halcombe's voice — low, eager,
and altered from its natural lively tone — pronounce my name.

* Mr. Hartright,' she said, ' will you come here for a
minute ? I want to speak to you.'

I entered the room again immediately. The piano stood
about halfway down along the inner wall. On the side of
the instrument farthest from the terrace. Miss Halcombe was
sitting with the letters scattered on her lap, and with one in
her hand selected from them, and held close to the candle.
On the side nearest to the terrace there stood a low ottoman,
on which I took my place. In this position, I was not far
from the glass doors ; and I could see Miss Fairlie plainly, as
she passed and repassed the opening on to the terrace ; walk-
ing slowly from end to end of it in the full radiance of the
moon.

* I want you to listen while I read the concluding passages
in this letter,' said Miss Halcombe. 'Tell me if you think
they throw any light upon your strange adventure on the road
to London. The letter is addressed by my mother to her
second husband, Mr. Fairlie ; and the date refers to a period
of between eleven and twelve years since. At that time, Mr.

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

and Mrs. Fairlie, and my half-sister Laura, had been living-
for years in this house ; and I was away from them, com-
pleting' my education at a school in Paris.'

She looked and spoke earnestly, and, as I thought, a little
uneasily, as well. At the moment when she raised the letter
to the candle before beginning to read it, Miss Fairlie passed
us on the terrace, looked in for a moment, and, seeing that
we were engaged, slowly v.-alked on.

Miss Halcombe began to read, as follows :

' '* You will be tired, my dear Philip, of hearing perpetu-
ally about my schools and my scholars. Lay the blame,
pray, on the dull uniformity of life at Limmeridge, and not on
me. Besides, this time, I have something really interesting
to tell you about a new scholar.

' " You know old Mrs. Kempe, at the village shop. Well,
after years of ailing, the doctor has at last given her up, and
she is dying slowly, day by day. Her only living relation, a
sister, arrived last week to take care of her. This sister
comes all the way from Hampshire — her name is Mrs.
Catherick. Four days ago Mrs. Catherick came here to see
me, and brought her only child v/ith her, a sweet little girl
about a year older than our darling Laura " '

As the last sentence fell from the reader's lips. Miss Fairlie
passed us on the terrace once more. She was softly singing
to herself one of the melodies which she had been playing
earlier in the evening. Miss Halcombe waited till she had
passed out of sight again ; and then went on with the letter :

***Mrs. Catherick is a decent, well-behaved, respectable
woman ; middle aged, and with the remains of having been
moderately, only moderately, nice-looking. There is some-
thing in her manner and in her appearance, however, which I
can't make out. She is reserved about herself to the point
of downright secrecy ; and there is a look in her face — I can't
describe it — which suggests to me that she has something on
her mind. She is altogether what you would call a walking
mystery. Her errand at Limmeridge House, however, was
simple enough. When she left Hampshire to nurse her sister,
Mrs. Kempe, through her last illness, she had been obliged to
bring her daughter with her, through having no one at home
to take care of the little girl. Mrs. Kempe may die in a
week's time, or may linger on for months ; and Mrs. Cathe-
rick's object was to ask me to let her daughter, Anne, have

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

the benefit of attending my school ; subject to the condition
of her being removed from it to go home again with her
mother, after Mrs. Kempe's death. I consented at once, and
when Laura and I v/ent out for our walk, we took the little
girl (who is just eleven years old) to the school, that very
day." '

Once more. Miss Fairlie's figure, bright and soft in its
snowy muslin dress — her face prettily framed by the white
folds of the handkerchief which she had tied under her chin —
passed by us in the moonlight. Once more. Miss Halcombe
waited till she was out of sight ; and then went on :

' " I have taken a violent fancy, Philip, to my new scholar,
for a reason which I mean to keep till the last for the sake of
surprising you. Her mother having told me as little about
the child as she told me of herself, I was left to discover
(which I did on the first day when we tried her at lessons)
that the poor little thing's intellect is not developed as it
ought to be at her age. Seeing this, I had her up to the
house the next day, and privately arranged with the doctor
to come and watch her and question her, and tell me what he
thought. His opinion is that she will grow out of it. But
he says her careful bringing-up at school is a matter of great
importance just now, because her unusual slowness in acquir-
ing ideas implies an unusual tenacity in keeping them, when
they are once received into her mind. Now, my love, you
must not imagine, in your off-hand way, that I have been
attaching myself to an idiot. This poor little Anne Catherick
is a sweet, affectionate, grateful girl ; and says the quaintest,
prettiest things (as you shall judge by an instance), in the
most oddly sudden, surprised, half-frightened way. Although
she is dressed very neatly, her clothes show a sad want of
taste in colour and pattern. So I arranged, yesterday, that
some of our darling Laura's old white frocks and white hats
should be altered for Anne Catherick ; explaining to her that
little girls of her complexion looked neater and better all in
white than in anything else. She hesitated and seemed
puzzled for a minute ; then flushed up, and appeared to
understand. Her little hand clasped mine suddenly. She
kissed it, Philip ; and said (oh, so earnestly !), ' I will always
wear white as long as I live. It will help me to remember
you, ma'am, and to think that I am pleasing you still, when
I go away and see you no more.' This is only one specimen
of the quaint things she says so prettily. Poor little soul !

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

She shall have a stock of white frocks, made with g-ood deep
tucks, to let out for her as she grows " '

Miss Halcombe paused, and looked at me across the piano.

' Did the forlorn woman whom 3-ou met in the hi^h-road
seem young-?' she asked. 'Young- enough to be two or
three-and-twenty ? '

* Yes, Miss Halcombe, as young as that.'

• And she was strangely dressed, from head to foot, all in
white ? '

' All in white.'

\Vhile the answer was passing- my lips. Miss Fairlie
glided mto view on the terrace, for the third time. Instead
ot proceeding^ on her walk, she stopped, with her back turned
towards us ; and, leaning on the balustrade of the terrace,
looked down into the garden bevond. Mv eyes fixed upon
the white gleam of her muslin gown and 'head-dress in the
moonlight, and a sensation, for which I can find no name— a
sensation that quickened my pulse, and raised a fluttering- at
my heart — beg-an to steal over me. '^

' All in white ? ' Miss Halcombe repeated. ' The most
Important sentences in the letter, Mr. Hartright, are those at
the end, which I will read to you immediateV. But I can't
help dwelling- a little upon 'the coincidence of the white
costume of the woman you met, and the white frocks which
produced that strange answer from my mother's little scholar.
The doctor may have been wrong when he discovered the
child's defects of intellect, and predicted that she would
"grow out of them." She may never have g-rown out of
them ; and the old grateful fancy about dressing- in white,
which was a serious feeling- to 'the girl, mav be a serious
feeling to the woman still.'

I said a few words in answer— I hardly know what. All
my attention was concentrated on the white gleam of Miss
Fairlie's muslin dress.

'Listen to the last sentences of the letter,' said Miss
Halcombe. * I think they will surprise you.'

As she raised the lett'er to the light of the candle, Miss
Fairlie turned from the balustrade, looked doubtfully up and
down the terrace, advanced a step towards the glass doors,
and then stopped, facing us.

Meanwhile, Miss Halcombe read me the last sentences to
which she had referred :

• " And now, my love, seeing tliat I am at the end of my

49 E

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

paper, now for the real reason, the surprising reason, for my
fondness for Httle Anne Catherick. My dear Philip, althoug-h
she is not half so pretty, she is nevertheless, by one of those
extraordinary caprices of accidental resemblance which one
sometimes sees, the living likeness, in her hair, her com-
plexion, the colour of her eyes, and the shape of her face "'

I started up from the ottoman, before Miss Halcombe
could pronounce the next words. A thrill of the same feeling
which ran through me when the touch was laid upon my
shoulder on the lonely high-road, chilled me again.

There stood Miss Fairlie, a white figure, alone In the
moonlight ; in her attitude, in the turn of her head, in her
complexion, in the shape of her face, the living image, at
that distance and under those circumstances, of the woman
in white ! The doubt which had troubled my mind for hours
and hours past, flashed into conviction in an instant. That
' something wanting ' was my own recognition of the ominous
likeness between the fugitive from the asylum and my pupil
at Limmeridge House.

' You see it ! ' said Miss Halcombe. She dropped the use-
less letter, and her eyes flashed as they met mine. * Vou see
it now, as my mother saw it eleven years since ! '

' I see it — more unwillingly than I can say. To associate
that forlorn, friendless, lost woman, even by an accidental like-
ness only, with Miss Fairlie, seems like casting a shadow on
the future of the bright creature who stands looking at us
now. Let me lose the impression again, as soon as possible.
Call her in, out of the dreary moonlight — pray call her in ! '

' Mr. Hartright, you surprise me. Whatever women may
be, I thought that men, in the nineteenth century, were above
superstition.*

' Pray call her In ! '

' Hush, hush ! She Is coming of her own accord. Say
nothing in her presence. Let this discovery of the likeness
be kept a secret between you and me. Come in, Laura ;
come in, and wake Mrs. Vesey with the piano. Mr. Hartright
is petitioning for some more music, and he wants it, this time,
of the lightest and liveliest kind.'

IX.

So ended my eventful first day at Limmeridge House.

Miss Halcombe and I kept our secret. After the discovery
of the likeness no fresh light seemed destined to break over
the mystery of the woman in white. At the first safe oppor-

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

tunity Miss Halcombe cautiously led her half-sister to speak
of their mother, of old times, and of Anne Catherick. Miss
Fairlie's recollections of the little scholar at Limmeridge were,
however, only of the most vague and general kind. She re-
membered the likeness between herself and her mother's
favourite pupil, as something which had been supposed to
exist in past times ; but she did not refer to the gift of the
white dresses, or to the singular form of words in which the
child had artlessly expressed her gratitude for them. She
remembered that Anne had remained at Limmeridge for a few
months only, and had then left it to go back to her home in
Hampshire ; but she could not say whether the mother and
daughter had ever returned, or had ever been heard of after-
wards. No further search, on Miss Halcombe's part, through
the few letters of Mrs. Fairlie's writing which she had left
unread, assisted in clearing up the uncertainties still left to
perplex us. We had identified the unhappy woman whom I
had met in the night-time, with Anne Catherick — we had
made some advance, at least, towards connecting the prob-
r.bly defecti\e condition of the poor creature's intellect with
the peculiarity of her being dressed all in white, and with the
continuance, in her maturer years, of her childish gratitude
towards Mrs. Fairlie — atid there, so far as we knew at that
rime, our discoveries had ended.

The days passed on, the weeks passed on ; and the track
of the golden autumn wound its bright way visibly through
the green summer of the trees. Peaceful, fast-flowing, happy
time ! my story glides by you now, as swiftly as you once
glided by me. Of all the treasures of enjoyment that you
poured so freely into my heart, how much is left me that has
purpose and value enough to be written on this page ?
Nothing but the saddest of all confessions that a man can
make — the confession of his own folly.

The secret which that confession discloses should be told
with little effort, for it has indirectly escaped me already. The
poor weak words which have failed to describe Miss Fairlie,
have succeeded in betraying the sensations she awakened in
me. It is so with us all. Our words are giants when they
do us an injury, and dwarfs when they do us a service.

I loved her.

Ah ! how well I know all the sadness and all the mockery
that is contained in those three words. I can sigh over my
mournful confession with the tenderest woman who reads it
and pities me. I can laugh at it as bitterly as the hardest

51 E3

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

man who tosses ir from him. in contempt. I loved her ! Feel
for me, or despise me, I confess it with the same immovable
resolution to own the truth.

Was there no excuse for me ? There was some excuse to
be found, surely, in the conditions under which my term of
hired service was passed at Limmeridge House.

My morning- hours succeeded each other calmly in tb.e
quiet and seclusion of my own room. I had just work enough
to do, in mounting my employer's drawings, to keep my hands
and eyes pleasurably employed, while my mind was left free
to enjoy the dangerous luxury of its own unbridled thoughts.
A perilous solitude, for it lasted long enough to enervate, not
long enough to fortify me. A perilous solitude, for it was fol-
lowed by afternoons and evening's spent, day after day and week
after week, alone in the society of two women, one of whom
possessed all the accomplishments of grace, wit, and high-
breeding, the other all the charms of beauty, gentleness, and
simple truth, that can purify and subdue the heart of man.
Not a day passed, in that dangerous intimacy of teacher and
pupil, in which my hand v/as not close to Miss Fairlie's ; my
cheek, as we bent together over her sketch-book, almost
touching hers. The more attentively she watched every
movement of my brush, the more closely I was breathing the
perfume of her hair, and the warm fragrance of her breath.
It was part of my service, to live in the very light of her eyes
— at one time to be bending over her, so close to her bosom
as to tremble at the thought of touching- it ; at another, to
feel her bending over me, bending so close to see what I was
about, that her voice sank low when she spoke to me, and
her ribbons brushed my cheek in the wind before she could
draw them back.

The evenings which followed the sketching excursions of
the afternoon, varied, rather than checked, these innocent,
these inevitable familiarities. My natural fondness for the
music which she played with such tender feeling, such delicate
womanly taste, and her natural enjoyment of giving me back,
by the practice of her art, the pleasure which I had offered to
her by the practice of mine, only wove another tie which drew
us closer and closer to one another. The accidents of con-
versation ; the simple habits which regulated even such a
little thing as the position of our places at table ; the play
of Miss Halcombe's ever-ready raillery, always directed
against my anxiety, as teacher, while it sparkled over her
enthusiasm as pupil ; the harmless expression of poor Mrs.
Vesey's drowsy approval which connected Miss Fairlie and

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

me as two model j-oung people who never disturbed her —
every one of these trifles, and many more, combined to fold
us together in the same domestic atmosphere, and to lead us
both insensibly to the same hopeless end.

I should have remembered my position, and have put
myself secretly on my guard. I did so ; but not till it was
too late. All the discretion, all the experience, which had
availed me with other women, and secured me against other
temptations, failed me with her. It had been my profession,
for years past, to be in this close contact with young girls of
all ages, and of all orders of beauty. I had accepted the
position as part of my calling in life •, I had trained myself to
leave all the sympathies natural to my age in my employer's
outer hall, as coolly as I left my umbrella there before I
went up-stairs. I had long since learnt to understand, com-
posedly and as a matter of course, that my situation in life
was considered a guarantee against any of my female pupils
feeling more than the most ordinary interest in me, and that
I was admitted among beautiful and captivating women,
much as a harmless domestic animal is admitted among them.
This guardian experience I had gained early ; this guardian
experience had sternly and strictly guided me straight along
my own poor narrow path, without once letting me stray
aside, to the right hand or to the left. And now, I and my
trusty talisman were parted for the first time. Yes, my hardly-
earned self-control was as completely lost to me as if I had
never possessed it ; lost to me, as it is lost every day to other
men, in other critical situations, where women are concerned. I
know, now, that I should have questioned myself from the first.
I should have asked why any room in the house was better
than home to me when she entered it, and barren as a desert
when she went out again — why I always noticed and remem-
bered the little changes in her dress that I had noticed and
remembered in no other woman's before — why I saw her,
heard her, and touched her (when we shook hands at night
and morning) as I had never seen, heard, and touched any
other woman in my life ? I should have looked into my own
heart, and found this new growth springing up there, and
plucked it out while it was young. W^hy was this easiest,
simplest work of self-culture always too much for me ? The
explanation has been written already in the three words that
were many enough, and plain enough, for my confession. I
loved her.

The days passed, the weeks passed ; it was approaching
the third month of my stay in Cumberland. The delicious

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

monotony of life in our calm seclusion, flowed on with me
like a smooth stream -with a swimmer who glides down the
current. All memory of the past, all thought of the future,
all sense of the falseness and hopelessness of my own position,
lay hushed within me into deceitful rest. Lulled by the
Syren-song that my own heart sung to me, with eyes shut to
all sight, and ears closed to all sound of danger, I drifted
nearer and nearer to the fatal rocks. The warning that
aroused me at last, and startled me into sudden, self-accusing
consciousness of my own weakness, was the plainest, the
truest, the kindest of all warnings, for it came silently from her.

We had parted one night, as usual. No word had fallen
from my lips, at that time or at any time before it, that could
betray me or startle her into sudden knowledge of the truth.
But, when we met again in the morning, a change had come
over her — a change that told me all.

I shrank then — I shrink still — from invading the innermost
sanctuary of her heart, and laying it open to others, as 1 have
laid open my own. Let it be enough to say that the time
when she first surprised my secret, was, I firmly believe, the
time when she first surprised her own, and the time, also,
when she changed towards me in the interval of one night.
Her nature, too truthful to deceive others, was too noble to
deceive itself. When the doubt that I had hushed asleep,
first laid its weary weight on her heart, the true face owned
all, and said, in its own frank simple language — I am sorry
for him ; I am sorry for myself.

It said this, and more, which I could not then interpret.
I understood but too well the change in her manner, to
greater kindness and quicker readiness in interpreting all my
wishes, before others — to constraint and sadness, and nervous
anxiety to absorb herself in the first occupation she could seize
on, whenever we happened to be left together alone. I under-
stood why the sweet sensitive lips smiled so rarely and so
restrainedly now ; and why the clear blue eyes looked at me,
sometimes with the pity of an angel, sometimes with the
innocent perplexity of a child. But the change meant more
than this. There was a coldness in her hand, there was an
unnatural immobility in her face, there was in all her move-
ments the mute expression of constant fear and clinging self-
reproach. The sensations that I could trace to herself and to
me, the unacknowledged sensations that we were feeling in
common, were not these. There were certain elements of the
change in her that Vvere still secretly drawing us together,
and others that were, as secretly, beginning to drive us apart.

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

In my doubt and perplexity, in my vague suspicion of
something' hidden which I was left to find by my ow^n unaided
efforts, I examined Miss Halcombe's looks and manner for
enlightenment. Living in such intimacy as ours, no serious
alteration could take place in any one of us which did not sym-
pathetically affect the others. The change in Miss Fairlie
was reflected in her half-sister. Although not a word escaped
Miss Halcombe which hinted at an altered state of feeling
towards myself, her penetrating eyes had contracted a new
habit of always watching me. Sometimes, the look was like
suppressed anger ; sometimes, like suppressed dread ; some-
times, like neither — like nothing, in short, which I could
understand. A week elapsed, weaving us all three still in this
position of secret constraint towards one another. My
situation, aggravated by the sense of my own miserable
weakness and forgetfulness of myself, now too late awakened
in me, was becoming intolerable. I felt that I must cast off
the oppression under which I was living, at once and for ever
— yet how to act for the best, or what to say first, was more
than I could tell.

From this position of helplessness and humiliation, I was
rescued by Miss Halcombe. Her lips told me the bitter, the
necessary, the unexpected truth ; her hearty kindness sus-
tained me under the shock cf hearing it ; her sensr and
courage turned to its right use an event which threatened the
worst that could happen, to me and to others, in Limmeridge
House.

It was on a Thursday in the week, and nearly at the end
of the third month of my sojourn in Cumberland.

In the morning, when I went down into the breakfast-
room, at the usual hour. Miss Halcombe, for the first time
since I had known her, was absent from her customary place
at the table.

Miss Fairlie was out on the lawn. She bowed to me, but
did not come in. Not a word had dropped from my lips, or
from hers, that could unsettle either of us — and yet the same
unacknowledged sense of embarrassment made us shrink
alike from meeting one another alone. She waited on the
lawn ; and I waited in the breakfast-room, till Mrs. Vesey or
Miss Halcombe came in. How quickly I should have joined
her : how readily we should have shaken hands, and glided
into our customary talk, only a fortnight ago,

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

In a few minutes, Miss Halcombe entered. She had a
preoccupied look, and she made her apologies for being late,
rather absently.

' I have been detained,' she said, ' by a consultation with
Mr. Fairlie on a domestic matter which he wished to speak to
me about.'

Miss Fairlie came in from the garden ; and the usual
morning greeting passed between us. Her hand struck
colder to mine than ever. She did not look at me ; and she
was very pale. Even Mrs. Vesey noticed it, when she entered
the room a moment after.

' I suppose it is the change in the wind,' said the old lady.
The winter is coming — ah, my love, the winter is coming
soon ! '

In her heart and in mine it had come already !

Our morning meal — once so full of pleasant good-humoured
discussion of the plans for the day — was short and silent.
Miss Fairlie seemed to feel the oppression of the long pauses
in the conversation ; and looked appealingly to her sister to fill
them up. Miss Halcombe, after once or twice hesitating and
checking herself, in a most uncharacteristic manner, spoke at
last.

* I have seen your uncle this morning, Laura,' she said.
* He thinks the purple room is the one that ought to be got
ready ; and he confirms what I told you. Monday is the day —
not Tuesday.'

While these words were being spoken. Miss Fairlie looked
down at the table beneath her. Her fingers moved nervously
among the crumbs that were scattered on the cloth. The
paleness on her cheeks spread to her lips, and the lips them-
selves trembled visibly. I was not the only person present
who noticed this. Miss Halcombe saw it, too ; and at once
set us the example of rising from table

Mrs. Vesey and Miss Fairlie left the room together. The
kind sorrowful blue eyes looked at me, for a moment, with
the prescient sadness of a coming and a long farewell. I felt
the answering pang in my own heart — the pang that told me
I must lose her soon, and love her the more unchangeably for
the loss.

I turned towards the garden, when the door had closed on
her. Miss Halcombe was standing with her hat in her hand,
and her shawl over her arm, by the large window that led out
to the lawn, and was looking at me attentively.

' Have you any leisure time to spare,' she asked, ' before
you begin to work in vour own room ? '

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

* Certainly, Miss Halcombe. I have always time at your
service.'

' I want to say a word to you in private, Mr. Hartright.
Get your hat, and come out into the garden. We are not likely
to be disturbed there at this hour in the morning.'

As we stepped out on to the lawn, one of the under-gar-
deners — a mere lad — passed us on his way to the house, with
a letter in his hand. Miss Halcombe stopped him.

' Is that letter for me ? ' she asked.

' Nay, miss ; it's just said to be for Miss Fairlie,' answered
the lad, holding out the letter as he spoke.

Miss Halcombe took it from him, and looked at the
address.

* A strange handwriting,' she said to herself ' Who can
Laura's correspondent be ? Where did you get this ? ' she
continued, addressing the gardener.

' Well, miss,' said the lad, ' I just got it from a woman.'
' What woman ? '

* A woman well stricken in age.'

' Oh, an old woman. Any one }Ou knew ? '

* I canna' tak' it on m3ser to say that she was other than
a stranger to me.'

* Which way did she go ? '

'That gate,' said the undcr-gardener, turning with great
deliberation towards the south, and embracing the whole of
that part of England with one comprehensive sweep of his
arm.

' Curious,' said Miss Halcombe ; ' I suppose it must be a
begging-letter. There,' she added, handing the letter back to
the lad, * take it to the house, and give it to one of the servants.
And now, Mr. Hartright, if you have no objection, let us walk
this way.'

She led me across the lav/n, along the same path by which
I had followed her on the day after my arrival at Limmeridge.
At the little summer-house in which Laura Fairlie and I had
first seen each other, she stopped, and broke the silence which
she had steadily maintained while we were walking together.

' What I have to say to you, I can say here.'

With those words, she entered the summer-house, took
one of the chairs at the little round table inside, and signed to
me to take the other. I suspected what was coming when
she spoke to me in the breakfast-room ; I felt certain of it
now.

' Mr. Hartright,' she said, * I am going to begin by making
^ frank evvowal to you. I am going to say — without phrase-

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

making", which I detest ; or paying compliments, which I
heartily despise — that I have come, in the course of your resi-
dence with us, to feel a strong- friendly regard for you. I was
predisposed in your favour when you first told me of your
conduct towards that unhappy woman whom you met under
such remarkable circumstances. Your management of the
affair might not have been prudent ; but it showed the self-
control, the delicacy, and the compassion of a man who was
naturally a gentleman. It made me expect good things from
you ; and you have not disappointed my expectations.'

She paused — but held up her hand at the same time, as a
sign that she awaited no answer from me before she proceeded.
When I entered the summer-house, no thought was in me of
the woman in white. But, now. Miss Halcombe's own words
had put the memory of my adventure back in my mind. It
remained there throughout the interview — remained, and not
without a result.

' As your friend,' she proceeded, * I am going to tell you,
at once, in my own plain, blunt, downright language, that I
have discovered your secret — without help, or hint, mind, from
any one else. Mr. Hartright, you have thoughtlessly allowed
yourself to form an attachment — a serious and devoted attach-
ment, I am afraid — to my sister, Laura. I don't put you to
the pain of confessing it, in so many words, because I see and
know that you are too honest to deny it. I don't even blame
you — I pity you for opening your heart to a hopeless affection.
You have not attempted to take any underhand advantage—
you have not spoken to my sister in secret. You are guilty
of weakness and want of attention to your own best interests,
but of nothing worse. If you had acted, in any single respect,
less delicately and less modestly, I should have told you to
leave the house, without an instant's notice, or an instant's
consultation of anybody. As it is, I blame the misfortune of
your years and your position — I don't blame you. Shake
hands — I have given you pain ; I am going to give you more ;
but there is no help for it — shake hands with your friend,
Marian Halcombe, first.'

The sudden kindness — the warm, high-minded, fearless
sympathy which met me on such mercifully-equal terms, which
appealed with such delicate and generous abruptness straight
to my heart, my honour, and my courage, overcame me in
an instant. I tried to look at her, when she took my hand,
but my eyes were dim. I tried to thank her, but my voice
failed me.

' Listen to me,' she said, considerately avoiding all notice

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

of my loss of self-control. * Listen to me, and let us g^et it
over at once. It is a real true relief to me that I am not
obliged, in what I have now to say, to enter into the question —
the hard and cruel question as I think it — of social inequalities.
Circumstances which will try vo?i to the quick, spare jne the
ungracious necessity of paining a man who has lived in friendly
intimacy under the same roof with myself by any humiliating
reference to matters of rank and station. You must leave
Limmeridge House, Mr. Hartrig-ht, before more harm is done.
It is my duty to say that to you ; and it would be equally my
duty to say it, under precisely the same serious necessity, if
you were the representative of the oldest and wealthiest
family in England. You must leave us, not because you are
a teacher of drawing '

She waited a moment ; turned her face full on me ; and,
reaching across the table, laid her hand firmly on my arm.

' Not because you are a teacher of drawing,' she repeated,
' but because Laura Fairlie is engaged to be married.'

The last word went like a bullet to my heart. My arm
lost all sensation of the hand that grasped it. I never moved
and never spoke. The sharp autumn breeze that scattered
the dead leaves at our feet, came as cold to me, on a sudden,
as if my own mad hopes were dead leaves, too, whirled away by
the wind like the rest. Hopes ! Betrothed, or not betrothed,
she was equally far from 7fie. Would other men have remem-
bered that in my place? Not if they had loved her as I did.

The pang passed ; and nothing but the dull numbing pain
of it remained. I felt Miss Halcombe's hand again, tightening
its hold on my arm — I raised my head, and looked at her.
Her large black eyes were rooted on me, watching the white
change on ray face, which I felt, and which she saw.

' Crush it ! ' she said. ' Here, where you first saw her,
crush it ! Don't shrink under it like a woman. Tear it out ;
trample it under foot like a man ! '

The suppressed vehemence with which she spoke ; the
strength which her will — concentrated in the look she fixed on
me, and in the hold on my arm that she had not yet relin-
quished— communicated to mine, steadied me. We both
waited for a minute, in silence. At the end of that time, I had
justified her generous faith in my manhood ; I had, outwardly
at least, recovered my self-control.

' Are you yourself again ? '

' Enough myself. Miss Halcombe, to ask your pardon and
hers. Enough myself, to be guided by your advice, and to
prove my gratitude in that way, if I can prove it in no other.'

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

*You have proved it already,' she answered, * by those
words. Mr, Hartright, concealment is at an end between us.
I cannot affect to hide from yon, what my sister has uncon-
sciously shown to me. You must leave us for her sake, as
well as for your own. Your presence here, your necessary
intimacy with us, harmless as it has been, God knows, in all
other respects, has unsteadied her and made her wretched.
I, who love her better than my own life — I, who have
learnt to believe in that pure, noble innocent nature as I
believe in my religion — know but too well the secret misery
of self-reproach that she has been suffering, since the first
shadow of a feeling disloyal to her marriage engagement entered
her heart in spite of her. I don't say — it would be useless to
attempt to say it, after what has happened — that her engage-
ment has ever had a strong hold on her affections. It is an
engagement of honour, not of love — her father sanctioned it
on his death-bed, two years since — she herself neither
welcomed it, nor shrank from it — she was content to make it.
Till you came here, she was in the position of hundreds of
other women, who marry men without being greatly attracted
to them or greatly repelled by them, and who learn to love
them (when they don't learn to hate !) after marriage, instead
of before. I hope more earnestly than words can say — and
you should have the self-sacrificing courage to hope too — that
the new thoughts and feelings which have disturbed the old
calmness and the old content, have not taken root too deeply
to be ever removed. Your absence (if I had less belief in your
honour, and your courage, and your sense, I should not trust
to them as I am trusting now) — your absence will help my
efforts ; and time will help us all three. It is something to know
that my first confidence in you was not all misplaced. It is some-
thing to know that you will not be less honest, less manly, less
considerate towards the pupil whose relation to yourself you
have had the misfortune to forget, than towards the stranger
and the outcast whose appeal to you was not made in vain.'

Again the chance reference to the woman in white ! Was
there no possibility of speaking of Miss Fairlie and of me
without raising the memory of Anne Catherick, and setting
her between us like a fatality that it was hopeless to avoid ?

' Tell me what apology I can make to Mr. Fairlie for break-
ing my engagement,' I said. 'Tell me when to go after that
apology is accepted. I promise implicit obedience to you and
to your advice.'

'Time is, every way, of importance,' she answered. 'You
heard me refer this rnorning to Monday next, and to the

^60

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

necessity of setting the purple room in order. The visitor
whom we expect on Monday '

I could not wait for her to be more expUcit. Knowing what
I knew now, the memory of Miss Fairlie's look and manner
at the breakfast-table told me that the expected visitor at
Limmeridge House was her future husband. I tried to force
it back ; but something rose within me at that moment
stronger than my own will ; and I interrupted Miss
Halcombe.

' Let me go to-dav,' I said, bitterly. ' The sooner the
better.'

* No ; not to-day,' she replied. ' The only reason you can
assign to Mr. Fairlle for your departure, before the end of
your engagement, must be that an unforeseen necessity com-
pels you to ask his permission to return at once to London.
You must wait till to-morrow to tell him that, at the time
v\^hen the post comies In, because he will then understand the
sudden change In your plans, by associating it with the arrival
of a letter from London. It Is miserable and sickening to de-
scend to deceit, even of the most harmless kind — but I know
Mr. Fairlie, and if you once excite his suspicions that you are
trifling with him, he will refuse to release you. Speak to him
on Friday morning ; occupy yourself afterwards {for the sake
of your own interests with your employer), in leaving your
unfinished work In as little confusion as possible ; and quit
this place on Saturday. It will be time enough, then, Mr.
Hartright, for you, and for all of us.'

Before I could assure her that she might depend on my
acting In the strictest accordance with her wishes, we were
both startled by advancing footsteps In the shrubbery.
Some one was coming from the house to seek for us ! I felt
the blood rush Into my cheeks, and then leave them again.
Could the third person who was fast approaching us, at such
a time and under such circumstances, be Miss Fairlie ?

It was a relief — so sadly, so hopelessly was my position
towards her changed already — It was absolutely a relief to
me, when the person who had disturbed us appeared at the
entrance of the summer-house, and proved to be only Miss
Fairlie's maid.

' Could I speak to you for a moment, miss ? ' said the
girl, in rather a flurried, unsettled manner.

Miss Halcombe descended the steps into the shrubbery,
and walked aside a few paces vvith the maid.

Left by myself, my mind reverted, with a sense of forlorn
wretchedness which it is not in any words that I can find to

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

describe, to my approaching return to the solitude and the
despair of my lonely London home. Thoughts of my kind
old mother, and of my sister, who had rejoiced with her so
innocently over my prospects in Cumberland — thoughts whose
long banishment from my heart it was now my shame and my
reproach to realise for the first time — came back to me with
the loving mournfulness of old, neglected friends. My
mother and my sister, what would they feel when I returned
to them from my broken engagement, with the confession of
my miserable secret — they who had parted from me so hope-
fully on that last happy night in the Hampstead cottage !

Anne Catherick again ! Even the memcfry of the farewell
evening with my mother and my sister could not return to
me now, unconnected with that Other memory of the moon-
light walk back to London. What did it mean ? W^ere that
woman and I to meet once more ? It was possible, at the
least. Did she know that I lived in London ? Yes ; I had
told her so, either before or after that strange question of
hers, when she had asked me so distrustfully if I knew many
men of the rank of Baronet. Either before or after — my
mind was not calm enough, then, to remember which.

A few minutes elapsed before Miss Halcombc dismissed
the maid and came back to me. She, too, looked flurried
and unsettled, now.

' We have arranged all that is necessary, Mr. Hartright,'
she said. * We have understood each other, as friends
should ; and we may go back at once to the house. To tell
you the truth, I am uneasy about Laura. She has sent to
say she wants to see me directly ; and the maid reports
that her mistress is apparently very much agitated by a letter
that she has received this morning — the same letter, no doubt,
which I sent on to the house before we came here.'

We retraced our steps together hastily along the shrub-
bery path. Although Miss Halcombe had ended all that she
thought it necessary to say, on her side, I had not ended all
that I wanted to say on mine. From the moment when I had
discovered that the expected visitor at Limmeridge was Miss
Fairlie's future husband, I had felt a bitter curiosity, a burn-
ing envious eagerness, to know who he was. It was possible
that a future opportunity of putting the question might not
easily offer ; so I risked asking it on our way back to the
house.

' Now that you are kind enough to tell me we have under-
stood each other. Miss Halcombe,' I said ; ' nov/ that you are
sure of my gratitude for your forbearance and my obedience

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

to your wishes, may I venture to ask who ' — (I hesitated ; I
had forced myself to think of him, but it was harder still to
speak of him, as her promised husband) — ' who the gentleman
engaged to Miss Fairlie, is? '

Her mind was evidently occupied with the message she
had received from her sister. She answered, in a hasty,
absent way :

' A gentleman of large property, in Hampshire.'

Hampshire ! Anne Catherick's native place. Again, and
yet again, the woman in white. There 7vas a fatality in it.

' And his name ? ' I said, as quietly and indifferently as I
could.

' Sir Percival Glyde.'

Sir — Sir Percival ! Anne Catherick's question — that sus-
picious question about the men of the rank of Baronet whom
I might happen to know — had hardly been dismissed from my
mind by Miss Halcohibe's return to me in the summer-house,
before it v/as recalled again by her own answer. I stopped
suddenly, and looked at her.

' Sir Percival Glyde,' she repeated, imagining that I had
not heard her former reply.

' Knight, or Baronet ? ' I asked v/ith an agitation that I
could hide no longer.

She paused for a moment, and then answered, rather
coldly :

* Baronet, of course.'

XI.

Not a word more was said, on either side, as we walked
back to the house. Miss Halcombe hastened immediately to
her sister's room ; and I withdrew to my studio to set in order
all of Mr. Fairlie's drawings that I had not yet mounted and
restored before I resigned them to the care of other hands.
Thoughts that I had hitherto restrained, thoughts that made
my position harder than ever to -endure, crowded on me now
that I was alone.

She was engaged to be married ; and her future husband
was Sir Percival Glyde. A man of the rank of baronet, and
the owner of property in Hampshire.

There were hundreds of baronets in England, and dozens
of landowners in Hampshire. Judging by the ordinary rules
of evidence, I had not the shadow of a reason, thus far, for
connecting Sir Percival Glyde with the suspicious v.^ords of
inquiry that had been spoken to me by the woman in white.

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

And yet, I did connect him with them. Was it because he had
now become associated in my mind with Miss Fairhe ; Miss
Fairlie being, in her turn, associated with Anne Catherick,
since the nig-ht when I had discovered the ominous hkeness
between them ? Had the events of the morning- so unnerved
me already that I was at the mercy of any dehision which
common chances and common coincidences might suggest to
my imagination ? Impossible to say. I could only feel that
what had passed between Miss Halcombe and myself, on our
way from the summer-house, had affected me very strangely.
The foreboding of some undiscoverable danger lying hid from
us all in the darkness of the future, was strong on me. The
doubt whether I was not linked already to a chain of events
which even my approaching departure from Cumberland
would be powerless to snap asunder — the doubt whether we
any of us saw the end as the end would really be — gathered
more and more darkly over my mind. Poignant as it was, the
sense of suffering caused by the miserable end of my brief,
presumptuous love, seemed to be blunted and deadened by the
still stronger sense of something obscurely impending, some-
thing invisibly threatening, that Time was holding over our
heads.

I had been engaged with the drawings little more than
half an hour, when there was a knock at the door. It opened,
on my answering ; and, to my surprise, Miss Halcombe entered
the room.

Her manner was angry and agitated. She caught up a
chair for herself before I could give her one ; and sat down in
it, close at my side.

* Mr. Hartright,' she said, * I had hoped that all painful
subjects of conversation were exhausted between us, for to-
day at least. But it is not to be so. There Is some imder-
hand villainy at work to frighten my sister about her approach-
ing marriage. You saw me send the gardener on to the
house, with a letter addressed, In a strange handwriting, to
Miss Fairlie ? '

' Certainly.*

' The letter Is an anonymous letter — a vile attempt to
Injure Sir Perclval Clyde in my sister's estimation. It has so
agitated and alarmed her that I have had the greatest possible
difficulty In composing her spirits sufficiently to allow me to
leave her room and come here. I know this is a family matter
on which I ought not to consult you, and In which you can
feel no concern or Interest '

' I beg vour pardon, Miss Halcombe. I feel the strongest,

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

possible concern and interest in anything that affects Miss
Fairlie's happiness or yours.'

' I am g-lad to hear you say so. You are the only person
in the house, or out of it, who can advise me. Mr. Fairlie, in
his state of health and with his horror of difficulties and mys-
teries of all kinds, is not to be thought of. The clergyman is
a good, weak man, who knows nothing out of the routine of his
duties ; and our neighbours are just the sort of comfortable,
jog-trot acquaintances whom one cannot disturb in times of
trouble and danger. What I want to know is this : ought I,
at once, to take such steps as I can to discover the writer of
the letter ? or ought I to wait, and apply to Mr. Fairlie's legal
adviser to-morrow ? It is a question — perhaps a very im-
portant one — of gaining or losing a day. Tell me what you
think, Mr. Hartright. If necessity had not already obliged
me to take you into my confidence under very delicate circum-
stances, even my helpless situation would, perhaps, be no
excuse for me. But, as things are, I cannot surely be wrong,
after all that has passed between us, in forgetting that you
are a friend of only three months' standing.'

She gave me the letter. It began abruptly, without any
preliminary form of address, as follows :

* Do you believe in dreams ? I hope, for your own sake,
that you do. See what Scripture says about dreams and
their fulfilment (Genesis xl. 8, xli; 25 ; Daniel iv. 18-25) 5
and take the warning I send you before it is too late.

' Last night, I dreamed about you. Miss Fairlie. I
dreamed that I was standing inside the communion rails of a
church : I on one side of the altar-table, and the clergyman,
with his surplice and his prayer-book, on the other.

' After a time, there walked towards us, down the aisle of
the church, a man and a woman, coming to be married. You
were the woman. You looked so pretty and innocent in your
beautiful white silk dress, and your long white lace veil, that
my heart felt for you and the tears came into my eyes.

' They were tears of pity, young lady, that heaven blesses ;
and, instead of falling from my e3-es like the every-day tears
that we all of us shed, they turned into two rays of light which
slanted nearer and nearer to the man standing at the altar
with you, till they touched his breast. The two rays sprang
in arches like two rainbows, between me and him. I looked
along them ; and I saw down into his inmost heart.

' The outside of the man you were marrying was fair
enousfh to see. He was neither tall, nor short — he was a

63 F

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

little below the middle size. A light, active, high-spirited
man — about five-and-forty years old, to look at. He had a
pale face, and was bald over the forehead, but had dark hair
on the rest of his head. His beard vvas shaven on his chin,
but was let to grow, of a fine rich brown, on his cheeks and
his upper lip. His eyes were brown too, and very bright ;
his nose straight and handsome and delicate enough to have
done for a woman's. His hands the same. He was troubled
from time to time with a dry hacking cough ; and when he
put up his white right hand to his mouth, he showed the
red scar of an old wound across the back of it. Have I
dreamt of the right man ? You know best. Miss Fairlie ;
and you can say if I was deceived or not. Read next, what
I saw beneath the outside — I entreat you, read, and profit.

* I looked along the two rays of light ; and I saw down
into his inmost heart. It .was black as night ; and on it were
written, in the red flaming letters which are the handwriting
of the fallen angel: "Without pity and without remorse.
He has strewn with misery the paths of others, and he will
live to strew with misery the path of this woman by his side."
I read that ; and then the rays of light shifted and pointed
over his shoulder ; and there, behind him, stood a fiend,
laughing. And the rays of light shifted once more, and
pointed over your shoulder ; and there, behind you, stood an
angel weeping. And the rays of light shifted for the third
time, and pointed straight between you and that man. They
widened and widened, thrusting you both asunder, one from
the other. And the clergyman looked for the marriage-service
in vain : it was gone out of the book, and he shut up the
leaves, and put it from him in despair. And I woke with my
eyes full of tears and my heart beating — for / believe in
dreams.

'Believe, too, Miss Fairlie — I beg of you, for your own
sake, believe as I do. Joseph and Daniel, and others in
Scripture, believed in dreams. Inquire into the past life of
that man with the scar on his hand, before you say the words
that make you his miserable wife. I don't give you this
warning on my account, but on yours. I have an interest in
your well-being that will live as long as I draw breath. Your
mother's daughter has a tender place in my heart — for your
mother was my first, my best, my only friend.'

There, the extraordinary letter ended, without signature of
any sort.

The handwriting aflforded no prospect of a clue. It was

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

traced on ruled lines, in the cramped, conventional, copybook
character, technically termed ' small hand.' It was feeble and
faint, and defaced by blots, but had otherwise nothing to
distinguish it.

* That is not an illiterate letter,' said Miss Halcombe, ' and,
at the same time, it is surely too incoherent to be the letter
of an educated person in the higher ranks of life. The refer-
ence to the bridal dress and veil, and other little expressions,
seem to point to it as the production of some woman. What
do you think, Mr. Hartright? '

' I think so too. It seems to me to be not only the letter
of a woman, but of a woman whose mind must be '

' Deranged ? ' suggested Miss Halcombe. ' It struck me
in that light, too.'

I did not answer. While I was speaking, my eyes rested
on the last sentence of the letter : * Your mother's daughter
has a tender place in my heart — for your mother was my first,
my best, my only friend.' Those words and the doubt which
had just escaped me as to the sanity of the writer of the letter,
acting together on my mind, suggested an idea, which I was
literally afraid to express openly, or even to encourage secretly.
I began to doubt whether my own faculties were not in danger
of losing their balance. It seemed almost like a monomania
to be tracing back everything strange that happened, every-
thing unexpected that v>'as said, always to the same hidden
source and the same sinister influence. I resolved, this time,
in defence of my own courage and my own sense, to come to
no de-cision that plain fact did not warrant, and to turn my
back resolutely on everything that tempted me in the shape
of surmise.

' If we have any chance of tracing the person who has
written this,' I said, returning the letter to Miss Halcombe,
' there can be no harm in seizing our opportunity the moment
it offers. I think we ought to speak to the gardener again
about the elderly v\-oman who gave him the letter, and then
to continue our inquiries in the village. But first let me ask
a question. You mentioned just now the alternative of con-
sulting Mr. Fairlie's legal adviser to-morrow. Is there no
possibility of communicating with him earlier ? Why not to-
day ? '

' I can only explain,' replied Miss Halcombe, ' by entering
into certain particulars, connected w-ith my sister's marriage
engagement, w'hich I did not think it necessary or desirable
to mention to you this morning. One of Sir Percival Glyde's
objects in coming here, on Monday, is to fix the period of

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

his marriage, which has hitherto been left quite unsettled.
He is anxious that the event should take place before the end
of the year.'

' Does Miss Fairlie know of that wish ? ' I asked, eagerly.

' She has no suspicion of it ; and, after what has
happened, I shall not take the responsibility upon myself of
enlightening her. Sir Percival has only mentioned his views
to Mr. Fairlie, who has told me himself that he is ready and
anxious, as Laura's guardian, to forward them. He has
written to London, to the family solicitor, Mr. Gilmore.
Mr. Gilmore happens to be away in Glasgow on business ;
and he has replied by proposing to stop at Limmeridge
House, on his way back to town. He will arrive to-morrow,
and will stay with us a few days, so as to allow Sir Percival
time to plead his own cause. If he succeeds, Mr. Gilmore
will then return to London, taking with him his instructions
for my sister's marriage-settlement. You understand now,
Mr. Hartright, why I speak of waiting to take legal advice
until to-morrow ? Mr. Gilmore is the old and tried friend of
two generations of Fairlies ; and wc can trust him, as we
could trust no one else.'

The marriage-settlement ! The mere hearing of those
two words stung me with a jealous despair that was poison
to my higher and better instincts. I began to think — it is
hard to confess this, but I must suppress nothing from
beginning to end of the terrible story that I now stand com-
mitted to reveal— I began to think, with a hateful eagerness
of hope, of the vague charges against Sir Percival Glyde
which the anonymous letter contained. What if those wild
accusations rested on a foundation of truth ? What if their
truth could be proved before the fatal words of consent were
spoken, and the marriage-settlement was drawn ? I have
tried to think, since, that the feeling which then animated me
began and ended in pure devotion to Miss Fairlie's interests.
But I have never succeeded in deceiving myself into believing
it ; and I must not now attempt to deceive others. The
feeling began and ended in reckless, vindictive, hopeless
hatred of the man who was to marry her.

* If we are to find out anything,' I said, speaking under
the new influence which was now directing me, ' we had
better not let another minute slip by us unemployed. I can
only suggest, once more, the propriety of questioning the
gardener a second time, and of inquiring in the village
immediately afterwards.'

' I think I m.ay be of help to vou in both cases,' said Miss

68'

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

Halcombe, rising. * Let us go, Mr. Hartright, at once, and
do the best we can together.'

I had the door in my hand to open it for her — but I
stopped, on a sudden, to ask an important question before
we set forth.

' One of the paragraphs of the anonymous letter,' I said,
' contains some sentences of minute personal description.
Sir Percival Clyde's name is not mentioned, I know — but
does that description at all resemble him ? '

' Accurately ; even in stating his age to be forty-five '

Forty-five ; and she was not yet twenty-one ! Men of
his age married wives of her age every day : and experience
had shown those marriages to be often the happiest ones.
I knew that — and yet even the mention of his age, when I
contrasted it with hers, added to my blind hatred and dis-
trust of him.

'Accurately,' Miss Halcombe continued, 'even to the
scar on his right hand, which is the scar of a wound that he
received years since when he was travelling in Italy. There
can be no doubt that every peculiarity of his personal
appearance is thoroughly well known to the writer of the
letter.'

' Even a cough that he is troubled with is mentioned, if I
remember right ? '

' Yes, and mentioned correctly. He treats it lightly him-
self, though it sometimes makes his friends anxious about
him.'

' I suppose no whispers have ever been heard against his
character ? '

' Mr. Hartright ! I hope you are not unjust enough to
let that infamous letter influence you ? '

I felt the blood rush into my cheeks, for I knew that it
had influenced me.

'I hope not,' I answered, confusedly. 'Perhaps I Lad
no right to ask the question.'

' 1 am not sorry you asked it,' she said, ' for it enables me
to do justice to Sir Percival's reputation. Not a whisper,
Mr. Hartright, has ever reached me, or my family, against
him. He has fought successfully two contested elections ;
and has come out of the ordeal unscathed. A man who
can do that, in England, is a man whose character is estab-
lished.'

I opened the door for her in silence, and followed her out.
She had not convinced me. If the recording angel had come
down from heaven to confirm her, and had opened his book

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

to my mortal eyes, the recording angel would not have
convhiced me.

We found the gardener at work as usual. No amount of
questioning could extract a single answer of any importance
from the lad's impenetrable stupidity. The woman who had
given him the letter was an elderly woman ; she had not
spoken a word to him ; and she had gone away towards the
south in a great hurry. That was all the gardener could tell
us.

The village lay southward of the house. So to the village
we went next.

XII.

Our inquiries at Limmeridge were patiently pursued in all
directions, and among all sorts and conditions of people.
But nothing came of them. Three of the villagers did
certainly assure us that they had seen the woman ; but as
they were quite unable to describe her, and quite incapable of
agreeing about the exact direction in which she was proceed-
ing when they last saw her, these three bright exceptions to
the general rule of total ignorance afforded no more real
assistance to us than the mass of their unhelpful and unob-
servant neighbours.

The course of our useless investigations brought us, in
time, to the end of the village at which the schools established
by Mrs. Fairlie were situated. As we passed the side of the
building appropriated to the use of the boys, I suggested the
propriety of making a last inquiry of the schoolmaster, whom
we might presume to be, in virtue of his office, the most
intelligent man in the place.

' I am afraid the schoolmaster must have been occupied
with his scholars,' said Miss Halcombe, 'just at the time
when the woman passed through the village, and returned
again. However we can but try.'

We entered the playground enclosure, and walked by the
schoolroom window, to get round to the door, which was
situated at the back of the building. I stopped for a moment
at the window and looked in.

The schoolmaster was sitting at his high desk, with his
back to me, apparently haranguing the pupils, who were all
gathered together in front of him, with one exception. The
one exception was a sturdy white-headed boy, standing apart
from all the rest on a stool in a corner — a forlorn little Crusoe,
isolated in his own desert island of solitary penal disgrace.

The door, when we got round to it, was ajar ; and the

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schoolmaster's voice reached us plainly, as we both stopped
for a minute under the porch.

' Now, boys,' said the voice, ' mind what I tell you. If I
hear another word spoken about ghosts in this school, it will
be the worst for all of you. There are no such things as
ghosts ; and, therefore, any boy who believes in ghosts
believes in what can't possibly be ; and a boy who belongs to
Limmeridge School, and believes in what can't possibly be,
sets up his back against reason and discipline, and must be
punished accordingly. You all see Jacob Postlethwaite stand-
ing up on the stool there in disgrace. He has been punished,
not because he said he saw a ghost last night, but because
he is too impudent and too obstinate to listen to reason ; and
because he persists in saying he saw the ghost after I have
told him that no such thing can possibly be. If nothing else
w'ill do, I mean to cane the ghost out of Jacob Postlethwaite ;
and if the thing spreads among any of the rest of you, I mean
to go a step farther, and cane the ghost out of the whole
school.'

* We seem to have chosen an awkv/ard moment for our
visit,' said Miss Halcombe, pushing open the door, at the
end of the schoolmaster's address, and leading the way in.

Our appearance produced a strong sensation among the
boys. They appeared to think that we had arrived for the
express purpose of seeing Jacob Postlethwaite caned.

' Go home all of you to dinner,' said the schoolmaster,
* except Jacob. Jacob must stop where he is ; and the ghost
may bring him his dinner, if the ghost pleases.'

Jacob's fortitude deserted him at the double disappearance
of his schoolfellows and his prospect of dinner. He took_ his
hands out of his pockets, looked hard at his knuckles, raised
them with great deliberation to his eyes, and, when they got
there, ground them round and round slowly, accompanying
the action by short spasms of sniffing, which followed each
other at regular intervals — the nasal minute guns of juvenile
distress.

' We came here to ask you a question, Mr. Dempster,'
said Miss Halcombe, addressing the schoolmaster ; ' and Ave
little expected to find you occupied in exorcising a ghost.
What does it all mean ? What has really happened ? '

' That wicked boy has been frightening the whole school,
Miss Halcombe, by declaring that he saw a ghost yesterday
evening,' answered the master. ' And he still persists in his
absurd story, in spite of all that I can say to him.'

* Most extraordinary,' said Miss Halcombe. * I should

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not have thought it possible that any of the boys had Imagina-
tion enough to see a ghost. This is a new accession indeed
to the hard labour of forming the youthful mind at Limme-
ridge — and I heartily wish you well through it, Mr. Dempster.
In the mean time, let me explain why you see me here, and
what it is I want.'

She then put the same question to the schoolmaster, which
we had asked already of almost every one else in the village.
It was met by the same discouraging answer. Mr. Dempster
had not set eyes on the stranger of whom we were in search.

' We may as well return to the house, Mr. Hartright,'
said Miss Halcombe ; ' the information we want is evidently
not to be found.'

She had bowed to Mr. Dempster, and was about to leave
the schoolroom, when the forlorn position of Jacob Postle-
thwaite, piteously sniffing on the stool of penitence, attracted
her attention as she passed him, and made her stop good-
humouredly to speak a w^ord to the little prisoner before she
opened the door.

' You foolish boy,' she said, 'why don't you beg Mr.
Dempster's pardon, and hold your tongue about the ghost ? '

* Eh ! — but I saw t' ghaist,' persisted Jacob Postlethwaite,
with a stare of terror and a burst of tears.

' Stuff and nonsense ! You saw nothing of the kind.
Ghost indeed ! What ghost '

* I beg your pardon, Miss Halcombe,' interposed the
schoolmaster, a little uneasily — ' but I think you had better
not question the boy. The obstinate folly of his story is be-
yond all belief ; and you might lead him into ignorantly — — *

' Ignorantl}^, what?' inquired Miss Halcombe, sharply.

' Ignorantly shocking your feelings,' said Mr. Dempster,
looking very much discomposed.

' Upon my word, Mr. Dempster, you pay my feelings a
great compliment in thinking them weak enough to be
shocked by such an urchin as that ! ' She turned with an air
of satirical defiance to little Jacob, and began to question
him directly. ' Come ! ' she said ; ' I mean to know all about
this. You naughty boy, when did you see the ghost ? '

' Yester'een, at the gloaming,' replied Jacob.

' Oh ! you saw it yesterday evening, in the twilight ?
And what was it like ? '

' Arl in white — as a ghaist should be,' answered the ghost-
seer, with a confidence beyond his years.

' And where was it ? '

* Away yander, in t' kirkyard — where a ghaist ought to be.*

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*As a "ghaist" should be — where a "ghaist" ought to
be — why, you little fool, you talk as If the manners and
customs of ghosts had been familiar to you from your infancy !
You have got your story at your fingers' ends, at any rate.
I suppose I shall hear next that you can actually tell me
whose ghost it was ? '

' Eh ! but I just can,' replied Jacob, nodding his head with
an air of gloomy triumph.

Mr. Dempster had already tried several times to speak,
while Miss Halcombe was examining his pupil ; and he now
interposed resolutely enough to make himself heard.

' Excuse me. Miss Halcombe,' he said, ' if I venture to say
that you are only encouraging the boy by asking him these
questions.'

' I will merely ask one more, Mr. Dempster, and then I
shall be quite satisfied. Well,' she continued, turning to the
boy, * and whose ghost was it ? '

*T' ghaist of Mistress Falrlie,' answered Jacob in a
whisper.

The effect which this extraordinary reply produced on
Miss Halcombe, fully justified the anxiety which the school-
master had shown to prevent her from hearing it. Her face
crimsoned with indignation — she turned upon little Jacob with
an angry suddenness which terrified him into a fresh burst
of tears — opened her lips to speak to him — then controlled
herself — and addressed the master instead of the boy.

' It is useless,' she said, ' to hold such a child as that
responsible for what he says. I have little doubt that the
idea has been put into his head by others. If there are
people in this village, Mr. Dempster, who have forgotten
the respect and gratitude due from every soul in it to my
mother's memory, I will find them out ; and, if I have any
influence with Mr. Fairlie, they shall suffer for it.'

* I hope — indeed, I am sure. Miss Halcombe — that you
are mistaken,' said the schoolmaster. 'The matter begins
and ends with the boy's own perversity and folly. He saw,
or thought he saw, a woman in white, yesterday evening, as
he was passing the churchyard ; and the figure, real or
fancied, was standing by the marble cross, which he and
every one else in Limmeridge knows to be the monument
over Mrs. Fairlie's grave. These two circumstances are
surely sufficient to have suggested to the boy himself the
answer which has so naturally shocked you ? '

Although iSIiss Halcombe did not seem to be convinced,
she evidently felt that the schoolmaster's statement of the

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case was too sensible to be openly combated. She merely
replied by thanking him for his attention, and by promising
to see him again when her doubts were satisfied. This said,
she bowed, and led the way out of the schoolroom.

Throughout the whole of this strange scene, I had stood
apart, listening attentively, and drawing my own conclusions.
As soon as we were alone again, Miss Halcombe asked me if
I had formed any opinion on what I had heard.

' A very strong opinion,' I answered ; ' the boy's storj-, as
I believe, has a foundation in fact. I confess I am anxious
to see the monument over Mrs. Fairlie's grave, and to
examine the ground about it.'

' You shall see the grave.'

She paused after making that reply, and reflected a little
as we walked on. * What has happened in the schoolroom,'
she resumed, ' has so completely distracted my attention from
the subject of the letter, that I feel a little bewildered when I
try to return to it. Must we give up all idea of making any
further inquiries, and wait to place the thing in Mr. Gilmore's
hands, to-morrow? '

' By no means, Miss Halcombe. What has happened in
the schoolroom encourages me to persevere in the investiga-
tion.'

* Why does it encourage you ? '

* Because it strengthens a suspicion I felt, when you gave
me the letter to read.'

* I suppose you had your reasons, Mr. Hartright, for
concealing that suspicion from me till this moment ? '

' I was afraid to encourage it in myself. I thought it was
utterly preposterous — I distrusted it as the result of some
perversity in my own imagination. But I can do so no longer.
Not only the boy's own answers to your questions, but even
a chance expression that dropped from the schoolmaster's
lips in explaining his story, have forced the idea back into
my mind. Events may yet prove that idea to be a delusion,
Miss Halcombe ; but the belief is strong in me, at this moment,
that t+ie fancied ghost in the churchyard, and the writer of
the anonymous letter, are one and the same person.'

She stopped, turned pale, and looked me eagerly in the
face.

* What person ? '

* The schoolmaster unconsciously told you. When he
spoke of the figure that the boy saw in the churchyard, he
called it " a woman in white." '

* Not Anne Catherick ! '

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' Yes, Anne Catherick.'

She put her hand throug-h my arm, and leaned on it
heavily.

' I don't know why,' she said, in low tones, ' but there is
something in this suspicion of yours that seems to startle and

unnerve me. I feel ' She stopped, and tried to laugh it

off. ' Mr. Hartright,' she went on, ' I will show you the
grave, and then go back at once to the house. I had better
not leave Laura too long- alone. I had better go back, and
sit with her.'

We were close to the churchyard when she spoke. The
church, a dreary building of gray stone, was situated in a
little valley, so as to be sheltered from the bleak winds blow-
ing- over the moorland all round it. The burial-ground
advanced, from the side of the church, a little way up the
slope of the hill. It was surrounded by a rough, low stone
wall, and was bare and open to the sky, except at one
extremity, where a brook trickled down the stony hill side,
and a clump of dwarf trees threw their narrow shadows
over the short, meagre grass. Just beyond the brook and
the trees, and not far from one of the three stone stiles which
afforded entrance, at various points, to the churchyard, rose
the white marble cross that distinguished Mrs. Fairlie's grave
^from the humbler monuments scattered about it.

* I need go no farther with you,' said Miss Halcombe,
pointing to the grave. * You will let me know if you find
anything to confirm the idea you have just mentioned to me.
Let us meet again at the house.'

She left me. I descended at once to the churchyard, and
crossed the stile which led directly to Mrs. Fairlie's grave.

The grass about it was too short, and the ground too
hard, to show any marks of footsteps. Disappointed thus
far, I next looked attentively at the cross, and at the square
block of marble below it, on which the inscription was cut.

The natural whiteness of the cross was a little clouded,
here and there, by weather-stains ; and rather more than one
half of the square block beneath it, on the side which bore
the inscription, was in the same condition. The other half,
however, attracted my attention at once by its singular free-
dom from stain or impurity of any kind. I looked closer,
and saw that it had been cleaned — recently cleaned, in a
downward direction from top to bottom. The boundary line
between the part that had been cleaned and the part that had
not, was traceable wherever the inscription left a blank space
of marble — sharply traceable as a line that had been produced

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by artificial means. Who had beg-un the cleansing- of the
marble, and who had left it unfinished ?

I looked about me, wondering how the question was to
be solved. No sign of a habitation could be discerned from
the point at which I was standing : the burial-ground was
left in the lonely possession of the dead. I returned to the
church, and walked round it till I came to the back of the
building ; then crossed the boundary wall beyond, by another
of the stone stiles ; and found myself at the head of a path
leading down into a deserted stone quarry. Against one
side of the quarry a little two room cottage was built ; and
just outside the door an old woman was engaged in washing.

I walked up to her, and entered into conversation about
the church and burial-ground. She was ready enough to
talk ; and almost the first words she said informed me that
her husband filled the two offices of clerk and sexton. I said
a few words next in praise of Mrs. Fairlie's monument. The
old woman shook her head, and told me I had not seen it at
its best. It was her husband's business to look after it ; but
he had been so ailing and weak, for months and months past,
that he had hardly been able to crawl into church on Sundays
to do his duty ; and the monument had been neglected in
consequence. He was getting a little better now ; and, in a
week or ten days' time, he hoped to be strong enough to set
to work and clean it.

This information — extracted from a long rambling answer,
in the broadest Cumberland dialect — told me all that I most
wanted to know. I gave the poor woman a trifle, and
returned at once to Limmeridge House.

The partial cleansing of the monument had evidently been
accomplished by a strange hand. Connecting what I had
discovered, thus far, with what I had suspected after hearing
the story of the ghost seen at twilight, I wanted nothing
more to confirm my resolution to watch Mrs. Fairlie's grave,
in secret, that evening ; returning to it at sunset, and wait-
ing within sight of it till the night fell. The work of clean-
sing the monument had been left unfinished ; and the person
by whom it had been begun might return to complete it.

On getting back to the house, I informed Miss Halcombe
of what I intended to do. She looked surprised and uneasy,
while I was explaining my purpose ; but she made no positive
objection to the execution of it. She only said, ' I hope it
may end well.' Just as she was leaving me again, I stopped
her to inquire, as calmly as I could, after Miss Fairlie's
health. She was in better spirits ; and Miss Halcombe

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

hoped she might be induced to take a little walking* exercise
while the afternoon sun lasted.

I returned to my own room, to resume setting the draw-
ings in order. It was necessary to do this, and doubly neces-
sary to keep my mind employed on anything that would help
to distract my attention from myself, and from the hopeless
future that lay before me. From time to time, I paused in
my work to look out of window and watch the sky as the
sun sank nearer and nearer to the horizon. On one of those
occasions I saw a figure on the broad gravel walk under my
window. It was Miss Fairlie.

I had not seen her since the morning ; and I had hardly
spoken to her then. Another day at Limmeridge was all that
remained to me ; and after that day my eyes might never
look on her again. This thought was enough to hold me at
the window. I had sufficient consideration for her, to
arrange the blind so that she might not see me if she looked
up ; but I had no strength to resist the temptation of letting
my eyes, at least, follow her as far as they could on her walk.

She was dressed in a brown cloak, with a plain black silk
gown under it. On her head was the same simple straw hat
which she had worn on the morning when we first met. A
veil was attached to it now, which hid her face from me. By
her side, trotted a little Italian greyhound, the pet companion
of all her walks, smartly dressed in a scarlet cloth wrapper,
to keep the sharp air from his delicate skin. She did not
seem to notice the dog. She walked straight forward, with
her head drooping a little, and her arms folded in her cloak.
The dead leaves which had whirled in the wind before me,
v/hen I had heard of her marriage engagement in the morning,
whirled in the wind before her, and rose and fell and scat-
tered themselves at her feet, as she walked en in the pale
waning sunlight. The dog shivered and trembled, and
pressed against her dress impatiently for notice and encour-
agement. But she never heeded him. She walked on,
farther and farther away from me, with the dead leaves
whirling about her on the path — walked on, till my aching
eyes could see her no more, and I was left alone again with
my own heavy heart.

In another hour's time, I had done my work, and the
sunset was at hand. I got my hat and coat in the hall, and
slipped out of the house without meeting anyone.

The clouds were wild in the western heaven, and the wind
blew chill from the sea. Far as the shore was, the sound of
the surf swept over the intervening moorland, and beat

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drearily in my ears, when I entered the churchyard. Not a
living creature was in sight. The place looked lonelier than
ever, as I chose my position, and waited and watched, with
my eyes on the white cross that rose over Mrs. Fairlie's
grave.

XIII.

The exposed situation of the churchyard had obliged me to
be cautious in choosing the position 'that I was to occupy.

The main entrance to the church was on the side next to
the burial-ground ; and the door was screened by a porch
walled in on either side. After some little hesitation, caused
by natural reluctance to conceal myself, indispensable as that
concealment was to the object in view, I had resolved on
entering the porch. A loophole window was pierced in each
of its side walls. Through one of these windows I could see
Mrs. Fairlie's grave. The other looked towards the stone
quarry in which the sexton's cottage was built. Before me,
fronting the porch entrance, was a patch of bare burial-
ground, a line of low stone wall, and a strip of lonely brown
hill, with the sunset clouds sailing heavily over it before the
strong, steady wind. No living creature was visible or
audible— no bird flew by me ; no dog barked from the sexton's
cottage. The pauses in the dull beating of the surf were
filled up by the dreary rustling of the dwarf trees near the
grave, and the cold faint bubble of the brook over its stony
bed. A dreary scene and a dreary hour. My spirits sank
fast as I counted out the minutes of the evening in my hidino--
place under the church porch.

It was not tvvilight yet— the light of the setting sun still
lingered in the heavens, and little more than the first half-
hour of my solitary watch had elapsed— when I heard foot-
steps, and a voice. The footsteps were approaching from
the other side of the church ; and the voice was a woman's.

' Don't you fret, my dear, about the letter,' said the voice.
' I gave it to the lad quite safe, and the lad he took it from me
without a word. He vvent his way and I went mine ; and
not a living soul followed me, afterwards— that I'll warrant.'

These words strung up my attention to a pitch of expectation
that was almost painful. There was a pause of silence, but
the footsteps still advanced. In another moment, two persons,
both women, passed within my range of view from the porch
window. They were walking straight towards the grave ;
and therefore they had their backs turned towards me.

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One of the women was dressed in a bonnet and shawl.
The other wore a long travelling-cloak of a dark-blue colour,
with the hood drawn over her head. A few inches of her
gown were visible below the cloak. My heart beat fast as I
noted the colour — it was white.

After advancing about halt-vv-ay between the church and
the grave, they stopped ; and the woman in the cloak turned
her head towards her companion. But her side face, which
a bonnet might now have allowed me to see, was hidden by
the heavy, projecting edge of the hood.

' Mind you keep that comfortable warm cloak on,' said
the same voice which I had already heard — the voice of the
woman in the shawl. ' Mrs. Todd is right about your look-
ing too particular, yesterday, all in white. I'll walk about
a little, while you're here ; churchyards being not at all in my
way, whatever they may be in yours. Finish what you want
to do, before I come back ; and let us be sure and get home
again before night.'

W^ith those words, she turned about, and retracing her
steps, advanced with her face towards me. It was the face
of an elderly woman, brown, rugged, and healthy, with
nothing dishonest or suspicious in the look of it. Close to
the church, she stopped to pull her shawl closer round her.

' Queer,' she said to herself, ' always queer, with her
whims and her ways, ever since I can remember her. Harm-
less, though — as harmless, poor soul, as a little child.'

She sighed ; looked about the burial-ground nervously ;
shook her head as if the dreary prospect by no means pleased
her ; and disappeared round the corner of the church.

I doubted for a moment whether I ought to follow and
speak to her, or not. My intense anxiety to find myself face
to face with her companion helped me to decide in the nega-
tive. I could ensure seeing the woman in the shawl by
waiting near the churchyard until she came back — although
it seemed more than doubtful whether she could give me the
information of which I was in search. The person who had
delivered the letter was of little consequence. The person
who had written it was the one centre of interest, and the
one source of information ; and that person I now felt con-
vinced v/as before me in the churchyard.

While these ideas were passing through my mind, I saw
the woman in the cloak approach close to the grave, and
stand looking at it for a little while. She then glanced all
round her, and, taking a white linen cloth or handkerchief
from under her cloak, turned aside towards the brook. The

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

little stream ran into the churchyard under a tiny archway in
the bottom of the wall, and ran out again, after a winding
course of a few dozen yards, under a similar opening. She
dipped the cloth in the water, and returned to the grave. I
saw her kiss the white cross ; then kneel down before the
inscription, and apply her wet cloth to the cleansing of it-
After considering how I could show myself with the least
possible chance of frightening her, I resolved to cross the
wall before me, to skirt round it outside, and to enter the
churchyard again by the stile near the grave, in order that
she might see me as I approached. She was so absorbed
over her employment that she did not hear me coming until I
had stepped over the stile. Then she looked up, started to
her feet with a faint cry, and stood facing me in speechless
and motionless terror.

' Don't be frightened,' I said. * Surely, you remember
me?'

I stopped while I spoke— then advanced a few steps
gently — then stopped again — and so approached by little
and little, till I was close to her. If there had been any
doubt still left in my mind, it must have been now set at
rest. There, speaking affrightedly for itself — there was the
same face confronting me over Mrs. Fairlie's grave, which
had first looked into mine on the high-road by night.

' You remember me ? ' I said. ' We met very late, and I
helped you to find the way to London. Surely you have not
forgotten that ? '

Her features relaxed, and she drew a heavy breath of
relief. I saw the new life of recognition stirring slowly
under the deathlike stillness which fear had set on her face.

' Don't attempt to speak to me, just 3'et,' I went on.
* Take time to recover yourself — take time to feel quite
certain that I am a friend.'

'You are very kind to me,' she murmured. * As kind
now, as you were then.'

She stopped, and I kept silence on my side. I was not
granting time for composure to her only, I was gaining time
also for myself. Under the wan wild evening light, that
woman and I were met together again ; a grave between us,
the dead about us, the lonesome hills closing us round on
every side. The time, the place, the circumstances under
which v.'e now stood face to face in the evening stillness of
that dreary valley ; the life-long interests which might hang
suspended on the next chance words that passed between
us ; the sense that, for aught I knew to the contrary, the

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whole future of Laura Fairlie's life might be determined, for
good or for evil, by my winning or losing the confidence of
the forlorn creature who stood trembling by her mother's grave
— all threatened to shake the steadiness and the self-control
on which every inch of the progress I might yet make now
depended. I tried hard, as I felt this, to possess myself of
all my resources ; I did my utmost to turn the few moments
for reflection to the best account.

'Are you calmer, now? ' I said, as soon as I thought it
time to speak again. ' Can you talk to me, without feeling
frightened, and without forgetting that I am a friend ? '

' How did you come here ? ' she asked, without noticing
what I had just said to her.

' Don't you remember my telling you, when we last met,
that I was going to Cumberland ? I have been in Cumber-
land ever since ; I have been staying all the time at Lim-
meridge House.'

' At Limmeridge House ! ' Her pale face brightened as
she repeated the words ; her wandering eyes fixed on me
with a sudden interest. ' Ah, how happy you must have
been ! ' she said, looking at me eagerly without a shadow
of its former distrust left in her expression.

I took advantage of her newl3-aroused confidence in me,
to observe her face, with an attention and a curiosity which
I had hitherto restrained myself from showing, for caution's
sake. I looked at her, with my mind full of that other lovely
face which had so ominously recalled her to my memory on
the terrace by moonlight. I had seen Anne Catherick's
likeness in Miss Fairlie. I now saw Miss Fairlie's likeness
in Anne Catherick — saw it all the more clearly because the
points of dissimilarity between the two were presented to me
as well as the points of resemblance. In the general outline
of the countenance and general proportion of the features ;
in the colour of the hair and in the little nervous uncertainty
about the lips ; in the height and size of the figure, and the
carriage of the head and body, the likeness appeared even
more startling than I had ever felt it to be yet. But there
the resemblance ended, and the dissimilarity, in details, began.
The delicate beauty of Miss Fairlie's complexion, the trans-
parent clearness of her eyes, the smooth purity of her skin,
the tender bloom of colour on her lips, w'ere all missing from
the worn, weary face that was now turned towards mine.
Although I hated myself even for thinking such a thing, still,
while I looked at the woman before me, the idea would force
itself into my mind that one sad change, in the future, was

8i G

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all that was wanting to make the likeness complete, which I
now saw to be so imperfect in detail. If ever sorrow and
suffering set their profaning marks on the youth and beauty
of Miss Fairlie's face, then, and then only, Anne Catherick
and she would be the twin-sisters of chance resemblance, the
living reflexions of one another.

I shuddered at the thought. There was something
horrible in the blind unreasoning distrust of the future which
the mere passage of it through my mind seemed to imply.
It was a welcom.e interruption to be roused by feeling Anne
Catherick's hand laid on my shoulder. The touch was as
stealthy and as sudden as that other touch, which had
petrified me from head to foot on the night when we first
met.

' You are looking at me ; and you are thinking of some-
thing,' she said with her strange, breathless rapidity of
utterance. ' What is it ? '

' Nothing extraordinary,' I answered. ' I was only
wondering how you came here.'

* I came with a friend who is very good to me. I have
only been here two days.'

* And you found your way to this place yesterday ? '

* How do you know that ? '
' I only guessed it.'

She turned from me, and knelt down before the inscrip-
tion once more.

' Where should I go, if not here ? ' she said. ' The friend
who w^as better than a mother to me, is the only friend I have
to visit at Limmeridge. Oh, it makes my heart ache to see a
stain on her tomb ! It ought to be kept white as snow, for
her sake. I was tempted to begin cleaning it yesterday ; and
I can't help coming back to go on with it to-day. Is there
anything wrong in that ? I hope not. Surely nothing can
be wrong that I do for Mrs. Fairlie's sake ? '

The old grateful sense of her benefactress's kindness was
evidently the ruling idea still in the poor creature's mind — the
narrov/ mind which had but too plainly opened to no other
lasting impression since that first impression of her younger
and happier days. I saw that my best chance of winning her
confidence lay in encouraging her to proceed with the artless
employment which she had come into the burial-ground to
pursue. She resumed it at once, on my telling her she might
do so ; touching the hard marble as tenderly as if it had
been a sentient thing, and whispering the words of the
inscription to herself, over and over again, as if the lost days

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

of her g^irlhood had returned and she was patiently learning-
her lesson once more at Mrs. Fairlie's knees.

' Should you v/onder very much,' I said, preparing- the
way as cautiously as I could for the questions that were to
come, * if I owned that it is a satisfaction to me, as well as a
surprise, to see you here ? I felt very uneasy about you after
you left me in the cab.'

She looked up quickly and suspiciously.

' Uneasy,' she repeated. * Why ? '

' A strange thing happened., after we parted, that night.
Two men overtook me in a chaise. They did not see where
I was standing ; but they stopped near me, and spoke to a
policeman, on the other side of the way.'

She instantly suspended her employment. The hand
holding the damp cloth with which she had been cleaning
the inscription, dropped to her side. The other hand grasped
the marble cross at the head of the grave. Her face turned
towards me slowly, with the blank look of terror set rigidly
on it once more. I went on at all hazards ; it was too late
now to draw back.

' The two men spoke to the policeman,' I said, * and
asked him if he had seen you. He had not seen you ; and
then one of the men spoke again, and said you had escaped
from his Asylum.'

She sprang to her feet, as if niy last words had set the
pursuers on her track.

* Stop ! and hear the end,' I cried. * Stop ! and you shall
know hov/ I befriended yov.. A word from me would have
told the men which way you had gone — and I never spoke
that word. I helped your escape — I made it safe and certain.
Think, try to think. Try to understand what I tell you.'

My manner seemed to influence her more than my words.
She made an effort to grasp the new idea. Her hands shifted
the damp cloth hesitatingly from one to the other, exactly as
they had shifted the little travelling-bag on the night when I
first saw her. Slowly the purpose of my words seemed to
force its way through the confusion and agitation of her
mind. Slowly, her features relaxed, and her eyes looked at
me with their expression gaining in curiosity what it was
fast losing in fear.

' Vou don't think I ought to be back in the Asylum, do
you ? ' she said.

' Certainly not. I am glad you escaped from it ; I am
glad I helped you.'

'Yes, yes ; you did help me indeed ; you helped me at

83 g2

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

the hard part,' she went on, a little vacantly. ' It was easy
to escape, or I should not have got away. They never
suspected me as they suspected the others. I was so quiet,
and so obedient, and so easily frightened. The finding
London was the hard part ; and there you helped me. Did I
thank you at the time ? I thank you now, very kindly.'

' Was the Asylum far from where )Ou met me ? Come !
show that you believe me to be your friend, and tell me
where it was.'

She mentioned the place — a private Asylum, as its
situation informed me ; a private Asylum not very far from
the spot where I had seen her — and then, with evident sus-
picion of the use to which I might put her answer,
anxiously repeated her former inquiry : ' Von don't think I
ought to be taken back, do you ? '

* Once again, I am glad you escaped ; I am glad you
prospered well, after you left me,' I answered. ' You said
you had a friend in London to go to. Did you find the friend ? '

* Yes. It was very late ; but there was a girl up at
needlework in the house, and she helped me to rouse Mrs.
Clements. Mrs. Clements is my friend. A good, kind
woman, but not like Mrs. Fairlie. Ah, no, nobody is like
Mrs. Fairlie ! '

* Is Mrs. Clements an old friend of yours ? Have you
known her a long time ? '

* Yes ; she was a neighbour of ours once, at home, iil
Hampshire ; and liked me, and took care of me when I was a
little girl. Years ago, when she Avent away from us, she
wrote down in my prayer-book for me, where she was going
to live in London, and she said, " If you are ever in trouble,
Anne, come to me. I have no husband alive to say me nay,
and no children to look after ; and I will take care of you."
Kind words, were they not? I suppose I remember them
because they were kind. It's little enough I remember
besides — little enough, little enough ! '

' Had you no father or mother to take care of you ? '

' Father ? I never saw him ; I never heard mother speak
of him. Father.^ Ah, dear ! he is dead I suppose.'

' And your mother ? '

' I don't get on well with her. \\'e are a trouble and a
fear to each other.'

A trouble and a fear to each other ! At those words, the
suspicion crossed my mind, for the first time, that her mother
might be the person who had placed her under restraint.

' Don't ask me about mother,' she went on. ' I'd rather

§4

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

talk of Mrs. Clements. Mrs. Clements is like you, she
doesn't think that I ought to be back in the Asylum ; and she
is as glad as you are that I escaped from it. She cried over
my misfortune, and said it must be kept secret from every-
body.'

Her * misfortune.' In what sense was she using that
word ? In a sense which might explain her motive in writing
the anonymous letter? In a sense which might show it to
be the too common and too customary motive that has led
many a woman to interpose anonymous hindrances to the
marriage of the man who has ruined her ? I resolved to
attempt the clearing up of this doubt, before more words
passed between us on either side.

* What misfortune ? ' I asked.

' The misfortune of my being shut up,' she answered,
with every appearance of feeling surprised at my question.
* What other misfortune could there be ? '

I determined to persist, as delicately and forbearingly as
possible. It was of very great importance that I should be
absolutely sure of every step in the investigation which I now
gained in advance.

' There is another misfortune,' I said, ' to which a woman
may be liable, and by which she may suffer life-long sorrow
and shame.'

' What is it ? ' she asked, eagerly.

' The misfortune of believing too innocently in her own
virtue, and in the faith and honour of the man she loves,' I
answered.

She looked up at me, with the artless bewilderment of a
child. Not the slightest confusion or change of colour ; not
the faintest trace of any secret consciousness of shame
struggling to the surface, appeared in her face — that face
which betrayed every other emotion with such transparent
clearness. No words that ever were spoken could have
assured me, as her look and manner now assured me, that
the motive which I had assigned for her writing the letter and
sending it to Miss Fairlie was plainly and distinctly the
wrong one. That doubt, at any rate, was now set at rest ;
but the very removal of it opened a new prospect of un-
certainty. The letter, as I knew from positive testimony,
pointed at Sir Percival Clyde, though it did not name him.
She must havehadsome strongmotive,originatinginsomedeep
sense of injury, for secretly denouncing him to Miss Fairlie,
in such terms as she had employed — and that motive was
unquestionably not to be traced to the loss of her innocence

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and her character. Whatever wrong he might have inflicted
on her was not of that nature. Of what nature could it be ?

' I don't understand you,' she said, after evidently trying-
hard, and trying in vain to discover the meaning of the
words I had last said to her.

* Never mind,' I answered. ' Let us go on with what we
were talking about. Tell me how long you stayed with Mrs.
Clements in London, and how you came here.'

'How long?' she repeated. *I stayed with Mrs.
Clements till we both came to this place, two days ago.'

' You are living in the village, then ? ' I said. * It is
strange I should not have heard of you, though you have
only been here two days '

' No, no ; not in the village. Three miles away at a farm.
Do you know the farm ? They call it Todd's Corner.'

I remembered the place perfectly ; we had often passed by
it in our drives. It was one of the oldest farms in the neigh-
bourhood, situated in a solitary, sheltered spot, inland at the
junction of two hills.

' They are relations of Mrs. Clements at Todd's Corner,'
she went on, * and they had often asked her to go and see
them. She said she would go, and take me with her, for the
quiet and the fresh air. It was very kind, was it not ? I
would have gone anywhere to be quiet, and safe, and out of
the way. But when I heard that Todd's Corner was near
Limmeridge — oh ! I was so happy I would have Avalked all
the way barefoot to get there, and see the schools and the
village and Limmeridge House again. They are very good
people at Todd's Corner. I hope I shall stay there a long
time. There is only one thing I don't like about them, and
don't like about Mrs. Clements '

' What is it ? '

' They will tease me about dressing all in white — they say
it looks so particular. How do they know? Mrs. Fairlie
knew best. Mrs. Fairlie would never have made me wear
this ugly blue cloak ! Ah ! she was fond of white in her life-
time ; and here is white stone about her grave — and I am
making it whiter for her sake. She often wore white herself;
and she always dressed her little daughter in white. Is Miss
Fairlie well and happy ? Does she wear white now, as she
used when she was a girl ? '

Her voice sank when she put the questions about Miss
Fairlie ; and she turned her head farther and farther away
from me. I thought I detected, in the alteration of her
manner, an uneasy consciousness of the risk she had run in

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sending the anonymous letter ; and I instantly determined
so to frame my answer as to surprise her into owning it.

' Miss Fairlie is not very well or very happy this morning,'
I said.

She murmured a few words ; but they were spoken so
confusedly, and in such a low tone, that I could not even
guess at what they meant.

' Did you ask me why J.Iiss Fairlie was neither well nor
happy this morning ? ' I continued.

' No,' she said, quickly and eagerly — ' oh, no, I never
asked that.'

' I will tell you without your asking,' I went on. ' Miss
Fairlie has received your letter.'

She had been dov/n on her knees for some little time past,
carefully removing the last weather-stains left about the
inscription while Vv^e were speaking together. The first
sentence of the words I had just addressed to her made her
pause in her occupation, and turn slowly without rising from
her knees, so as to face me. The second sentence literally
petrified her. The cloth she had been holding dropped from
her hands ; her lips fell apart ; all the little colour that there
w^as naturally in her face left it in an instant.

' How do you know ? ' she said, faintly. ' Who showed
it to you ? ' The blood rushed back into her face — rushed
overwhelmingly, as the sense rushed upon her mind that her
own words had betrayed her. She struck her hands together
in despair. 'I never wrote it,' she gasped, affrightedly ; ' I
know nothing about it ! '

'Yes,' I said, 'you wrote it, and you know about it. It
was wrong to send such a letter ; it was wrong to frighten
Miss Fairlie. If you had anything to say that it was right
and necessary for her to hear, you should have gone yourself
to Limmeridge House ; you should have spoken to the young
lady with your own lips.'

She crouched down over the flat stone of the grave, till
her face w-as hidden on it ; and made no reply.

' Miss Fairlie will be as good and kind to you as her mother
was, if you mean well,' I went on. 'Miss Fairlie will keep
your secret, and not let you come to any harm. Will you see
her to-morrow at the farm ? Will you meet her in the garden
at Limmeridge House ? '

' Oh, if I could die, and be hidden and at rest with yon!'
Her lips murmured the words close on the grave-stone ;
murmured them in tones of passionate endearment, to the
dead remains beneath. ' Yoii know how I love your child,

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for your sake ! Oh, Mrs, Fairlie ! Mrs. Fairlie ! tell me how
to save her. Be my* darling- and my mother once more, and
tell me what to do for the best.'

I heard her lips kissing the stone : I saw her hands
beating- on it passionately. The sound and the sight deeply
affected me. I stooped down, and took the poor helpless
hands tenderly in mine, and tried to soothe her.

It was useless. She snatched her hands from me, and
never moved her face from the stone. Seeing the urgent
necessity of quieting her at any hazard and by any means, I
appealed to the only anxiety that she appeared to feel, in con-
nexion with me and with my opinion of her — the anxiety to
convince me of her fitness to be mistress of her own actions.

' Come, come,' I said, gently. ' Try to compose yourself,
or you will make me alter my opinion of you. Don't let me
think that the person who put you in the Asylum, might have
had some excuse — — '

The next words died away on my lips. The instant I
risked that chance reference to the person who had put her
in the Asylum, she sprang up on her knees. A most extra-
ordinary and startling change passed over her. Her face, at
all ordinary times so touching to look at, in its nervous
sensitiveness, weakness, and uncertainty, became suddenly
darkened by an expression of maniacally intense hatred and
fear, which communicated a wild, unnatural force to every
feature. Her eyes dilated in the dim evening light, like the
eyes of a wild animal. She caught up the cloth that had
fallen at her side, as if it had been a living creature that she
could kill, and crushed it in both her hands with such con-
vulsive strength that the few drops of moisture left in it
trickled down on the stone beneath her.

' Talk of something else,' she said, whispering through
her teeth. ' I shall lose myself if you talk of that.'

Every vestige of the gentler thoughts which had filled her
mind hardly a minute since seemed to be swept from it now.
It was evident that the impression left by Mrs. Fairlie's
kindness was not, as I had supposed, the only strong impres-
sion on her memor}-. With the grateful remembrance of her
school-days at Limmeridge, there existed the vindictive
remembrance of the wrong inflicted on her by her confinement
in the Asylum. Who had done that wrong ? Could it really
be her mother ?

It was hard to give up pursuing- the inquiry to that final
point ; but I forced myself to abandon all idea of continuing
it. Seeing her as I saw her now, it would have been cruel to

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think of anything but the necessity and the humanity of
restoring- her composure.

' I will talk of nothing to distress you,' I said, soothingly.

' You want something,' she answered, sharply and sus-
piciously. * Don't look at me like that. Speak to me ; tell
me what you want.'

' I only want you to quiet yourself, and, when you are
calmer, to think over what I have said.'

' Said ? ' She paused ; twisted the cloth in her hands,
backwards and forwards ; and whispered to herself, ' What
is it he said ? ' She turned again towards me, and shook her
head impatiently. ' Why don't you help me ? ' she asked, with
angry suddenness.

' Yes, yes,' I said ; ' I will help you ; and 5'ou will soon
remember. I asked you to see Miss Fairlie to-morrow, and
to tell her the truth about the letter.'

' Ah ! Miss Fairlie — Fairlie — Fairlie '

The mere utterance of the loved, familiar name seemed to
quiet her. Her face softened and grew like itself again.

' You need have no fear of Miss Fairlie,' I continued ;
' and no fear of getting into trouble through the letter. She
knows so much about it already, that you will have no
difficulty in telling her all. There can be little necessity for
concealment where there is hardly anything left to conceal.
You mention no names in the letter ; but Miss Fairlie
knows that the person you write of is Sir Percival Glyde '

The instant I pronounced that name she started to her
feet ; and a scream burst from her that rang through the
churchyard and made my heart leap in me with the terror
of it. The dark deformity of the expression which had
just left her face, lowered on it once more, with doubled and
trebled intensity. The shriek at the name, the reiterated
look of hatred and fear that instantly followed, told all. Not
even a last doubt now remained. Her mother was guiltless
of imprisoning her in the Asylum. A man had shut her up
— and that man w^as Sir Percival Glyde.

The scream had reached other ears than mine. On one
side, I heard the door of the sexton's cottage open ; on the
other, I heard the voice of her companion, the woman in the
shawl, the woman whom she had spoken of as Mrs.
Clements.

' I'm coming ! I'm coming ! ' cried the voice from behind
the clump of dwarf trees.

In a moment more, Mrs. Clements hurried into view.
* Who are you ?' she cried, facing me resolutely, as she

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

set her foot on the stile. * How dare you frighten a poor
helpless woman like that ? '

She was at Anne CaLherick's side, and had put one arm
around her, before I could answer. ' What is it, my dear ? '
she said. ' What has he done to you ? '

* Nothing,' the poor creature answered. ' Nothing. I'm
only frightened.'

Mrs. Clements turned on me with a fearless indignation,
for which I respected her.

* I should be heartily ashamed of myself if I deserved that
angry look,' I said. 'But I do not deserve it. I have
unfortunately startled her, without intending it. This is not
the first time she has seen me. Ask her yourself, and she
will tell you that I am incapable of willingly harming her or
any woman.'

I spoke distinctly, so that Anne Catherick might hear and
understand me : and I saw that the words and their meaning
had reached her.

* Yes, yes,' she said; *he was good to me once;

he helped me ' She whispered the rest into her friend's

ear.

' Strange, indeed ! ' said Mrs. Clements, with a look of
perplexity. ' It makes all the difference, though. I'm
sorry I spoke so rough to you, sir ; but you must own that
appearances looked suspicious to a stranger. It's more my
fault than yours, for humouring her whims, and letting her
be alone in such a place as this. Come, my dear — come
home now.'

I thought the good woman looked a little uneasy at the
prospect of the walk back, and I offered to go with them
imtil they were both within sight of home. Mrs. Clements
thanked me civilly, and declined. She said they were sure to
meet some of the farm-labourers, as soon as they got to the
moor.

' Try to forgive me,' I said, when Anne Catherick took
her friend's arm to go away. Innocent as I had been of any
intention to terrify and agitate her, my heart smote me as I
looked at the poor, pale, frightened face.

' I will try,' she answered. ' But )ou know too much ;
I'm afraid you'll always frighten me now.'

Mrs. Clements glanced at me, and shook her head
pityingly.

'Good night, sir,' she said. 'You couldn't help it,
I know ; but I wish it was me you had frightened, and not
her.'

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

They moved away a few steps. I thought they had left
me ; but Anne suddenly stopped, and separated herself from
her friend.

' Wait a little,' she said. ' I must say good-by.'

She returned to the grave, rested both hands tenderly on
the marble cross, and kissed it.

' I'm better now,' she sighed, looking up at me quietly.
* I forgive you.'

She joined her companion again, and they left the burial-
ground. I saw them stop near the church, and speak to the
sexton's wife, who had come from the cottage, and had
waited, watching us from a distance. Then they went on
again up the path that led to the moor. I looked after Anne
Catherick as she disappeared, till all trace of her had faded in
the twilight — looked as anxiously and sorrowfully as if that
was the last I was to see in this weary world of the woman
in white.

XIV.

Half an hour later, I was back at the house, and was inform-
ing Miss Halcombe of all that had happened.

She listened to me from beginning to end, with a steady,
silent attention, which, in a woman of her temperament
and disposition, was the strongest proof that could be offered
of the serious manner in which my narrative affected her.

' My mind misgives me,' was all she said when I had
done. ' My mind misgives me sadly about the future.'

' The future may depend,' I suggested, ' on the use we
make of the present. It is not improbable that Anne
Catherick may speak more readily and unreservedly to
a woman than she has spoken to me. If Miss Fairlie '

' Not to be thought of for a moment,' interposed Miss
Halcombe, in her most decided manner.

'Let me suggest, then,' I continued, 'that you should
see Anne Catherick yourself, and do all you can to win
her confidence. For my own part, I shrink from the idea of
alarming the poor creature a second time, as I have most
unhappily alarmed her already. Do you see any objection to
accompanying me to the farm-house to-morrow ? '

' None whatever. I will go anywhere and do anything
to serve Laura's interests. What did you say the place was
called ? '

' You must know it well. It is called Todd's Corner.'

* Certainly. Todd's Corner is one of Mr. Fairlie's farms.

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

Our dairymaid here is the farmer's second daughter. She
g-oes backwards and forwards constantly, between this house
and her father's farm ; and she may have heard or seen
something- which it may be useful to us to know. Shall I
ascertain, at once, if the girl is down stairs ? '

She rang the bell, and sent the servant with his message.
He returned, and announced that the dairymaid was then at
the farm. She had not been there for the last three days ;
and the housekeeper had given her leave to go home, for an
hour or two, that evening.

' I can speak to her to-morrow,' said Miss Halcombe,
when the servant had left the room again. ' In the mean
time, let me thoroughly understand the object to be gained
by my interview with Anne Catherick. Is there no doubt in
your mind that the person who confined her in the Asylum
vv'as Sir Percival Glyde ? '

' There is not the shadow of a doubt. The only mystery
that remains, is the mystery of his motive. Looking to the
great difference between his station in life and hers, which
seems to preclude all idea of the most distant relationship
between them, it is of the last importance — even assuming
that she really required to be placed under restraint — to know
why he should have been the person to assume the serious
responsibility of shutting her up '

' In a private Asylum, I think you said ? '

' Yes, in a private Asylum, where a sum of money which
no poor person could afford to give, must have been paid for
her maintenance as a patient.'

' I see where the doubt lies, Mr. Hartright ; and I promise
you that it shall be set at rest, whether Anne Catherick assists
us to-morrow or not. Sir Percival Glyde shall not be long in
this house without satisfying Mr. Gilmore, and satisfying me.
M}' sister's future is my dearest care in life ; and I have
iniiuence enough over her to give me some power, where her
marriage is concerned, in the disposal of it.'

We parted for the night.

After breakfast, the next mornmg, an obstacle, which the
events of the evening before had put out of my memory,
interposed to prevent our proceeding immediately to the
farm. This was my last day at Limmeridge House ; and it
was necessary, as soon as the post came in, to follow Miss
Halcombe's advice, and to ask Mr. Fairlie's permission to
shorten my engagement by a month, in consideration of an
unforeseen necessity for my return to London.

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Fortunately for the probabilit)^ of this excuse, so far as
appearances were concerned, the post broug-ht me two
letters from London friends, that morning. I took them
away at once to my own room ; and sent the servant with
a message to Mr. Fairlie, requesting to know when I could
see him on a matter of business.

I awaited the man's return, free from the slightest feeling
of anxiety about the manner in which his master might
receive my application. With Mr. Fairlie's leave or without
it, I must go. The consciousness of having now taken the
first step on the dreary journey which was henceforth to
separate my life from Miss Fairlie's seemed to have blunted
my sensibility to every consideration connected with myself.
I had done with my poor man's touchy pride ; I had done
with all my little artist vanities. No insolence of Mr. Fairlie's,
if he chose to be insolent, could wound me now.

The servant returned with a message for which I was not
unprepared. Mr. Fairlie regretted that the state of his
health, on that particular morning, was such as to preclude
all hope of his having the pleasure of receiving me. He
begged, therefore, that I would accept his apologies, and
kindly communicate what I had to say, in the form of a
letter. Similar messages to this had reached me, at various
intervals, during my three months' residence in the house.
Throughout the whole of that period, Mr. Fairlie had been
rejoiced to ' possess ' me, but had never been well enough to
see me for a second time. The servant took every fresh
batch of drawings that I mounted and restored, back to his
master, with my ' respects ; ' and returned empty-handed
with Mr. Fairlie's ' kind compliments,' ' best thanks,' and
* sincere regrets ' that the state of his health still obliged him
to remain a solitary prisoner in his own room. A more
satisfactory arrangement to both sides could not possibly
have been adopted. It would be hard to say which of us,
under the circumstances, felt the most grateful sense of
obligation to Mr. Fairlie's accommodating nerves.

I sat down at once to write the letter, expressing myself
in it as civilly, as clearly, and as briefly as possible. Mr.
Fairlie did not hurry his reply. Nearly an hour elapsed
before the answer was placed in my hands. It was written
vrith beautiful regularity and neatness of character, in violet-
coloured ink, on note-paper as smooth as ivory and almost
as thick as cardboard ; and it addressed me in these terms : —

' Mr. Fairlie's compliments to Mr. Ilartright. Mr. Fairlie

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is more surprised and disappointed than he can say (in the
present state of his health) by Mr. Hartright's application.
Mr. Fairlie is not a man of business, but he has consulted
his steward, who is, and that person confirms Mr. Fairlie's
opinion that Mr. Hartrig-ht's request to be allowed to break
his engagement cannot be justified by any necessity whatever,
excepting perhaps a case of life and death. If the highly-
appreciative feeling towards Art and its professors, which it
is the consolation and happiness of Mr. Fairlie's suffering
existence to cultivate, could be easily shaken, Mr. Hartright's
present proceeding would have shaken it. It has not done
so — except in the instance of Mr. Hartright himself.

* Having stated his opinion — so far, that is to say, as
acute nervous suffering will allow him to state anything —
Mr. Fairlie has nothing to add but the expression of his
decision, in reference to the highly irregular application that
has been made to him. Perfect repose of body and mind
being to the last degree important in his case, Mr. Fairlie
will not suffer Mr. Hartright to disturb that repose by
remaining in the house under circumstances of an essentially
irritating nature to both sides. Accordingly, Mr. Fairlie
waives his right of refusal, pvirely with a view to the
preservation of his own tranquillity — and informs Mr. Hart-
right that he may go.'

I folded the letter up, and put it away with my other
papers. The time had been when I should have resented it
as an insult : I accepted it, now, as a written release from
my engagement. It was off my mind, it was almost out of
my memory, when I went down stairs to the breakfast-room,
and informed Miss Halcombe that I was ready to walk with
her to the farm.

' Has Mr. Fairlie given j'ou a satisfactory answer ? ' she
asked, as we left the house.

' He has allowed me to go. Miss Halcombe.'

She looked up at me quickly ; and then, for the first
time since I had known her, took my arm of her ov\-n accord.
No vv^ords could have expressed so delicately that she under-
stood how the permission to leave my employment had been
granted, and that she gave me her sympathy, not as my
superior, but as my friend. I had not felt the man's insolent
letter ; but I felt deeply the woman's atoning kindness.

On our way to the farm we arranged that Miss Halcombe
was to enter the house alone, and that I was to wait outside,
within call. We adopted this mode of proceeding from an

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

apprehension that my presence, after what had happened in
the churchyard the evening- before, might have the effect of
renewing Anne Catherick's nervous dread, and of rendering
her additionally distrustful of the advances of a lady who was
a stranger to her. Miss Halcombe left me, with the inten-
tion of speaking, in the first instance, to the farmer's wife (of
v/hose friendly readiness to help her in any way she w^as well
assured), while I waited for her in the near neighbourhood of
the house.

I had fully expected to be left alone, for some time. To
my surprise, however, little more than five minutes had
elapsed, before Miss Halcombe returned.

' Does Anne Catherick refuse to see you ? ' I asked in
astonishment.

* Anne Catherick is gone,' replied Miss Halcombe.
' Gone ! '

* Gone, with Mrs. Clements. They both left the farm at
eight o'clock this morning.'

I could say nothing — I could only feci that our last chance
of discovery had gone with them.

* All that Mrs. Todd knows about her guests, I know,'
Miss Halcombe went on ; ' and it leaves me, as it leaves her,
in the dark. They both came back safe, last night, after
they left you, and they passed the first part of the evening
with Mr. Todd's family, as usual. Just before supper-time,
however, Anne Catherick startled them all by being suddenly
seized with faintness. She had had a similar attack, of a less
alarming kind, on the day she arrived at the farm ; and Mrs.
Todd had connected it, on that occasion, with something she
was reading at the time in our local newspaper, which lay on
the farm table, and which she had taken up only a minute or
two before.'

' Does Mrs. Todd know what particular passage in the
newspaper affected her in that way ? ' I inquired.

* No,' replied Miss Halcombe. * She had looked it over,
and had seen nothing in it to agitate any one. I asked leave,
hovv-ever, to look it over in my turn ; and at the very first
page I opened, I found that the editor had enriched his small
stock of news by drawing upon our family affairs, and had
published my sister's marriage engagement, among his other
announcements, copied from the London papers, of Marriages
in High Life. I concluded at once that this was the paragraph
which had so strangely affected Anne Catherick ; and I
thought I saw in it, also, the origin of the letter v/hich she
sent to our house the next day.'

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

' There can be no doubt in either case. But what did you
hear about her second attack of faintness yesterday evening? '

' Nothing-. The cause of it is a complete mystery. There
was no stranger in the room. The only visitor was our
dairymaid, who, as I told you, is one of Mr. Todd's daughters;
and the only conversation was the usual gossip about local
affairs. They heard her cry out, and saw her turn deadly
pale, without the slightest apparent reason. Mrs. Todd and
Mrs. Clements took her up-stairs ; and Mrs. Clements re-
mained with her. They were heard talking together until
long after the usual bedtime ; and, early this morning, Mrs.
Clements took Mrs. Todd aside, and amazed her beyond all
power of expression, by saying that they must go. The only
explanation Mrs. Todd could extract from her guest was,
that something had happened, which was not the fault of
any one at the farm-house, but which was serious enough to
make Anne Catherick resolve to leave Limmeridge imme-
diately. It was quite useless to press Mrs. Clements to be
more explicit. She only shook her head, and said that, for
Anne's sake, she must beg and pray that no one would ques-
tion her. All she could repeat, with every appearance of
being seriously agitated herself, was that Anne must go, that
she must go with her, and that the destination to which they
might both betake themselves must be kept a secret from
everybody. I spare you the recital of Mrs. Todd's hospitable
remonstrances and refusals. It ended in her driving them
both to the nearest station, more than three hours since. She
tried hard, on the way, to get them to speak more plainly ;
but without success. And she set them down outside the
station-door, so hurt and offended by the unceremonious
abruptness of their departure and their unfriendly reluctance
to place the least confidence in her, that she drove away in
anger, without so much as stopping to bid them good-by.
That is exactly what has taken place. Search your own
memory, Mr. Hartright, and tell me if anything happened in
the burial-ground yesterday evening which can at all account
for the extraordinary departure of those two women this
morning.'

* I should like to account first. Miss Halcombe, for the
sudden change in Anne Catherick which alarmed them at the
farm-house, hours after she and I had parted, and when time
enough had elapsed to quiet any violent agitation that I might
have been unfortunate enough to cause. Did you inquire
particularly about the gossip which was going on in the room
when she turned faint ? '

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

/Yes. But Mrs. Todd's household affairs seem to have
divided her attention, that evening-, with the talk in the farm-
house parlour. She could only tell me that it was "just the
news "—meaning-, I suppose, that they all talked as usual
about each other.'

'The dairymaid's memory may be better than her mother's,'
I said. ' It may be as well for you to speak to the g-irl, Miss
Halcombe, as soon as we get back.'

My suggestion was acted on the moment we returned to
the house. Miss Halcombe led me round to the servant's
offices, and we found the girl in the dairy, with her sleeves
tucked up to her shoulders, cleaning- a large milk-pan, and
singing blithely over her work.

' I have brought this gentleman to see your dairv,
Hannah,' said Miss Halcombe. ' It is one of the sights of
the house, and it always does you credit.'

The girl blushed and curtseyed, and said, shvly, that she
hoped she always did her best to keep things neat and clean.

\\Ve have just come from your father's,' Miss Halcombe
continued. ' You were there vesterday evening, I hear ; and
you found visitors at the house ? '

' Yes, miss.'

' One of them was taken faint and ill, I am told ? I sup-
pose nothing was said or done to frighten her ? You were
not talking of anything very terrible were }'ou ? '

\Ob, no, miss ! ' said the girl, laughing. « We were only
talking of the news.'

'Your sisters told you the news at Todd's Corner. I
suppose?'

' Yes, miss.*

I And you told them the news at Limmeridge House ? '
_ '^Qs, miss. And I'm quite sure nothing was said to
trighten the poor thing, for I was talking when she was taken
111. It gave me quite a turn, miss, to see it, never having been
taken faint myself.'

Before any more questions could be put to her, she was
called away to receive a basket of eggs at the dairy door.
As she left us, I whispered to Miss Halcombe :

'Ask her if she happened to mention, last night, that
visitors were expected at Limmeridge House.'

Miss Halcombe showed me, by a look, that she undcstocd,

and put the question as scon as the dairymaid returned to us!

,'^^' y^^> ^■"'ss ; I mentioned that,' said the girl simplv!

1 ne company coming, and the accident to the brindled cow,

was all the news I had to take to the farm.'

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

* Did 3-ou mention names ? Did 3-011 tell them that Sir
Percival Glyde was expected on Monday ? '

* Yes, miss — I told them Sir Percival Glyde was coming-.
I hope there was no harm in it ; I hope I didn't do wrong-.'

' Oh no, no harm. Come, Mr. Hartright ; Hannah will
begin to think us in the way, if we interrupt her any longer
over her work.'

We stopped and looked at one another, the moment wc
were alone again.

' Is there any doubt in j-our mind, fiotv, Miss Halcombc ? '

* Sir Percival Glyde shall remove that doubt, Mr. Hart-
right — or, Laura Fairlic shall never be his wife.'

XV.

As we walked round to the front of the house, a fly from the
railway approached us along the drive. Miss Halcombe
waited on the door steps until the fly drew up ; and then
advanced to shake hands with an old gentleman, who got
out briskly the moment the steps were let down. Mr.
Gilmore had arrived.

I looked at him, when we were introduced to each other,
with an interest and a curiosity wh.ich I could hardly conceal.
This old man was to remain at Limmeridge House after I
had left it ; he was to hear Sir Percival Glyde's explanation,
and was to give Miss Halcombe the assistance of his ex-
perience in forming her judgment ; he was to wait until the
question of the marriage was set at rest ; and his hand, if that
question were decided in the affirmative, was to draw the
settlement which bound Miss Fairlie irrevocably to her en-
g-agement. Even then, when I knew nothing by comparison
with what I know now, I looked at the family lawyer with
an interest which I had never felt before in the presence of
any man breathing who was a total stranger to me.

In external appearance, Mr. Gilmore was the exact oppo-
site of the conventional idea of an old lawyer. His com-
plexion was florid ; his white hair was worn rather long and
kept carefully brushed ; his black coat, waistcoat, and
trousers, fitted him with perfect neatness ; his white cravat
was carefully tied ; and his lavender-coloured kid gloves
might have adorned the hands of a fashionable clergyman,
without fear and without reproach. His manners were plea-
santly marked by the formal grace and refinement of the old
school of politeness, quickened by the invigorating sharpness

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

and readiness of a man whose business in life oblig-es him
always to keep his faculties in good working- order. A san-
guine constitution and fair prospects to begin with ; a long
subsequent career of creditable and comfortable prosperity ;
a cheerful, diligent, widely-respected old age — such were the
general impressions I derived from my introduction to Mr.
Gilmore ; and it is but fair to him to add, that the know-
ledge I gained by later and better experience only tended to
confirm them.

I left the old gentleman and Miss Halcombe to enter the
house together, and to talk of family matters undisturbed by
the restraint of a stranger's presence. They crossed the hall
on their way to the drawing-room ; and I descended the
steps again, to wander about the garden alone.

My hours were numbered at Limmeridge House ; my de-
parture the next morning was irrevocably settled ; my share
in the investigation which the anonymous letter had rendered
necessary, was at an end. No harm could be done to any one
but myself, if I let my heart loose again, for the little time
that was left me, from the cold cruelty of restraint v.-hich
necessity had forced me to inflict upon it, and took my fare-
well of the scenes which were associated with the brief dream-
timie of my happiness and my love.

I turned instinctively to the walk beneath my study-
window, where I had seen her the evening before with her
little dog ; and followed the path which her dear feet had
trodden so often, till I came to the wicket gate that led into
her rose garden. The winter bareness spread drearily over
it, now. The flowers that she had taught me to distinguish
by their names, the flowers that I had taught her to paint
from, were gone ; and the tiny white paths that led between
the beds, were damp and green already. I went on to the
avenue of trees, where we had breathed together the warm
fragrance of August evenings ; where we had admired
together the myriad combinations of shade and sunlight that
dappled the ground at our feet. The leaves fell about me
from the groaning branches, and the earthy decay in the
atm.osphere chilled me to the bones. A little farther on, and
I was out of the grounds, and following the lane that wound
gently upward to the nearest hills. The old felled tree by the
wayside, on which we had sat to rest, was sodden with rain ;
and the tuft of ferns and grasses which I had drawn for her,
nestling under the rough stone wall in front of us, had turned
to a pool of water, stagnating round an island of draggled
weeds. I gained the summit of the hill ; and looked at the

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

view which we had so often admired in the happier time. It
was cold and barren — it was no longer the view that I re-
membered. The sunshine of her presence was far from me ;
the charm of her voice no longer murmured in my ear. She
had talked to me, on the spot from which I now looked down,
of her father, who was her last surviving parent ; had told
me how fond of each other they had been, and how sadly she
missed him still, when she entered certain rooms in the house,
and when she took up forgotten occupations and amusements
with which he had been associated. Was the view that I had
seen, while listening to those words, the view that I saw now,
standing on the hill-top by myself? I turned, and left it ; I
wound my way back again, over the moor, and round the
sandhills, down to the beach. There was the white rage of
the surf, and the multitudinous glory of the leaping waves —
but where was the place on which she had once drawn idle
figures with her parasol in the sand ; the place where we had
sat together, while she talked to me about myself and my
home, while she asked me a woman's minutely observant
questions about my mother and my sister, and innocently
wondered whether I should ever leave my lonely chambers
and have a wife and a house of my own ? Wind and wave had
long since smoothed out the trace of her which she had left
in those marks on the sand. I looked over the wide monotony
of the sea-side prospect, and the place in which we two had
idled away the sunny hours, was as lost to me as if I had
never known it, as strange to me as if I stood already on a
foreign shore.

The empty silence of the beach struck cold to my heart.
I returned to the house and the garden, where traces were
left to speak of her at every turn.

On the west terrace walk, I met Mr. Gilmore. He was
evidently in search of me, for he quickened his pace when we
caught sight of each other. The state of my spirits little
fitted me for the society of a stranger. But the meeting was
inevitable ; and I resigned myself to make the best of it.

* You are the very person I wanted to see,' said the old
gentleman. ' I had two words to say to you, my dear sir ;
and, if you have no objection, I will avail myself of the present
opportunity. To put it plainly, Miss Halcombe and I have
been talking over family affairs — affairs which are the cause
of my being here — and, in the course of our conversation, she
was naturally led to tell me of this unpleasant matter con-
nected with the anonymous letter, and of the share which you
have most creditably and properly taken In the proceedings

loo

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

so far. That share, I quite understand, gives you an interest
which you might not otherwise have felt, in knowing that the
future management of the investigation, which you have
begun, will be placed in safe hands. My dear sir, make
yourself quite easy on that point — it will be placed in my
hands.'

* You are, in every way, Mr. Gilmore, much fitter to advise
and to act in the matter than I am. Is it an indiscretion, on
my part, to ask if you have decided yet on a course of pro-
ceeding ? '

' So far as it is possible to decide, Mr. Hartright, I have
decided. I mean to send a copy of the letter, accompanied
by a statement of the circumstances, to Sir Percival Clyde's
solicitor in London, with whom I have some acquaintance.
The letter itself, I shall keep here, to show to Sir Percival as
soon as he arrives. The tracing of the two women, I have
already provided for, by sending one of Mr. Fairlie's servants
— a confidential person — to the station to make inquiries : the
man has his money and his directions, and he will follow the
women in the event of his finding any clue. This is all that
can be done until Sir Percival comes on Monday. I have no
doubt myself that ev^ery explanation which can be expected
from a gentleman and a man of honour, he will readily give.
Sir Percival stands very high, sir — an eminent position, a
reputation above suspicion — I feel quite easy about results ;
quite easy, I am rejoiced to assure you. Things of this sort
happen constantly in my experience. Anonymous letters —
unfortunate woman — sad state of society. I don't deny that
there are peculiar complications in this case ; but the case
itself is, most unhappily, common — common.'

' I am afraid, Mr. Gilmore, I have the misfortune to differ
from you in the view I take of the case.'

' Just so, my dear sir — just so. I am an old man ; and I
take the practical view. You are a young man ; and you
take the romantic view. Let us not dispute about our views.
I live, professionally, in an atmosphere of disputation, Mr.
Hartright ; and I am only too glad to escape from it, as I am
escaping here. We will wait for events — yes, yes, yes ; we
will wait for events. Charming place, this. Cood shooting?
Probably not — none of Mr. Fairlie's land is preserved, I think.
Charming place, though ; and delightful people. You draw
and paint, I hear, Mr. Hartright ? Enviable accompHshment.
What style ? '

We dropped into general conversation — or, rather, Mr.
Gilmore talked, and I listened. My attention was far from

lOI

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

him, and from the topics on which he discoursed so fluently.
The solitary walk of the last two hours had wrought its effect
on me — it had set the idea in my mind of hastening my de-
parture from Limmeridg-e House. Why should I prolong the
hard trial of saying" farewell by one unnecessary minute ?
What further service was required of me by any one ? There
was no useful purpose to be served by my stay in Cumber-
land ; there was no restriction of time in the permission to
leave which my employer had granted to me. Why not end
it, there and then ?

I determined to end it. There were some hours of day-
light still left — there was no reason why my journey back to
London should not begin on that afternoon. I made the first
civil excuse that occurred to me for leaving Mr. Gilmore ;
and returned at once to the house.

On my way up to my own room, I met Miss Halcombe
on the stairs. She saw, by the hurry of my movements and
the change in my manner, that I had some new purpose in
view ; and asked what had happened.

I told her the reasons which induced me to think of
hastening my departure, exactly as I have told them here.

' No, no,' she said, earnestly and kindly, ' leave us like a
friend ; break bread with us once more. Stay here and
dine ; stay here and help us to spend our last evening with
you as happily, as like our first evenings, as we can. It is

my invitation ; Mrs. Vesey's invitation ' she hesitated a

little, and then added, * Laura's invitation as well.'

I promised to remain. God knows I had no wish to leave
even the shadow of a sorrowful impression with any one of
them.

My own room was the best place for me till the dinner
bell rang. I waited there till it was time to go down stairs.

I had not spoken to Miss Fairlie — I had not even seen her
— all that day. The first meeting with her, when I entered
the drawing-room, was a hard trial to her self-control and to
mine. She, too, had done her best to make our last evening
renew the golden bygone time — the time that could never
come again. She had put on the dress which I used to
admire more than any other that she possessed — a dark blue
silk, trimmed quaintly and prettily with old-fashioned lace ;
she came forward to meet me with her former readiness ; she
gave me her hand with the frank, innocent good will of
happier days. The cold fingers that trembled round mine ;
the pale cheeks with a bright red spot burning in the midst
of them ; the faint smile that struggled to live on her lips and

I02

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

died away from them while I looked at it, told me at what
sacrifice of herself her outward composure was maintained.
My heart could take her no closer to me, or I should have
loved her then as I had never loved her yet.

Mr. Gilmore was a great assistance to us. He was in
high good humour, and he led the conversation with un-
flagging spirit. Miss Halcombe seconded him resolutely ;
and I did all I could to follow her example. The kind blue eyes,
whose slightest changes of expression I had learnt to interpret
so well, looked at me appealingly when we first sat down to
table. Help my sister — the sweet anxious face seemed to
say — help my sister and you will help me.

We got through the dinner, to all outward appearance at
least, happily enough. When the ladies had risen from table,
and Mr. Gilmore and I were left alone in the dining-room, a
new interest presented itself to occupy our attention, and to
give me an opportunity of quieting myself by a few minutes
of needful and welcome silence. The servant who had been
despatched to trace Anne Catherick and Mrs. Clements, re-
turned with his report, and was shown into the dining-room
immediately.

' Well,' said Mr. Gilmore, * what have you found out ? '

' I have found out, sir,' answered the man, ' that both the
women took tickets, at our station here, for Carlisle.'

' You went to Carlisle, of course, when you heard
that ? '

' I did, sir ; but I am sorry to say I could find no further
trace of them.'

' You inquired at the railway ? '

* Yes, sir.'

* And at the different inns ? '
' Yes, sir.'

* And you left the statement I wrote for you, at the police
station ? '

« I did, sir.'

* Well, my friend, you have done all you could, and I
have done all I could ; and there the matter must rest till
further notice. We have played our trump cards, Mr. Hart-
right,' continued the old gentleman, when the servant had
withdrawn. ' For the present, at least, the women have out-
manoeuvred us ; and our only resource, now, is to wait till
Sir Percival Clyde comes here on Monday next. Won't you
fill your glass again ? Good bottle of port, that — sound,
substantial, old wine. I have got better in my own cellar,
though.'

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

We returned to the drawincr-room — the room in which
the happiest evenings of my life had been passed ; the room
which, after this last night, I was never to see again. Its
aspect was altered since the days had shortened and the
weather had grown cold. The glass doors on the terrace
side were closed, and hidden by thick curtains. Instead of
the soft twilight obscurity, in which we used to sit, the bright
radiant glow of lamplight now dazzled my eyes. All was
changed — in-doors and out, all was changed.

Miss Halcombe and Mr. Gilmore sat down together at
the card-table ; Mrs. Vesey took her customary chair. There
v/as no restraint on the disposal of their evening ; and I felt
the restraint on the disposal of mine all the more painfully
from observing it. I saw Miss Fairlie lingering near the
music stand. The time had been when I might have joined
her there. I waited irresolutely — I knew neither where to go
nor what to do next. She cast one quick glance at me, took
a piece of music suddenly from the stand, and came towards
me of her own accord.

' Shall I play some of those little melodies of Mozart's,
which you used to like so much ? ' she asked, opening the
music nervously, and looking down at it while she spoke.

Before I could thank her, she hastened to the piano. The
chair near it, which I had always been accustomed to occupy,
stood empty. She struck a few chords — then glanced round
at me — then looked back again at her music.

' Won't you take your old place ? ' she said, speaking very
abruptly, and in very low tones.

* I may take it on the last night,' I answered.

She did not reply : she kept her attention riveted on the
music — music which she knew by memory, which she had
played over and over again, in former times, without the
book. I only knew that she had heard me, I only knew that
she was aware of my being close to her, by seeing the red
spot on the cheek that was nearest to me, fade out, and the
face grow pale all over.

' I am very sorry you are going,' she said, her voice
almost sinking to a whisper ; her eyes looking more and
more intently at the music ; her fingers flying over the keys
of the piano with a strange feverish energy which I had never
noticed in her before.

' I shall remember those kind words, Miss Fairlie, long
after to-morrow has come and gone.'

The paleness grew whiter on her face, and she turned it
farther away from me.

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

* Don't speak of to-morrow,' she said. ' Let the music
speak to us of to-night, in a happier language than
ours.'

Her Hps trembled — a faint sigh fluttered from them,
which she tried vainly to suppress. Her fingers wavered on
the piano ; she struck a false note ; confused herself in trying
to set it right ; and dropped her hands angrily on her lap.
Miss Halcombe and Mr. Gilmore looked up in astonishment
from the card-table at which they were playing. Even Mrs.
Vesey, dozing in her chair, woke at the sudden cessation of
the music, and inquired what had happened.

* You play at whist, Mr. Hartright ? ' asked Miss
Halcombe, with her eyes directed significantly at the place
I occupied.

I knew what she meant ; I knew she was right ; and I
rose at once to go to the card-table. As I left the piano.
Miss Fairlie turned a page of the music, and touched the
keys again with a surer hand.

' I ivill play it,' she said, striking the notes almost passion-
ately. * I will play it on the last night. '

' Come, Mrs. Vesey,' said Miss Halcombe ; * Mr. Gilmore
and I are tired of ^cart6 — come and be Mr. Hartright's
partner at whist.'

The old lawyer smiled satirically. His had been the
winning hand ; and he had just turned up a king. He
evidently attributed Miss Halcombe's abrupt change in the
card-table arrangements to a lady's inability to play the
losing game.

The rest of the evening passed without a word or a look
from her. She kept her place at the piano ; and I kept
mine at the card-table. She played unlntermittingly — played
as if the music was her only refuge from herself. Sometimes,
her fingers touched the notes with a lingering fondness, a
soft, plaintive, dying tenderness, unutterably beautiful and
mournful to hear — sometimes, they faltered and failed her,
or hurried over the instrument mechanically, as if their task
was a burden to them. But still, change and waver as they
might in the expression they imparted to the music, their
resolution to play never faltered. She only rose from the
piano when we all rose to say good night.

Mrs. Vesey was the nearest to the door, and the first to
shake hands with me.

' I shall not see you again, Mr. Hartright,' said the old
lady. * I am truly sorry you are going away. You have
been very kind and attentive ; and an old woman, like me,

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

feels kindness and attention. I wish you happy, sir — I wish
you a kind good-by.'

Mr. Gilmore came next.

* I hope we shall have a future opportunity of bettering^
our acquaintance, Mr. Hartright. You quite understand
about that little matter of business being- safe in my hands ?
Yes, yes, of course. Bless me, how cold it is ! Don't let
me keep you at the door. Bon voyage, my dear sir — bon
voyage, as the French say.'

Miss Halcombe followed.

* Half-past seven to-morrow morning,' she said ; then
added, in a whisper, ' I have heard and seen more than you
think. Your conduct to-night has made me your friend for
life.'

Miss Fairlie came last. I could not trust myself to look
at her, when I took her hand, and when I thought of the
next morning.

' My departure must be a very early one,' I said. ' I
shall be gone. Miss Fairlie, before you '

' No, no,' she interposed, hastily ; ' not before I am out
of my room., I shall be down to breakfast with Marian. I
am not so ungrateful, not so forgetful of the past three
months '

Her voice failed her ; her hand closed gently round mine —
then dropped it suddenly. Before I could say, ' Good night,'
she was gone.

The end comes fast to meet me— comes inevitably, as the
light of the last morning came at Limmeridge House.

It was barely half-past seven when I went down stairs —
but I found them both at the breakfast-table waiting for me.
In the chill air, in the dim light, in the gloomy morning silence
of the house, we three sat down together, and tried to eat, tried
to talk. The struggle to preserve appearances was hopeless
and useless ; and I rose to end it.

As I held out my hand, as Miss Halcombe, who was
nearest to me, took it, Miss Fairlie turned away suddenly,
and hurried from the room.

'Better so,' said Miss Halcombe, when the door had
closed — * better so, for you and for her.'

I waited a moment before I could speak — it was hard to
lose her, without a parting word, or a parting look. I con-
trolled myself; I tried to take leave of Miss Halcombe in
fitting terms ; but all the farewell words I would fain have
spoken, dwindled to one sentence.

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

' Have r deserved that you should write to me ? ' was all
I could say.

* You have nobly deserved everything- that I can do for
you, as long as we both live. Whatever the end is, you shall
know it.'

' And if I can ever be of help again, at any future time,
long- after the memory of my presumption and my folly is
forgotten — — -'

I could add no more. Jdy voice faltered, my eyes
moistened, in spite of me.

She caught me by both hands — she pressed them with the
strong, steady grasp of a man— her dark eyes glittered — her
brown complexion flushed deep— the force and energy of her
face glowed and grew beautiful with the pure inner light of
her generosity and her pity.

' I will trust you— if ever the time comes, I will trust you
as my friend and her friend ; as my brother and her brother.'
She stopped ; drew me nearer to her — the fearless, noble
creature — touched my forehead, sister-like, with her lips ;
and called me by my Christian name. ' God bless you,
Walter ! ' she said. ' W^ait here alone, and compose yourself
— I had better not stay for both our sakes ; I had better see
you go from the balcony upstairs.'

She left the room. I turned away towards the window,
where nothing faced me but the lonely autumn landscape — I
turned away to master myself, before I, too, left the room in
my turn, and left it for ever.

A minute passed — it could hardly have been more — when
I heard the door open again softly ; and the rustling of a
woman's dress on the carpet, moved towards me. My heart
beat violently as I turned round. Miss Fairlie was approach-
ing me from the farther end of the room.

She stopped and hesitated, when our eyes met, and when
she saw that we were alone. Then, with that courage
which women lose so often in the small emergency, and so
seldom in the great, she came on nearer to me, strangely pale
and strangely quiet, drawing one hand after her along the
table by which she walked, and holding something at her
side, in the other, which was hidden by the folds of her dress.
* I only went into the drawing-room,' she said, 'to look
for this. It may remind you of your visit here, and of the
friends you leave behind you. You told me I had improved

very much when I did it — and I thought you might like '

She turned her head away, and offered me a little sketch
drawn throughout by her ov\'n pencil, of the summer-house

107

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

In which we had first met. The paper trembled in her hand
as she held it out to me — trembled in mine, as I took it from
her,

I was afraid to say what I felt — I only answered : ' It
shall never leave me ; all m}' life long- it shall be the treasure
that I prize most. I am very g-rateful for it — very grateful to
yoii, for not letting- me go away without bidding- you good-by.'

' Oh ! ' she said, innocently, ' how could I let you ^o, after
we have passed so many happy days together ! '

* Those days may never return, Miss Fairlie — my way of
life and yours are very far apart. But if a time should come,
when the devotion of my whole heart and soul and strength
will give you a moment's happiness, or spare you a moment's
sorrow, will you try to remember the poor drawing-master
who has taught you ? Miss Halcombe has promised to trust
me — will you promise, too ? '

The farewell sadness in the kind blue eyes shone dimly
through her gathering tears.

' I promise it,' she said, in broken tones. ' Oh, don't look
at me like that ! I promise it with all my heart.'

I ventured a little nearer to her, and held out my hand.

* You have many friends who love you, Miss Fairlie.
Your happy future is the dear object of many hopes. May
I say, at parting, that it is the dear object of my hopes too ? '

The tears flowed fast down her checks. She rested one
trembling hand on the table to steady herself, while she gave
me the other. I took it in mine — I held it fast. My head
drooped over it, my t^ars fell dn it, my lips pressed it — not in
love ; oh, not in love, at that last moment, but in the agony
and the self-abandonment bf despair.

' For God's sake, leave me ! ' she said faintly.

The confession of her heart's secret burst from her in those
pleading words. I had no right to hear them, no right to
answer them : they were the words that banished me,
in the name of her sacred weakness, from the room. It
was all over. I dropped her hand ; I said no more. The
blinding tears shut her out from my eyes, and I dashed
them away to look at her for the last time. One look as
she sank into a chair, as her arms fell on the table, as her
fair head dropped on them wearily. One farewell look ; and
the door had closed upon her— the gre^it gulf of separation had
opened between us — the image of Laura Fairlie was a memory
of the past already

The End of Hartrighfs Narrative.
1 08

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

The Story continued by Vincent Gilmore, of Chancery Lane,
Solicitor,

I WRITE these lines at the request of my friend, Mr. Walter
Hartright. They are intended to convey a description of
certain events which seriously affected Miss Fairlie's interests,
and which took place after the period of Mr. Hartright's
departure from Limmeridge House.

There is no need for me to say whether my own opinion
does or does not sanction the disclosure of the remarkable
family story, of which my narrative forms an important com-
ponent part. Mr. Hartright has taken that responsibility on
himself ; and circumstances yet to be related will show that
he has amply earned the right to do so, if he chooses to
exercise it. The plan he has adopted for presenting the
story to others, in the most truthful and most vivid manner,
requires that it should be told, at each successive stage in
the march of events, by the persons who were directly con-
cerned in those events at the time of their occurrence. My
appearance here, as narrator, is the necessary consequence of
this arrangement. I was present during the sojourn of Sir
Percival Glyde in Cumberland, and was personally concerned
in one important result of his short residence under Mr.
Fairlie's roof. It is my duty, therefore, to add these new
links to the chain of events, and to take up the chain itself at
the point where, for the present only, Mr. Hartright has
dropped it.

I arrived at Limmeridge House, on Friday the second of
November.

My object v/as to remain at Mr. Fairlie's until the arrival
of Sir Percival Glyde. If that event led to the appointment
of any given day for Sir Percival's union with Miss Fairlie, I
was to take the necessary instructions back with me to
London, and to occupy myself in drawing the lady's marriage-
settlement.

On the Friday I was not favoured by Mr. Fairlie with an
interview. He had been, or had fancied himself to be, an
invalid for years past ; and he was not well enough to
receive m.e. Miss Halconibe was the first member of the
family whom I saw. She met me at the house door ; and
introduced me to Mr. Hartright, who had been staying at
Limmeridge for some time past.

109

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

I did not see Miss Fairlie until later in the day, at dinner
time. Slie was not looking- well, and I was sorry to observe
it. She is a sweet, lovable girl, as amiable and attentive to
every one about her as her excellent mother used to be —
though, personally speaking, she takes after her father.
Mrs. Fairlie had dark eyes and hair ; and her elder daughter,
Miss Halcombe, strongly reminds me of her. Miss Fairlie
played to us in the evening — not so well as usual, I thought.
We had a rubber at whist ; a mere profanation, so far as
play was concerned, of that noble game. I had been
favourably impressed by Mr. Hartright, on our first intro-
duction to one another ; but I soon discovered that he was
not free from the social failings incidental to his ag^e. There
are three things that none of the young men of the present
generation can do. They can't sit over their wine ; they
can't play at whist ; and they can't pay a lady a compliment.
Mr. Hartright was no exception to the general rule. Other-
wise, even in those early days and on that short acquaintance,
he struck me as being a modest and g-entlemanlike young
man.

So the Friday passed. I say nothing about the more
serious matters which engaged my attention on that day —
the anonymous letter to Miss Fairlie ; the measures I thought
it right to adopt when the matter was mentioned to me ; and
the conviction I entertained that every possible explanation of
the circumstances would be readily afforded by Sir Percival
Glyde, having all been fully noticed, as I understand, in the
narrative v.hich precedes this.

On the Saturday, Mr, Hartright had left before I got
down to breakfast. Miss Fairlie kept her room all day ; and
Miss Halcombe appeared to me to be out of spirits. The
house was not what it used to be in the time of Mr. and Mrs.
Philip Fairlie. I took a v/alk by myself in the forenoon : and
looked about at some of the places which I first saw when I
was staying- at Limmeridge to transact family business, more
than thirty years since. They were not what they used to be
either.

At two o'clock Mr. Fairlie sent to say he vras well enough
to see me. He had not altered, at any rate, since I first
knew him. His talk was to the same purpose as usual — all
about himself and his ailments, his wonderful coins, and his
matchless Rembrandt etchings. The moment I tried to spe
of the business that had brought me to his house, he shut ^'^
eyes and said I ' upset ' him. I persisted in upsetting him by
returning again and again to the subject. All I could ascer-

IIO

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

tain was tliat he looked on his niece's marriagfe as a settled
thing, that her tather had sanctioned it, that he sanctioned it
himself, that it was a desirable marriage, and that he should
be personally rejoiced when the worry of it was over. As to
the settlements, if I would consult his niece, and afterwards
dive as deeply as I pleased into my own knowledge of the
family affairs, and get everything ready, and limit his share
in the business, as guardian, to saying, Yes, at the right
moment — why of course he would meet my views, and every-
body else's views, with infinite pleasure. In the mean time,
there I saw him, a helpless sufferer, confined to his room.
Did I think he looked as if he wanted teasing ? No. Then
why tease him ?

I might, perhaps, have been a little astonished at this
extraordinary absence of all self-assertion on Mr. Fairlie's
part, in the character of guardian, if my knowledge of the
family affairs had not been sufficient to remind me that he
was a single man, and that he had nothing more than a. life-
interest in the Limmeridge property. As matters stood,
therefore, I was neither surprised nor disappointed at the
result of the interview. Mr. Fairlie had simply justified my
expectations — and there was an end of it.

Sunday was a dull day, out of doors and in. A letter
arrived for me from Sir Percival Clyde's solicitor, acknow-
ledging the receipt of my copy of the anonymous letter, and
my accompanying statement of the case. Miss Fairlie joined
us in the afternoon, looking pale and depressed, and alto-
gether unlike herself. I had some talk with her, and ventured
on a delicate allusion to Sir Percival. She listened, and said
nothing. All other subjects she pursued willingly ; but this
subject she aliovvcd to drop. I began to doubt whether she
might not be repenting of her engagement — ^just as young
ladies often do, when repentance comes too late.

On Monday Sir Percival Glyde arrived.

I found him to be a most prepossessing man, so far as
manners and appearance were concerned. He looked rather
older than I had expected ; his head being bald over the fore-
head, and his face somewhat marked and w^orn. But his
movements were as active and his spirits as high as a young
man's. His meeting with Miss Halcombe was delightfully
hearty and unaffected ; and his reception of me, upon my
being presented to him, was so easy and pleasant that v/e
got on together like old friends. Miss Fairlie was not with
us when he arrived, but she entered the room about ten
minutes afterwards. Sir Percival rose and paid his compli-

III

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

ments with perfect grace. His evident concern on seeing the
change for the worse in the young lady's looks was expressed
with a mixture of tenderness and respect, with an unassuming
delicacy of tone, voice, and manner, which did equal credit to
his good breeding and his good sense. I was rather
surprised, under these circumstances, to see that Miss Fairlie
continued to be constrained and uneasy in his presence, and
that she took the first opportunity of leaving the room again.
Sir Percival neither noticed the restraint in her reception of
him, nor her sudden withdrawal from our society. He had
not obtruded his attentions on her while she was present, and
he did not embarrass Miss Halcombe by any allusion to her
departure when she was gone. His tact and taste were never
at fault on this or on any other occasion while I was in his
company at Limmeridge House.

As soon as Miss Fairlie had left the room, he spared us all
embarrassment on the subject of the anonymous letter, by
adverting to it of his own accord. He had stopped in London
on his way from Hampshire ; had seen his solicitor ; had
read the documents forwarded by me ; and had travelled on
to Cumberland, anxious to satisfy our minds by the speediest
and the fullest explanation that words could convey. On
hearing him express himself to this effect, I offered him the
original letter which I had kept for his inspection. He
thanked me, and declined to look at it ; saying that he had
seen the copy, and that he was quite willing to leave the
original in our hands.

The statement itself, on which he immediately entered,
was as simple and satisfactory as I had all along anticipated
it would be.

Mrs. Catherick, he informed us, had, in past years, laid
him under some obligations for faithful services rendered to
his family connexions and to himself. She had been doubly
unfortunate in being married to a husband who had deserted
her, and in having an only child whose mental faculties had
been in a disturbed condition from a very early age. Although
her marriage had removed her to a part of Hampshire far
distant from the neighbourhood in which Sir Percival's
property was situated, he had taken care not to lose sight of
her ; his friendly reeling towards the poor woman, in consider-
ation of her past services, having been greatly strengthened
by his admiration of the patience and courage with which she
supported her calamities. In course of time, the symptoms
of mental affliction in her unhappy daughter increased to such
a serious extent, as to make it a matter of necessity to place

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

her under proper medical care. Mrs. Catherick herself
recognised this necessity ; but she also felt the prejudice
common to persons occupying her respectable station, against
allowing her child to be admitted, as a pauper, into a public
Asylum. Sir Percival had respected this prejudice, as he
respected honest independence of feeling in any rank of life ;
and had resolved to mark his grateful sense of Mrs. Cather-
ick's early attachment to the interests of himself and his
family, by defraying the expense of her daughter's mainten-
ance in a trustworthy private Asylum. To her mother's
regret, and to his own regret, the unfortunate creature had
discovered the share which circumstances had induced him to
take in placing her under restraint, and had conceived the
most intense hatred and distrust of him in consequence. To
that hatred and distrust — which had expressed itself in various
ways in the Asylum — the anonymous letter, written after her
escape, was plainly attributable. If Miss Haljombe's or Mr.
Gilmore's recollection of the document did not confirm that
view, or if they wished for any additional particulars about
the Asylum (the address of which he mentioned, as well as the
names and addresses of the two doctors on whose certificates
the patient was admitted), he was ready to answer any
question and to clear up any uncertainty. He had done his
duty to the unhappy young woman, by instructing his solici-
tor to spare no expense in tracing her, and in restoring her
once more to medical care ; and he was now only anxious to
do his duty towards Miss Fairlie and tovrards her family, in
the same plain, straightforward way.

I was the first to speak in answer to this appeal. My own
course was plain to me. It is the great beauty of the Law
that it can dispute any human statement, made under any
circumstances, and reduced to any form. If I had felt
professionally called upon to set up a case against Sir Percival
Glyde, on the strength of his own explanation, I could have
done so beyond all doubt. But my duty did not lie in this
direction : my function was of the purely judicial kind. I was
to weigh the explanation we had just heard ; to allow all due
force to the high reputation of the gentleman who ofi^ered it ;
and to decide honestly whether the probabilities, on Sir
Percival's own showing, were plainly with him, or plainly
against him. My own conviction was that they were plainly
with him ; and I accordingly declared that his explanation
was, to my mind, unquestionably a satisfactory one.

Miss Halcombe, after looking- at me very earnestly, said a
few words, on her side, to the same effect — with a certain

U3 i

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

hesitation of manner, however, which the circumstances did
not seem to me to warrant. I am unable to say, positively,
whether Sir Percival noticed this or not. My opinion is that
he did ; seeing that he pointedly resumed the subject, although
he might, now, with all propriety, have allowed it to drop.

' If my plain statement of facts had only been addressed
to Mr. Gilmore,' he said, ' I should consider any further
reference to this unhappy matter as unnecessary. I may
fairly expect Mr. Gilmore, as a gentleman, to believe me on
my word ; and when he has done me that justice, all discussion
of the subject between us has come to an end. But my position
with a lady is not the same. I owe to her, what I would
concede to no man alive — a proof oi the truth of my assertion.
You cannot ask for that proof, Miss Halcombe ; and it is
therefore my duty to you, and still more to Miss Fairlie, to
offer it. May I beg that you will write at once to the mother
of this unfortunate woman — to Mrs. Catherick — to ask for
ner testimony in support of the explanation which I have
just offered to you.'

I saw Miss Halcombe change colour, and look a little un-
easy. Sir Percival's suggestion, politely as it was expressed,
appeared to her, as it appeared to me, to point, very delicately,
at the hesitation which her manner had betrayed a moment or
two since.

' I hope, Sir Percival, you don't do me the injustice to
suppose that I distrust you,' she said, quickly.

* Certainly not. Miss Halcombe. I make my proposal
purely as an act of attention to yon. Will you excuse my
obstinacy if I still venture to press it?'

He walked to the writing-table, as he spoke ; drew a chair
to it ; and opened the paper case.

' Let me beg you to write the note,' he said, ' as a favour
to me. It need not occupy you more than a few minutes.
You have only to ask Mrs. Catherick two questions. First, if
her daughter was placed in the Asylum with her knowledge
and approval. Secondly, if the share I took in the matter
was such as to merit the expression of her gratitude towards
myself? Mr. Gilmore's mind is at ease on this unpleasant
subject ; and your mind is at ease — pray set my mind at
ease also, by writing the note.'

* You oblige me to grant your request, Sir Percival, when
I would much rather refuse it.' With those words Miss
Halcombe rose from her place and went to the writing-table.
Sir Percival thanked her, handed her a pen, and then v/alked
away towards the fireplace. Miss Fairlie's little Italian grey-

J14

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

hound was lying- on the rug. He held out his hand, and
called to the dog g^ood-humouredly.

' Come, Nina,' he said ; * we remember each other, don't
we ? '

The little beast, cowardly and cross-grained as pet-dogs
usually are, looked up at him sharply, shrank away from his
outstretched hand, whined, shivered, and hid itself under a
sofa. It was scarcely possible that he could have been put out
by such a trifle as a dog's reception of him — but I observed,
nevertheless, that he walked away towards the window very
suddenly. Perhaps his temper is irritable at times? If so, I
can sympathise with him. My temper is irritable at times,
too.

Miss Halcombe was not long in writing the note. When
it was done, she rose from the writing-table, and handed the
open sheet of paper to Sir Percival. He bowed ; took it
from her ; folded it up immediately, without looking at the
contents ; sealed it ; wrote the address ; and handed it back
to her in silence. I never saw anything- more gracefully
and more becomingly done, in my life.

' You insist on my posting this letter, Sir Percival ? ' said
Miss Halcombe.

' I beg you will post it,' he ansv/ered. * And now that it
is written and sealed up, allow me to ask one or two last
questions about the unhappy woman to whom it refers. I
have read the communication which Mr. Gilmore kindly ad-
dressed to my solicitor, describing the circumstances under
which the writer of the anonymous letter was identified. But
there are certain points to which that statement does not refer.
Did Anne Catherick see Miss Fairlie?'

* Certainly not,' replied Miss Halcombe.

* Did she see you ? '
'No.'

' She saw nobody from the house, then, except a certain
Mr. Hartright, who accidentally met with her in the church-
yard here ? '

' Nobody else.'

' Mr. Hartright was employed at LImmeridge as a draw-
ing-master, I believe ? Is he a member of one of the Water-
Colour Societies ? '

'I believe he is,' answered Miss Halcombe.

He paused for a moment, as if he was thinking over the
last answer, and then added :

' Did you find out where Anne Catherick was living, when
she was in this neighbourhood ? '

11^ I 2

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

* Yes. At a farm on the moor, called Todd's Corner.'

* It is a duty we all owe to the poor creature herself to trace
her,' continued Sir Percival. ' She may have said something"
at Todd's Corner which may help us to find her. I will go
there, and make inquiries on the chance. In the mean time,
as I cannot prevail on myself to discuss this painful subject
with Miss Fairlie, may I beg, Miss Halcombe, that you will
kindly undertake to give her the necessary explanation, de-
ferring it of course until you have received the reply to that
note.'

Miss Halcombe promised to comply with his request. He
thanked her — nodded pleasantly — and left us, to go and
establish himself in his own room. As he opened the door,
the cross-grained greyhound poked out her sharp muzzle from
under the sofa, and barked and snapped at him.

*A good morning's work, Miss Halcombe,' I said, as
soon as we were alone. ' Here is an anxious day well ended
already.'

'Yes,' she answered ; 'no doubt. I am very glad your
mind is satisfied.'

' My mind ! Surely, with that note in your hand, your
mind is at ease, too ? '

' Oh, yes — how can it be otherwise ? I know the thing
could not be,' she went on, speaking more to herself than to
me ; ' but I almost wish Walter Hartright had stayed here
long enough to be present at the explanation, and to hear the
proposal to me to wTite this note.'

I was a little surprised — perhaps a little piqued, also, by
these last words.

' Events, it is true, connected Mr. Hartright very remark-
ably with the affair of the letter,' I said ; ' and I readily admit
that he conducted himself, all things considered, with great
delicacy and discretion. But I am quite at a loss to under-
stand what useful influence his presence could have exercised
in relation to the effect of Sir Percival's statement on your mind
or mine.'

* It was only a fancy,' she said, absently. ' There is no
need to discuss it, Mr. Gilmore. Your experience ought to be,
and is, the best guide I can desire.'

I did not altogether like her thrusting the whole responsi-
bility, in this marked manner, on my shoulders. If Mr. Fairlie
had done it, I should not have been surprised. But resolute,
clear-minded Miss Halcombe, was the very last person in the
world whom I should have expected to find shrinking from the
expression of an opinion of her own.

ii6

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

' If any doubts still trouble you,' I said, ' why not mention
them to me at once ? Tell me plainly, have you any reason to
distrust Sir Percival Clyde ? '

'None whatever.'

* Do you see anything improbable, or contradictory, in his
explanation ? *

' How can I say I do, after the proof he has offered me of
the truth of it ? Can there be better testimony in his favour,
Mr. Gilmore, than the testimony of the woman's mother ? '

* None better. If the answer to your note of inquiry proves
to be satisfactory, I, for one, cannot see what more any friend
of Sir Percival's can possibly expect from him.'

* Then we will post the note,* she said, rising to leave the
room, ' and dismiss all further reference to the subject, until
the answer arrives. Don't attach any weight to my hesitation.
I can give no better reason for it than that I have been over-
anxious about Laura lately ; and anxiety, Mr. Cilmore, un-
settles the strongest of us.'

She left me abruptly : her naturally firm voice faltering as
she spoke those last words. A sensitive, vehement, passionate
nature — a woman of ten thousand in these trivial, superficial
times. I had known her from her earliest years ; I had seen
her tested, as she grew up, in more than one trjang family
crisis, and my long experience made me attach an importance
to her hesitation under the circumstances here detailed, which
I should certainly not have felt in the case of another woman.
I could see no cause for any uneasiness or any doubt ; but she
had made me a little uneasy, and a little doubtful, nevertheless.
In my youth, I should have chafed and fretted under the irri-
tation of my own unreasonable state of mind. In my age, I
knew better ; and went out philosophically to walk it off.

II.

We all met again at dinner-time.

Sir Percival was in such boisterous high spirits that I
hardly recognised him as the same man whose quiet tact,
refinement, and good sense had impressed me so strongly at
the interview of the morning. The only trace of his former
self that I could detect, reappeared, every now and then, in
his manner towards Miss Fairlie. A look or a word from her,
suspended his loudest laugh, checked his gayest flow of talk,
and rendered him all attention to her, and to no one else at
table, in an instant. Although he never openly tried to draw

:i7

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

her into the conversation, he never lost the slig-htest chance
she gave him of letting- her drift into it by accident, and of
saying- the words to her, under those favourable circumstances,
v/hich a man with less tact and delicacy would have pointedly
addressed to her the moment they occurred to him. Rather to
my surprise, Miss Fairlie appeared to be sensible of his atten-
tions, without being moved by them. She was a little con-
fused from time to time, when he lool<ed at her, or spoke to
her ; but she never warmed towards him. Rank, fortune, good
breeding, good looks, the respect of a gentleman, and the
devotion of a lover were all humbly placed at her feet, and, so
far as appearances went, were all offered in vain.

On the next day, the Tuesday, Sir Percival went in the
morning (taking one of the servants with him as a guide) to
Todd's Corner. His inquiries, as I afterwards heard, led to no
results. On his return, he had an interview with Mr. Fairlie ;
and in the afternoon he and Miss Halcombe rode out together.
Nothing else happened worthy of record. The evening passed
as usual. There was no change in Sir Percival, and no
change in Miss Fairlie.

The Wednesday's post brought with it an event— the reply
from Mrs. Catherick. I took a copy of the document, which I
have preserved, and which I may as well present in this place.
It ran as follows : — •

* Madam, — I beg to acknowledge the receipt of your letter,
inquiring whether my daughter, Anne, was placed under
medical superintendence with my knowledge and approval,
and whether the share taken in the matter by Sir Percival
Clyde was such as to merit the expression of my gratitude
tov/ards that gentleman. Be pleased to accept my answer in
the affirmative to both those questions, and believe me to
remain, your obedient servant,

'Jane Anne Catherick.'

Short, sharp, and to the point : in form, rather a business-
like letter for a woman to write ; in substance, as plain a
confirmation as could be desired of Sir Percival Clyde's state-
ment. This was my opinion, and with certain minor reserva-
tions. Miss Halcombe's opinion also. Sir Percival, when the
letter was shown to him, did not appear to be struck by the
sharp, short tone of it. He told us that Mrs. Catherick was
a woman of few words, a clear-headed, straightforward, un-
imaginative person, who wrote briefly and plainly, just as she
spoke.

ii8

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

The next duty to be accomplished, now that the answer
had been received, was to acquaint Miss Fairlie with Sir
Percival's explanation. Miss Halcombe had undertaken to
do this, and had left the room to g"o to her sister, when she
suddenly returned again, and sat down by the easy-chair in
which I was reading the newspaper. Sir Percival had gone
out a minute before, to look at the stables, and no one was in
the room but ourselves.

* I suppose we have really and truly done all we can ? ' she
said, turning and twisting Mrs. Catherick's letter in her
hand.

' If we are friends of Sir Percival's, who know him and
trust him, we have done all, and more than all, that is neces-
sary,' I answered, a little annoyed by this return of her hesita-
tion. ' But if we are enemies who suspect him '

'That alternative is not even to be thought of,' she inter-
posed. ' We are Sir Percival's friends ; and, if generosity
and forbearance can add to our regard for him, we ought to
be Sir Percival's admirers as well. You know that he saw
Mr. Fairlie yesterday, and that he afterwards went out with
me ? '

' Yes. I saw you riding away together.'
' We began the ride by talking about Anne Catherick, and
about the singular manner in which Mr. Hartright met with
her. But we soon dropped that subject ; and Sir Percival
spoke next, in the most unselfish terms, of his engagement
with Laura. He said he had observed that she was out of
spirits, and he was willing, if not informed to the contrary, to
attribute to that cause the alteration in her manner towards
him during his present visit. If, however, there was any
more serious reason for the change, he would entreat that no
constraint might be placed on her inclinations either by Mr.
Fairlie or by me. AH he asked, in that case, was that she
■would recall to mind, for the last time, what the circumstances
were under which the engagement between them was made,
and what his conduct had been from the beginning of the
courtship to the present time. If, after due reflection on those
two subjects, she seriously desired that he should withdraw
his pretensions to the honour of becoming her husband — and
if she v/ould tell him so plainly, with her own lips— he would
sacrifice himself by leaving her perfectly free to withdraw from
the engagement.'

' No man could say more than that. Miss Halcombe. As
to my experience, few men in his situation would have said
as much.'

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

She paused after I had spoken those words, and looked at
me with a singular expression of perplexity and distress.

' I accuse nobody and I suspect nothing,' she broke out,
abruptly. ' But I cannot and will not accept the responsibility
of persuading Laura to this marriage.'

' That is exactly the course which Sir Percival Glyde has
himself requested you to take,' I replied, in astonishment.
' He has begged you not to force her inclinations.'

' And he indirectly obliges me to force them, if I give her
his message.'

* How can that possibly be ? '

' Consult your own knowledge of Laura, Mr. Gilmore.
If I tell her to reflect on the circumstances of her engagement,
I at once appeal to two of the strongest feelings in her nature
— to her love for her father's memory, and to her strict regard
for truth. You know that she never broke a promise in her
life ; you know that she entered on this engagement at the
beginning of her father's fatal illness, and that he spoke
hopefully and happily of her marriage to Sir Percival Glyde on
his death-bed.'

I own that I was a little shocked at this view of the case.

' Surely,' I said, 'you don't mean to infer that when Sir
Percival spoke to you yesterday, he speculated on such a result
as you have just mentioned ? '

Her frank, fearless face answered for her before she
spoke.

* Do you think I would remain an instant in the company
of any man whom I suspected of such baseness as that ? ' she
asked, angrily.

I liked to feel her hearty indignation flash out on me in
that way. We see so much malice and so little indignation
in my profession.

' In that case,' I said, ' excuse me if I tell you, in our legal
phrase, that you are travelling out of the record. Whatever
the consequences may be. Sir Percival has a right to expect
that your sister should carefully consider her engagement
from every reasonable point of view before she claims her
release from it. If that unlucky letter has prejudiced her
against him, go at once, and tell her that he has cleared him-
self in your eyes and in mine. What objection can she urge
against him after that ? What excuse can she possibly have
for changing her mind about a man whom she had virtually
accepted for her husband more than two years ago ? '

' In the eyes of law and reason, Mr. Gilmore, no excuse, I
dare say. If she still hesitates, and if I still hesitate, you

I20

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

must attribute our strang-e conduct, if you like, to caprice in
both cases, and we must bear the imputation as well as we can.'

With those words, she suddenly rose, and left me. When
a sensible woman has a serious question put to her, and
evades it by a flippant answer, it is a sure sign, in ninety-nine
cases out of a hundred, that she has something to conceal.
I returned to the perusal of the newspaper, strongly suspect-
ing that Miss Halcombe and Miss Fairlie had a secret between
them which they were keeping from Sir Percival and keeping
from me. I thought this hard on both of us — especially on
Sir Percival.

My doubts — or, to speak more correctly, my convictions
• — were confirmed by Miss Halcombe's language and manner,
when I saw her again later in the day. She was suspiciously
brief and reserved in telling me the result of her interview
with her sister. Miss Fairlie, it appeared, had listened
quietly while the affair of the letter was placed before her in
the right point of view ; but when Miss Halcombe next pro-
ceeded to say that the object of Sir Percival's visit at Lim-
meridge was to prevail on her to let a day be fixed for the
marriage, she checked all further reference to the subject by
begging for time. If Sir Percival would consent to spare her
for the present, she would undertake to give him his final
answer, before the end of the year. She pleaded for this
delay with such anxiety and agitation, that Miss Halcombe
had promised to use her influence, if necessary, to obtain it ;
and there, at Miss Fairlie's earnest entreaty, all further dis-
cussion of the marriage question had ended.

The purely temporary arrangement thus proposed might
have been convenient enough to the young lady ; but it
proved somewhat embarrassing to the writer of these lines.
That morning's post had brought a letter from my partner,
which obliged me to return to town the next day, by the
afternoon train. It was extremely probable that I should
find no second opportunity of presenting myself at Limmeridge
House during the remainder of the year. In that case, sup-
posing Miss Fairlie ultimately decided on holding to her
engagement, my necessary personal communication with her,
before I drew her settlement, would become something like a
downright impossibility ; and we should be obliged to commit
to writing questions which ought always to be discussed on both
sides by word of mouth. I said nothing about this difficulty,
until Sir Percival had been consulted on the subject of the de-
sired delay. He was too gallant a gentleman not to grant the
request immediately. When Miss Halcombe informed me of

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

this I told her that I must absolutely speak to her sister, before
I left Limmeridg"e ; and it was, therefore, arranged that I
should see Miss Fairlie in her own sitting-room, the next
morning. She did not come down to dinner, or join us in
the evening. Indisposition was the excuse ; and I thought
Sir Percival looked, as well he might, a little annoyed when
he heard of it.

The next morning, as soon as breakfast was over, I went
up to Miss Fairlie's sitting-room. The poor girl looked so
pale and sad, and came forward to welcome me so readily
and prettily, that the resolution to lecture her on her caprice
and indecision, which I had been forming all the waj' up-
stairs, failed me on the spot. I led her back to the chair
from which she had risen, and placed myself opposite to her.
Her cross-grained pet greyhound was in the room, and I fully
expected a barking and snapping reception. Strange to say,
the whimsical little brute falsified my expectations by jumping
into my lap, and poking its sharp muzzle familiarly into my
hand the moment I sat down.

' You used often to sit on my knee when you. were a
child, my dear,' I said, 'and now your little dog seems
determined to succeed you in the vacant throne. Is that
pretty drawing your doing ? '

I pointed to a little album, Vv^hich lay on the table by her
side, and which she had evidently been looking over when I
came in. The page that lay open had a small Avater-colour
landscape very neatly mounted on it. This was the drawing
which had suggested my question : an idle question enough —
but how could I begin to talk of business to her the moment
I opened my lips ?

' No,' she said, looking away from the drawing rather con-
fusedly ; ' it is not my doing.'

Her fingers had a restless habit, which I remembered in
her as a child, of always playing with the first thing that came
to hand, whenever any one was talking to her. On this
occasion they wandered to the album, and toyed absently
about the margin of the little water-colour drawing. The ex-
pression of melancholy deepened on her face. She did not
look at the drawing, or look at me. Her eyes moved uneasily
from object to object in the room ; betraying plainly that she
suspected what my purpose was in coming to speak to her.
Seeing that, I thought it best to get to the purpose with as
little delay as possible.

' One of the errands, my dear, which brings me here is to
bid you good-by,' I began. * I must get back to London

THE WOMAN IN WHITEi

to-day : and, before I leave, I want to have a Vv-ord with you
on the subject of }Our ov^^i affairs.'

' I am very sorry you are going-, Mr. Gihnore,' she said,
looking- at me kindly. ' It is like the happy old times to have
you here.'

* I hope I may be able to come back, and recall those
pleasant memories once more,' I continued ; ' but as there is
some uncertainty about the future, I must take my oppor-
tunity when I can get it, and speak to you now. I am your
old lawyer and your old friend ; and I may remind you, I am
sure, without offence, of the possibility of your marrying- Sir
Percival Clyde.'

She took her hand oft" the little album as suddenly as if it
had turned hot and burnt her. Her fingers twined together
nervously in her lap ; her eyes looked down again at the
floor ; and an expression of constraint settled on her face
which looked ahnost like an expression of pain.

' Is it absolutely necessary to speak of my marriage
engagement ? ' she asked, in low tones.

' It is necessary to refer to it,' I answered ; 'but not to
dwell on it. Let us merely say that you may marry, or that
you may not marry. In the first case, I must be prepared,
beforehand, to draw your settlement ; and I ought not to do
that without, as a matter of politeness, first consulting you.
This may be my only chance of hearing what your wishes
are. Let us, therefore, suppose the case of your marrying,
and let me inform you, in as few words as possible, what
your position is now, and what you may make it, if you
please, in the future.'

I explained to her the object of a marriage-settlement ;
and then told her exactl)^ what her prospects v.'^ere — in the
first place, on her coming of age, and, in the second place,
on the decease of her uncle — marking the distinction between
the property in which she had a life interest onlj', and the
property which was left at her own control. She listened
attentively, with the constrained expression still on her face,
and her hands still nervously clasped together in her lap.

'And now,' I said, in conclusion, ' tell me if you can think
of any condition which, in the case we have supposed, you
would wish me to make for you— subject, of course, to your
guardian's approval, as you are not yet of age.'

She moved uneasily in her chair — then looked in my face,
on a sudden very earnestly.

' If it does happen,' she began, faintly ; ' if I am

' If you are married,' I added, helping her out.

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

* Don't let him part me from Marian,' she cried, with a
sudden outbreak of energy. ' Oh, Mr. Gilmore, pray make
it law that Marian is to live with me ! '

Under other circumstances I might perhaps have been
amused at this essentially feminine interpretation of my
question, and of the long explanation which had preceded it.
But her looks and tones, when she spoke, were of a kind to
make me more than serious- — they distressed me. Her
words, few as they were, betrayed a desperate clinging to
the past which boded ill for the future.

' Your having Marian Halcombe to live with you, can
easily be settled by private arrangement,' I said. ' You
hardly understood my question, I think. It referred to your
own property — to the disposal of your money. Supposing
you were to make a will, when you come of age, who would
you like the money to go to ? '

' Marian has been mother and sister both to me,' said the
good, affectionate girl, her pretty blue eyes glistening while
she spoke. ' May I leave it to Marian, Mr. Gilmore?'

* Certainly, my love,' I answered. * But remember what
a large sum it is. Would you like it all to go to Miss
Halcombe? '

She hesitated ; her colour came and went ; and her hand
stole back again to the little album.

' Not all of it,' she said. ' There is some one else, besides
Marian '

She stopped ; her colour heightened ; and the fingers of
the hand that rested upon the album beat gently on the
margin of the drawing, as if her memory had set them
going mechanically with the remembrance of a favourite tune.

* You mean some other member of the family besides
Miss Halcombe ? ' I suggested, seeing her at a loss to
proceed.

The heightening colour spread to her forehead and her
neck, and the nervous fingers suddenly clasped themselves
fast round the edge of the book.

'There is some one else,' she said, not noticing my last
words, though she had evidently heard them ; ' there is some
one else who might like a little keepsake, if — if I might leave
it. There would be no harm, if I should die first '

She paused again. The colour that had spread over her
cheeks suddenly, as suddenly left them. The hand on the
album resigned its hold, trembled a little, and moved the
book away from her. She looked at me for an instant — then
turned her head aside in the chair. Her handkerchief fell to

124

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

the floof as she changed her position, and she hurriedly hid
her face from me in her hands.

Sad ! To remember her, as I did, the Hvehest, happiest
child that ever laughed the day through ; and to see her now,
in the flower of her age and her beauty, so broken and so
brought down as this !

In the distress that she caused me, I forgot the years that
had passed, and the change they had made in our position
towards one another. I moved my chair close to her, and
picked up her handkerchief from the carpet, and drew her
hands from her face gently. ' Don't cry, my love,' I said, and
dried the tears that were gathering in her eyes, with my own
hand, as if she had been the little Laura Fairlie of ten long
years ago.

It was the best way I could have taken to compose her.
She laid her head on my shoulder, and smiled faintly through
her tears.

' I am very sorry for forgetting myself,' she said, artlessly.
' I have not been well — I have felt sadly weak and nervous
lately ; and I often cry without reason when I am alone. I
am better now ; I can answer you as I ought, Mr. Gilmore, I
can indeed.'

' No, no, my dear,' I replied ; ' we will consider the subject
as done with for the present. You have said enough to
sanction my taking the best possible care of your interests ;
and we can settle details at another opportunity. Let us have
done with business, now, and talk of something else.'

I led her at once into speaking on other topics. In ten
minutes' time, she was in better spirits ; and I rose to take
my leave.

' Come here again,' she said earnestly. * I will try to he
worthier of your kind feeling for me and for my interests if
you will only come again.'

Still clinging to the past — that past which I represented
to her, in my way, as Miss Halcombe did in hers ! It troubled
me sorely to see her looking back, at the beginning of her
career, just as I look back at the end of mine.

* If I do come again, I hope I shall find you better,' I said
— ' better and happier. God bless you, my dear ! '

She only answered by putting up her cheek to me to be
kissed. Even lawyers have hearts ; and mine ached a little
as I took leave of her.

The whole interview between us had hardly lasted more
than half an hour — she had not breathed a word, in my
presence, to explain the mystery of her evident distress and

12!;

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

dismay at the prospect of her marriage — and yet she had con-
trived to win me over to her side of the question, I neither
knew how nor why. I had entered the room, feehng- that Sir
Percival Glyde had fair reason to complain of the m.anner in
which she was treating him. I left it, secretly hoping that
matters might end in her taking him at his word and claim-
ing her release. A man of my age and experience ought to
have known better than to vacillate in this unreasonable
manner. I can make no excuse for myself ; I can only tell
the truth, and say — so it was.

The hour for my departure was now drawing near. I
sent to Mr. Fairlie to say that I would wait on him to take
leave if he liked, but that he must excuse my being rather in
a hurry. He sent a message back, written in pencil on a slip
of paper : ' Kind love and best wishes, dear Giimore. Hurry
of any kind is inexpressibly injurious to me. Pray take care
of yourself. Good-by.'

Just before I left, I saw Miss Halcombe, for a moment,
alone.

' Have you said all you wanted to Laura ? ' she asked.

* Yes,' I replied. * She is very weak and nervous — I am
glad she has you to take care of her.'

Miss Halcombe's sharp eyes studied my face attentively.

* You are altering your opinion about Laura,' she said.
' You are readier to make allowances for her than you were
yesterday.'

No sensible man ever engages, unprepared, in a fencing
match of words with a woman. I only answered :

' Let me know what happens. I will do nothing till I
hear from you.'

She still looked hard in my face. * I wish it was all over,
and well over, Mr. Giimore — and so do you.' With those
words she left me.

Sir Percival most politely insisted on seeing me to the
carriage door.

' If you are ever in my neighbourhood,' he said, ' pray don't
forget that I am sincerely anxious to improve our acquaint-
ance. The tried and trusted old friend of this family will be
always a welcome visitor in any house of mine.'

A really irresistible man — courteous, considerate, delight-
fully free from pride — a gentleman, every inch of him. As I
drove away to the station, I felt as if I could cheerfully do
anything to promote the interests of Sir Percival Gylde — any-
thing in the world, except drawing the marriage-settlement of
his wife.

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

III.

A WEEK passed, after my return to London, without the receipt
of any communication from Miss Halcombe.

On the eighth day, a letter in her handwriting was placed
among the other letters on my table.

It announced that Sir Percival Gylde had been definitely
accepted, and that the marriage was to take place, as he had
originally desired, before the end of the year. In all probability
the ceremony would be performed during the last fortnight
in December. Miss Fairlie's twenty-first birthday was late
in March. She would, therefore, by this arrangement, become
Sir Percival's wife about three months before she was of age.

I ought not to hav'e been surprised, I ought not to have
been sorry; but I was surprised and sorry, nevertheless.
Some little disappointment, caused by the unsatisfactory
shortness of Miss Halcombe's letter, mingled itself with these
feelings, and contributed its share towards upsetting my
serenity for the da}'. In six lines my correspondent announced
the proposed marriage ; in three more, she told me that Sir
Percival had left Cumberland to return to his house in
Hampshire ; and in two concluding sentences she informed
me, first, that Laura was sadly in want of change and cheer-
ful society ; secondly, that she had resolved to try the effect
of some such change forthwith, by taking her sister away
with her on a visit to certain old friends in Yorkshire. There
the letter ended, without a word to explain what the circum-
stances were which had decided Miss Fairlle to accept Sir
Percival Glyde in one short week from the time when I had
last seen her.

At a later period, the cause of this sudden determination
was fully explained to me. It is not my business to relate
it imperfectly, on hearsay evidence. The circumstances came
within the personal experience of Miss Halcombe ; and, when
her narrative succeeds mine, she will describe them in every
particular, exactly as they happened. In the mean time, the
plain duty for me to perform — before I, in my turn, lay down my
pen and withdraw from the story — is to relate the one remain-
ing event connected with Miss Fairlie's proposed marriage in
which I was concerned, namely, the drawing of the settlement.

It is impossible to refer intelligibly to this document, with-
out first entering into certain particulars, in relation to the
bride's pecuniary affairs. I will try to make my explanation
briefly and plainly, and to keep it free from professional ob-
scurities and technicalities. The matter is of the utmost im-

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

portance. I warn all readers of these lines that Miss Fairlie's
inheritance is a very serious part of Miss Fairlie's story ; and
that Mr, Gilmore's experience, in this particular, must be
their experience also, if they wish to understand the narratives
which are yet to come.

Miss Fairlie's expectations, then, were of a twofold kind ;
comprising- her possible inheritance of real property, or land,
when her uncle died, and her absolute inheritance of personal
property, or money, when she came of age.
Let us take the land first.

In the time of Miss Fairlie's paternal grandfather (whom
we will call Mr. Fairlie, the elder) the entailed succession to
the Limmeridge estate stood thus :

Mr. Fairlie, the elder, died and left three sons, Philip,
Frederick, and Arthur. As eldest son, Philip succeeded to the
estate. If he died without leaving a son, the property went
to the second brother, Frederick. And if Frederick died also
without leaving a son, the property went to the third brother,
Arthur.

As events turned out, Mr. Philip Fairlie died leaving an
only daughter, the Laura of this story ; and the estate, in con-
sequence, went, in course of law, to the second brother,
Frederick, a single man. The third brother, Arthur, had died
many years before the decease of Philip, leaving a son and a
daughter. The son, at the age of eighteen, was drowned at
Oxford. His death left Laura, the daughter of Mr. Philip
Fairlie, presumptive heiress to the estate ; with every chance
of succeeding to it, in the ordinary course of nature, on her
Uncle Frederick's death, if the said Frederick died without
leaving- male issue.

Except in the event, then, of Mr. Frederick Fairlie's
marrying and leaving an heir (the two very last things in the
world that he was likely to do), his niece, Laura, would have
the property on his death ; possessing, it must be remembered,
nothing more than a life-interest in it. If she died single, or
died childless, the estate would revert to her cousin Magdalen,
the daughter of Mr. Arthur Fairlie. If she married, with a
proper settlement — or, in other words, with the settlement I
meant to make for her — the income from the estate (a good
three thousand a year) would, during her lifetime, be at her
own disposal. If she died before her husband, he would natur-
ally expect to be left in the enjoyment of the income, for his
lifetime. If she had a son, that son would be the heir, to the
exclusion of her cousin Magdalen. Thus, Sir Percival's pros-
pects in marrying Miss Fairlie (so far as his wife's expectations

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

from real property were concerned) promised him these two
advantages, on Mr. Frederick Fairlie's death : First, the use
of three thousand a year (by his wife's permission, while she
lived, and, in his own right, on her death, if he survived
her) ; and, secondly, the inheritance of Limmeridge for his
son, if he had one.

So much for the landed property, and for the disposal of
the income from it, on the occasion of Miss Fairlie's marriage.
Thus far, no difficulty or difference of opinion on the lady's
settlement was at all likely to arise between Sir Percival's
lawyer and myself.

The personal estate, or, in other words, the money to
which Miss Fairlie would become entitled on reaching the
age of twenty-one years, is the next point to consider.

This part of her inheritance was, in itself, a comfortable
little fortune. It was derived under her father's will, and it
amounted to the sum of twenty thousand pounds. Besides
this, she had a life interest in ten thousand pounds more ;
which latter amount was to go, on her decease, to her
aunt Eleanor, her father's only sister. It will greatly assist
in setting the family affairs before the reader in the clearest
possible light, if I stop here for a moment, to explain why the
aunt had been kept waiting for her legacy until the death of
the niece.

Mr. Philip Fairlie had lived on excellent terms with his
sister Eleanor, as long as she remained a single woman.
But when her marriage took place, somewhat late in life, and
when that marriage united her to an Italian gentleman,
named Fosco — or, rather, to an Italian nobleman, seeing that
he rejoiced in the title of Count — Mr. Fairlie disapproved of
her conduct so strongly that he ceased to hold any com-
munication with her, and even went the length of striking her
name out of his will. The other members of the family all
thought this serious manifestation of resentment at his
sister's marriage more or less unreasonable. Count Fosco,
though not a rich man, was not a penniless adventurer either.
He had a small, but sutBcient income of his own ; he had
lived many years in England ; and he held an excellent position
in society. These recommendations, however, availed nothing
with Mr. Fairlie. In many of his opinions he was an English-
man of the old school ; and he hated a foreigner, simply and
solely because he was a foreigner. The utmost that he could
be prevailed on to do, in after years, mainly at Miss Fairlie's
intercession, was to restore his sister's name to its former
place in his will, but to keep her waiting for her legacy by

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

giving the income of the money to his daughter for life, and
the money itself, if her aunt died before her, to her cousin
Magdalen. Considering the relative ages of the two ladies,
the aunt's chance, in the ordinary course of nature, of receiv-
ing the ten thousand pounds, was thus rendered doubtful in
the extreme ; and Madame Fosco resented her brother's treat-
ment of her as unjustly as usual in such cases, by refusing to
see her niece, and declining to believe that Miss Fairlie's
intercession had ever been exerted to restore her name to Mr.
Fairlie's will.

Such was the history of the ten thousand pounds. Here
again no difficulty could arise with Sir Percival's legal adviser.
The income would be at the wife's disposal, and the principal
would go to her aunt, or her cousin, on her death.

All preliminary explanations being now cleared out of the
way, I come, at last, to the real knot of the case — to the
twenty thousand pounds.

This sum was absolutely Miss Fairlie's own, on her com-
pleting her twenty-first year ; and the whole future disposition
of it depended, in the first instance, on the conditions I could
obtain for her in her marriage-settlement. The other clauses
contained in that document were of a formal kind, and need
not be recited here. But the clause relating to the money is
too important to be passed over. A few lines will be sufficient
to give the necessary abstract of it.

My stipulation in regard to the twenty thousand pounds,
was simply this : The whole amount was to be settled so as
to give the income to the lady for her life ; afterwards to Sir
Percival for his life ; and the principal to the children of the
marriage. In default of issue, the principal was to be disposed
of as the lad)^ might by her will direct, for which purpose I
reserved to her the right of making a will. The effect of
these conditions may be thus summed up. If Lady Glyde
died without leaving children, her half-sister Miss Halcombe,
and any other relatives or friends whom she might be anxious
to benefit, would, on her husband's death, divide among them
such shares of her money as she desired them to have. If,
on the other hand, she died, leaving children, then their
interest, naturally and necessarily, superseded all other
interests whatsoever. This was the clause ; and no one who
reads it, can fail, I think, to agree with me that it meted out
equal justice to all parties.

We shall see how my proposals were met on the husband's
side.

At the time when Miss Halcombe's letter reached me, I

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was even more busily occupied than usual. But I contrived
to make leisure for the settlement. I had drawn it, and had
sent it for approval to Sir Percival's solicitor, in less than a
week from the time when Miss Halcombe had informed me
of the proposed marriage.

After a lapse of two days, the document was returned to
me, with notes and remarks of the baronet's lawyer. His
objections, in general, proved to be of the most trifling and
technical kind, until he came to the clause relating to the
twenty thousand pounds. Against this, there were double
lines drawn in red ink, and the following note was appended
to them :

' Not admissible. The principal to go to Sir Percival
Clyde, in the event of his surviving Lady Glyde, and there
being no issue.'

That is to say, not one farthing of the twenty thousand
pounds was to go to Miss Halcombe, or to any other relative
or friend of Lady Glyde's. The whole sum, if she left no
children, was to slip into the pockets of her husband.

The answer I wrote to this audacious proposal was as
short and sharp as I could make it. ' My dear sir. Miss
Fairlie's settlement. I maintain the clause to which you
object, exactly as it stands. Yours truly.' The rejoinder
came back in a quarter of an hour. ' My dear sir. Miss
Fairlie's settlement. I maintain the red ink to which you
object, exactly as it stands. Yours truly.' In the detestable
slang of the day, we were now both 'at a dead-lock,' and
nothing was left for it but to refer to our clients on either side.

As matters stood, my client — Miss Fairlie not having yet
completed her twenty-first year — Mr. Frederick Fairlie, was
her guardian. I wrote by that day's post and put the case
before him exactly as it stood ; not only urging every argu-
ment I could think of to induce him to maintain the clause as
I had drawn it, but stating to him plainly the mercenary motive
which was at the bottom of the opposition to my settlement
of the twenty thousand pounds. The knowledge of Sir
Percival's affairs which I had necessarily gained when the
provisions of the deed on liis side were submitted in due
course to my examination, had but too plainly informed me
that the debts on his estate were enormous, and thathis income,
though nominally a large one, was, virtually, for a man in his
position, next to nothing. The want of ready money was the
practical necessity of Sir Percival's existence ; and his lawyer's
note on the clause in the settlement was nothing but the
frankly selfish expression of it.

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

Mr. Fairlie's answer reached me by return of post, and
proved to be wandering- and irrelevant in the extreme. Turned
into plain English, it practically expressed itself to this effect :
' Would dear Gilmore be so very obliging as not to worry his
friend and client about such a trifle as a remote contingency ?
Was it likely that a young woman of twenty-one would die
before a man of forty-five, and die without children ? On the
other hand, in such a miserable world as this, was it pos-
sible to over-estimate the value of peace and quietness ? If
those two heavenly blessings were offered in exchange for
such an earthly trifle as a remote chance of twenty thousand
pounds, was it not a fair bargain ? Surely, yes. Then why
not make it? '

I threw the letter away in disgust. Just as it had fluttered
to the ground, there was a knock at my door ; and Sir
Percival's solicitor, Mr. Merriman, was shown in. There are
many varieties of sharp practitioners in this world, but, I think,
the hardest of all to deal with are the men who overreach you
under the disguise of inveterate good humour. A fat, well-fed,
smiling, friendly man of business is of all parties to a bargain
the most hopeless to deal with. Mr. Merriman was one of
this class.

' And how is good Mr. Gilmore ? ' he began, all in a glow
with the warmth of his own amiability. ' Glad to see you,
sir, in such excellent health. I was passing your door ; and
I thought I would look in, in case you might have something
to say to me. Do — now pray do let us settle this little dif-
ference of ours by word of mouth, if we can ! Have you
heard from your client yet ? '

' Yes. Have you heard from yours ? '

' My dear, good sir ! I wish I had heard from him to any
purpose — I wish, Vv-ith all my heart, the responsibility was
off my shoulders ; but he is obstinate, — or, let me rather say,
resolute — and he won't take it oft'. "Merriman, I leave de-
tails to you. Do what you think right for my interests ; and
consider me as having personally withdrawn from the business
until it is all over." Those were Sir Percival's words a fort-
night ago ; and all I can get him to do now is to repeat them.
I am not a hard man, Mr. Gilmore, as you know. Personally
and privately, I do assure you, I should like to sponge out
that note of mine at this very moment. But if Sir Percival
won't go into the matter, if Sir Percival will blindly leave all
his interests in my sole care, what course can I possibly take
except the course of asserting them ? My hands are bound — -
don't you see, my dear sir? — my hands are bound.'

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

* You maintain your note on the clause, then, to the
letter ? ' I said.

' Yes— deuce take it ! I have no other alternative.' He
walked to the fireplace, and warmed himself, humming- the
fag- end of a tune in a rich convivial bass voice. ' What does
your side say ? ' he went on ; ' now pray tell me — what does
your side say ? '

I was ashamed to tell him. I attempted to gain time — nay,
I did v/orse. My legal instincts got the better of me ; and I
even tried to bargain.

' Twenty thousand pounds is rather a large sum to be
given up by the lady's friends at two days' notice,' I said.

' Very true,' replied Mr. Merriman, looking- down
thoughtfully at his boots. ' Properly put, sir — most properly
put !"'

' A compromise, recognising the interests of the lady's
family as well as the interests of the husband might not,
perhaps, have frightened my client quite so much.' I went on.
' Come ! come ! this contingency resolves itself into a matter
of bargaining after all. What is the least you will take ? '

' The least we will take,' said Mr. Merriman, ' is nineteen-
thousand-nine-hundred-and- ninety -nine-pounds-nineteen-shil-
lings-and-eleven-pence-three-farthings. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Ex-
cuse me, Mr. Gilrnore. I m.ust have my little joke.'

'Little enough!' I remarked. 'The joke is just worth
the odd farthing it was made for.'

Mr. Merriman was delighted. He laughed over my retort
till the room rang again. I was not half so good-humoured,
on my side ; I came back to business, and closed the inter-
view.

'This is Friday,' I said. 'Give us till Tuesday next for
our final answer.'

' By all means,' replied Mr. Merriman. ' Longer, my dear
sir, if you like.' He took up his hat to go; and then
addressed me again. ' By the wa)',' he said, ' your clients in
Cumberland have not heard anything- more of the woman who
wrote the anonymous letter, have they ? '

'Nothing more,' I answered. ' Have you found no trace
of her ? '

' Not yet,' said my legal friend. ' But we don't despair.
Sir Percival has his suspicions that Somebody is keeping- her
in hiding ; and we are having that Somebody watched.'

' You mean the old woman who was with her in Cumber-
land,' I said.

' Quite another party, sir,' answered Mr. Merriman,

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

* We don't happen to have laid hands on the old woman yet.
Our Somebody is a man. We have got him close under our
eye here in London : and we strongly suspect he had something-
to do with helping her in the first instance to escape from the
Asylum. Sir Percival wanted to question him, at once, but I
said, *' No. Questioning him will only put him on his guard :
watch him, and wait." We shall see what happens. A
dangerous woman to be at large, Mr. Gilmore ; nobody knows
what she may do next. I wish you good morning, sir. On
Tuesday next I shall hope for the pleasure of hearing from
you.' He smiled amiably and went out.

My mind had been rather absent during the latter part of
the conversation v/ith my legal friend. I was so anxious
about the matter of the settlement, that I had little attention
to give to any other subject ; and, the moment I was left
alone again, I began to think over what my next proceeding
ought to be.

In the case of any other client, I should have acted on my
instructions, however personally distasteful to me, and have
given up the point about the twenty thousand pounds on the
spot. But I could not act with this business-like indifference
towards Miss Fairlie. I had an honest feeling of aflfection
and admiration for her ; I remembered gratefully that her
father had been the kindest patron and friend to me that ever
man had ; I had felt towards her, while I was drawing the
settlement, as I might have felt, if I had not been an old
bachelor, towards a daughter of my own ; and I was determined
to spare no personal sacrifice in her service and where her
interests were concerned. Writing a second time to Mr.
Fairlie was not to be thought of; it would only be giving him
a second opportunity of slipping through my fingers. Seeing
him and personally remonstrating with him, might possibly
be of more use. The next day was Saturday, I determined to
take a return ticket, and jolt my old bones down to Cumber-
land, on the chance of persuading him to adopt the just, the
independent, and the honourable course. It wfis a poor
chance enough, no doubt ; but, vv^hen I had tried it, my con-
science would be at ease. I should then have done all that a
man in my position could do to serve the interests of my old
friend's only child.

The weather on Saturday was beautiful, a west Vvind and
a bright sun. Having felt latterly a return of that fulness and
oppression of the head, against which my doctor warned me so
seriously more than two years since, I resolved to take the
opportunity of getting a little extra exercise, by sending my bag

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

on before me, and walking to the terminus in Euston-square.
As I came out into Holborn, a gentleman walking by rapidly,
stopped and spoke to me. It was Mr. Walter Hartright.

If he had not been the first to greet me, I should certainly
have passed him.. He was so changed that I hardly knew him
again. His face looked pale and haggard — his manner was
hurried and uncertain — and his dress, which I remembered as
neat and gentlemanlike when I saw him at Limmeridge, was
so slovenly now, that I should really have been ashamed of the
appearance of it on one of my own clerks.

' Have you been long back from Cumberland ? ' he asked.
' I heard from Miss Halcombe lately. I am aware that Sir
Percival Clyde's explanation has been considered satisfactor3\
Will the marriage take place soon ? Do you happen to know,
Mr. Gilmore ? '

He spoke so fast, and crowded his questions together so
strangely and confusedly that I could hardly follow^ himi.
However accidentally intimate he might have been with the
famiily at Limmeridge, I could not see that he had any right
to expect information on their private affairs ; and I determined
to drop him, as ea.sily as might be, on the subject of Miss
Fairlie's marriage.

' Time will show, Mr. Hartright,' I said — 'time will shov/.
I dare say if we look out for the marriage in the papers we
shall not be far wrong. Excuse my noticing it — but I am sorry
to see you not looking so well as you were wiien we last
met.'

A momentary nervous contraction quivered about his lips
and eyes, and made me half reproach myself for having
answered him in such a sigiiificantly guarded manner.

' I had no right to ask about her marriage,' he said, bitterly.
* I must wait to see it in the newspapers like other people.
Yes,' he went on, before I could make any apologies, ' I have
not been well lately. I am going to another country, to try a
change of scene and occupation. Miss Halcombe has kindly
assisted me with her influence, and my testimonials have been
found satisfactory. It is a long distance off — but I don't care
where I go, what the climate is, or how long I am away.' He
looked about him, v.-hile he said this, at the throng of strangers
passing us by on either side, in a strange, suspicious manner,
as if he thought that some of them might be v.-atching us.

' I wish you well through it, and safe back again,' I said ;
and then added, so as not to keep him altogether at arm's
length on the subject of the Fairlies, ' I am going down to
Limm.eridge to-day on business. Miss Halcombe and Miss

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

Fairlie are away just now, on a visit to some friends in
Yorkshire.'

His eyes brightened, and he seemed about to say something
in answer ; but the same momentary nervous spasm crossed his
face again. He took my hand, pressed it hard, and disappeared
among the crowd, without saying another word. Though he
was Uttle more than a stranger to me, I waited for a moment,
looking after him almost with a feeling of regret. I had
gained, in m,y profession, sufficient experience of young men,
to know what the outward signs and tokens were of their
beginning to go wrong ; and, when I resumed my walk to the
railway, I am sorry to say I felt more than doubtful about
Mr. Hartright's future.

IV.

Leaving by an early train, I got to Limmerldge in time for
dinner. The house was oppressively empty and dull. I had
expected that good Mrs. Vesey would have been company for
me in the absence of the young ladies ; but she was confined to
her room by a cold. The servants were so surprised at seeing
me that they hurried and bustled absurdly, and made all sorts
of annoying mistakes. Even the butler, who was old enough
to have known better, brought me a bottle of port that was
chilled. The reports of Mr. Fairlie's health were just as usual ;
and when I sent up a message to announce my arrival, I was
told that he would be delighted to see me the next morning,
but that the sudden news of my appearance had prostrated
him with palpitations for the rest of the evening. The wind
howled dismally all night, and strange cracking and groaning
noises sounded here, there, and everywhere in the empty house.
I slept as wretchedly as possible ; and got up, in a mighty bad
humour, to breakfast by myself the next morning.

At ten o'clock I was conducted to Mr. Fairlie's apart-
ments. He was in his usual room, his usual chair, and his
usual aggravating state of mind and body. When I went in,
his valet was standing before him, holding up for inspection a
heavy volume of etchings, as long and as broad as my office
writing-desk. The miserable foreigner grinned in the most
abject manner, and looked ready to drop with fatigue, while
liis master composedly turned over the etchings, and brought
their hidden beauties to light with the help of a magnifying
glass.

* You very best or good old friends,' said Mr. Fairlie,
leaning back lazily before he could look at me, ' are you qm'ie

136

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

well ? How nice of you to come here and see me in my
solitude. Dear Gilmore ! '

I had expected that the valet would be dismissed when I
appeared ; but nothing of the sort happened. There he
stood, in front of his master's chair, trembling under the
weight of the etchings ; and there Mr. Fairlie sat, serenely
twirling the magnifying glass between his white fingers and
thumbs.

' I have come to speak to you on a very important matter,'
I said ; * and you will therefore excuse me, if I suggest that we
had better be alone.'

The unfortunate valet looked at me gratefully. Mr.
Fairlie faintly repeated my last three words, ' better be
alone,' with every appearance of the utmost possible astonish-
ment.

I was in no humour for trifling ; and I resolved to make
him understand what I meant.

' Oblige me by giving that man permission to withdraw,'
I said, pointing to the valet.

Mr. Fairlie arched his e3-ebrows, and pursed up his lips,
in sarcastic surprise.

* Man ? ' he repeated. ' You provoking old Gilmore,
what can you possibly mean by calling him a man ? He's
nothing of the sort. He might have been a man half an hour
ago, before I wanted my etchings ; and he may be a man
half an hour hence, when I don't want them any longer. At
present he is simply a portfolio stand. Why object, Gilmore,
to a portfolio stand ? '

' I do object. For the third time, Mr. Fairlie, I beg that
we may be alone.'

My tone and manner left him no alternative but to comply
with my request. He looked at the servant, and pointed
peevishly to a chair at his side.

' Put down the etchings and go away,' he said. * Don't
upset me by losing my place. Have you, or have you not,
lost my place ? Are you sure you have not ? And have you
put my hand-bell quite within my reach ? Yes ? Then, why
the devil don't you go ? '

The valet went out. Mr. Fairlie twisted himself round in
his chair, polished the magnifying glass with his delicate
cambric handkerchief, and indulged himself with a sidelong
inspection of the open volume of etchings. It was not
easy to keep my temper under these circumstances ; but I
did keep it.

' I have come here at great personal inconvenience,' I

137

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

said, * to serve the interests of your niece and your family ;
and I think I have estabhshed some slight claim to be
favoured with your attention in return.'

' Don't bully me ! ' exclaimed Mr. Fairlie, falling- back
helplessly in the chair, and closing his eyes. ' Please don't
bully me. I'm not strong enough.'

I was determined not to let him provoke me, for Laura
Fairlie's sake.

'My object,' I went on, 'is to entreat you to reconsider
your letter, and not to force me to abandon the just rights of
your niece, and of all who belong to her. Let me state the
case to you once more, and for the last time.'

Mr. Fairlie shook his head and sighed piteously.

' This is heartless of you, Gilmore — very heartless,' he said.
* Never mind ; g;o on.'

I put all the points to him carefully ; I set the matter
before him in every conceivable light. He lay back in the
chair the whole time I Vv^as speaking, with, his eyes closed.
W^hen I had done, he opened them indolently, took his silver
smelling-bottle from the table, and sniffed at it with an air of
gentle relish.

' Good Gilmore ! ' he said, between the sniffs, ' how very
nice this is of you ! Hov/ you reconcile one to human
nature ! '

' Give me a plain answer to a plain question, Mr. Fairlie.
I tell you again, Sir Percival Glyde has no shadow of a claim
to expect more than the income of the money. The money
itself, if your niece has no children, ought to be under her
control, and to return to her family. If you stand firm, Sir
Percival must give way — he must give way, I tell you, or he
exposes himself to the base imputation of marrying Miss
Fairlie entirely from mercenary motives.'

Mr, Fairlie shook the silver smelling-bottle at me pla}--
fully.

' You dear old Gilmore ; how you do hate rank and family,
don't you ? How you detest Glyde, because he happens to
be a baronet. What a Radical you are — oh, dear me, what
a Radical you are ! '

A Radical ! ! ! I could put up with a good deal of provo-
cation, but, after holding the soundest Conservative principles
all my life, I could nof put up with being called a Radical.
?»iy blood boiled at it — I started out of my chair — I was
speechless with indignation.

' Don't shake the room ! ' cried Mr. Fairlie — ' for Heaven's
sake, don't shake the room ! Worthiest of all possible

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

Gilmores, I meant no offence. My own views are so ex-
tremely liberal that I think I am a Radical myself. Yes.
We are a pair of Radicals. Please don't be angry. I can't
quarrel — I haven't stamina enoug-h. Shall we drop the sub-
ject ? Yes. Come and look at these sweet etching's. Do
let me teach you to understand the heavenly pearliness ot
these lines. Do, now, there's a good Gilmore ! '

While he was maundering- on in this way I was, for-
tunately for my own self-respect, returning to my senses.
When I spoke again I was composed enough to treat his
impertinence with the silent contempt that it deserved.

' You are entirely wrong, sir,' I said, ' in supposing that
I speak from any prejudice against Sir Percival Glyde. I
may regret that he has so unreservedly resigned himself in
this matter to his lawyer's direction as to make any appeal
to himself impossible ; but I am not prejudiced against him.
What I have said would equally apply to any other man in
his situation, high or low. The principle I maintain is a
recognised principle. If you were to apply at the nearest
town here, to the first respectable solicitor you could find, he
would tell you, as a stranger, what I tell you, as a friend.
He would inform you that it is against all rule to abandon the
lady's m.oney entirely to the man she marries. He would
decline, on grounds of common legal caution, to give the
husband, under any circumstances whatever, an interest of
twenty thousand pounds in his wife's death.'

'Would he really, Gilmore ? ' said Mr. Fairlie. * If he
said anything half so horrid I do assure you I should tinkle
my bell for Louis, and have him sent out of the house
immediately.'

' You shall not irritate me, Mr. Fairlie-— for your niece's
sake and for her father's sake, you shall not irritate me.
You shall take the whole responsibility of this discreditable
settlement on your own shoulders before I leave the
room.'

* Don't ! — now please don't ! ' said Mr. Fairlie. ^ * Think
how precious your time is, Gilmore ; and don't throw It av\'ay.
I would dispute with you if I could, but I can't — I haven't
stamina enough. You want to upset me, to upset yourself,
to upset Glyde, and to upset Laura ; and — oh, dear me '.—all
for the sake of the very last thing in the world that is likely
to happen. No, dear friend — in the interests of peace and
quietness, positively No ! '

' I am to understand, then, that you hold by the determina-
tion expressed in your letter ? '

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

* Yes, please. So glad we understand each other at last.
Sit down again— do ! '

I walked at once to the door ; and Mr. Fairlie resignedly
' tinkled ' his hand-bell. Before I left the room I turned
round and addressed him for the last time.

'Whatever happens in the future, sir,' I said, 'remember
that my plain duty of warning you has been performed. As
the faithful friend and servant of your family, I tell you, at
parting, that no daughter of mine should be married to any
man alive under such a settlement as you are forcing me to
make for Miss Fairlie.'

The door opened behind me, and the valet stood waiting
on the threshold.

' Louis,' said Mr. Fairlie, ' show Mr. Gilmore out, and
then come back and hold up my etchings for me again.
Make them give you a good lunch down stairs. Do, Gilmore,
make my idle beasts of servants give you a good lunch ! '

I was too much disgusted to reply ; I turned on my heel,
and left him in silence. There was an up train at two o'clock
in the afternoon ; and by that train I returned to London.

On the Tuesday I sent in the altered settlement, which
practically disinherited the very persons whom Miss Fairlie's
own lips had informed me she was most anxious to benefit.
I had no choice. Another lawyer would have drawn up the
deed if I had refused to undertake it.

My task is done. My personal share in the events of the
family story extends no farther than the point which I have
just reached. Other pens than mine will describe the strange
circumstances which are now shortly to follow. Seriously
and sorrowfully, I close this brief record. Seriously and
sorrowfully, I repeat here the parting words that I spoke at
Limmeridge House : — No daughter of mine should have been
married to any man alive under such a settlement as I was
compelled to make for Laura Fairlie.

Tlie End of Mi'. Gilmore' s Narrative

140

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

The Sto>y continued by Mariam Halcombe, in Extracts from
lier Diary.

Limmeridge House, Nov. Stli.
* * *• •* * * ^

Tins morning; Mr. Gilmore left us.

Hjs interview with Laura had evidently grieved and
surprised him more than he liked to confess. ^I felt afraid,
from his look and manner when we parted, that she mioht
have inadvertently betrayed to him the real secret of her
depression and my anxiety. This doubt grew on me so, after
he had gone, that I declined riding out w'ith Sir Percival, and
went up to Laura's room instead.

I have been sadly distrustful of myself, In this difficult and
lamentable matter, ever since I found out my own ignorance
of the strength of Laura's unhappy attachment. I ought to
have known that the delicacy and forbearance and sense of
honour which drew me to poor Hartright, and made me so
smcerely admire and respect him, were just the qualities to
appeal most irresistibly to Laura's natural sensitiveness and
naturaigenerosity of nature. And yet, until she opened her
heart to me of her own accord, I had no suspicion that this
new feeling had taken root so deeplv. I once thought time
and care might remove it. I now fear that it will remain with
her and alter her for life. The discovery that I have com-
mitted such an error in judgment as this, makes me hesitate
about everything else. I hesitate about Sir Percival, in the
face of the plainest proofs. I hesitate even in speaking to
Laura. On this very morning, I doubted, with my hand on
the door, whether I should ask her the questions I had come
to put, or not.

When I went into her room, I found her walking up and
down in great impatience. She looked flushed and excited ;
and she came forv/ard at once, and spoke to me before I could
open my lips.

' I wanted you,' she said. ' Come and sit down on the
sofa w^ith me. Marian ! I can bear this no longer— I must
and will end it.'

There vi^as too much colour in her cheeks, too much
energy in her manner, too much firmness in her voice. The

t Tlie passages omitted, here and elsewhere, in Miss Halcomb'-'s Diary
are only those which bear no reference to Miss Fairlie or to any of the persons
With whom she is associated in these pages.

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

little book of Hartrig-ht's drawings — the fatal book that she
will dream over whenever she is alone — was in one of her
hands. I began by gently and firmly taking it from her, and
putting it out of sight on a side-table.

' Tell me quietly, my darling-, what you wish to do,' I said.
' Has Mr. Gilmore been advising you ? '

She shook her head. ' No, not in what I am thinking of
now. He was very kind and good to me, Marian, — and I am
ashamed to say I distressed him by crying. I am miserably
helpless ; I can't control myself. For my own sake and fof
all our sakes, I must have courage enough to end it.'

' Do you mean courage enough to claim your release ? ' I
asked.

' No,' she said, simply, * Courage, dear, to tell the truth.'

She put her arms round my neck, and rested her head
quietly on my bosom. On the opposite wall hung the minia-
ture portrait of her father. I bent over her, and saw that she
was looking at it while her head lay on my breast.

' I can never claim my release from my engagement,' she
went on. ' Whatever way it ends, it must end wretchedly
for ?ne. All I can do, Marian, is not to add the remembrance
that I have broken my promise and forgotten my father's
dying- words, to make that wretchedness worse.'

' W^hat is it you propose, then ? ' I asked.

* To tell Sir Percival Glyde the truth, with my own lips,'
she ansv.-ered, ' and to lei him release me, if he vv'ill, not
because I ask him, but because he knov.'s all.'

' What do you mean, Laura, by " all ? " Sir Percival Vv-ill
know enough (he has told me so himself) if he knows that the
engagement is opposed to your own wishes,'

' Can I tell him that, when the engagement was made for me
by my father, with my own consent ? I should have kept my
promise ; not happily, I am afraid, but still contentedly — '
she stopped, turned her face to me, and laid her cheek
close against mine — ' I should have kept my engagement,
Marian, if another love had not grown up in my heart, which
was not there when I first promised to be Sir Percival's v/ife,'

* Laura ! you will never lower yourself by making a con-
fession to him ? '

' I shall lower myself, indeed, if I gain my release by
hiding- from him what he has a right to know,'

* He has not the shadow of a right to know it ! '

' Wrong, Marian, wrong ! I ought to deceive no one — •
least of all the man to whom my father gave me, and to whom
I g-ave myself.' She put her lips to mine, and kissed me,

143

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

* My own love,' she said, softly, * you are so much too fond
or" me and so much too proud of me, that you forget, in my
case, what you would remember in your own. Better that Sir
Percival should doubt my motives and misjudge my conduct if
he will, than that I should be first false to him in thought,
and then mean enough to serve my own interests by hiding
the falsehood.'

I held her away from me in astonishment. For the first
tim.e in our lives, v.-e had changed places ; the resolution was
all on her side, the hesitation all on mine. I looked into the
pale, quiet, resigned young face ; I saw the pure, innocent
heart, in the loving eyes that looked back at me — and the
poor worldly cautions and objections that rose to my lips,
dwindled and died away in their own emptiness. I hung my
head in silence. In her place, the despicably small pride which
makes so many women deceitful, would have been my pride,
and would have made me deceitful, too.

' Don't be angry with me, Marian,' she said, mistaking my
silence.

I only answered by drawing her close to me again. I was
afraid of crying if I spoke. My tears do not flow so easily as
they ought — they come almost like men's tears, with sobs
ihat seem to tear me in pieces, and that frighten every one
about me.

' I have thought of this, love, for many days,' she went on,
twining and twisting my hair with that childish restlessness
in her lingers, v.-hich poor Mrs. Vesey still tries so patiently
and so vainly to cure her of — ' I have thought of it very
seriously, and I can be sure of my courage, when my own
conscience tells me I am riglit. Let me speak to him to-
morrow— in your presence, Marian. I will say nothing that
is wrong, nothing that you or I need be ashamed of — but, oh, it
will ease my heart so to end this miserable concealment !
Only let me know and feel that I have no deception to answer
for on my side ; and then, v.'hen he has heard what I have to
say, let him act towards me as he will.*

She sighed, and put her head back in its old position on
my bosom. Sad misgivings about what the end would be,
v.eighed upon my mind ; but, still distrusting myself, I told
her that I would do as she wished. She thanked me, and we
passed gradually into talking of other things.

At dinner she joined us again, and v\-as more easy and
more herself with Sir Percival, than I have seen her yet. In
the evening she went to the piano, choosing new music of the
dexterous, tuneless, florid kind. The lovely old melodies of

143

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

Mozart, which poor Hartright was so fond of, she has nevef
played since he left. The book is no longer in the music-stand.
She took the volume away herself, so that nobody might find
it out and ask her to play from it.

I had no opportunity of discovering whether her purpose
of the morning had changed or not, until she wished Sir
Percival good-night — and then her own words informed me
that it was unaltered. She said, very quietly, that she wished
to speak to him, after breakfast, and that he would find her
in her sitting-room with me. He changed colour at those
words, and I felt his hand trembling a little when it came to
my turn to take it. The event of the next morning would
decide his future life ; and he evidently knew it.

I went in, as usual, through the door between our two
bed-rooms, to bid Laura good-night before she went to sleep.
In stooping over her to kiss her, I saw the little book of
Hartright's drawings half hidden under her pillow, just in the
place where she used to hide her favourite toys when she was
a child. I could not find it in my heart to say anything ; but
I pointed to the book and shook my head. She reached both
hands up to my cheeks, and drew my face down to hers till
our lips met.

' Leave it there to-night,' she whispered ; ' to-morrow may
be cruel, and may make me say good-by to it for ever.'

gth. — The first event of the morning was not of a kind to
raise my spirits ; a letter arrived for me, from poor Walter
Hartright. It is the answer to mine, describing the manner
in which Sir Percival cleared himself of the suspicions raised
by Anne Catherick's letter. He writes shortly and bitterly
about Sir Percival's explanations ; only saying that he has no
right to off"er an opinion on the conduct of those who are above
him. This is sad ; but his occasional references to himself
grieve me still more. He says that the eff"ort to return to his
old habits and pursuits, grows harder instead of easier to him,
every day ; and he implores me, if I have any interest, to
exert it to get him emplo3'ment that will necessitate his ab-
sence from England, and take him among new scenes and
new people. I have been made all the readier to comply with
this request, by a passage at the end of his letter, which
has almost alarmed me.

After mentioning that he has neither seen nor heard any-
thing of Anne Catherick, he suddenly breaks off", and hints in
the most abrupt, mysterious manner, that he has been per-
petually watched and followed by strange men ever since he

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

eturned to London. He acknowledges that he cannot prove
this extraordinarj' suspicion by fixin- on any particular ner-
sons; but he declares that the suspicion itself is pesenrto

as It his one fixed idea about Laura was becoming too much for
nis muid I will write immediately to some of my mother's
mfluential old friends in London, and press his claims on their
notice. Change of scene and change of occupation may really
be the salvation of him at this crisis in his life
. Greatly to my relief, Sir Percival sent an apology for not
joining us at breakfast. He had taken an early cup of coffee

lertPr' °'''?/°r' """"i !^','''^.'. "''" ""-^-^d there in writing
letters. At eleven o'clock, if that hour was convenient he

mI^'s Hakombe ^°''°"' ""^ ''^""'^'"^ """ ^^'^^ ^^''""^ '^"^

My eyes were on Laura's face while the message was
being delivered. _ I had found her unaccountably quiet and
composed on going into her room in the morning f and so she
remamed all through breakfast. Even when we" were sitting
together on the sofa in her room, waiting for Sir Percival she
still preserved her self-control. ' ^

' Don't be afraid of me, Marian,' was all she said : ' I may
forget mysdf with an old friend like Mr. Gilmore, or with a

Percival Glv^e!' '"" '' '"' ^ ""^ ""' ^°'^^' "^^^^^^ ^^^^^ Si?
I looked at her, and listened to her in silent surprise
Through all the jears of our close intimacy, this passive force

he sdf Jmro'"f^"'H'>" '^^^d-^/-- -e^hidde'n even from
herself, till o^e found it, and suftering called it forth.

As the clock on the mantelpiece struck eleven. Sir Percival

knocked at the door,_ and came in. There was suppressed

anxiety and agitation in every line of his face. The drv sham

cough, which teases him at most times, seemed to be troubline

him more incessantly than ever. He sat down opposite to u!

a ht f boti; '"' n "'" ^"T""'i '>• '"^^ ' looked'attentive"
at Lhem both, and he was the paler of the tAvo

He said a few unimportant words, with a visible effort to

preserve his customary ease of manner. But his voice was no°

o be steadied and the restless uneasiness in his eyes was o

to be concealed. He must have felt this himself; for he

at^f-Sn'^ in^ v"^'^l°^ " '"^^^-^^^' ^"d S^^'^ tip even the
attempt to hide his embarrassment any longer

addJes7eVh?m.'"' "" """""^ ""' '^"^ ^^^^"^ ^^^^^ Laura
' I v.ish to speak to you, Sir Percival,' she said, 'on a

M5 L

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

subject that is very important to us both. My sister is here,
because her presence helps me, and gives me confidence. She
has not suggested one word of what I am going to say : I
speak from my own thoughts, not from hers. I am sure
you will be kind enough to understand that, before I go any
farther ? '

Sir Percival bowed. She had proceeded thus far, with per-
fect outward tranquillity, and perfect propriety of manner. She
looked at him, and he looked at her. They seemed, at the
outset at least, resolved to understand one another plainly.

' I have heard from Marian,' she went on, ' that I have
only to claim my release from our engagement, to obtain that
release from you. It was forbearing and generous on your
part, Sir Percival, to send me such a message. It is only
doing you justice to say that I am grateful for the offer ;
and I hope and believe that it is only doing myself justice
to tell you that I decline to accept it.'

His attentive face relaxed a little. But I saw one of his
feet, softly, quietly, incessantly beating on the carpet under
the table ; and I felt that he was secretly as anxious as
ever.

'I have not forgotten,' she said, 'that you asked my
father's permission before you honoured me with a proposal of
marriage. Perhaps, you have not forgotten, either, what I
said when I consented to our engagement ? I ventured to tell
you that my father's influence and advice had mainly decided
me to give you my promise, i was guided by my father,
because I had always found him the truest of all advisers, the
best and fondest of all protectors and friends. I have lost him
i\o\v ; I have only his memory to love ; but my faith in that
dear dead friend has never been shaken. I believe, at this
moment, as truly as I ever believed, that he knew what was
best, and that his hopes and wishes ought to be my hopes and
wishes too.'

Her voice trembled, for the first time. Her restless fingers
stole their way into my lap, and held fast by one of my hands.
There was another moment of silence ; and then Sir Percival
spoke.

' May I ask,' he said, ' if I lia"\'e ever proved myself un-
Avorthy of the trust, which it lias been hitherto my greatest
honour and greatest happiness to possess ? '

' I have found nothing in your conduct to blame,' she an-
swered. ' You have ahvays treated me with the same delicacy
and the same forbearance. You have deserved my trust ; and,
what is of far more importance in my estimation, you have

146

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

h1:":r4„^^'^„'^ex?us™terf,l h'^'^'' "'"= »--- V-

from our present position. Xe'b re-- n^ of'n^ r" ''""■'"S'
....;^t _be entire., yonr wish anS l:^':^:^::'^^^^

..a J^s '^§ °L^s r t:;;^^"'^ ^'°"-' ' «- -^^

sMe,fo^rwUMra;i:l''i. ' ^''''^' --"" --' "-- be, on „,„

CO.C?. "iri^ir: oriL^si^^'hid^j.iV^o' ""■'t'" ^™-"'»'

alone , beg?t„ to be .(JiZtt '"tfs To.;:'"" "^^ "^^^
'The^''n°c,a:l4'n™7sr;1'rr4''',^

colour! '^He'raisel tte^arm fhi"h'^' ""V '"^ "P^ '-' "«-

I have heard,' she said, 'and I believe if iwi). f ^
and truest of all affections ]< tul % \^ '^' ^r?*^ the fondest

ought to bear to ler husLa" d Wh ''''°" ''^^^^"^ ^ ^^"^^^a"
tha^t affection Js mb'L '^t, "f Ycouir.^fd^'"''"' '^^^"'

^^^3r£?^Si^"---=^^He

table. NoJ a ,m,scl? of h ^P"'. ^'^'''^ ^^" '^'^ ^g-"'"^ '-^t the
a muscle of hun mo^•ed. The fingers of the hand

T 1 —

L 2

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

which supported his head were dented deep in his hair. They
might have expressed hidden anger, or hidden grief — it was
hard to say which — there was no significant trembUng in
them. There was nothing, absolutely nothing to tell the
secret of his thoughts at that moment — the moment which
was the crisis of his life and the crisis of hers.

I was determined to make him declare himself, for Laura's
sake.

' Sir Percival ! ' I interposed, sharply, * have you nothing
to say, when my sister has said so much ? More, in my
opinion,' I added, my unlucky temper getting the better of
me, ' than any man alive, in your position, has a right to hear
from her.'

That last rash sentence opened a way for him by which to
escape me if he chose ; and he instantly took advantage of it.

' Pardon me, Miss Halcombe,' he said, still keeping his
hand over his face — ' pardon me, if I remind you that I have
claimed no suoh right.'

The few plain words which would have brought him back
to the point from which he had wandered, were just on my
lips, when Laura checked me by speaking again.

' I hope I have not made my painful acknowledgment in
vain,' she continued. ' I hope it has secvired me your entire
confidence in what I have still to say ? '

' Pray be assured of it.' He made that brief repl}', warmly ;
dropping his hand on the table, while he spoke, and turning
towards us again. Whatever outward change had passed
over him, was gone now. His face was eager and expectant
— it expressed nothing but the most intense anxiety to hear
her next words.

' I wish you to understand that I have not spoken from
any selfish motive,' she said. * If you leave me. Sir Percival,
after what you have just heard, you do not leave me to marry
another man — you only allow me to remain a single woman
for the rest of my life. My fault towards you has begun and
ended in my own thoughts. It can never go any farther.

No word has passed She hesitated, in doubt about the

expression she should use next ; hesitated, in a momentary
confusion which it was very sad and very painful to see.
'No word has passed,' she patiently and resolutely resumed,
* between myself and the person to whom I am now referring
for the first and last time in your presence of my feelings
towards him, or of his feelings towards me— no word ever
can pass — neither he nor I are likely, in this world, to meet
again. I earnestly beg you to spare me from saying any

148

THE WOMAN IX WHITE

more, and to believe me, on my word, in what I have just
told you. It is the truth, Sir Percival— the truth which /
think my promised husband has a claim to hear, at any sacri-
fice of my own feelings. I trust to his generosity to pardon
me, and to his honour to keep my secret.'

' Both those trusts are sacred to me,' he said, ' and both
shall be sacredly kept.'

After answering in those terms, he paused, and looked at
her, as if he was waiting to hear more.

' I have said all I wish to say,' she added, quietly — ' I
have said more than enough to justify you hi withdrawing
from your engagement.'

' You have said more than enough,' he answered, ' to make
it the dearest object of my life to keep the engagement.'
With those words he rose from his chair, and advanced a
fev.' steps towards the place where she was sitting.

She started violently, and a faint cry of surprise escaped
her. Every word she had spoken had innocently betrayed
her purity and truth to a man who thoroughly understood the
priceless value of a pure and true woman. Her own noble
conduct had been the hidden enemy, throughout, of all the
hopes she had trusted to it. I had dreaded this from the?
first. I would have prevented it, if she had allowed me the
smallest chance of doing so. I even waited and watched,
now, when the harm was done, for a word from Sir Percival
that would give me the opportunity of putting him in the
wrong.

* You have left it to 7ne, Miss Fairlie, to resign you,' he
continued. ' I am not heartless enough to resign a woman
who has just shown herself to be the noblest of her sex.'

He spoke with such warmth and feeling, with sucH
passionate enthusiasm and yet with such perfect delicacy,
that she raised her head, flushed up a little, and looked at
him with sudden animation and spirit.

' No ! ' she said, firmly. ' The most wretched of her sex,
if she must give herself in marriage when she cannot give
her love.'

• May she not give it in the future,' he asked, ' if the one
object of her husband's life is to deserve it ? '

' Never ! ' she answered. ' If you still persist in main-
taining our engagement, I may be your true and faithful
wife, Sir Percival — your loving wife, if I know my own heart,
never ! '

She looked so irresistibly beautiful as she said those brave
words that no man alive could have steeled his heart against

149

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

her, I tried hard to feel that Sir Percival was to blame, and
to say so ; but my womanhood would pity him, in spite of
myself.

' I gratefully accept your faith and truth,' he said. 'The
least that you can offer is more to me than the utmost that I
could hope for from any other woman in the world.'

Her left hand still held mine ; but her right hand hung
listlessly at her side. He raised it gently to his lips — touched
it with them, rather than kissed it — bowed to me — and then,
with perfect delicacy and discretion, silently quitted the room.

She neither moved, nor said a word, when he was gone
— she sat by me cold and still, with her eyes fixed on the
ground. I saw it was hopeless and useless to speak ; and I
only put my arm round her, and held her to me in silence.
We remained together so, for what seemed a long and weary
time — so long and so weary, that I gre\v uneasy and spoke
to her softly, in the hope of producing a change.

The sound of my voice seemed to startle her into con-
sciousness. She suddenly drew herself away from me, and
rose to her feet.

' I must submit, Marian, as well as I can,' she said. ' My
new life has its hard duties ; and one of them begins to-day.'

As she spoke, she went to a side-table near the window,
on which her sketching materials were placed ; gathered
them together carefully ; and put them in a drawer of her
cabinet. She locked the drawer, and brought the key to me.

' I must part from everything that reminds me of him,*
she said. ' Keep the key v/herever you please — I shall never
want it again.'

Before I could say a word, she had turned away to her
bookcase, and had taken from it the album that contained
Walter Hartright's drawings. She hesitated for a moment,
holding the little volume fondly in her hands — then lifted it to
her lips and kissed it.

' Oh, Laura ! Laura ! ' I said, not angrily, not reprovingly
— with nothing but sorrow in ni}' voice, and nothing but
sorrow in my heart.

* It is the last time, Marian,' she pleaded. ' I am bidding
it good-bye for ever.'

She laid the book on the table, and drew out the comb
that fastened her hair. It fell, in its matchless beauty, over
her back and shoulders, and dropped round her, far below
her waist. She separated one long, thin lock from the rest,
cut it off, and pinned it carefully, in the form of a circle, on
the first blank page of the album. The moment it was fas-

150

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

lened, she closed the volume hurriedly, and placed it in my
hands.

' You write to him, and he writes to you,' she said.
' While I am alive, if he asks after me, always tell him I am
well, and never say I am unhappy. Don't distress him,
^larian — for my sake, don't distress him. If I die first,
promise you will give him this little book of his drawings,
with my hair in it. There can be no harm, when I am gone,
in telling him that I put it there with my own hands. And
say — oh, Marian, say for me, then, what I can never say for
myself — say I loved him ! '

She flung her arms round my neck, and whispered the
last words in my ear with a passionate delight in uttering
them which it almost broke my heart to hear. All the long
restraint she had imposed on herself, gave way in that first
last outburst of tenderness. She broke from me with hysteri-
cal vehemence, and threw herself on the sofa, in a paroxysm
of sobs and tears that shook her from head to foot.

I tried vainly to soothe her and reason with her ; she was
past being soothed, and past being reasoned with. It was
the sad, sudden end for us two, of this memorable day.
When the fit had worn itself out, she was too exhausted to
speak. She slumbered towards the afternoon ; and I put
away the book of drawings so that she might not see it when
she woke. My face was calm, whatever my heart might be,
when she opened her eyes again and looked at me. We
said no more to each other about the distressing interview of
the morning. Sir Percival's name was not mentioned.
Walter Hartright was not alluded to again by either of us
for the remainder of the day.

loth. — Finding that she was composed and like herself,
this morning, I returned to the painful subject of yesterday,
for the sole purpose of imploring her to let me speak to Sir
Percival and Mr. Fairlie, more plainly and strongly than she
could speak to either of them herself, about this lamentable
marriage. She interposed, gently but firmly, in the middle of
my remonstrances.

' I left yesterday to decide,' she said ; ' and yesterday /las
decided. It is too late to go back.'

Sir Percival spoke to me this afternoon, about what had
passed in Laura's room. He assured me that the un-
paralleled trust she had placed in him had awakened such an
answering conviction of her innocence and integrity in his
mind, that he was guiltless of having felt even a moment's

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

unworthy jealousy, either at the time when he was in her
presence, or afterwards when he had withdrawn from it.
Deeply as he lamented the unfortunate attachment which had
hindered the progress he might otherwise have made in her
esteem and regard, he firmly believed that it had remained
unacknowledged in the past, and that it would remain, under
all changes of circumstance which it was possible to contem-
plate, unacknowledged in the future. This was his absolute
conviction ; and the strongest proof he could give of it was
the assurance, which he now offered, that he felt no curiosity
to know whether the attachment was of recent date or not,
or who had been the object of it. His implicit confidence in
Miss Fairlie made him satisfied with what she had thought
fit to say to him, and he was honestly innocent of the slightest
feeling of anxiety to hear more.

He waited, after saying those words, and looked at me.
I was so conscious of my unreasonable prejudice against him
— so conscious of an unworthy suspicion, that he might be
speculating on my impulsively answering the very questions
which he had just described himself as resolved not to ask —
that I evaded all reference to this part of the subject with
something like a feeling of confusion on my own part. At
the same time, I was resolved not to lose even the smallest
opportunity of trying to plead Laura's cause ; and I told him
boldly that I regretted his generosity had not carried him
one step farther, and induced him to withdraw from the
engagement altogether.

Here, again, he disarmed me by not attempting to defend
himself. He would merely beg me to remember the difference
there was between his allowing Miss Fairlie to give him up,
which was a matter of submission only, and his forcing
himself to give up Miss Fairlie, which was, in other words,
asking him to be the suicide of his own hopes. Her conduct
of the day before had so strengthened the unchangeable love
and admiration of two long years, that all active contention
against those feelings, on his part, was henceforth entirely
out of his power. I must think him weak, selfish, unfeeling
towards the very woman whom he idolised, and he must
bow to my opinion as resignedly as he could ; only putting
it to me, at the same time, whether her future as a single
woman, pining under an unhappily placed attachment Avhich
she could never acknowledge, could be said to promise her a
much brighter prospect than her future as the wife of a man
who worshipped the very ground she walked on ? In the
last case there was hope from time, however slight it might

1^2

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

be — In the first case, on her own showing-, there was no hope
at all.

I answered him — more because my tongue is a woman's,
and must answer, than because I had anything convincing to
say. It was only too plain that the course Laura had adopted
the day before, had offered him the advantage if he chose to
take it — and that he liad chosen to take it. I felt this at the
time, and I feel it just as strongly now, while I write these
lines, in my own room. The one hope left, is that his motives
really spring, as he says they do, from the irresistible strength
of his attachment to Laura.

Before I close my diary for to-night, I must record that I
wrote to-day in poor Hartright's interest, to two of my
mother's old friends in London — both men of influence and
position. If they can do anything for him, I am quite sure
they will. Except Laura, I never was more anxious about
any one than I am now about Walter. All that has happened
since he left us has only increased my strong regard and
sympathy for him. I hope I am doing right in trying to help
him to employment abroad — I hope, most earnestly and
anxiously, that it will end well.

nth. — Sir Percival had an interview with Mr. Fairlie ;
and I was sent for to join them.

I found Mr. Fairlie greatly relieved at the prospect of the
' family worry ' (as he was pleased to describe his niece's
marriage) being settled at last. So far, I did not feel called
on to say anything to him about my own opinion ; but when
he proceeded, in his most aggravatingly languid manner, to
suggest that the time for the marriage had better be settled
next, in accordance with Sir Percival's wishes, I enjoyed the
satisfaction of assailing Mr. Fairlie's nerves with as strong a
protest against hurrying Laura's decision as I could put into
words. Sir Percival immediately assured me that he felt the
force of my objection, and begged me to believe that the
proposal had not been made in consequence of any interference
on his part. Mr. Fairlie leaned back in his chair, closed his
eyes, said we both of us did honour to human nature, and
then repeated his suggestion, as coolly as if neither Sir Per-
cival nor I had said a word in opposition to it. It ended in
my flatly declining to mention the subject to Laura, unless
she first approached it of her own accord. I left the room at
once after making that declaration. Sir Percival looked
seriously embarrassed and distressed. Mr. Fairlie stretched
out his lazy legs on his velvet footstool ; and said, ' Dear

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

Marian ! how I envy you your robust nervous system ! Don't
bang- the door ! '

On going to Laura's room, I found that she had asked for
me, and that Mrs. Vesey had informed her that I was with
Mr. Fairlie. She inquired at once what I had been w-anted
for ; and I told her all that had passed, without attempting
to conceal the vexation and annoyance that I really felt.
Her answer surprised and distressed me inexpressibly ; it
was the very last reply that I should have expected her to
make.

* My uncle is right,' she said. ' I have caused trouble
and anxiety enough to you, and to all about me. Let me
cause no more, Marian — let Sir Percival decide.'

I remonstrated w^armly : but nothing that I could say
moved her.

* I am held to my engagement,' she replied ; ' I have
broken with my old life. The evil day will not come the less
surely because I put it off". No, Marian ! once again, my
uncle is right. I have caused trouble enough and anxiety
enough ; and I will cause no more.'

She used to be pliability itself; but she was now inflexibly
passive in her resignation — I might almost say in her despair.
Dearly as I love her, I should have been less pained if she
had been violently agitated ; it was so shockingly unlike her
natural character to see her as cold and insensible as I saw
her now.

1 2th. — Sir Percival put some questions to me, at breakfast,
about Laura, which left me no choice but to tell him what
she had said.

While we were talking, she herself came down and joined
us. She was just as unnaturally composed in Sir Percival's
presence as she had been in mine. When breakfast was
over, he had an opportunity of saying a few words to her
privately, in a recess of one of the windows. They were not
more than two or three minutes together ; and, on their
separating, she left the room with Mrs. Vesey, while Sir
Percival came to me. He said he had entreated her to
favour him by maintaining her privilege of fixing the time
for the marriage at her own will and pleasure. In reply, she
had merely expressed her acknowledgments, and had desired
him to mention what his washes were to Miss Halcombe.

I have no patience to write more. In this instance, as in
every other, Sir Percival has carried his point, with the
utmost possible credit to himself, in spite of everything that

154

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

I can say or do. His wishes are now, what they were, ol
course, when he first came here ; and Laura having resigned
herself to the one inevitable sacrifice of the marriage, remains
as coldly hopeless and enduring as ever. In parting with the
little occupations and relics that reminded her of Hartright,
she seems to have parted with all her tenderness and all her
impressibility. It is only three o'clock in the afternoon
while I write these lines, and Sir Percival has left us already,
in the happy hurry of a bridegroom, to prepare for the bride's
reception at his house in Hampshire. Unless some extra-
ordinary event happens to prevent it, they will be married
exactly at the time when he wished to be married — before
the end of the year. My very fingers burn as I write it !

13th.— A sleepless night, through uneasiness about Laura.
Towards the morning, I came to a resolution to try what
change of scene would do to rouse her. She cannot surely
remain in her present torpor of insensibility, if I take her
away from Limmeridge and surround her with the pleasant
faces of old friends ? After some consideration, I decided on
writing to the Arnolds, in Yorkshire. They are simple, kind-
h.earted, hospitable people ; and she has known them from
lier childhood. When I had put the letter in the post-bag,
I told her what I had done. It would have been a relief to
me if she had shown the spirit to resist and object. But no
^she only said, * I will go anywhere with you, Marian. I
dare say you are right — I dare say the change will do me good.'

14th. — I v.Tote to Mr. Gilmore, informing him that there
was really a prospect of this miserable marriage taking place,
and also mentioning my idea of trying what change of scene
would do for Laura. I had no heart to go into particulars.
Time enough for them, when we get nearer to the end of the
year.

15th. — Three letters for me. The first, from the Arnolds,
full of delight at the prospect of seeing Laura and me. The
second, from one of the gentlemen to whom I wrote on
Walter Hartrlght's behalf, informing me that he has been
fortunate enough to find an opportunity of complying with my
request. The third, from Walter himself, thanking me, poor
fellov/, in the warmest terms, for giving him an opportunity
of leaving his home, his country, and his friends. A private
expedition to make excavations among the ruined cities of
Central America is, it seems, about to sail from Liverpool

155

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

The draughtsman who had been already appointed to accom-
pany it, has lost heart, and withdrawn at the eleventh hour ;
and Walter is to fill his place. He is to be engaged for six
months certain, from the time of the landing in Honduras,
and for a year afterwards, if the excavations are successful,
and if the funds hold out. His letter ends with a promise to
write me a farewell line, when they are all on board ship, and
when the pilot leaves them. I can only hope and pray
earnestly that he and I are both acting in this matter for the
best. It seems such a serious step for him to take, that the
mere contemplation of it startles me. And yet, in his un-
happy position, how can I expect him, or wish him, to remain
at home ?

i6th. — The carriage is at the door. Laura and I set out
on our visit to the Arnolds to-day.

* * * i' -:;; *

Polesdean Lodge, Yorkshire.
23rd. — A week in these new scenes and among these kind-
hearted people has done her some good, though not so much
as 1 had hoped. I have resolved to prolong our stay for
another week at least. It is useless to go back to Limmeridge,
till there is an absolute necessity for our return.

24th. — Sad news by this morning's post. The expedition
to Central America sailed on the twenty-first. We have
parted with a true man ; we have lost a faithful friend.
Walter Hartright has left England.

25th. — Sad news yesterday ; ominous news to-day. Sir
Percival Glyde has written to Mr. Fairlie ; and Mr. Fairlie
has written to Laura and me, to recall us to Limmeridge
immediately.

What can this mean ? Has the day for the marriage been
fixed in our absence ?

Limmeridge House.

November 27th. — My forebodings are realised. The marriage
is fixed for the twenty-second of December.

The day after we left for Polesdean Lodge, Sir Percival
wrote, it seems, to Mr. Fairlie, to say that the necessary
repairs and alterations in his house in Hampshire would

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

occupy a much long'er time in completion than he had
orig"inally anticipated. The proper estimates were to be sub-
mitted to him as soon as possible ; and it would greatly
facilitate his entering- into definite arrang-ements with the
workpeople, if he could be informed of the exact period at
which the wedding- ceremony might be expected to take place.
He could then make all his calculations in reference to time,
besides writing- the necessary apologies to friends who had
been engaged to visit him that winter, and who could not, of
course, be received when the house was in the hands of the
workmen.

To this letter jMr. Fairlie had replied by requesting Sir
Percival himself to suggest a day for the marriage, subject to
Miss Fairlie's approval, which her guardian willingly under-
took to do his best to obtain. Sir Percival wrote back by
the next post, and proposed (in accordance with his own
views and wishes, from the first) the latter part of December
—perhaps the twenty-second, or twenty-fourth, or any other
day that the lady and her guardian might prefer. The lady not
being at hand to speak for herself, her guardian had decided,
in her absence, on the earliest day mentioned — the twenty-
second of December — and had WTitten to recall us to Lim-
meridge in consequence.

After explaining these particulars to me at a private
interview yesterday Mr. Fairlie suggested, in his most amiable
manner, that I should open the necessarj' negotiations to-day.
Feeling that resistance was useless, unless I could first
obtain Laura's authority to make it, I consented to speak to
her, but declared, at the same time, that I would on no con-
sideration undertake to gain her consent to Sir Percival's
wishes. Mr. Fairlie complimented me on my ' excellent
conscience,' much as he v.-ould have complimented me, if we
had been out walking, on my ' excellent constitution,' and
seemed perfectly satisfied, so far, with having simply shifted
one more family responsibility from his own shoulders to mine.

This morning, I spoke to Laura as I had promised. The
composure — I may almost say, the insensibility — which she
has so strangely and so resolutely maintained ever since
Sir Percival left us, was not proof against the shock of
the news I had to tell her. She turned pale, and trembled
violently.

' Not so soon ! ' she pleaded. ' Oh, Marian, not so soon ! '

The slightest hint she could give was enough for me. I
rose to leave the room, and fight her battle for her at once
with Mr. Fairlie.

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

Just as my hand was on the door, she caught fast hold of
my dress, and stopped me.

' Let me go ! ' I said. ' My tongue burns to tell your
uncle that he and Sir Percival are not to have it all their own
way.'

She sighed bitterly, and still held my dress.

' No ! ' she said, faintly. ' Too late, Marian, too late ! '

'Not a minute too late,' I retorted. 'The question of
time is our question — and trust me, Laura, to take a woman's
full advantage of it.'

I unclasped her hand from my gown while I spoke ; but
she slipped both her arms round my waist at the same
moinent, and held me more effectually than ever.

' It will only involve us in more trouble and more con-
fusion,' she said. ' It will set you and my uncle at variance,
and bring Sir Percival here again with fresh causes of com-
plaint '

' So much the better ! ' I cried out, passionately. ' Who
cares for his causes of complaint ? Are you to break your
heart to set his mind at ease ? No man under heaven
deserves these sacrifices from us women. Men ! They are
the enemies of our innocence and our peace— they drag
us away from our parents' love and our sisters' friendship —
they take us body and soul to themselves, and fasten our
helpless lives to theirs as they chain up a dog to his kennel.
And what does the best of them give us in return ? Let me
go, Laura— I'm mad when I think of it ! '

The tears — miserable, weak, women's tears of vexation
and rage — started to my eyes. She smiled sadly ; and put
her handkerchief over my face, to hide for me the betrayal of
my own weakness — the weakness of all others which she
knew that I most despised.

' Oh, Marian ! ' she said. ' You crying ! Think what you
would say to me, if the places were changed, and if those
tears were mine. All your love and courage and devotion
v.'ill not alter what must happen, sooner or later. Let my
uncle have his v/ay. Let us have no more troubles and
heart-burnings that any sacrifice of mine can prevent. Say
you will live with me, Marian, Vv'hen I am married— and say
no more.'

But I did say more. I forced back the contemptible tears
that were no relief to me, and that only distressed her ;
and reasoned and pleaded as calmly as I could. It was of no
avail. She made me twice repeat the promise to live with her
when she was married, and then suddenlv asked a question

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

which turned my sorrow and my sympathy for her into a new
direction.

'While we were at Polesdean,' she said, 'you had a
letter, Marian '

Her altered tone ; the abrupt manner in which she looked
away from me, and hid her face on my shoulder ; the hesita-
tion which silenced her before she had completed her question,
all told me, but too plainly, to whom the half-expressed
inquiry pointed.

M thought, Laura, that you and I were never to refer to
him again,' I said, gently.

You had a letter from him ? ' she persisted.

* Yes,' I replied, 'if you must know it.'

* Do you mean to write to him again ? '

I hesitated. I had been afraid to tell her of his absence
from England, or of the manner in which my exertions to serve
his new hopes and projects had connected me with his depar-
ture. What answer could I make ? He was gone where no
letters could reach him for months, perhaps for3ears, to come.

' Suppose I do mean to write to him again,' I said, at last.
' What then, Laura ? '

Her cheek grew burning hot against my neck ; and her
arms trembled and tightened round me.

' Don't tell him about the iiveiify-sccond,^ she whispered.
* Promise, Marian — pray promise you will not even mention
my name to him when you write next.'

I gave the promise. No words can say how sorrowfully I
gave it. She instantly took her arm from my waist, walked
away to the window, and stood looking out, with her back to
me. After a moment she spoke once more, but without turn-
ing round, without allowing me to catch the smallest glimpse
of her face.

' Are you going to my uncle's room ? ' she asked. ' Will
you say that I consent to whatever arrangement he may think
best ? Never mind leaving me, Marian. I shall be better
alone for a little while.'

I went out. If, as soon as I got into the passage, I could
have transported Mr. Fairlie and Sir Percival Glj'de to the
uttermost ends of the earth, by lifting one of my fingers, that
finger would haA'e been raised without an instant's hesitation.
For once my un'nappy temper now stood my friend. I should
have broken down altogether and burst into a violent fit of
crying, if my tears had not been all burnt up in the heat of my
anger. As it was, I dashed into Mr. Fairlie's room— called
to him as harshly as possible, ' Laura consents to the twenty-

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

second ' — and dashed out again without waiting for a word of
answer. I banged the door after me ; and I hope I shattered
Mr. Fairlie's nervous system for the rest of the day.

28th. — This morning, I read poor Hartright's farewell letter
over again, a doubt having crossed my mind since yesterday,
whether I am acting wisely in concealing the fact of his
departure from Laura.

On reflection, I still think I am right. The allusions in
his letter to the preparations made for the expedition to
Central America, all show that the leaders of it know it to be
dangerous. If the discovery of this makes vie uneasy, w^hat
would it make her? It is bad enough to feel that his depar-
ture has deprived us of the friend of all others to whose devo-
tion we could trust, in the hour of need, if ever that hour
comes and finds us helpless. But it is far worse to know that
he has gone from us to face the perils of a bad climate, a wild
country, and a disturbed population. Surely it would be a
cruel candour to tell Laura this, without a pressing and a
positive necessity for it ?

I almost doubt whether I ought not to go a step farther,
and burn the letter at once, for fear of its one day faUing into
v.Tong hands. It not only refers to Laura in terms which
ought to remain a secret for ever between the writer and me ;
but it reiterates his suspicion — so obstinate, so unaccountable,
and so alarming — that he has been secretly watched since he
left Limmeridge. He declares that he saw the faces of the
two strange men, who followed him about the streets of
London, watching him among the crowd which gathered at
Liverpool to see the expedition embark ; and he positively
asserts that he heard the name of Anne Catherick pronounced
behind him, as he got into the boat. His own words are,
' These events have a meaning, these events must lead to a
result. The mystery of Anne Catherick is not cleared up yet.
She may never cross my path again ; but if ever she crosses
yours, make better use of the opportunity, Miss Halcombe,
than I made of it. I speak on strong conviction ; I entreat
you to remember what I say.' These are his own expressions.
There is no danger of my forgetting them — my memory is
only too ready to dwell on any words of Hartright's that refer
to Anne Catherick. But there is danger in my keeping the
letter. The merest accident might place it at the mercy of
strangers. I may fall ill ; I may die. Better to burn it at
once, and have one anxiety the less.

It is burnt ! The ashes of his farewell letter — the last he

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

may ever write to me — lie in a few black fragm^ents on the
hearth. Is this the sad end to all that sad story ? Oh, not
the end — surely, surely not the end already !

29th. — The preparations for the marriag"e have begun.
The dressmaker has come to receive her orders. Laura is
perfectly impassive, perfectly careless about the question of
all others in which a woman's personal interests are most
closely bound up. She has left it all to the dressmaker and
to me. If poor Hartright had been the baronet, and the
husband of her father's choice, how differently she would have
behaved ! How anxious and capricious she would have been ;
and what a hard task the best of dressmakers would have
found it to please her !

30th. — We hear every day from Sir Percival. The last
news is, that the alterations in his house will occupy from four
to six months, before they can be properly completed. If
painters, paper-hangers, and vipholsterers could make happi-
ness as well as splendour, I should be interested about their
proceedings in Laura's future home. As it is, the only part
of Sir Percival's last letter which does not leave me as it
found me, perfectly indifferent to all his plans and projects, is
the part which refers to the wedding tour. He proposes, as
Laura is delicate, and as the winter threatens to be unusually
severe, to take her to Rome, and to remain in Italy until the
early part of next summer. If this plan should not be
approved, he is equally ready, although he has no establish-
ment of his own in town, to spend ihe season in London, in
the most suitable furnished house that can be obtained for the
purpose.

Putting myself and my own feelings entirely out of the
question (which it is my duty to do, and which I have done),
I, for one, have no doubt of the propriety of adopting the first
of these proposals. In either case, a separation between Laura
and mc is inevitable. It will be a longer separation, in the
event of their going abroad, than it would be in the event of
their remaining in London — but we must set against this
disadvantage, the benefit to Laura on the other side, of
passing the winter in a mild climate, and, more than that, the
immense assistance in raising her spirits, and reconciling her
to her new existence, which the mere wonder and excitement
of travelling for the first time in her life in the most interesting
country in the world, must surely afford. She is not of a
disposition to find resources in the conventional gaieties and

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

excitements of London. They would only make the first
oppression of this lamentable marriage fall the heavier on her.
I dread the beginning of her new life more than words can
tell ; but I see some hope for her if she travels— none if she
remains at home.

It is strange to look back at this latest entry in my journal,
and to find that I am writing of the marriage and the parting
with Laura, as people write of a settled thing. It seems so cold
and so unfeeling to be looking at the future already in this
cruelly composed way. But what other way is possible, now
that the time is drawing so near? Before another month is
over our heads, she will be his Laura instead of mine ! His
Laura ! I am as little able to realise the idea which those
two words convey — -my mind feels almost as dulled and
stunned by it— as if writing of her marriage were like writing
of her death.

December ist. — A sad, sad day; a day that I have no
heart to describe at any length. After weakly putting it off,
last night, I was obliged to speak to her this morning of Sir
Pcrcival's proposal about the wedding tour.

In the full conviction that I should be with her, Avherever
she went, the poor child — for a child she is still in many
things — was almost happy at the prospect of seeing the
wonders of Florence and Rome and Naples. It nearly broke
my heart to dispel her delusion, and to bring her face to face
with the hard truth. I was obliged to tell her that no man
tolerates a rival — not even a woman rival— in his wife's
affections, when he first marries, whatever he may do after-
wards. I was obliged to warn her, that my chance of living
v/ith her permanently under her own roof, depended entirely
on my not arousing Sir Percival's jealousy and distrust by
standing between them at the beginning of their marriage, in
the position of the chosen depositary of his wife's closest
secrets. Drop by drop, I poured the profaning bitterness of
this world's wisdom into that pure heart and that innocent
mind, while every higher and better feeling within me
recoiled from my miserable task. It is over now. She has
learnt her hard, her inevitable lesson. The simple illusions of
her girlhood are gone ; and my hand has stripped them off.
Better mine than his — that is all my consolation — better mine
than his.

So the first proposal is the proposal accepted. They are
to go to Italy, and I am to arrange, with Sir Percival's per-
mission, for meeting them and staying with them, when they

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return to England. In other words, I am to ask a personal
favour, for the first time in my life, and to ask it of the man
of all others to whom I least desire to owe a serious obligation
of any kind. Well ! I think I could do even more than that,
for Laura's sake.

2nd. — On looking back, I find myself always referring to
Sir Percival in disparaging terms. In the turn affairs have
now taken, I must and will root out my prejudice against
him.. I cannot think how it first got into my mind. It
certainly never existed in former times.

Is it Laura's reluctance to become his wife that has set
me against him ? Have Hartright's perfectly intelligible
prejudices infected me without my suspecting their influence ?
Does that letter of Anne Catherick's still leave a lurking
distrust in my mind, in spite of Sir Percival's explanation,
and of the proof in my possession of the truth of it ? I cannot
account for the state of my own feelings : the one thing I am
certain of is, that it is my duty— doubly my duty, now— not to
wrong Sir Percival by unjustly distrusting him. If it has got
to be a habit with me always to write of him in the same
unfavourable manner, I must and will break myself of this
vniworthy tendency, even though the effort should force me to
close the pages of my journal till the marriage is over ! I am
seriously dissatisfied with myself — I will write no more to-day.

December i6th. — A whole fortnight has passed ; and T
have not once opened these pages. I have been long enough
away from my journal, to come back to it, with a healthier and
better mind, I hope, so far as Sir Percival is concerned.

There is not much to record of the past two weeks. The
dresses are almost all finished ; and the new travelling trunks
have been sent here from London. Poor dear Laura hardly
leaves me for a moment, all day ; and, last night, when
neither of us could sleep, she came and crept into my bed to
talk to me there. ' I shall lose you so soon, Marian,' she
said ; ' I must make the most of you while I can.'

They are to be married at Limmeridge Church ; and,
thank Heaven, not one of the neighbours is to be invited to
the ceremony. The only visitor will be our old friend, Mr.
Arnold, who is to come from Polesdean, to give Laura away ;
her uncle being far too delicate to trust himself outside the
door in such inclement weather as we now have. If I were
not determined, from this day forth, to see nothing but the
bright side of our prospects, the melancholy absence of any

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

male relative of Laura's, at the most important moment of
her life, would make me very gloomy and very distrustful of
the future. But I have done with gloom and distrust — that is
to say, I have done with writing- about either the one or the
other in this journal.

Sir Percival is to arrive to-morrow. He offered, in case
we wished to treat him on terms of rigid etiquette, to write
and ask our clergyman to grant him the hospitality of the
rectory, during the short period of his sojourn at Limmeridge,
before the marriage. Under the circumstances, neither Mr.
Fairlie nor I thought it at all necessary for us to trouble
ourselves about attending to trifling form.s and ceremonies.
In our wild moorland country, and in this great lonely house,
we may well claim to be beyond the reach of the trivial
conventionalities which hamper people in other places. I
wrote to Sir Percival to thank him for his polite offer, and to
beg that he vrould occupy his old rooms, just as usual, at
Limmeridge House.

17th. — He arrived to-day, looking, as I thought, a little
worn and anxious, but still talking and laughing like a man in
the best possible spirits. He brought v/ith him some really
beautiful presents, in jewelry, which Laura received with her
best grace, and, outwardly at least, with perfect self-posses-
sion. The only sign I can detect of the struggle it must cost
her to preserve appearances at this trying time, expresses
itself in a sudden unwillingness, on her part, ever to be left
alone. Instead of retreating to her own room, as usual, she
seems to dread going there. When I went upstairs to-day,
after lunch, to put on my bonnet for a walk, she volunteered
to join me ; and, again, before dinner, she threw the door
open between our two rooms, so that we might talk to each
other while we were dressing. ' Keep me always doing
something,' she said; 'keep me always in company with
somebody. Don't let me think — that is all I ask now, Marian
— don't let me think.'

This sad change in her only increases her attractions for
Sir Percival. He interprets it, I can see, to his own advantage.
There is a feverish flush in her cheeks, a feverish brightness
in her eyes, which he welcomes as the return of her beauty
and the recovery of her spirits. She talked to-day at dinner
with a gaiety and carelessness so false, so shockingly out of
her character, that I secretly longed to silence her and take
her away. Sir Percival's delight and surprise appeared to be
beyond all expression. The anxiety which I had noticed on

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

his face when he arrived, totally disappeared from it ; and he
looked, even to my eyes, a good ten 3-ears younger than he
really is.

There can be no doubt — though some strange perversity
prevents me from seeing it myself — there can be no doubt
that Laura's future husband is a very handsome man.
Regular features form a personal advantage to begin with — ■
and he has them. Bright brown eyes, either in man or
woman, are a great attraction — and he has them. Even
baldness, when it is only baldness over the forehead (as in his
case), is rather becoming, than not, in a man, for it heightens
the head and adds to the intelligence of the face. Grace and
ease of movement ; untiring animation of manner ; ready,
pliant, conversational powers — all these are unquestionable
merits, and all these he certainly possesses. Surely Mr.
Gilmore, ignorant as he is of Laura's secret, was not to blame
for feeling surprised that she should repent of her marriage
engagement ? Any one else in his place, would have shared
our good old friend's opinion. If I were asked, at this moment,
to say plainly what defects I have discovered in Sir Percival,
I could only point out two. One, his incessant restlessness
and excitability — which may be caused, naturally enough, by
unusual energy of character. The other, his short, sharp,
ill-tempered manner of speaking to the servants — w^hich may
be only a bad habit, after all. No : I. cannot dispute it, and I
will not dispute it — Sir Percival is a very handsome and a
very agreeable man. There ! I have written it down, at last,
and I am glad it's over.

i8th. — Feeling weary and depressed, this morning, I left
Laura with Mrs. Vesey, and w'ent out alone for one of my
brisk mid-day walks, which I have discontinued too much of
late. I took the dry airy road, over the moor, that leads to
Todd's Corner. After having been out half an hour, I was
excessively surprised to see Sir Percival approaching me from
the direction of the farm. He was walking rapidly, swinging
his stick ; his head erect as usual, and his shooting jacket
flying open in the wind. When we met, he did not wait for
me to ask any questions — he told me, at once, that he had
been to the farm to inquire if Mr. or Mrs. Todd had received
any tidings, since his last visit to Limmeridge, of Anne
Catherick.

' You found, of course, that they had heard nothing ? ' I
said,

* Nothing whatever,' he replied. ' I begin to be seriously

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

afraid that we have lost her. Do you happen to know,' he
continued, looking me in the face very attentively, * if the
artist — Mr. Hartright — is in a position to give us any farther
Information ? '

' He has neither heard of her, nor seen her, since lie left
Cumberland,' I answered.

' Very sad,' said Sir Percival, speaking like a man who
was disappointed, and yet, oddly enough, looking, at the
same time, like a man who was relieved. ' It Is Impossible to
say what misfortunes may not have happened to the miserable
creature. I am Inexpressibly annoyed at the failure of all my
efforts to restore her to the care and protection which she so
urgently needs.'

This time he really looked annoyed. I said a few sym-
pathising words, and we then talked of other subjects, on our
way back to the house. Surely, my chance meeting with him
on the moor has disclosed another favourable trait In his
character ? Surely, It was singularly considerate and un-
selfish of him to think of Anne Catherick on the eve of his
marriage, and to go all the way to Todd's Corner to make
Inquiries about her, when he might have passed the time so
much more agreeably in Laura's society ? Considering that
he can only have acted from motives of pure charity, his con-
duct, under the circumstances, shows unusual good feeling,
and deserves extraordinary praise. Well ! I give him extra-
ordinary praise — and there's an end of It.

19th. — More discoveries In the Inexhaustible mine of Sir
Percival's virtues.

To-day, I approached the subject of my proposed sojourn
under his wife's roof, w^hen he brings her back to England.
I had hardly dropped my first hint In this direction, before he
caught me warml)' by the hand, and said I had made the very
off"er to him, which he had been, on his side, most anxious to
make to me. I was the companion of all others w'nom he
most sincerely longed to secure for his wife ; and he begged
me to believe that I had conferred a lasting favour on him by
making the proposal to live with Laura after her marriage,
exactly as I had always lived with her before it.

When I had thanked him, In her name and mine, for his
considerate kindness to both of us, we passed next to the
subject of his wedding tour, and began to talk of the English
society in Rome to which Laura was to be introduced. He
ran over the names of several friends whom he expected to
meet abroad this winter. They were all English, as well as I

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can remember, with one exception. The one exception was
Count Fosco.

The mention of the Count's name, and the discovery that
he and his wife are hkely to meet the bride and bridegroom
on the continent, puts Laura's marriage, for the first time, in
a distinctly favourable hght. It is Hkely to be the means of
healing a family feud. Hitherto Madame Fosco has chosen
to forget her obligations as Laura's aunt, out of sheer spite
against the late Mr. Fairlie for his conduct in the affair of the
legacy. Now, however, she can persist in this course of con-
duct no longer. Sir Percival and Count Fosco are old and
fast friends, and their wiv^es will have no choice but to meet
on civil terms. Madame Fosco, in her maiden days, was one
of the most impertinent women I ever met with — capricious,
exacting, and vain to the last degree of absurdity. If her
husband has succeeded in bringing her to her senses, he
deserves the gratitude of every member of the family — and
he may have mine to begin with.

I am becoming anxious to know the Count. He is the
most intimate friend of Laura's husband ; and, in that
capacity, he excites my strongest interest. Neither Laura
nor 1 have ever seen him. All I know of him is that his acci-
dental presence, years ago, on the steps of the Trinitj'i del
Monte at Rome, assisted Sir Percival's escape from robbery
and assassination, at the critical moment when he was
wounded in the hand, and might, the next instant, have been
wounded in the heart. I remember also that, at the time of
the late Mr. Fairlie's absurd objections to his sister's
marriage, the Count wrote him a very temperate and sensible
letter on the subject, which, I am ashamed to say, remained un-
answered. This is all I know of Sir Percival's friend. I wonder
if he will ever come to England ? I wonder if I shall like him ?

My pen is running away into mere speculation. Let me
return to sober matter of fact. It is certain that Sir Percival's
reception of my venturesome proposal to live with his wife,
was more than kind, it was almost affectionate. I am sure
Laura's husband will have no reason to complain of me, if I
can only go on as I have begun. I have already declared
him to be handsome, agreeable, full of good feeling towards
the unfortunate, and full of affectionate kindness towards me.
Really, I hardly know myself again, in my new character of
Sir Percival's warmest friend.

20th. — I hate Sir Percival ! I flatly deny his good looks.
I consider him to be eminently ill-tempered and disagreeable,

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THE WOiMAN IN WHITE

and totally wanting in kindness and g'ood feeling. Last
night, the cards for the married couple were sent home.
Laura opened the packet, and saw her future name in print,
for the first time. Sir Percival looked over her shoulder
familiarly at the new card which had already transformed
Miss Fairlie into Lady Clyde— smiled with the most odious
self-complacency — and whispered something in her ear. I
don't know what it was — Laura has refused to tell me — but I
saw her face turn to such a deadly whiteness that I thought
she would have fainted. He took no notice of the change :
he seemed to be barbarously unconscious that he had said
anything to pain her. All my old feelings of hostility towards
liim revi\ed on the instant ; and all the hours that have
passed, since, have done nothing to dissipate them. I am
more unreasonable and more unjust than ever. In three
words — how glibly my pen writes them ! — in three words, I
hate him.

2ist.— Have the anxieties of this anxious time shaken me
a little, at last ? I have been writing, for the last few days,
in a tone of levity which. Heaven knows, is far enough from
my heart, and which it has rather shocked me to discover on
looking back at the entries in my journal.

Perhaps I may have caught the feverish excitement of
Laura's spirits, for the last week. If so, the fit has already
passed away from me, and has left me in a very strange
state of mind. A persistent idea has been forcing itself on my
attention, ever since last night, that something will yet happen
to prevent the marriage. What has produced this singular
fancy? Is it the indirect result of my apprehensions for
Laura's future ? Or has it been unconsciously suggested to
me by the increasing restlessness and irritability which I have
certainly observed in Sir Percival's manner as the wedding-
day draws nearer and nearer ? Impossible to say. I know
that I have the idea — surely the wildest idea, under the cir-
cumstances, that ever entered a woman's head ? — but try as
I may, I cannot trace it back to its source.

This last day has been all confusion and wretchedness.
How can I write about it ? — and yet, I must write. Any-
thing is better than brooding over my own gloomy thoughts.

Kind Mrs. Vesey, whom we have all too much overlooked
and forgotten of late, innocently caused us a sad morning to
begin with. She has been, for months past, secretly making
a warm Shetland shawl for her dear pupil — a most beautiful
and surprising piece of work to be done by a woman at her

1 68

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

age and with her habits. The gift was presented this morn-
ing ; and poor warm-hearted Laura completely broke down
when the shawl was put proudly on her shoulders by the
loving old friend and guardian of her motherless childhood.
I was hardly allowed time to quiet them both, or even to dry
my own eyes, when I was sent for by Mr. Fairlie, to be
favoured with a long recital of his arrangements for the pre-
servation of his own tranquillity on the wedding-day.

' Dear Laura ' was to receive his present— a shabby ring,
with her affectionate uncle's hair for an ornament, instead of
a precious stone, and with a heartless French inscription,
inside, about congenial sentiments and eternal friendship —
' dear Laura ' was to receive this tender tribute from my hands
immediately, so that she might have plenty of time to recover
from the agitation produced by the gift, before she appeared
in Mr. Fairlie's presence. ' Dear Laura ' was to pay him a
little visit that evening, and to be kind enough not to make a
scene. ' Dear Laura ' was to pay him another little visit in
her wedding-dress, the next morning, and to be kind enough,
again, not to make a scene. ' Dear Laura ' was to look in
once more, for the third time, before going away, but without
harrowing his feelings by saying lohen she was going away, and
without tears — ' in the name of pity, in the name of everything,
dear Marian, that is most affectionate and most domestic
and most delightfully and charmingly self-composed, witlwnt
tears! ' I was so exasperated by this miserable selfish trifling,
at such a time, that I should certainly have shocked Mr. Fair-
lie by some of the hardest and rudest truths he has ever heard
in his life, if the arrival of Mr. Arnold from Polesdean had
not called me away to new duties down stairs.

The rest of the day is indescribable. I believe no one in
the house really knew how it passed. The confusion of small
events, all huddled together one on the other, bewildered
everybody. There were dresses sent home, that had been
forgotten ; there were trunks to be packed and unpacked and
packed again ; there were presents from friends far and near,
friends high and low. We were all needlessly hurried ; all
nervously expectant of the morrow. Sir Percival, especially,
was too restless, now, to remain five minutes together in the
same place. That short, sharp cough of his troubled him
more than ever. He was in and out of doors all day long :
and he seemed to grow so inquisitive, on a sudden, that he
questioned the very strangers who came on small errands to
the house. Add to all this, the one perpetual thought, in
Laura's mind and mine, that we were to part the next day,

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

and the haunting dread, unexpressed by either of us, and yet
ever present to both, that this deplorable marriage mig-ht
prove to be the one fatal error of her life and the one hope-
less sorrow of mine. For the first time in all the years of our
close and happy intercourse we almost avoided looking- each
other in the face ; and we refrained, by common consent, from
speaking- together in private, through the whole evening. I
can dwell on it no longer. Whatever future sorrows may be
in store for me, I shall always look back on this twenty-first
of December as the most comfortless and most miserable day
of my life.

I am writing these lines in the solitude of my own room,
long after midnight ; having just come back from a stolen
look at Laura in her pretty little white bed — the bed she has
occupied since the days of her girlhood.

There she lay, unconscious that I was looking at her —
quiet, more quiet than I had dared to hope, but not sleeping.
The glimmer of the night-light showed me that her eyes v/ere
only partially closed : the traces of tears glistened between
her eyelids. My little keepsake — only a brooch — lay on the
table at her bedside, with her prayer-book, and the miniature
portrait of her father which she takes with her wherever she
goes. I waited a moment, looking at her from behind her
pillow, as she lay beneath me, with one arm and hand resting
on the white coverlid, so still, so quietly breathing, that the
frill on her night-dress never moved — I waited, looking at
her, as I have seen her thousands of times, as I shall never
see her again — and then stole back to my room. My own
love ! with all your wealth, and all your beauty, how friend-
less you are ! The one man who would give his heart's life
to serve you, is far away, tossing, this stormy night, on the
awful sea. Who else is left to you ? No father, no brother
— no living creature but the helpless, viseless woman who
writes these sad lines, and watches by you for the morning,
in sorrow that she cannot compose, in. doubt that she cannot
conquer. Oh, what a trust is to be placed in that man's
hands to-morrow ! If ever he forgets it ; if ever he injures a
hair of her head !

The Twenty-second of December. Seven o'clock. A
wild unsettled morning. She has just risen — better and
calmer, now that the time has come, than she was yesterday.

Ten o'clock. She is dressed. We have kissed each other ;
we have promised each other not to lose courage. I. am

170

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

away for a moment in my own room. In the whirl and
confusion of my thoughts, I can detect that strange fancy of
some hindrance happening to stop the marriage, still hanging
about my mind. Is it hanging about his mind, too ? 1 see
him from the window, moving hither and thither uneasily
among the carriages at the door. — How can I write such
folly ! The marriage is a certainty. In less than half an hour
we start for the church.

Eleven o'clock. It is all over. They are married.

Three o'clock. They are gone ! I am blind with crying
—I can write no more

\The First Epoch of I he Story closes here]

lit

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

THE SECOND EPOCH.

The Stoy continued hy Marian IIalcomp.e.

BLickwater Park, Hampshire.

June nth, 1850. — Six months to look back on — six long",
lonely months, since Laura and I last saw each other !

How many days have I still to wait ? Only one ! To-
morrow, the twelfth, the travellers return to England. I can
hardly realise my own happiness ; I can hardly believe that
the next four-and-twenty hours v.ill complete the last day of
separation between Laura and me.

She and her husband have been in Italy all the winter, and
afterwards in the Tyrol. They come back, accompanied by
Count Fosco and his wife, who propose to settle somewhere
in the neighbourhood of London, and who have engaged to
stay at Blackwater Park for the summer months before
deciding on a place of residence. So long as Laura returns,
no matter who returns with her. Sir Percival may fill the
house from floor to ceiling, if he likes, on condition that his
wife and I inhabit it together.

Meanwhile, here I am, established at Blackwater Park ;
* the ancient and interesting seat ' (as the county history
obligingly informs me) 'of Sir Percival Clyde, Bart.' — and
the future abiding-place (as I may now venture to add on my
account) of plain Marian Halcombe, spinster, now settled in
a snug little sitting-room, with a cup of tea by her side, and
all her earthly possessions ranged round her in three boxes
and a bag.

I left Limmeridge yesterday ; having received Laura's
delightful letter from Paris, the day before. I had been
previously uncertain whether I was to meet them in London,

172 .

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

or in Hampshire ; but this last letter informed me, that Sir
Percival proposed to land at Southampton, and to travel
straight on to his country-house. He has spent so much money
abroad, that he has none left to defray the expenses of living- in
London, for the remainder of the season ; and he is economi-
cally resolved to pass the summer and autumn quietly at
Blackwater. Laura has had more than enough of excitement
and change of scene ; and is pleased at the prospect of
country tranquillity and retirement which her husband's
prudence provides for her. As for me, I am ready to be
happy anywhere in her society. We are all, therefore, well
contented in our various ways, to begin with.

Last night, I slept in London, and was delayed there so
long, to-day, by various calls and commissions, that I did not
reach Blackwater, this evening, till after dusk.

Judging by my vague impressions of the place, thus far,
it is the exact opposite of Limmeridge.

The house is situated on a dead flat, and seems to be shut
in — almost suffocated, to my north-country notions, by trees.
I have seen nobody, but the man-servant who opened the door
to me, and the housekeeper, a very civil person who showed
me the way to my own room, and got me my tea. I have a
nice little boudoir and bedroom, at the end of a long passage
on the first floor. The servants' and some of the spare rooms
are on the second floor ; and all the living rooms are on the
ground floor. I have not seen one of them yet, and I know
nothing about the house, except that one wing of it is said
to be five hundred years old, that it had a moat round it
once, and that it gets its name of Blackwater from a lake in
the park.

Eleven o'clock has just struck, in a ghostly and solemn
manner, from a turret over the centre of the house, which I
saw when I came in. A large dog has been woke, appa-
rently by the sound of the bell, and is howling and yawning
drearil}-, somewhere round a corner. I hear echoing foot-
steps in the passages below, and the iron thumping of bolls
and bars at the house door. The servants are evidently going
to bed. Shall I follow their example ?

No : I am not half sleepy enough. Sleepy, did I say ?
I feel as if I should never close my eyes again. The bare
anticipation of seeing that dear face and hearing that well-
known voice to-morrow, keeps me in a perpetual fever of ex-
citement. If I only had the privileges of a man, I would
order out Sir Percival's best horse instantly, and tear away
on a night-gallop, eastward, to meet the rising sun— a long,

17.^

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

hard, heavy, ceaseless gallop of hours and hours, like the
famous hig-hwayman's ride to York. Being-, however, nothing
but a woman, condemned to patience, propriety, and petticoats,
for life, I must respect the housekeeper's opinions, and try to
compose myself in some feeble and feminine way.

Reading is out of the question — I can't fix my attention on
books. Let me try if I can write myself into sleepiness and
fatigue. My journal has been very much neglected of late.
What can I recall — standing, as 1 now do, on the threshold
of a new life — of persons and events, of chances and changes,
during the past six months — the long, weary, empty interval
since Laura's wedding-day ?

Walter Hartright is uppermost in my memory ; and he
passes first in the shadowy procession of my absent friends.
I received a few lines from him, after the landing of the
expedition in Honduras, written more cheerfully and hope-
fully than he has written yet. A month or six weeks later, I
saw an extract from an American newspaper, describing the
departure of the adventurers on their inland journey. They
were last seen entering a wild primeval forest, each man witli
his rifle on his shoulder and his baggage at his back. Since
that time, civilisation has lost all trace of them. Not a line
more have I received from Walter ; not a fragment of news
from the expedition has appeared in any of the public journals.

The same dense, disheartening obscurity hangs over the
fate and fortunes of Anne Catherick, and her companion, Mrs.
Clements. Nothing whatever has been heard of either of
them. Whether they are in the country or out of it, whether
they are living or dead, no one knows. Even Sir Percival's
solicitor has lost all hope, and has ordered the useless search
after the fugitives to be finally given up.

Our good old friend Mr. Gilmore has met with a sad check
in his active professional career. Early in the spring, we were
alarmed by hearing that he had been found insensible at his
desk, and that the seizure was pronounced to be an apoplec-
tic fit. He had been long complaining of fulness and oppres-
sion in the head ; and his doctor had warned him of the con-
sequences that would follow his persistency in continuing to
work, early and late, as if he v/as still a j-cung man. The
result now is that he has been positively ordered to keep out
of his office for a year to come, at least, and to seek repose of
body and relief of mind by altogether changing his usual
mode of life. The business is left, accordingly, to be carried
on by his partner ; and he is, himself, at this moment, away

174

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

in Germany, visiting- some relations who are settled there in
mercantile pursuits. Thus, another true friend, and trust-
worthy adviser, is lost to us — lost, I earnestly hope and trust,
for a time only.

Poor Mrs. Vesey travelled with me, as far as London. It
was impossible to abandon her to solitude at Limmeridge,
after Laura and I had both left the house ; and we have
arranged that she is to live with an unmarried younger sister
of hers, who keeps a school at Clapham. She is to come
here this autumn to visit her pupil — I might almost say her
adopted child. I saw the good old lady safe to her destina-
tion ; and left her in the care of her relative, quietly happy
at the prospect of seeing Laura again, in a few months' time.

As for Mr. Fairlie, I believe I am guilty of no injustice if
I describe him as being unutterably relieved by having the
house clear of us women. The idea of his missing his niece
is simply preposterous — he used to let months pass, in the
old times, without attempting to see her — and, in my case
and Mrs. Vesey's, I take leave to consider his telling us both
that he was half heart-broken at our departure, to be equiva-
lent to a confession that he was secretly rejoiced to get rid of
us. His last caprice has led him to keep two photographers
incessantly employed in producing sun-pictures of all the
treasures and curiosities in his possession. One complete
copy of the collection of the photographs is to be presented to
the Mechanics' Institution of Carlisle, mounted on the finest
cardboard, with ostentatious red-letter inscriptions under-
neath. ' Madonna and Child, by Raphael. In the possession
of Frederick Fairlie, Esquire.' ' Copper coin of the period of
Tiglath Pileser. In the possession of Frederick Fairlie,
Esquire.' 'Unique Rembrandt etching. Known all over
Europe, as The Sfnudge, from a printer's blot in the corner
which exists in no other copy. Valued at three hundred
guineas. In the possession of Frederick Fairlie, Esquire.'
Dozens of photographs of this sort, and all inscribed in this
manner, were completed before I left Cumberland ; and
hundreds more remain to be done. With this new interest to
occupy him, Mr. Fairlie will be a happy man for months and
months to come ; and the two unfortunate photographers will
share the social martyrdom which he has hitherto inflicted on
his valet alone.

So much for the persons and events which hold the fore-
most place in my memory. What, next, of the one person
who holds the foremost place in my heart ? Laura has been
present to my thoughts all the while I have been writing these

175

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

lines. What can I recall of her, during the past six months,
before I close my journal for the night ?

I have only her letters to guide me ; and, on the most
important of all the questions which our correspondence can
discuss, every one of those letters leaves me in the dark.

Does he treat her kindly ? Is she happier now than she
was when I parted with her on the wedding-day ? All my
letters have contained these two inquiries, put more or less
directly, now in one form, and now in another ; and all, on
that point only, have remained without reply, or have been
answered as if my questions merely related to the state
of her health. She informs me, over and over again, that she
is perfectly well ; that travelling agrees with her ; that she is
getting through the winter, for the first time in her life,
Avithout catching cold — but not a word can I find anywhere
which tells me plainly that she is reconciled to her marriage,
and that she can now look back to the twenty-second of
December without any bitter feelings of repentance and re-
gret. The name of her husband is only mentioned in her
letters, as she might mention the name of a friend who was
travelling with them, and who had undertaken to make all the
arrangements for the journey. ' Sir Percival ' has settled that
we leave on such a day ; ' Sir Percival ' has decided that we
travel by such a road. Sometimes she writes, ' Percival '
only, but very seldom — in nine cases out of ten, she gives him
his title.

I cannot find that his habits and opinions have changed
and coloured hers in any single particular. The usual moral
transformation which is insensibly wrought in a young, fresh,
sensitive woman by her marriage, seems never to have taken
place in Laura. She writes of her own thoughts and impres-
sions, amid all the wonders she has seen, exactly as she might
have written to some one else, if I had been travelling with
her instead of her husband. I see no betrayal anywhere, of
sympathy of any kind existing between them. Even when
she wanders from the subject of her travels, and occupies her-
self with the prospects that await her in England, her specu-
lations are busied with her future as my sister, and persis-
tently neglect to notice her future as Sir Percival's wife. In
all this, there is no under-tone of complaint, to warn me that
she is absolutely unhappy in her married life. The impression
I have derived from our correspondence does not, thank God,
lead me to any such distressing conclusion as that. I only
see a sad torpor, an unchangeable indifference, v/hen I turn
my mind from her in the old character of a sister, and look at

176

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

ot a wife In ocher words, it is always Laura Fairlie who has
^een writing to me for the last six months, and never Lady

U.J!"^ u'^^^^ l'^^"''^ '''^''^^' "^^'^ maintains on the subject of
hei husband's character and conduct, she preserves with
almost equal resolution in the few references which her later
Coun? pCsco" '"^ '" "''"'' ""^ ^'' husband's bosom friend.
For some unexplained reason, the Count and his wife
appear to have chang-ed their plans abruptly, at the end of
last autumn and to have gone to Vienna, i,.st;ad of goin . o
Rome, at which latter place Sir Percival had expected to find
them when he left England. They only quitted Vienna in le
spnng, and travelled as far as the Tyrol to meet the brkle and
bridegroom on their homeward journev. Laura writes readHv
enough about the meeting with Madame Fosco, and assures
me that she has found her aunt so much changed for he
better-so much quieter and so much more sensibte as a wife
hanshe was as a single woman-that I shall hardly know
her again when I see her here. But, on the subject of Com
<osco (who interests me infinitely more than his-'wifet Lau a
IS provokingly circumspect and silent. She only says that 1 e

of hlmis until I T""' ''' '''?■ "'^^ '^" "^ ''''^' '-'■ -P--'Oi
oMiim IS, until I have seen him, and formed my own opinion

...!^'''''i° ;''-'' ''''"'^' ^""'"''^ '^^ f^^ the Count. Laura has
nffth' /-/p' "'?T ^''^'''^y ^'^^" "^°st people do in late?
and i^Vnm ?^-^' '''''''''■ ^^^"^^-'^-S a friend by instinct
and, ,f I am right ,n assuming that her first impression of
Count Fosco has not been favourable, I, for one, L in some
danger of doubting and distrusting that illustrious foreiTer
before I have so much as set eyes on him. But, patience
patience ; this uncertainty, and many uncertainties more'

in TSr "' "7h -"^^T- ^r"^-^^-^'--^^ -e all my doXs
in a fair way of being cleared up, sooner or later.

Ivvelve o'clock has struck; and I have just come back to
close these pages after looking out at my open window
few tL ; ' IP\ 'moonless night. The stars are dull and
tew The trees that shut out the view on all sides lool-
dimly black and solid in the distance, like a great wale;-
Irhn' f^fS' '^'^ "'^f ^ "- ^^ ^'""Ss, faint and fafoff ; and the
echoes of the great clock hum in the airless calm, fon- aftei-

viH fo't '%k''7 '"''''i- ^ ^^-^"^^^ how Black v^ater P H
^vlll look in the daytime ? I don't altogether like it bv nio-ht

^77 ' n"

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

I2th. — A day of investigations and discoveries — a more
Interesting day, for many reasons, than I had ventured to
anticipate.

I began my sight-seeing, of course, with the house.

The main body of the building is of the time of that higlily
over-rated woman. Queen EHzabeth. On the ground floor,
there are two hugely long galleries, with low ceilings, lying
parallel with each other, and rendered additionally dark and
dismal by hideous family portraits — every one of v»^hich I
should like to burn. The rooms on the floor above the two gal-
leries, are kept in tolerable repair, but are very seldom used.
The civil housekeeper, who acted as my guide, off'ered to
show me over them ; but considerately added that she feared
I should find them rather out of order. My respect for the
integrity of my own petticoats and stockings, infinitely exceeds
my respect for all the Elizabethan bedrooms in the kingdom ;
so I positively declined exploring the upper regions of dust and
dirt at the risk of soiling my nice clean clothes. The house-
keeper said, ' I am quite of your opinion, miss ; ' and appeared
to think me the most sensible woman she had met with for a
long time past.

So much, then, for the main building. Two wings are
added, at either end of it. The half-ruined wing on the left
(as you approach the house) was once a place of residence
standing by itself, and was built in the fourteenth century.
One of Sir Percival's maternal ancestors — I don't remember,
and don't care, which — tacked on the main building, at right
angles to it, in the aforesaid Queen Elizabeth's tim.e. The
housekeeper told me that the architecture of 'the old wing,'
both outside and inside, was considered remarkably fine by
good judges. On further investigation, I discovered that
good judges could only exercise their abilities on Sir Percival's
piece of antiquity by previously dismissing from their minds
all fear of damp, darkness, and rats. Under these circum-
stances, I unhesitatingly acknowledged myself to be no judge
at all ; and suggested that we should treat ' the old wing '
precisely as we had previously treated the Elizabethan bed-
rooms. Once more, the housekeeper said, ' I am quite of
your opinion, miss ; ' and once more she looked at me, with
undisguised admiration of my extraordinary common sense.

We went, next, to the wing on the right, which v/as built,
by way of completing the wonderful architectural jumble at
Blackwater Park, in the time of George the Second.

This is the habitable part of the house, which has been
repaired and redecorated, inside, on Laura's account. My

178

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

two rooms, and all the good bedrooms besides, are on the
first floor ; and the basement contains a drawing-room, a
dining-room, a morning-room, a library, and a pretty little
boudoir for Laura — all very nicely ornamented in the bright
modern way, and all very elegantly furnished with the
delightful modern luxuries. None of the rooms are anything
like so large and airy as our rooms at Limmeridge ; but they
all look pleasant to live in. I was terribly afraid, from what
I had heard of Blackwater Park, of fatiguing antique chairs,
and dismal stained glass, and musty, frouzy hangings, and all
the barbarous lumber which people born without a sense of
comfort accumulate about them, in defiance of the considera-
tion due to the convenience of their friends. It is an inex
pressible relief to find that the nineteenth century has invaded
this strange future home of mine, and has swept the dirty
* good old times ' out of the way of our daily life.

I dawdled away the morning — part of the time in the
rooms down stairs ; and part, out of doors, in the great
square which is foi'med by the three sides of the house, and
by the lofty iron railings and gates which protect it in front.
A large circular fishpond, with stone sides, and an allegorical
leaden monster in the middle, occupies the centre of the
square. The pond itself is full of gold and silver fish, and
is encircled by a broad belt of the softest turf I ever walked
on. I loitered here, on the shady side, pleasantly enough, till
luncheon time ; and, after that, took my broad straw hat, and
wandered out alone, in the warm lovely sunlight, to explore
the grounds.

Daylight confirmed the impression which I had felt the
night before, of there being too many trees at Blackwater.
The house is stifled by them. They are, for the most part,
young, and planted far too thickly. I suspect there must have
been a ruinous cutting down of timber, all over the estate,
before Sir Percival's time, and an angry anxiety, on the part of
the next possessor, to fill up all the gaps as thickly and rapidly
as possible. After looking about me, in front of the house, I
observed a flower-garden on my left hand, and walked
tov.'ards it, to see what I could discover in that direction.

On a nearer view, the garden proved to be small and poor
and ill kept. I left it behind me, opened a little gate in a
ring fence, and found myself in a plantation of fir-trees.

A pretty, winding path, artificially made, led me on among
the trees ; and my north-country experience soon informed
me that I was approaching sandy heathy ground. After a
walk of more than half a mile, I should think, among the

179 1^2

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

firs, the path took a sharp turn ; the trees abruptly ceased to
appear on either side of me ; and I found myself standing
suddenly on the margin of a vast open space, and looking
down at the Blackwater lake from which the house takes its
name.

The ground, shelving away below me, was all sand, with
a few little heathy hillocks to break the monotony of it in
certain places. The lake itself had evidently once flowed to
the spot on which I stood, and had been gradually wasted
and dried up to less than a third of its former size. I saw its
still, stagnant waters, a quarter of a mile away from me in
the hollow, separated into pools and ponds, by twining reeds
and rushes, and little knolls of earth. On the farther bank
from me, the trees rose thickly again, and shut out the view,
and cast their black shadows on the sluggish, shallow water.
As I walked down to the lake, I saw that the ground on its
farther side was damp and marshy, overgrown Avith rank
grass and dismal willows. The water, which was clear
enough on the open sandy side, where the sun shone, looked
black and poisonous opposite to me, where it lay deeper
under the shade of the spongy banks, and the rank over-
hanging thickets and tangled trees. The frogs were croaking,
and the rats were slipping in and out of the shadowy water,
like live shadows themselves, as I got nearer to the marshy
side of the lake. I saw here, lying half in and half out of
the water, the rotten wreck of an old overturned boat, with a
sickly spot of sunlight glimmering through a gap in the trees
on its dry surface, and a snake basking in the midst of the
spot, fantastically coiled, and treacherously still. Far and
near, the view suggested the same dreary impressions of
solitude and decay ; and the glorious brightness of the
summer sky overhead, seemed only to deepen and harden the
gloom and barrenness of the wilderness on which it shone.
I turned and retraced my steps to the high, heathy ground ;
directing them a little aside from my former path, towards a
shabby old wooden shed, which stood on the outer skirt of
the fir plantation, and which had hitherto been too un-
important to share my notice with the wide, wild prospect of
the lake.

On approaching the ihed, I found that it had once been a
boat-house, and that an attempt had apparently been made to
convert it afterwards into a sort of rude arbour, by placing
inside it a firwood seat, a few stools, and a table. I entered
the place, and sat down for a little while, to rest and get my
breath again.

180

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

I had not been in the boat-house more than a minute, when
it struck me that the sound of my own quick breathing- was
very strangely eclioed by something beneath me. I Hstened
intently for a moment, and heard a low, thick, sobbing breath
that seemed to come from the ground under the seat which I
was occupying. My nerves are not easily shaken by trifles ;
but, on this occasion, I started to my feet in a fright — called
out — received no answer — summoned back my recreant
courage — and looked under the seat.

There, crouched up in the farthest corner, lay the forlorn
cause of my terror, in the shape of a poor little dog— a black
and white spaniel. The creature moaned feebly when I
looked at it and called to it, but never stiri'ed. I moved
av/ay the seat and looked closer. The poor little dog's eyes
were glazing fast, and there were spots of blood on its glossy-
white side. The misery of a weak, helpless, dumb creature is
surely one of the saddest of all the mournful sights which
this world can show. I lifted the poor dog in my arms as
g'cntly as I could, and contrived a sort of make-shift hammock
for him to lie in, by gathering up the front of my dress all
round him. In this way, I took the creature, as painlessly as
possible, and as fast as possible, back to the house.

Finding no one in the hall, I went up at once to my own
sitting-room, made a bed for the dog- with one of my old
shawls, and rang the bell. The largest and fattest of all
possible housemaids answered it, in a state of cheerful
stupidity which would have provoked the patience of a saint.
The girl's fat, shapeless face actually stretched into a broad
grin, at the sight of the wounded creature on the floor.

' What do you see there to laugh at ? ' I asked, as angrily
as if she had been a servant of my ov/n. ' Do you know
whose dog it is ? *

* No, miss, that I certainly don't.' She stopped, and
looked down at the spaniel's injured side — brightened
suddenly with the irradiation of a new idea — and, pointing to
the wound with a chuckle of satisfaction, said, ' That's
Baxter's doings, that is.'

I was so exasperated that I could have boxed her ears.
' Baxter ? ' I said. ' Who is the brute you call Baxter ? '

The girl grinned again, more cheerfully than ever. ' Bless
you, miss ! Baxter's the keeper ; and when he finds strange
dogs hunting about, he takes and shoots 'em. It's keeper's
dooty, miss. I think that dog will die. Here's where he's
been shot, ain't it? That's Baxter's doings, that is.
Baxter's doings, miss, and Baxter's dooty.'

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

I was almost wicked enough to wish that Baxter had shot
the housemaid instead of the dog. Seeing that it was quite
useless to expect this densely impenetrable personage to
give me any help in relieving the suffering creature at our
feet, I told her to request the housekeeper's attendance with
my compliments. She went out exactly as she had come
in, grinning from ear to ear. As the door closed on her, she
said to herself, softly, ' It's Baxter's doings and Baxter's
dooty — that's what it is.'

The housekeeper, a persoii of some education and in-
telligence, thoughtfully brought up-stairs with her some milk
and some warm water. The instant she saw the dog on the
floor, she started and changed colour.

* Why, Lord bless me,' cried the housekeeper, * that must
be Mrs. Catherick's dog ! '

* Whose ? ' I asked, in the utmost astonishment.

' Mrs. Catherick's. You seem to know Mrs. Catherlck,
Miss Halcombe ? '

* Not personally. But I have heard of her. Does she
live here ? Has she had any news of her daughter ? '

' No, Miss Halcombe. She came here to ask for news.'
' When ? *

* Only yesterday. She said some one had reported that a
stranger answering to the description of her daughter had
been seen in our neighbourhood. No such report has reached
us here ; and no such report was known in the village, A\^hen
I sent to make inquiries there on Mrs. Catherick's account.
She certainly brought this poor little dog with her vv'hen she
came ; and I saw it trot out after her when she went away.
I suppose the creature strayed into the plantations, and got
shot. Where did you find it, Miss Halcombe ? '

' In the old shed that looks out on the lake.'
' Ah, yes, that is the plantation side, and the poor thing
dragged itself, I suppose, to the nearest shelter, as dogs
will, to die. If you can moisten its lips with the milk, Miss
Halcombe, I will w'ash the clotted hair from the wound. I
am very much afraid it is too late to do any good. However,
we can but try.'

Mrs. Catherick ! The namie still rang in my ears, as if
the housekeeper had only that moment surprised me by
uttering it. While we were attending to the dog, the words
of Walter Hartright's caution to me returned to my memory.
* If ever Anne Catherlck crosses your path, m.ake better use
of the opportunity, Miss Halcombe, than I made of it,' The
finding of the wounded spaniel had led me already to the

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

discovery of Mrs. Catherlck's visit to Blackwater Park ; and
that event might lead, in its turn, to something- more. I
determined to make the most of the chance which was
now offered to me, and to gain as much information as I
could.

* Did you say that Mrs. Catherick lived anywhere in this
neighbourhood ? ' I asked.

* Oh, dear, no,' said the housekeeper. * She lives at
\Velmingham, quite at the other end of the country — five-
and-twenty miles off at least,'

* I suppose you have known Mrs. Catherick for som.e
years ? '

' On the contrary, Miss Halcombe : I never saw her
before she came here, yesterda}-. I had heard of her, of
course, because I had heard of Sir Percival's kindness in
putting her daughter under medical care. Mrs. Catherick is
rather a strange person in her manners, but extremely re-
spectable-looking. She seemed sorely put out, when she
found that there was no foundation — none, at least, that any
of HS could discover — for the report of her daughter having
been seen in this neighbourhood.'

' I am rather interested about Mrs. Catherick,' I went on,
continuing the conversation as long as possible. ' I wish I
had arrived here soon enough to see her yesterday. Did she
stay for any length of time ? '

' Yes,' said the housekeeper, ' she stayed for some time.
And I think she would have remained longer, if I had not
been called away to speak to a strange gentleman — a gentle-
man who came to ask when Sir Percival was expected back.
Mrs. Catherick got up and left at once, when she heard the
maid tell me what the visitor's errand was. She said to me,
at parting, that there was no need to tell Sir Percival of her
coming here. I thought that rather an odd remark to make,
especially to a person in my responsible situation.'

I thought it an odd remark, too. Sir Percival had cer-
tainly led me to believe, at Limmeridge, that the most perfect
confidence existed between himself and Mrs. Catherick. If
that was the case, why should she be anxious to have her
visit at Blackwater Park kept a secret from him ?

' Probably,' I said, seeing that the housekeeper expected
me to give my opinion on Mrs. Catherick's parting words ;
* probably, she thought the announcement of her visit might
vex Sir Percival to no purpose, by reminding him that her
lost daughter was not found yet. Did she talk much on
that subject ? '

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

' Very little,' replied the housekeeper. * She talked prin-
cipally of Sir Percival, and asked a great many questions
about where he had been travelling', and what sort of a lady
his new wife was. She seemed to be more soured and put
out than distressed, by failing to find any traces of her
daughter in these parts. "I give her up," were the last
words she said that I can remember; "I give her up,
ma'am, for lost." And from that, she passed at once to her
questions about Lady Glyde ; wanting to know if she was a
handsome, amiable lady, comely and healthy and young — ■
Ah, dear ! I thought how it would end. Look, Miss Hal-
combe ! the poor thing is out of its misery at last ! '

The dog was dead. It had given a faint, sobbing cry, it
had suffered an instant's convulsion of the limbs, just as
those last words, ' comely and healthy and young,' dropped
from the housekeeper's lips. The change had happened with
startling suddenness — in one moment the creature lay lifeless
under our hands.

Eight o'clock. I have just returned from dining down
stairs, in solitary state. The sunset is burning redly on the
wilderness of trees that I see from my window ; and I am
poring over my journal again, to calm my impatience for the
return of the travellers. They ought to have arrived, by my
calculations, before this. How still and lonely the house is in
the drowsy evening quiet ! Oh, me ! how many minutes
more before I hear the carriage wheels and run down stairs to
find myself in Laura's arms ?

The poor little dog ! I wish my first day at Blackwater
Park had not been associated with death — though it is only
the death of a stray animal.

Welmingham — I see, on looking back through these private
pages of mine, that Welmingham is the name of the place
where Mrs. Catherick lives. Her note is still in my posses-
sion, the note in answer to that letter about her unhappy
daughter which Sir Percival obliged me to write. One of
these days, when I can find a safe opportunity, I will take the
note with me by way of introduction, and try what I can
make of Mrs. Catherick at a personal interview. I don't
understand her wishing to conceal her visit to this place from
Sir Percival's knowledge ; and I don't feel half so sure, as the
housekeeper seems to do, that her daughter Anne is not in
the neighbourhood, after all. What would Walter Hartright
have said in this emergency ? Poor, dear Hartright ! I am
beginning to feel the want of his honest advice and his willing
help, already.

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

Surely, I heard something^. Was It a bustle of footsteps
below stairs ? Yes ! I hear the horses' feet ; I hear the rolling-
wheels

II.

June 15th. — The confusion of their arrival has had time to
subside. Two days have elapsed since the return of the
travellers ; and that interval has sufficed to put the new
machinery of our lives at Blackwater Park in fair working
order. I may now return to my journal, with some little
chance of being able to continue the entries in it as collectedly
as usual.

I think I must begin by putting down an odd remark,
which has suggested itself to me since Laura came back.

When two members of a family, or two intimate friends, are
separated, and one goes abroad and one remains at home, the
return of the relative or friend who has been travelling, always
seems to place the relative or friend who has been staying at
home at a painful disadvantage, when the two first meet.
The sudden encounter of the new thoughts and new habits
eagerly gained in the one case, with the old thoughts and
old habits passively preserved in the other, seems, at first, to
part the sympathies of the most loving relatives and the
fondest friends, and to set a sudden strangeness, unexpected
by both and uncontrollable by both, between them on either
side. After the first happiness of my meeting with Laura was
over, after we had sat down together, hand in hand, to recover
breath enough and calmness enough to talk, I felt this strange-
ness instantly, and I could see that she felt it too. It has
partially worn away, now that we have fallen back into most
of our old habits ; and it will probably disappear before long.
But it has certainly had an influence over the first impressions
that I have formed of her, now that we are living together
again — for which reason only I have thought fit to mention
it here.

She has found me unaltered ; but I have found her
changed.

Changed in person, and, in one respect, changed in
character, I cannot absolutely say that she is less beautiful
than she used to be : I can only say that she is less beautiful

to 77ie.

Others, who do not look at her with my eyes and my
recollections, would probably think her improved. There is
more colour, and more decision and roundness of outline in
her face than there u§ed to be ; and her figure seems more

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

firmly set, and more sure and easy in all its movements than
it was in her maiden days. But I miss something- v/hen I look
at her — something- that once belonged to the happy, innocent
life of Laura Fairlie, and that I cannot find in Lady Glyde.
There was, in the old times, a freshness, a softness, an ever-
varying and yet ever-remaining- tenderness of beauty in her
face, the charm of which it is not possible to express in words
— or, as poor Hartright used often to say, in painting, either.
This is gone. I thought I saw the faint reflexion of it, for a
moment, when she turned pale under the agitation of our
sudden meeting, on the evening of her return ; but it has
never reappeared since. None of her letters had prepared me
for a personal change in her. On the contrary, they had led
me to expect that her marriage had left her, in appearance at
least, quite unaltered. Perhaps, I read her letters wrongly,
in the past, and am now reading her face wrongly, in the
present ? No matter ! Whether her beauty has gained, or
whether it has lost, in the last six months, the separation,
either way, has made her own dear self more precious to me
than ever — and that is one good result of her marriage, at
any rate !

The second change, the change that I have observed in her
character, has not surprised me, because I was prepared for
it, in this case, by the tone of her letters. Now that she is
at home again, I find her just as unwilling to enter into any
details on the subject of her married life, as I had previously
found her, all through the time of our separation, when we
could only communicate with each other by writing. At the
first approach I made to the forbidden topic, she put her hand
on my lips, with a look and gesture which touchingly, almost
painfully, recalled to my memory the days of her girlhood and
the happy bygone time when there were no secrets between us.

* Whenever you and I are together, Marian,' she said,
* we shall both be happier and easier with one another, if we
accept my married life for what it is, and say and think
as little about it as possible. I would tell j^ou everything,
darling-, about m.yself,' she went on, nervously buckling and
unbuckling the ribbon round my waist, ' if my confidences
could only end there. But they could not — they would lead
me into confidences about my husband, too ; and, now I am
married, I think I had better avoid them, for his sake, and
for your sake, and for mine. I don't say that they would
distress you, or distress me — I wouldn't have you think that
for the world. But — I want to be so happy, now I haye g-ot

you back again ; and I want you to be so happy too '

1 86

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

She broke off abruptly, and looked round the room, my own
sitting--room, in which we were talking-. ' Ah ! ' she cried,
clapping her hands with a bright smile of recognition,
' another old friend found already ! Your bookcase, Marian
— )-our dear-little-shabby-old-satin-wood bookcase — how glad
I am you brought it with you from Limmeridge ! And the
horrid, heavy, man's umbrella, that you always would walk
out with when it rained ! And, first and foremost of all, your
own dear, dark, clever, gipsy-face, looking at me just as usual !
It is so like home again to be here. How can w^e make it
more like home still ? I will put my father's portrait in your
room instead of in mine — and I will keep all my little treasures
from Limmeridge here— and we will pass hours and hours
every day with these four friendly walls round us. Oh,
Marian ! ' she said, suddenly seating herself on a footstool at
my knees, and looking up earnestly in my face, ' promise you
will never marry, and leave me. It is selfish to say so, but
you are so much better off as a single woman — unless — unless
you are very fond of your husband — but you won't be very
fond of anybody but me, will you ? ' She stopped again ;
crossed my hands on my lap ; and laid her face on them.
' Have you been writing many letters, and receiving many
letters, lately?' she asked, in low, suddenly-altered tones. I
understood what the question meant ; but I thought it my
duty not to encourage her by meeting her half way. ' Have
you heard from him ? ' she went on, coaxing me to forgive
the more direct appeal on which she now^ ventured, by kissing
my hands, upon which her face still rested. ' Is he well and
happy, and getting on in his profession ? Has he recovered
himself — and forg'otten me ? '

She should not liave asked those questions. She should
have remembered her own resolution, on the morning w^hen
Sir Percival held her to her marriage engagement, and when
she resigned the book of Hartright's drawings into my hands
for ever. But, ah me ! where is the faultless human creature
who can persevere in a good resolution, without sometimes
failing and falling back ? Where is the woman who has ever
really torn from her heart the image that has been once fixed
in it by a true love ? Books tell us that such unearthly crea-
tures have existed — but what does our own experience say in
answer to books ?

I made no attempt to remonstrate with her : perhaps,
because I sincerely appreciated the fearless candour which let
me see, what other women in her position might have had
reasons for concealing even from their dearest friends—

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

perhaps, because I felt, in my own heart and conscience, that,
in her place I should have asked the same questions and had
the same thoughts. All I could honestly do was to reply that
I had not written to him or heard from him lately, and then
to turn the conversation to less dangerous topics.

There has been much to sadden me in our interview — m}''
first confidential interview with her since her return. The
change w^iich her marriage has produced in our relations
tow^ards each other, by placing a forbidden subject between
us, for the first time in our lives ; the melancholy conviction
of the dearth of all warmth of feeling, of all close sympathy,
between her husband and herself, which her own unwilling
words now force on my mind ; the distressing discovery that
the influence of that ill-fated attachment still remains (no
matter how innocently, how harmlessly) rooted as deeply as
ever in her heart — all these are disclosures to sadden any
W'Oman who loves her as dearly, and feels for her as acutely,
as I do.

There is only one consolation to set against them — a con-
solation that ought to comfort me, and that does comfort me.
All the graces and gentlenesses of her character; all the frank
affection of her nature ; all the sweet, simple, womanly charms
which used to make her the darling and delight of every one
who approached her, have come back to me with herself. Of
my other impressions I am sometimes a little inclined to
doubt. Of this last, best, happiest of all impressions, I grow
more and more certain, every hour in the day.

Let me turn, now, from her to her travelling companions.
Her husband must engage my attention first. What have I
observed in Sir Percival, since his return, to improve my
opinion of him ?

I can hardly say. Small vexations and annoj'ances seem
to have beset him since he came back : and no man, under
those circumstances, is ever presented at his best. He looks,
as I think, thinner than he was when he left England. His
wearisome cough and his comfortless restlessness have
certainly increased. His manner — at least, his manner
towards me — is much more abrupt than it used to be. He
greeted me, on the evening of his return, with little or no-
thing of the ceremony and civility of former times — no polite
speeches of w^elcome — no appearance of extraordinary grati-
fication at seeing me — nothing but a short shake of the hand,
and a sharp ' How-d'ye-do, Miss Halcombe — glad to see you
again.' He seemed to accept me as one of the necessary
fixtures of Blackwater Park ; to be satisfied at finding me

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

established in my proper place ; and then to pass me over
altogether.

Most men show something- of their dispositions in their
own houses, which they have concealed elsewhere ; and Sir
Percival has already displayed a mania for order and regu-
larity', which is quite a new revelation of him, so far as my
previous knowledge of his character is concerned. If I take
a book from the library and leave it on the table, he follows
me, and puts it back again. If I rise from a chair, and let it
remain where I have been sitting, he carefully restores it to
its proper place against the wall. He picks up stray flower-
blossoms from the carpet, and mutters to himself as discon-
tentedly as if they were hot cinders burning holes in it ; and
he storms at the servants, if there is a crease in the tablecloth,
or a knife missing from its place at the dinner-table, as
fiercely as if the}' had personally insulted him.

I have already referred to the small annoyances which
appear to have troubled him since his return. Much of the
alteration for the worse which I have noticed in him, may be
due to these. I try to persuade myself that it is so, because
I am anxious not to be disheartened already about the future.
It is certainly trying to any man's temper to be met by a vexa-
tion the moment he sets foot in his own house again, after a
long absence ; and this annoying circumstance did really
happen to Sir Percival in my presence.

On the evening of their arrival, the housekeeper followed
me into the hall to receive her master and mistress and their
guests. The instant he saw her. Sir Percival asked if any one
had called lately. The housekeeper mentioned to him, in
reply, what she had previously mentioned to me, the visit of
the strange gentleman to make inquiries about the time of her
master's return. He asked immediately for the gentleman's
name. No name had been left. The gentleman's business ?
No business had been mentioned. What was the gentleman
like ? The housekeeper tried to describe him ; but failed to
distinguish the nameless visitor by any personal peculiarity
which her master could recognise. Sir Percival frowned,
stamped angrily on the floor, and walked on into the house,
taking no notice of anybody. Why he should have been so
discomposed by a trifle I cannot say — but he was seriously
discomposed, beyond all doubt.

Upon the whole, it will be best, perhaps, if I abstain from
forming a decisive opinion of his manners, language, and con-
duct in his own house, until time has enabled him to shake oft'
the anxieties, whatever they mav be, v.-hich now evidently

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

trouble his mind in secret. I will turn over to a new page ;
and my pen shall let Laura's husband alone for the present.

The two guests — the Count and Countess Fosco — come
next in my catalogue. I will dispose of the Countess first, so
as to have done with the woman as soon as possible.

Laura was certainly not chargeable with any exaggeration,
in writing me word that I should hardly recognise her aunt
again, when we met. Never before have I beheld such a change
produced in a woman by her marriage as has been produced
in Madame Fosco.

As Eleanor Fairlie (aged seven-and-thirty), she was always
talking pretentious nonsense, and ahvays worrying the un-
fortunate men with every small exaction which a vain and
foolish woman can impose on long'-sufTering male humanity.
As Madame Fosco (aged three-and-forty), she sits for hours
together without saying a word, frozen up in the strangest
manner in herself. The hideously ridiculous love-locks which
used to hang on either side of her face, are now replaced by
stiff little rows of very short curls, of the sort that one sees in
old-fashioned wigs. A plain, matronly cap covers her head,
and makes her look, for the first time in her life, since I re-
member her, like a decent woman. Nobody (putting her
husband out of the question, of course) now sees in her,
what everybody once saw — I mean the structure of the female
skeleton, in the upper regions of the collar-bones and the
shoulder-blades. Clad in quiet black or gray gowns, made
high round the throat — dresses that she would have laughed
at, or screamed at, as the whim of the moment inclined her,
in her maiden days — she sits speechless in corners ; her dry
white hands (so dry that the pores of her skin look chalky)
incessantly engaged, either in monotonous embroidery work,
or in rolling up endless little cigarettes for the Count's own
particular smoking. On the few occasions when her cold
blue eyes are off her v\'ork, they are generally turned on
her husband, with the look of mute submissive inquiry
which we are all familiar with in the eyes of a faithful
dog. The only approach to an inward thaw which I have yet
detected under her outer covering of icy constraint, has be-
trayed itself, once or twice, in the form of a suppressed tigerish
jealousy of any woman in the house (the maids included) to
whom the Count speaks, or on whom he looks with anything
approaching to special interest or attention. Except in this
one particular, she is ahvays, morning, noon, and night, in-
doors and out, fair weather or foul, as cold as a statue, and
as impenetrable as the stone out of v/hich it is cut. For the

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

common purposes of society tlie extraordinary chang-e thus
produced in her, is, beyond all doubt, a change for the better,
seeing- that it has transformed her into a civil, silent, unob-
trusive woman, who is never in the way. How far she is
really reformed or deteriorated in her secret self, is another
question. I have once or twice seen sudden changes of ex-
pression on her pinched lips, and heard sudden inflexions of tone
in her calm voice, which have led me to suspect that her pre-
sent state of suppression may have sealed up something dan-
g;erous in her nature, which used to evaporate harmlessly in
the freedom of her former life. It is quite possible that I may
be altogether wrong in this idea. My own impression, how-
ever, is, that I am right. Time will show.

And the magician who has wrought this wonderful trans-
formation— the foreign husband who has tamed this once way-
ward Englishwoman till her own relations hardly know her
again — the Count himself? What of the Count ?

This, in two words : He looks like a man who could tame
anything. If he had married a tigress, instead of a woman,
he would have tamed the tigress. If he had married 7nc, I
should have made his cigarettes as his wife does — I should
have held my tongue when he looked at me, as she holds hers.

I am almost afraid to confess it, even to these secret pages.
The man has interested me, has attracted me, has forced me
to like him. In two short days, he has made his way straight
into my favourable estimation — and hov>' he has worked the
miracle, is more than I can tell.

It absolutely startles me, now he is in my mind, to find
how plainly I see him ! — hov/ much more plainly than I see
Sir Percival, or Mr. Fairlie, or Walter Hartright, or any other
absent person of whom I think, with the one exception of
Laura herself ! I can hear his voice, as if he was speaking at
this moment. I know what his conversation was yesterday, as
well as if I was hearing it now. How am I to describe him ?
There are peculiarities in his personal appearance, his habits,
and his amusements, which I should blame in the boldest
terms, or ridicule in the most merciless m.anner, if I had seen
them in another man. Wliat is it that makes me unable to
blame them, or to ridicule them in him ?

For example, he is immensely fat. Before this time, I
have always especially disliked corpulent humanity. I have
always maintained that the popular notion of connecting-
excessive grossness of size and excessive good-humour as
inseparable allies, was equivalent to declaring, ei-ther that
no people but amiable people ever get fat, or that the acci-

191 '

THE WOMAN IN WHIT£

dental addition of so many pounds of flesh has a directly
favourable influence over the disposition of the person on
whose body they accumulate. I have invariably combated
both these absurd assertiens by quoting- examples of fat people
who were as mean, vicious, and cruel, as the leanest and the
worst of their neighbours. I have asked whether Henry the
Eighth was an amiable character ? whether Pope Alexander
the Sixth was a good man ? Whether Mr. Murderer and
Mrs. Murderess Manning were not both unusually stout
people ? Whether hired nurses, proverbially as cruel a set of
women as are to be found in all England, were not, for the
most part, also as fat a set of women as are to be found in all
England ? — and so on, through dozens of other examples,
modern and ancient, native and foreign, high and low.
Holding these strong opinions on the subject with might and
main, as I do at this moment, here, nevertheless, is Count
Fosco, as fat as Henry the Eighth himself, established in my
favour, at one day's notice, without let or hindrance from his
own odious corpulence. Marvellous indeed !

Is it his face that has recommended him ?

It may be his face. He is a most remarkable likeness, on
a large scale, of the Great Napoleon. His features have
Napoleon's magnificent regularity : his expression recalls the
grandly calm, immovable power of the Great Soldier's face.
This striking resemblance certainly impressed me, to begin
with ; but there is something in him besides the resemblance,
which has impressed me more. I think the influence I am
now trying to find, is in his eyes. They are the most un-
fathomable gray eyes I ever saw : and they have at times a
cold, clear, beautiful, irresistible glitter in them, which forces
me to look at him, and yet causes me sensations, when I do
look, which I would rather not feel. Other parts of his face
and head have their strange peculiarities. His complexion,
for instance, has a singular sallow-fairness, so much at vari-
ance with the dark-brown colour of his hair, that I suspect
the hair of being a wig ; and his face, closely shaven all over, is
smoother and freer from all marks and wrinkles than mine,
though (according to Sir Percival's account of him) he is close
on sixty years of age. But these are not the prominent per-
sonal characteristics which distinguish him, to my mind, from
all the other men I have ever seen. The marked peculiarity
which singles him out from the rank and file of humanity, lies
entirely, so far as I can tell at present, in the extraordinary ex-
pression and extraordinary power of his eyes.

His manner, and his command of our language, may also

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

have assisted him, in some degree, to estabhsh himself in my
good opinion. He has that quiet deference, that look of
pleased, attentive interest, in listening to a woman, and that
secret gentleness in his voice, in speaking to a woman, which,
say vv^hat we may, we can none of us resist. Here, too, his
unusual command of the English language necessarily helps
him. I had often heard of the extraordinary aptitude which
many Italians show in mastering our strong, hard, Northern
speech ; but, until I saw Count Fosco, I had never supposed
it possible that any foreigner could have spoken English as he
speaks it. There are timies when it is almost impossible to
detect, by his accent, that he is not a countryman of our own ;
and, as for fluency, there are very few born Englishmen who
can talk with as few stoppages and repetitions as the Count.
He may construct his sentences, more or less, in the foreign
way ; but I have never yet heard him use a wrong expression,
or hesitate for a moment in his choice of a word.

All the smallest characteristics of this strange man have
something strikingly original and perplexingly contradictory
in them. Fat as he is, and old as he is, his movements are
astonishingly light and easy. He is as noiseless in a room
as any of us women ; and, more than that, with all his look of
unmistakable mental firmness and power, he is as nervously
sensitive as the weakest of us. He starts at chance noises
as inveterately as Laura herself. He winced and shuddered
yesterday, when Sir Percival beat one of the spaniels, so that
I felt ashamed of my own want of tenderness and sensibility,
by comparison with the Count.

The relation of this last incident reminds me of one of his
most curious peculiarities, which I have not yet mentioned —
his extraordinary fondness for pet animals.

Some of these he has left on the Continent, but he has
brought with him to this house a cockatoo, two canary-birds,
and a whole family of white mice. He attends to all the
necessities of these strange favourites himself, and he has
taught the creatures to be surprisingly fond of him, and
familiar with him. The cockatoo, a most vicious and
treacherous bird towards every one else, absolutely seems to
love him. When he lets it out of its cage, it hops on to his
knee, and claws its way up his great big body, and rubs its
top-knot against his sallow double chin in the most caressing
manner imaginable. He has only to set the doors of the
canaries' cages open, and to call them ; and the pretty little
cleverly trained creatures perch fearlessly on his hand, mount
his fat outstretched fingers one bv one, when he tells them to

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

* go up-stairs/ and sing together as if they would burst their
throats with dehght, when they get to the top finger. His
white mice Hve in a little pagoda of gaily-painted wirework,
designed and made by himself. They are almost as tame as
the canaries, and they are perpetually let out, like the canaries.
They crawl all over him, popping in and out of his waistcoat,
and sitting in couples, white as snow, on his capacious
shoulders. He seems to be even fonder of his mice than of
his other pets, smiles at them, kisses them, and calls them by
all sorts of endearing names. If it be possible to suppose an
Englishman with any taste for such childish interests and
amusements as these, that Englishman would certainly feel
rather ashamed of them, and would be anxious to apologise
for them, in the company of grown-up people. But the Count,
apparently sees nothing ridiculous in the amazing contrast
between his colossal self and his frail little pets. He would
blandly kiss his white mice, and twitter to his canary-birds,
amid an assembly of English fox-hunters, and would only
pity them as barbarians wheii they were all laughing their
loudest at him.

It seems hardly credible, while I am writing it down, but
it is certainly true, that this same man, who has all the fond-
ness of an old maid for his cockatoo, and all the small dex-
terities of an organ-boy in managing his white mice, can talk,
when anything happens to rouse him,^ with a daring indepen-
dence of thought, a knowledge of books in every language,
and an experience of society in half the capitals of Europe,
which would make him the prominent personage of any
assembly in the civilized world. This trainer of canary-birds,
this architect of a pagoda for white mice, is (as Sir Percival
himself has told me) one of the first experimental chemists
living, and has discovered, among other wonderful inventions,
a means of petrifying the body after death, so as to preserve
it, as hard as marble, to the end of time. This fat, indolent,
elderly man, whose nerves are sb'finely strung that he starts
at chance noises, and winces when he sees a house-spaniel
get a whipping, went into the stable-yard on the morning
after his arrival, and put his hand on the head of a chained
bloodhound — a beast so savage that the very groom v.'ho feeds
him keeps out of his reach. His wife and I were present, and
I shall not forget the scene that followed, short as it was.

' Mind that dog, sir,' said the groom ; ' he flies at every-
body ! ' ' He does that, my friend,' replied the Count, quietly,
' because everybody is afraid of him. Let us see if he flies at
me.^ And he laid his plump, yellow-white fingers, on which

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

the canary-birds had been perchnig ten mhiutes before, upon
the formidable brute's head ; and looked him straight in the
eyes. * You big dogs are all cowards,' he said, addressing
the animal contemptuously, with his face and the dog's within
an inch of each other. ' You would kill a poor cat, you
infernal coward. You would fly at a starving beggar, you
infernal coward. Anything that you can surprise unawares — ■
anything that is afraid of your big body, and your wicked
white teeth, and your slobbering, bloodthirsty mouth, is the
thing you like to fly at. You could throttle me at this moment,
)-ou mean, miserable bully ; and you daren't so much as look
me in the face, because I'm not afraid of you. Will you think
better of it, and try your teeth in my fat neck ? Bah ! not you ! '
He turned away, laughing at the astonishment of the men in
the yard ; and the dog crept back meekly to his kennel. ' Ah !
my nice waistcoat ! ' he said, pathetically. ' I am sorry I
came here. Some of that brute's slobber has got on my
pretty clean v/aistcoat.' Those words express another of his
incomprehensible oddities. , He is as fond of fine clothes as
the veriest fool in existence ; and has appeared in four mag-
nificent waistcoats, already — all of light garish colours, and
all immensely large even for him — in the two days of his
residence at Blackwater Park.

His tact and cleverness in small things are quite as notice-
able as the singular inconsistencies in his character, and the
childish triviality of his ordinary tastes and pursuits.

I can see already that he means to live on excellent terms
with all of us, during the period of his sojourn in this place.
He has evidently discovered that Laura secretly dislikes him
(she confessed as much to me, when I pressed her on the
subject) — but he has also found out that she is extravagantly
fond of flowers. Whenever she wants a nosegay, he has got
one to give her, gathered and arranged by himself; and,
greatly to my amusement, he is always cunningly provided
with a duplicate, composedof exactly the same flowers, grouped
in exactly the same way, to appease his icily jealous wife, before
she can so much as think herself aggrieved. His management
of the Countess (in public) is a sight to see. He bow^s to her ;
he habitually addresses her as * my angel ; ' he carries his
canaries to pay her little visits on his fingers, and to sing to
her ; he kisses her hand, when she gives him his cigarettes ; he
presents her with sugar-plums, in return, which he puts into
her mouth playfully, from a box in his pocket. The rod of iron
with which he rules her never appears in company — it is a
private rod, and is always kept up-stairs,

195 0 3

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

His method of recommending himself to vie, is entirely
different. He flatters my vanity, by talking- to me as seriously
and sensibly as if I was a man. Yes ! I can find him out
when I am away from him ; I know he flatters my vanity,
when I think of him up here, in my ov/n room — and yet, when
I go down stairs, and get into his company again, he will blind
me again, and I shall be flattered again, just as if I had never
found him out at all ! He can manage me, as he manages his
wife and Laura, as he managed the bloodhound in the stable-
yard, as he manages Sir Percival himself, every hour in the
day. * My good Percival ! how I like your rough English
humour ! ' — ' My good Percival ! how I enjoy your solid
English sense ! ' He puts the rudest remarks Sir Percival can
make on his effeminate tastes and amusements, quietly away
from him in that manner — always calling the baronet by his
Christian name ; smiling at him with the calmest superiority ;
patting him on the shoulder ; and bearing with him be-
nignantly, as a good-humoured father bears with a wayward
son.

The interest which I really cannot help feeling in this
strangely original man, has led me to question Sir Percival
about his past life.

Sir Percival either knov.'s little, or will tell me little, about
it. He and the Count first met many years ago, at Rome,
under the dangerous circumstances to which I have alluded
elsewhere. Since that time, they have been perpetually
together in London, in Paris, and in Vienna — but never in
Italy again ; the Count having, oddly enough, not crossed the
frontiers of his native country for years past. Perhaps, he has
been made the victim of some political persecution ? At all
events, he seems to be patriotically anxious not to lose sight
of any of his own countrymen who may happen to be in
England. On the evening of his arrival, he asked how far we
were from the nearest town, and whether we knew of any
Italian gentlemen who might happen to be settled there. He
is certainly in correspondence with people on the Continent,
for his letters have all sorts of odd stamps on them ; and I
saw one for him, this morning, waiting in his place at the
breakfast-table, with a huge ofiicial-looking seal on it. Per-
haps he is in correspondence v^ith his government ? And yet,
that is hardly to be reconciled, either, with my other idea that
he may be a political exile.

How much I seem to have written about Count Fosco !
And what does it all amount to ? — as poor, dear Mr. Gilmore
would ask, in his impenetrable business-like way. I can only

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

repeat that I do assuredly feel, even on this short acquahitance,
a strange, half-willing, half-unwilling liking for the Count.
He seems to have established over me the same sort of as-
cendancy which he has evidently gained over Sir Percival.
Free, and even rude, as he may occasionally be in his manner
towards his fat friend, Sir Percival is nevertheless afraid, as I
can plainly see, of giving any serious offence to the Count. I
wonder whether I am afraid, too ? I certainly never saw a
man, in all my experience, whom I should be so sorry to have
for an enemy. Is this because I like him, or because I am
afraid of him ? Cln sa ? — as Count Fosco might say in his
own language. Who knows ?

June i6th. — Something to chronicle, to-day, besides my
own ideas and impressions. A visitor has arrived — quite un-
known to Laura and to me ; and, apparently, quite unexpected
by Sir Percival.

We were all at lunch, in the room with the new French
windows that open into the verandah ; and the Count (who
devours pastry as I have never yet seen it devoured by any
human beings but girls at boarding-schools) had just amused
us by asking gravely for his fourth tart— when the servant
entered, to announce the visitor.

' Mr. Merriman has just come, Sir Percival, and wishes to
see you immediately.'

Sir Percival started, and looked at the man, with an ex-
pression of angry alarm.

* Mr. Merriman ? ' he repeated as if he thought his own
ears must have deceived him.

'Yes, Sir Percival: Mr. Merriman, from London.'
' Where is he ? '

* In the library. Sir Percival.'

He left the table the instant the last answer was given ;
and hurried out of the room without saying a word to any of
us.

* Who is Mr. Merriman ? ' asked Laura, appealing to me.

* I have not the least idea,' was all I could say in reply.
The Count had finished his fourth tart, and had gone to

a side-table to look after his vicious cockatoo. He turned
round to us, uith the bird perched on his shoulder.

* Mr. Merriman is Sir Percival's solicitor,' he said quietly.
Sir Percival's solicitor. It was a perfectly straightforward

answer to Laura's question ; and yet, under the circumstances,
it was not satisfactory. If Mr. Merriman had been specially
sent for by his client, there would have been nothing very

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

wonderful in his leaving town to obey the summons. But
when a lawyer travels from London to Hampshire, without
being sent for, and when his arrival at a gentleman's house
seriously startles the gentleman himself, it may be safely
taken for granted that the legal visitor is the bearer of some
very important and very unexpected news — news which m^ay
be either very good or very bad, but which cannot, in either
case, be of the common every-day kind.

Laura and I sat silent at the table, for a quarter of an
hour or more, wondering uneasily what had happened, and
waiting for the chance of Sir Percival's speedy return. There
were no signs of his return ; and we rose to leave the room.

The Count, attentive as usual, advanced from the corner
in which he had been feeding his cockatoo, with the bird still
perched on his shoulder, and opened the door for us. Laura
and Madame Fosco v.-ent out first. Just as I was on the point
of following them, he made a sign with his hand, and spoke
to me, before I passed him, in the oddest manner.

'Yes,' he said ; quietly answering the vuiexpressed idea at
that moment in my mind, as if I had plainly confided it to
him in so many words — ' yes. Miss Halcombe ; something has
happened.'

I was on the point of answering, ' I never said so.' But
the vicious cockatoo ruffled his clipped wings, and gave a
screech that set all my nerves on edge in an instant, and made
me only too glad to get out of the room.

I joined Laura at the foot of the stairs. The thought in
her mind was the same as the thought in mine, which Count
Fosco had surprised— and, when she spoke, her words were
almost the echo of his. She, too, said to me, secretly, that
she was afraid something had happened.

III.

June i6th. — I have a fev/ lines more to add to this day's
entry before I ^o to bed to-night.

About two hours after Sir Percival rose from the luncheon-
table to receive his solicitor, Mr. Merriman, in the library, I
left my room, alone, to take a walk in the plantations. Just
as I was at the end of the landing, the library door opened,
and the two gentlemen came out. Thinking it best not to
disturb them by appearing on the stairs, I resolved to defer
going down till they had crossed the hall. Although they
spoke to each other in guarded tones, their words were prO'

iq8

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

nounced with sufiicient distinctness cf utterance to reach my
cars.

' Make your mind easy, Sir Pcrcival,' I heard the lawyer
say. ' It all rests with Lady Glyde.'

I had turned to go back to my own room, for a minute or
two ; but the sound of Laura's name, on the lips of a stranger,
stopped me instantly. I dare say it was very wrong- and very
discreditable to listen— but vv^here is the woman, in the whole
range of our sex, who can regulate her actions by the abstract
principles of honour, when those principles point one way,
and when her affections, and the interests which grow out of
them, point the other ?

I listened ; and, under similar circumstances, I would
listen again — yes ! with my ear at the keyhole, if I could not
possibly manage it in any other way.

' You quite understand. Sir Percival ? ' the lawyer went
on. ' Lady Glyde is to sign her name in the presence of a
witness — or of two witnesses, if you wish to be particularly
careful— and is then to put her finger on the seal, and say,
" I deliver this as my act and deed." If that is done in a week's
time, the arrangement will be perfectly successful, and the
anxiety will be all over. If not '

• W^hat do you mean by "if not.'*"' asked Sir Percival,
angrily. ' If the thing ??ins^ be done, it s/ia/l be done. I
promise you that, Merriman.'

' Just so. Sir Percival — just so ; but there are two alterna-
tives in all transactions ; and we lawyers like to look both of
them in the face boldly. If through any extraordinary circum-
stance the arrangement should 720/ be made, I think I may be
able to get the parties to accept bills at three months. But
how the money is to be raised when the bills fall due '

* Damn the bills ! The money is only to be got in one
way ; and in that way, I tell you again, it s/ia/l be got. Take
a glass of wine, Merriman, before you go.^

' Much obliged, Sir Percival ; I have not a moment to lose
if I am to catch the up-train. You will let me know as soon
as the arrangement is complete ? and you will not forget the
caution I recommended '

' Of course I won't. There's the dog-cart at the door for
you. My groom will get you to the station in no time.
Benjamin, drive like mad ! Jump in. If Mr. Merriman
misses the train, you lose your place. Hold fast, Merriman,
and if you are upset, trust to the devil to save his own.'
With that parting benediction, the baronet turned about, and
walked back to the library.

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

I had not heard much ; but the little that had reached my
ears was enough to make me feel uneasy. The ' something- '
that ' had happened,' was but too plainly a serious money-
embarrassment ; and Sir Percival's relief from it depended
upon Laura. The prospect of seeing her involved in her
husband's secret difficulties filled me with dismay, exaggerated,
no doubt, by my ignorance of business and my settled distrust
of Sir Percival. Instead of going out, as I proposed, I went
back immediately to Laura's room to tell her what I had
heard.

She received my bad news so composedly as to surprise
me. She evidently knows more of her husband's character
and her husband's embarrassments than I have suspected up
to this time.

' I feared as much,' she said, ' when I heard of that strange
gentleman who called, and declined to leave his name.'

' Who do you think the gentleman was, then ? ' I asked.

'Some person who has heavy claims on Sir Percival,' she
answered ; ' and who has been the cause of Mr. Merriman's
visit here to-day.'

' Do you know anything about those claims ? '

' No ; I know no particulars.'

' You will sign nothing, Laura, without first looking at
it?'

* Certainly not, Marian. Whatever I can harmlessly and
honestly do to help him I will do — for the sake of making your
life and mine, love, as easy and as happy as possible. But I
will do nothing, ignorantly, which we might, one day, have
reason to feel ashamed of. Let us say no more about it, now.
You have got your hat on — suppose we go and dream
away the afternoon in the grounds ? '

On leaving the house we directed our steps to the nearest
shade.

As we passed an open space among the trees in front of
the house, there was Count Fosco, slowly walking back-
wards and forwards on the grass, sunning himself in the full
blaze of the hot June afternoon. He had a broad straw
hat on, with a violet coloured ribbon round it. A blue blouse,
with profuse white fancy-work over the bosom, covered his
prodigious body, and was girt about the place where his waist
might once have been, with a broad scarlet leather belt.
Nankeen trousers, displaying more white fancy-work over the
ankles, and purple morocco slippers, adorned his lower
extremities. He was singing Figaro's famous song in the
Barber of Seville, with that crisply fluent vocalisation which is

20Q

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

never heard from any other than an ItaHan throat ; accom-
panying- himself on the concertina, which he played with
ecstatic throwing-s-up of his arms, and graceful twistings and
turnings of his head, like a fat St. Cecilia masquerading in
male attire. ' Figaro quk ! Figaro \k ! Figaro su ! Figaro giu ! '
sang the Count, jauntily tossing up the concertina at arm's
length, and bowing to us, on one side of the instrument, with
the airy grace and elegance of Figaro himself at twenty years
of age.

' Take my word for It, Laura, that man knows something-
of Sir Percival's embarrassments,' I said, as we returned the
Count's salutation from a safe distance.

' What makes you think that ? ' she asked.

'How should he have known, otherwise, that Mr. Merriman
was Sir Percival's solicitor ? ' I rejoined. ' Besides, when I
followed you out of the luncheon-room he told me, without
a single word of inquiry on my part, that something had
happened. Depend upon it, he knows more than we do.'

' Don't ask him any questions, if he does. Don't take him
into our confidence ! '

' You seem to dislike him, Laura, in a very determined
manner. What has he said or done to justify you ? '

' Nothing, Marian. On the contrary, he was all kindness
and attention on our journey home, and he several times
checked Sir Percival's outbreaks of temper, in the most con-
siderate manner towards jne. Perhaps, I dislike him because
he has so much more power over my husband than I have.
Perhaps it hurts my pride to be under any obligations to his
interference. All I know is, that I do dislike him.'

The rest of the day and evening passed quietly
enough. The Count and I played at chess. For the first two
games he politely allowed me to conquer him ; and then, when
he saw that I had found him out, begged my pardon, and, at
the third game, checkmated me in ten minutes. Sir Percival
never once referred, all through the evening, to the lawyer's
visit. But either that event, or something else, had produced
a singular alteration for the better in him. He was as polite
and agreeable to all of us, as he used to be in the days of his
probation at Limmeridge ; and he was so amazingly atten-
tive and kind to his wife, that even icy Madame Fosco
was roused into looking at him with a grave surprise. What
does this mean ? I think I can guess ; I am afraid Laura can
guess ; and I am sure Count Fosco knows. I caught Sir
Percival looking at him for approval more than once in the
course of the evening.

20I

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

June lyth. — A day of events. I most fervently hope I may
not have to add, a day of disasters as well.

Sir Percival was as silent at breakfast as he had been the
evening- before, on the subject of the mysterious ' arrangemient'
(as the lawyer called it), which is hanging- over our heads. An
hour afterwards, however, he suddenly entered the morning-
room, where his wife and I v.-ere waiting, with our hats
on, for Madame Fosco to join us ; and inquired for the
Count.

' We expect to see him here directly,' I said.

* The fact is,' Sir Percival went on, walking nervousl}'
about the room, ' I want Fosco and his wife in the library, for
a mere business formality ; and I want you there, Laura, for
a minute, too.' He stopped, and appeared to notice, for
the first time, that we were in our walking costume. ' Have
just come in ? ' he asked, ' or were you just going out ? '

' We were all thinking of going to the lake this morning,'
said Laura. ' But if you have any other arrangement to
propose-

' No, no,' he answered, hastily. 'My arrangement can
wait. After lunch will do as well for it, as after breakfast.
All going to the lake, eh ? A good idea. Let's have an idle
morning ; I'll be one of the party.'

There was no mistaking his manner, even if it had been
possible to mistake the uncharacteristic readiness which his
words expressed, to submit his own plans and projects to
the convenience of others. He was evidently relieved at
finding an excuse for delaying the business formality in the
library, to which his own words had referred. My heart sank
within me, as I drew the inevitable inference.

The Count and his wife joined us, at that moment. The
lady had her husband's embroidered tobacco-pouch, and her
store of paper in her hand, for the manufacture of the eternal
cigarettes. The gentleman, dressed, as visual, in his blouse
and straw hat, carried the gay little pagoda-cage, with his
darling white mice in it, and smiled on them, and on us, with
a bland amiability which it was impossible to resist.

' With your kind permission,' said the Count, * I Avill take
my small family here — my poor-little-harmless-pretty-Mouseys,
out for an airing along with us. There are dogs about the
house, and shall I leave my forlorn white children at the
mercies of the dogs ? Ah, never ! '

He chirruped paternally at his small white children
through the bars of the pagoda ; and we all left the house for
the lake,

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

In the plantation, Sir Perclval strayed away from us. It
seems to be part of his restless disposition always to separate
himself from his companions on these occasions, and always
to occupy himself, when he is alone, in cutting new walking-
sticks for his own use. The mere act of cutting- and lopping,
at hazard, appears to please him. He has filled the house
with walking-sticks of his own making, not one of which he
ever takes up for a second time. When they have been once
used, his interest in them is all exhausted, and he thinks of
nothing but going on, and making more.

At the old boat-house, he joined us again. I will put
down the conversation that ensued, when we were all settled
in our places, exactly as it passed. It is an important con-
versation, so far as I am concerned, for it has seriously dis-
posed me to distrust the influence which Count Fosco has
exercised over my thoughts and feelings, and to resist it, for
the future, as resolutely as I can.

The boat-house was large enough to hold us all ; but Sir
Percival remained outside, trimming the last new stick with
his pocket-axe. We three women found plenty of room on
the large seat. Laura took her work, and Madame Fosco
began her cigarettes. I, as usual, had nothing to do. My
hands always were, and always will be, as awkward as a
man's. The Count good humouredly took a stool many sizes
too small for him, and balanced himself on it with his back
against the side of the shed, which creaked and groaned
under his weight. He put the pagoda-cage on his lap, and
let out the mice to crawl over him as usual. They are pretty,
innocent-looking little creatures ; but the sight of them, creep-
ing about a man's body is, for some reason, not pleasant to
me. It excites a strange, responsive creeping in my own
nerves ; and suggests hideous ideas of men dying in prison,
with the crawling creatures of the dungeon preying on them
undisturbed.

The morning was windy and cloudy ; and the rapid alter-
nations of shadow and sunlight over the waste of the lake,
made the view look doubly wild, weird, and g'loomy.

* Some people call that picturesque,' said Sir Percival,
pointing over the wide prospect with his half-finished walk-
ing-stick. ' I call it a blot on a gentleman's property. In
my great-grandfather's time, the lake flowed to this place.
Look at it now ! It is not four feet deep anywhere, and it is
all puddles and pools. I wish I could afford to drain it, and
plant it all over. My bailiff (a superstitious idiot) says he is
quite sure the lake has a curse on it, like the Dead Sea.

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

What do you think, Fosco? It looks just the place for a
murder, doesn't it ? '

' My good Percival ! ' remonstrated the Count. ' What is
your solid English sense thinking of ? The water is too
shallow to hide the body ; and there is sand everywhere to
print off the murderer's footsteps. It is, upon the whole,
the very worst place for a murder that I ever set my eyes
on.'

' Humbug ! ' said Sir Percival, cutting away fiercely at his
stick. ' You know what I mean. The dreary scenery — the
lonely situation. If you choose to understand me, you can —
if you don't choose, I am not going to trouble myself to
explain my meaning.'

'And why not,' asked the Count, "when your meaning
can be explained by anybody in two words ? If a fool was
going to commit a murder, your lake is the first place he
would choose for it. If a wise man was going to comm.it a
murder, your lake is the last place he would choose for it. Is
that your meaning? If it is, there is your explanation for
you, ready made. Take it, Percival, with your good Fosco's
blessing.'

Laura looked at the Count, with her dislike for him
appearing a little too plainly in her face. He was so busy
with his mice that he did not notice her.

' I am sorry to hear the lake-view connected with anything
so horrible as the idea of murder,' she said. 'And if Count
Fosco must divide murderers into classes, I think he has
been very unfortunate in his choice of expressions. To
describe them as fools only, seems like treating them with an
indulgence to which they have no claim. And to describe
them as wise men, sounds to me like a downright contra-
diction in terms. I have always heard that truly wise men
are truly good men, and have a horror of crime.'

' My dear lady,' said the Count, ' those are admirable
sentiments ; and I have seen them stated at the tops of copy-
books.' He lifted one of the white mice in the palm of his
hand, and spoke to it in his whimsical way. ' My pretty
little smooth white rascal,' he said, 'here is a moral lesson
for you. A truly wise Mouse is a truly good Mouse. Men-
tion that, if you please, to your companions, and never gnaw
at the bars of your cage again as long as you live.'

' It is easy to turn everything into ridicule,' said Laura,
resolutely ; ' but you will not find it quite so easy. Count
Fosco, to give me an instance of a wise man who has been a
great criminal.'

204

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

The Count shrug-ged his huge shoulders, and smiled on
Laura in the friendliest manner.

' Most true ! ' he said. ' The fool's crime is the crime that
is found out ; and the wise man's crime is the crime that is
not found out. If I could give you an instance, it would not
be the instance of a wise man. Dear Lady Glyde, your sound
English common sense has been too much for me. It is
checkmate for me this time, Miss Halcombe — ha ? '

' Stand to your guns, Laura,' sneered Sir Percival, who
had been listening in his place at the door. ' Tell him, next,
that crimes cause their own detection. There's another bit of
copy-book morality for you, Fosco. Crimes cause their own
detection. What infernal humbug ! '

' I believe it to be true,' said Laura, quietly.

Sir Percival burst out laughing ; so violently, so out-
rageously, that he quite startled us all — the Count more than
any of us.

*I believe it, too,' I said, coming to Laura's rescue.

Sir Percival, who had been unaccountably amused at his
wife's remark, was, just as unaccountably, irritated by mine.
He struck the new stick savagely on the sand, and walked
away from us.

' Poor dear Percival ! ' cried Count Fosco, looking after
him gaily : ' he is the victim of English spleen. But, my dear
Miss Halcombe, my dear Lady Glyde, do you really believe
that crimes cause their own detection ? And you, my angel,'
he continued, turning to his wife, who had not uttered a
word yet, ' do you think so too ? '

' I wait to be instructed,' replied the Countess, in tones of
freezing reproof, intended for Laura and me, ' before I venture
on giving my opinion in the presence of well-informed men.'

' Do you, indeed ? ' I said. ' I remember the time,
Countess, when you advocated the Rights of Women — and
freedom of female opinion was one of them.'

' What is your view of the subject. Count ? ' asked
Madame Fosco, calmly proceeding with her cigarettes, and
not taking the least notice of me.

The Count stroked one of his white mice reflectively with
his chubby little finger before he answered.

' It is truly wonderful,' he said, ' how easily Society can
console itself for the worst of its shortcomings with a little bit
of clap-trap. The machinery it has set up for the detection
of crime is miserably ineffective — and yet only invent a moral
epigram, saying that it works well, and you bhnd everybody
to its blunders, from that moment. Crimes cause their own

205

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

detection, do they ? And murder will out (another moral
epigram), will it ? Ask Coroners who sit at inquests in larg'e
towns if that is true. Lady Glyde. Ask secretaries of life-
assurance companies, if that is true. Miss Halcombe. Read
your own public journals. In the few cases that get into the
newspapers, are there not instances of slain bodies found, and
no murderers ever discovered ? Multiply the cases that are
reported by the cases that are 710^ reported, and the bodies
that are found by the bodies that are iiol found ; and what
conclusion do you come to ? This, That there are foolish
criminals who are discovered, and wise criminals who escape.
The hiding- of a crime, or the detection of a crime, what is it ?
A trial of skill between the police on one side, and the indi-
vidual on the other. When the criminal is a brutal, ignorant
fool, the police, in nine cases out of ten, win. When the
criminal is a resolute, educated, hig'hly-intelligent man, the
police, in nine cases out of ten, lose. If the police win, you
generally hear all about it. If the police lose, you generally
hear nothing. And on this tottering foundation you build up
your comfortable moral maxim that Crime causes its own de-
tection ! Yes — all the crime j'o it know of. And, what of the
rest ? '

' Devilish true, and very well put,' cried a voice at the
entrance of the boat-house. Sir Percival had recovered his
equanimity, and had come back while we were listening to the
Count.

' Some of it may be true,' I said ; * and all of it may be
very well put. But I don't see why Count Fosco should
celebrate the victory of the criminal over society with so much
exultation, or why you. Sir Percival, should applaud him so
loudly for doing it.'

' Do you hear that, Fosco ? ' asked Sir Percival. ' Take my
advice, and make your peace with your audience. Tell them
Virtue's a fine thing — they like that, I can promise you.'

The Count laughed, inwardly and silently ; and tv/o of
the white mice in his waistcoat, alarmed by the internal con-
vulsion going on beneath them, darted out in a violent hurry,
and scrambled into their cage again.

'The ladies, my good Percival, shall tell me about virtue,'
he said. ' They are better authorities than I am ; for they
know what virtue is, and I don't.'

' You hear him ? ' said Sir Percival. ' Isn't it awful ? '

' It is true,' said the Count, quietly. ' I am a citizen of the
world, and I have met, in my time, with so many different
sorts of virtue, that I am puzzled, in my old age, to say

206

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

which is the rig-ht sort and which is the wrono-. Here, in
England, there is one virtue. And there, in China, there is
another virtue. And John Enghshman says my virtue is the
genuine virtue. And John Chinaman says my virtue is the
g:enuine virtue. And I say Yes to one, or No to the other
and am just as much bewildered about it in the case of John
with the top-boots as I am in the case of John with the pio-tail
Ah, nice little Mousey ! come, kiss me. What is youf'^o wn
private notion of a virtuous man, my pret-pret-pretty ? A
man Avho keeps you warm, and gives vou plenty to eat.
And a g-ood notion, too, for it is intelligible, at the least.'

'Stay a minute. Count,' I interposed. ' Acceptino-'your
illustration, surely we have one unquestionable virtue in
England, which is wanting- in China. The Chinese authorities
kill thousands of innocent people, on the most frivolous pre-
texts. We, in England, are free from all guilt of that kind—
we commit no such dreadful crime— we abhor reckless blood-
shed, with all our hearts.'

' Quite right, Marian,' said Laura. ' Well thought of, and
well expressed.'

_ ' Pray allow the Count to proceed,' said Madame Fosco
with stern civility. ' You will find, voung ladies, that he
never speaks without having excellent 'reasons for all that he
sa3's.

'Thank you, my angel,' replied the Count. 'Have a
bonbon:^' He took out of his pocket a prettv little inlaid
box, and placed it open on the table. ' Chocolat a la Vanille '
cried the impenetrable man, cheerfully rattling the sv.-eatmeits
in the box, and bowing all round. ' Offered by Fosco as an
act of homage to the charming society.'

_ ' Be good enough to go on, Count,' said his wife, with a
spiteful reference to myself. ' Oblige me by answering Miss
Halcombe. ^

^ 'Miss Halcombe is unanswerable,' replied the polite Italian
— that IS to say, so far as she goes. Yes ! I agree with her.
John Bull does abhor the crimes of John Chinaman He is
the quickest old gentleman at finding out the faults that are
his neighbours', and the slowest old gentleman at findino- out
the faults that are his own, who exists on the face of creation,
is he so very nnich_ better in his way, than the people whom
he condemns in their way ? English society, Miss Halcombe,
IS as often the accomplice, as it is the enemy of crime. Yes '
yes . Crime is in this country what crime is in other countries
—a good friend to a man and to those about him as often as
It IS an enemy. A great rascal provides for his wife and family.

207

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

The worse he is, the more he makes them the objects for youf
sympathy. He often provides, also, for himself. A proflii^ate
spendthrift who is alway borrowing money, will get more from
his friends than the rigidly honest man who only borrows of
them once, under pressure of the direst want. In the one case,
the friends will not be at all surprised, and they will give. In
the other case, they will be very much surprised, and they will
hesitate. Is the prison that Mr. Scoundrel lives in, at the end
of his career, a more uncomfortable place than the workhouse
that Mr. Honesty lives in, at the end of his career ? When
John-Howard-Philanthropist wants to relieve misery, he goes
to find it in prisons, where crime is wretched — not in huts and
hovels, where virtue is wretched too. Who is the English
poet who has won the most universal sympathy — who makes
the easiest of all subjects for pathetic writing and pathetic
painting? That nice young person who began life with a for-
gery, and ended it by a suicide — your dear, romantic, inter-
esting Chatterton. Which gets on best, do you think, of two
poor starving dressmakers — the woman who resists tempta-
tion, and is honest, or the woman who falls under temptation,
and steals ? You all know that the stealing is the making of
that second woman's fortune — it advertises her from length to
breadth of good-humoured, charitable England — and she is
relieved, as the breaker of a commandment, when she would
have been left to starve, as the keeper of it. Come here, my
jolly little Mouse ! Hey ! presto ! pass ! I transform you,
for the time being, into a respectable lady. Stop there, in
the palm of my great big hand, my dear, and listen. You
marry the poor man whom you love. Mouse ; and one half
your friends pity, and the other half blame you. And, now,
on the contrary, you sell yourself for gold to a man you don't
care for ; and all your friends rejoice over you ; and a minister
of public worship sanctions the base horror of the vilest of all
human bargains ; and smiles and smirks afterwards at your
table, if you are polite enough to ask him to breakfast. Hey !
presto ! pass ! Be a mouse again, and squeak. If you con-
tinue to be a lady much longer, I shall have you telling me
that Society abhors crime — and then. Mouse, I shall doubt if
your own eyes and ears are really of any use to you. Ah ! I
am a bad man, Lady Glyde, am I not ? I say what other
people only think ; and when all the rest of the world is in a
conspiracy to accept the mask for the true face, mine is the
rash hand that tears off the plump pasteboard, and shows the
bare bones beneath. I will get up on my big elephant's legs,
before I do mvself any more harm in your amiable estimations

?o8

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

-I will get up, and take a little airy walk of my own Dear
ladies, as your excellent Sheridan said, I ^o-Ld leavJ^^f^
character behind me.' ^ ^^^ "^^

He got up ; put the cagfe on the table ; and paused for n
moment, to count the mice in it. ' One two, tCe four

Heaven' il'the'fifth' 'th' ^' '^^''°^' ' f'^'^^ "^ thT'nar^f
am|bTe'o?alf-!mfBU':ir^^^^^^^^^^ -^^--' ^^^ -st

be am'us'ld ^The Tn' ^ ^''^ rl" ^"^- ^f^^^^^-^ble disposition to
oe amused 1 he Count's o^hb cynicism had revealed a new
aspect of his nature from which we both recoiled But It was
impossible to resist the comical distress of so very lar "e a nT^n
at the loss of so very small a mouse. We lau4ed fn sni^^
ot ourselves; and when Madame Fosco rose to set 'the
example of leaving the boat-house empty, so that her hus
r^^^J^lT-" '' '^ ^" -"-^-^ -™-' we rosellsS"to

dis.^ts^t^j^£^t^tusru:^n^^:t^Sat^tj\^^-^

occup3-mg: He pulled aside the bai::hTfook tL 1 tttanima]
up m his hand; and then suddenly stopped, on his knees'
lrj:.ealhr'^ ^^ ^ ^'^^^^^"•-- ^'-^ - ^'^e ,round"P
couW hard^vnut hI° ^"' ^'\^Sfn., his hand shook so that he

sfr^PerdV.! h' f'^'-'J' ^ ''^^'''^^'' ' ^^'"^''-^^ •' ^^^^ here.'

fh^eTolnt-o^his^titr^ ''- ^^^^^^- outi^-airS

into^rboat-h^u":.""' "°"- ' ^"'^^^^^' J-"^'n^ carelessly
'Do you see nothing-, there ? ' said the Count catchin-

roSTo fh'^''" '^°"^'' ^^"'-^'^ °"^ '^--^' and pdntii^ with
the other to the place near which he had found the mouse

I see plenty of dry sand,' answered Sir Perc va ' and i
spot of dirt in the middle of it ' rercuai , and a

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

Everybody was astonished, and everybody's eyes were
fixed on me inquiringly.

' How do you know that ? ' asked Sir Percival, speaking-
first.

' I found the dog here, dying, on the day when you all
returned from abroad,' I replied. 'The poor creature had
strayed into the plantation, and had been shot by your
keeper.'

' Whose dog was it ? ' inquired Sir Percival. * Not one
of mine ? '

' Did you try to save the poor thing ? ' asked Laura,
earnestly. ' Surely you tried to save it, Marian ? '

'Yes,' I said ; 'the housekeeper and I both did our best
— but the dog was mortally wounded, and he died under our
hands.'

' Whose dog was it ? ' persisted Sir Percival, repeating
his question a little irritably. ' One of mine ? '

' No ; not one of yours.'

' Whose then ? Did the housekeeper know ? '

The housekeeper's report of Mrs. Catherick's desire to
conceal her visit to Blackwater Park from Sir Percival's
knowledge, recurred to my memory the moment he put that
last question : and I half doubted the discretion of ansv.'ering
it. But, in my anxiety to quiet the general alarm, I had
thoughtlessly advanced too far to draw back, except at the
risk of exciting suspicion which might only make matters
Vv'orse. There was nothing for it but to answer at once,
without reference to results.

'Yes,' I said. 'The housekeeper knevv*. She told me it
was Mrs. Catherick's dog.'

Sir Percival had hitherto remained at the inner end of the
boat-house with Count Fosco, while I spoke to him from the
door. But the instant Mrs. Catherick's name passed my lips,
he pushed by the Count roughly, and placed himself face to
face with me, under the open daylight.

' How came the housekeeper to know it v.as Mrs.
Catherick's dog ? ' he asked, fixing his eyes on mine with a
frowning interest and attention, which half angered, half
startled me.

' She knew it,' I said, quietly, ' because Mrs. Catherick
brought the dog with her ? '

' Brought it with her ? Where did she bring it v.ith
her?'

'To this house.'

* What the devil did Mrs. Catherick want at this house ? '

2IO

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

The manner in which he put the question was even more
offensive than the lang^uage in which he expressed it. i
marked my sense of his want of common poUteness, by
silently turning away from him.

Just as I moved, the Count's persuasive hand was laid on
his shoulder, and the Count's mellifluous voice interposed to
quiet him.

' My dear Percival !— gently — gently.'

Sir Percival looked round in his angriest manner. The
Count only smiled, and repeated the soothing application.

' Gently, my good friend — gently ! '

Sir Percival hesitated— followed me a few steps — and, to
my great surprise, ofl'ered me an apolog)-.

' I beg your pardon, Miss Halcombe,' he said. ' I have
been out of order lately ; and I am afraid I am a little irrit-
able. But I should like to know what Mrs. Catherick could
possibly want here. When did she come ? Was the house-
keeper the only person who saw her ? '

' The only person,' I answered, 'so far as I know.'

The Count interposed again.

'In that case, why not question the housekeeper?' he
said. ' Why not go, Percival, to the fountain-head of
information at once ? '

' Quite right ! ' said Sir Percival. ' Of course the house-
keeper is the first person to question. Excessively stupid of
me not to see it myself.' With those words, he instantly left
us to return to the house.

The motive of the Count's interference, which had puzzled
me at first, betrayed itself when Sir Percival's back was
turned. He had a host of questions to put to me about Mrs.
Catherick, and the cause of her visit to Blackwater Park,
which he could scarcely have asked in his friend's presence.
I made my answers as short as I civilly could — for I had
already determined to check the least approach to any ex-
changing of confidences between Count Fosco and myself.
Laura, however, unconsciously helped him to extract all my
information, by making inquiries herself, which left me no
alternative but to reply to her, or to appear in the very
unenviable and very false character of a depository of Sir
Percival's secrets. The end of it was, that, in about ten
minutes' time, t'ne Count knew as much as I know of Mrs.
Catherick, and of the events Vv-hich have so strangely con-
nected us with her daughter, Anne, from the time when Hart-
right met with her, to this day.

211 P 2

THE WGMAK IN WHITE

The effect of my information on him was, in one respect,
curious enough.

Intimately as he knows Sir Percival, and closely as he
appears to be associated with Sir Percival's private affairs in
general, he is certainly as far as I am from knowing anything
of the true story of Anne Catherick. The unsolved mystery
in connexion with this unhappy woman is now rendered
doubly suspicious, in my eyes, by the absolute conviction
which I feel, that the clue to it has been hidden by Sir Percival
from the most intimate friend he has in the world. It was
impossible to mistake the eager curiosity of the Count's look
and manner while he drank in greedily every v»'ord that fell
from my lips. There are many kinds of curiosity, I know —
but there is no misinterpreting the curiosity of blank surprise :
if I ever saw it in my life, I saw it in the Count's face.

While the questions and answers were going on, we had
all been strolling quietly back, through the plantation. As
soon as we reached the house, the first object that we saw in
front of it was Sir Percival's dog-cart, with the horse put to
and the groom waiting by it in his stable-jacket. If these
unexpected appearances were to be trusted, the examination
of the housekeeper had produced important results alread)-.

'A fine horse, my friend,' said the Count, addressing the
groom with the most engaging familiarity of manner. ' You
are going to drive out ? '

' I am not going, sir,' replied the man, looking at his
stable-jacket, and evidently v\'ondering whether the foreign
gentleman took it for his livery. ' My master drives him-
self.'

* Aha ! ' said the Count, * does he indeed ? I wonder he
gives himself the trouble when he has got you to drive for
him. Is he going to fatigue that nice, shining, pretty horse
by taking him very far, to-day ? '

' I don't know, sir,' answered the man. 'The horse is a
mare, if you please, sir. She's the highest-couraged thing
we've got in the stables. Her name's Brown Pvlolly, sir ; and
she'll go till she drops. Sir Percival usually takes Isaac of
York for the short distances.'

' And your shining courageous Brown Molly for the long ? '

' Yes, sir.'

' Logical inference, Miss Halcombe,' continued the Count,
wheeling round briskly, and addressing me : ' Sir Percival is
going a long distance to-day.'

I made no repl}^ I had my own inferences to draw, from
what I knew through the housekeeper and from what I saw

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

before me ; and I did not choose to share them with Count
Fosco.

When Sir Percival was in Cumberland (I thought to my-
self), he walked away a long distance, on Anne's account, to
question the family at Todd's Corner. Now he is in Hamp-
shire, is he going to drive away a long distance, on Anne's
account again, to question Mrs. Catherick at Welmingham ?

We all entered the house. As we crossed the hall. Sir
Percival came out from the library to meet us. He looked
hurried and pale and anxious — but, for all that, he was in his
most polite mood, when he spoke to us.

' I am sori-y to say, I am obliged to leave you,' he began —
' a long drive — a matter that I can't very vv^ell put off. I shall
be back in good time to-morrow — but, before I go, I should
like that little business-formality, which I spoke of this morn-
ing, to be settled. Laura, will you come into the library ?
It vvon't take a minute — a mere formality. Countess, may I
trouble you also ? I want you and the Countess, Fosco, to be
witnesses to a signature — nothing more. Come in at once,
and get it over.'

He held the library door open until they had passed in,
followed them, and shut it softly.

I remained, for a moment afterwards, standing alone in
the hall, with my heart beating fast, and my mind misgiving
me sadly. Then, I went on to the staircase, and ascended
slowly to my ov/n room.

IV.

June 17th. — Just as my hand was on the door of my room, I
heard Sir Percival's voice calling to me from below.

' I must beg you to come down stairs again,' he said. * It
is Fosco's fault. Miss Halcombe, not mine. He has started
some nonsensical objection to his wife being one of the
witnesses, and has obliged me to ask you to join us in the
library.'

I entered the room immediately with Sir Percival. Laura
was waiting by the writing-table, twisting and turning her
garden hat uneasily in her hands. Madame Fosco sat near
her, in an arm-chair, imperturbably admiring her husband,
who stood by himself at the other end of the library, picking off
the dead leaves from the flowers in the windov/.

The moment I appeared, the Count advanced to meet me,
and to offer his explanations.

'A thousand pardons, Miss Halcombe,' he said. 'You

21^

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

know the character which is given to my countrymen by the
Eng-lish ? We ItaHans are all wily and suspicious by nature,
in the estimation of the good John Bull. Set me down, if you
please, as being- no better than the rest of my race. I am a
wily Italian and a suspicious Italian. You have thought so
yourself, dear lady, have you not ? Well ! it is part of my
wiliness and part of my suspicion to object to Madame Fosco
being a witness to Lady Clyde's signature, when I am also a
witness myself.'

* There is not the shadow of a reason for his objection,'
interposed Sir Percival. ' I have explained to him that the
law of England allows Madame Fosco to witness a signature
as well as her husband.'

' I admit it,' resumed the Count. ' The law of England
says, Yes — but the conscience of Fosco says, No.' He spread
out his fat fingers on the bosom of his blouse, and bowed
solemnly, as if he wished to introduce his conscience to us all,
in the character of an illustrious addition to the society.
'What this document which Lady Clyde is about to sign,
may be,' he continued, ' I neither know nor desire to know. I
only say this : circumstances may happen in the future which
may oblige Percival, or his representatives, to appeal to the
two witnesses ; in which case it is certainly desirable that
those witnesses should represent two opinions which are
perfectly independent the one of the other. This cannot
be if my wife signs as well as mj'self, because we have but
one opinion between us, and that opinion is mine. I will
not have it cast in my teeth, at some future day, that Madame
Fosco acted under my coercion, and was, in plain fact, no
witness at all. I speak in Percival's interest when I propose
that my name shall appear (as the nearest friend of the
husband), and your name, Miss Halcombe (as the nearest
friend of the wife). I am a Jesuit, if you please to think so —
a splitter of straws — a man of trifles and crotchets and
scruples — but you will humour me, I hope, in merciful con-
sideration for my suspicious Italian character, and my uneasy
Italian conscience.' He bowed again, stepped back a few
paces, and withdrew his conscience from our society as
politely as he had introduced it.

The Count's scruples might have been honourable and
reasonable enough ; but there was something in his manner of
expressing them which increased my unwillingness to be
concerned in the business of the signature. No consideration
of less importance than my consideration for Laura, would
have induced me to consent to be a witness at all. One look,

214

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

however, at her anxious face, decided me to risk anything"
rather than desert her.

' I will readily remain in the room,' I said. 'And if I find
no reason for starting- any small scruples, on my side, you
may rely on me as a witness.'

Sir Percival looked at me sharpl}-, as if he was about to
say something. But, at the same moment, Madame Fosco
attracted his attention by rising from her chair. She had
caught her husband's eye, and had evidently received her
orders to leave the room.

' You needn't go,' said Sir Percival.

Madame Fosco looked for her orders again, g-ot them
again, said she would prefer leaving- us to our business, and
resolutely walked out. The Count lit a cigarette, went back
to the flowers in the window, and puft'ed little jets of smoke
at the leaves, in a state of the deepest anxiety about killing
the insects.

Meanwhile, Sir Percival unlocked a cupboard beneath one
of the bookcases, and produced from it a piece of parchment
folded, long-wise, many times over. He placed it on the
table, opened the last fold only, and kept his hand on the
rest. The last fold displayed a strip of blank parchment with
little wafers stuck on it at certain places. Every line of
the writing was hidden in the part v.hich he still held folded
up under his hand. Laura and I looked at each other. Her
face was pale — but it showed no indecision and no fear.

Sir Percival dipped a pen in ink, and handed it to his
wife.

' Sign your name, there,' he said, pointing to the place.
' You and Fosco are to sign afterwards. Miss Halcombe,
opposite those two wafers. Come here, Fosco ! witnessing-
a signature is not to be done by mooning out of window and
smoking into the flowers.'

The Count threw away his cigarette, and joined us at the
table, with his hands carelessly thrust into the scarlet belt of
his blouse, and his eyes steadily fixed on Sir Percival's face.
Laura, who was on the other side of her husband, with the
pen in her hand, looked at him, too. He stood between
them, holding the folded parchment down firmly on the table,
and glancing across at me, as I sat opposite to him, with such
a sinister mixture of suspicion and embarrassment in his face,
that he looked more like a prisoner at the bar than a gentle-
man in his own house.

' Sign there,' he repeated, turning suddenly on Laura, and
pointing once more to the place on the parchment.

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

* What is it I am to sign ? ' she asked, quietly.

' I have no time to explain,' he answered. 'The dog-cart
is at the door ; and I must go directly. Besides, if I had
time, you wouldn't understand. It is a purely formal docu-
ment— full of legal technicalities, and all that sort of thing.
Come ! come ! sign your name, and let us have done as soon
as possible.'

' I ought surely to know what I am signing. Sir Percival,
before I write my name ? '

' Nonsense ! What have women to do with business ? I
tell you again, you can't understand it.'

' At any rate, let me try to understand it. Whenever Mr.
Gilmore had any business for me to do, he always explained
it, first ; and I always understood him.'

' I dare say he did. He was your servant, and was obliged
to explain. I am your husband, and am not obliged. How
much longer do you mean to keep me here ? I tell you again,
there is no time for reading anything : the dog-cart is waiting
at the door. Once for all, will you sign, or will you not ? '

She still had the pen in her hand ; but she made no
approach to signing her name with it.

' If my signature pledges me to anything,' she said,
* surely, I have some claim to know what that pledge is ? '

He lifted up the parchment, and struck it angrily on the
table.

' Speak out ! ' he said. ' You were always famous for
telling the truth. Never mind Miss Halcombe, never mind
Fosco — say, in plain terms, you distrust me.'

The Count took one of his hands out of his belt, and laid
it on Sir Percival's shoulder. Sir Percival shook it off
irritably. The Count put it on again with unruffled com-
posure.

' Control your unfortunate temper, Percival,' he said.
' Lady Clyde is right.'

' Right ! ' cried Sir Percival. ' A wife right in distrusting
her husband ! '

' It is unjust and cruel to accuse me of distrusting you,'
said Laura. ' Ask Marian if I am not justified in wanting to
know what this writing requires of me, before I sign it? '

' I won't have any appeals made to Miss Halcombe,' re-
torted Sir Percival. ' Miss Halcombe has nothing to do with
the matter.'

I had not spoken hitherto, and I would much rather not
have spoken now. But the expression of distress in Laura's
face when she turned it towards me, and the insolent injustice

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

of her husband's conduct, left me no other alternative than to
give my opinion, for her sake, as soon as I was asked for it.

' Excuse me, Sir Percival,' I said — ' but, as one of the
witnesses to the signature, I venture to think that I have
something- to do with the matter. Laura's objection seems
to me a perfectly fair one ; and, speaking for myself only, I
cannot assume the responsibility of witnessing her signature,
unless she first understands what the writing is which you
wish her to sign.'

' A cool declaration, upon my soul ! ' cried Sir Percival.
' The next time you invite yourself to a man's house. Miss
Halcombe, I recommend you not to repay his hospitality by
taking his wife's side against him in a matter that doesn't
concern you.'

I started to my feet as suddenly as if he had struck me.
If I had been a man, I would have knocked him down on the
threshold of his own door, and liave left his house, never on
any earthly consideration to enter it again. But I was only
a woman — and I loved his wife so dearly !

Thank God, that faithful love helped me, and I sat down
again, without saying a word. She knew what I had suf-
fered and what I had suppressed. She ran round to me, with
the tears streaming from her eyes. ' Oh, Marian ! ' she
whispered softly. ' If my mother had been alive, she could
have done no more for me ! '

' Come back and sign ! ' cried Sir Percival, froni the other
side of the table.

' Shall I ? ' she asked in my ear ; ' I will, if you tell me.'

' No,' I answered. ' The right and the truth are with
you — sign nothing, vmless you have read it first.'

' Come back and sign ! ' he reiterated, in his loudest and
angriest tones.

The Count, who had watched Laura and me with a close
and silent attention, interposed for the second time.

' Percival ! ' he said. ' / remember that I am in the
presence of ladies. Be good enough, if yovi please, to re-
member it, too.'

Sir Percival turned on him, speechless with passion. The
Count's firm hand slowly tightened its grasp on his shoulder,
and the Count's steady voice, quietly repeated, ' Be good
enough, if you please, to remember it, too.'

They both looked at each other : Sir Percival slowly drew
his shoulder from under the Count's hand ; slowly turned his
face away from the Count's eyes ; doggedly looked down for
a little while at the parchment on the table ; and then spoke,

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

with the sullen submission of a tamed animal, rather than the
becoming- resignation of a convinced nian,

' I don't want to offend anybody,' he said, ' but my wife's
obstinacy is enough to try the patience of a saint. I have
told her this is merely a formal document — and what more
can she want ? You may say vvhat you please ; but it is no
part of a woman's duty to set her husband at defiance. Once
more, Lady Glyde, and for the last time, will you sign or v\'ill
you not ? '

Laura returned to his side of the table, and took up the
pen again.

' I will sign Vv'ith pleasure,' she said, ' if you will only treat
me as a responsible being. I care little what sacrifice is
required of me, if it will aR'ect no one else, and lead to no ill
results '

' Who talked of a sacrifice being required of you ? ' he
broke in, with a half-suppressed return of his former violence.

' I only meant,' she resumed, ' that I would refuse no
concession which I could honourably make. If I have a
scruple about signing my name to an engagement of which I
know nothing, Vv'hy should you visit it on me so severely ?
It is rather hard, I think, to treat Count Fosco's scruples so
much more indulgently than you have treated mine.'

This unfortunate, yet most natural, reference to the Count's
extraordinary power over her husband, indirect as it v/as, set
Sir Percival's smouldering temper on fire again in an Instant.

' Scruples ! ' he repeated. ' Your scruples ! It Is rather
late In the day for you to be scrupulous. I should have
thought you had got over all weakness of that sort, when
you made a virtue of necessity by marrying me.^

The Instant he spoke those words, Laura threvv down the
pen — looked at him with an expression in her eyes, which
throughout all my experience of her, I had never seen In them
before — and turned her back on him in dead silence.

This strong expression of the most open and the most
bitter contempt, was so entirely unlike herself, so utterly out
of her character, that It silenced us all. There was something
hidden, beyond a doubt, under the mere surface-brutality
of the words which her husband had just addressed to her.
There was some lurking insult beneath them, of which I was
wholly ignorant, but v.hich had left the mark of Its profanation
so plainly on her face that even a stranger might have seen it.

The Count, who was no stranger, saw It as distinctly as
I did. When I left my chair to join Laura, I heard him
whisper under his breath to Sir Percival : ' You Idiot ! '

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

Laura walked before me to the door as I advanced ; and,
at the same time, her husband spoke to her once more.

' You positively refuse, then, to give me your signature ? '
he said, in the altered tone of a man Avho was conscious that
he had let his own licence of language seriously injure him.

' After what you have just said to me,' she replied, firmly,
' I refuse my signature until I have read every line in that
parchment from the first word to the last. Come away,
Marian, we hav^e remained here long enough.'

' One moment ! ' interposed the Count, before Sir Percival
could speak again — ' one moment. Lady Clyde, I implore
you ! '

Laura would have left the room without noticing him ;
but I stopped her.

' Don't make an enemy of the Count ! ' I whispered.
' Whatever you do, don't make an enemy of the Count ! '

She yielded to me. I closed the door again ; and we
stood near it, waiting. Sir Percival sat down at the table,
with his elbow on the folded parchment, and his head resting
on his clenched fist. The Count stood between us — master
of the dreadful position in which we were placed, as he was
master of everything else.

' Lady Clyde,' he said, with a gentleness which seemed to
address itself to our forlorn situation instead of to ourselves,
' pray pardon me, if I venture to oft'er one suggestion ; and
pray believe that I speak cut of my profound respect and my
friendly regard for the mistress of this house.' He turned
sharply towards Sir Percival. ' Is it absolutely necessary,'
he asked, ' that this thing here, under your elbow, should be
signed to-day ? '

' It is necessary to my plans and wishes,' returned the
other, sulkily. ' But that consideration, as you may have
noticed, has no influence with Lady Clyde.'

' Answer my plain question, plainly. Can the business of
the signature be put off till to-morrow — Yes or No ? '

' Yes — if you will have it so.'

' Then, what are you wasting your time for, here ? Let the
signature wait till to-morrow — let it wait till you come back.'

Sir Percival looked up with a frown and an oath.

'You are taking a tone with me that I don't like,' he said.
' A tone I won't bear from any man.'

' I am advising you for your good,' returned the Count,
with a smile of quiet contempt. ' Give yourself time ; give
Lady Clyde time. Have you forgotten that your dog-cart is
waiting at the door ? My tone surprises you — ha ? I dare

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

say it does — it is the tone of a man who can keep his temper.
How many doses of good advice have I given you in my time ?
More than you can count. Have I ever been wrong- ? I defy
you to quote me an instance of it. Go ! take }'our diive.
The matter of the signature can wait till to-morrow. Let it
wait — and renew it when you come back.'

Sir Percival hesitated, and looked at his watch. His
anxiety about the secret journey which he was to take that
day, revived by the Count's words, was now evidently dis-
puting possession of his mind with his anxiety to obtain
Laura's signature. He considered for a little Avhile ; and
then got up from his chair.

* It is easy to argue me down,' he said, ' when I have no
time to answer you. I will take your advice, Fosco — not
because I want it, or believe in it, but because I can't stop
here any longer.' He paused, and looked round darkly at his
wife. ' If you don't give me your signature when I come

back to-morrow ! ' The rest was lost in the noise of his

opening the book-case cupboard again, and locking- up the
parchment once more. He took his hat and gloves off the
table, and made for the door. Laura and I drew back to let
him pass. ' Rem.ember to-morrow ! ' he said to his wife ;
and w'ent out.

We waited to give him time to cross the hall, and drive
away. The Count approached us while we were standing
near the door.

' You have just seen Percival at his worst, Miss Halcombe,'
he said. 'As his old friend, I am sorry for him and ashamed
of him. As his old friend, I promise you that he shall not
break out to-morrow in the same disgraceful manner in which
he has broken out to-day.'

Laura had taken my arm while he was speaking, and she
pressed it significantly when he had done. It would have
been a hard trial to any woman to stand by and see the office
of apologist for her husband's misconduct quietly assumed by
his male friend in her own house — and it was a trial to her.
I thanked the Count civilly, and led her out. Yes ! I thanked
him : for I felt already, with a sense of inexpressible helpless-
ness and humiliation, that it was either his interest or his
caprice to make sure of my continuing to reside at Blackwater
Park; and I knew after Sir Percival 's conduct to me, that
without the support of the Count's influence, I could not hope
to remain there. His influence, the influence of all others
that I dreaded most, was actually the one tie which now
held me to Laura in the hour of her utmost need !

?20

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

We heard the wheels of the dog-cart crashing" on the
gravel of the drive as we came into the hall. Sir Percival
had started on his journey.

' Where is he going to, Marian ? ' Laura whispered.
* Every fresh thing he does, seems to terrify me about the
future. Have you any suspicions ? '

After what she had undergone that morning, I was un-
willing to tell her my suspicions.

' How should I know his secrets,' I said, evasively.

* I wonder if the housekeeper knows ? ' she persisted.

' Certainly not,' I replied. ' She must be quite as ignorant
as we are. '

Laura shook her head doubtfully.

' Did you not hear from the housekeeper that there was
a report of Anne Catherick having been seen in this neigh-
bourhood ? Don't you think he may have gone away to look
for her ? '

' I would rather compose myself, Laura, by not thinking
about it, at all ; and, after what has happened, you had
better follow my example. Come into my room, and rest
and quiet yourself a little.'

We sat down together close to the window, and let the
fragrant summer air breathe over our faces.

'I am ashamed to look at you, Marian,' she said, 'after
what you submitted to down stairs, for my sake. Oh, my
own love, I am almost heartbroken, when I think of it !
But I will try to make it up to you — I will indeed ! '

' Hush ! Hush ! ' I replied ; ' don't talk so. What is the
trifling mortification of m}^ pride compared to the dreadful
sacrifice of your happiness ? '

'You heard what he said to me?' she went on, quickly
and vehemently. ' You heard the words — but you don't
know what they meant — you don't know why I threw down
the pen and turned my back on him.' She rose in sudden
agitation, and walked about the room. ' I have kept many
things from your knowledge, Marian, for fear of distressing
you, and making you unhappy at the outset of our new lives.
You don't know how he has used me. And yet, you ought
to know, for j-ou saw how he used me to-day. You heard
him sneer at my presuming to be scrupulous ; you heard him
say I had made a virtue of necessity in marrj'ing him.' She
sat down again ; her face flushed deeply, and her hands
twisted and twined together in her lap. ' I can't tell you
about it now,' she said ; ' I shall burst out crying if I tell you
now — later, Marian, when I am more sure of myself. My

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THE WOiMAN IN WHITE

poor head aches, darling — aches, aches, aches. Where is
your smelling-bottle ? Let me talk to you about yourself.
I wish I had given him my signature, for your sake. Shall I
give it to him, to-mori'ow ? I would rather compromise myself
than compromise you. After your taking my part against
him, he will lay all the blame on you, if I refuse again.
What shall we do ? Oh, for a friend to help us and advise
us ! — a friend we could really trust ! '

She sighed bitterly. I saw in her face that she was think-
ing of Hartright — saw it the more plainly because her last
words set me thinking of him, too. In six months only from
her marriage, we v^^anted the faithful service he had ofTeredto
us in his farevvell words. How little I once thought that
we should ever want it at all !

' We must do what we can to help ourselves,' I said.
* Let us try to talk it over calmly, Laura — let us do all in our
power to decide for the best.'

Putting what she knew of her husband's embarrassments,
and v.'hat I had heard of his conversation with the lawyer,
together, we arrived necessarily at the conclusion that the
parchment in the library had been drawn up for the purpose
of borrowing money, and that Laura's signature was abso-
lutely necessary to fit it for the attainment of Sir Percival's
object.

The second question, concerning the nature of the legal
contract by which the money was to be o'otained, and the
degree of personal responsibility to which Laura might sub-
ject herself if she sigmed it in the dark, involved considerations
which lay far beyond any knowledge and experience that
either of us possessed. My own convictions led me to
believe that the hidden contents of the parchment concealed
a transaction of the meanest and the most fraudulent kind.

I had not formed this conclusion in consequence of Sir
Percival's refusal to show the writing, or to explain it ; for
that refusal might well have proceeded from his obstinate
disposition and his domineering temper alone. My sole
motive for distrusting his honesty, sprang from the change
which I had observed in his language and his manners at
Blackv/ater Park, a change which convinced me that he had
been acting a part throughout the whole period of his proba-
tion at Limmeridge House. His elaborate delicacy ; his
ceremonious politeness, which harmonized so agreeably v/ith
Mr. Gilmore's old-fashioned notions ; his modesty with
Laura, his candour with me, his moderation with Mr. Fairlie
— all these were the artifices of a mean, cunning, and brutal

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

man, who had dropped his disguise when his practised duplicity
had gained its end, and had openly shown himself in the
Hbrary, on that very day. I say nothing of the grief which
this discovery caused me on Laura's account, for it is not to
be expressed by any words of mine. I only refer to it at all,
because it decided me to oppose her signing the parchment,
whatever the consequences might be, unless she was first
made acquainted with the contents.

Under these circumstances, the one chance for us when
to-morrow came, was to be provided with an objection to
giving the signature, which might rest on sufficiently firm
commercial or legal grounds to shake Sir Percival's resolu-
tion, and to make him suspect that v\'e two women under-
stood the laws and obligations of business as well as himself.

After some pondering, I determined to write to the only
honest man within reach whom we could trust to help us dis-
creetly, in our forlorn situation. Tha.t man was Mr. Gilmore's
partner — Mr. Kyrle — who conducted the business, nov»^ that
our old friend had been obliged to withdraw from it, and to
leave London on account of his health. I explained to Laura
that I had Mr. Gilmore's ovv-n authority for placing implicit
confidence in his partner's integrity, discretion, and accurate
knowledge of all her affairs ; and, with her full approval, I
sat down at once to write the letter.

I began by stating our position to Mr. Kyrle exactly as it
v\-as ; and then asked for his advice in return, expressed in
plain, downright terms, which we could comprehend with-
out any clanger of misinterpretations and mistakes. My
letter was as short as I could possibly make it, and was,
I hope, unencumbered by needless apologies and needless
details.

Just as I was about to put the address on the envelope,
an obstacle was discovered by Laura, which in the effort and
pre-occupation of writing, had escaped my mind altogether.

' How are we to get the answer in time ? ' she asked.
' Your letter will not be delivered in London before to-morrow
morning ; and the post will not bring the reply here till the
morning after.'

The only way of overcoming this difficulty was to have
the ansv/er brought to us from the lav.-yer's office by a special
messenger. I wrote a postscript to that effect, begging that
the messenger might be despatched with the reply by the
eleven o'clock morning train, which would bring him to our
station at twenty minutes past one, and so enable him to
reach Blackwater Park by two o'clock at the latest. He was

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

to be directed to ask for me, to answer no questions addressed
to him by any one else, and to deliver his letter into no hands
but mine.

* In case Sir Percival should come back to-morrow before
two o'clock,' I said to Laura, ' the wisest plan for you to
adopt is to be out in the grounds, all the morning-, with your
book or your work, and not to appear at the house till the
messenger has had time to arrive with the letter. I will wait
here for him, all the morning, to guard against any misad-
ventures or mistakes. By following this arrangement I hope
and believe we shall avoid being taken by surprise. Let us
go down to the drawing-room now. We may excite suspicion
if we remain shut up together too long.'

' Suspicion ? ' she repeated. ' Whose suspicion can we
excite, now that Sir Percival has left the house ? Do you
mean Count Fosco ? '

'Perhaps I do, Laura.'

* You are beginning to dislike him as much as I do,
Marian.'

' No ; not to dislike him. Dislike is always, more or less,
associated with contempt — I can see nothing in the Count to
despise.'

* You are not afraid of him, are you ? '

* Perhaps I am — a little.'

* Afraid of him, after his interference in our favour to-day !'
' Yes. I am more afraid of his interference than I am of

Sir Percival's violence. Remember what I said to you in the
library. Whatever you do, Laura, don't make an enemy of
the Count ! '

We went down stairs. Laura entered the drawing-room ;
while I proceeded across the hall, with my letter in my hand,
to put it into the post-bag, which hung against the wall
opposite to me.

The house door was open ; and, as I crossed past it, I
saw Count Fosco and his wnt'e standing talking together on
the steps outside, with their faces turned towards me.

The Countess came into the hall, rather hastily, and asked
if I had leisure enough for five minutes' private conversation.
Feeling a little surprised by such an appeal from such a
person, I put my letter into the bag, and replied that I was
quite at her disposal. She took my arm with unaccustomed
friendliness and familiarity ; and instead of leading me into
an empty room, drew me out with her to the belt of turf
which surrounded the large fish-pond.

As we passed the Count on the steps, he bowed and

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

smiled, and then went at once into the house ; pushing- the
hall-door to after him, but not actually closing it.

The Countess walked me gently round the fish-pond. I
expected to be made the depositary of some extraordinary
confidence ; and I was astonished to find that Madame
Fosco's communication for my private ear was nothing more
than a polite assurance o( her sympathy for me, after what
had happened in the library. Her husband had told her of
all that had passed, and of the insolent manner in which Sir
Percival had spoken to me. This information had so shocked
and distressed her, on my account and on Laura's, that she
had made up her mind, if anything of the sort happened
again, to mark her sense of Sir Percival's outrageous conduct
by leaving the house. The Count had approved of her idea,
and she now hoped that I approved of it, too.

I thought this a very strange proceeding on the part of
such a remarkably reserved woman as Madame Fosco —
especially after the interchange of sharp speeches which had
passed between us during the conversation in the boat-house,
on that very morning. However, it was my plain duty to
meet a polite and friendly advance, on the part of one of my
elders, with a polite and friendly reply. I answered the
Countess, accordingly, in her own tone ; and then, thinking
we had said all that was necessary on either side, made an
attempt to get back to the house.

But Madame Fosco seemed resolved not to part with me,
and, to my unspeakable amazement, resolved also to talk.
Hitherto, the most silent of women, she now persecuted me
with fluent conventionalities on the subject of married life, on
the subject of Sir Percival and Laura, on the subject of her
own happiness, on the subject of the late Mr. Fairlie's conduct
to her in the matter of her legacy, and on half a dozen other
subjects besides, until she had detained me, walking round
and round the fish-pond for more than half an hour, and had
quite wearied me out. Whether she discovered this, or not,
I cannot say, but she stopped as a.bruptly as she had begun —
looked towards the house door, resumed her icy manner in a
moment — and dropped my arm of her own accord, before I
could think of an excuse for accomplishing my own release
from her.

As I pushed open the door, and entered the hall, I found
myself suddenly face to face with the Count again. He was
just putting a letter into the post-bag.

After he had dropped it in, and had closed the bag, he
asked me where I had left Madame Fosco. I told him ; and

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

he went out at the hall door, immediately, to join his wife.
His manner, when he spoke to me, was so unusually quiet
and subdued that I turned and looked after him, wonderingf
if he were ill or out of spirits.

Why my next proceeding- was to go straight up to the
post-bag, and take out my own letter, and look at it again,
with a vague distrust on me ; and why the looking at it for
the second time instantly suggested the idea to my mind of
sealing the envelope for its greater security — are mysteries
which are either too deep or too shallow for me to fathom.
Women, as everybody knows, constantly act on impulses
which they cannot explain even to themselves ; and I can
only suppose that one of those impulses was the hidden cause
of my unaccountable conduct on this occasion.

Whatever influence animated me, I found cause to con-
g-ratulate myself on having obeyed it, as soon as I prepared
to seal the letter in my own room. I had originally closed
the envelope, in the usual way, by moistening the adhesive
point and pressing it on the paper beneath ; and, when I
now tried it with my finger, after a lapse of full three-quarters
of an hour, the envelope opened on the instant, without
sticking or tearing. Perhaps I had fastened it insufficiently ?
Perhaps there might have been some defect in the adhesive
gum ?

Or, perhaps No ! it is quite revolting enough to feel

that third conjecture stirring in my mind. I would rather
not see it confronting me, in plain black and white.

I almost dread to-morrow — so much depends on my dis-
cretion and self-control. There are two precautions at all
events, which I am sure not to forget. I must be careful to
keep up friendly appearances with the Count ; and I must be
well on my guard, when the messenger from the office comes
here with the answer to my letter.

JuxE 17th. — When the dinner hour brought us together
again, Count Fosco was in his usual excellent spirits. He
exerted himself to interest and amuse us, as if he was deter-
mined to efface from our memories all recollection of what
had passed in the library that afternoon. Lively descriptions
of his adventures in travelling ; amusing anecdotes of re-
markable people whom he had met with abroad ; quaint
comparisons between the social customs of various nations,
illustrated by examples drawn from men and women indis-

226

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

crimlnately all over Europe ; humorous confessions of the
innocent follies of his own early life, when he ruled the
fashions of a second-rate Italian town, and wrote prepos-
terous romances, on the French model, for a second-rate
Italian newspaper — all flowed in succession so easily and so
gaily from his lips, and all addressed our various curiosities
and various interests so directly and so delicately, that Laura
and I listened to him with as much attention, and, inconsis-
tent as it may seem, with as much admiration also, as
?»Iadame Fosco herself. Women can resist a man's love, a
man's fame, a man's personal appearance, and a man's
money ; but they cannot resist a man's tongue, Vv'hen he
knows how to talk to them.

After dinner, while the favourable impression which he
had produced on us was still vivid in our minds, the Count
modestly withdrew to read in the library.

Laura proposed a stroll in the grounds to enjoy the close
of the long evening. It was necessary, in common polite-
ness, to ask Madame Fosco to join us ; but, this time, she
had apparently received her orders beforehand, and she
begged we would kindly excuse her. ' The Count will
probably want a fresh supply of cigarettes,' she remarked, by
way of apology ; ' and nobody can make them to his satis-
faction, but myself.' Her cold blue eyes almost vv^armed as
she spoke the words — she looked actually proud of being the
officiating medium through which her lord and master com-
posed himself with tobacco-smoke !

Laura and I went out together alone.

It was a misty, heavy evening. There was a sense of
blight in the air ; the flowers were drooping in the garden,
and the ground was parched and dewless. The western
heaven, as we saw it over the quiet trees, was of a pale
yellow hue, and the sun was setting faintly in a haze.
Coming rain seemed near : it would fall probably with the
fall of night.

' Which way shall we go?' I asked.

'Towards the lake, Marian, if you like,' she answered.

' You seem unaccountably fond, Laura, of that dismal
lake.'

* No ; not of the lake, but of the scenery about it. The
sand and heath, and the fir-trees, are the only objects I can
discover, in all this large place, to remind m.e of Limmeridge.
But we will walk in some other direction, if you prefer it.'

' I have no favourite walks at Blackwater Park, my love.
One is the same as another to me. Let us go to the lake —

227 Q 2

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

we may find it cooler in the open space than we find it
here.'

We walked through the shadowy plantation in silence.
The heaviness in the evening air oppressed us both ; and,
when we reached the boat-house, we were glad to sit down
and rest, inside.

A white fog hung low over the lake. The dense brown
line of the trees on the opposite bank, appeared above it, like a
dwarf forest floating in the sky. The sandy ground, shelving
downward from where we sat, was lost mysteriously in the
outward layers of the fog. The silence was horrible. No
rustling of the leaves — no bird's note in the wood — no cry
of waterfowl from the pools of the hidden lake. Even the
croaking of the frogs had ceased to-night.

' It is very desolate and gloomy,' said Laura. ' But we
can be more alone here than anywhere else.'

She spoke quietly, and looked at the wilderness of sand
and mist v/ith steady, thoughtful eyes. I could see that her
mind was too much occupied to feel the dreary impressions
from without, which had fastened themselves already on mine.
' I promised, Marian, to tell you the truth about my
married life, instead of leaving 5'Ou any longer to guess it
for yourself,' she began. 'That secret is the first I have
ever had from you, love, and I am determined it shall be the
last. I was silent, as you know, for your sake — and perhaps
a little for my own sake as well. It is very hard for a woman
to confess that the man to whom she has given her whole
life, is the man of all others who cares least for the gift. If
you were married yourself, Marian — and especially if you
were happily married — you would feel for me as no single
woman can feel, however kind and true she may be.'

What answer could I make? I could only take her hand,
and look at her with my whole heart as well as my eyes
would let me.

' How often,' she went on, * I have heard you laughing
over what you used to call your " poverty ! " how often you
have made me mock-speeches of congratulation on my
wealth ! Oh, ^larian, never laugh again. Thank God for
your poverty — it has made }-ou 5-our own mistress, and has
saved you from the lot that has fallen on w^.'

A sad beginning on the lips of a young wife ! — sad in
its quiet, plain-spoken truth. The few days we had all
passed together at Blackwater Park, had been many enough
to show me — to show any one — what her husband had
married her for.

S28

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

'You shall not be distressed,' she said, 'by hearing' how
soon my disappointments and my trials began — or even by
knowing what they were. It is bad enough to have them on
my memory. If I tell you how he received the first, and
last, attempt at remonstrance that I ever made, you will know
how he has always treated me, as well as if I had described
it in so many words. It was one day at Rome, when we
had ridden out together to the tomb of Cecilia Metella.
The sky v.'as calm and lovely — and the grand old ruin looked
beautiful — and the remembrance that a husband's love had
raised it in the old time to a wife's memory, made me feel
more tenderly and more anxiously towards 7ny husband than
I had ever felt yet. " Would you build such a tomb for /«£■,
Percival ? " I asked him. ''You said you loved me dearly,

before we were married ; and yet, since that time " I

could get no farther. Marian ! he was not even looking at
me ! I pulled down my veil, thinking it best not to let him
see that the tears were in my eyes. I fancied he had not
paid any attention to me ; but he had. He said, " Come
away," and laughed to himself, as he helped me on to my
horse. He mounted his own horse ; and laughed again as
We rode away. "If I do build you a tomb," he said, "it
will be done with your own money. I wonder whether
Cecilia Metella had a fortune, and paid for hers." I made
no reply — how could I, when I was crying- behind my veil ?
" Ah, you light-complexioned women arc all sulky," he said.
" What do you want ? compliments and soft speeches ? Well !
I'm in a good humour this morning. Consider the compli-
ments paid, and the speeches said." Men little know, when
they say hard things to us, how well we remember them, and
how much harm they do us. It would have been better for
me if I had gone on crying ; but his contempt dried up my
tears, and hardened my heart. From that time, Marian, I
never checked myself again in thinking of Walter Hartright.
I let the memory of those happy days, when we were so fond
of each other in secret, come back, and comfort me. What
else had I to look to for consolation ? If we had been
together, you would have helped me to better things. I
know it was wrong, darling — but tell me if I was wrong,
without any excuse.'

I was obliged to turn my face from her. ' Don't ask me ! '
I said. ' Have I suffered as you have suffered ? What right
have I to decide ? '

' I used to think of him,' she pursued, dropping her voice,
and moving closer to me — ' I used to think of him, when

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

Percival left me alone at night, to go among the Opera
people. I used to fancy what I might have been, if it had
pleased God to bless me with poverty, and if I had been his
wife. I used to see myself in my neat cheap gown, sitting
at home and waiting for him, while he was earning our bread
— sitting at home and working for him, and loving him all
the better because I had to work for him — seeing him come
in tired, and taking off his hat and coat for him — and, Marian,
pleasing him with little dishes at dinner that I had learnt to
make for his sake. — Oh ! I hope he is never lonely enough
and sad enough to think of me, and see me, as I have thought
of him and seen hitn ! '

As she said those melancholy words, all the lost tenderness
returned to her voice, and all the lost beauty trembled back
into her face. Her eyes rested as lovingly on the blighted,
solitary, ill-omened view before us, as if they saw the
friendly hills of Cumberland in the dim and threatening sky.

' Don't speak of Walter any more,' I said, as soon as I
could control myself. * Oh, Laura, spare us both the
VvTetchedness of talking of him, now ! '

She roused herself, and looked at me tenderly.

' I would rather be silent about him for ever,' she
ansv/ered, 'than cause you a moment's pain.'

' It is in your interests,' I pleaded ; ' it is for your sake
that I speak. If your husband heard you '

' It would not surprise him, if he did hear me.'

She made that strange reply with a weary calmness and
coldness. The change in her manner, when she gave the
answer, startled me almost as much as the answer itself.

' Not surprise him ! ' I repeated. ' Laura ! remember
what you are saying — you frighten me \ *

' It is true,' she said — ' it is what I wanted to tell you to-
day, when we were talking in your room. My only secret
when I opened my heart to him at Limmeridge, was a harm-
less secret, Marian — you said so yourself. The name was
all I kept from him — and he has discovered it.'

I heard her ; but I could say nothing. Her last words had
killed the little hope that still lived in me.

* It happened at Rome,' she went on, as wearily calm and
cold as ever. ' We were at a little party, given to the
English by some friends of Sir Percival's — Mr. and Mrs.
Markland. Mrs. Markland had the reputation of sketching
very beautifully ; and some of the guests prevailed on her to
show us her drawings. We all admired them, — but some-
thing I said attracted her attention particularly to me.

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

" Surely you draw yourself? " she asked. " I used to draw a
little once," I answered, " but I have given it up." " If you
have once drawn," she said, "you may take to it again one
of these days ; and, if you do, I wish you would let me
recommend you a master." I said nothing — you know why,
Marian — and tried to change the conversation. But Mrs.
Markland persisted. " I have had all sorts of teachers," she
went on ; "but the best of all, the most intelligent and the
most attentive was a Mr. Hartright. If you ever take up
your drawing again, do try him as a master. He is a young
man — modest and gentlemanlike — I am sure you will like
him." Think of those words being spoken to me publicly, in
the presence of strangers — strangers who had been invited to
meet the bride and bridegroom ! I did all I could to control
myself — I said nothing, and looked down close at the
drawings. When I ventured to raise my head again, my
eyes and my husband's eyes met ; and I knew, by his look,
that my face had betrayed me. *' We will see about Mr.
Hartright," he said, looking at me all the time, " when we get
back to England. I agree with you, Mrs. Markland — I think
Lady Glyde is sure to like him." He laid an emphasis on the
last words which made my cheeks burn, and set my heart
beating as if it would stifle me. Nothing more was said — we
came away early. He was silent in the carriage, driving
back to the hotel. He helped me out, and followed me up-
stairs as usual. But the moment we were in the drawing-
room, he locked the door, pushed me down into a chair, and
stood over me with his hands on my shoulders. " Ever since
that morning when you made your audacious confession to
me at Limmeridge," he said, " I have wanted to find out the
man ; and I found him in your face, to-night. Your drawing-
master was the man ; and his name is Hartright. You shall
repent it, and he shall repent it, to the last hour of your lives.
Now go to bed, and dream of him, if you like — with the marks
of my horsewhip on his shoulders." Whenever he is angry
with me now, he refers to what I acknowledged to him
in your presence, with a sneer or a threat. I have no power
to prevent him from putting his own horrible construction
on the confidence I placed in him. I have no influence to
make him believe me, or to keep him silent. You looked
surprised, to-day, when you heard him tell me that I had made
a virtue of necessity in marrying him. You will not be
surprised again, when you hear him repeat it, the next time
he is out of temper — Oh, Marian ! don't ! don't ! you hurt
me!'

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

I had caught her in my arms ; and fhe sthig- and torment
of my remorse had closed them round her Hke a vice. Yes !
my remorse. The white despair of Walter's face, when my
cruel words struck him to the heart in the summer-house at
Limmeridge, rose before me in mute, unendurable reproach.
My hand had pointed the way which led the man my sister
loved, step by step, far from his country and his friends.
Between those two young- hearts I had stood, to sunder them
for ever, the one from the other — and his life and her life
lay wasted before me, alike, in witness of the deed. I had
done this ; and done it for Sir Percival Clyde.

For Sir Percival Clyde.

I heard her speaking, and I knew by the tone of her voice
that she was comforting me — /, who deserved nothing but
the reproach of her silence ! How long it was before I
mastered the absorbing misery of my own thoughts, I cannot
tell. I was first conscious that she was kissing me, and
then my eyes seemed to wake on a sudden to their sense of
outward things, and I knew that I was looking mechanically
straight before me at the prospect of the lake.

' It is late,' I heard her whisper. ' It will be dark in the
plantation.' She shook my arm, and repeated, * Marian ! it
will be dark in the plantation.'

' Cive me a minute longer,' I said — 'a minute, to get
better in.'

I was afraid to trust myself to look at her yet ; and I
kept my eyes fixed on the view.

It 7oas late. The dense brown line of trees in the sky
had faded in the gathering darkness, to the faint resemblance
of a long wreath of smoke. The mist over the lake below
had stealthily enlarged, and advanced on us. The silence
was as breathless as ever — but the horror of it had gone, and
the solemn mystery of its stillness was all that remained.

' We are far from the house,' she whispered. ' Let us ."-o
back.'

She stopped suddenly, and turned her face from me
towards the entrance of the boat-house.

* Marian ! ' she said, trembling violently. ' Do you see
nothing ? Look ! '

' Where ? '

* Down there, below us.'

She pointed. My eyes followed her hand ; and I saw It, too.

A living figure was moving over the waste of heath in the

distance. It crossed our range of view from the boat-house,

232

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

and passed darkly along the outer edg-e of the mist. It
stopped far ofY, in front of us — waited — and passed on ;
moving- slowly, with the white cloud of mist behind it and
above it — slowly, slowly, till it glided by the edge of the
boat-house, and we saw it no more.

We were both unnerved by what had passed between us
that evening. Some minutes elapsed before Laura would
venture into the plantation, and before I could make up my
mind to lead her back to the house.

' Was it a man, or a woman ? ' she asked, in a whisper,
as we moved at last, into the dark dampness of the outer air.

' I am not certain.'

' Which do you think ? '

' It looked like a woman.'

* I was afraid it was a man in a long cloak.'

' It may be a man. In this dim light it is not possible to
be certain.'

' Wait, Marian ! I'm frightened — I don't see the path.
Suppose the figure should follow us ? '

' Not at all likely, Laura. There is really nothing to be
alarmed about. The shores of the lake are not far from the
village, and they are free to any one to walk on, by day or
night. It is only wonderful we have seen no living creature
there before.'

We were now in the plantation. It was very dark — so
dark, that we found some difficulty in keeping the path. I
gave Laura my arm, and we walked as fast as we could on
our way back.

Before we were half way through, she stopped, and
forced me to stop with her. She was listening.

' Hush,' she whispered. ' I hear something behind us.'

' Dead leaves,' I said to cheer her, * or a twig blown off
the trees.'

* It is summer time, Marian ; and there is not a breath of
wind. Listen ! '

I heard the sound, too — a sound like a light footstep
following us.

' No matter who it is, or what it is,' I said ; ' let us walk
on. In another minute, if there is anything to alarm us, we
shall be near enough to the house to be heard.'

We went on quickly — so quickly, that Laura was breath-
less by the time we were nearly through the plantation, and
within sight of the lighted windows.

I waited a moment, to give her breathing-time. Just as
we were about to proceed, she stopped me again, and signed

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

to me with her hand to listen once more. We both heard
distinctly a long, heavy sig-h, behind us, in the black depths
of the trees.

* Who's there ? ' I called out.

There was no answer.

' Who's there ? ' I repeated.

An instant of silence followed ; and then we heard the
light fall of the footsteps again, fainter and fainter — sinking
away into the darkness — sinking, sinking, sinking — till they
were lost in the silence.

We hurried out from the trees to the open lawn beyond ;
crossed it rapidly ; and without another word passing between
us, reached the house.

In the light of the hall-lamp, Laura looked at me, with
white cheeks and startled eyes.

' I am half dead with fear,' she said. * Who could it
have been ? '

' We will try to guess to-morrow,' I replied. ' In the
mean time, say nothing to any one of what we have heard
and seen.'

' Why not ? '

' Because silence is safe — and we have need of safety in
this house.'

I sent Laura upstairs immediately — waited a minute to
take off my hat, and put my hair smooth — and then went at
once to make my first investigations in the library, on
pretence of searching for a book.

There sat the Count, filling out the largest easy-chair in
the house ; smoking and reading calmly, with his feet on an
ottoman, his cravat across his knees, and his shirt collar
wide open. And there sat Madame Fosco, like a quiet child,
on a stool by his side, making cigarettes. Neither husband
nor wife could, by any possibility, have been out late that
evening, and have just got back to the house in a hurry. I
felt that my object in visiting the library was ansvv^ered the
moment I set eyes on them.

Count Fosco rose in polite confusion, and tied his cravat
on when I entered the room.

' Pray don't let me disturb you,' I said. * I have only
come here to get a book.'

' All unfortunate men of my size suffer from the heat,' said
the Count, refreshing himself gravely with a large green fan.
' I wish I could change places with my excellent wife. She
is as cool, at this moment, as a fish in the pond outside.'

The Countess allowed herself to thaw under the influence

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

of her husband's quaint comparison. ' I am never warm,
Miss Halcombe,' she remarked, with the modest air of a
woman who was confessing- to one of her own merits.

' Have you and Lady Clyde been out this evening-? ' asked
the Count, while I was taking- a book from the shelves, to
preserve appearances.

' Yes ; we went out to get a little air.'

* May I ask in what direction ? '

* In the direction of the lake — as far as the boat-house.'
' Aha ? As far as the boat-house ? '

Under other circumstances, I might have resented his
curiosity. But, to-night I hailed it as another proof that
neither he nor his wife were connected with the mysterious
appearance at the lake.

'No more adventures, I suppose, this evening?' he went
on. ' No more discoveries, like your discovery of the
wounded dog ? '

He fixed his unfathomable gray eyes on me, with that
cold, clear, irresistible glitter in them, which always forces
me to look at him, and always makes me uneas}', while I do
look. An unutterable suspicion that his mind is prying into
mine, overcomes me at these times ; and it overcame me
now.

'No,' I said, shortly ; 'no adventures — no discoveries.'

I tried to look away from him, and leave the room.
Strange as it seems, I hardly think I should have succeeded
in the attempt, if Madame Fosco had not helped me by
causing him to move and look away first.

' Count, you are keeping Miss Halcombe standing,' she
said.

The moment he turned round to get me a chair, I seized
my opportunity — thanked him — made my excuses — and slipped
out.

An hour later, when Laura's maid happened to be in her
mistress's room, I took occasion to refer to the closeness of
the night, with a view to ascertaining next how the servants
had been passing their time.

' Have you been suffering much from the heat, down
stairs ? ' I asked.

' No, miss,' said the girl ; ' we have not felt it to speak of.'

* You have been out in the woods, then, I suppose? '

' Some of us thought of going, miss. But cook said she
should take her chair into the cool court-yard, outside the
kitchen door ; and, on second thoughts, all the rest of us took
our chairs out there, too.'

2^:;

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

The housekeeper was now the only person who remained
to be accounted for.

' Is Mrs. Michelson gone to bed yet ? ' I inquired.

* I should think not, miss,' said the girl, smiling-. ' Mrs.
Michelson is more likely to be getting- up, just now, than
going to bed.'

' Why ? What do you mean ? Has Mrs. Michelson been
taking to her bed in the daytime ? '

' No, miss ; not exactly, but the next thing to it. She's
been asleep all the e-vening, on the sofa in her own room.'

Putting together what I observed for myself in the library
and what I have just heard from Laura's maid, one conclusion
seems inevitable. The figure we saw at the lake was not the
figure of Madame Fosco, of her husband, or of any of the
servants. The footsteps we heard behind us were not the
footsteps of any one belonging to the house.

Who could it have been ?

It seems useless to inquire. I cannot even decide whether
the figure was a man's or a woman's. I can only say that I
think it was a woman's.

VI.

June i8th. — The misery of self-reproach which I suffered
yesterday evening, on hearing what Laura told me in the
boat-house returned in the loneliness of the night, and kept
me waking and wretched for hours.

I lighted my candle at last, and searched through my old
journals to see what my share in the fatal error of her
marriage had really been, and what I might have once done
to save her from it. The result soothed me a little — for it
showed that, however blindly and ignorantly I acted, I acted
for the best. Crying generally does me harm ; but it was
not so last night — I think it relieved me. I rose this morn-
ing with a settled resolution and a quiet mind. Nothing Sir
Percival can say or do shall ever irritate me again, or make
me forget, for one moment, that I am staying here, in defiance
of mortifications, insults, and threats, for Laura's service and
for Laura's sake.

The speculations In which we might have Indulged, this
morning, on the subject of the figure at the lake and the
footsteps in the plantation, have been all suspended by a
trifling accident which has caused Laura great regret. She
has lost the little brooch I gave her for a keepsake, on the
day before her marriage. As she wore It when we went out

2X6

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

yesterday evening we can only suppose that it must have
dropped from her dress, either in the boat-house, or on our
way back. The servants have been sent to search, and have
returned unsuccessful. And now Laura herself has gone to
look for it. Whether she finds it, or not, the loss will help
to excuse her absence from the house, if Sir Percival returns
before the letter from Mr. Gilmore's partner is placed in my
hands.

One o'clock has just struck. I am considering whether I
had better wait here for the arrival of the messenger from
London, or slip away quietly, and watch for him outside the
lodge gate.

My suspicion of everybody and everj^thing in this house
inclines me to think that the second plan may be the best.
The Count is safe in the breakfast-room. I heard him,
through the door, as I ran up-stairs, ten minutes since,
exercising his canary-birds at their tricks : — ' Come out on
my little finger, my pret-pret-pretties ! Come out, and hop
up-stairs ! One, two, three — and up ! Three, two, one —
and down I One, two, three — twit-twit-twit-tweet ! ' The
birds burst into their usual ecstasy of singing, and the Count
chirruped and whistled at them in return, as if he was a bird
himself. My room door is open, and I can hear the shrill
singing and whistling at this very moment. If I am really
to slip out, without being observed — now is my time.

Four o'clock. The three hours that have past since I
made my last entry, have turned the whole march of events
at Blackwater Park in a new direction. Whether for good
or for evil, I cannot and dare not decide.

Let me get back first to the place at which I left off — or I
shall lose myself in the confusion of my own thoughts.

I vv'ent out, as I had proposed, to meet the messenger with
my letter from London at the lodge gate. On the stairs
I saw no one. In the hall I heard the Count still exercising
his birds. But on crossing the quadrangle outside, I passed
Madame Fosco, walking b}' herself in her favourite circle,
round and round the great fish-pond. I at once slackened
my pace, so as to avoid all appearance of being in a hurry ;
and even went the length, for caution's sake, of inquiring if
she thought of going out before lunch. She smiled at me in
the friendliest manner — said she preferred remaining near t'ne
house — nodded pleasantly — and re-entered the hall. I looked
back, and saw that she had closed the door before I had
opened the wicket by the side of the carriage gates.

2<:7

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

In less than a quarter of an hour, I reached the lodge.

The lane outside took a sudden turn to the left, ran on
straight for a hundred yards or so, and then took another
sharp turn to the right to join the high road. Between these
two turns, hidden from the lodge on one side and from the way
to the station on the other, I waited, walking backwards and
forwards. High hedges were on either side of me ; and for
twenty minutes, by my watch, I neither saw nor heard any-
thing. At the end of that time, the sound of a carriage
caught my ear ; and I was met, as I advanced, towards the
second turning, by a fly from the railway. I made a sign to
the driver to stop. As he obeyed me, a respectable-looking
man put his head out of the window to see what was the
matter.

' I beg your pardon,' I said ; ' but am I right in supposing
that you are going to Blackwater Park ? '

' Yes, ma'am.'

* With a letter for any one ? '

* With a letter for Miss Halcombe, ma'am.'

'You may give me the letter. I am Miss Halcombe.'
The man touched his hat, got out of the fly immediately,

and gave me the letter.

I opened it at once, and read these lines. I copy them

here, thinking it best to destroy the original for caution's sake.

* Dear Madam. — Your letter received this morning, has
caused me very great anxiety. I will reply to it as briefly
and plainly as possible.

' My careful consideration of the statement made by
yourself, and my knowledge of Lady Clyde's position, as
defined in the settlement, lead me, I regret to say, to the
conclusion that a loan of the trust money to Sir Percival
(or, in other words, a loan of some portion of the twenty
thousand pounds of Lady Clyde's fortune), is in contempla-
tion, and that she is made a party to the deed, in order to
secure her approval of a flagrant breach of trust, and to have
her signature produced against her, if she should complain
hereafter. It is impossible, on any other supposition, to
account, situated as she is, for her execution to a deed of
any kind being wanted at all.

' In the event of Lady Clyde's sig'ning such a document
as I am compelled to suppose the deed in question to be, her
trustees would be at liberty to advance money to Sir Percival
out of her twenty thousand pounds. If the amount so lent
should not be paid back, and if Lady Clyde should have

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

children, their fortune will then be diminished by the sum,
large or small, so advanced. In plainer terms still, the
transaction, for anything that Lady Glyde knows to the
contrary, may be a fraud upon her unborn children.

* Under these serious circumstances, I would recommend
Lady Glyde to assign as a reason for withholding her
signature, that she wishes the deed to be first submitted to
myself, as her family solicitor (in the absence of my partner,
Mr. Gilmore). No reasonable objection can be made to
taking this course — for, if the transaction is an honourable
one, there will necessarily be no difficulty in my giving my
approval.

* Sincerely assuring you of my readiness to afford any
additional help or advice that may be wanted, I beg to remain.
Madam, your faithful servant,

* William Kyrle. '

I read this kind and sensible letter very thankfully. It
supplied Laura with a reason for objecting to the signature
which was unanswerable, and which we could both of us
understand. The messenger waited near me while I was
reading, to receive his directions when I had done.

* Will you be good enough to say that I understand the
letter, and that I am very much obliged ? ' I said. * There is
no other reply necessary at present.'

Exactly at the moment when I was speaking those words,
holding the letter open in my hand, Count Fosco turned the
corner of the lane from the high road, and stood before me as
if he had sprung up out of the earth.

The suddenness of his appearance, in the very last place
under heaven in which I should have expected to see him,
took me completely by surprise. The messenger wished me
good morning, and got into the fly again. I could not say a
word to him — I was not even able to return his bow. The
conviction that I was discovered — and by that man, of all
others — absolutely petrified me.

' Are you going back to the house. Miss Halcombe ? ' he
inquired, without showing the least surprise on his side, and
without even looking after the fly, which drove off while he
was speaking to me.

I collected myself sufficiently to make a sign in the affir-
mative.

' I am going back, too,' he said. ' Pray allov^^ me the
pleasure of accompanying you. Will you take my arm ?
You look surprised at seeing me !

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

I took his arm. The first of my scattered senses that
came back, was the sense that warned me to sacrifice anything
rather than make an enemy of him.

' You look surprised at seeing- me ! ' he repeated, in his
quietly pertinacious way.

' I thought, Count, I heard you with your birds in the
breakfast-room,' I answered, as quietly and firmly as I could.

* Surely. But my little feathered children, dear lady, are
only too like other children. They have their days of per-
versity ; and this morning was one of them. My wife came
in, as I was putting them back in their cage, and said she
had left you going out alone for a walk. You told her so,
did you not ? '

' Certainly.'

* Well, Miss Halcombe, the pleasure of accompanying you
was too great a temptation for me to resist. At my age
there is no harm in confessing so much as that, is there ? I
seized my hat, and set off to offer myself as your escort.
Even so fat an old man as Fosco is surely better than no
escort at all? I took the wrong path — I came back, in
despair — and here I am, arrived (may I say it ?) at the height
of my wishes.'

He talked on, in this complimentary strain vvith a fluency
which left me no exertion to make beyond the effort of main-
taining my composure. He never referred in the most distant
manner to what he had seen in the lane, or to the letter
which I still had in my hand. This ominous discretion helped
to convince me that he must have surprised, by the most
dishonourable means, the secret of my application in Laura's
interest, to the lawyer ; and that, having now assured himself
of the private manner in which I had received the answer,
he had discovered enough to suit his purposes, and was only
bent on trying to quiet the suspicions which he knew he must
have aroused in my mind. I was wise enough, under these
circumstances, not to attempt to deceive him by plausible ex-
planations— and woman enough, notwithstanding my dread
of him, to feel as if my hand was tainted by resting on his arm.

On the drive in front of the house we m.et the dog-cart
being taken round to the stables. Sir Percival had just
returned. He came out to meet us at the house-door.
Whatever other results his journey might have had, it had not
ended in softening his savage temper.

' Oh ! here are two of you come back,' he said, with a
lowering face. ' What is the meaning of the house being
deserted in this way ? Where is Lady Clyde ? '

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

I told him of the loss of the brooch, and said that Laura
had gone into the plantation to look for it.

' Brooch or no brooch,' he growled sulkily, ' I recommend
her not to forget her appointment in the library, this after-
noon. I shall expect to see her in half an hour.'

I took my hand from the Count's arm, and slowly ascended
the steps. He honoured me with one of his magnificent
bows ; and then addressed himself gaily to the scowling
master of the house.

'Tell me, Percival,' he said, 'have you had a pleasant
drive ? And has your pretty shining Brown Molly come back
at all tired ? '

'Brown Molly be hanged — and the drive too ! I want my
lunch.'

'And I want five minutes' talk with you, Percival, first,'
returned the Count. ' Five minutes' talk, my friend, here on
the grass.'

'What about?'

' About business that very much concerns you.'

I lingered long enough, in passing through the hall-door,
to hear this question and answer, and to see Sir Percival
thrust his hands into his pockets, in sullen hesitation.

' If you want to badger me with any more of your infernal
scruples,' he said, ' I, for one, won't hear them. I want my
lunch ! *

* Come out here and speak to me,' repeated the Count,
still perfectly uninfluenced by the rudest speech that his friend
could make to him.

Sir Percival descended the steps. The Count took him by
the arm, and walked him away gently. The ' business,' I was
sure, referred to the question of the signature. They were
speaking of Laura and of me, beyond a doubt. I felt heart-
sick and faint with anxiety. It might be of the last importance
to both of us to know what they were saying to each other at
that moment — and not one word of it could, by any possibility,
reach'my ears.

I walked about the house, from room to room, with the
lawyer's letter in my bosom (I was afraid, by this time, even
to trust it under lock and key), till the oppression of my
suspense half maddened me. There were no signs of Laura's
return ; and I thought of going out to look for her. But my
strength was so exhausted by the trials and anxieties of the
morning, that the heat of the day quite overpowered me ;
and, after an attempt to get to the door, I was obliged to

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

return to the drawingf-room, and lie down on the nearest sofa
to recover.

I was just composuig- myself, when the doorcrpened softly,
and the Count looked in.

' A thousand pardons, Miss Halcombe,' he said ; ' I only
venture to disturb you because I am the bearer of good news.
Percival — who is capricious in everything-, as you know — has
seen fit to alter his mind, at the last moment ; and the
business of the sig^nature is put off for the present. A great
relief to all of us, Miss Halcombe, as I see with pleasure in your
face. Pray present my best respects and felicitations when you
mention this pleasant chang-e of circumstances to Lady Clyde.'

He left me before I had recovered my astonishment.
There could be no doubt that this extraordinary alteration of
purpose in the matter of the signature, v/as due to his
influence ; and that his discovery of my application to
London yesterday, and of my having received an answer to it
to-day, had offered him the means of interfering with certain
success.

I felt these impressions ; but my mind seemed to share
the exhaustion of my body, and I was in no condition to
dwell on them, with any useful reference to the doubtful
present, or the threatening future. I tried a second time to
run out, and find Laura ; but my head was giddy, and my
knees trembled under me. There was no choice but to give
it vip again, and return to the sofa, sorely against my will.

The quiet in the house, and the low murmuring hum of
summer insects outside the open window, soothed me. My
eyes closed of themselves ; and I passed gradually into a
strange condition, which was not waking — for I knew nothing
of what was going on about me ; and not sleeping — for I
vv^as conscious of my ov/n repose. In this state, my fevered
mind broke loose from me, while my weary body was at rest ;
and, in a trance, or day-dream of my fancy — I know not what
to call it— I saw \y alter Hartright. I had not thought of
him, since I rose that morning ; Laura had not said one word
to me either directly or indirectly referring- to him — and yet, I
saw him now, as plainly as if the past time had returned, and
we v/ere both together again at Limmeridge House.

He appeared to me as one among many other men, none
of whose faces I could plainly discern. They were all lying
on the steps of an immense ruined temple. Colossal tropical
trees — with rank creepers twining endlessly about their trunks,
and hideous stone idols glimmering and grinning at intervals
behind leaves and stalks and branches — surrounded the

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

temple, and shut out the sky, and threw a dismal shadow
over the forlorn band of men on the steps. White exhala-
tions twisted and curled up stealthily from the ground ;
approached the men in wreaths, like smoke ; touched them ;
and stretched them out dead, one by one, in the places where
they lay. An agony of pity and fear for Walter loosened my
tongue, and I implored him to escape. ' Come back ! come
back i ' I said. ' Remember your promise to her and to me.
Come back to us, before the Pestilence reaches you, and lays
you dead like the rest ! '

He looked at me, with an unearthly quiet In his face.
' Wait,' he said, ' I shall come back. The night, when I met
the lost Woman on the highway, was the night which set my
life apart to be the instrument of a Design that Is yet unseen.
Here, lost in the wilderness, or there, welcomed back In the
land of my birth, I am still walking on the dark road which
leads me, and you, and the sister of your love and mine, to
the unknown Retribution and the Inevitable End. Wait and
look. The Pestilence which touches the rest, will pass ?«<?.'

I saw him. again. He was still In the forest ; and the
numbers of his lost companions had dwindled to very few.
The temple was gone, and the idols were gone — and, in their
place, the figures of dark, dwarfish men lurked murderously
among the trees, with bows in their hands, and arrows fitted
to the string. Once more, I feared for Walter, and cried out
to warn him. Once more, he turned to me, with the Im-
movable quiet In his face.

'Another step,' he said, 'on the dark road. Wait and
look. The Arrows that strike the rest, will spare vie.''

I saw him for the third time, In a wrecked ship, stranded
on a wild, sandy shore. The overloaded boats were making
away from him for the land, and he alone was left, to sink
v/ith the ship. I cried to him to hail the hindmost boat, and
to make a last eff"ort for his life. The quiet face looked at
me In return, and the unmoved voice gave me back the
changeless reply. ' Another step on the journey. Wait and
look. The Sea which drowns the rest, will spare me.''

I saw him for the last time. He was kneeling by a tomb
of white marble ; and the shadow of a veiled woman rose out
of the grave beneath, and waited by his side. The unearthly
quiet of his face had changed to an unearthly sorrow. But
the terrible certainty of his words remained the same.
'Darker and darker,' he said; 'farther and farther yet.
Death takes the good, the beautiful, and the young — and
spares me. The Pestilence that wastes, the Arrow that

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

strikes, the Sea that drowns, the Grave that closes over Love
and Hope, are steps of my journe}', and take me nearer and
nearer to the End.'

My heart sank under a dread beyond words, under a grief
beyond tears. The darkness closed round the pilgrim at the
marble tomb ; closed round the veiled woman from the
grave ; closed rovmd the dreamer who looked on them. I
saw and heard no more.

I was aroused by a hand laid on my shoulder. It was
Laura's.

She had dropped on her knees by the side of the sofa.
Her face was flushed and agitated ; and her eyes met mine in
a wild bewildered manner. I started the instant I saw her.

' What has happened ? ' I asked. ' What has frightened
you ? '

She looked round at the half-open door — put her lips close
to my ear — and answered in a whisper :

' Marian ! — the figure at the lake — the footsteps last night
— I've just seen her ! I've just spoken to her ! '

' Who, for Heaven's sake ? '

' Anne Catherick.'

I was so startled by the disturbance in Laura's face and
manner, and so dismayed by the first waking impressions of
my dream, that I was not fit to bear the revelation which
burst upon me, when that name passed her lips. I could
only stand rooted to the floor, looking at her in breathless
silence.

She was too much absorbed by what had happened to
notice the eff"ect which her reply had produced on me. ' I
have seen Anne Catherick ! I have spoken to Anne Catherick ! '
she repeated, as if I had not heard her. ' Oh, Marian, I haAe
such things to tell you ! Come away — we may be interrupted
here — come at once into my room.'

With those eager words, she caught me by the hand, and
led me through the library, to the end room on the ground
floor, which had been fitted up for her own especial use. No
third person, except her maid, could have any excuse for
surprising us here. She pushed me in before her, locked
the door, and drew the chintz curtains that hung over the
inside.

The strange, stunned feeling which had taken possession
of me still remained. But a growing conviction that the
complications which had long threatened to gather about her,
and to gather about me, had suddenly closed fast round us
both, was now beginning to penetrate my mind. I could

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

not express It in words — I could hardly even realise it dimly
in my own thoughts. ' Anne Catherick ! ' I whispered to
myself, with useless, helpless reiteration — ' Anne Catherick ! '

Laura drew me to the nearest seat, an ottoman in the
middle of the room. ' Look ! ' she said ; ' look here ! ' — and
pointed to the bosom of her dress.

I saw, for the first time, that the lost brooch was pinned
in its place again. There was something real in the sight of
it, something real in the touching of it afterwards, which
seemed to steady the whirl and confusion in my thoughts,
and to help me to compose myself.

' Where did you find your brooch ? ' The first words I
could say to her were the words which put that trivial question
at that important moment.

' She found it, Marian.'

' Where ? '

' On the floor of the boat-house. Oh, how shall I begin —
how shall I tell you about it ! She talked to me so strangely
— she looked so fearfully ill — she left me so suddenly ! '

Her voice rose as the tumult of her recollections pressed
upon her mind. The inveterate distrust which weighs, night
and day, on my spirits in this house, instantly roused me to
warn her — ^just as the sight of the brooch had roused me to
question her, the moment before.

'Speak low,' I said. 'The window is open, and the
garden path runs beneath it. Begin at the beginning, Laura.
Tell me, word for word, what passed between that woman
and you.'

' Shall I close the window first ? '

* No ; only speak low : only remember that Anne Catherick
is a dangerous subject under your husband's roof. Where
did you first see her ? '

' At the boat-house, Marian. I went out, as you know, to
find my brooch ; and I walked along the path through the
plantation, looking down on the ground carefully at every
step. In that way I got on, after a long time, to the boat-
house ; and, as soon as I was inside it, I went on my knees
to hunt over the floor. I was still searching, with my back
to the doorway, when I heard a soft, strange voice, behind
me, say, "Miss Fairlie."'

' Miss Fairlie ! '

'Yes— my old name— the dear, familiar name that I
thought I had parted from for ever. I started up— not
frightened, the voice was too kind and gentle to frighten
jinybody— but very much surprised. There, looking at me

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

frorrt the doorway, stood a woman, whose face I never re-
membered to have seen before '

' How was she dressed ? '

'She had a neat, pretty white g^own on, and over it a poor
worn thin dark shawl. Her bonnet was of brown straw, as
poor and worn as the shawl. I was struck by the difference
between her gown and the rest of her dress, and she saw that
1 noticed it. " Don't look at my bonnet and shawl," she said,
speaking" in a quick, breathless, sudden way; "if I mustn't
wear white, I don't care what I wear. Look at my gown,
as much as you please ; I'm not ashamed of that." Very
strange, was it not ? Before I could say anything to soothe
her, she held out one of her hands, and I saw my brooch in
it. I was so pleased and so grateful, that I went quite close
to her to say what I really felt. *' Are you thankful enough
to do me one little kindness?" she asked. " Yes, indeed," I
answered ; " any kindness in my power I shall be glad to show
you." *' Then let me pin your brooch on for you, now I have
found it." Her request was so unexpected, Marian, and she
made it with such extraordinary eagerness, that I drew back
a step or two, not well knowing what to do. *' Ah ! " she said,
** your mother would have let me pin on the brooch." There
was something in her voice and her look, as well as in her
mentioning- my mother in that reproachful manner, which
made me ashamed of my distrust. I took her hand with the
brooch in it, and put it up gently on the bosom of my dress.
" You knew my mother ? " I said. " Was it very long ago ?
have I ever seen you before ? " Her hands were busy fastening
the brooch : she stopped and pressed them against my breast.
*' You don't remember a fine spring day at Limmeridge," she
said, " and your mother walking down the path that led to
the school, with a little girl on each side of her ? I have had
nothing- else to think of since ; and / remember it. You
were one of the little girls, and I was the other. Pretty,
clever Miss Fairlie, and poor dazed Anne Catherick were
nearer to each other, then, than they are now ! " '

' Did you remember her, Laura, when she told you her
name ? '

' Yes — I remembered your asking me about Anne Catherick
at Limmeridge, and your saying that she had once been con-
sidered like me.'

* What reminded you of that, Laura?'

* She reminded me. While I was looking at her, while
she was very close to me, it came over my mind suddenly
that we were like each other ! Her face was pale and thin

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

and weary— but the sight of it startled me, as if it had been
the sight of my own face in the glass after a long illness.
The discovery — I don't know why — gave me such a shock, that
1 was perfectly incapable of speaking to her, for the moment.'

' Did she seem hurt by your silence ? '

' I am afraid she was hurt by it. *' You have not o-ot
your mother's face," she said, " or your mother's heart. Your
mother's face was dark ; and your mother's heart, Miss
Fairlie, was the heart of an angel." ''I am sure I feel kindly
towards you," I said, "though I may not be able to express

it as I ought. Why do you call me Miss Fairlie ? "

" Because I love the name of Fairlie and hate the name of
Glyde," she broke out violently. I had seen nothing like
madness in her before this ; but I fancied I saw it now in her
eyes. " I only thought you might not know I was married,"
I said, remembering the wild letter she wrote to me at
Limmeridge, and trying to quiet her. She sighed bitterly,
and turned away from me. " Not know you were married ! "
she repeated. *'I am here because you are married. I am
here to make atonement to you, before I meet your mother
in the world beyond the grave. " She drew farther and farther
away from me, till she was out of the boat-house— and, then,
she watched and listened for a little while. When she turned
round to speak again, instead of coming back, she stopped
where she was, looking in at me, with a hand on each side of
the entrance. " Did you see me at the lake last night ? " she
said. " Did you hear me following you in the wood ? I have
been waiting for days together to speak to you alone— I have
left the only friend I have in the world, anxious and frightened
about me— I have risked being shut up again in the mad-
house—and all for your sake. Miss Fairlie, all for your sake."
Her words alarmed me, Marian ; and yet, there was some-
thing in the way she spoke, that made me pity her with all
my heart. I am sure my pity must have been sincere, for it
made me bold enough to ask the poor creature to come in,
and sit down in the boat-house, by my side.'

* Did she do so ? '

' No. She shook her head, and told me she must stop
where she was, to watch and listen, and see that no third
person surprised us. And from first to last, there she waited
at the entrance, with a hand on each side of it ; sometimes
bendmg m suddenly to speak to me ; sometimes drawing back
suddenly to look about her. " I was here yesterday," she
said, " before it came dark ; and I heard you, and the lady
with you, talking together. I heard you tell her about your

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

husband. I heard you say you had no influence to make him
believe you, and no influence to keep him silent. Ah ! I knew
what those words meant ; my conscience told me while I was
hstening. Why did I ever let you marry him ! Oh, my fear,

• — my mad, miserable, wncked fear ! " She covered up

her face in her poor worn shav/1, and moaned and murmured
to herself behind it. I began to be afraid she might break
out into some terrible despair which neither she nor I could
master, "Try to quiet yourself," I said: "try to tell me
how you might have prevented my marriage." She took the
shawl from her face, and looked at me vacantly. " I ought to
have had heart enough to stop at Limmeridge," she answered.
"I ought never to have let the news of his coming there
frighten me away. I ought to have warned you and saved
you before it was too late. Why did I only have courage
enough to write you that letter ? Why did I only do harm,
when I wanted and meant to do good? Oh, my fear — my
mad, miserable, wicked fear ! " She repeated those words
again, and hid her face again in the end of her poor worn
shawl. It was dreadful to see her, and dreadful to hear her.'
' Surely, Laura, you asked what the fear was which she
dwelt on so earnestly ? '

* Yes ; I asked that.'

* And what did she say ? '

* She asked me, in return, if / should not be afraid of a
man who had shut me up in a madhouse, and who would
shut me up again, if he could ? I said, " Are you afraid still ?
Surely you would not be here, if you were afraid now ? "
"No," she said, " I am not afraid now." I asked why not.
She suddenly bent forward into the boat-house, and said,
" Can't you guess why ? " I shook my head. "Look at me,"
she went on. I told her I Vv-as grieved to see that she looked
very sorrowful and very ill. She smiled, for the first time.
" 111? " she repeated ; " I'm dying. You know why I'm not
afraid of him now. Do you think I shall meet your mother in
heaven? Will she forgive me, if I do ? " I was so shocked,
and so startled, that I could make no reply. " I have been
thinking of it," she went on, "all the time I have been in
hiding from your husband, all the time I lay ill. My thoughts
have driven me here — I want to make atonement — I want to
undo all I can of the harm I once did." I begged her as
earnestly as I could to tell me what she meant. She still
looked at me with fixed vacant eyes. " Shall I undo the
harm?" she said to herself, doubtfully. "You have friends
to take your part. U j'ou know his Secret, he will be afraid

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

of you ; he won't dare use you as he used me. He must treat
you mercifully for his own sake, if he is afraid of you and your
friends. And if he treats you mercifully, and if I can say it

was my doing- " I listened eagerly for more ; but she

stopped at those words.'

' You tried to make her go on ? '

' I tried ; but she only drew herself away from me again,
and leaned her face and arms against the side of the boat-
house. "Oh !" I heard her say, with a dreadful, distracted
tenderness in her voice, " oh ! if I could only be buried with
your mother ! If I could only wake at her side, when the
angel's trumpet sounds, and the graves give up their dead at
the resurrection ! " — Marian ! I trembled from head to foot —
it was horrible to hear her. " But there is no hope of that,"
she said, moving a little, so as to look at me again; "no
hope for a poor stranger like me. / shall not rest under the
marble cross that I washed with my own hands, and made so
white and pure for her sake. Oh no ! oh no ! God's mercy,
not man's, will take me to her, where the wicked cease from
troubling and the weary are at rest." She spoke those words
quietly and sorrowfully, with a heavy, hopeless sigh ; and
then waited a little. Her face was confused and troubled ;
she seemed to be thinking, or trying to think. " What was
it I said just now ? " she asked, after a while. " When your
mother is in my mind, everything else goes out of it. What
was I saying? what was I saying?" I reminded the poor
creature, as kindly and delicately as I could. " Ah, yes, yes,"
she said, still in a vacant, perplexed manner. " You are
helpless with your wicked husband. Yes. And I must do
what I have come to do here — I must make it up to you for
having been afraid to speak out at a better time." " What is
it you have to tell me?" I asked. "The Secret that your
cruel husband is afraid of," she answered. " I once threat-
ened him with the Secret, and frightened him. You shall
threaten him with the Secret, and frighten him too." Her
face darkened ; and a hard, angry stare fixed itself in her
eyes. She began waving her hand at me in a vacant, un-
meaning manner. " My mother knows the Secret," she said.
" My mother has wasted under the Secret half her lifetime.
One day, when I was grown up, she said something to 77ie.
And, the next day, your husband " '

'Yes! yes! Go on. What did she tell you about your
husband ? '

' She stopped again, Marian, at that point '

' And said no more ? '

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

'And listened eagerly. "Hush!" she whispered, still
waving her hand at me. "Hush!" She moved aside out
of the doorway, moved slowly and stealthily, step by step, till
I lost her past the edge of the boat-house.'

' Surely, you followed her ? '

' Yes ; my anxiety made me bold enough to rise and
follow her. Just as I reached the entrance, she appeared
again, suddenly, round the side of the boat-house. "The
secret," I whispered to her — "wait and tell me the secret ! "
She caught hold of my arm, and looked at me, with wild,
frightened eyes. " Not now," she said ; " we are not alone
— we are watched. Come here to-morrow at this time — by
yourself— mind — by yourself." She pushed me roughly into
the boat-house again ; and I saw her no more.'

' Oh, Laura, Laura, another chance lost ! If I had only
been near you, she should not have escaped us. On which
side did you lose sight of her ? '

' On the left side, where the ground sinks and the wood is
thickest.'

' Did you run out again ? Did you call after her ? '

' How could I ? I was too terrified to move or speak.'

* But when you d/d move — when you came out ? '

* I ran back here, to tell you what had happened.'

' Did you see any one, or hear any one in the plantation ? '

* No — it seemed to be all still and quiet, when I passed
through it.'

I waited for a moment to consider. Was this third
person, supposed to have been secretly present at the inter-
view, a reality, or the creature of Anne Catherick's excited
fancy ? It was impossible to determine. The one thing cer-
tain was, that we had failed again on the very brink of dis-
covery— failed utterly and irretrievably, unless Anne Cathe-
rick kept her appointment at the boat-house, for the next
day.

' Are you quite sure you have told me everything that
passed ? Every word that was said ? ' I inquired.

' I think so,' she answered. * My powers of memory,
Marian, are not like yours. But I was so strongly impressed,
so deeply interested, that nothing of any importance can
possibly have escaped me.'

* My dear Laura, the merest trifles are of importance where
Anne Catherick is concerned. Think again. Did no chance
reference escape her as to the place in which she is living at
the present time ? '

'None that I can remember.'

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

.Did she not mention a companion and friend — a woman
named Mrs. Clements ? '

* Oh, j^es ! yes ! I forgot that. She told me Mrs. Clements
wanted sadly to go with her to the lake and take care of her,
and begg-ed and prayed that she would not venture into this
neighbourhood alone.'

' Was that all she said about Mrs. Clements ? '

* Yes, that was all.'

' She told you nothing about the place in which she took
refuge after leaving Todd's Corner ? '
' Nothing — I am quite sure.'

* Nor where she has lived since ? Nor what her illness
had been ? '

* No, Marian ; not a word. Tell me, pray tell me, what
you think about it. I don't know what to think, or what to
do next.'

' You must do this, my love : You must carefully keep
the appointment at the boat-house, to-morrow. It is impos-
sible to say what interests may not depend on your seeing
that woman again. You shall not be left to yourself a second
time. I will follow you, at a safe distance. Nobody shall
see me ; but I will keep within hearing of your voice, if any-
thing happens. Anne Catherick has escaped Walter Hart-
right, and has escaped you. Whatever happens, she shall
not escape 7?ie.'

Laura's eyes read mine attentively.

'You believe,' she said, 'in this secret that my husband
is afraid of? Suppose, Marian, it should only exist, after all,
in Anne Catherick's fancy ? Suppose she only wanted to
see me and to speak to me, for the sake of old remembrances ?
Her manner was so strange, I almost doubted her. Would
you trust her in other things ? '

' I trust nothing, Laura, but my own observation of your
husband's conduct. I judge Anne Catherick's words by his
actions — and I believe there is a secret.*

I said no more, and got up to leave the room. Thoughts
were troubling me, which I might have told her if we had
spoken together longer, and which it might have been dan-
gerous for her to know. The influence of the terrible dream
from which she had awakened me, hung darkly and heavily
over every fresh impression which the progress of her narra-
tive produced on my mind. I felt the ominous Future,
coming close ; chilling me, with an unutterable awe ; forcing
on me the conviction of an unseen Design in the long series
of complications which had now fastened round us. I thought

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

of Hartrlght — as I saw him, in the bod}-, when he said fare-
well ; as I saw him, in the spirit, in my dream — and I, too,
began to doubt now whether we were not advancing, blind-
fold, to an appointed and an inevitable End.

Leaving Laura to go up-stairs alone, I went out to look
about me in the walks near the house. The circumstances
under which Anne Catherick had parted from her, had made
me secretly anxious to know how Count Fosco was passing
the afternoon ; and had rendered me secretly distrustful of
the results of that solitary journey from which Sir Percival
had returned but a few hours since.

After looking for them in every direction, and discovering
nothing, I returned to the house, and entered the different
rooms on the ground floor, one after another. They were all
empty. I came out again into the hall, and went up-stairs
to return to Laura. Madame Fosco opened her door as I
passed it in my way along the passage ; and I stopped to see
if she could inform me of the whereabouts of her husband
and Sir Percival. Yes ; she had seen them both from her
window more than an hour since. The Count had looked up,
with his customary kindness, and had mentioned, with his
habitual attention to her in the smallest trifles, that he and
his friend were going out together for a long walk.

For a long walk ! They had never yet been in each other's
company with that object in my experience of them. Sir
Percival cared for no exercise but riding : and the Count
(except when he was polite enough to be my escort) cared
for no exercise at all.

When I joined Laura again, I found that she had called
to mind, in my absence, the impending question of the signa-
ture to the deed, which, in the interest of discussing her
interview with Anne Catherick, we had hitherto overlooked.
Her first words when I saw her, expressed her surprise at the
absence of the expected summons to attend Sir Percival in
the library.

'You may make your mind easy on that subject,' I said.
* For the present, at least, neither your resolution nor mine
will be exposed to any further trial. Sir Percival has altered
his plans : the business of the signature is put off".'

'Put off"?' Laura repeated, amazedly. 'Who told you
so ? '

* My authority is Count Fosco. I believe it is to his in-
terference that we are indebted for your husband's sudden
change of purpose.'

' It seems impossible, Marian. If the object of my signing

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THE WOMAN IN WHiTfi

was, as we suppose, to obtain money for Sir Percival that
he Lirg-ently wanted, how can the matter be put off? '

' I think, Laura, we have the means at hand of setting-
that doubt at rest. Have you forgotten the conversation
that I heard between Sir Percival and the lawyer, as they
were crossing the hall ? '

* No ; but I don't remember *

' I do. There were two alternatives proposed. One, was
to obtain your signature to the parchment. The other, was
to gain time by giving bills at three months. The last
resource is evidently the resource now adopted — and we may
fairly hope to be relieved from our share in Sir Percival's
embarrassments for some time to come.'

' Oh, Marian, it sounds too good to be true ! '

' Does it, my love ? You complimented me on my ready
memory not long since — but you seem to doubt it now. I
will get my journal, and you shall see if I am right or v/rong.'

I went away and got the book at once.

On looking back to the entry referring to the lawyer's
visit, we found that my recollection of the two alternatives
presented was accurately correct. It was almost as great
a relief to my mind as to Laura's, to find that my memory
had served me, on this occasion, as faithfully as usual. In
the perilous uncertainty of our present situation, it is hard to
say what future interests may not depend upon the regularity
of the entries in my journal, and upoii the reliability of my
recollection at the time when I make them.

Laura's face and manner suggested to me that this last
consideration had occurred to her as well as to myself. Any
way, it is only a trifling matter ; and I am almost ashamed
to put it down here in writing — it seems to set the forlornness
of our situation in such a miserably vivid light. We must
have little indeed to depend on, when the discovery that
my memory can still be trusted to serve us, is hailed as if it
was the discovery of a new friend !

The first bell for dinner separated us. Just as it had
done ringing. Sir Percival and the Count returned from their
walk. We heard the master of the house storming at the
servants for being five minutes late ; and the master's guest
interposing, as usual, in the interests of propriety, patience,
and peace.

The evening had come and gone. No extraordinary
event has happened. But I have noticed certain peculiarities
in the conduct of Sir Percival and the Count, which have sent

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

me to my bed, feeling very anxious and uneasy about Anne
Catherick, and about the results which to-morrow may produce.

I know enough by this time, to be sure that the aspect of
Sir Percival, which is the most false, and which therefore
means the worst, is his polite aspect. That long v/alk with
his friend had ended in improving his manners, especially
towards his wife. To Laura's secret surprise and to my
secret alarm, he called her by her Christian name, asked if
she had heard lately from her uncle, inquired when Mrs.
Vesey Avas to receive her invitation to Blackwater, and
showed her so many other little attentions, that he almost
recalled the days of his hateful courtship at Limmeridge
House. This was a bad sign, to begin with ; and I thought
it more ominous still, that he should pretend, after dinner, to
fall asleep in the drawing-room, and that his eyes should
cunningl)^ follow Laura and me, when he thought we neither
of us suspected him. I have never had any doubt that his
sudden journey by himself took him to Welmingham to ques-
tion Mrs. Catherick — but the experience of to-night has made
me fear that the expedition was not undertaken in vain, and
that he has got the information which he unquestionably left
us to collect. If I knew where Anne Catherick was to be
found, I would be up to-morrow with sunrise and warn her.

While the aspect under which Sir Percival presented
himself, to-night, was unhappily but too familiar to me, the
aspect under which the Count appeared was, on the other
hand, entirely new in my experience of him. He permitted
me, this evening, to make his acquaintance, for the first time,
in the character of a Man of Sentiment — of sentiment, as I
believe, really felt, not assumed for the occasion.

For instance, he was quiet and subdued ; his eyes and his
voice expressed a restrained sensibility. He wore (as if there
was some hidden connexion between his showiest finery and
his deepest feeling) the most magnificent waistcoat he has
yet appeared in — it was made of pale sea-green silk, and
delicately trimmed with fine silver braid. His voice sank
into the tenderest inflections, his smile expressed a thoughtful,
fatherly admiration, whenever he spoke to Laura or to me.
He pressed his wife's hand under the table, \%'hen she thanked
him for trifling little attentions at dinner. He took wine with
her. ' Your health and happiness, my angel ! ' he said, with
fond glistening eyes. He ate little or nothing ; and sighed,
and said ' Good Percival !' when his friend laughed at him.
After dinner, he took Laura by the hand, and asked her if
she would be 'so sweet as to play to him.' She complied,

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

through sheer astonishment. He sat by the piano, with his
watch-chain resting in folds, Hke a golden serpent, on the sea-
green protuberance of his waistcoat. His immense head lay
languidly on one side ; and he gently beat time with two of
his yellow-white fingers. He highly approved of the music,
and tenderly admired Laura's manner of playing — not as poor
Hartright used to praise it, with an innocent enjoyment of
the sweet sounds, but with a clear, cultivated, practical
knowledge of the merits of the composition, in the first place,
and of the merits of the player's touch, in the second. As
the evening closed in, he begged that the lovely dying light
might not be profaned, just yet, by the appearance of the
lamps. He came, with his horribly silent tread, to the
distant window at which I was standing, to be out of his way
and to avoid the very sight of him — he came to ask me to
support his protest against the lamps. If any one of them
could only have burnt him up, at that moment, I would have
gone down to the kitchen, and fetched it myself.

' Surely you like this modest, trembling English twilight ? '
he said softly. ' Ah ! I love it. I feel my inborn admira-
tion of all that is noble and great and good, purified by the
breath of Heaven, on an evening like this. Nature has such
imperishable charms, such inextinguishable tendernesses for
me ! — I am an old, fat man : talk which would become your
lips, Miss Halcombe, sounds like a derision and a mockerv
on mine. It is hard to be laughed at in my moments of
sentiment, as if my soul was like mj-self, old and overgrown.
Observe, dear lady, what a light is dying on the trees ! Does
it penetrate 3-our heart, as it penetrates mine ? '

He paused — looked at me — and repeated the famous lines
of Dante on the Evening-time, with a melody and tenderness
which added a charm of their own to the matchless beauty of
the poetry itself.

' Bah ! ' he cried suddenly, as the last cadence of those
noble Italian words died away on his lips ; ' I make an old
fool of myself, and only weary you all ! Let us shut up the
window in our bosoms and get back to the matter-of-fact
world. Percival ! I sanction the admission of the lamps. Lady
Glyde — Miss Halcombe — Eleanor, my good wife — which of
you will indulge me with a game at dominoes ? '

He addressed us all ; but he looked especially at Laura.

She had learnt to feel my dread of oflTending him, and she
accepted his proposal. It was more than I could have done,
at that moment. I could not have sat down at the same table
with him for any consideration. His eyes seemed to reach my

tHE WOMAN IN WHITE

Inmost soul through the thickening- obscurity of the twiUght.
His voice trembled along- every nerve in my body, and turned me
hot and cold alternateh'. The mystery and terror of my dream,
■which had haunted me, at intervals, all through the evening,
now oppressed my mind with an unendurable foreboding and
an unutterable awe. I saw the white tom.b again, and the
veiled woman rising out of it, by Hartright's side. The
thought of Laura welled up like a spring in the depths of my
heart, and filled it with waters of bitterness, never, never
known to it before. I caught her by the hand, as she passed
me on her way to the table, and kissed her as if that night
was to part us for ever. While they were all gazing at me
in astonishment, I ran out through the low window which was
open before me to the ground — ran out to hide from them in
the darkness ; to hide even from myself.

We separated, that evening, later than usual. Towards
midnight, the summer silence was broken by the shuddering
of a low, melancholy wind among the trees. We all felt the
sudden chill in the atmosphere ; but the Count was the first
to notice the stealthy rising- of the wind. He stopped while
he was lighting my candle for me, and held up his hand
warningly :

' Listen ! ' he said. ' Tb.ere will be a change to-morrov.-.'

VII.

June 19th. — The events of yesterday warned me to be ready,
sooner or later, to meet the worst. To-day is not yet at an
end ; and the worst has come.

Judging by the closest calculation of time that Laura and
I could make, we arrived at the conclusion that Anne Catherick
must have appeared at the boat-house at half-past two o'clock,
on the afternoon of yesterday. I accordingly arranged that
Laura should just show herself at the luncheon table, to-day,
and should then slip out at the first opportunity ; leaving me
behind to preserve appearances, and to follow her as soon as
I could safely do so. This mode of proceeding, if no obstacles
occurred to thwart us, would enable her to be at the boat-
house before half-past two ; and (when I left tlie table, in my
turn) would take me to a safe position in the plantation,
before three.

The change in the weather, which last night's wind
warned us to expect, came with the morning. It was rain-
ing heavily when I got up ; and it continued to rain until

2.^6

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

twelve o'clock — when the clouds dispersed, the blue sky
appeared, and the sun shone again with the bright promise of
a fine afternoon.

My anxiety to know how Sir Percival and the Count would
occupy the early part of the day, was by no means set at rest,
so far as Sir Percival was concerned, by his leaving us imme-
diately after breakfast, and going out by himself, in spite of
the rain. He neither told us where he was going, nor when
we might expect him back. We saw him pass the breakfast-
room window, hastily, with his high boots and his waterproof
coat on — and that was all.

The Count passed the morning quietly, indoors ; some
part of it, in the library ; some part, in the drawing-room,
playing odds and ends of music on the piano, and humming
to himself. Judging by appearances, the sentimental side of
his character was persistently inclined to betray itself still.
He was silent and sensitive, and ready to sigh and languish
ponderously (as only fat men caji sigh and languish), on the
smallest provocation.

Luncheon time came ; and Sir Percival did not return.
The Count took his friend's place at the table — plaintively
devoured the greater part of a fruit tart, submerged under a
whole jugful of cream — and explained the full merit of the
achievement to us, as soon as he had done. ' A taste for
sweets,' he said in his softest tones and his tenderest manner,
* is the innocent taste of women and children. I love to share
it with them— it is another bond, dear ladies, between you
and me.'

Laura left the table in ten minutes' time. I was sorely
tempted to accompany her. But if we had both gone out
together, we must have excited suspicion ; and, worse still, if
we allowed Anne Catherick to see Laura accompanied by a
second person who was a stranger to her, we should in all
probability forfeit her confidence from that moment, never to
regain it again.

I waited, therefore, as patiently as I could, until the servant
came in to clear the table. When I quitted the room, there
were no signs, in the house or out of it, of Sir Percival's
return. I left the Count with a piece of sugar between his
lips, and the vicious cockatoo scrambling up his waistcoat
to get at it ; while Madame Fosco, sitting opposite to her
husband, watched the proceedings of his bird and himself, as
attentively as if she had never seen anything of the sort before
in her life. On my way to the plantation I kept carefully
beyond the range of view from the luncheon-room window.

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

J^obody saw me, and nobody followed me. It was then a
quarter to three o'clock by my watch.

Once among the trees, I walked rapidly, until I had
advanced more than half way through the plantation. At
that point, I slackened my pace, and proceeded cautiously —
but I saw no one, and heard no voices. By little and little. I
came within view of the back of the boat-house — stopped and
listened — then went on, till I was close behind it, and m.ust
have heard any persons who were talking inside. Still the
silence was unbroken : still, far and near, no sign of a living
creature appeared anywhere.

After skirting round by the back of the building, first on
one side, and then on the other, and making no discoveries, I
ventured in front of it, and fairly looked in. The place was
empty.

I called, * Laura ! ' — at first, softly — then louder and louder.
No one answered, and no one appeared. For all that I could
see and hear, the only human creature in the neighbourhood
of the lake and the plantation, was myself.

My heart began to beat violently ; but I kept my resolution
and searched, first the boat-house, and then the ground in
front of it, for any signs which might show me whether Laura
had really reached the place or not. No mark of her presence
appeared inside the building ; but I found traces of her outside
it, in footsteps on the sand.

I detected the footsteps of two persons — large footsteps,
like a man's, and small footsteps, which, by putting my own
feet into them and testing their size in that manner, I felt
certain were Laura's. The ground was confusedly marked in
this way, just before the boat-house. Close against one side
of it, under shelter of the projecting roof, I discovered a
little hole in the sand — a hole artificially made, beyond a doubt.
I just noticed it, and then turned away immediately to trace
the footsteps as far as I could, and to follow the direction in
which they might lead me.

They led me, starting from the left-hand side of the boat-
house, along the edge of the trees, a distance, I should think,
of between two and three hundred yards — and then, the sandy
ground showed no further trace of them. Feeling that the
persons whose course I was tracking must necessarily have
entered the plantation at this point, I entered it too. At first,
I could find no path — but I discovered one, afterwards, just
faintly traced among the trees ; and followed it. It took me,
for some distance, in the direction of the village, until I
stopped at a point where another foot-track crossed it. The

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

brambles grew thickly on either side of this second path. I
stood, looking- down it, uncertain which way to take next •
and, while I looked, I saw on one thorny branch, some
fragments of fringe from a woman's shawl. A closer exami-
nation of the fringe satisfied me that it had been torn from
a shawl of Laura's; and I instantly followed the second
path. It brought me out, at last, to my great relief, at the
back ^or the house. I say to my great relief, because I in-
terrea that Laura must, for some unknown reason, have
returned before me by this roundabout way. I went in by
the courtyard and the offices. The first person whom I met
in crossing the servants' hall, was Mrs. Michelson, the house-
keeper.

^ ' Do you know,' I asked, ' whether Lady Clyde has come
in trom her walk or not ? '

' My lady came in, a little while ago, with Sir Percival '
answered the housekeeper. 'I am afraid. Miss Halcombe,
something very distressing has happened.'

My heart sank within me. * You don't mean an accident ^ '
1 said, faintly.

/ No, no— thank God, no accident. But my lady ran up-
- stairs to her own room in tears ; and Sir Percival has ordered
me to give Fanny warning to leave in an hour's time.'

Fanny was Laura's maid ; a good, aflfectionate girl who
had been with her for years-the only person in the house
whose fidelity and devotion we could both depend upon
' Where is Fanny ? ' I inquired.
/In my room, Miss Halcombe. The young woman Is
quite overcome : and I told her to sit down, and try to
recover herself.' ^

I went to Mrs. Michelson's room, and found Fanny in a
corner, with her box by her side, crying bitterly.

She could give me no explanation whatever of her sudden
dismissal. Sir Percival had ordered that she should have a
month s wages, in place of a month's warning, and go. No
reason had been assigned ; no objection had been made to
her conduct. She had been forbidden to appeal to her
mistress forbidden even to see her for a moment to say good-
bye. She was to go without explanations or farewells— and
to go at once.

After soothing the poor girl by a few friendly words, I
fh.. K I'^ 'u^ proposed to sleep that night. She replied
tTA^ rt th?"^/'.^^^ Somg to the Httle inn in the villagef the
landlady of which was a respectable woman, known to the
servants at Blackwater Park. The next morning, by leaving

259 s 2

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

early, she might get back to her friends in Cumberland without
stopping in London, where she was a total stranger.

I felt directly that Fanny's departure offered us a safe
means of communication with London and with Limmeridge
House, of which it might be very important to avail ourselves.
Accordingly, I told her that she might expect to hear from her
mistress or from me in the course of the evening, and that
she might depend on our both doing all that lay in our power
to help her, under the trial of leaving us for the present.
Those words said, I shook hands with her, and went up-
stairs.

The door which led to Laura's room, was the door of an
ante-chamber opening on to the passage. When I tried it, it
was bolted on the inside.

I knocked, and the door was opened by the same heavy,
overgrown housemaid, whose lumpish insensibility had tried
my patience so severely on the day when I found the wounded
dog. I had, since that time, discovered that her name was
Margaret Porcher, and that she was the most awkward, slat-
ternly, and obstinate servant in the house.

On opening the door, she instantly stepped out to the
threshold, and stood grinning at me in stolid silence.

* Why do you stand there ? ' I said. ' Don't you see that
I want to come in ? '

' Ah, but you mustn't come in,' was the answer, with another
and a broader grin still.

' How dare you talk to me in that way ? Stand back
instantly ! '

She stretched out a great red hand and arm on each side
of her, so as to bar the doorway, and slowly nodded her addle
head at me.

' Master's orders,' she said ; and nodded again.

I had need of all my self-control to warn me against con-
testing the matter with her, and to remind me that the next
words I had to say must be addressed to her master. I turned
my back on her, and instantly went down-stairs to find him.
My resolution to keep my temper under all the irritations that
Sir Percival could offer, was, by this time, as completely
forgotten — I say so to my shame — as if I had never made it.
It did me good — after all I had suffered and suppressed in
that house — it actually did me good to feel how angry I was.

The drawing-room and the breakfast-room were both empty.
I went on to the library ; and there I found Sir Percival, the
Count, and Madame Fosco. They were all three standing up
close together, and Sir Percival had a little slip of paper in his

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

hand. As I opened the door, I heard the Count say to him,
' No — a thousand times over, no.'

I walked straig^ht up to him, and looked him fall in the
face.

^ ' Am I to understand. Sir Percival, that your wife's room
IS a prison, and that your housemaid is the gaoler who keeps
it ? ' I asked.

'Yes ; that is what you are to understand,' he answered.
' Take care my gaoler hasn't got double duty to do— take care
your room is not a prison, too.'

' Take you care how you treat your wife, and how you
threaten 7ne; I broke out, in the heat of my anger. * There
are laws in England to protect women from cruelty and out-
rage. If you hurt a hair of Laura's head, if you dare to in-
terfere with my freedom, come what may, to those laws I will
appeal.'

Instead of answering me, he turned round to the Count.
' What did I tell you ? ' he asked. ' What do vou sav
now ? ' . ' "^

•What I said before,' replied the Count—' No.'
Even in the vehemence of my anger, I felt his calm, cold,
gray eyes on my face. They turned away from me, as soon
as he had spoken, and looked significantly at his wife.
Madame Fosco immediately moved close to my side, and, in
that position, addressed Sir Percival before either of us could
speak again.

_ ' Favour me with your attention, for one moment,' she said
in her clear icily-suppressed tones. ' I have to thank you, Sir
F'ercival, for your hospitality ; and to decline taking advantage
ot It any longer. I remain in no house in which ladies are
treated as your wife and Miss Halcombe have been treated
here to-day ! '

Sir Percival drew back a step, and stared at her in dead
silence. The declaration he had just heard— a declaration
which he well knew, as I well knew, Madame Fosco would
not have ventured to make without her husband's permission
— seenied to petrify him with surprise. The Count stood
by, and looked at his wife with the most enthusiastic admira-
tion.

' She is sublime ! ' he said to himself. He approached her,
while he spoke, and drew her hand through his arm. ' I am
at your service, Eleanor,' he went on, with aquiet dignity that
I had never noticed in him before. ' And at Miss Halcombe's
I cin'fferteV' ""^ ^^ accepting all the assistance

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

* Damn it ! what do you mean ? ' cried Sir Percival, as the
Count quietly moved away, with his wife, to the door.

' At other times I mean what I say ; but, at this time, I
mean what my wife says,' replied the impenetrable Italian.
' We have changed places, Percival, for once ; and Madame
Fosco's opinion is — mine.'

Sir Percival crumpled up the paper in his hand ; and push-
ing past the Count, with another oath, stood between him and
the door.

' Have your own way,' he said, with baffled rage in his
low, half-whispering tones. ' Have your own way — and see
what comes of it.' With those words, he left the room.

Madame Fosco glanced inquiringly at her husband. ' He
has gone away very suddenly,' she said. * What does it
mean ? '

' It means that you and I together have brought the worst-
tempered man in all England to his senses,' answered the
Count. ' It means, Miss Halcombe, that Lady Glyde is
relieved from a gross indignity, and you from the repetition
of an unpardonable insult. Suffer me to express my ad-
miration of your conduct and your courage at a very trying
moment.'

' Sincere admiration,' suggested Madame Fosco.

' Sincere admiration,' echoed the Count.

I had no longer the strength of my first angry resistance
to outrage and injury to support me. My heart-sick anxiety
to see Laura ; my sense of my own helpless ignorance of
what had happened at the boat-house, pressed on me with
an intolerable weight. I tried to keep up appearances, by
speaking to the Count and his wife in the tone which they
had chosen to adopt in speaking to me. But the words
failed on my lips — my breath came short and thick — my eyes
looked longingly, in silence, at the door. The Count, under-
standing my anxiety, opened it, went out, and pulled it to
after him. At the same time Sir Percival's heavy step
descended the stairs. I heard them whispering together,
outside, while Madame Fosco was assuring me in her calmest
and most conventional manner, that she rejoiced for all our
sakes, that Sir Percival's conduct had not obliged her
husband and herself to leave Blackwater Park. Before she
had done speaking, the whispering ceased, the door opened,
and the Count looked in.

'Miss Halcombe,' he said, 'I am happy to inform you
that Lady Glyde is mistress again in her own house. I
thought it might be more agreeable to you to hear of this

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

chang-e for the better from 7ne, than from Sir Percival — and I
have therefore expressly returned to mention it.'

' Admirable delicacy ! ' said Madame Fosco, paying- back
her husband's tribute of admiration, with the Count's own
coin, in the Count's own manner. He smiled and bowed as
if he had received a formal compliment from a polite strang-er,
and drew back to let me pass out first.

Sir Percival was standing- in the hall. As I hurried to the
stairs I heard him call impatiently to the Count, to come out
of the library.

' What are you waiting there for ? ' he said ; ' I want to
speak to you.'

' And I want to think a little by myself,' replied the other.
' Wait till later, Percival— wait till later.'

Neither he nor his friend said any more. I g-ained the
top of the stairs, and ran along- the passage. In my haste
and my agitation, I left the door of the antechamber open —
but I closed the door of the bedroom the moment I was
inside it.

Laura was sitting alone at the far end of the room ; her
arms resting wearily on a table, and her face hidden in her
hands. She started up, with a cry of delight, when she saw
me.

' How did you get here ? ' she asked. ' Who gave you
leave ? Not Sir Percival ? '

In my overpowering anxiety to hear what she had to tell
me, I could not answer her — I could only put questions, on
my side. Laura's eagerness to know what had passed down-
stairs proved, however, too strong to be resisted. She per-
sistently repeated her inquiries.

' The Count, of course,' I answered, impatiently. ' Whose
influence in the house ?'

She stopped me, with a gesture of disgust.

' Don't speak of him,' she cried. 'The Count is the vilest
creature breathing ! The Count is a miserable Spy ! '

Before we could either of us say another word, we were
alarmed by a soft knocking at the door of the bedroom.

I had not yet sat down ; and I went first to see who it
was. When I opened the door, Madame Fosco confronted
me, with my handkerchief in her hand.

' You dropped this down-stairs. Miss Halcombe,' she
said ; ' and I thought I could bring it to you, as I was
passing by to my own room.'

Her face, naturally pale, had turned to such a ghastly
whiteness, that I started at the sight of it. Her hands, so

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

sure and steady at all other times, trembled violently ; and
her eyes looked wolfishly past me through the open door, and
fixed on Laura.

She had been listening before she knocked ! I saw it in
her white face ; I saw it in her trembling hands ; I saw it in
her look at Laura.

After waiting an instant, she turned from me in silence,
and slowly walked away.

I closed the door again. ' Oh, Laura ! Laura ! We shall
both rue the day when you called the Count a Spy ! '

' You would have called him so yourself, Mariarii, if you
had known what I know. Anne Catherick was right. There
was a third person watching us in the plantation, yesterday ;

and that third person '

' Are you sure it was the Count ? '

' I am absolutely certain. He was Sir Percival's spy — he was
Sir Percival's informer — he set Sir Percival watching and wait-
ing, all the morning through, for Anne Catherick and for me.'
' Is Anne found ? Did you see her at the lake ? '
' No. She has saved herself by keeping away from the
place. When I got to the boat-house, no one was there.'
' Yes ? yes ? '

* I went in, and sat waiting for a few minutes. But my
restlessness made me get up again, to walk about a little.
As I passed out, I saw some marks on the sand, close under
the front of the boat-house. I stooped down to examine
them, and discovered a word written in large letters, on
the sand. The word was — look.'

' And you scraped away the sand, and dug a hollow place
in it ? '

' How do you know that, Marian ? '

' I saw the hollow place myself, when I followed you to
the boat-house. Go on — go on ! '

' Yes ; I scraped away the sand on the surface ; and in a
little while, I came to a strip of paper hidden beneath, which
had writing on it. The writing was signed with Anne
Catherick's initials.'
'Where is it?'

* Sir Percival has taken it from me.'

' Can you remember what the writing was ? Do you
think you can repeat it to me.'

' In substance I can, Marian. It was very short. You
would have remembered it, word for word.'

' Try to tell me what the substance was, before we go any
further.'

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

She complied. I write the lines down here, exactly as
she repeated them to me. They ran thus :

' I was seen with you, yesterday, by a tall stout old man,
and had to run to save myself. He was not quick enough
on his feet to follow me, and he lost me among the trees.
I dare not risk coming back here to-day, at the same time.
I write this, and hide it in the sand, at six in the morning,
to tell you so. When we speak next of your wicked hus-
band's Secret we must speak safely or not at all. Try to
have patience. I promise you shall see me again ; and that
soon. — A. C

The reference to the * tall stout old man ' (the terms of
which Laura was certain that she had repeated to me
correctly), left no doubt as to who the intruder had
been. I called to mind that I had told Sir Percival, in the
Count's presence, the day before, that Laura had gone to the
boat-house to look for her brooch. In all probability he had
followed her there, in his officious way, to relieve her mind
about the matter of the signature, immediately after he had
mentioned the change in Sir Percival's plans to me in the
drawing-room. In this case, he could only have got to the
neighbourhood of the boat-house, at the very moment when
Anne Catherick discovered him. The suspiciously hurried
manner in which she parted from Laura, had no doubt
prompted his useless attempt to follow her. Of the conversa-
tion which had previously taken place between them, he could
have heard nothing. The distance between the house and
the lake, and the time at which he left me in the drawing-
room, as compared with the time at which Laura and Anne
Catherick had been speaking together, proved that fact to us,
at any rate, beyond a doubt.

Having arrived at something like a conclusion, so far, my
next great interest was to know what discoveries Sir Percival
had made, after Count Fosco had given him his informa-
tion.

* How came you to lose possession of the letter ? ' I asked.
' What did you do with it, when j-ou found it in the sand ? '

* After reading it once through,' she replied, *I took it
into the boat-house with me, to sit down, and look over it a
second time. While I was reading, a shadow fell across the
paper. I looked up ; and saw Sir Percival standing in the
doorway watching me.'

' Did you try to hide the letter ? '

26.^

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

' I tried — but he stopped me. "You needn't trouble to
hide that," he said. " I happen to have read it." I could only
look at him, helplessly — I could say nothing. "You under-
stand ? " he went on ; "I have read it. I dug- it up out of the
sand two hours since, and buried it again, and wrote the
word above it again, and left it ready to your hands. You
can't lie yourself out of the scrape now. You saw Anne
Catherick in secret yesterday ; and you have got her letter in
your hand at this moment. I have not caught her yet ; but
I have caught _)'o/<. Give me the letter." He stepped close up
to me — I was alone with him, Marian — what could I do ? —
I gave him the letter.'

' What did he say when you gave it to him ? '

* At first, he said nothing. He took me by the arm, and
led me out of the boat-house, and looked about him, on all
sides, as if he was afraid of our being seen or heard. Then,
he clasped his hand fast round my arm, and whispered to me :
"Vv^-iat did Anne Catherick say to you yesterday? — 1 insist
on hearing every word, from first to last." '

' Did you tell him ? '

* I was alone with him, Marian — his cruel hand was bruis-
ing my arm — what could I do ? '

' Is the mark on your arm still ? Let me see it ? '
' Why do you want to see it ? '

* I want to see it, Laura, because our endurance must end,
and our resistance must begin to-da)'. That mark is a weapon
to strike him with. Let me see it now — I may have to swear
to it, at some future time.'

' Oh, Marian, don't look so ! don't talk so ! It doesn't
hurt me now ! '

' Let me see it ! '

She showed me the marks. I was past grieving over
them, past cr3'ing over them, past shuddering over them.
They say we are either better than men, or worse. If the
temptation that has fallen in some women's way, and made

them worse, had fallen in mine, at that moment Thank

God ! my face betrayed nothing that his wife could read.
The gentle, innocent, affectionate creature thought I was
frightened for her and sorry for her — and thought no more.

' Don't think too seriously of it, Marian,' she said, simpl}^,
as she pulled her sleeve down again. ' It doesn't hurt me,
now.'

' I will try to think quietly of it, my love, for your sake. —
Well ! well ! And you told him all that Anne Catherick had
said to you — all that you told me ? '

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

*Yes; all. He insisted on it — I was alone with him —
I could conceal nothing'.'

' Did he say anything when you had done ? '

' He looked at me, and laughed to himself, in a mocking",
bitter way. " I mean to have the rest out of you," he said ;
" do you hear? — the rest." I declared to him solemnly that I
had told him everything I knew. " Not you ! " he answered ;
" you know more than you choose to tell. Won't you tell it ?
You shall ! I'll wring it out of you at home, if I can't wring-
it out of you, here." He led me away by a strange path
through the plantation — a path where there was no hope of
our meeting you — and he spoke no more, till we came within
sight of the house. Then he stopped again, and said, " Will
you take a second chance, if I give it to you ? Will you think
better of it, and tell me the rest?" I could only repeat the
same words I had spoken before. He cursed my obstinacy,
and went on, and took me with him to the house. " You
can't deceive me," he said ; " you know more than you choose
to tell. I'll have your secret out of you; and I'll have it out
of that sister of yours, as well. There shall be no more
plotting and whispering between you. Neither you nor she
shall see each other again till you have confessed the truth.
I'll have you watched morning, noon, and night, till you
confess the truth." He was deaf to everything I could say.
He took me straight up-stairs into my own room. Fanny
was sitting there, doing some work for me ; and he instantly
ordered her out. " I'll take good care you're not mixed up
in the conspiracy," he said. "You shall leave this house
to-day. If your mistress wants a maid, she shall have one of
my choosing." He pushed me into the room, and locked the
door on me — he set that senseless woman to watch me out-
side—Marian ! he looked and spoke like a madman. You
may hardly understand it — he did indeed.'

' I do understand it, Laura. He is mad — mad with the
terrors of a guilty conscience. Every word you have said
makes me positively certain that when Anne Catherick left
you yesterday, you were on the eve of discovering a secret,
which might have been your vile husband's ruin — and he
thinks you /lave discovered it. Nothing you can say or do,
will quiet that guilty distrust, and convince his false nature of
your truth. I don't say this, my love, to alarm you. I say it
to open your eyes to your position, and to convince you of the
urgent necessity of letting me act, as I best can, for your
protection, while the chance is our own. Count Fosco's inter-
ference has secured me access to you to-day ; but he may

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

withdraw that interference to-morrow. Sir Percival has
already dismissed Fanny, because she is a quick-witted girl,
and devotedly attached to you ; and has chosen a woman to
take her place, who cares nothing for your interests, and
whose dull intelligence lowers her to the level of the watch-
dog in the yard. It is impossible to say what violent mea-
sures he may take next, unless we make the most of our
opportunities while we have them.'

' What can we do, Marian ? Oh, if we could onl}- leave
this house, never to see it again ! '

' Listen to me, my love — and try to think that you are not
quite helpless so long as I am here with you.'

* I will think so — I do think so. Don't altogether forget
poor Fanny, in thinking of me. She wants help and comfort,
too.'

' I will not forget her. I saw her before I came up here ;
and I have arranged to communicate with her to-night.
Letters are not safe in the post-bag at Blackwater Park — and
I shall have two to write to-day, in your interests, which
must pass through no hands but Fanny's.'

' What letters ? '

' I mean to write first, Laura, to Mr. Gilmore's partner,
who has offered to help us in any fresh emergency. Little
as I know of the law, I am certain that it can protect a
woman from such treatment as that ruffian has mflicted on
you to-day. I will go into no details about Anne Catherick,
because I have no certain information to give. But the
lawyer shall know of those bruises on your arm, and of the
violence offered to you in this room — he shall, before I rest
to-night ! '

' But, think of the exposure, Marian ! '

' I am calculating on the exposure. Sir Percival has more
to dread from it than you have. The prospect of an exposure
may bring him to terms, when nothing else will.'

I rose as I spoke ; but Laura entreated me not to leave
her.

'You will drive him to desperation,' she said, 'and
increase our dangers tenfold.'

I felt the truth — the disheartening truth — of those words.
But I could not bring myself plainly to acknowledge it to her.
In our dreadful position, there was no help and no hope for
us, but in risking the worst. I said so, in guarded terms.
She sighed bitterly — but did not contest the matter. She
only asked about the second letter that I had proposed
writing. To whom was it to be addressed ?

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

* To Mr. Fairlie,' I said. ' Your uncle is your nearest
male relative, and the head of the family. He must and
shall interfere.'

Laura shook her head sorrowfully.

*Yes, yes,' I went on; 'your uncle is a weak, selfish,
worldly man, I know. But he is not Sir Percival Clyde ; and
he has no such friend about him as Count Fosco. I expect
nothing from his kindness, or his tenderness of feeling towards
you, or towards me. But he will do anything to pamper his
own indolence, and to secure his own quiet. Let me only
persuade him that his interference, at this moment, will save
him inevitable trouble and wretchedness and responsibility
hereafter, and he will bestir himself for his own sake. I know
how to deal with him, Laura— I have had some practice.'

' If you could only prevail on him to let me go back to
Limmeridge for a little while, and stay there quietly with you,
Marian, I could be almost as happy again as I was before
I was married ! '

Those words set me thinking in a new direction. Would
it be possible to place Sir Percival between the two alterna-
tives of either exposing himself to the scandal of legal inter-
ference on his wife's behalf, or of allowing her to be quietly
separated from him for a time, under pretext of a visit to her
uncle's house ? And could he, in that case, be reckoned on
as likely to accept the last resource ? It was doubtful — more
than doubtful. And yet, hopeless as the experiment seemed,
surely it was worth trying ? I resolved to try it, in sheer
despair of knowing what better to do.

' Your uncle shall know the wish you have just expressed,'
I said ; * and I will ask the lawyer's advice on the subject, as
well. Cood may come of it — and will come of it, I hope.*

Saying that, I rose again ; and again Laura tried to make
me resume my seat.

* Don't leave me,' she said, uneasily. * My desk is on that
table. You can write here.'

It tried me to the quick to refuse her, even in her own
interests. But we had been too long shut up alone together
already. Our chance of seeing each other again might
entirely depend on our not exciting any fresh suspicions. It
was full time to show myself, quietly and unconcernedly,
among the wretches who were, at that very moment, perhaps,
thinking of us, and talking of us down-stairs. I explained
the miserable necessity to Laura ; and prevailed on her to
recognise it, as I did.

* I will come back again, love, in an hour or less,' I said.

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THE WOiMAN IN WHITE

* The worst is over for to-day. Keep yourself quiet, and fear
nothing-.'

' Is the key in the door, Marian ? Can I lock it on the
inside ? '

' Yes ; here is the key. Lock the door ; and open it to
nobod_Y, until I come upstairs again.'

I kissed her, and left her. It was a relief to me, as I
walked away, to hear the key turned in the lock, and to know
that the door was at her own command.

VIII.

June 19th. — I had only got as far as the top of the stairs,
when the locking- of Laura's door suggested to me the pre-
caution of also locking my own door, and keeping' the key
safely about me while I was out of the room. My journal
was already secured, with other papers, in the table drawer,
but my writing materials were left out. These included a
seal, bearing the common device of two doves drinking out of
the same cup ; and some sheets of blotting paper, which had
the impression on them of the closing lines of my writing in
these pages, traced during the past night. Distorted by
the suspicion which had now become a part of myself,
even such trifles as these looked too dangerous to be trusted
without a guard — even the locked table-drawer seemed to be
not sufticiently protected, in my absence, until the means of
access to it had been carefully secured as well.

I found no appearance of any one having- entered the room
while I had been talking with Laura. My writing materials
(which I had given the servant instructions never to meddle
with) were scattered over the table much as usual. The only
circumstance in connexion with them that at all struck me
was, that the seal lay tidily in the tray with the pencils and
the wax. It was not in my careless habits (I am sorry to say)
to put it there ; neither did I remember putting it there. But,
as I could not call to mind, on the other hand, where else I
had thrown it down, and as I was also doubtful whether I
might not, for once, have laid it mechanically in the right
place, I abstained from adding to the perplexity with which
the day's events had filled my mind, by troubling it afresh
about a trifle. I locked the door ; put the key in my pocket ;
and went down stairs.

Madame Fosco was alone in the hall, looking at the
weather-glass.

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

'Still falling",' she said. 'I am afraid we must expect
more rain.'

Her face was composed ag'ain to its customary expression
and its customary colour. But the hand with which she
pointed to the dial of the weather-g-lass still trembled.

Could she have told her husband already, that she had
overheard Laura reviling- him, in my company, as a ' Spy ' ?
My strong- suspicion that she must have told him ; my irre-
sistible dread (all the more overpowering- from its very vag-ue-
ness) of the consequences which mig-ht follow ; my fixed
conviction, derived from various little self-betrayals which
women notice in each other, that Madame Fosco, in spite of
her well-assumed external civility, had not forg-iven her niece
for innocently standing- between her and the legacy of ten
thousand pounds — all rushed upon my mind tog-ether ; all
impelled me to speak, in the vain hope of using- my own in-
fluence and my own powers of persuasion for the atonement
of Laura's offence.

* May I trust to your kindness to excuse me, Madame
Fosco, if I venture to speak to you on an exceedingly painful
subject ? '

She crossed her hands in front of her, and bowed her head
solemnly, without uttering a word,- and without taking her
eyes oft' mine for a moment.

' When you were so good as to bring me back my
handkerchief,' I went on, ' I am very, very much afraid you
must have accidentally heard Laura say something which
I am unwilling to repeat, and which I will not attempt
to defend. I will only venture to hope that you have not
thought it of sufficient importance to be mentioned to the
Count ? '

' I think it of no importance whatever,' said Madame Fosco,
sharply and suddenly. ' But,' she added, resuming her icy
manner in a moment, ' I have no secrets from my husband,
even in trifles. When he noticed, just now, that I looked
distressed, it was my pamful duty to tell him why I was dis-
tressed ; and I frankly acknowledge to you. Miss Halcombe,
that I have told him.'

I was prepared to hear it, and yet she turned me cold all
over when she said those words.

' Let me earnestly entreat you, Madame Fosco — let me
earnestly entreat the Count — to make some allowances for the
sad position in which my sister is placed. She spoke while
she was smarting under the insult and injustice inflicted on
her by her husband — and she was not herself when she said

271

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

those rash words. May I hope that they will be considerately
and generously forgiven ? '

' Most assuredly/ said the Count's quiet voice, behind me.
He had stolen on us, with his noiseless tread, and his book
in his hand, from the library.

* When Lady Glyde said those hasty words,' he went on,
* she did me an injustice, which I lament — and forgive. Let
us never return to the subject, Miss Halcombe ; let us all
comfortably combine to forget it, from this moment.'

' You are very kind,' I said ; ' you relieve me inexpres-
sibly '

I tried to continue — but his eyes were on me ; his deadly
smile, that hides everything, was set, hard and unwavering,
on his broad, smooth face. My distrust of his unfathomable
falseness, my sense of my own degradation in stooping to con-
ciliate his wife and himself, so disturbed and confused me,
that the next words failed on my lips, and I stood there in
silence.

' I beg you on my knees to say no more, Miss Halcombe —
I am truly shocked that you should have thought it necessary
to say so much.' With that polite speech, he took my hand — •
oh, how I despise myself ! oh, how little comfort there is, even
in knowing that I submitted to it for Laura's sake ! — he took
my hand, and put it to his poisonous lips. Never did I know
all my horror of him till then. That innocent familiarity
turned my blood, as if it had been the vilest insult that a man
could offer me. Yet I hid my disgust from him — I tried to
smile — 1, who once mercilessly despised deceit in other women,
was as false as the worst of them, as false as the Judas whose
lips had touched my hand.

I could not have maintained my degrading self-control — it
is all that redeems me in my own estimation to know that I
could not— if he had still continued to keep his eyes on my
face. His wife's tigerish jealousy came to my rescue, and
forced his attention away from me, the moment he possessed
himself of my hand. Her cold blue eyes caught light ; her
dull white cheeks flushed into bright colour ; she looked years
younger than her age, in an instant.

' Count ! ' she said. ' Your foreign forms of politeness are
not understood by Englishwomen.'

' Pardon me, my angel ! The best and dearest English-
woman in the world understands them.' With those words,
he dropped my hand, and quietly raised his wife's hand to his
lips, in place of it.

I ran back up the stairs, to take refuge in my own room

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

If there had been time to think, my thoughts, when I was
alone again, would have caused me bitter suffering. But
there was no time to think. Happily for the preservation of
my calmness and my courage, there was time for nothing but
action.

The letters to the lawyer and to Mr. Fairlie were still to
be written, and I sat down at once, without a moment's hesi-
tation, to devote myself to them.

There was no multitude of resources to perplex me — there
was absolutely no one to depend on, in the first instance, but
myself. Sir Percival had neither friends nor relatives in the
neighbourhood whose intercession I could attempt to employe
He was on the coldest terms — in some cases, on the worst
terms — with the families of his own rank and station who
lived near him. We two women had neither father, nor
brother, to come to the house and take our parts. There was
no choice, but to write those two doubtful letters— or to put
Laura in the wrong and myself in the wrong, and to make all
peaceable negotiation in the future impossible, by secretly
escaping from Blackwater Park. Nothing but the most im-
minent personal peril could justify our taking that second
course. The letters must be tried first ; and I wrote them.

I said nothing to the lawyer about Anne Catherick ;
because (as I had already hinted to Laura) that topic was con-
nected with a mystery which we could not yet explain, and
which it would therefore be useless to write about to a pro-
fessional man. I left my correspondent to attribute Sir Per-
cival's disgraceful conduct, if he pleased, to fresh disputes
about money matters ; and simply consulted him on the
possibility of taking legal proceedings for Laura's protection
in the event of her husband's refusal to allow her to leave
Blackwater Park for a time and return with me to Limmeridge.
I referred him to Mr. Fairlie for the details of this last arrange-
ment— I assured him that I wrote with Laura's authority —
and I ended by entreating him to act in her name, to the
utmost extent of his power, and with the least possible loss of
time.

The letter to Mr. Fairlie occupied me next. I appealed
to him on the terms which I had mentioned to Laura as the
most likely to make him bestir himself; I enclosed a copy of
my letter to the lawyer, to show him how serious the case was;
and I represented our removal to Limmeridge as the only
compromise which would prevent the danger and distress of
Laura's present position from inevitably affecting her uncle as
well as herself, at no very distant time.

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THE WOiMAN IN WHITE

When 1 had done, and had sealed and directed the two
envelopes, I went back with the letters to Laura's room, to
show her that they were written.

' Has anybody disturbed you ? ' I asked, when she opened
the door to me.

* Nobody has knocked,' she replied. * But I heard some
one in the outer room.'

* Was it a man or a woman ? '

* A woman. I heard the rustling of her gown.'
' A rustling like silk ? '

* Yes ; like silk.'

Madame Fosco had evidently been watching outside.
The mischief she might do by herself was little to be feared.
But the mischief she might do, as a willing instrument in her
husband's hands, was too formidable to be overlooked.

* What became of the rustling of the gown wiien you no
longer heard it in the ante-room ? ' I inquired. ' Did you
hear it go past your wall, along the passage ? '

* Yes. I kept still, and listened ; and just heard it.'

* Which v/ay did it go ? '
' Towards your room.'

I considered again. The sound had not caught my ears.
But I was then deeply absorbed in my letters ; and I write with
a heavy hand, and a quill pen, scraping and scratching noisily
over the paper. It was more likely that Madame Fosco would
hear the scraping of my pen than that I should hear the
rustling of her dress. Another reason (if I had wanted one)
for not trusting my letters to the post-bag in the hall.

Laura saw me thinking. ' More difficulties ! ' she said,
wearily ; ' more difficulties and more dangers ! '

* No dangers,' I replied. ' Some little difficulty, perhaps.
I am thinking of the safest way of putting my two letters
into Fanny's hands.'

' You have really written them, then ? Oh, Marian, run
no risks — pray, pray run no risks ! '

' No, no — no fear, let me see — what o'clock is it now ? '

It was a quarter to six. There would be time for me
to get to the village inn, and to come back again, before
dinner. If I waited till the evening, I might find no second
opportunity of safely leaving the house.

' Keep the key turned in the lock, Laura,' I said, 'and
don't be afraid about me. If you hear any inquiries made,
call through the door and say that I am gone out for a walk.'

' When shall you be back ? '

* Before dinner, without fail. Courage, my love. By

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

this time to-morrow you will have a clear-headed, trustworthy
man acting for your good. Mr. Gilmore's partner is our next
best friend to Mr. Gilmore himself.'

A moment's reflection, as soon as I was alone, convinced
me that I had better not appear in my walking-dress, until I
had first discovered what was going on in the lower part of
the house. I had not ascertained yet whether Sir Percival
was in doors or out.

The singing of the canaries in the library, and the sm.ell
of toba,cco-smoke that came through the door, whi^li v.-.-.s
not closed, told me at once v/here the Count was. I looked
over my shoulder as I passed the doorway ; and saw, to my
surprise, that he was exhibiting the docility of the birds, in
his most engagingly polite manner, to the housekeeper. He
must have specially invited her to see them — for she would
never have thought of going into the library of her own
accord. The man's slightest actions had a purpose of some
kind at the bottom of every one of them. What could be
his purpose here ?

It was no time then to inquire into his motives. I looked
about for Madame Fosco next ; and found her following her
favourite circle, round and round the fish-pond.

I was a little doubtful hov.^ she would meet me, after the
outbreak of jealousy, of vv-hich I had been the cause so short
a time since. But her husband had tamed her in the inter-
val ; and she now spoke to me with the same civility as
usual. My only object in addressing myself to her was to
ascertain if she knew what had become of Sir Perciv^al. I
contrived to refer to him indirectly ; and, after a little fencing
on either side, she at last mentioned that he had gone out.

* Which of the horses has he taken ? ' I asked carelessly.

' None of them,' slie replied. ' He went away, two hours
since, on foot. As I understood it, his object was to make
fresh inquiries about the woman named Anne Catherick. He
appears to be unreasonably anxious about tracing her. Do
you happen to know if she is dangerously mad, Miss
Halcombe ? '

* I do not. Countess.'

* Are you going in ? '

* Yes, I think so. I suppose it will soon be time to dress
for dinner.'

We entered the house together. Madame Fosco strolled
into the library, and closed the door. I went at once to fetch
my hat and shawl. Every moment was of importance, if I
was to get to Fanny at the inn and be back before dinner.

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

When I crossed the hall again, no one was there ; and the
singing- of the birds in the library had ceased. I could not
stop to make any fresh investigations. I could only assure
myself that the way was clear, and then leave the house,
with the two letters safe in my pocket.

On my way to the village, I prepared myself for the possi-
bility of meeting Sir Percival. As long as I had him to deal
with alone, I felt certain of not losing my presence of mind.
Any woman who is sure of her own wits, is a match, at any
time, for a man who is not sure of his own temper. I had no
such fear of Sir Percival as I had of the Count. Instead of
fluttering, it had composed me, to hear of the errand on which
he had gone out. While the tracing of Anne Catherick was
the great anxiety that occupied him, Laura and I might hope
for some cessation of any active persecution at his hands.
For our sakes now, as well as for Anne's, I hoped and prayed
fervently that she might still escape him.

I walked on as briskly as the heat would let me, till I
reached the cross-road which led to the village ; looking back
from time to time, to make sure that I was not followed by
any one.

Nothing was behind me, all the way, but an empty country
waggon. The noise made by the lumbering wheels annoyed
me ; and when I found that the waggon took the road to the
village, as well as myself, I stopped to let it go by, and pass
out of hearing. As I looked towards it, more attentively than
before, I thought I detected, at intervals, the feet of a man
walking close behind it ; the carter being in front by the
side of his horses. The part of the cross-road which I had
just passed over was so narrow, that the waggon coming
after me brushed the trees and thickets on either side ; and I
had to wait until it went by, before I could test the correctness
of my impression. Apparently, that impression was wrong,
for when the waggon had passed me, the road behind it was
quite clear.

I reached the inn without meeting Sir Percival, and with-
out noticing anything more ; and was glad to find that the
landlady had received Fanny with all possible kindness. The
girl had a little parlour to sit in, away from the noise of the
tap-room, and a clean bed-chamber at the top of the house.
She began crying again, at the sight of me ; and said, poor
soul, truly enough, that it was dreadful to feel herself turned
out into the world, as if she had committed some unpardonable
fault, when no blame could be laid at her door by anybody —
not even by her master who had sent her away,

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

• Try to make the best of it, Fanny,' I said. ' Your mis-
tress and I will stand your friends, and will take care that
your character shall not suffer. Now, listen to me. I have very
little time to spare, and I am going- to put a great trust in
your hands. I wish you to take care of these two letters. The
one with the stamp on it you are to put into the post, when
you reach London to-morrow. The other, directed to Mr.
Fairlie, you are to deliver to him yourself, as soon as you get
home. Keep both the letters about you, and give them up to
no one. They are of the last importance to your mistress's
interests.'

Fanny put the letters into the bosom of her dress. ' There
they shall stop, miss,' she said, ' till I have done what you tell
me. '

' Mind you are at the station in good time to-morrow
morning,' I continued. ' And, when you see the housekeeper
at Limmeridge, give her my compliments, and say that you
are in my service until Lady Glyde is able to take you back.
We may meet again sooner than you think. So keep a good
heart, and don't miss the seven o'clock train.'

' Thank you, miss — thank you kindly. It gives one courage
to hear your voice again. Please to offer my duty to my
lady ; and say I left all the things as tidy as I could in the
time. Oh, dear ! dear ! who will dress her for dinner to-day ?
It really breaks my heart, miss, to think of it.'

When I got back to the house, I had only a quarter of an
hour to spare, to put myself in order for dinner, and to say
two words to Laura before I went down-stairs.

* The letters are in Fanny's hands,' I whispered to her, at
the door. ' Do you mean to join us at dinner ? '

' Oh, no, no — not for the world ! '
Has anything happened ? Has anyone disturbed

you

Yes — ^just now — Sir Percival '

' Did he come in ? '

* No ; he frightened me by a thump on the door, outside.
I said, " Who's there ? " ''You know," he answered. " Will
you alter your mind, and tell me the rest ? You shall !
Sooner or later, I'll wring it out of you. You know where
Anne Catherick is, at this moment ! " *' Indeed, indeed," I
said, " I don't." " You do !" he called back. '* I'll crush your
obstinacy — mind that ! — I'll wring it out of you ! " He went
away, with those words — went away, Marian, hardly five
minutes ago.'

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

He had not found Anne ! We were safe for that night —
he had not found her yet.

* You are going down-stairs, Marian ? Come up again in
the evening.'

* Yes, yes. Don't be uneasy, if I am a Httle late — I must
be careful not to give offence by leaving them too soon.'

The dinner-bell rang ; and I hastened away.

Sir Percival took Madame Fosco into the dining-room ;
and the Count gave me his arm. He was hot and flushed,
and was not dressed with his customary care and completeness.
Had he, too, been out before dinner, and been late in getting
back ? or was he only suffering from the heat a little more
severely than usual ?

However this might be, he was unquestionably troubled
by some secret annoyance or anxiety, which, with all his
powers of deception, he was not able entirely to conceal.
Through the whole of dinner, he was almost as silent as Sir
Percival himself; and he, every now and then, looked at his
wife with an expression of furtive uneasiness, which was
quite new in my experience of him. The one social obligation
which he seemed to be self-possessed enough to perform as
carefully as ever, was the obligation of being persistently civil
and attentive to me. What vile object he has in view, I can-
not still discover ; but, be the design what it may, invariable
politeness towards myself, invariable humility towards Laura,
and invariable suppression (at any cost) of Sir Percival's
clumsy violence, have been the means he has resolutely and
impenetrably used to g"et to his end, ever since he set foot in
this house. I suspected it, when he first interfered in our
favour, on the day v/hen the deed was produced in the library,
and I feel certain of it, now.

When Madame Fosco and I rose to leave the table, the
Count rose also to accompany us back to the drawing-room.

'What are you going away for?' asked Sir Percival — ' I
meanj)'(9?/, Fosco.'

' I am going away, because I have had dinner enough, and
wine enough,' answered the Count. ' Be so kind, Percival,
as to make allowances for my foreign habit of going out with
the ladies, as well as coming in with them.'

* Nonsense ! Another glass of claret won't hurt you.
Sit down again like an Englishman. I want half an hour's
quiet talk with you over our wine.'

' A quiet talk, Percival, with all my heart, but not now,
and not over the wine. Later in the evening if you please—"
later in the evening.'

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

' Civil ! ' said Sir Percival, savagely. ' Civil behaviour,
upon my soul, to a man in his own house ! '

I had more than once seen him look at the Count uneasily
during dinner-time, and had observed that the Count care-
fully abstained from looking at him in return. This circum-
stance, coupled with the host's anxiety for a little quiet talk
over the wine, and the guest's obstinate resolution not to sit
down again at the table, revived in my memory the request
which Sir Percival had vainly addressed to his friend, earlier
in the day, to come out of the library and speak to him.
The Count had deferred granting that private interview, when
it Vv^as first asked for in the afternoon, and had again deferred
granting it, when it was a second time asked for at the
dinner-table. Whatever the coming subject of discussion
between them might be, it was clearly an important subject
in Sir Percival's estimation — and perhaps (judging from his
evident reluctance to approach it) a dangerous subject as well,
in the estimation of the Count.

These considerations occurred to me while we were pass-
ing from the dining-room to the dravv'ing-room. Sir Percival's
angry commentary on his friend's desertion of him had not
produced the slightest effect. The Count obstinately accom-
panied us to the tea-table — waited a minute or two in the
room — went out into the hall — and returned with the post-
bag in his hands. It was then eight o'clock — the hour at
which the letters were always despatched from Blackwater
Park.

' Have you any letter for the post, Miss Halcombe ? ' he
asked, approaching me, with the bag.

I saw Madame Fosco, who was making the tea,
pause, with the sugar-tongs in her hand, to listen for my
answer.

* No, Count, thank you. No letters to-day.'

He gave the bag to the servant, who was then in the
room ; sat down at the piano ; and played the air of the
lively Neapolitan street-song, ' La mia Carolina,' twice over.
His wife, who was usually the most deliberate of women in
all her movements, made the tea as quickly as I could have
made it myself — finished her own cup in two minutes — and
quietly glided out of the room.

I rose to follow her example — partly because I suspected
her of attempting some treachery up-stairs with Laura ;
partly, because I was resolved not to remain alone in the
same room with her husband.

Before I could get to the door, the Count stopped me, by

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

a request for a cup of tea. I gave him the cup of tea ; and
tried a second time to get away. He stopped me again —
this time, by going back to the piano, and suddenly appealing
to me on a musical question in which he declared that the
honour of his country was concerned.

I vainly pleaded my own total ignorance of music, and
total vi^ant of taste in that direction. He only appealed to
me again with a vehemence which set all further protest on
my part at defiance. ' The English and the Germans ' (he
indignantly declared) ' were always reviling the Italians for
their inability to cultivate the higher kinds of music. We
were perpetually talking of our Oratorios ; and they were
perpetually talking of their Symphonies. Did we forget and
did they forget his immortal friend and countryman, Rossini ?
What was " Moses in Egypt," but a sublime oratorio, which
was acted on the stage, instead of being coldly sung in a
concert-room ? What was the overture to " Guillaume Tell,"
but a symphony under another name? Had I heard " Moses
in Egypt"? Would I listen to this, and this, and this, and
say if anything more sublimely sacred and grand had ever
been composed by mortal man ?' — And, without waiting for
a word of assent or dissent on my part, looking me hard in
the face all the time, he began thundering on the piano, and
singing to it with loud and lofty enthusiasm ; only interrupt-
ing himself, at intervals, to announce to me fiercely the titles
of the different pieces of music : * Chorus of Egyptians, in
the Plague of Darkness, Miss Halcombe ! ' — * Recitativo of
Moses, with the tables of the Law.' — ' Prayer of Israelites, at
the passage of the Red Sea Aha ! Aha ! Is that sacred ?
is that sublime ? ' The piano trembled under his powerful
hands ; and the teacups on the table rattled, as his big bass
voice thundered out the notes, and his heavy foot beat time
on the floor.

There was something horrible — something fierce and
devilish, in the outburst of his delight at his own singing and
playing, and in the triumph with which he watched its effect
upon me, as I shrank nearer and nearer to the door. I was
released, at last, not by my own efforts, but by Sir Percival's
interposition. He opened the dining-room door, and called
out angrily to know what ' that infernal noise ' meant. The
Count instantly got up from the piano. * Ah ! if Percival is
coming,' he said, 'harmony and melody are both at an end.
The Muse of Music, Miss Halcombe, deserts us in dismay ;
and I, the fat old minstrel, exhale the rest of my enthusiasm
in the open air ! ' He stalked out into the verandah, put his

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

hands in his pockets, and resumed the ' Recitative of Moses,'
sotto voce, in the garden.

I heard Sir Percival call after him from the dining-room
window. But he took no notice : he seeined determined not
to hear. That long-deferred quiet talk between them was
still to be put off, was still to wait for the Count's absolute
will and pleasure.

He had detained me in the drawing-room nearly half an
hour from the time when his wife left us. W^here had she
been, and what had she been doing in that interval ?

I went up-stairs to ascertain, but I made no discoveries ;
and when I questioned Laura, I found that she had not heard
anything. Nobody had disturbed her — no faint rustling of
the silk dress had been audible, either in the ante-room or in
the passage.

It was then twenty minutes to nine. After going to my
room to get my journal, I returned, and sat with Laura ;
sometimes writing, sometimes stopping to talk with her.
Nobody came near us, and nothing happened. We remained
together till ten o'clock. I then rose, said my last cheering
words, and wished her good night. She locked her door
again, after we had arranged that I should come in and see
her the first thing in the morning.

I had a few sentences more to add to my diary before
going to bed myself; and, as I went down again to the
drawing-room after leaving Laura, for the last time that
weary day, I resolved merely to show myself there, to make
my excuses, and then to retire an hour earlier than usual, for
the night.

Sir Percival, and the Count and his wife, were sitting
together. Sir Percival was yawning in an easy-chair ; the
Count was reading ; Madame Fosco was fanning herself.
Strange to say, her face was flushed, now. She, who never
suffered from the heat, was most undoubtedly suffering from
it to-night.

* I am afraid, Countess, you are not quite so well as
usual ? ' I said.

'The very remark I was about to make to yoiiy she
replied. ' You are looking pale, my dear.'

My dear ! It was the first time she had ever addressed
me with that familiarity ! There was an insolent smile, too,
on her face, when she said the words.

' I am suffering from one of my bad headaches,' I
answered, coldly.

* Ah, indeed ? Want of exercise, I suppose ? A walk

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

before dinner would have been just the thing for you.' She
referred to the ' walk ' with a strange emphasis. Had she
seen me go out? No matter if she had. The letters were
safe now, in Fanny's hands.

' Come, and have a smoke, Fosco,' said Sir Percival,
rising, with another uneasy look at his friend.

* VVith pleasure, Percival, when the ladies have gone to
bed,' replied the Count.

' Excuse me. Countess, if I set you the example of re-
tiring,' I said. 'The only remedy for such a headache as
mine is going to bed.'

I took my leave. There was the same insolent smile on
the woman's face Vv'hen I shook hands with her. Sir Percival
paid no attention to me. He was looking impatiently at
Madame Fosco, who showed no signs of leaving the room
with me. The Count smiled to himself behind his book.
There was yet another delay to that quiet talk with Sir
Percival — and the Countess v.^as the impediment this time.

IX.

June 19th. — Once safely shut into my ov/n room, I opened
these pages, and prepared to go on with that part of the day's
record which was still left to write.

For ten minutes or more I sat idle, with the pen in my
hand, thinking over the events of the last twelve hours.
When I at last addressed myself to my task, I found a diffi-
culty in proceeding with it which I had never experienced
before. In spite of my efforts to fix my thoughts on the
matter in hand, they wandered av\^ay, with the strangest
persistency, in the one direction of Sir Percival and the Count ;
and all the interest which I tried to concentrate on my journal,
centred, instead, in that private interview between them,
which had been put off all through the day, and which was
now to take place in the silence and solitude of the night.

In this perverse state of my mind, the recollection of what
had passed since the morning would not come back to me ;
and there was no resource but to close my journal and to get
away from it for a little while.

I opened the door which led from my bedroom into my
sitting-room, and, having passed through, pulled it to again,
to prevent any accident, in case of draught, with the candle
left on the dressing-table. My sitting-room window was
wide open ; and I leaned out, listlessly, to look at the
night.

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

It was dark and quiet. Neither moon nor stars were
visible. There was a smell like rain in the still, heavy air ;
and I put my hand out of window. No. The rain was only
threatening ; it had not come yet.

I remained leaning on the window-sill for nearly a quarter
of an hour, looking- out absently into the black darkness, and
hearing nothing, except, now and then, the voices of the ser-
vants, or the distant sound of a closing door, in the lower
part of the house.

Just as I was turning- aw^ay wearily from the window, to
go back to the bedroom, and make a second attempt to com-
plete the unfinished entry in my journal, I smelt the odour of
tobacco-smoke, stealing towards me on the heavy night air.
The next moment I saw a tiny red spark advancing from the
farther end of the house in the pitch darkness. I heard no
footsteps, and I could see nothing but the spark. It travelled
along in the night ; passed the window at which I was stand-
ing ; and stopped opposite my bedroom window, inside which
I had left the light burning on the dressing-table.

The spark remained stationary, for a moment, then moved
back again in the direction from which it had advanced. As
I followed its progress, I saw a second red spark, larger than
the first, approaching from the distance. The two met to-
gether in the darkness. Remembering who smoked cigarettes,
and who smoked cigars, I inferred, immediately, that the
Count had come out first to look and listen, under my window,
and that Sir Percival had afterwards joined him. They
must both have been walking on the lawn — or I should cer-
tainly have heard Sir Percival's heavy footfall, though the
Count's soft step might have escaped me, even on the gravel
walk.

I waited quietly at the window, certain that they could
neither of them see me, in the darkness of the room.

* What's the matter ? ' I heard Sir Percival say, in a low
voice. ' Why don't you come in and sit down ? '

' I want to see the light out of that window,' replied the
Count, softly.

* What harm does the light do ? '

* It shows she is not in bed yet. She is sharp enough to
suspect something, and bold enough to come down-stairs
and listen, if she can get the chance. Patience, Percival —
patience.'

' Humbug ! You're always talking of patience.'
' I shall talk of something else presently. My good friend,
you are on the edge of your domestic precipice ; and if I let

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

you give the women one other chance, on my sacred word of
honour they will push you over it.'

' What the devil do you mean ? '

' We will come to our explanations, Percival, when the
light is out of that window, and when I have had one little
look at the rooms on each side of the library, and a peep at
the staircase as well.'

They slowly moved away ; and the rest of the conversa-
tion between them (which had been conducted, throughout,
in the same low tones) ceased to be audible. It was no
matter. I had heard enough to determine me on justifying
the Count's opinion of my sharpness and my courage. Before
the red sparks were out of sight in the darkness, I had made
up my mind that there should be a listener when those two
men sat down to their talk — and that the listener, in spite of
all the Count's precautions to the contrary, should be myself.
I wanted but one motive to sanction the act to my own con-
science, and to give me courage enough for performing it ;
and that motive I had. Laura's honour, Laura's happiness —
Laura's life itself — might depend on my quick ears, and my
faithful memory, to-night.

I had heart the Count say that he meant to examine the
rooms on each side of the library, and the staircase as well,
before he entered on any explanation with Sir Percival. This
expression of his intentions was necessarily sufficient to in-
form me that the library was the room in which he proposed
that the conversation should take place. The one moment of
time which was long enough to bring me to that conclusion,
was also the moment which showed me a means of baffling
his precautions — or, in otlier words, of hearing what he and
Sir Percival said to each other, without the risk of descending
at all into the lower regions of the house.

In speaking of the rooms on the ground floor, I have
mentioned incidentally the verandah outside them, on which
they all opened by means of French windows, extending from
the cornice to the floor. The top of this verandah was flat ;
the rain-water being carried off from it, by pipes, into tanks
which helped to supply the house. On the narrow leaden
roof, which ran along past the bedrooms, and which was
rather less, I should think, than three feet below the sills of
the windows, a row of flower-pots was ranged, with wide
intervals between each pot ; the whole being protected from
falling, in high winds, by an ornamental iron railing along the
edge of the roof.

The plan which had now occurred to me was to get out

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

at my sitting-room window, onto this roof; to creep along
noiselessly, till I reached that part of it which was immediately
over the library window ; and to crouch down between the
flower-pots, with my ear against the outer railing. If Sir
Percival and the Count sat and smoked to-night, as I had
seen them sitting and smoking many nights before, with their
chairs close at the open window, and their feet stretched on
the zinc garden seats which were placed under the verandah,
every word they said to each other above a whisper (and no
long conversation, as we all know by experience, can be
carried on in a whisper) must inevitably reach my ears. If,
on the other hand, they chose, to-night, to sit far back inside
the room, then the chances were that I should hear little oi
nothing ; and, in that case, I must run the far more serious
risk of trying to outwit them down-stairs.

Strongly as I was fortified in my resolution by the desperate
nature of our situation, I hoped most fervently that I might
escape this last emergency. My courage was only a woman's
courage, after all ; and it was very near to failing me, when
I thought of trusting myself, on the ground floor, at the dead
of night, within reach of Sir Percival and the Count.

I went softly back to my bedroom, to try the safer experi-
ment of the verandah roof, first.

A complete change in my dress was imperatively necessary,
for many reasons. I took off my silk gown to begin with,
because the slightest noise from it, on that still night, might
have betrayed me. I next removed the white and cumbersome
parts of my underclothing, and replaced them by a petticoat
of dark flannel. Over this, I put my black travelling cloak,
and pulled the hood on to my head. In my ordinary evening
costume I took up the room of three men at least. In my
present dress, when it was held close about me, no man could
have passed through the narrowest spaces more easily than I.
The little breadth left on the roof of the verandah, between the
flower-pots on one side and the wall and the windows of the
house on the other, made this a serious consideration. If I
knocked anything down, if I made the least noise, who could
say what the consequences might be ?

I only waited to put the matches near the candle before I
extinguished it, and groped my way back into the sittmg-room.
I locked that door, as I had locked my bedroom door — then
quietly got out of the window, and cautiously set my feet on
the leaden roof of the verandah.

My two rooms were at the inner extremity of the new wing
of the house in which we all lived ; and I had five windows to

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

pass before I could reach the position it was necessary to take
up immediately over the library. The first window belonged
to a spare room, which was empty. The second and third
Avindows belonged to Laura's room. The fourth window
belonged to Sir Percival's room. The fifth belonged to the
Countess's room. The others, by which it was not necessary
for me to pass, were the windows of the Count's dressing-room,
of the bath-room, and of the second empty spare room.

No sound reached my ears — the black blinding darkness' of
the night was all round me when I first stood on the verandah,
except at that part of it which Madame Fosco's v\'indow over-
looked. There, at the very place above the library, to which
my course was directed — there, I sav/ a gleam of light ! The
Countess was not yet in bed.

It was too late to draw back ; it was no time to wait. I deter-
mined to go on at all hazards, and trust for security to my own
caution and to the darkness of the night. * For Laura's sake ! '
I thought to myself, as I took the first step forward on the
roof, with one hand holding my cloak close round me, and
the other groping against the wall of the house. It was better
to brush close by the wall than to risk striking my feet against
the flower-pots, v.-ithin a few inches of me, on the other side.

I passed the dark window of the spare room, trying the
leaden roof, at each step, with my foot, before I risked resting
my weight on it. I passed the dark v/indows of Laura's room
(' God bless her and keep her to-night ! '). I passed the dark
window of Sir Percival's room. Then, I waited a moment,
knelt down, vv'ith my hands to support me ; and so crept to
my position, under the protection of the low wall between the
bottom of tl":e lighted window and the verandah roof.

When I ventured to look up at the windov/ itself, I found
that the top of it only was open, and that the blind inside was
drawn dov.'n. While I v.'as looking I saw the shadow of
Madame Fosco pass across the white field of the blind — then
pass slov.'ly back again. Thus far, she could not have heard
me — or the shadow would surely have stopped at the blind,
even if she had v/anted courage enough to open the window,
and look out.

I placed myself sidewa3-s against the railing of the veran-
dah ; first ascertaining, by touching them, the position of
the flower-pots on either side of me. There was room enough
for me to sit between them, and no more. The sweet-scented
leaves of the flower 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

2S6

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

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 ol' the
garden chairs on the tiled pavement under the verandah — the
welcome sound which told me they were going to sit close
at the \vindow as usual. So far, the chance was mine. The
clock in the turret struck the quarter to tv.-elve 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 belovv^, 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 diffi-
cult, 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 gather-
ing the general substance of it. I understood the Count to
say that the one v.nndow alight was his wife's ; that the ground
floor of the house was quite clear ; and that they might
novv^ L^peak 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 over-
heard. ' 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 atten-
tion was ready enough to master, exactly as it was spoken.
From this point, with certain breaks and interruptions, my

287

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

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 cer-
tain 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 your-
self.'

' Thank you, Percival. The cold water with pleasure,
a spoon, and the basin of sugar. Eau sucr^e, 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 be-
fore 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 a.t 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 reso-
lution is the one quality the animals, the children, and the

288

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

house Every provocation that your wife and her sister could
offer to you, you instantly accepted from them Vmn-T ^

time—' ^'^^'^^"^be wntmg^ to the lawyer for the firsi

I First time ? Has she written again ? '
Ves ; she has written ag^ain to-day '

wll'" low hi'fl'hT^' '%^ ^'r" ">■ l^«-3 to^FZy
wnen i told hmi I had none for the post-bao- p Even if ;V

was so, how could he have examined the let^S/s when thev

had ^g^one straight from my hand to the bosol^^o^'^u: gt?s

ml"'' WitlAl! f ' '^^ *'/ '^^^^'^^^^ ^"^ '^^ res;f;?ion"of'a
man . With that woman for my friend, I would snan these

cnfmv 1° wr^ll'' 'l' "^^^'•. ^^'-^'^^^-^ wom:r?or n.y
cnem), 1, with all my brains and experience— I, Fosco cun

nmg as the devil himself, as you have told i^e a hunSred'

t.mes-I walk, in your English phrase, upon egg-sheHs" And

his grand creature-I drink her health in my suo-a^ ^nd

water- his grand creature, who stands in the st^en^fh of her

love and her courage, firm as a rock between us t^-^" anS t at

poor flimsy pretty blende wife of yours-this n^^^i ifijinf

woman, whom I admire with all m/ soul, though f oppose

her m your mterests and in mine, vou driv; to extremities as

as If she was no sharper and no bolder than the rest if 'her

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

sex. Percival ! Percival ! you deserve to fail, and you have
failed.'

There was a pause. I write the villain's words about
myself, because 1 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 con-
vinced 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 mc. 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 Prac-
tical 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 lavv-yer 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

290

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

due, is there really and truly no earthly wav or mvin., ft,
but by the help of your wife ^ ' ^ ^ ^ ""^'"^ ^^^"^

'None.'

' r'?''^ 'u ^'""y ^""^'^ ""^ "'^"^y ^t the bankers ? '

^ A few hundreds when I want as many thousands.'

' Not l^shred° ° ^^^urity to borrow upon ? '

preseniH^^"" ^^^"^"^^ ^°^ ^^''^^ ^^^ -f^' at the
-b;J|^S-;i---y^^::^ -usand pounds
, What do you expect from vour wife ? '
^ 1 hree thousand a year, when her uncle dies.'

uncle ? 'oidt' '"' '''"'•'^'^'- '''''^' -'-^ «f - "-" i-^ this
' No— neither old nor }ounp- ♦

I thinlc my wiW^M''^' ^'''^y-^^^^S man ? Married ? No-
Lmmc my une told me, not married.'

n ^ ,!;'^ "°^- ^^ ^'^ '''""^ married, and had a son Ladv

wh:ft' h" i ' "He's ' "'^^ 'r ^° ^'^^ P^^P-^> I'll "ell^'ot
bores eyer Ldv IL ''''''''^^^"' ^Y^^^^'"- ''^^'^ f«°^ and
heakh ' ^ ' ''''"'^' "^^' ^'^"^ ^^°"t the state of his

voie;ui;VhL^';L^rast^:^^^^^^^ !r i^d-^'-f-' -^^^^^ "^^'-

[S^dt ^°^ '-^^^ f -:?/ th^^ihrL'tToLSld /yeart

* Absolutely nothing-.^ '

' Ahr/"nl^i.''°'^'"^7.'''''P^ '" '^ase of her death.'
Aha ! m the case of her death ! '

verZdah to^'thT'''^"'" r"".' ^^' ^^"'^^ "^^^'^d from the

^^^Lj^^h^S,^^ - S- -weS

Ihe Count went back under the yerandah-I heard the>

ri ^ . i' P^'"'^!^^'' he said; 'and, in the case of T nH^
Clyde's death, what do you -et then ? ' ^''^^

'^ If she leayes no children '

* Which she is likely to do ? '

; ^s'?'^ ^^^ '^ "°^ '" ^''^ '^^^* ^'^®'y *° '^o '

* Why, then I get her twenty thousand pounds '

291 U2

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

' Paid down ? '

' Paid down.'

They were silent once more. As their voices ceased,
Madame Fosco's shadow darkened the blind ag-ain. 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, look
ing 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 rne ; the Count resuming it, this
time.

' Percival ! do )'Ou care about your wile? '

* 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 yoii. 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 ?
I 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

292

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

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 tvvo months before me to turn
round in. Say no more about it, if you please, for the present.
W^hen 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 rnc, 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, Clyde ! let us be

293

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

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
was 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 v/ant my help ? '

'Yes, badly enough.'

* And you can ask for it without compromising ourself?'
' 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.'

294

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

* 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 m.atters them-
selves.'

' 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 boast-
ing* in that letter, Fosco — she does know the Secret. '

' Say as little as possible, Percival, in my presence, of the
Secret. Does she know if from you ? '

' No ; from her mother.'

* Two women in possession of your private mind — bad,
bad, bad, my friend ! One question here, before v^-e g-o 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 Vv^orth 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 com-
munication with Lady Clyde — 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 Clyde does know the
Secret, she must know also that it is a compromising secret
ior 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

295

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

— an Infernal vagabond of a drawing-master, named Hart-
right.'

* 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 infor-
mation 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 Cum-
berland 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 hovv^ muchj 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 without 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 sec ! The finding of Anne

296

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

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, m}'^ friend. Our money matters, as I told you,
leave me plenty of time to turn round in ; and / 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
Clyde that the little difficulty of her signature was put ofi^,
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.

' W^hat ! ! ! ' he exclaimed eagerly.

' Fancy my wife, after a bad illness, with a touch of some-
thing 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 rtiy own fancies, my good friend. Allow
me my ItaUan humour — do I not come of the illustrious

297

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

nation which invented the exiiibition 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 drassing-
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 w'all of the liouse.

The clock struck the quarter after one, when I laid my
hands on the window-sill of my ov/n room. I had seen
nothing and heard nothing which could lead me to suppose
that my retreat had been discovered.

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

298

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

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 g-roped my way back to the bedroom, and lig-hted 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 reso-
lution to control myself, to wait patiently hour after hour,
till the chance offered of removing Laura from this horrible
place, without the dang"er 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 candlelight, 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
g'ot 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 !

* * * •;:- *

299

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

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 vv'rite 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 follovv^ 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 Clyde.

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, re-
freshed, 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

300

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

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 Hal-
combe— 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 unim-
pressionable 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, sym-
pathetic, 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 m.y own. I deposit it, with respectful tender-
ness, 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

■;oi

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

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.*

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 prostra-
tion. 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 advan-
tage of me ; and I give way immediately. I will endeavour
to remember what I can (under protest), and to wTite what
I can (also under protest) ; and what I can't rem.embcr 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 betv.-een 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 novv' ?

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

* 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.

302

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

person. The date was towards the end of June, or the
begninuig 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 aff'airs.
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, v/hen I had not rung my bell. I
seldom swear — it is such an ungentlemanlike habit — but when
Louis answered by a grin, 1 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, invari-
ably 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 v/as
outside, wanting to see me. He added (with the odious
talkativeness of servants^ that her name was Fanny.

' Who is Fanny ? ' '

* Lady Clyde's maid, sir.'

* What does Lady Clyde's maid want with ine ? '
■• 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 !

303

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

* Let Lady Glyde's maid come in, Louis. Stop ! Do her
shoes creak ? '

I was oblig-ed 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 en-
durance.

Louis affirmed distinctly that her shoes were to be depended
upon. I waved my hand. He introduced her. Is it neces-
sary 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 wo/ 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, especiall}' 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 Clyde ? '

I received no answer. The Young Person's face became
more unfinished than ever ; and, I think she began to cry.
I certainl}^ 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 re-
moves from them all resemblance to Nature, I distinctly
object to tears. Tears are scientifically described as a Secre-
tion. 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

304

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

low spirits. I have just mentioned this idea to Louis. Strange
to say, It seems to make him uncomfortable. Poor devil '
plaradon oJh"" f""^ expected to repeat my niece's maid's'ex-
litfl %? Z ^^^'^' ""^terpreted in the English of my Swiss
valet? The thmg ,s manifestly impossible^ I can give my

Esfs^T Yesf "' ^''""^" P"'"P'- ^^^" '^"' '^^ ^^"^" ^

My idea is that she began by telling me (throu-h Louis^

Obser'^eTh'''" Y '"?"^^^' ''^^ f-m her mlstres^s ser^rce

&? 'wr^-f °'''; "r f'""^" irrelevancy of the Young

1 erson. _ \\ as it my f^tult that she had lost her place >) On

he tntf' ''' ';"' ^"" ^° '''' •"" ^« ^'-P- (' don' kee^
even M Vr '^ VZ '''' '^ ^'''''''' six o'clock and
.>even I\Iiss Halcombe had come to say good-by, and had
giv-en her two letters, one for me, and one for a gentleman in
London (/ am not a gentleman in London-hang the oentle"
man m London !) She had carefully put the two "letters nto
her bosom (what have I to do with her bosom ^) she had
been very unhappy, when Miss Halcombe ha" 'i^ne aw^y
hf'lbs t n i^' "'^^ '-^the heart to put bit or dro^p betw^^^
hex hps t 11 It was near bedtime ; and then, when it was close
on nine o clock, she had thought she should like a cup of tea

beSn with^nnh" ^-'^'^"^^^ '^.''' ^'^'8-^'" fluctuations which
begin with unhappiness and end with tea ?) Just as she was
wan,nn^ tke pot (I giv^ the words on the iuthor ty of Loui'
but rriV-'""" -hat. they mean, and wishes to expla i
^o th.^ "' on pnnciple)-just as she was warming the
pot, the door opened and she was sh-uck of a heap (her own
Ts vellTto' '"^ ?n '^'l^' """^telligible, this time, \o LouS
her Inlj- T^}'^^^^ ^^ '^'^ appearance, in the inn parlour, of
tinn o/ ^P' .' Countess._ I giye my niece's maid's desc ip-
tion of my sister's tit e with a sense of the highest relish.
My poor dear sister is a tiresome woman who married a
toieigner. To resume : the door opened ; her ladyship, the
Countess, appeared in the parlour, and the Young Person was
struck of a heap. Most remarkable ! rson\\as

I must really rest a little before I can get on any farther
When I have reclined for a few minutes, wfth my eyJs closed;
and when Louis has refreshed my poor aching temples wi?h a
little eau-de-Cologne, I may be able to proceed. ^

Her ladyship, the Countess

and^di'ctal''"' f n'" \^'''''^f> bu^ 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 !

305 X

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

Her ladyship, the Countess, explained her unexpected ap-
pearance 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 tire-
some way !), vmtil 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 j^ou.' 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 drink-
ing 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 up-stairs
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

306

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

importance to mention that, at this nolnt ;,!.,. T 1 .

patience, opened my eyes, and interfered ""' ^ ^^'^ "^^

VVhat IS the purport of all this ? ' I inquired

^Jh nieces irrelevant maid stared, Sndl^ood speech-

me,'£utsr""^" '^P^'^^"'' ' '^'^ '^ ->■ --ant. « Translate

desc'^rJrdTmrdTatd; -no f b t'^',- ^" -^^'^^^ --^^^' h^

and the YounrPerZ fo low.d^ "'?'' ^'' ^^ confusion;
know when I h1,ve been so Lmused "l iXl" ^ T"^' ^°^'^
of the pit, as long- as hey Ze ted me WhT "\u' ^'^"""^
to divert me, I exerted mv^ TnV.n- .^'^ ^^^y ^^^ased

again. "'^ "itelligence, and pulled them up

her mistress's in^erest^H^H been of great importance to
her from .o^'^SLl^.f ^pf ;;^ ^f-^^^^^^

about them ; and Miss Halcon.be's mv^ direction, t i"^""'"
no account to miss the tnin Jn tL '^V'^"\ons to her, on

l.er from waiting ,'. If ^" he 'eS°da7' sf '""^^"'^''
anxious that the niisfnrf,,,,. „f ne>.t daJ^ She was most
to the second m I or?; e of n^^,';:- ""l'"^-"5 ^ho"W "Ot lead

w^u^r^'^i^nef t£|f " "^ f " ^^^^^^

?J1^ef-o-^tvSH^S-H
take more interest in what my niecS ma?d t i'rl T ""^""i^y
occasion, than in wlvit T «-.;,/f " , "^ ^° ^^^^ '"-his

, I.1IC111 lu wnac 1 said to mv niece s; mn.vi a
perversity ! ■' "^^^^ ^ maid. Amusing-

kindly trr'm/thirr Tad' heH^i '? ^■°"' '•'■• 'f y- -°"W

Person. belter do,' remarlred the Young

to my HsEe;"ef^'/']„Tarirbi:?e;'/H?"'''' ""^P''""" "^ '-'S-ge
Is that all ? • "iranaWy let thmgs stop as they are. Yes.

' If you think it would be^a liberty in me, sir. to write, of

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

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, unfor-
tunately 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 allow-ances 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 man-
kind 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 ^alk of the cares of matrimony ;
and bachelors and spinsters dear 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 ?ne. 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 connexions of all their
own troubles. I do my best with my brother's responsibility ;

308

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

I marry my niece, with infinite fuss and difficulty, to the man
her father wanted her to marry. She and her husband dis-
agree, 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 harm-
less character of a single man, to relieve my married con-
nexions of all their own troubles. Poor single people ! Poor
human nature !

It is quite unnecessary to say that Marian's letter threat-
ened me. Everybody threatens me. All sorts of horrors
were to fall on my devoted head, if I hesitated to turn Lim-
meridge House into an asylum for my niece and her misfor-
tunes. 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 oc-
casion, the consequences involved in her extremely incon-
siderate 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 hangings, 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

309

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

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 note paper. 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, Avas 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 Hart-
right.

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 connexions had made it up
again. Five daj's 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

310

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

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 inexpres-
sibly, 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, any wav. 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 sumnier 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 entreat-
ing 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 sub-
ject of nerves. May I make a suggestion, at once the

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

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 delig-htfully 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 re-
strictions. 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 cer-
tainly 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 honovir of pointing it out to you, already. I sit con-
fused.'

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 WOMAN IN WHITE

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 fierce-
ness. ' 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 halfway, 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. Some-
body 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 ^Iiss Halcombe did not come here by herself,
as you proposed, and did not write a second time, your affec-
tionate 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 my-
self. 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 her-
self 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.'

313

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

When I heard the word, Fever, and when I remem-
bered, at the same moment, that the unscrupulous person
who was now addressing me had just come from Black-
water Park, I thought I should have fainted on the spot.

' Good God ! ' I said. ' Is it infectious ? '

' Not at present,' he ansvv^ered, with detestable compo-
sure. ' 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 ass-urances ! I never was farther from accept-
ing 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 con-
trary, 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 lament-
able 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

314

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

spare you the horrors of public scandal. A temporary
separation between husband and wife is the one peaceable solu-
tion of this difficulty. Part them for the present ; and when
all causes of irritation are removed, I, who have now the
honour of addressing- j'ou — I will undertake to bring- Sir
Percival to reason. Lady Clyde is innocent, Lady Clyde 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 proprietv, 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
tlie 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 coachmanlike attention of crying ' Hi ! ' before
he knocked me down.

'Follow my thought once more, if you please,' he re-
sumed. ' 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 interest-
ing 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 Clyde. 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 inconveni-
ence) is the proof that I speak sincerely. As for the explana-
tions 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 Clyde. 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

315

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

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
viy 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
aff"ected 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 Black-
water 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 }^our
own shoulders, by writing to Lady Glyde, to come here at
once. Do your aff"ectionate, your honourable, your inevitable
duty ; and, whatever happens in the future, no one can lay
the blame on yoti. 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,

316

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

; You hesitate ? ' he said. ' Mr. Fairlie ! I understand that
hesitation You object— see, sir, how my sj-mpathies look
straight down into your thoughts .'—you object that Lady
(alyde IS not in health and not in spirits to take th'- lono-
journey, from Hampshire to this place, by herself. Her own
maid is^ removed from her, as )-ou know ; and, of other ser-
vants ht to travel with her, from one end of England to
another, there are none at Blackwater Park. You object
ag-ain, that she cannot comfortably stop and rest in London, on
her way here because she cannot comfortably go alone to a
pubhc 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
1 returned to England with Sir Percival, to settle myself in
the neighbourhood of London. That purpose has just been
nappi ly accomplished. I have taken, for six months, a little
turnished 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 Glvde travels to
London (a short journey)— I myself meet her at the station—
1 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 hos-
pita ity, 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 effort^ 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 thistrying emergency, an idea occurred to' me— an in-
estimable idea which, so to speak, killed two intrusive birds
with one stone. I detemiined to get rid of the Count's tire-
some eloquence, and of Lady Clyde's tiresome troubles, by
complying with this odious foreigner's request, and wridng
the letter at once. There was not the least danger of the

317

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

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 /lad 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, reall}' 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 down stairs ? Love to
all, and sympathy, and so on. Good morning.'

He made another speech — the man was absolutely in-
exhaustible. 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 congratu-
lated himself and congratulated me, on the result of oui
interview ; he mentioned a great deal more about his sym-
pathies 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 im-
portance of lig'ht ; 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 kim. 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 bath-room. Tepid
water, strengthened with aromatic vinegar, for myself, and
copious fumigation, for my study, were the obvious precau-
tions 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

318

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

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 shock-
ing' 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 every-
thing 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 as 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 Blackwato Park.

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 v/anted 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 w^ith
distressing family affairs, have hesitated to grant.

I made no memorandum at the time, and I cannot there-
fore 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 morningf 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 house-
maid was sent to see after her, and came running out of the

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

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 Clyde (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, fromi her own bedroom. She was so dreadfully
alarmed and distressed, that she was quite useless. The
Count Fosco, and his lady, who came up-stairs immediately
afterwards, were both most serviceable and kind. Her lady-
ship 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 Hal-
combe, 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 in-
formed that it was the advice of one v.'ho had studied medicine,
unprofessionally, replied that he was not accustomed to con-
sult 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 liouse as quiet as possible. It
was entirely in his character to do so. He was a most con-
siderate 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, under-

320

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

took the duty, relieving- each other. Lady Clyde, 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 bein- of the least real assistance. A more o-entle
and affectionate lady never lived ; but she cried, and sh^e was
tri-htened— two weaknesses which made her entirely unfit to
be present in a sick-room.

Sir Percival and the Count came in the mornino- to make
their inquiries. '='

r.n^'nr^/'flv ^^'o'', ^'^tj?^'^' ^ P^'esume, at his lady's afflic
tion, 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 hearin-, that he would g-o
out again and study at the lake. 'Let us keep the house

When f T^ ''t •■, ^ ''".-^ >'°"^" ^^■^>'' ^-^"d I ^^'" SO mine.
Michelson/ ^ ^'' ^^' '"^ ""' ''°"'- ^^^^ "^°™'"- ^rs.
, 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 onlv person in the
house, indeed, who treated me, at that time or at any other
on he footing- of a lady in distressed circumstances, Ws the
.r A ^^ .^"^ ^^^ manners of a true nobleman ; he was
considerate towards every one. Even the young person
(Fanny by name who attended on Lady Clyde was nnt
beneath his notice. When she was sent a4y b'ySi'r Pe' ci^^'
his lordship (showing me his sweet little birds at the time
was most kindly anxious to know what had become of her
where shewas to go the day she left Blackwater Park, and so
on. It IS in such httle delicate attentions that the adv^nta-es
of aristocratic birth always show themselves. I make no
apology for introducing these particulars ; they are brouo-ht
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 circum:
stances, 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 Se is

luJu^? T'' '^''' ^ ^' "°' j"^-^^- One of my beloved
husband s finest sermons was on that text. I read it con

I read it con-
y

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

stantly — in my own copy of the edition printed by subscrip-
tion, 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 mid-day, I went down stairs to attend to some
of my regular duties. An hour afterwards, on my v/ay 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 dov\^n stairs.'

' My dear Percival,' observed his lordship, kindly, * Mrs.
Michelson has duties. Pray recognise her admirable perfor-
mance 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 morn-
ing, 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

323

THE WOxMAN IN WHITE

excuse for not emplovfnl her Ladv Hvf 'n^' '^^^^ ^^ "°
P- present ., b;st%especj;t,^^>^-^^^^^^

calling to his noble fr end (usuST '"' '^'"^ ^^^^^ ^^

expression) to come iTottuhk'T"/''^^

waiting- there any long-er "' """"^ "°^ ^° keep him

I proceeded upstairs Wt^
however well established ^ tn'r^f^"' ^■"''.^ '''^^^'''^^ ' and
cannot always keep on her cuar^^" ' -P'^^^T''" "^^>' b^' ^^e
exercise an idle curLiuff am ash^''H^'^^ temptation to
curiosity, on this occaii^n ^oT ^h^Ttf '° '/^ ^^^^ ^" idle
and made me unduh inn 'if^Hv-K'- ""^ '''-'' P^^^^^^Ples,
SirPercival had addresse^d o m! n u?V -^^ ^"^^^^°" ^^hich
door. Who was the Count expect°ed/T^' '' '^' ^^''^^'
of his studious mornin/rLbles it bLl '/" o^ '°"''"
^^•cman, it was to be presumed f ^^^^^water Park ? A
Percival's inquiry. I did no^ ' °"? ^'^^ ^^^n^^ of Sir
propriety-l\ne^v his Ira 27""\ '^' ^^""^ ^^ "'^Y -^'
question I asked mysdf "rlHr/hffounS T"" ^^^ ^^^^

To resume. The nio-hf ^?e > "^^ ^

ducing- any change for ttie bette?^ ^"m"^"?!' ^^'^^hout pro-
next day she seemed to im^ro e . liltle Th'' H '^""^- ^^-
her ladyship the Countess ..^tL. • ^^^ day after that,

her journe/to an^ o ^ in^v L ^'"''°"'"§^ the object of
-ornino- train to Yondo"; h'er nobTe^'b^T^!?^^ ^^^ *'-
customary attention, accomnanvin J l . husband, with his

I was now left in snl^^T-^^ ^'^ t"" ^^^ station,
every apparent ctanc^Tn^^'^S^Z/./^V".''^^^'^"^'^^' ^^^^
lution not to leave the bedside of k- t ^Y ^'^^^''^ '^^o-
to nurse next. 'seaside, of having- Lady Clyde herself

m tIe\otLt;re^S;v\?fsThVo"^°^^^"^^ ''^' ^-PP-ed

into Miss Halc'oX's" ," • ;"io'rto maf ''^^;°"'- ^'^^^^' "P
went out from the bedroom t^c ? ^^? ^'^ inquiries. I
and Lady Glvde beL^ boTh with 1 '° ^ "^ ' ^^^- Dawson
The Count asked me manv nn.cV ^f P^*'^"* ^t the time,
the symptoms. I info™eVh;mTa? tuT '''' ^^^^^"^^^^ -d
kind described as ' saline ;' and that ^f ^''^'"' '''^' ^^ ^^e

the attacks of fever, were certarnK those%TTnP/°"'' '^'"""^

^ "i> cnose ot increasing weak-

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

u ^- ^ Tiwt as I was mentioning these last
nfess and exhaustion. J^f^f/ ' ^ f.on, the bedroom,
particulars, Mr.Da.jon came out from ^^^^^.^^ ^

' Good mornmg, sir, saiu i. . ' .j doctor, witn a

in the most urbane "l-^^^^' •^"'^to re^s^ t,^ 'I greatly fk.r you
>.;o-h bred resolution impossible to resist, ^^ ^

Si'olm^rovement in the symptom^ U^^^^^^^^^^

^^^r^L^t i!^ thf tl^lt^^S^ich is justified by my own
profesLnal experience,' said ^r- Da^^^on ^^^

^ ' Permit me to put one ^^f ^^^^^ ,'° > °'c^"„t ^ i presume
of professional experience 'observed ^^^ Cou.t^^ a^^inquiry

to offer no more ^dv^'^f-I °" ^ from^he gigantic centres of
You live at some distance sir, ^rom tn , ^^^^ ^^^^^^

scientific -t-ity-London a^^^^^^^^^^ .^^^^^.^^,^

of the wasting effects ot te^ er dci g j brandv, wine,

repaired by fortifying the exhaus ed patient ^^ ^i^.-^ighest

ammonia, and quinine ? "^.^I^'^' "fe^rs-Yes, or No ? '

^cufsarjrr:ie^Sf=rrtooaL.„>„.,M.

Dawson.' ,i Uarl h^pn so fortunate as to

.„o^ Hf. t^^rnow M^" - ' "- -- --'^ '-'
esteemed each other !

Her ladyship the Countess -turned by the last train that
night, and 'brought uith her "jf ""■■^^/^.'-"rX, e- Her
inltructed that th.s P^«°".^'""!,Xt English, «hen she
personal appearance, and her ■mPertect ^ »
Lpoke, informed me that she was a fore.gnen^ ^^^ ^^^^^^^

1 have always cuUivated a '"''"» ,.,,„;.„s ^nd advan-
for foreigners, rhey do not po^se^ up in the

S^L?^:^^;:^ Ithasalso^a^^^^

and practice, as^it was my dear husban^^^^^^^ ^^^,^

before -V^'rist'^A rto So -^wouW be'done by. On
Samuel Michelson, ^\-^-.);/° ,° ^^ .u„t Mj-s. Rubelle struck
both these accounts, 1 will not say that Mrs. xv

324

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

me as being a small, wiry, sly person, of fifty or thereabouts,
with a dark brown or Creole complexion, and watchful light
gray 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 th& 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 judg-
ments 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 slumber-
ing 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.

IOC

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

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 break-
fast-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.'

This was very rude. I was naturally shocked at it.

' Are you aware, sir,' I said, 'that you are talking of a
nobleman ? '

' Pooh ! He isn't the first Quack with a handle to his
name. They're all Counts — hang 'em ! '

* He would not be a friend of Sir Percival Clyde's, sir, if
he was not a member of the highest aristocracy — excepting
the English aristocrac)', of course.'

* Very well, Mrs. Michelson, call him what you like; and let
us get back to the nurse. I have been objecting to her already.'

' Without having seen her, sir ? '

' Yes ; without having seen her. She may be the best
nurse in existence ; but she is not a nurse of my providing.
I have put that objection to Sir Percival, as the master of the
house. He doesn't support me. He says a nurse of my
providing would have been a stranger from London also ;
and he thinks the woman ought to have a trial, after his
wife's aunt has taken the trouble to fetch her from London.
There is some justice in that ; and I can't decently say No.
But I have made it a condition that she is to go at once, if I
find reason to complain of her. This proposal being one
which I have some right to make, as medical attendant. Sir
Percival has consented to it. Now, Mrs. Michelson, I know
I can depend on you ; and I want you to keep a sharp eye on
the nurse, for the first day or two, and to see that she gives
Miss Halcombe no medicines but mine. This foreign noble-
man of yours is dying to try his quack remedies (mesmerism
included) on my patient ; and a nurse who is brought here by
his wife may be a little too willing to help him. You under-
stand ? Very well, then, we may go upstairs. Is the nurse
there ? I'll say a word to her, before she goes into the sick-
room.'

326

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

We found Mrs. Rubelle still enjoying herself at the
window. When I introduced her to Mr. Dawson, neither
the doctor's doubtful looks nor the doctor's searching- ques-
tions appeared to confuse her in the least. She answered
him quietly in her broken English ; and, though he tried
hard to puzzle her, she never betrayed the least ignorance,
so far, about any part of her duties. This was doubtless the
result of strength of mind, as I said before, and not of brazen
assurance, by any means.

We all went into the bedroom.

Mrs. Rubelle looked, very attentively, at the patient ;
curtseyed to Lady Glyde ; set one or two little things right in
the room ; and sat down quietly in a corner to wait until she
was wanted. Her ladyship seemed startled and annoyed by
the appearance of the strange nurse. No one said anything,
for fear of rousing Miss Halcombe, who was still slumbering
— except the doctor, who whispered a question about the
night. I softly answered, ' Much as usual ; ' and then Mr.
Dawson went out. Lady Glyde followed him, I suppose to
speak about Mrs. Rubelle. For my own part, I had made
up my mind already that this quiet foreign person would
keep her situation. She had all her wits about her ; and she
certainly understood her business. So far, I could hardly
have done much better by the bedside, myself.

Remembering Mr. Dawson's caution to me, I subjected
Mrs. Rubelle to a severe scrutiny, at certain intervals, for the
next three or four days. I over and over again entered the
room softly and suddenl}'-, but I never found her out in any
suspicious action. Lady Glyde, who watched her as atten-
tively as I did, discovered nothing either. I never detected a
sign of the medicine bottles being tampered with; I never
saw Mrs. Rubelle say a word to the Count, or the Count to
her. She managed Miss Halcombe with unquestionable care
and discretion. The poor lady wavered backwards and for-
wards between a sort of sleepy exhaustion which was half
faintness and half slumbering, and attacks of fever which
brought with them more or less of wandering in her mind.
Mrs. Rubelle never disturbed her in the first case, and never
startled her in the second, by appearing too suddenly at the
bedside in the character of a stranger. Honour to whom
honour is due (whether foreign or English) — and I give her
privilege impartially to Mrs. Rubelle. She was remarkably
uncommunicative about herself, and she was too quietly
independent of all advice from experienced persons who un-
derstood the duties of a sick-room — but, with these draw-

327

THE WOiMAN IN WHITE

backs, she was a good nurse ; and she never gave either
Lady Glyde or Mr. Dawson the shadow of a reason for
complaining of her.

The next circumstance of importance that occurred in the
house was the temporary absence of the Count, occasioned
by business which took him to London. He went away (I
think) on the morning of the fourth day after the arrival of
Mrs. Rubelle ; and, at parting, he spoke to Lady Glyde, very
seriously, in my presence, on the subject of Miss Halcombe.

'Trust Mr. Dawson,' he said, 'for a few davs more, if
you please. But, if there is not some change for the better,
in that time, send for advice from London, which this mule
of a doctor must accept in spite of himself Offend Mr.
Dawson, and save Miss Halcombe. I say this seriously, on
my word of honour and from the bottom of my heart. '

His lordship spoke with extreme feeling and kindness.
But poor Lady Clyde's nerves were so completely broken
down that she seemed quite frightened at him. She trembled
from head to foot ; and allowed him to take his leave, with-
out uttering a word on her side. She turned to me, when he
had gone, and said, ' Oh, Mrs. Michelson, I am heart-broken
about my sister, and I have no friend to advise me ! T)o yon
think Mr. Dawson is wrong? He told me himself this
morning, that there was no fear, and no need to send for
another doctor.'

' With all respect to Mr. Dawson,' I answered, * in your
ladyship's place I should remember the Count's advice.'

Lady Glyde turned away from me suddenly, with an ap-
pearance of despair, for which I was quite unable to account

' I/is advice ! ' she said to herself. ' God help us — /ii's
advice ! '

The Count was away from Blackwater Park, as nearly as
I remember, a week.

Sir Percival seemed to feel the loss of his lordship in various
ways, and appeared also, I thought, much depressed and
altered by the sickness and sorrow in the house. Occasion-
ally, he was so very restless, that I could not help noticing
it ; coming and going, and wandering here and there and
everywhere in the grounds. His inquiries about Miss Hal-
combe, and about his lady (whose failing health seemed to
cause him sincere anxiety) were most attentive. I think his
heart was much softened. If some kind clerical friend — some
such friend as he might have found in my late excellent hus-
band—had been near him at this time, cheering moral progress

328

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

might have been made with Sir Percival. I seldom find
myself mistaken on a point of this sort ; having- had expe-
rience to guide me in my happy married days.

Her ladyship the Countess, who was now the only com-
pany for Sir Percival down stairs, rather neglected him, as I
considered. Or, perhaps, it might have been that he neglected
her. A stranger might almost have supposed that they were
bent, now they were left together alone, on actually avoiding
one another. This, of course, could not be. But it did so
happen, nevertheless, that the Countess made her dinner at
luncheon-time, and that she always came up-stairs towards
evening, although Mrs. Rubelle had taken the nursing duties
entirely off her hands. Sir Percival dined by himself; and
William (the man out of livery) made the remark, in my
hearing, that his master had put himself on half rations
of food and on a double allowance of drink. I attach
no importance to such an insolent observation as this, on
the part of a servant. I reprobated it at the time, and I
wish to be understood as reprobating it once more on this
occasion.

In the course of the next few days, Miss Halcombe did
certainly seem to all of us to be mending a little. Our faith
in Mr. Dawson revived. He appeared to be very confident
about the case ; and he assured Lady Clyde, when she spoke
to him on the subject, that he would himself propose to send
for a physician the moment he felt so much as the shadow of
a doubt crossing his own mind.

The only person among us who did not appear to be
relieved by these words, was the Countess. She said to me
privately, that she could not feel easy about Miss Halcombe,
on Mr. Dawson's authority, and that she should wait anxi-
ously for her husband's opinion, on his return. That return,
his letters informed her, would take place in three days' time.
The Count and Countess corresponded regularly every morn-
ing, during his lordship's absence. They were, in that respect,
as in all others, a pattern to married people.

On the evening of the third day, I noticed a change in
Miss Halcombe, which caused me serious apprehension. Mrs.
Rubelle noticed it too. We said nothing on the subject to
Lady Glyde, who was then lying asleep, completely over-
powered by exhaustion, on the sofa in the sitting-room.

Mr. Dawson did not pay his evening visit till later than
usual. As soon as he set eyes on his patient, I saw his face
alter. He tried to hide it; but he looked both confused and
alarmed, A messenger was sent to his residence for his

329

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

medicine-chest, disinfecting preparations were used in the
room, and a bed was made up for him in the house by his
own directions. ' Has the fever turned to infection ? ' I
whispered to him. 'I am afraid it has,' he answered; * we
shall know better to-morrow morning.'

By Mr. Dawson's own directions Lady Glyde was kept in
Ignorance of this change for the worse. He himself absolutely
forbade her, on account of her health, to join us in the bed-
room that night. She tried to resist — there was a sad scene —
but he had his medical authority to support him ; and he
carried his point.

The next morning, one of the men-servants was sent to
London, at eleven o'clock, with a letter to a physician in town,
and with orders to bring the new doctor back with him by
the earliest possible train. Half an hour after the messenger
had gone, the Count returned to Blackwater Park.

The Countess, on her own responsibility, immediately
brought him in to see the patient. There was no impropriety
that I could discover in her taking this course. His lordship
was a married man ; he was old enough to be Miss Hal-
combe's father ; and he saw her in the presence of a female
relative, Lady Clyde's aunt. Mr. Dawson nevertheless pro-
tested against his presence in the room ; but, I could plainly
remark, the doctor was too much alarmed to make any serious
resistance on this occasion.

The poor suffering lady was past knowing any one about
her. She seemed to take her friends for enemies. When the
Count approached her bedside, her eyes, which had been wan-
dering incessantly round and round the room before, settled
on his face, with a dreadful stare of terror, which I shall
remember to my dying day. The Count sat down by her;
felt her pulse, and her temples; looked at her very attentively;
and then turned round upon the doctor with such an expres-
sion of indignation and contempt in his face, that the words
failed on Mr. Dawson's lips, and he stood, for a moment,
pale with anger and alarm — pale and perfectly speechless.

His lordship looked next at me.

' When did the change happen ? ' he tisked.

I told him the time.

' Has Lady Glyde been in the room since ? '

I replied that she had not. The doctor had absolutely
forbidden her to come into the room, on the evening before,
and had repeated the order again in the morning,

' Have you and Mrs. Rubelle been made aware of the full
extent of the mischief?' — was his next question.

330

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

We were aware, I answered, that the malady was con-
sidered infectious. He stopped me, before I could add any-
thing" more.

' It is Typlius Fever,' he said.

In the minute that passed, wliile these questions and
answers were going on, Mr. Dawson recovered himself, and
addressed the Count v^^ith his customary firmness.

' It is not typhus fever,' he remarked sharply. * I protest
against this intrusion, sir. No one has a right to put
questions here, but me. I have done my duty to the best of
my ability '

The Count interrupted him — not by words, but only by
pointing' to the bed. Mr. Dawson seemed to feel that silent
contradiction to his assertion of his own ability, and to grow
only the more angry under it.

' I say I have done my duty,' he reiterated. ' A physician
has been sent for from London. I will consult on the nature
of the fever with him, and with no one else. I insist on your
leaving the room.'

' I entered this room, sir, in the sacred interests of
humanity,' said the Count. * And in the same interests, if
the coming of the physician is delayed, I will enter it again.
I warn you once more that the fever has turned to typhus,
and that 5'our treatment is responsible for this lamentable
change. If that unhappy lady dies, I will give my testimony
in a court of justice that your ignorance and obstinacy have
been the cause of her death.'

Before Mr. Dawson could answer, before the Count could
leave us, the door was opened from the sitting-room, and we
saw Lady Clyde on the threshold.

' I 7mLst, and 'will come in,' she said, with extraordinary
firmness.

Instead of stopping her, the Count moved into the sitting-
room, and made way for her to ^o in. On all other occa-
sions, he was the last man in the world to forget anvthing ;
but, in the surprise of the moment, he apparently forgot the
danger of infection from typhus, and the urgent necessity of
forcing Lady Clyde to take proper care of herself.

To my astonishment, Mr. Dav^^son showed more presence
of mind. He stopped her ladyship at the first step she took
towards the bedside. ' I am sincerely sorry, I am sincerely
grieved,' he said. 'The fever" may, I fear, be infectious^
Until I am certain that it is not, I entreat you to keep out of
the room.'

She struggled for a moment ; then suddenly dropped her

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

arms, and sank forward. She had tainted. The Countess
and I took her from the doctor, and carried her into her own
room. The Count preceded us, and waited in the passage,
till I came out, and told him that we had recovered her from
the swoon.

I went back to the doctor to tell him, by Lady Clyde's
desire, that she insisted on speaking- to him immediately.
He withdrew at once to quiet her ladyship's agitation, and
to assure her of the physician's arrival in the course of a few
hours. Those hours passed very slowly. Sir Percival and
the Count were together down stairs, and sent up, from time
to time, to make their inquiries. At last, between five and
six o'clock, to our great relief, the physician came.

He was a younger man than Mr. Dawson ; very serious,
and very decided. What he thought of the previous treat-
ment, I cannot say ; but it struck me as curious that he put
many more questions to myself and to Mrs. Rubelle than he
put to the doctor, and that he did not appear to listen with
much interest to what Mr. Dawson said, while he was ex-
amining Mr. Dawson's patient. I began to suspect, from
what I observed in this way, that the Count had been right
about the illness all the way through ; and I was naturally
confirmed in that idea, when Mr. Dawson, after some little
delay, asked the one important question which the London
doctor had been sent for to set at rest.

' What is your opinion of the fever ? ' he inquired.

'Typhus,' replied the physician. 'Typhus fever beyond
all doubt.'

That quiet foreign person, Mrs. Rubelle, crossed her thin,
brown hands in front of her, and looked at me with a very
significant smile. The Count himself could hardly have
appeared more gratified, if he had been present in the room,
and had heard the confirmation of his own opinion.

After giving us some useful directions about the manage-
ment of the patient, and mentioning that he would come
again in five days' time, the physician withdrew to consult in
private with Mr. Dawson. He would offer no opinion on
Miss Halcombe's chances of recovery : he said it was im-
possible at that stage of the illness to pronounce, one way or
the other.

The five days passed anxiously.

Countess Fosco and myself took it by turns to relieve
Mrs. Rubelle ; Miss Halcombe's condition growing worse
and worse, and requiring our utmost care and attention. It

332

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

was a terribly trying- time. Lady Clyde (supported, as Mr.
Dawson said, by the constant strain of her suspense on her
sister's account) rallied in the most extraordinary manner,
and showed a firmness and determination for which I should
myself never have g-iven her credit. She insisted on coming
into the sick-room, two or three times every day, to look at
Miss Halcombe with her own eyes ; promising- not to go too
close to the bed, if the doctor would consent to her wishes,
so far. Mr. Dawson very unwillingly made the concession
required of him : I think he saw that it was hopeless to dis-
pute with her. She came in every day ; and she self-
denyingly kept her promise. I felt it personally so distressing
(as reminding- me of my own affliction during my husband's
last illness) to see how she suffered under these circum-
stances, that I must beg not to dwell on this part of the
subject any longer. It is more agreeable to me to mention
that no fresh disputes took place between Mr. Dawson and
the Count. His lordship made all his inquiries by deputy ;
and remained continually in company with Sir Percival,
down stairs.

On the fifth day, the physician came again, and gave us
a little hope. He said the tenth day from the first appearance
of the typhus would probably decide the result of the illness,
and he arranged for his third visit to take place on that date.
The interval passed as before — except that the Count went
to London again, one morning, and returned at night.

On the tenth day it pleased a merciful Providence to
relieve our household from all further anxiety and alarm.
The physician positively assured us that Miss Halcombe was
out of danger. ' She wants no doctor, now — all she requires
is careful watching and nursing, for some time to come ; and
that I see she has.' Those were his own words. That
evening I read my husband's touching sermon on Recovery
from Sickness, with more happiness and advantage (in a
spiritual point of view) than I evev remember to have derived
from it before.

The effect of the g-ood news on poor Lady Clyde was, I
grieve to say, quite overpowering. She was too weak to
bear the violent reaction ; and in another day or two, she
sank into a state of debility and depression, which obliged
her to keep her room. Rest and quiet, and change of air
afterwards, were the best remedies which Mr. Dawson could
suggest for her benefit. It was fortunate that matters were
no worse, for, on the very day after she took to her room,
the Count and the doctor had another disagreement ; and,

333

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

this time, the dispute between them was of so serious a
nature, that Mr. Dawson left the house.

I was not present at the time ; but I understood that the
subject of dispute was the amount of nourishment which
it was necessary to give to assist Miss Halcombe's conval-
escence, after the exhaustion of the fever. Mr. Dawson,
now that his patient was safe, was less inclined than ever to
submit to unprofessional interference ; and the Count (I can-
not imagine why) lost all the self-control which he had so
judiciously preserved on former occasions, and taunted the
doctor, over and over again, with his mistake about the fever,
when it changed to typhus. The unfortunate affair ended in
Mr. Dawson's appealing to Sir Percival, and threatening
(now that he could leave without absolute danger to Miss
Halcombe) to withdrav/ from his attendance at Blackwater
Park, if the Count's interference was not peremptorily sup-
pressed from that moment. Sir Percival's reply (though not
designedly uncivil) had only resulted in making matters
worse ; and Mr. Dawson had thereupon withdrawn from the
house, in a state of extreme indignation at Count Fosco's
usage of him, and had sent in his bill the next morning.

We were now, therefore, left without the attendance of a
medical man. Although there was no actual necessity for
another doctor — nursing and watching being, as the physician
had observed, all that Miss Halcombe required — I should
still, if my authority had been consulted, have obtained pro-
fessional assistance, from some other quarter, for form's
sake.

The matter did not seem to strike Sir Percival in that
light. He said it would be time enough to send for another
doctor, if Miss Halcombe showed any signs of a relapse. In
the mean while, we had the Count to consult in any minor
difficulty ; and we need not unnecessarily disturb our patient,
in her present weak and nervous condition, by the presence
of a stranger at her bedside. There was much that was
reasonable, no doubt, in these considerations ; but they left
me a little anxious, nevertheless. Nor was I quite satisfied,
in my own mind, of the propriety of our concealing the
doctor's absence, as we did, from Lady Clyde. It was a
merciful deception, I admit — for she was in no state to bear
any fresh anxieties. But still it was a deception ; and, as
such, to a person of my principles, at best a doubtful
proceeding.

A second perplexing circumstance which happened on the

334

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

same day, and which took me completely by surprise, added
greatly to the sense of uneasiness that was now weighing on
my mind.

I was sent for to see Sir Percival in the Hbrary. The
Count, who was with him when I went in, immediately rose
and left us alone together. Sir Percival civilly asked me to
take a seat ; and then, to my great astonishment, addressed
me in these terms :

' I want to speak to you, Mrs. Michelson, about a matter
which I decided on some time ago, and which I should have
mentioned before, but for the sickness and trouble in the
house. In plain words, I have reasons for wishing to break
up my establishment immediately at this place — leaving j^ou
in charge, of course, as usual. As soon as Lady Clyde and
Miss Halcombe can travel, they must both have change of
air. My friends. Count Fosco and the Countess, will leave
us, before that time, to live in the neighbourhood of London.
And I have reasons for not opening the house to any more
company, with a view to economising as carefully as I can.
I don't blame you — but my expenses here are a great deal too
heavy. In short, I shall sell the horses, and get rid of all
the servants, at once. I never do. things by halves, as you
know ; and I mean to have the house clear of a pack of use-
less people by this time to-morrow.'

I listened to him, perfectly aghast with astonishment.

' Do you mean, Sir Percival, that I am to dismiss the in-
door servants, under my charge, without the usual month's
warning ? ' I asked.

* Certainly, I do. We may all be out of the house before
another month ; and I am not going to leave the servants
here in idleness, with no master to wait on.'

' Who is to do the cooking, Sir Percival, while you are
still staying here ? '

' Margaret Porcher can roast and boil — keep her. What
do I want with a cook, if I don't mean to give any dinner-
parties ? '

' The servant you have mentioned is the most unintelligent
servant in the house, Sir Percival '

' Keep her, I tell you ; and have a woman in from the
village to do the cleaning, and go away again. My weekly
expenses must and shall be lowered immediately. I don't
send for you to make objections, Mrs. Michelson — I send for
you to carry out my plans of economy. Dismiss the whole
lazy pack of in-door servants to-morrow, except Porcher. She
is as strong as a horse — and Vv-e'll make her work like a horse.'

335

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

* You will excuse me for reminding you, Sir Percival, that If
the servants go to-morrow, they must have a month's wages
in lieu of a month's warning.'

' Let them ! A month's wages saves a month's waste and
gluttony in the servants'-hall.'

This last remark conveyed an aspersion of the most
offensive kind on my management. 1 had too much self-
respect to defend myself under so gross an imputation.
Christian consideration for the helpless position of Miss
Halcombe and Lady Clyde, and for the serious inconvenience
which my sudden absence might inflict on them, alone pre-
vented me from resigning my situation on the spot. I rose
immediately. It would have lowered me in my own estima-
tion to have permitted the interview to continue a moment
longer.

' After that last rem.ark, Sir Percival, I have nothing more
to say. Your directions shall be attended to.' Pronouncing
those' words, I bowed my head with the most distant respect,
and went out of the room.

The next day, the servants left in a body. Sir Percival
himself dismissed the grooms and stablemen ; sending them,
W'ith all the horses but one, to London. Of the whole
domestic establishment, in-doors and out, there now remained
only myself, Margaret Porcher, and the gardener ; this last
living in his own cottage, and being wanted to take care of
the one horse that remained in the stables.

With the house left in this strange and lonely condition ;
with the mistress of it ill in her room ; with Miss Halcombe
still as helpless as a child ; and with the doctor's attendance
withdrawn from us in enmity — it was surely not unnatural
that my spirits should sink, and my customary composure be
very hard to maintain. My mind was ill at ease. I wished
the poor ladies both well again ; and I wished myself away
from Blackwater Park.

The next event that occurred was of so singular a nature,
that it might have caused me a feeling of superstitious surprise,
if my mind had not been fortified by principle against any
pagan weakness of that sort. The uneasy sense of some-
thing wrong in the family which had made me wish myself
away from Blackwater Park, was actually followed, strange
to say, by my departure from the house. It is true that my

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

absence was for a temporary period only : but the coincidence
was, in my opinion, not the less remarkable on that account.

My departure took place under the following- circum-
stances :

A day or two after the servants all left, I was again sent
for to see Sir Percival, The undeserved slur which he had
cast on my management of the household, did not, I am
happy to say, prevent me from returning good for evil to the
best of my abilit}', by complying with his request as readily
and respectfully as ever. It cost me a struggle with that
fallen nature which we all share in common, before I could
suppress my feelings. Being accustomed to self-discipline, I
accomplished the sacrifice.

I found Sir Percival and Count Fosco sitting together,
again. On this occasion his lordship remained present at the
interview, and assisted in the development of Sir Percival's
views.

The subject to which they now requested my attention,
related to the healthy change of air by which we all hoped
that Miss Halcombe and Lady Glyde might soon be enabled
to profit. Sir Percival mentioned that both the ladies would
probably pass the autumn (by invitation of Frederick Fairlie,
Esquire) at Limmeridge House, Cumberland. But before
they went there, it was his opinion, confirmed by Count Fosco
(who here took up the conversation and continued it to the
end), that they would benefit by a short residence first in the
genial clim.ate of Torquay. The great object, therefore, was
to engage lodgings at that place, affording all the comforts
and advantages of which they stood in need ; and the great
difficulty was to find an experienced person capable of
choosing the sort of residence which they wanted. In this
emergency, the Count begged to inquire, on Sir Percival's
behalf, whether I would object to give the ladies the benefit
of my assistance, by proceeding myself to Torquay in their
interests.

It was impossible for a person in my situation, to meet
any proposal, made in these terms, with a positive ob-
jection.

I could only venture to represent the serious inconvenience
of my leaving Blackwater Park, in the extraordinary absence
of all the in-door servants with the one exception of Margaret
Porcher. But Sir Percival and his lordship declared that they
were both willing to put up with inconvenience for the sake
of the invalids. I next respectfully suggested writing to an
agent at Torquay ; but I was met here by being reminded of

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

the imprudence of taking lodgings without first seeing them.
I was also informed that the Countess (who would otherwise
have gone to Devonshire herself) could not, in Lady Clyde's
present condition, leave her niece ; and that Sir Percival and
the Count had business to transact together, vrhich would
oblige them to remain at Blackwater Park. In short, it was
clearly shown me, that if I did not undertake the errand, no
one else could be trusted with it. Under these circumstances,
I could only inform Sir Percival that my services were at the
disposal of Miss Halcombe and Lady Clyde.

It was thereupon arranged that I should leave the next
morning ; that I should occupy one or two days in examining
all the most convenient houses in Torquay ; and that I should
return, with my report, as soon as I conveniently could. A
memorandum was written for me by his lordship, stating the
requisites which the place I v/as sent to take must be found to
possess ; and a note of the pecuniary limit assigned to me, was
added by Sir Percival.

My own idea, on reading over these instructions, was, that
no such residence as I saw described could be found at any
watering-place in England ; and that, even if it could by
chance be discovered, it would certainly not be parted with
for any period, on such terms as I was permitted to offer. I
hinted at these difficulties to both the gentlemen ; but Sir
Percival (who undertook to answer me) did not appear to feel
them. It was not for me to dispute the question. I said no
more ; but I felt a very strong conviction that the business
on which I was sent away was so beset by difficulties that
my errand was almost hopeless at starting.

Before I left, I took care to satisfy myself that Miss Hal-
combe was going on favourably.

There was a painful expression of anxiety in her face,
which made me fear that her mind, on first recovering itself,
was not at ease. But she was certainly strengthening more
rapidly than I could have ventured to anticipate ; and she was
able to send kind messages to Lady Clyde, saying that she
was fast getting well, and entreating her ladyship not to
exert herself again too soon. I left her in charge of Mrs.
Rubelle, who was still as quietly independent of every one
else in the house as ever. When I knocked at Lady Clyde's
door, before going away, I was told that she was still sadly
weak and depressed ; my informant being the Countess, who
was then keeping her company in her room. Sir Percival and
the Count were walking on the road to the lodge, as I was
driven by in the chaise. I bov.-ed to them, and quitted the

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

house, with not a livhig soul left in the servants' offices but
Margaret Porcher.

Every one must feel, what I have felt myself since that
tiir.e, that these circumstances were more than unusual — they
were almost suspicious. Let me, however, say again, that it
was impossible for me, in my dependent position, to act
otherwise than I did.

The result of my errand at Torquay was exactly what I
had foreseen. No such lodgings as I was instructed to take
could be found in the whole place ; and the terms I was per-
mitted to give were much too low for the purpose, even if I
had been able to discover what I wanted. I accordingly re-
turned to Blackwater Park ; and informed Sir Percival, who
met me at the door, that my journey had been taken in vain.
He seemed too much occupied with some other subject to
care about the failure of my errand, and his first words in-
formed me that even in the short time of my absence, another
remarkable change had taken place in the house.

The Count and Countess Fosco had left Blackwater Park
for their new residence in St. John's Wood.

I was not made aware of the motive for this sudden
departure — I was only told that the Count had been very par-
ticular in leaving his kind compliments to me. When I ven-
tured on asking Sir Percival whether Lady Clyde had any one
to attend to her comforts in the absence of the Countess, he
replied that she had Margaret Porcher to wait on her ; and
he added that a woman from the village had been sent for to
do the work down stairs.

The answer really shocked me — there was such a glaring
impropriety in permitting an under-housemaid to fill the place
of confidential attendant on Lady Clyde. I went up-stairs at
once, and met Margaret on the bedroom-landing-. Her ser-
vices had not been required (naturally enough) ; her mistress
having sufficiently recovered, that morning, to be able to
leave her bed. I asked, next, after Miss Halcombe ; but I
was answered in a slouching, sulky w^ay, which left me no
wiser than I was before. I did not choose to repeat the ques-
tion, and perhaps provoke an impertinent reply. It was in
every respect more becoming, to a person in my position, to
present myself immediately in Lady Clyde's room.

I found that her ladyship had certainly gained in health
during the last few days. Although still sadly weak and ner-
vous, she was able to get up without assistance, and to walk
slov.ly about her room, feeling no worse effect from the exertion
than a slight sensation of fatigue. She had been made a little

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

anxious that morning about Miss Halcombe, through having
received no news of her from any one. I thought this seemed
to imply a blamable want of attention on the part of Mrs.
Rubelle ; but I said nothing, and remained with Lady Glyde,
to assist her to dress. When she was ready, we both left the
room together to go to Miss Halcombe.

We were stopped in the passage by the appearance of Sir
Percival. He looked as if he had been purposely waiting
there to see us.

' Where are you going ? ' he said to Lady Glydc.

'To Marian's room,' she answered.

' It may spare you a disappointment,' remarked Sir
Percival, ' if I tell you at once that you will not find her
there.'

' Not find her there ! '

' No. She left the house yesterday morning with Fosco
and his wife.'

Lady Glyde was not strong enough to bear the surprise of
this extraordinary statement. She turned fearfully pale ; and
leaned back against the wall, looking- at her husband in dead
silence.

I was so astonished myself, that I hardly knew what to
say. I asked Sir Percival if he really meant that Miss
Halcombe had left Blackwater Park.

* I certainly mean it,' he answered.

' In her state. Sir Percival ! Without mentioning her
intentions to Lady Glyde ! '

Before he could reply, her ladyship recovered herself
a little, and spoke.

' Impossible ! ' she cried out, in a loud, frightened manner ;
taking a step or two forward from the wall. ' Where was
the doctor ? where was Mr. Dawson when Marian went
away ? '

'Mr. Dawson wasn't wanted, and wasn't here,' said Sir
Percival. ' He left of his own accord, which is enough of
itself to show that she was strong enough to travel. How
you stare ! If you don't believe she has gone, look for yoiu^-
self. Open her room door, and all the other room doors, if
you like.'

She took him at his word, and I followed her. There
was no one in Miss Halcombe's room but Margaret Porcher,
who was busy setting it to rights. There w^as no one in the
spare rooms, or the dressing-rooms, when we looked into
them afterwards. Sir Percival still waited for us in the
passage. As we were leaving the last room that we had

340

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

examined, Lady Clyde whispered, ' Don't go, Mrs. Michelson !
don't leave me, for God's sake ! ' Before I could say anything-
in return, she was out again in the passag'e, speaking to her
husband.

* W^hat does it mean, Sir Percival ? I insist — I beg and
pray you will tell me what it means ! '

' It means,' he answered, ' that Miss Halcombe was strongs
enough yesterday morning to sit up, and be dressed ; and
that she insisted on taking advantage of Fosco's going to
London, to go there too.'

' To London ! '

' Yes — on her way to Limmeridge.'

Lady Glyde turned, and appealed to me.

'You saw Miss Halcombe last,' she said. 'Tell me
plainly, Mrs. Michelson, did you think she looked fit to
travel'? '

' Not in niy opinion, your ladyship.'

Sir Percival, on his side, instantly turned, and appealed
to me also.

'Before you went away,' he said, 'did you, or did you
not, tell the nurse that Miss Halcombe looked much stronger
and better ? '

' I certainly made the remark. Sir Percival.'

He addressed her ladyship again, the moment I offered
that reply.

' Set one of Mrs. Michelson's opinions fairly against the
other,' he said, ' and try to be reasonable about a perfectly
plain matter. If she had not been well enough to be moved,
do you think we should any of us have risked letting her g-o ?
She has got three competent people to look after her — Fosco
and your aunt, and Mrs. Rubelle, who went away with them
expressly for that purpose. They took a whole carriage
yesterday, and made a bed for her on the seat, in case she
felt tired. To-day, Fosco and Mrs. Rubelle go on with her
themselves to Cumberland '

' Why does Marian go to Limmeridge, and leave me here
by myself? ' said her ladyship, interrupting Sir Percival.

' Because your uncle won't receive you till he has seen
your sister first,' he replied. ' Have you forgotten the letter
he wrote to her, at the beginning of her illness ? It was
shown to you; you read it yourself; and you ought to
remember it.'

' I do remember it.'

' If you do, why should you be surprised at her leaving-
you ? You want to be back at Limmeridge ; and she has

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

gone there to get your uncle's leave for you, on his own
terms.'

Poor Lady Glyde's eyes filled with tears.

' Marian never left me before,' she said, 'without bidding
me good-by.'

' She would have bid you good-by this time,' returned
Sir Percival, ' if she had not been afraid of herself and of you.
She knew you would try to stop her ; she knew you would
distress her by crying. Do you want to make any more
objections ? If you do, you must come down stairs and ask
questions in the dining-room. These worries upset me. I
Vv'ant a glass of wine.'

He left us suddenly.

His manner all through this strange conversation had
been very unlike what it usually was. He seemed to be
almost as nervous and fluttered, every now and then, as his
lady herself. I should never have supposed that his health
h:id been so delicate, or his composure so easy to upset.

I tried to prevail on Lady Glyde to go back to her room ;
but it was useless. She stopped in the passage, with the
look of a woman whose mind was panic-stricken :

' Something has happened to my sister ! ' she said.

' Remember, my lady, what surprising energy there is in
Miss Halcombe,' I suggested. 'She might well make an
effort which other ladies, in her situation, would be unfit for.
I hope and believe there is nothing wrong — I do indeed.'

' I must follow Marian ! ' said her ladyship, with the same
panic-stricken look. ' I must go where she has gone ; 1
must see that she is alive and well with my own eyes. Come !
come down with me to Sir Percival.'

I hesitated ; fearing that my presence might be considered
an intrusion. I attempted to represent this to her ladyship ;
but she was deaf to me. She held my arm fast enough to
force me to go down stairs with her ; and she still clung to
me with all the little strength she had, at the moment when
I opened the dining-room door.

Sir Percival was sitting at the table with a decanter of
wine before him. He raised the glass to his lips, as w^e went
in, and drained it at a draught. Seeing that he looked at me
angrily when he put it down again, I attempted to make
some apology for my accidental presence in the room.

' Do you suppose there are any secrets going on
here ? ' he broke out, suddenly ; ' there are none — there is
nothing underhand ; nothing kept from you or from an}'^ one.'
After speaking those strange words, loudly and sternly, he

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

filled himself another glass of whie, and asked Lady Glyde
what she wanted of him.

' If my sister is fit to travel, I am fit to travel,' said her
ladyship, with more firmness than she had yet shown. ' I
come to beg you will make allowances for my anxiety about
Marian, and let me follow her at once, by the afternoon
train.' '■

' You must wait till to-morrow,' replied Sir Percival ; ' and
then, if you don't hear to the contrary, you can go. I don't
suppose you are at all likely to hear to the contrary — so I
shall write to Fosco by to-night's post.'

He said those last words, holding his glass up to the light,
and looking at the wine in it, instead of at Lady Glyde. In-
deed, he never once looked at her throughout the conversa-
tion. Such a singular want of good breeding in a gentleman
of his rank, impressed me, I own, very painfully.

' Why should you write to Count Fosco ? * she asked, in
extreme surprise.

' To tell him to expect you by the mid-day train,' said
Sir Percival. ' He will meet you at the station, when you
get to London, and take you on to sleep at your aunt's, in
St. John's Wood.'

Lady Clyde's hand began to tremble violently round my
arm — why I could not imagine.

' There is no necessity for Count Fosco to meet me,' she
said. ' I would rather not stay in London to sleep.'

* You must. You can't take the whole journey to Cumber-
land in one day. You must rest a night in London — and I
don't choose you to go by yourself to an hotel. Fosco made
the off"er to your uncle to give you house-room on the way
down ; and your uncle has accepted it. Here ! here is a
letter from him, addressed to yourself. I ought to have sent
it up this morning ; but I forgot. Read it, and see what Mr.
Fairlie himself says to you.'

Lady Glyde looked at the letter for a moment ; and then
placed it in my hands.

* Read it,' she said, faintly. 'I don't know what is the
matter with me. I can't read it, myself.'

It was a note of only four lines — so short and so careless,
that it quite struck me. If I remember correctly, it contained
no more than these words :

' Dearest Laura, Please come, whenever you like. Break
the journey by sleeping at your aunt's house. Grieved to
hear of dear Marian's illness. Affectionately yours, Frederick
Fairlie.'

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THE W0IMA^4 IN WHITE

' I would rather not go there — I would rather not stay a
night in London,' said her ladyship, breaking out eagerly
with those words, before I had quite done reading the note,
short as it was. * Don't write to Count Fosco ! Pray, pray
don't write to him ! '

Sir Percival filled another glass from the decanter, so awk-
wardly that he upset it, and spilt all the wine over the table.

* My sight seems to be failing me,' he muttered to himself, in
an odd, muffled voice. He slowly set the glass up again,
refilled it, and drained it once more at a draught. I began
to fear, from his look and manner, that the wine was getting
into his head.

' Pray don't write to Count Fosco ! ' persisted Lady
Clyde, more earnestly than ever.

* Why not, I should like to know ? ' cried Sir Percival,
with a sudden burst of anger that startled us both. ' Where
can you stay more properly in London than at the place your
uncle himself chooses for you — at your aunt's house ? Ask
Mrs. Michelson.'

The arrangement proposed was so unquestionably the
right and the proper one, that I could make no possible
objection to it. Much as I S3'mpathized with Lady Clyde ir-
other respects, I could not sympathize with her in her unjust
prejudices against Count Fosco. I never before met with
any lady, of her rank and station, who was so lamentably
narrow-minded on the subject of foreigners. Neither her
uncle's note, nor Sir Percival's increasing impatience, seemed
to have the least eff"ect on her. She still objected to staying
a night in London ; she still implored her husband not to
write to the Count.

' 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 for you. The arrangement
IS made ; and there is an end of it. You are only wanted to
do what Miss Halcombe has done before 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.

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

* Will your ladyship excuse me,' I whispered, * if I sug-g-est
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 up-stairs 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 Clyde'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, Vvith 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 con-
tinuing to conceal what had happened (as he had done in my
presence) from the knowledg-e of Lady Clyde.

Her ladyship started up, with every appearance of being-
additionally agitated and alarmed b}- 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 con-
sent. 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

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

sleep under his roof. But my misery of suspense about
Marian gives me the courag'e 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 Limm.eridge— 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 down stairs. 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 ovvu risk, however, I ended by
giving my consent. If the letter had been addressed to a
stranger, or to anyone 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 v\-ish, 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 Clyde'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 situa-

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

tion, I had no right to expect that she should do so.
matters Httle, 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 oblig'ed 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 com-
municated 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 holdings 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 ^ou? '

His face turned of an av^rful 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 drevv 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 throvigh 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

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THE WOMAN l:r WHITE

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 plat-
form. 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 remem.ber any one. Good-
by — 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-by, my lady,' I said, putting Jier into the carriage,
and trying to cheer her ; ' good-bv, for the present only ;

348

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

gfood-by, with my best and kindest wishes for happier
times ! '

She shook her head, and shuddered as she settled herself
in the carriaofe. The g"uard closed the door. * Do you believe
in dreams ? ' she whispered to me, at the window. ' Jl/y
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 sorrow-
fully 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 j-et 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.

' i'ou here ! ' I gasped out. ' Not gone to London ! Not
gone to Cumberland ! '

I'.Irs. Rubellc smelt at her flowers with a smile of malicious
pity.

' Certainly not,' she said. * I hav-e 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 :

349

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

* Miss Halcombc, 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.

'Well, Mrs. Michelson,' he said ; 'you have found it out
at last — have you ? '

I made no reply. He turned to Mrs. Rubelle.

' When did you show yourself in the garden ? '

' I showed myself about half an hour ago, sir. You said
I might take my liberty again, as soon as Lady Glyde had
gone away to London.'

' Quite right. I don't blame you — I only asked the ques-
tion.' He waited a moment, and then addressed himself
once more to me. ' You can't believe it, can you ? ' he said,
mockingly. 'Here! come along and see for yourself.'

He led the way round to the front of the house. I fol-
lowed him ; and Mrs. Rubelle followed me. After passing
through the iron gates, he stopped, and pointed with his
whip to the disused middle wing of the building.

' There ! ' he said. ' Look up at the first floor. You
know the old Elizabethan bedrooms ? Miss Halcombe is
snug and safe in one of the best of them, at this moment.
Take her in, Mrs. Rubelle (you have got your key ? ) ; take
Mrs. Michelson in, and let her own eyes satisfy her that there
is no deception, this time.'

The tone in which he spoke to me, and the minute or two

350

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

that had passed since we left the garden, helped me to re-
cover my spirits a little. What I might have done, at this
critical moment, if all my life had been pasced in service, I
cannot say. As it was, possessing- the feelings, the principles,
and the bringing-up of a lady, I could not hesitate about the
right course to pursue. My duty to myself, and my duty to
Lady Glyde, alike forbade me to remain in the employment
of a man who had shamefully deceived us both by a series of
atrocious falsehoods.

' I must beg permission. Sir Percival, to speak a few
words to you in private,' I said. ' Having done so, I shall
be ready to proceed with this person to Miss Halcombe's
room.'

Mrs. Rubelle, whom I had indicated by a slight turn of
my head, insolently sniffed at her nosegay, and walked away,
W'ith great deliberation, towards the house door.

' Well,' said Sir Percival, sharply ; ' v.-hat is it now ? '

' I wish to mention, sir, that I am desirous of resigning
the situation I now hold at Blackwater Park.' That was
literally how I put it. I was resolved that the first words
spoken in his presence should be words which expressed my
intention to leave his service.

He eyed me with one of his blackest looks, and thrust his
hands savagely into the pockets of his riding-coat.

' Why ? ' he said ; ' why, I should like to knov^'- ? '

' It is not for me. Sir Percival, to express an opinion on
what has taken place in this house. I desire to give no
offence. I merely wish to say that I do not feel it consistent
with my duty to Lady Glyde and to myself to remain any
longer in your service.'

' Is it consistent with your duty to me to stand there,
casting suspicion on me to my face ? ' he broke out, in his
most violent manner. ' I see what you're driving at. You
have taken your own mean, underhand view of an innocent
deception practised on Lady Glyde, for her own good. It
was essential to her health that she should have a change of
air immediately — and, you know as vvell as I do, she v.'ould
never have gone away, if she had been told Miss Halcombe
was still left here. She has been deceived in her own in-
terests— and I don't care who knows it. Go, if you like-
there are plenty of housekeepers as good as you, to be had
for the asking. Go, when you please — but take care how you
spread scandals about me and my affairs, when you're out of
my service. Tell the truth, and nothing but the truth, or it
will be the worse for you ! See Miss Halcombe for yourself;

351

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

see if she hasn't been as well taken care of in one part of the
house as in the other. Remember the doctor's own orders
that Lady Glyde was to have a change of air at the earliest
possible opportunity. Bear all that well in mind — and then
say anything against me and my proceedings if you dare ! '

He poured out these words fiercely, all in a breath, walk-
ing backwards and forwards, and striking about him in the
air with his whip.

Nothing that he said or did shook my opinion of the dis-
graceful series of falsehoods that he had told, in my presence,
the day before, or of the cruel deception by which he ha^
separated Lady Glyde from her sister, and had sent het
uselessly to London, when she was half dirtracted with
anxiety on Miss Halcombe's account. I naturally kept these
thoughts to myself, and said nothing more to irritate him ;
but I was not the less resolved to persist in my purpose. A
soft answer turneth away wrath ; and I suppressed my own
feelings, accordingly, when it was my turn to reply.

' While I am in your service. Sir Percival,' I said, ' I hope I
know my duty well enough not to inquire into your motives.
When I am out of your service, I hope I know my own place
well enough not to speak of matters which don't concern
me '

' When do you want to go ? ' he asked, interrupting me
without ceremony. ' Don't suppose I am anxious to keep
you — don't suppose I care about your leaving the house. I
am perfectly fair and open in this matter, from first to last.
When do you want to go ? '

' I should wish to leave at your earliest convenience, Sir
Percival.'

' My convenience has nothing to do with it. I shall be
out of the house, for good and all, to-morrow morning ; and
I can settle your accounts to-night. If you want to stuc^
anybody's convenience, it had better be ^.liss Halcombe's.
Mrs. Rubelle's time is up to-day ; and she has reasons for
wishing to be in London to-night. If you go at once, Miss
Halcombe won't have a soul left here to look after her.'

I hope it is unnecessary for me to say that I was quite
incapable of deserting Miss Halcombe in such an emergency
as had now befallen Lady Glyde and herself. After first dis-
tinctly ascertaining from Sir Percival that Mrs. Rubelle was
certain to leave at once if I took her place, and after also
obtaining permission to arrange for Mr. Dawson's resuming
his attendance on his patient, I willingly consented to remain
at Blackwater Park until Miss Halcombe no longer required

352

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

my services. It was settled that I should give Sir Percival's
soHcitor a week's notice before I left : and that he was to
undertake the necessary arrangements for appointing- my suc-
cessor. The matter was discussed in very few words. At its
conclusion, Sir Percival abruptly turned on his heel, and left
me free to join Mrs. Rubelle. That singular foreign person
had been sitting composedly on the door-step, all this time,
waiting till I could follow her to Miss Halcombe's room.

I had hardly walked half way towards the house, when
Sir Percival, who had withdrawn in the opposite direction,
suddenly stopped, and called me back.

' Why are you leaving my service ? ' he asked.

The question was so extraordinary, after what had just
passed between us, that I hardly knew what to say in answer
to it.

' Mind ! / don't know why you are going,' he went on.
* You must give a reason for leaving me, I suppose, when
you get another situation. What reason ? The breaking up
of the family ? Is that it ? '

' There can be no positive objection, Sir Percival, to that
reason '

' Very well ! That's all I want to know. If people apply
for your character, that's your reason, stated by yourself.
You go in consequence of the breaking up of the family.'

He turned away again, before I could say another word,
and walked out rapidly into the grounds. His manner was
as strange as his language. I acknowledge he alarmed me.

Even the patience of Mrs. Rubelle was getting exhausted,
when I joined her at the house door.

' At last ! ' she said, with a shrug of her lean foreign
shoulders. She led the way into the inhabited side of the
house, ascended the stairs, and opened with her key the door
at the end of the passage, which communicated with the old
Elizabethan rooms — a door never previously used, in my time,
at Blackwater Park. The rooms themselves I knew well,
having entered them myself, on various occasions, from the
other side of the house. Mrs. Rubelle stopped at the third
door along the old gciUery, handed me the key of it, with the
key of the door of communication, and told me I should find
Miss Halcombe in that room. Before I went in, I thought
it desirable to make her understand that her attendance had
ceased. Accordingly, I told her in plain words that the
charge of the sick lady henceforth devolved entirely on myself.
* I am glad to hear it, ma'am,' said Mrs. Rubelle. ' I
want to go very much.'

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

He poured out these words fiercely, all in a breath, walk-
ing backwards and forwards, and striking about him in the
air with his whip.

Nothing that he said or did shook my opinion of the dis-
graceful series of falsehoods that he had told, in my presence,
the day before, or of the cruel deception by which he hai/
separated Lady Glyde from her sister, and had sent her
uselessly to London, when she was half dirtracted with
anxiety on Miss Halcombe's account. I naturally kept these
thoughts to myself, and said nothing more to irritate him ;
but I was not the less resolved to persist in my purpose. A
soft answer turneth away wrath ; and I suppressed my own
feelings, accordingly, when it was my turn to reply.

' While I am in your service, Sir Percival,' I said, ' I hope I
know my duty well enough not to inquire into your motives.
When I am out of your service, I hope I know my own place
well enough not to speak of matters which don't concern
me '

' I should wish to leave at your earliest convenience, Sir
Percival.'

* My convenience has nothing to do with it. I shall be
out of the house, for good and all, to-morrow morning ; and
I can settle your accounts to-night. If you want to stuc^
anybody's convenience, it had better be Miss Halcombe's.
Mrs. Rubelle's time is up to-day ; and she has reasons for
wishing to be in London to-night. If you go at once. Miss
Halcombe won't have a soul left here to look after her.'

352

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

my services. It was settled that I should give Sir Percival's
solicitor a week's notice before I left : and that he was to
undertake the necessary arrangements for appointing my suc-
cessor. The matter was discussed in very few words. At its
conclusion, Sir Percival abruptly turned on his heel, and left
me free to join Mrs. Rubelle. That singular foreign person
had been sitting composedly on the door-step, all this time,
waiting till I could follow her to Miss Halcombe's room.

1 had hardl)' walked half way towards the house, when
Sir Percival, who had withdrawn in the opposite direction,
suddenly stopped, and called me back.

' Why are you leaving my service ? ' he asked.
The question was so extraordinary, after what had just
passed between us, that I hardly knew what to say in answer
to it.

' Mind ! / don't know why you are going,' he went on.
* You must give a reason for leaving me, I suppose, when
you get another situation. What reason ? The breaking up
of the family ? Is that it ? '

' There can be no positive objection, Sir Percival, to that

reason '

' Very well ! That's all I want to know. If people apply
for your character, that's your reason, stated by yourself.
You go in consequence of the breaking up of the family.'

He turned away again, before I could say another word,
and walked out rapidly into the grounds. His manner was
as strange as his language. I acknowledge he alarmed me.

Even the patience of Mrs. Rubelle was getting exhausted,
when I joined her at the house door.

' At last ! ' she said, with a shrug- of her lean foreign
shoulders. She led the way into the inhabited side of the
house, ascended the stairs, and opened with her key the door
at the end of the passage, which communicated with the old
Elizabethan rooms — a door never previously used, in my time,
at Blackwater Park. The rooms themselves I knew well,
having entered them myself, on various occasions, from the
other side of the house. Mrs. Rubelle stopped at the third
door along the old gallery, handed me the key of it, with the
key of the door of communication, and told me I should find
Miss Halcombe in that room. Before I went in, I thought
it desirable to make her understand that her attendance had
ceased. Accordingly, I told her in plain words that the
charge of the sick lady henceforth devolved entirely on myself.
' I am glad to hear it, ma'am,' said Mrs. Rubelle. ' I
want to go very much.'

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

My own part of this sad family story is now drawing to
an end.

I have been informed that the particulars of Miss
Halcombe's waking, and of what passed between us when
she found me sitting- by her bedside, are not material to the
purpose which is to be answered by the present narrative. It
will be sufficient for me to say, in this place, that she was
not herself conscious of the means adopted to remove her
from the inhabited to the uninhabited part of the house. She
was in a deep sleep at the time, whether naturally or artifici-
ally produced she could not say. In my absence at Torquay,
and in the absence of all the resident servants, except
Margaret Porcher (who was perpetually eating, drinking, or
sleeping, when she was not at work), the secret transfer of
Miss Halcombe from one part of the house to the other was
no doubt easily performed. Mrs. Rubelle (as I discovered
for myself, in looking about the room) had provisions, and all
other necessaries, together with the means of heating water,
broth, and so on, without kindling a fire, placed at her dis-
posal during the few days of her imprisonment with the sick
lady. She had declined to answer the questions which Miss
Halcombe naturally put ; but had not, in other respects,
treated her with unkindness or neglect. The disgrace of
lending herself to a vile deception is the only disgrace with
which I can conscientiously charge Mrs. Rubelle.

I need write no particulars (and I am relieved to know it)
of the effect produced on Miss Halcombe by the news of Lady
Clyde's departure, or by the far more melancholy tidings which
reached us only too soon afterwards at Blackwater Park. In
both cases I prepared her mind beforehand as gently and as
carefully as possible ; having the doctor's advice to guide
me, in the last case only, through Mr. Dawson's being too
unwell to come to the house for some days after I had sent
for him. It was a sad time, a time which it afflicts me to
think of, or to write of, now. The precious blessings of
religious consolation which I endeavoured to convey, were
long in reaching Miss Halcombe's heart ; but I hope and
believe they came home to her at last. I never left her till
her strength was restored. The train which took me away
from that miserable house, was the train which took her away
also. We parted very mournfully in London. I remained
with a relative at Islington ; and she went on to Mr. Fairlie's
house in Cumberland.

I have only a few lines more to write, before I close this
painful statement. They are dictated by a sense of duty.

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

In the first place, I wish to record my own personal con-
viction that no blame whatever, in connexion with the events
which I have now related, attaches to Count Fosco. I am
informed that a dreadful suspicion has been raised, and that
some very serious constructions are placed upon his lordship's
conduct. My persuasion of the Count's innocence remains,
however, quite unshaken. If he assisted Sir Percival in
sending- me to Torquay, he assisted under a delusion, for
which, as a foreig-ner and a stranger, he was not to blame. If
he was concerned in bring-ing Mrs. Rubelle to Blackwater
Park, it was his misfortune and not his fault, when that
foreign person was base enough to assist a deception planned
and carried out by the master of the house. I protest, in the
interests of morality, against blame being gratuitously and
wantonly attached to the proceedings of the Count.

In the second place, I desire to express my regret at my
own inability to remember the precise day on which Lady
Glyde left Blackwater Park for London. I am told that it is
of the last importance to ascertain the exact date of that
lamentable journey ; and I have anxiously taxed my memory
to recall it. The effort has been in vain. I can only re-
member now that it was towards the latter part of July. We
all know the difficulty, after a lapse of time, of fixing pre-
cisely on a past date, unless it has been previously written
down. That difficulty is greatly increased, in my case, by
the alarming and confusing- events which took place about
the period of Lad}- Clyde's departure. I heartily wish I had
made a memorandum at the time. I heartily wish my memory
of the date was as vivid as my memory of that poor lady's
face, when it looked at me sorrowfully for the last time from
the carriaere window.

The Story continued in several Narratives.

I. The Narrative of Hester Pinhorn, Cook in the Service of
Count Fosco.

[Taken do'vn from her oxvn statement.]

I AM sorrv to say that I have never learnt to read or write.
I have been a hard-working woman all my life, and have kept
a good character. I know that it is a sin and wickedness to
say the thing which is not ; and I will truly beware of doing-
so on this occasion. All that I know, I will tell ; and I
humbly beg the gentleman who takes this down to put my

357

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

langfuage right as he goes en, and to make allowances for
my being no scholar.

In this last summer, I happened to be out of place (through
no fault of my own) ; and I heard of a situation, as plain
cook, at Number Five, Forest-road, St. John's Wood. I
took the place, on trial. My master's name was Fosco. My
mistress was an English lady. He was Count and she was
Countess. There was a girl to do housemaid's work, when
I got there. She was not over clean or tidy — but there was no
harm in her. I and she were the only servants in the house.

Our master and mistress came after we got in. And, as
soon as they did come, we were told, down stairs, that com-
pany was expected from the country.

The company was my mistress's niece, and the back bed-
room on the first floor was got ready for her. My mistress
mentioned to me that Lady Glyde (that was her name) was
in poor health, and that I must be particular in my cooking
accordingly. She was to come that day, as well as I can
remember — but whatever you do, don't trust 7ny memory in
the matter. I am sorry to say it's no use asking me about
days of the month, and such-like. Except Sundays, half my
time I take no heed of them ; being a hard-working woman
and no scholar. All I know is. Lady Glyde came ; and, w^hen
she did come, a fine fright she gave us all, surely. I don't
know how master brought her to the house, being hard at
work at the time. But he did bring her, in the afternoon, 1
think ; and the housemaid opened the door to them, and
showed them into the parlour. Before she had been long
down in the kitchen again with me, we heard a hurry-skurry,
upstairs, and the parlour bell ringing like mad, and my
mistress's voice calling out for help.

We both ran up ; and there we saw the lady laid on the
sofa, with her face ghastly white, and her hands fast clenched,
and her head drawn down to one side. She had been taken
with a sudden fright, my mistress said ; and master he told
us she was in a fit of convulsions. I ran out, knowing the
neighbourhood a little better than the rest of them, to fetch
the nearest doctor's help. The nearest help was at Good-
ricke's and Garth's, who worked together as partners, and
had a good name and connexion, as I have heard, all round
St. John's Wood. Mr. Goodricke was in ; and he came
back with me directly.

It was some time before he could make himself of much
use. The poor unfortunate lady fell out of one fit into
another — and went on so, till she was quite wearied out, and

358

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

as helpless as a new-born babe. We then got her to bed.
Mr. Goodrlcke v/ent away to his house for medicine, and
came back again in a quarter of an hour or less. Besides
the medicine he brought a bit of hollow mahogany wood
with him, shaped like a kind of trumpet ; and, after waiting
a little while, he put one end over the lady's heart and the
other to his ear, and listened carefully.

When he had done, he says to my mistress, who was in
the room, 'This is a very serious case,' he says ; ' I recom-
mend you to write to Lady Clyde's friends directly.' My
mistress says to him, ' Is it heart-disease ? ' And he says,
'Yes; heart-disease of a most dangerous kind.' He told
her exactly what he thought was the matter, which I was
not clever enough to understand. But I know this, he ended
by saying that he was afraid neither his help nor any other
doctor's help was likely to be of much service.

My mistress took this ill news more quietly than my
master. He was a big, fat, odd sort of elderly man, who
kept birds and white mice, and spoke to them as if they were
so many Christian children. He seemed terribly cut up by
what had happened. ' Ah ! poor Lady Clyde ! poor dear
Lady Clyde ! ' he says — and went stalking about, wringing
his fat hands more like a play-actor than a gentleman. For
one question my mistress asked the doctor about the lady's
chances of getting round, he asked a good fifty at least. I
declare he quite tormented us all — and, when he was quiet at
last, out he went into the bit of back garden, picking trumpery
little nosegays, and asking me to take them up-stairs and
make the sick-room look pretty with them. As if that did
any good. I think he must have been, at times, a little soft
in his head. But he was not a bad master : he had a
monstrous civil tongue of his own ; and a jolly, easy, coaxing
way with him. I liked him a deal better than my mistress.
She was a hard one, if ever there was a hard one yet.

Towards night-time, the lady roused up a little. She had
been so wearied out, before that, by the convulsions, that
she never stirred hand or foot, or spoke a word to anybody.
She moved in the bed now ; and stared about her at the room
and us in it. She must have been a nice-looking lady, when
well, v\'ith light hair, and blue eyes, and all that. Her rest
was troubled at night — at least so I heard from my mistress,
who sat up alone with her. I only went in once before going
to bed, to see if I could be of any use ; and then she was
talking to herself, in a confused, rambling manner. She
seemed to want sadly to speak to somebody, who was absent

359

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

.from her somewhere. I couldn't catch the name, the first
time ; and the second time master knocked at the door, with
his regular mouthful of questions, and another of his trumpery
nosegays.

When I went in, early the next morning, the lady was
clean worn out again, and lay in a kind of faint sleep. Mr.
Goodricke brought his partner, Mr. Garth, with him to advise.
They said she must not be disturbed out of her rest, on any
account. They asked my mistress a many questions, at the
other end of the room, about what the lady's health had been
in past times, and who had attended her, and whether she
had ever suffered much and long together under distress of
mind. I remember my mistress said, 'Yes,' to that last
question. And Mr. Goodricke looked at Mr. Garth, and
shook his head ; and Mr. Garth looked at Mr. Goodricke,
and shook his head. They seemed to think that the distress
might have something to do with the mischief at the lady's
heart. She was but a frail thing to look at, poor creature !
Very little strength, at any time, I should say — very little
strength.

Later on the same morning, when she \voke, the lady
took a sudden turn, and got seemingly a great deal better.
I was not let in again to see her, no more was the housemaid,
for the reason that she was not to be disturbed by strangers.
What I heard of her being better was through my master.
He was in wonderful good spirits about the change, and
looked in at the kitchen windovv' from the garden, with his
great big curly-brimmed v.hite hat on, to go out.

' Good Mrs. Cook,' says he, ' Lady Glyde is better. My
mind is more easy than it was ; and I am going out to
stretch my big legs with a sunny little summer walk. Shall
I order for }'ou, shall I market for you, Mrs. Cook ? What
are you making there ? A nice tart for dinner ? Much crust,
if you please — much crisp crust, my dear, that melts and
crumbles delicious in the mouth.' That was his wa}'. He
was past sixty, and fond of pastry. Just think of that !

The doctor came again in the forenoon, and saw for
himself that Lady Glyde had woke up better. He forbid us
to talk to her, or to let her talk to us, in case she Avas that
way disposed ; saying she must be kept quiet before all things,
and encouraged to sleep as much as possible. She did not
seem to want to talk whenever I saw her — except overnight,
when I couldn't make out what she was saying — she seemed
too much worn down. Mr. Goodricke was not nearly in such
good spirits about her as master. He said nothing when lie

360

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

came down-stairs, except that he would call again at five
o'clock.

About that time (which was before master came home
again), the bell rang hard from the bedroom, and my mistress
ran out into the landing, and called for me to go for Mr.
Goodricke, and tell him the lady had fainted. I got on my
bonnet and shawl, when, as good luck would have it, the
doctor himself came to the house for his promised visit.

I let him in, and went up-stairs along with him. ' Lady
Glyde was just as usual,' says my mistress to him at the
door ; ' she was awake, and looking about her, in a strange,
forlorn manner, when I heard her give a sort of half cry, and
she fainted in a moment.' The doctor went up to the bed,
and stooped down over the sick lady. He looked very
serious, all on a sudden, at the sight of her ; and put his
hand on her heart.

My mistress stared hard in Mr. Goodricke's face. ' Not
dead ! ' says she, whispering, ai>d turning all of a tremble
from head to foot.

'Yes,' says the doctor, very quiet and grave. 'Dead.
I was afraid it would happen suddenly, v\-hen I examined her
heart yesterday.' My mistress stepped back from the bedside,
while he was speaking, and trembled and trembled again.
' Dead ! ' she whispers to herself ; ' dead so suddenly ! dead
so soon ! What will the Count say ? ' Mr. Goodricke
advised her to go down-stairs, and quiet herself a little.
* You have been sitting up all night,' says he; 'and your
nerves are shaken. This person,' says he, meaning me, 'this
person will stay in the room, till I can send for the necessary
assistance.' My mistress did as he told her. ' I must prepare
the Count,' she says. 'I must carefully prepare the Count.'
And so she left us, shaking from head to foot, and went out.

' Your master is a foreigner,' says Mr. Goodricke, when
my mistress had left us. ' Does he understand about regis-
tering the death?' ' I can't rightly tell, sir,' says I ; ' but I
should think not.' The doctor considered a minute ; and
then, says he, ' I don't usually do such things,' says he, ' but
it may save the family trouble in this case, if I register the
death myself. I shall pass the district office in half an hour's
time ; and I can easily look in. Mention, if you please, that
I will do so.' ' Yes, sir,' says I, ' with thanks, I'm sure, for
your kindness in thinking of it.' ' You don't mind staying
here, till I can send you the proper perser.. ? ' says he. ' No,
sir,' says I ; ' I'll stay with the poor lady, till then. I suppose
nothing more could be done, sir, than was done ? ' savs I,

361

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

* No,' says he ; * nothing ; she must have suffered sadly
before ever I saw her : tlic case was hopeless when I was
called in.' ' Ah, dear me ! we all come to it, sooner or later,
don't we, sir?' says I. He gave no answer to that; he
didn't seem to care about talking. He said, ' Good day,'
and went out.

I stopped by the bedside from that time, till the time when
Mr. Goodricke sent the person in, as he had promised. She
was, by name, Jane Gould. I considered her to be a respect-
able-looking woman. She made no remark, except to say
that she understood what was wanted of her, and that she
had winded a many of them in her time.

How master bore the news, when he first heard It, is more
than I can tell ; not having been present. When I did see
him, he looked awfully overcome by it, to be sure. He sat
quiet in a corner, with his fat hands hanging over his thick
knees, and his head down, and his eyes looking at nothing.
He seemed not so much sorry, as scared and dazed like, by
what had happened. My mistress managed all that was to
be done about the funeral. It must have cost a sight of
money : the coffin, in particular, being most beautiful. The
dead lady's husband was away, as we heard, in foreign parts.
But my mistress (being her aunt) settled it with her friends in
the country (Cumberland, I think) that she should be buried
there, in the same grave along with her mother. Everything
was done handsomely, in respect of the funeral, I say again ;
and master went down to attend the burying in the country
himself. He looked grand in his deep mourning, with his big
solemn face, and his slow walk, and his broad hatband — that
he did !

In conclusion, I have to say, in answer to questions put
to me.

(i) That neither I nor my fellow-servant ever saw my
master give Lady Glyde any medicine himself.

(2) That he was never, to my knowledge and belief, left
alone in the room with Lady Glyde.

(3) That I am not able to say what caused the sudden
fright, which my mistress informed me had seized the lady
on her first coming into the house. The cause was never
explained, either to me or to my fellow-servant.

The above statement has been read over In my presence.
I have nothing to add to it, or to take away from it. I say,
on my oath as a Christian woman, This is the truth.

(Signed) Hester Pinhorn, Her + Mark.

'\62

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

2. The Narrative of the Dcctcr.

To the Registrar of the Sub-District in which the under-men-
tioned Death took place. — I hereby certify that I attended
Lady Glyde, aged Twenty-One last Birthday ; that I last saw
her, on Thursday, the 25th of Jul}-, 1850 ; that she died on
the same day at No. 5, Forest-road, St. John's Wood ; and
that the cause of her death was. Aneurism. Duration of
Disease, not known.

(Signed) Alfred Goodricke.

ProP. Title. M.R.C.S. Eng. L.S.A.
Address. 12, Croydon Gardens, St. John's IVood.

3. 7 he N'arrative of Jane Gould.

I WAS the person sent in by Mr. Goodricke, to do what was
right and needful by the remains of a lady, who had died at
the house named in the certificate which precedes this. I
found the body in charge of the servant, Hester Pinhorn. I
remained with it, and prepared it, at the proper time, for the
grave. It was laid in the coffin, in my presence ; and I after-
wards saw the coffin screwed down, previous to its removal.
When that had been done, and not before, I received what
was due to me, and left the house. I refer persons who may
wish to investigate my character to Mr. Goodricke. He will
bear witness that I can be trusted to tell the truth.

(Signed) Jane Gould.

4. The Narrative of the Tombstone.

Sacred to the Memory of Laura, Lady Glyde, wife of Sir
Percival Glyde, Bart., of Blackwater Park, Hampshire ; and
daughter of the late Philip Fairlie, Esq., of Limnneridge
House, in this parish. Born, March 27th, 1829; married,
December 22nd, 1849 ; died July 25th, 1850.

5. The Narrative of Walter Hartright.

Early in the summer of 1850, 1, and my survivingcompanions,
left the wilds and forests of Central America for home.
Arrived at the coast, we took ship there for England. The
vessel was wrecked in the Gulf of Mexico ; I was among
the few saved from the sea. It was my third escape from
peril of death. Death by disease, death by the Indians,
death by drowning — all three had approached me ; all three
had passed me by.

The survivors of the wreck were rescued by an American
vessel, bound for Liverpool. The ship reached her port on

363

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

the thirteenth day of October, 1S50. We landed late in the
afternoon ; and I arrived in London the same night.

These pages are not the record of my wanderings and my
dangers away from home. The motives which led me from
my country and my friends to a new world of adventure and
peril are known. From that self-imposed exile I came back,
as I hoped, prayed, believed I should come back — a changed
man. In the waters of a new life I had tempered my nature
afresh. In the stern school of extremity and danger my will
had learnt to be strong, my heart to be resolute, my mind to
rely on itself. I had gone out to fly from my own future. I
came back to face it, as a man should.

To face it with that inevitable suppression of myself, which
I knew it would demand from me. I had parted with the
worst bitterness of the past, but not with my heart's remem-
brance of the sorrow and the tenderness of that memorable
time. I had not ceased to feel the one irreparable disappoint-
ment of my life — I had only learnt to bear it. Laura Fairlie
was in all my thoughts when the ship bore me away, and I
looked my last at England. Laura Fairlie was in all my
thoughts when the ship brought me back, and the morning
light showed the friendly shore in view.

My pen traces the old letters as my heart goes back to
the old love. I write of her as Laura Fairlie still. It is hard
to think of her, it is hard to speak of her, by her husband's
name.

There are no more words of explanation to add, on my
appearing for the second time in these pages. This narrative,
if I have the strength and the courage to write it, may now
go on.

My first anxieties and first hopes, when the morning came,
centred in my mother and my sister. I felt the necessity of
preparing them for the joy and surprise of my return, after an
absence, during which it had been impossible for them to re-
ceive any tidings of me for months past. Early in the morn-
ing, I sent a letter to the Hampstead Cottage ; and followed
it myself in an hour's time.

When the first meeting was over, when our quiet and
composure of other days began gradually to return to us, I
saw something in my mother's face which told me that a
secret oppression lay heavy on her heart. There was more
than love — there was sorrow in the anxious eyes that looked
on me so tenderly ; there was pity in the kind hand that
slowly and fondly strengthened its hold on mine. We had

3^4

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

no concealmenls from each other. She knew how the hope
of my Hfe had been wrecked — she knew why I had left her.
It was on my lips to ask as composedly as I could, if any
letter had come for me from Miss Halcombe — if there was
any news of her sister that I might hear. But, when I looked
in my mother's face, I lost courage to put the question even
in that guarded form. I could only say, doubtingly and re-
strainedly,

' You have something to tell me.'

My sister, who had been sitting opposite to us, rose
suddenly, without a word of explanation — rose, and left the
room.

My mother moved closer to me on the sofa and put her
arms round my neck. Those fond arms trembled ; the tears
flowed fast over the faithful loving face.

' Walter ! ' she whispered — ' my own darling ! my heart is
heavy for you. Oh, my son ! my son ! try to remember that
I am still left ! '

My head sank on her bosom. She had said all, in saying
those words.

It was the morning of the third day since my return — the
morning of the sixteenth of October.

I had remained with them at the Cottage ; I had tried
hard not to embitter the happiness of my return, to tliem, as
it was embittered to me. I had done all man could to rise
after the shock, and accept my life resignedly — to let my
great sorrow come in tenderness to my heart, and not in
despair. It was useless and hopeless. No tears soothed my
aching eyes ; no relief came to me from my sister's sympathy
or my mother's love.

On that third morning, I opened my heart to them. At
last the words passed my lips which I had longed to speak
on the day when my mother told me of her death.

' Let me go away alone, for a little while,' I said. ' I
shall bear it better when I have looked once more at the
place where I first saw her — when I have knelt and prayed
by the grave where they have laid her to rest.'

I departed on my journey — my journey to the grave of
Laura Fairlie.

It was a quiet autumn afternoon, when I stopped at tne
solitary station, and set forth alone, on foot, by the well-
remembered road. The waning sun was shining faintly
through thin white clouds ; the air was v.-arm and still ; the

365

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

peacefulness of the lonely country was over-shadowed and
saddened by the influence of the falling' year.

I reached the moor ; I stood again on the brow of the hill ;
I looked on, along the path — and there were the familiar
g-arden trees in the distance, the clear sweeping semicircle of
the drive, the high white walls of Limmeridge House. The
chances and changes, the wanderings and dangers of months
and months past, all shrank and shrivelled to nothing in my
mind. It was like yesterday, since my feet had last trodden
the fragrant heathy ground ! I thought I should see her
coming- to meet me, with her little straw hat shading her
face, her simple dress fluttering in the air, and her well-filled
sketch-book ready in her hand.

Oh, Death, thou hast thy sting ! oh, Grave, thou hast thy
victory !

I turned aside ; and there below me, in the glen, was the
lonesome gray church ; the porch where I had waited for the
coming of the woman in white ; the hills encircling the quiet
burial-ground ; the brook bubbling cold over its stony bed.
There was the marble cross, fair and white, at the head of
the tomb — the tomb that now rose over mother and daughter
alike.

I approached the grave. I crossed once more the low
stone stile, and bared my head as I touched the sacred
ground. Sacred to gentleness and goodness ; sacred to
reverence and grief.

I stopped before the pedestal from which the cross rose.
On one side of it, on the side nearest to me, the nev/ly-cut
inscription met my eyes — the hard, clear, cruel black letters
which told the story of her life and death. I tried to read
them. I did read, as far as the name. * Sacred to the

Memory of Laura ' The kind blue eyes dim with tears ;

the fair head drooping wearily ; the innocent, parting words
which implored me to leave her — oh, for a happier last
memory of her than this ; the memory I took away with me,
the memory I bring back with me to her grave !

A second time I tried to read the inscription. I saw, at
the end, the date of her death ; and above it

Above it, there were lines on the marble, there was a
name among them, which disturbed my thoughts of her. I
went round to the other side of the grave, where there v/as
nothing to read — nothing of earthly vileness to force its v.-ay
between her spirit and mine.

I knelt down by the tomb. I laid my hands, I laid my
head, on the broad white stone, and closed my weary eyes on

366

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

the earth around, on the hght above. I let her come back to
me. Oh, my love ! my love ! my heart may speak to you
now/ It is yesterday again, since we parted — yesterday,
since your dear hand lay in mine — yesterday, since my eves
looked their last on you. My love ! my love !

* * * * *

Time had flowed on ; and Silence had fellen, like thick
night, over its course.

The first sound that came, after the heavenly peace,
rustled faintly, like a passing breath of air, over the grass of
the burial-ground. I heard it nearing me slowly, \mtil it
came changed to my ear— came like footsteps moving on-
ward— then stopped.

I looked up.

The sunset was near at hand. The clouds had parted ;
the slanting light fell mellow over the hills. The last of the
day was cold and clear and still in the quiet valley of the
dead.

Beyond me, in the burial-ground, standing together In the
cold clearness of the lower light, I saw two women. They
were lookmg towards the tomb ; looking towards me.

Two.

They came a little on ; and stopped again. Their veils
were down, and hid their faces from me. When they
stopped, one of them raised her veil. In the still evenino-
light, I saw the face of Marian Halcombe. "^

Changed, changed as if years had passed over it ! The
eyes large and wild, and looking at me with a strange terror
in them. The face worn and wasted piteously. Pain and
fear and grief written on her as with a brand.

I took one step towards her from the grave. She never
moved— she never spoke. The veiled woman with her cried
out faintly. I stopped. The springs of my life fell low ; and
the shuddering of an unutterable dread crept over me from
head to foot.

The woman with the veiled face moved away from her
companion, and came towards me slowly. Left by herself
standing by herself, Marian Halcombe spoke. It was the
voice that I remembered— the voice not changed, like the
frightened eyes and the wasted face.

'My dream ! my dream ! ' I heard her say those words
sottly, in the awful silence. She sank on her knees, and
raised her clasped hands to the heaven. ' Father ! strengthen
him. Father ! help him, in his hour of need.'

367

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

The woman came on ; slowly and silently came on. I
looked at her — at her, and at none other, from that moment.

The voice that was praying- for me, faltered and sank low
— then rose on a sudden, and called affrig-htedly, called
despairingly to me to come away.

But the veiled woman had possession of me, body and
soul. She stopped on one side of the grave. We stood face
to face, with the tombstone between us. She was close to
the inscription on the side of the pedestal. Her gown touched
the black letters.

The voice came nearer, and rose and rose more passionately
still. ' Hide your face ! don't look at her ! Oh, for God's
sake spare him ! '

The woman lifted her veil.

* Sacred to the Memory of Laura, Lady Clyde '

Laura, Lady Clyde, was standing by the inscription, and
was looking- at me over the grave.

[The Second Epocli ofUic Slo>'y closes /icre.\

368

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

THE THIRD EPOCH.

The Story continued by Walter Hautright.

I OFEN a new pa-c. I advance m.v narrative by one week.

The history of the interval which I thus pass over must
remain unrecorded. My heart turns faint, my mind sinks in
darkness and contusion when I think of it. ' This must not
be If I, who write, am to guide, as I ought, you who read.
This must not be it the clue that leads through the windin-.;
h indr ^°''^' '^ ^° remain, from end to end, untangled in my

_ A life suddenly changed— its whole purpose created afresh •
Its hopes and fears, its struggles, its interests, and its sacril
rices, all turned at once and forever into a new direction— this
IS the prospect which now opens before me like the burst of
view from a mountain's top. I left my narrative in the quiet
shadow of Limmeridge church : I resume it, one week later
in the stir and turmoil of a London street. '

The street is in a populous and a poor neighbourhood.
1 he ground floor of one of the houses in it is occupied by a
sma 1 newsvendor's shop ; and the first floor and the second
are let as furnished lodgings of the humblest kind.

I have taken those two floors in an assumed name Oa
the upper floor I live, with a room to work in, a room to
sleep m. On the lower floor, under the same assumed name
two women live, who are described as my sisters. I get my
bread by drawing and engraving on wood for the cheap
periodicals. My sisters are supposed to help me bv takin-
in a little needlework. Our poor place of abode, our' humble
calling, our assumed relationship, and our assumed name,

3^ B B

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

are all used alike as a means of hiding us in the house-forest
of London. We are numbered no longer with the people
whose lives are open and known. I am an obscure, unnoticed
man, without patron or friend to help me. Marian Halcombe
is nothing- now, but my eldest sister, who provides for our
household wants by the toil of her own hands. We two, in
the estimation of others, are at once the dupes and the agents
of a daring imposture. We are supposed to be the accom-
plices of mad Anne Catherick, who claims the name, the
place, and the living personality of dead Lady Glyde.

That is our situation. That is the changed aspect in
which we three must appear, henceforth, in this narrative,
for many and many a page to come.

In the eye of reason and of law, in the estimation o(
relatives and friends, according to every received formality
of civilised society, * Laura, Lady Glyde,' lay buried with her
mother in Limmeridge churchyard. Torn in her own lifetime
from the list of the living, the daughter of Philip Fairlie and
the wife of Percival Glyde might still exist for her sister,
might still exist for me, but to all the world besides she was
dead. Dead to her uncle who had renounced her ; dead to
the servants of the house who had failed to recognise her ;
dead to the persons in authority who had transmitted her
fortune to her husband and her aunt ; dead to m.y mother and
my sister, who believed me to be the dupe of an adventuress
and the victim of a fraud ; socially, morally, legally — dead.

And yet alive ! Alive in poverty and in hiding. Alive,
with the poor drawing-master to fight her battle, and to win
the way back for her to her place in the world of living
beings.

Did no suspicion, excited by my own knowledge of Anne
Catherick's resemblance to her, cross my mind, when her face
was first revealed to me? Not the shadow of a suspicion,
from the moment when she lifted her veil by the side of the
inscription which recorded her death.

Before the sun of that day had set, before the last glimpse
of the home which was closed against her had passed from
our view, the farewell words I spoke when we parted at
Limmeridge House had been recalled by both of us ; repeated
by me, recognised by her. ' If ever the time conies when the
devotion of my whole heart and soul and strength v/ill give
you a moment's happiness, or spare you a moment's sorrow,
will you try to remember the poor drawing-master who has
taught you ? ' She, who now remembered so little of the
trouble and terror of a later time, remembered those words,

370

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

:?l.!fn,LT.!',^°^;six^';;t^"''r:t:f '- «- boson,

she called me by my name, vl™ she said " Vr'l'"'' '"'^''",

u^:^:z /^i^^^: 1?- ^- 1 -e,r

by my side, throuo-h neril of ri^nfi, "''y'^t^^^ ^'^an 1 had fallen
escaped, the Ha d tClv^ thnce renewed, and thrice

futur^e, had1e?me to mee that"?;';; ° V^! "^""'^ '"^^^ '^ ^he
sorely tried and sad^v rh. ^ T""' J'''^'''^ ^n^ disowned,
cloucfed robbed of her .?^.'' !^^^beauty faded, her mind
amono- ivn^ creatures ft T ^" ^^^^T^"^^' ^^ ^er place
devotfon o ^w whl heTr' ^ ,nd '°'7" ^. '^''^^ Promised; the
laid blamelessly tt ftto^f,:^'^:^ In'hf r" ^hf Vh'^

Sf^itr-Sd^SSS^^

II.

The

I shall re]^tt h^,u ^ - ^'''''''' "'^^* '^ome next.

interrupred;:|?ir, in ' aSr^'^l^f^^^rr '"he"' "f"^ 'f '"
selves, but in the words of th^ k r^ ? • ^ ^P^'^^kers them-
abstract which I commit^L . •! ' ^'f "' studiously simple
and for the SuLTeTf^l::;'^^^^^^^^^^^
web wd, be most speedily an'd molt bte%ibly unrolled "^^''
HoJI^e5:?;^^SSle^t^^^-^^^ --" the

fact'^f "Jhll dSLt'and"?h''"" '^^ ^"^^^"^'^ ^---- the
circumstances uSerwhicS it had ';:r""7 ''''''^'^' °^ the
cated to Miss Halcon^be bv th. h f P^""""' '""^'^ communi-
some days aftenvarrrhow n!. ^^^^^^^^P^r. It was not till
in the aLenc^of anv wrl?^''"^''^^''"^^'^tly,Mrs. Michelson,
sence ot any written memorandum on the subject

THE WOiMAN IN WHITE

could not undertake to say) that a letter ari-ived from Madame
Fosco announcing- Lady Clyde's sudden death in Count
Fosco's house. The letter avoided mentioning- dates, and
left it to Mrs. Michelson's discretion to break the news at
once to Miss Halcombe, or to defer doing so until that lady's
health should be more firmly established.

Havingconsulted Mr. Dawson (who had been himself delayed
by ill health in resuming his attendance at Blackwater Park),
Mrs. Michelson, by the doctor's advice, and in the doctor's
presence, communicated the news, either on the day when
the letter was received, or on the day after. It is not neces-
sary to dwell here upon the effect which the intelligence of
Lady Gl3'de's sudden death produced on her sister. It is
only useful to the present purpose to say that she was not
able to travel for more than three weeks afterwards. At the
end of that time she proceeded to London, accompanied by
the housekeeper. They parted there ; Mrs. Michelson pre-
viously informing Miss Halcombe of her address, in case they
might wish to communicate at a future period.

On parting with the housekeeper, Miss Halcombe went at
once to the office of Messrs. Cilmore and Kyrle, to consult
with the latter gentleman, in Mr. Cilmore's absence. She
mentioned to Mr. Kyrle, what she had thought it desirable to
conceal from every one else (Mrs. ISIichelson included) — her
suspicion of the circumstances under which Lady Clyde was
said to have met her death. Mr. Kyrle, who had previously
given friendly proof of his anxiety to serve Miss Halcombe, at
once vmdertook to make such inquiries as the delicate and
dangerous nature of the investigation proposed to him would
permit.

To exhaust this part of the subject before going farther,
it may be here mentioned that Count Fosco offered every
facility to Mr. Kyrle, on that gentleman stating that he was
sent by Miss Halcombe to collect such particulars as had not
yet reached her of Lady Clyde's decease. Mr. Kyrle was
placed in communication with the medical man, Mr. Cood-
ricke, and with the two servants. In the absence of any
means of ascertaining the exact date of Lady Clyde's depar-
ture from Blackwater Park, the result of the doctor's and the
servants' evidence, and of the volunteered statements of Count
Fosco and his wife, was conclusive to the mind of Mr. Kyrle.
He could only assume that the intensity of Miss Halcombe's
suffering under the loss of her sister, had misled her judg-
ment in a most deplorable manner ; and he wrote her word
that the shocking suspicion to which she had alluded in his

372

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

presence, was, in his opinion, destitute of the smallest fragf-
ment of foundation in truth. Thus the investigation by Mr.
Gilmore's partner began and ended.

Meanwhile, Miss Halcombe had returned to Limmeridge
House : and had there collected all the additional information
which she was able to obtain.

Mr. Fairlie had received his first intimation of his niece's
death from his sister, Madame Fosco ; this letter also not
containing any exact reference to dates. He had sanctioned
his sister's proposal that the deceased lady should be laid in
her mother's grave in Limmeridge churchyard. Count Fosco
had accompanied the remains to Cumberland, and had at-
tended the funeral at Limmeridge, which took place on the
30th of July. It was followed, as a mark of respect, by all
the inhabitants of the village and the neighbourhood. On the
next day, the inscription (originally drawn out, it was said,
by the aunt of the deceased lady, and submitted for approval
to her brother, Mr, Fairlie) was engraved on one side of the
monument over the tomb.

On the day of the funeral and for one day after it Count
Fosco had been received as a guest at Limmeridge House ;
but no interview had taken place between Mr. Fairlie and
himself, by the former gentleman's desire. They had com-
municated by writing ; and, through this medium. Count
Fosco had made Mr. Fairlie acquainted with the details of
his niece's last illness and death. The letter presenting this
information added no new facts to the facts already known ;
but one very remarkable paragraph was contained in the
postscript. It referred to Anne Catherick.

The substance of the paragraph in question was as
follows :

It first informed Mr. Fairlie that Anne Catherick (of whom
he might hear full particulars from Miss Halcombe when she
reached Limmeridge) had been traced and recovered in the
neighbourhood of Blackwater Park, and had been, for the
second time, placed under the charge of the medical men
from whose custody she had once escaped.

This was the first part of the postscript. The second part
warned Mr. Fairlie that Anne Catherick's mental malady had
been aggravated by her long freedom from control ; and that
the insane hatred and distrust of Sir Percival Glyde, which
had been one of her most marked delusions in former times,
still existed, under a newly-acquired form. The unfortunate
woman's last idea in connexion with Sir Percival, was the
idea of annoying and distressing him, and of elevating her-

373

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

could not undertake to say) that a letter arrived fi-oni Madame
Fosco announcing Lady Clyde's sudden death ni Count
Fosco's house. The letter avoided mentionmg dates, ancl
left it to Mrs. Michelson's discretion to break the news at
once to Miss Halcombe, or to defer doing so until that lady s
health should be more firmly established.

HavingconsultedMr.Dawson(Avhohadbeenhimselfdelayed

by ill health in resuming his attendance at Blackwater Park;,
Mrs. Michelson, by the doctor's advice, and in the doctor s
presence, communicated the news, either on the day when
the letter was received, or on the day after. It is not neces-
sary to dwell here upon the effect which the intelligence ot
Lady Clyde's sudden death produced on her sister. It is
only useful to the present purpose to say that she was not
able to travel for more than three weeks afterwards. At the
end of that time she proceeded to London, accompanied by
the housekeeper. They parted there ; Mrs. Michelson pre-
viously informing Miss Halcombe of her address, in case they
mig-ht wish to communicate at a future period.

On parting with the housekeeper. Miss Halcombe went at
once to the office of Messrs. Gilmore and Kyrle, to consult
with the latter gentleman, in Mr. Cilmore's absence, bhe
mentioned to Mr. Kyrle, what she had thoughts desirable to
conceal from every one else (Mrs. ?.Iichelson inckided)-her
suspicion of the circumstances under which Lady Glyde was
said to have met her death. Mr. Kyrle, who had previously
o-iven friendly proof of his anxiety to serve Miss Halcombe, at
Snce undertook to make such inquiries as the delicate and
dangerous nature of the investigation proposed to him would

permit. • r .1

To exhaust this part of the subject before going farther,
it may be here mentioned that Count Fosco offered every
facility to Mr. Kvrle, on that gentleman stating that he was
sent by Miss Halcombe to collect such particulars as had not
yet reached her of Lady Clyde's decease. Mr. Kyrle was
placed in communication with the medical man, Mr. Good-
ricke, and with the two servants. In the absence of any
means of ascertaining the exact date of Lady Clyde s depar-
ture from Blackwater Park, the result of the doctor's and the
servants' evidence, and of the volunteered statements of Count
Fosco and his wife, was conclusive to the mind of Mr. Kyrle.
He could only assume that the intensity of Miss Halcombe s
suffering under the loss of her sister, had misled her judg-
ment in a most deplorable manner ; and he wrote herword
that the shocking suspicion to which she had alluded in his

372

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

presence, was, in his opinion, destitute of the smallest fragf-
ment of foundation in truth. Thus the investigation by Mr.
Gilmore's partner began and ended.

Meanwhile, Miss Halcombe had returned to Limmeridge
House : and had there collected all the additional information
which she was able to obtain,

Mr. Fairlie had received his first intimation of his niece's
death from his sister, Madame Fosco ; this letter also not
containing any exact reference to dates. He had sanctioned
his sister's proposal that the deceased lady should be laid in
her mother's grave in Limmeridge churchyard. Count Fosco
had accompanied the remains to Cumberland, and had at-
tended the funeral at Limmeridge, which took place on the
30th of July. It was followed, as a mark of respect, by all
the inhabitants of the village and the neighbourhood. On the
next day, the inscription (originally drawn out, it was said,
by the aunt of the deceased lady, and submitted for approval
to her brother, Mr. Fairlie) was engraved on one side of the
monument over the tomb.

The substance of the paragraph in question was as
follows :

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

could not undertake to say) that a letter arrived from Madame
Fosco announcing Lady Clyde's sudden death in Count
Fosco's house. The letter avoided mentioning dates, and
left it to Mrs. Michelson's discretion to break the news at
once to Miss Halcombe, or to defer doing so until that lady's
health should be more firmly established.

Having consulted Mr. Dawson (who had been himself delayed
by ill health in resuming his attendance at Blackwater Park),
Mrs. Michelson, by the doctor's advice, and in the doctor's
presence, communicated the news, either on the day when
the letter was received, or on the day after. It is not neces-
sary to dwell here upon the effect which the intelligence of
Lady Clyde's sudden death produced on her sister. It is
only useful to the present purpose to say that she was not
able to travel for more than three weeks afterw^ards. At the
end of that time she proceeded to London, accompanied by
the housekeeper. They parted there ; Mrs. Michelson pre-
viously informing Miss Halcombe of her address, in case they
might wish to communicate at a future period.

On parting with the housekeeper, Miss Halcombe went at
once to the office of Messrs. Cilmore and Kyrle, to consult
with the latter gentleman, in Mr. Cilmore's absence. She
mentioned to Mr. Kyrle, what she had thought it desirable to
conceal from every one else (Mrs. Michelson included) — her
suspicion of the circumstances under which Lady Clyde was
said to have met her death. Mr. Kyrle, who had previously
given friendly proof of his anxiety to serve Miss Halcombe, at
once undertook to make such inquiries as the delicate and
dangerous nature of the investigation proposed to him would
permit.

372

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

presence, was, in his opinion, destitute of the smallest frag"-
ment of foundation in truth. Thus the investigation by Mr.
Gilmore's partner began and ended.

Meanvv-hile, Miss Halcombe had returned to Limmeridge
House : and had there collected all the additional information
which she was able to obtain.

Mr. Fairlie had received his first intimation of his niece's
death from his sister, Madame Fosco ; this letter also not
containing any exact reference to dates. He had sanctioned
his sister's proposal that the deceased lady should be laid in
her mother's grave in Limmeridge churchyard. Count Fosco
had accompanied the remains to Cumberland, and had at-
tended the funeral at Limmeridge, which took place on the
30th of July. It was followed, as a mark of respect, by all
the inhabitants of the village and the neighbourhood. On the
next day, the inscription (originally drawn out, it was said,
by the aunt of the deceased lady, and submitted for approval
to her brother, Mr. Fairlie) was engraved on one side of the
monument over the tomb.

On the day of the funeral and for one day after it Count
Fosco had been received as a guest at Limmeridge House ;
but no interviev/ had taken place between ^Ir. Fairlie and
himself, by the former gentleman's desire. They had com-
municated by writing ; and, through this medium. Count
Fosco had made Mr. Fairlie acquainted with the details of
his niece's last illness and death. The letter presenting this
information added no new facts to the facts already known ;
but one very remarkable paragraph was contained in the
postscript. It referred to Anne Catherick.

The substance of the paragraph in question v/as as
follows :

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

some questions which she was too much agitated to ask at
that moment, and that she had no intention of misleading-
the nurse into any dereUction of duty, the woman took the
money, and proposed three o'clock on the next day as
the time for the interview. She might then slip out for half
an hour, after the patients had dined ; and she would meet
the lady in a retired place, outside the high nortti wall which
screened the grounds of the house. Miss Halcombe had
only time to assent, and to whisper to her sister that she
should hear from her on the next day, when the proprietor of
the Asylum joined them. He noticed his visitor's agitation,
which Miss Halcombe accounted for by saying that her inter-
view with Anne Catherick had a little startled her, at first.
She took her leave as soon after as possible — that is to say,
as soon as she could summon courage to force herself from
the presence of her unfortunate sister.

A very little reflection, when the capacity to reflect re-
turned, convinced her that any attempt to identify Lady
Clyde and to rescue her by legal means, would, even if suc-
cessful, involve a delay that might be fatal to her sister's
intellects, which were shaken already by the horror of the
situation to which she had been consigned. By the time
Miss Halcombe had got back to London, she had determined
to eff'ect Lady Clyde's escape privatel)', by means of the
nurse.

She went at once to her stockbroker ; and sold out of the
funds all the little property she possessed, amounting to
rather less than seven hundred pounds. Determined, if
necessary, to pay the price of her sister's liberty with every
farthing she had in the world, she repaired the next day,
having the whole sum about her, \n bank-notes, to her
appointment outside the Asylum wall.

The nurse was there. Miss Halcombe approached the
subject cautiously by many preliminary questions. She dis-
covered, among other particulars, that the nurse who had,
in former times, attended on the true Anne Catherick, had
been held responsible (although she was not to blame for It)
for the patient's escape, and had lost her place in conse-
quence. The same penalty, it was added, would attach to the
person then speaking to her, if the supposed Anne Catherick
was missing a second time ; and, moreover, the nurse, in this
case, had an especial interest in keeping her place. She was
engaged to be married ; and she and her future husband were
waiting till they could save, together, between two and three
hundred pounds to start in business. The nurse's wages were

378

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

good; and she might succeed, by strict economy, in contributing
her small share towards the sum required in two years' time.

On this hint, Miss Halcombe spoke. She declared that
the supposed Anne Catherick was nearly related to her ; that
she had been placed in the Asylum under a fatal mistake ; and
that the nurse Vvould be doing a good and a Christian action
in being the means of restoring them to one another. Before
there was time to start a single objection, Miss Halcombe
took four bank-notes of a hundred pounds each from her
pocket-book, and offered them to the woman, as a compensa-
tion for the risk she was to run, and for the loss of her place.

The nurse hesitated, through sheer incredulity and sur-
prise. Miss Halcombe pressed the point on her firml}-.

'You will be doing a good action,' she repeated; 'you
will be helping the most injured and unhappy woman alive.
There is your marriage-portion for a reward. Bring her safely
to me, here ; and I will put these four bank-notes into your
hand, before I claim her.'

' Will you give me a letter saying those words, which I
can show to my sweetheart, when he asks how I got the
money ? ' inquired the woman.

' I will bring the letter with me, ready written and signed,'
answered Miss Halcombe.

* Then I'll risk it,' said the nurse.

* When ? '

* To-morrow.'

It was hastily agreed between them that Miss Halcombe
should return early the next morning, and wait out of sight,
among the trees— always, however, keeping near the quiet
spot of ground under the north wall. The nurse could fix no
time for her appearance ; caution requiring that she should
wait, and be guided by circumstances. On that understand-
ing they separated.

Miss Halcombe was at her place, with the promised letter,
and the promised bank-notes, before ten the next morning.
She waited more than an hour and a half. At the end of that
time, the nurse came quickly round the corner of the wall,
holding Lady Clyde by the arm. The moment thev met. Miss

Halcombe put the bank-notes and the letter into her hand

and the sisters were united again.

The nurse had dressed Lady Clyde, with excellent fore-
thought, in a bonnet, veil, and shawl of her own. Miss Hal-
combe only detained her to suggest a means of turning the
pursuit in a false direction, when the escape was discovered
at the Asylum. She was to go back to the house ; to mention

379

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

ill the hearing of the other nurses that Anne Catherick had
been inquiring latterly, about the distance from London to
Hampshire ; to wait till the last moment, before discovery
was inevitable ; and then to give the alarm that Anne was
missing. The supposed inquiries about Hampshire, when
communicated to the owner of the Asylum, would lead him
to imagine that his patient had returned to Blackwater Park,
under the influence of the delusion which made her persist
in asserting herself to be Lady Glyde ; and the first pursuit
would, in all probabilit}-, be turned in that direction.

The nurse consented to follow these suggestions — the
more readily, as they off'ered her the means of securing her-
self against any worse consequences than the loss of her place,
by remaining in the Asylum, and so maintaining the appear-
ance of innocence, at least. She at once returned to the
house ; and Miss Halcombe lost no time in taking her sister
back with her to London. They caught the afternoon train
to Carlisle the same afternoon, and arrived at Limmeridge,
without accident or difficulty of any kind, that night.

During the latter part of their journey, they were alone in
the carriage, and Miss Halcombe was able to collect such
remembrances of the past as her sister's confused and weak-
ened memory was able to recall. The terrible story of the
conspiracy so obtained, was presented in fragments, sadly
incoherent in themselves, and widely detached from each
other. Imperfect as the revelation was, it must nevertheless
be recorded here before this explanatory narrative closes with
the events of the next day at Limmeridge House.

Lady Clyde's recollection of the events which followed her
departure from Blackwater Park began with her arrival at
the London terminus of the South Western Railway. She
had omitted to make a memorandum beforehand of the day
on which she took the journey. All hope of fixing that im-
portant date, by any evidence of hers, or of Mrs. Michelson's,
must be given up for lost.

On the arrival of the train at the platform. Lady Clyde
found Count Fosco waiting for her. He was at the carriage
door as soon as the porter could open it. The train was un-
usually crowded, and there v/as great confusion in getting
the luggage. Some person whom Count Fosco brought with
him procured the luggage which belonged to Lady Glyde. It
was marked with her name. She drove away alone with the
Count, in a vehicle which she did not particularly notioe at
the time.

380

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

Her first question, on leavint^^ the terminus, referred to
Miss Halcombe. The Count informed her that Miss Hal-
combe had net yet ^one to Cumberland ; after-consideration
having- caused him to doubt the prudence of her taking- so
long- a journey without some days' previous rest.

Lady Clyde next inquired whether her sister was then stay-
ing in the Count's house. Her recollection of the answer
was confused, her only distinct impression in relation to it
being that the Count declared he was then taking- her to see
Miss Halcombe. Lady Clyde's experience of London was so
limited, that she could not tell, at the time, through what
streets they were driving. But they never left the streets,
and they never passed any gardens or trees. When the car-
riage stopped, it stopped in a small street, behind a square —
a square in which there were shops, and public buildings,
and many people. From these recollections (of which Lady
Clyde was certain) it seems quite clear that Count Fosco did
not take her to his own residence in the suburb of St. John's
Wood.

They entered the house, and went up-stairs to a back
room, either on the first or second floor. The luggage was
carefully brought in. A female seryant opened the door; and
a man with a dark beard, apparently a foreigner, met them
in the hall, and with great politeness showed them the way
up-stairs. In answer to Lady Clyde's inquiries, the Count
assured her that Miss Halcombe was in the house, and that
she should be immediately informed of her sister's arrival.
He and the foreigner then went away and left her by herself
in the room. It was poorly furnished as a sitting-room, and
it looked out on the backs of houses.

The place was remarkably quiet ; no footsteps \%ent up
or down the stairs — she only heard in the room beneath her
a dull, rumbling sound of men's voices talking. Before she
had been long left alone, the Count returned, to explain that
Miss Hal-combe was then taking rest, and could not be dis-
turbed for a little while. He was accompanied into the room
by a gentleman (an Englishman) whom he begged to present
as a friend of his.

After this singular introduction — in the course of which
no names, to the best of Lady Clyde's recollection, had been
mentioned — she was left alone with the stranger. He was
perfectly civil ; but he startled and confused her by some odd
questions about herself, and by looking at her, while he asked
them, in a strange manner. After remaining a short time,
he went out ; and a minute or two afterwards a second.

3S1

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

stranger — also an Eng-lishman — came in. This person in-
troduced himself as another friend of Count Fosco's ; and he,
in his turn, looked at her very oddly, and asked some curious
questions — never, as well as she could remember, addressing
her by name ; and going out again, after a little while, like
the first man. By this time, she v/as so frightened about
herself, and so uneasy about her sister, that she had thoughts
of venturing down-stairs again, and claiming the protection
and assistance of the only woman she had seen in the house
—the servant who answered the door.

Just as she had risen from her chair, the Count came back
into the room.

The moment he appeared, she asked anxiously how long
the meeting between her sister and herself was to be still
delayed. At first, he returned an evasive answer ; but, on
being pressed, he acknowledged, with great apparent reluc-
tance, that Miss Halcombc was by no means so well as he
had hitherto represented her to be. His tone and manner, in
making this reply, so alarmed Lady Clyde, or rather so pain-
fully increased the uneasiness which she had felt in the com-
pany of the two strangers, that a sudden faintness overcame
her, and she was obliged to ask for a glass of Avater. The
Count called from the door for water, and for a bottle of
smelling-salts. Both were brought in by the foreign-looking
man with the beard. The water, when Lady Clyde attempted
to drink it, had so strange a taste that it increased her faint-
ness ; and she hastily took the bottle of salts from Count
Fosco, and smelt at it. Her head became giddy on the
instant. The Count caught the bottle as it dropped out of
her hand ; and the last impression of which she was conscious
was that he held it to her nostrils again.

From this point, her recollections were found to be con-
fused, fragmentary, and difficult to reconcile with any reason-
able probability.

Her own impression was that she recovered her senses
later in the evening ; that she then left the house ; that she
went (as she had previously arranged to go, at Blackwater
Park) to Mrs. Vesey's ; that she drank tea there ; and that
she passed the night under Mrs. Vesey's roof. She was
totally unable to say how, or when, or in what company, she
left the house to which Count Fosco had brought her. But
she persisted in asserting that she had been to Mrs. Vesey's ;
and, still more extraordinary, that she had been helped to
undress and get to bed by Mrs. Rubelle ! She could not re-
member what the conversation was at Mrs. Vesey's, or whom

382

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

she saw there besides that ladv, or whv Mrs. Rubelle should
have been present in the house to help 'her.

Her recollection of what happened to her the next morning'-
was still more vag-ue and unreliable. ^

She had some dim idea of driving- out (at what hour she
could not say) with Count Fosco— and with Mrs. Rubelle,
again, for a female attendant. But when, and why, she left
Mrs. Vesey she could not tell ; neither did she know what
direction the carriage drove in, or where it set her down, or
whether the Count and Mrs. Rubelle did or did not remain
with her all the time she was out. At this point in her sad
story there was a total blank. She had no impressions of the
taintest kind to communicate— no idea whether one dav, or
more than one day, had passed— until she came to he'rself
suddenly in a strange place, surrounded bv women who were
all unknown to her.

This was the Asylum. Here she first heard herself called
by Anne Catherick's name ; and here, as a last remarkable cir-
cumstance in the story of the conspiracv, her own eyes in-
formed her that she had Anne Catherick's clothes on. The
nurse, on the first night in the Asylum, had shown her the
marks on each article of her underclothine as it was taken
off, and had said, not at all irritably or unkindly, ' Look at
your own name on your own clothes, and don't Worry us all
any more about being Lady Clyde. She's dead and buried •
and you're alive and hearty. Do look at your clothes now !
There it is, in good marking ink ; and there you will find it
on all your old things, which we have kept in the house-
Anne Cathenck, as plain as print ! ' And there it was, vvhen
Miss Halcombe examined the linen her sister wore, on the
night ot their arrival at Limmeridge House.

These were the only recollections— all of them uncertain,
and some of them contradictory— which could be extracted
from Lady Clyde, by careful questioning, on the journey to
Cumberland. Miss Halcombe abstained from pressing' her
with any inquiries relating to events in the Asylum f her
mind being but too evidently unfit to bear the trial of revert-
ing to them. It was known, by the voluntary admission of
the owner of the mxadhouse, that she was received there on
the twenty-seventh of July. From that date, until the fif-
teenth of October (the day of her rescue), she had been under
restraint; her identity with Anne Catherick systematically
asserted, and her sanity, from first to last, practically denied.
Faculties less delicately balanced, constitutions less tenderly

383

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

organised, must have suftercd under such an ordeal as this.
No man could have gone through it, and come out of it un-
changed.

Arriving at Limmeridge late on the*5vening of the fifteenth,
Miss Halcombe wisely resolved not to attempt the assertion
of Lady Clyde's identity, until the next day.

The first thing in the morning, she went to Mr. Fairlie's
room ; and, using all possible cautions and preparations
beforehand, at last told him, in so many words, what had
happened. As soon as his first astonishment and alarm had
subsided, he angrily declared that Miss Halcombe had allowed
herself to be duped by Anne Catherick. He referred her to
Count Fosco's letter, and to what she had herself told him
of the personal resemblance between Anne and his deceased
niece ; and he positively declined to admit to his presence
even for one minute only, a madwoman whom it was an
insult and an outrage to have brought into his house at all.

Miss Halcombe left the room ; waited till the first heat of
her indignation had passed away ; decided, on reflection, that
Mr. Fairlie should see his niece in the interests of common
humanity, before he closed his doors on her as a stranger ;
and thereupon, without a word of previous warning, took
Lady Glyde with her to his room. The servant was posted
at the door to prevent their entrance ; but Miss Halcombe
insisted on passing him, and made her way into Mr. Fairlie's
presence, leading her sister by the hand.

The scene that followed, though it only lasted for a few
minutes, was too painful to be described — Miss Halcombe
herself shrank from referring to it. Let it be enough to say
that Mr. Fairlie declared, in the most positive terms, that he
did not recognise the woman who had been brought into his
room ; that he saw nothing in her face and manner to make
him doubt for a moment that his niece lay buried in Lim-
meridge churchyard ; and that he would call on the law to
protect him if before the day was over she v/as not removed
from the house.

Taking the very worst view of Mr. Fairlie's selfishness,
indolence, and habitual want of feeling, it was manifestly
impossible to suppose that he was capable of such infamy as
secretly recognising and openly disowning his brother's child.
Miss Halcombe humanely and sensibly allowed all due force
to the influence of prejudice and alarm in preventing him
from fairly exercising his perceptions ; and accounted fcr
what had happened, in that way. But Avhen she next put
the servants to the test, and found that they too were, in

384

THE WOlNlAN IN WHITE

every case, uncertain, to say the least of it, whether the
lady presented to them was their young mistress, or Anne
Catherick, of whose resemblance to her they had all heard,
the sad conclusion was inevitable, that the change produced
in Lady Clyde's face and manner by her imprisonment in the
Asylum, was far more serious than Miss Halcombe had at
first supposed. The vile deception which had asserted her
death, defied exposure even in the house where she was born,
and among the people with whom she had lived.

In a less critical situation, the effort need not have been
given up as hopeless, even yet.

For example, the maid, Fanny, who happened to be then
absent from Limmeridge, was expected back in two days ;
and there would be a chance of gaining her recognition to
start with, seeing that she had been in much more constant
communication with her mistress, and had been much more
heartily attached to her than the other servants. Again,
Lady Glj'de might have been privately kept in the house, or
in the village, to wait until her health was a little recovered,
and her mind was a little steadied again. When her memory
could be once more trusted to serve her, she would naturally
refer to persons and events, in the past, with a certainty and
a familiarity which no impostor could simulate ; and so the
fact of her identity, which her own appearance had failed to
establish, might subsequently be proved, with time to help
her, by the surer test of her own words.

But the circumstances under which she had regained her
freedom, rendered all recourse to such means as these simply
impracticable. The pursuit from the Asylum, diverted to
Hampshire for the time only, would infallibly next take the
direction of Cumberland. The persons appointed to seek
the fugitive, might arrive at Limmeridge House at a few
hours' notice ; and in Mr. Fairlie's present temper of mind,
they might count on the immediate exertion of his local
influence and authority to assist them. The commonest con-
sideration for Lady Clyde's safety, forced on Miss Halcombe
the necessity of resigning the struggle to do her justice, and
of removing her at once from the place of all others that was
now most dangerous to her— the neighbourhood of her own
home.

An immediate return to London was the first and wisest
measure of security which suggested itself. In the great
city all traces of them might be most speedily and most surely
effaced. There were no preparations to make — no farewell
words of kindness to exchange with any one. On the after-

385 ' c c

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

noon of that memorable day of the sixteenth, Miss Halcombe
roused her sister to a last exertion of courage ; and, without
a living soul to wish them well at parting, the two took their
way into the world alone, and turned their backs for ever on
Limmeridge House.

They had passed the hill above the churchyard, when Lady
Glyde insisted on turning back to look her last at her mother's
grave. Miss Halcombe tried to shake her resolution ; but,
in this one instance, tried in vain. She was immovable.
Her dim eyes lit with a sudden fire, and flashed through the
veil that hung over them ; her wasted fingers strengthened,
moment by moment, round the friendly arm by which they
had held so listlessly till this time. I believe in my soul that
the Hand of God was pointing their way back to them ; and
that the most innocent and the most afflicted of His creatures
was chosen, in that dread moment, to see it.

They retraced their steps to the burial-ground ; and by
that act sealed the future of our three lives.

III.

This was the story of the past — the story, so far as we knew
it then.

Two obvious conclusions presented themselves to my mind,
after hearing it. In the first place, I saw darkly what the nature
of the conspiracy had been ; how chances had been watched,
and how circumstances had been handled to ensure impunity
to a daring and an intricate crime. While all details were still
a mystery to me, the vile manner in which the personal re-
semblance between the woman in white and Lady Glyde had
been turned to account, was clear beyond a doubt. It was
plain that Anne Catherick had been introduced into Count
Fosco's house as Lady Glyde ; it was plain that Lady Glyde
had taken the dead woman's place in the Asylum — the substi-
tution having been so managed as to make innocent people
(the doctor and the two servants certainly ; and the owner of
the madhouse in all probability) accomplices in the crime.

The second conclusion came as the necessary consequence
of the first. We three had no mercy to expect from Count
Fosco and Sir Percival Glyde. The success of the conspiracy
had brought with it a clear gain to those two men of thirty
thousand pounds — twenty thousand to one : ten thousand
to the other, through his wife. They had that interest, as
well as other interests, in ensuring their impunity from expo-
sure ; and they would leave no stone unturned, no sacrifice

r.8G

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

unattempted, no treachery untried, to discover the place In
which their victim was concealed, and to part her from the only
friends she had in the world — Marian Halcombe and myself.

The sense of this serious peril — a peril which every day
and every hour might bring nearer and nearer to us — was the
one influence that guided me in fixing the place of our retreat.
I chose it in the far East of London, where there were fewest
idle people to lounge and look about them in the streets. I
chose it in a poor and a populous neighbourhood — because
the harder the struggle for existence among the men and
women about us, the less the risk of their having the time or
taking the pains to notice chance strangers who came among
them. These were the great advantages I looked to ; but
our locality was a gain to us also, in another and a hardly less
important respect. We could live cheaply by the daily work
of my hands ; and could save every farthing we possessed to
forward the purpose — the righteous purpose of redressing an
infamous wrong- — which, from first to last, I now kept steadily
in view.

In a week's time, Marian Halcombe and I had settled how
the course of our new lives should be directed.

There were no other lodgers in the house ; and we had the
means of going in and out without passing through the shop.
I arranged, for the present at least, that neither Marian nor
Laura should stir outside the door without my being with
them ; and that, in my absence from home, they should let
no one into their rooms on any pretence whatever. This rule
established, I went to a friend whom I had known in former
days — a wood engraver, in large practice — to seek for em-
ployment ; telling him, at the same time, that I had reasons
for wishing to remain unknown.

He at once concluded that I was in debt ; expressed his
regret in the usual forms ; and then promised to do what he
could to assist me. I left his false impression undisturbed ;
and accepted the work he had to give. He knew that he
could trust my experience and my industry. I had, what he
Wanted, steadiness and facility ; and though my earnings
were but small, they sufficed for our necessities. As soon as
we could feel certain of this, Marian Halcombe and I put
together what we possessed. She had between two and three
hundred pounds left of her own property ; and I had nearly
as much remaining from the purchase-money obtained by
the sale of my drawing-master's practice before I left England.
Together we made up between us more than four hundred
pounds. I deposited this little fortune in a bank, to be kept

387 c c 2

THE WOiMAN IN WHITE

for the expense of those secret inquiries and investigations
which I was determined to set on foot, and to carry on by
myself if I could find no one to help me. We calculated our
weekly expenditure to the last farthing- ; and we never touched
our little fund, except in Laura's interests and for Laura's sake.

The house-work, which, if we had dared trust a stranger
near us, would have been done by a servant, was taken on
the first day, taken as her own right, by Marian Halcombe.
' What a woman's hands are fit for,' she said, ' early and late,
these hands of mine shall do.' They trembled as she held
them out. The wasted arms told their sad story of the past,
as she turned up the sleeves of the poor plain dress that
she wore for safety's sake ; but the unquenchable spirit of
the woman burnt bright in her even yet. I saw the big
tears rise thick in her eyes, and fall slowly over her cheeks as
she looked at me. She dashed them away with a touch of
her old energy, and smiled with a faint reflection of her old
good spirits. ' Don't doubt my courage, Walter,' she pleaded,
' it's my weakness that cries, not me. The house-work shall
conquer it, if / can't.' And she kept her word — the victory
was won when we met in the evening, and she sat down to rest.
Her large steady black eyes looked at me with a flash of their
bright firmness of bygone days. ' I am not quite broken
down yet,' she said ; ' I am worth trusting with my share of
the work.' Before I could answer, she added in a whisper,
' And worth trusting with my share in the risk and the danger
too. Remember that, if the time comes ! '

I did remember it, when the time came.

As early as the end of October, the daily course or our
lives had assumed its settled direction ; and we three were as
completely isolated in our place of concealment, as if the house
we lived in had been a desert island, and the great network
of streets and the thousands of our fellow creatures all round
us the waters of an illimitable sea. I could now reckon on
some leisure time for considering what my future plan of
action should be, and how I might arm myself most securely,
at the outset, for the coming struggle with Sir Percival and
the Count.

I gave up all hope of appealing to my recognition of Laura,
or to Marian's recognition of her, in proof of her identity. If
we had loved her less dearly, if the instinct implanted in us
by that love had not been far m^ore certain than any exercise
of reasoning, far keener than any process of observation,
even we might have hesitated, on first seeing her.

-.88

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

The outward changes wrought by the sufferhig and the
terror of the past had fearfully, almost hopelessly, strengthened
the fatal resemblance between Anne Catherick and herself.
In my narrative of events at the time of my residence in
Limmeridge House, I have recorded, from my own observation
of the two, how the likeness, striking as it was when viewed
general!}', failed in many important points of similarity when
tested in detail. In those former days, if they had both been
seen together, side by side, no person could for a moment
have mistaken them one for the other — as has happened often
in the instances of twins. I could not say this now. The
sorrow and suffering which I had once blamed myself for
associating even by a passing thought with the future of
Laura Fairlie, had set their profaning marks on the youth
and beauty of her face ; and the fatal resemblance which I
had once seen and shuddered at seeing, in idea only, was now
a real and living resemblance which asserted itself before my
own eyes. Strangers, acquaintances, friends even who could
not look at her as we looked, if she had been shown to them
in the first days of her rescue from the Asylum, might have
doubted if she were the Laura Fairlie they had once seen, and
doubted without blame.

The one remaining chance, which I had at first thought
might be trusted to serve us — the chance of appealing to her
recollection of persons and events with which no impostor
could be familiar, was proved, by the sad test of our later
experience, to be hopeless. Every little caution that Marian
and I practised towards her ; every little remedy we tried, to
strengthen and steady slowly the weakened, shaken faculties,
was a fresh protest in itself against the risk of turning her
mind back on the troubled and the terrible past.

The only events of former days which we ventured on
encouraging her to recall, were the little trivial domestic
events of that happy time at Limmeridge, when I first went
there, and taught her to draw. The day when I roused those
remembrances by showing her the sketch of the summer-
house which she had given me on the morning of our farewell,
and which had never been separated from me since, was the
birthday of our first hope. Tenderly and gradually, the
memory of the old walks and drives dawned upon her ; and
the poor weary pining eyes, looked at Marian and at me with
a new interest, with a faltering thoughtfulness in them, which,
from that moment, we cherished and kept alive. I bought
her a little box of colours, and a sketch-book like the old
sketch-book which I had seen in her hands on the morning

389

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

when we first met. Once again — oh me, once again ! — at
spare hours saved from my work, in the dull London light, in
the poor London room, I sat by her side, to guide the falter-
ing touch, to help the feeble hand. Day by day, I raised and
raised the new interest till its place in the blank of her
existence was at last assured — till she could think of her
drawing, and talk of it, and patiently practise it by herself,
with some faint reflection of the innocent pleasure in my
encouragement, the growing enjoyment in her own progress,
which belonged to the lost life and the lost happiness of past
days.

We helped her mind slowly by this simple means ; we
took her out between us to walk, on fine days, in a quiet old
City square, near at hand, where there was nothing to confuse
or alarm her ; we spared a few pounds from the fund at the
banker's to get her wine, and the delicate strengthening food
that she required ; we amused her in the evenings with
children's games at cards, with scrap-books full of prints
which I borrowed from the engraver who employed me — by
these, and other trifling attentions like them, we composed
her and steadied her, and hoped all things, as cheerfully as we
could, from time and care, and love that never neglected and
never despaired of her. But to take her mercilessly from
seclusion and repose ; to confront her with strangers, or with
acquaintances who were little better than strangers ; to rouse
the painful impressions of her past life which we had so care-
fully hushed to rest — this, even in her own interests, we
dared not do. Whatever sacrifices it cost, whatever long,
weary, heart-breaking delays it involved, the wrong that had
been inflicted on her, if mortal means could grapple it, must
be redressed without her knowledge and without her help.

This resolution settled, it was next necessary to decide
how the first risk should be ventured, and what the first pro-
ceedings should be.

After consulting with Marian, I resolved to begin by
gathering together as many facts as could be collected —
then, to ask the advice of Mr. Kyrle (whom we knew we
could trust) ; and to ascertain from him, in the first instance,
if the legal remedy lay fairly within our reach. I owed it to
Laura's interests not to stake her whole future on my own
unaided exertions, so long as there was the faintest prospect
of strengthening our position by obtaining reliable assistance
of any kind.

The first source of information to which I applied, was
the journal kept at Blackwater Park by Marian Halcombe.

3QO

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

There were passag"es in this diary, relating- to myself, which
she thoug-ht it best that I should not see. Accordingly, she
read to me from the manuscript, and I took the notes I
wanted as she went on. We could only find time to pursue
this occupation by sitting up late at night. Three nights
were devoted to the purpose, and were enough to put me in
possession of all that Marian could tell.

My next proceeding was to gain as much additional
evidence as I could procure from other people, without ex-
citing suspicion. I went myself to Mrs. Vesey to ascertain if
Laura's impression of having slept there, was correct or not.
In this case, from consideration for Mrs. Vesey's age and
infirmity, and in all subsequent cases of the same kind from
considerations of caution, I kept our real position a secret,
and was always careful to speak of Laura as ' the late Lady
Clyde.'

Mrs. Vesey's answer to my inquiries only confirmed the
apprehensions which I had previously felt. Laura had cer-
tainly WTitten to say she would pass the night under the roof
of her old friend — but she had never been near the house.

Her mind in this instance, and, as I feared, in other
instances besides, confusedly presented to her something-
which she had only intended to do in the false light of some-
thing which she had really done. The unconscious contra-
diction of herself was easy to account for in this wa}^ — but it
was likely to lead to serious results. It was a stumble on
the threshold at starting ; it was a flaw in the evidence which
told fatally against us.

When I next asked for the letter which Laura had written
to Mrs. Vesey from Blackwater Park, it was given to me
without the envelope, which had been thrown into the waste-
paper basket, and long since destroyed. In the letter itself,
no date was mentioned — not even the day of the week. It
only contained these lines : — ' Dearest Mrs. Vesey, I am in
sad distress and anxiety, and I may come to your house to-
morrow night, and ask for a bed. I can't tell )-ou what is
the matter in this letter — I write it in such fear of being found
out that I can fix my mind on nothing-. Pray be at home to
see me. I will give you a thousand kisses, and tell j'ou
everything. Your affectionate Laura.' What help was there
in those lines ? None.

On returning from Mrs. Vesey's, I instructed Marian to
write (observing the same caution vv'hich I practised myself)
to Mrs. Michelson. She was to express, if she pleased, some
general suspicion of Count Fosco's conduct ; and she was to

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

ask the housekeeper to supply us with a plain statement of
events, in the interests of truth. While we were waiting- for
the answer, which reached us in a week's time, I went to the
doctor in St. John's Wood ; introducing myself as sent by
Miss Halcombe, to collect, if possible, more particulars of
her sister's last illness than Mr. Kyrle had found the time to
procure. By Mr. Goodricke's assistance, I obtained a copy
of the certificate of death, and an interview with the woman
(Jane Gould) who had been employed to prepare the body for
the gfrave. Through this person, I also discovered a means of
communicating with the servant, Hester Pinhorn. She had
recently left her place, in consequence of a disagreement with
her mistress ; and she was lodging with some people in the
neighbourhood whom Mrs. Gould knew. In the manner
here indicated, I obtained the Narratives of the housekeeper,
of the doctor, of Jane Gould, and of Hester Pinhorn, exactly
as they are presented in these pages.

Furnished with such additional evidence as these docu-
ments afforded, I considered myself to be suflBciently pre-
pared for a consultation with Mr. Kyrle ; and Marian wrote
accordingly to mention my name to him, and to specify the
day and hour at which I requested to see him on private
business.

There was time enough, in the morning, for me to take
Laura out for her walk as usual, and to see her quietly settled
at her drawing afterwards. She looked up at me with a new
anxiety in her face, as I rose to leave the room ; and her
fingers began to toy doubtfully, in the old way, with the
brushes and pencils on the table.

' You are not tired of me yet ? ' she said. ' You are not
going away because you are tired of me ? I will try to do
better — I will try to get well. Are you as fond of me, Walter,
as you used to be, now I am so pale and thin, and so slow in
learning to draw ? '

She spoke as a child might have spoken ; she showed me
her thoughts as a child might have shown them. I waited a
few minutes longer — waited to tell her that she was dearer to
me now than she had ever been in the past times. ' Try to
get well again,' I said, encouraging the new hope in the
future which I saw dawning in her mind ; ' try to get well
again, for Marian's sake and for mine.'

'Yes,' she said to herself, returning to her drawing. ' I
must try because they are both so fond of me.' She suddenly
looked up again. ' Don't be gone long ! I can't get on with
my drawing, Walter, Avhen you are not here to help me.'

-^02

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

' I shall soon be back, my darling — soon be back to see
how you are getting on.'

My voice faltered a little in spite of me. I forced myself from
the room. It was no time, then, for parting with the self-control
which might yet serve me in my need before the day was out.

As I opened the door, I beckoned to Marian to follow me
to the stairs. It was necessary to prepare her for a result
vrhich I felt might sooner or later follow my showing myself
openly in the streets.

' I shall, in all probability, be back in a few hours,' I said;
'and you will take care, as usual, to let no one inside the
doors in my absence. But if anything happens '

' What can happen ? ' she interposed, quickly. * Tell me
plainly, Walter, if there is any danger— and I shall know how
to meet it.'

'The only danger,' I replied, 'is that Sir Percival Glyde
may have been recalled to London by the news of Laura's
escape. You are aware that he had me watched before I left
England ; and that he probably knows me by sight, although
I don't know him ? '

She laid her hand on my shoulder, and looked at me in
anxious silence. I saw she understood the serious risk that
threatened us.

' It is not likely,' I said, 'that I shall be seen in London
again so soon, either by Sir Percival himself or by the persons
in his employ. But it is barely possible that an accident may
happen. In that case, you will not be alarmed if I fail to
return to-night ; and yoy will satisfy any inquiry of Laura's with
the best excuse that you can make for me ? If I find the least
reason to suspect that I am watched, I will take good care
that no spy follows me back to this house. Don't doubt my
return, Marian, however it may be delayed— and fear nothing.'

' Nothing ! ' she answered, firmly. ' You shall not regret,
Walter, that you have only a woman to help you.' She
paused, and detained me for a moment longer. ' Take care ! '
she said, pressing my hand anxiously — ' take care ! '

I left her ; and set forth to pave the way for discovery —
the dark and doubtful way, which began at the lawyer's door.

IV.

No circumstance of the slightest importance happened on my
way to the offices of Messrs. Gilmore and Kyrle, in Chancery
Lane.

While my cartd was being taken in to Mr. Kyrle, a considera-

393

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

tion occurred to me which I deeply regretted not having- thoug^ht
of before. The information derived from Marian's diary made
it a matter of certainty that Count Fosco had opened her first
letter from Blackwater Park to Mr. Kyrle, and had, by means
of his wife, intercepted the second. He was therefore well
aware of the address of the office ; and he would naturally
infer that if Marian wanted advice and assistance, after
Laura's escape from the Asylum, she would apply once more
to the experience of Mr. Kyrle. In this case, the office in
Chancery Lane was the very first place which he and Sir
Percival would cause to be watched ; and, if the same persons
were chosen for the purpose who had been employed to follow
me, before my departure from England, the fact of my return
would in all probability be ascertained on that very day. I
had thought, generally, of the chances of my being recognised
in the streets ; but the special risk connected with the office
had never occurred to me until the present moment. It was
too late now to repair this unfortunate error in judgment — ■
too late to wish that I had made arrangements for meeting
the lawyer in some place privately appointed beforehand. I
could only resolve to be cautious on leaving Chancery Lane,
and not to go straight home again under any circumstances
whatever.

After waiting a fevv' minutes, I was shown into Mr. Kyrle's
private room. He was a pale, thin, quiet, self-possessed
man, with a very attentive eye, a very low voice, and a very
undemonstrative manner ; not (as I judged) ready with his
sympathy, where strangers were concerned ; and not at all
easy to disturb in his professional composure. A better man
for my purpose could hardly have been found. If he com-
mitted himself to a decision at all, and if the decision was
favourable, the strength of our case was as good as proved
from that moment.

' Before I enter on the business which brings me here,' I
said, ' I ought to warn you, Mr. Kyrle, that the shortest
statement I can make of it may occupy some little time.'

* My time is at Miss Halcombe's disposal,' he replied.
* Where any interests of hers are concerned, I represent my
partner personally, as well as professionally. It was his
request that I should do so, when he ceased to take an active
part in business.'

' May I inquire whether Mr. Gilmore is in England ? '

* He is not : he is living with his relatives in German)%
His health has improved, but the period of his return is still
uncertain.'

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

While we were exchang-ing- these few prehminary words,
he had been searchhig- among the papers before him, and he
now produced from them a sealed letter. I thoug-ht he was
about to hand the letter to me ; but, apparently changing his
mind, he placed it by itself on the table, settled himself in his
chair, and silently waited to hear what I had to say.

Without wasting a moment in prefatory words of any
sort, I entered on my narrative, and put him in full possession
of the events which have already been related in these pages.

Lawyer as he was to the very marrow of his bones, I
startled him out of his professional composure. Expressions
of incredulity and surprise, which he could not repress, inter-
rupted me several times, before I had done. I persevered,
however, to the end, and, as soon as I reached it, boldly
asked the one important question :

' What is your opinion, Mr. Kyrle ? '

He was too cautious to commit himself to an answer,
without taking time to recover his self-possession first.

' Before I give my opinion,' he said, ' I must beg per-
mission to clear the ground by a few questions.'

He put the questions — sharp, suspicious, unbelieving
questions, which clearly showed me, as they proceeded, that
he thought I was the victim of a delusion ; and that he might
even have doubted, but for my introduction to him by Miss
Halcombe, whether I was not attempting the perpetration of
a cunningly-designed fraud.

* Do you believe that I have spoken the truth, Mr. Kyrle?'
I asked, when he had done examining me.

* So far as your own convictions are concerned, I am
certain you have spoken the truth,' he replied. ' I have the
highest esteem for Miss Halcombe, and I have therefore
every reason to respect a gentleman whose mediation she
trusts in a matter of this kind. I will even go farther, if you
like, and admit, for courtesy's sake and for argument's sake,
that the identity of Lady Clyde, as a living person, is a
proved fact to Miss Halcombe and yourself. But you come
to me for a legal opinion. As a lawyer, and as a lawyer only,
it is my duty to tell you, Mr. Hartright, that you have not
the shadow of a case.'

' You put it strongly, Mr. Kyrle.'

' I will try to put it plainly as well. The evidence of
Lady Clyde's death is, on the face of it, clear and satis-
factory. There is her aunt's testimony to prove that she
came to Count Fosco's house, that she fell ill, and that she
died. There is the testimony of the medical certificate to

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THE WOMAN IN V/HITE

prove the death, and to show that it took place under natural
circumstances. There is the fact of the funeral at Limme-
ridge, and there is the assertion of the inscription on the
tomb. That is the case you want to overthrow. What
evidence have you to support the declaration on your side
that the person who died and was buried was not Lady
Glyde ? Let us run through the main points of your state-
ment and see what they are worth. Miss Halcombe goes to
a certain private Asylum, and there sees a certain female
patient. It is known that a woman named Anne Catherick,
and bearing an extraordinary personal resemblance to Lady
Glyde, escaped from the Asylum ; it is known that the person
received there last July, was received as Anne Catherick
brought back ; it is known that the gentleman who brought
her back warned Mr. Fairlie that it was part of her insanity
to be bent on personating his dead niece ; and it is known
that she did repeatedly declare herself, in the Asylum (where
no one believed her), to be Lady Glyde. These are all facts.
What have you to set against them ? Miss Halcombe's
recognition of the woman, which recognition after-events
invahdate or contradict. Does Miss Halcombe assert her
supposed sister's identity to the OAvner of the Asylum, and
take legal means for rescuing her? No : she secretly bribes
a nurse to let her escape. When the patient has been re-
leased in this doubtful manner, and is taken to Mr. Fairlie,
does he recognise her ? is he staggered for one instant in his
belief of his niece's death ? No. Do the servants recognise
her ? No. Is she kept in the neighbourhood to assert her
own identity, and to stand the test of further proceedings?
No : she is privately taken to London. In the mean time,
you have recognised her also — but you are not a relative ;
you are not even an old friend of the family. The servants
contradict you ; and Mr. Fairlie contradicts Miss Halcombe ;
and the supposed Lady Glyde contradicts herself. She
declares she passed the night in London at a certain house.
Your own evidence shows that she has never been near that
house ; and your own admission is, that her condition of
mind prevents you from producing her anywhere to submit
to investigation, and to speak for herself. I pass over minor
points of evidence, on both sides, to save time ; and I ask
you, if this case were to go now into a court of law — to go
before a jury, bound to take facts as they reasonably appear —
where are your proofs ? '

I was obliged to wait and collect myself before I could
answer him. It was the first time the story of Laura and the

39^

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

story of Marian had been presented to me from a stranger's
point of view — the first time the terrible obstacles that lay
across our path had been made to show themselves in their
true character.

'There can be no doubt,' I said, 'that the facts, as you
have stated them, appear to tell ag^ainst us ; but '

' But you think, those facts can be explained away,' inter^
posed Mr. Kyrle. ' Let me tell you the result of my expe-
rience on that point. When an English jury has to choose
between a plain fact, on the surface, and a long- explanation
under the surface, it always takes the fact, in preference to
the explanation. For example. Lady Glyde (I call the lady
you represent by that name for argument's sake) declares she
has slept at a certain house, and it is proved that she has
not slept at that house. You explain this circumstance by
entering into the state of her mind, and deducing from it a
metaphysical conclusion. I don't say the conclusion is
wrong — I only say that the jury will take the fact of her
contradicting herself, in preference to any reason for the
contradiction that you can offer.'

' But is it not possible,' I urged, * by dint of patience and
exertion, to discover additional evidence ? Miss Halcombe
and I have a few hundred pounds '

He looked at me with a half-suppressed pitv, and shook
his head.

' Consider the subject, Mr. Hartright, from your own
point of view,' he said. ' If you are right about Sir Percival
Glyde and Count Fosco (which I don't admit, mind), every
imaginable difficulty would be thrown in the way of your
getting fresh evidence. Every obstacle of litigation would
be raised ; every point in the case would be systematically
contested — and by the time we had spent our thousands,
instead of our hundreds, the final result would, in all proba-
bility, be against us. Questions of identity, where instances
of personal resemblance are concerned, are, in themselves,
the hardest of all questions to settle — the hardest, even when
they are free from the complications which beset the case we
are now discussing. I really see no prospect of throwing
any light whatever on this extraordinary affair. Even if the
person buried in Limmeridge churchyard be not Lady Glyde,
she was, in life, on your own showing, so like her, that we
should gain nothing, if we applied for the necessary authority
to have the body exhumed. In short, there is no case, Mr.
Hartright — there is really no case.'

I was determined to believe that there ims a case ; and, in

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THE WOMAN IN V/HITE

that determination, shifted my ground, and appealed to him
once more.

' Are there not other proofs that we might produce,
besides the proof of identity ? ' I asked.

' Not as you are situated,' he reph'ed. ' The simplest and
surest of all proofs, the proof by comparison of dates, is, as I
understand, altogether out of your reach. If you could show
a discrepancy between the date of the doctor's certificate
and the date of Lady Clyde's journey to London, the matter
would wear a totally different aspect ; and I should be the
first to say, Let us go on.'

' That date may yet be recovered, Mr. Kyrle.'

* On the day when it is recovered, Mr. Hartright, you will
have a case. If you have any prospect, at this moment, of
getting at it — tell me, and Vv^e shall see if I can advise you.'

I considered. The housekeeper could not help us ; Laura
could not help us ; Marian could not help us. In all proba-
bility, the only persons in existence who knew the date were
Sir Percival and the Count.

' I can think of no means of ascertaining the date at
present,' I said, 'because I can think of no persons who are
sure to know it, but Count Fosco and Sir Percival Clyde.'

Mr. Kyrle's calmly attentive face relaxed, for the first
time, into a smile.

' With your opinion of the conduct of those two gentle-
men,' he said, 'you don't expect help in that quarter, I
presume ? If they have combined to gain large sums of
money by a conspiracy, they are not likely to confess it, at
any rate.'

' They may be forced to confess it, Mr. Kyrle.'

' By whom ? '

'By me.'

We both rose. He looked me attentively in the face
with more appearance of interest than he had shown yet. I
could see that I had perplexed him a little.

' You are very determined,' he said. 'You have, no doubt,
a personal motive for proceeding, into which it is not my
business to inquire. If a case can be produced in the future,
I can only say, my best assistance is at your service. At the
same time, I must warn you, as the money question always
enters into the law question, that I see little hope, even if you
ultimately established the fact of Lady Clyde's being alive, of
recovering her fortune. The foreigner would probably leave
the country, before proceedings were commenced ; and Sir
Percival's embarrassments are numerous enough and pressing

398

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

enough to transfer almost any sum of money he may possess
from hnnself to his creditors. You are, of course, aware '

I stopped him at that point.

* Let me beg that we may not discuss Lady Clyde's aftairs,'
I said. ' I have never known anything about them, in former
times ; and I know nothing of them now — except that her
fortune is lost. You are right in assuming that I have
personal motives for stirring in this matter. I wish those
motives to be always as disinterested as they are at the present
moment '

He tried to interpose and explain. I was a little heated,
I suppose, by feeling that he had doubted me ; and I went on
bluntly, without waiting to hear him.

' There shall be no money-motive,' I said, * no idea of
personal advantage, in the service I mean to render to Lady
Clyde. She has been cast out as a stranger from the house
in which she was born — a lie which records her death has
been written on her mother's tomb — and there are two men,
alive and unpunished, who are responsible for it. That
house shall open again to receive her, in the presence of every
soul who followed the false funeral to the grave ; that lie
shall be publicly erased from the tombstone, by the authority
of the head of the family ; and those two men shall answer
for their crime to jie, though the justice that sits in tribunals
is powerless to pursue them. I have given my life to that
purpose ; and, alone as I stand, if Cod spares me, I will
accomplish it.'

He drew back towards his table, and said nothing. His
face showed plainly that he thought my delusion had got the
better of my reason, and that he considered it totally useless
to give me any more advice.

'We each keep our opinion, Mr. Kyrle,' I said; 'and we
must wait till the events of the future decide between us. In
the mean time, I am much obliged to you for the attention
you have given to my statement. You have shown me that
the legal remedy lies, in every sense of the word, beyond our
means. We cannot produce the law-proof; and we are not
rich enough to pay the law-expenses. It is something gained
to know that.'

I bowed, and walked to the door. He called me back,
and gave me the letter which I had seen him place on the
table by itself at the beginning of our interview.

'This came by post, a few days ago,' he said. 'Perhaps
you will not mind delivering it ? Pray tell Miss Halcombe,
at the same tin-ie, that I sincerely regret being, thus far,

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

unable to help her — except by advice, which will not be more
welcome, I am afraid, to her than to you.'

I looked at the letter while he was speaking. It was
addressed to ' Miss Halcombe. Care of Messrs. Gilmore
and Kyrle, Chancery Lane.' The handwriting was quite
unknown to me.

On leaving the room, I asked one last question.

' Do you happen to know,' I said, ' if Sir Percival Clyde
is still in Paris ? '

' He has returned to London,' replied Mr. Kyrle. ' At
least I heard so from his solicitor, whom I met yesterday.'

After that answer I went out.

On leaving the office, the first precaution to be observed
was to abstain from attracting attention by stopping to look
about me. I walked towards one of the quietest of the
large squares on the north of Holborn — then suddenly
stopped, and turned round at a place where a long stretch
of pavement was left behind me.

There were two men at the corner of the square who had
stopped also, and who were standing talking together. After
a moment's reflection, I turned back so as to pass them.
One moved, as I came near, and turned the corner leading
from the square into the street. The other remained sta-
tionary. I looked at him as I passed, and instantly recog-
nised one of the men who had watched me before I left
England.

If I had been free to follow my own instincts, I should
probably have begun by speaking to the man, and have ended
by knocking him down. But I was bound to consider conse-
quences. If I once placed myself publicly in the wrong, I
put the weapons at once into Sir Percival's hands. There
was no choice but to oppose cunning by cunning. I turned
into the street down which the second man had disappeared,
and passed him, waiting in a doorway. He was a stranger
to me ; and I was glad to make sure of his personal appear-
ance, in case of future annoyance. Having done this, I
again walked northward, till I reached the New Road. There,
I turned aside to the west (having the men behind me all the
time), and waited at a point where I knew myself to be at
some distance from a cabstand, until a fast two-wheel cab,
empty, should happen to pass me. One passed in a few
minutes. I jumped in, and told the man to drive rapidly
towards Hyde Park. There was no second fast cab for the
spies behind me. I saw them dart across to the other side
of the road, to follow me by running, until a cab or cabstand,

400

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

came in their way. But I had the start of them ; and when
I stopped the driver, and got out, they were nowhere in
sight. I crossed Hyde Park, and made sure, on the open
ground, that I was free. When I at last turned my steps
homewards, it was not till many hours later — not till after
dark.

I found Marian waiting for me, alone in the little sitting-
room. She had persuaded Laura to go to rest, after first
promising to show me her drawing, the moment I came in.
The poor little dim faint sketch — so trifling in itself, so
touching in its associations — was propped up carefully on the
table with two books, and was placed where the faint light
of the one candle we allowed ourselves might fall on it to the
best advantage. I sat down to look at the drawing, and to
tell Marian, in whispers, what had happened. The partition
which divided us from the next room was so thin that we
could almost hear Laura's breathing, and we might have dis-
turbed her if we had spoken aloud.

Marian preserved her composure while I described my
intervievv^ with Mr. Kyrle. But her face became troubled
when I spoke next of the men who' had followed me from the
lawyer's office, and when I told her of the discovery of Sir
Pcrcival's return.

' Bad news, Walter,' she said ; ' the worst news 30U could
bring. Have you nothing more to tell me ? '

' I have something to give you,' I replied, handing her the
note which Mr. Kyrle had confided to my care.

She looked at the address, and recognised the handwriting
instantly.

' You know your correspondent ? ' I said.

'Too well,' she answered. ' r>Iy correspondent is Count
Fosco.'

With that reply she opened the note. Her face flushed
deeply vv-hile she read it — her eyes brightened with anger, as
she handed it to me to read in my turn.

The note contained these lines :

' Impelled by honourable admiration — honourable to my-
self, honourable to you — I v.rite, magnificent Marian, in the
interests of your tranquillity, to say two consoling words :

' Fear nothing !

' Exercise your fine natural sense, and remain in retire-
ment. Dear and admirable woman, invite no dangerous
publicity. Resignation is sublime — adopt it. The modest

401 D D

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

repose of home is eternally fresh — enjoy it. The storms of
life pass harmless over the valley of Seclusion— dwell, dear
lady, in the valley.

' Do this ; and I authorise you to fear nothing. No new
calamity shall lacerate your sensibilities— sensibilities precious
to me as my own. You shall not be molested ; the fair
companion of your retreat shall not be pursued. She has
found a new asylum, in your heart. Priceless asylum ! — I
envy her, and leave her there.

' One last word of affectionate warning-, of paternal caution
— and I tear myself from the charm of addressing you ; I
close these fervent lines.

' Advance no further than you have gone already ; com-
promise no serious interests ; threaten nobody. Do not, I
implore you, force me into action— Me, the Man of Action —
when it is the cherished object of my ambition to be passive,
to restrict the vast reach of my energies and my combinations,
for your sake. If you have rash friends, moderate their
deplorable ardour. If Mr. Hartright returns to England,
hold no communication with him. I walk on a path of my
own ; and Percival follovv^s at my heels. On the day when
Mr. Hartright crosses that path, he is a lost man.'

The only signature to these lines was the initial letter F,
surrounded by a circle of intricate flourishes. I threw the
letter on the table, with all the contempt that I felt for it.

' He is trying to frighten you — a sure sign that he is
frightened himself,' I said.

She was too genuine a woman to treat the letter as I
treated it. The insolent familiarity of the language was too
much for her self-control. As she looked at me across the
table, her hands clenched themselves in her lap, and the old
quick fiery temper flamed out again, brightly, in her cheeks
and her eyes.

* Walter ! ' she said, * if ever those two men are at your
mercy, and if you are obliged to spare one of them — don't let
it be the Count.'

' I v,-ill keep his letter, Marian, to help my memory when
the time comes.'

She looked at me attentively as I put the letter away in
my pocket-book.

' When the time comes ? ' she repeated. ' Can you speak
of the future as if you were certain of it ? — certain after what
you have heard in Mr. Kyrle's office, after what has happened
to you to-day ? '

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

* I don't count the time from to-day, Marian. All I have
done to-day, is to ask another man to act for me. I count
from to-morrow '

' Why from to-morrow ? '

* Because to-morrow I mean to act for myself.'
'How?'

* I shall go to Blackwater by the first train ; and return, I
hope, at nig-ht.'

' To Blackwater ! '

* Yes. I have had time to think, since I left Mr. Kyrle.
His opinion on one point, confirms my own. We must persist,
to the last, in hunting- down the date of Laura's journey.
The one weak point in the conspiracy, and probably the one
chance of proving- that she is a living- woman, centre in the
discovery of that date.'

'You mean,' said Marian, ' the discovery that Laura did
not leave Blackwater Park till after the date of her death on
the doctor's certificate ? '

' Certainly.'

' What makes you think it might have been after? Laura
can tell us nothing of the time she was in London.'

' But the owner of the Asylum told 5^ou that she was
received there on the twenty-seventh of July. I doubt Count
Fosco's ability to keep her in London, and to keep her
insensible to all that was passing around her, more than one
night. In that case, she must have started on the twenty-
sixth, and must have come to London one day after the
date of her own death on the doctor's certificate. If we can
prove that date, we prove our case against Sir Percival and
the Count.'

' Yes, yes — I see ! But how is the proof to be obtained ? '

' Mrs. Michelson's narrative has suggested to me two
ways of trying to obtain it. One of them is to question the
doctor, Mr. Dawson — who must know when he resumed his
attendance at Blackwater Park, after Laura left the house.
The other is, to make inquiries at the inn to which Sir Percival
drove away by himself, at night. We know that his departure
followed Laura's, after the lapse of a few hours ; and we may
get at the date in that way. The attempt is at least worth
making — and, to-morrow, I am determined it shall be made.'

' And suppose it fails — I look at the worst, now, Walter ;
but I will lock at the best, if disappointments come to try us
— suppose no one can help you at Blackwater ? '

' There are two men who can help me, and shall help me,
in London — Sir Percival and the Count. Innocent people

403 D D 2

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

may well forg-et the date ; but they are guilty, and they know
it. If I fail everywhere else, I mean to force a confession out
of one or both of them, on my own terms.'

All the woman flushed up in Marian's face as I spoke.

* Begin with the Count ! ' she whispered eagerly. * For
my sake, begin with the Count.'

* We must begin, for Laura's sake, v/here there is the
best chance of success,' I replied.

The colour faded from her face again, and she shook her
head sadly.

' Yes,' she said, * 3"0U are right — it was mean and miserable
of me to say that. I try to be patient, Walter, and succeed
better now than I did in happier times. But I have a little
of my old temper still left — and it ivill get the better of me
when I think of the Count ! '

' His turn will come,' I said. ' But, remember, there is
no weak place in his life that we know of, yet.' I waited a
little to let her recover her self-possession ; and then spoke
the decisive words :

' Marian ! There is a weak place we both know of in Sir
Percival's life '

' You mean the secret ! '

' Yes : the Secret. It is our only sure hold on him. I
can force him from his position of security, I can drag him
and his villany into the face of day, by no other means.
Whatever the Count may have done, Sir Percival has con-
sented to the conspiracy against Laura from another motive
besides the motive of gain. You heard him tell the Count
that he believed his wife knew enough to ruin him ? You
heard him say that he was a lost man if the secret of Anne
Catlierick was known ? '

'Yes! yes! I did.'

' Well, Marian, when our other resources have failed us, I
mean to know the secret. My old superstition clings to me,
even yet. I say again the womiui in Vvhite is a living influence
in our three lives. The En.d is appointed ; the End is draw-
ing us on — and Aune Catherick, dead in her grave, points the
way to it still ! '

The story of my first inquiries in Hampshire is soon told.

My early departure from London enabled me to reach Mr.
Dawson's house in the forenoon. Our interview, so far as
the object of my visit was concerned, led to no satisfactory
result,

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

Mi*. Dawson's books certainly showed when he had
resumed his attendance on Miss Halcombe, at Blackwater
Park, but it was not possible to calculate back from this date
with any exactness, without such help from Mrs. Michelson
as I knew she was unable to afford. She could not say
from memory (who, in similar cases, ever can ?) how many
days had elapsed between the renewal of the doctor's attend-
ance on his patient and the previous departure of Lady
Clyde. She was almost certain of having mentioned the
circumstance of the departure to Miss Halcombe, on the day
after it happened — but then she was no more able to fix the
date of the day on which this disclosure took place, than to
fix the date of the day before, when Lady Clyde had left for
London. Neither could she calculate, with any nearer
approach to exactness, the time that had passed from the
departure of her mistress, to the period when the undated
letter from Madame Fosco arrived. Lastly, as if to complete
the series of difficulties, the doctor himself, having- been ill at
the time, had omitted to make his usual entry of the day of the
week and month when the gardener from Blackwater Park
had called on him to deliver Mrs. Michelson's message.

Hopeless of obtaining assistance from Mr. Dawson, I
resolved to try next if I could establish the date of Sir Perci-
val's arrival at Knowlesbury.

It seemed like a fatality ! When I reached Knowlesbury
the inn was shut up ; and bills were posted on the walls. The
speculation had been a bad one, as I was informed, ever since
the time of the railway. The new hotel at the station had
gradually absorbed the business ; and the old inn (which we
knev/ to be the inn at which Sir Percival had put up) had
been closed about two months since. The proprietor had left
the town with all his goods and chattels, and where he had
gone, I could not positively ascertain from any one. The
four people of whom I inquired gave me four different
accounts of his plans and projects when he left Knowlesbury.

There were still some hours to spare before the last train
left for London ; and I drove back again, in a fly from the
Knowlesbury station, to Blackwater Park, vvith the purpose
of questioning the gardener and the person v/ho kept the
lodge. If they, too, proved unable to assist me, my
resources, for the present, were at an end, and I might
return to town.

I dismissed the fly a mile distant from the park ; and,
getting my directions from the driver, proceeded by myself to
the house.

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

As I turned into the lane from the high road, I saw a
man, with a carpet-bag, walking before me rapidly on the
way to the lodge. He was a little man, dressed in shabby
black, and wearing a remarkably large hat. I set him down
(as well as it was possible to judge) for a lawyer's clerk ; and
stopped at once to widen the distance between us. He had
not heard me ; and he walked on out of sight, without look-
ing back. When I passed through the gates myself, a little
while afterwards, he was not visible — he had evidently gone on
to the house.

There were two women in the lodge. One of them was
old ; the other, I knew at once, by Marian's description of
her, to be Margaret Porcher.

I asked first if Sir Percival was at the park ; and, receiv-
ing a reply in the negative, inquired next when he had left it.
Neither of the women could tell me more than that he had
gone away in the summer. I could extract nothing from
Margaret Porcher but vacant smiles and shakings of the head.
The old woman was a little more intelligent ; and I managed
to lead her into speaking of the manner of Sir Percival's
departure, and of the alarm that it caused her. She remem-
bered her master calling her out of bed, and remembered his
frightening her by swearing — but the date at which the occur-
rence happened was, as she honestly acknowledged, * quite
beyond her.'

On leaving the lodge, I saw the gardener at work not far
off. When I first addressed him, he looked at me rather
distrustfully ; but, on my using Mrs. Michelson's name, with
a civil reference to himself, he entered into conversation readily
enough. There is no need to describe what passed between
us : it ended, as all my other attempts to discover the date
had ended. The gardener knew that his master had driven
away, at night, ' some time in July, the last fortnight or the
last ten days in the month ' — and knew no more.

While we were speaking together, I saw the man in black,
with the large hat, come out from the house, and stand at
some little distance observing us.

Certain suspicions of his errand at Blackwater Park had
already crossed my mind. They were now increased by the
g^ardener's inability (or unwillingness) to tell me who the man
was ; and I determined to clear the way before me, if possible,
by speaking to him. The plainest question I could put, as a
stranger, would be to inquire if the house was allowed to be
shown to visitors. I walked up to the man at once, and
accosted him in those words.

406

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

His look and manner unmistakably betrayed that he knew
who I was, and that he wanted to irritate me into quarrelling
with him. His reply was insolent enough to have answered
the purpose, if I had been less determined to control myself.
As it was, I met him with the most resolute politeness ;
apologised for my involuntary intrusion (which he called a
* trespass '), and left the grounds. It was exactly as I
suspected. The recognition of me, when I left Mr. Kyrle's
office, had been evidently communicated to Sir Percival Clyde ;
and the man in black had been sent to the park, in
anticipation of my making inquiries at the house, or in the
neighbourhood. If I had given him the least chance of
lodging any sort of legal complaint against me, the inter-
ference of the local magistrate would no doubt have been
turned to account, as a clog on my proceedings, and a means
of separating me from Marian and Laura for some days at
least.

I was prepared to be watched on the way from Blackwater
Park to the station, exactly as I had been watched, in London,
the day before. But I could not discover, at the time, whether
I was really followed on this occasion or not. The man in
black might have had means of tracking me at his disposal of
which I was not aware — but I certainly saw nothing of him,
in his own person, either on the way to the station, or after-
wards on my arrival at the London terminus, in the evening.
I reached home, on foot ; taking the precaution, before I
approached our own door, of walking round by the loneliest
street in the neighbourhood, and there stopping and looking
back more than once over the open space behind me. I had
first learnt to use this stratagem against suspected treachery
in the wilds of Central America — and now I was practising it
again, with the same purpose and with even greater caution,
in the heart of civilized London !

Nothing had happened to alarm Marian during my absence.
She asked eagerly what success I had met with. When I
told her, she could not conceal her surprise at the indifference
with which I spoke of the failure of my investigations thus
far.

The truth was, that the ill-success of my inquiries had in
no sense daunted me. I had pursued them as a matter of
duty, and I had expected nothing from them. In the state of
my mind, at that time, it v/as almost a relief to me to know
that the struggle was now narrowed to a trial of strength
between myself and Sir Percival Clyde. The vindictive motive
had mingled itself, all along, with my other and better motives ;

407

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

and I confess it was a satisfaction to me to feel that the
surest way — the only way left — of serving Laura's cause, was
to fasten my hold firmly on the villain who had married her.

While I acknowledge that I was not strong enough to keep
my motives above the reach of this instinct of revenge, I can
honestly say something in my own favour, on the other side.
No base speculation on the future relations of Laura and
myself, and on the private and personal concessions which I
might force from Sir Percival if I once had him at my mercy,
ever entered my mind. I never said to myself, ' If I do
succeed, it shall be one result of my success that I put it out
of her husband's power to take her from me again.' I could
not look at her and think of the future with such thoughts as
those. The sad sight of the change in her from her former
self, made the one interest of my love an interest of tenderness
and compassion, which her father or her brother might have
felt, and which I felt, God knows, in my inmost heart. All
my hopes looked no farther on, now, than to the day of her
recovery. There, till she was strong ag'ain and happy again
— there, till she could look at me as she had once looked, and
speak to me as she had once spoken — the future of my happiest
thoughts and my dearest wishes ended.

These words are written under no prompting of idle self-
contemplation. Passages in this narrative are soon to com.e,
which will set the minds of others in judgment on my conduct.
It is right that the best and the worst of me should be
fairly balanced, before that time.

On the morning after my return from Hampshire, I took
Marian up-stairs into my working-room ; and there laid before
her the plan that I had matured, thus far, for mastering the
one assailable point in the life of Sir Percival Glyde.

The way to the Secret lay through the mystery, hitherto
impenetrable to all of us, of the woman in white. The approach
to that, in its turn, might be gained by obtaining the
assistance of Anne Catherick's mother ; and the only ascertain-
able means of prevailing on Mrs. Catherick to act or to speak
in the matter, depended on the chance of my discovering local
particulars and family particulars, first of all, from Mrs.
Clements. After thinking the subject over carefull)', I felt
certain that I could only begin the new inquiries by placing my-
self in communication with the faithful friend and protectress
of Anne Catherick.

The first difficulty, then, was to find Mrs. Clements.

I was indebted to Marian's quick perception for meeting

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

this necessity at once by the best and simplest means. She
proposed to write to the farm near Limmeridge (Todd's Corner),
to inquire whether Mrs. Clements had communicated with
Mrs. Todd during- the past few months. How Mrs. Clements
had been separated from Anne, it was impossible for us to
say ; but that separation once effected, it would certainly occur
to Mrs. Clements to inquire after the missing woman in the
neighbourhood of all others to which she was known to be
most attached — the neighbourhood of Limmeridge. I saw
directly that Marian's proposal offered us a prospect of
success ; and she wrote to Mrs. Todd accordingly by that
day's post.

While we were waiting for tlie reply, I made myself master
of all the information Marian could afford on the subject of
Sir Percival's family, and of his early life. She could only
speak on these topics from hearsay ; but she was reasonably
certain of the truth of what little she had to tell.

Sir Percival was an only child. His father. Sir Felix Glyde,
had suffered, from his birth, under a painful and incurable
deformity, and had shunned all society from his earliest years.
His sole happiness was in the enjoyment of music ; and he had
married a lady with tastes similar to his own, who was said to
be a most accomplished musician. He inherited the Black-
water property while still a young man. Neither he nor his
wife, after taking possession, made advances of any sort
towards the society of the neighbourhood ; and no one en-
deavoured to tempt them into abandoning their reserve, with
the one disastrous exception of the rector of the parish.

The rector was the worst of all innocent mischief-makers
— an over-zealous man. He had heard that Sir Felix had left
College with the character ot being little better than a revolu-
tionist in politics and an infidel in religion ; and he arrived
conscientiously at the conclusion that it was his bounden duty
to summon the lord of the manor to hear sound views enun-
ciated in the parish church. Sir Felix fiercely resented the
clergyman's well-meant but ill-directed interference ; insulting
him so grossly and so publicly, that the families in the neigh-
bourhood sent letters of indignant remonstrance to the park ;
and even the tenants on the Blackwater property expressed
their opinion as strongly as they dared. The baronet, who had
no country tastes of any kind, and no attachment to the estate,
or to any one living on it, declared that society at Blackwater
should never have a second chance of annoying him ; and left
the place from that moment.

After a short residence in London, he and his wife departed

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

for the Continent ; and never returned to England again.
They lived part of the time in France, and part in Germany — ■
always keeping themselves in the strict retirement which the
morbid sense of his own personal deformity had made a neces-
sity to Sir Felix. Their son, Percival, had been born abroad,
and had been educated there by private tutors. His mother
was the first of his parents whom he lost. His father had died
a few years after her, either in 1825 or 1826. Sir Percival had
been in England, as a young man, once or twice before that
period ; but his acquaintance with the late Mi: Fairlie did not
begin till after the time of his father's death. They soon
became very intimate, although Sir Percival was seldom, or
never, at Limmeridge House in those days. Mr, Frederick
Fairlie might have met him once or twice in Mr. Philip Fairlie's
company ; but he could have known little of him at that or
at any other time. Sir Percival's only intimate friend in the
Fairlie family had been Laura's father.

These were all the particulars that I could gain from Marian.
They suggested nothing which was useful to my present pur-
pose, but I noted them down carefully, in the event of their
proving to be of importance at any future period.

Mrs. Todd's reply (addressed, by our own wish, to a post-
office at some distance from us) had arrived at its destination
when I went to apply for it. The chances, which had been all
against us, hitherto, turned, from this moment, in our favour.
Mrs. Todd's letter contained the first item of information of
which we were in search.

Mrs. Clements, it appeared, had (as we had conjectured)
written to Todd's Corner ; asking pardon, in the first place,
for the abrupt manner in which she and Anne had left their
friends at the farm-house (on the morning after I had met the
woman in white in Limmeridge churchyard) ; and then in-
forming Mrs. Todd of Anne's disappearance, and entreating
that she would cause inquiries to be made in the neighbourhood,
on the chance that the lost woman might have stra3fed back
to Limmeridge. In making this request, Mrs. Clements had
been careful to add to it the address at which she might always
be heard of; and that address Mrs. Todd now transmitted to
Marian. It was in London ; and within half an hour's walk
of our own lodging.

In the words of the proverb, I was resolved not to let the
grass grow under my feet. The next morning, I set forth to
seek an interview with Mrs. Clements. This was my first
step forward in the investigation. The story of the desperate
attempt to which I now stood committed, begins here.

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THE WOiMAN IN WHITE

VI.

The address communicated by Mrs. Todd took me to a
lodging--house situated in a respectable street near the Gray's
Inn Road.

When I knocked, the door was opened by Mrs. Clements
herself. She did not appear to remember me ; and asked what
my business was. I recalled to her our meeting in Limmeridge
churchyard, at the close of my interview there with tlie woman
in white ; taking special care to remind her that I was the
person who assisted Anne Catherick (as Anne had herself de-
clared) to escape the pursuit from the Asylum. This was my
only claim to the confidence of Mrs. Clements. She remem-
bered the circumstance the moment I spoke of it ; and asked
me into the parlour, in the greatest anxiety to know if I had
brought her any news of Anne.

It was impossible for me to tell her the whole truth,
without, at the same time, entering into particulars on the
subject of the conspiracy, which it would have been dangerous
to confide to a stranger. I could only abstain most carefully
from raising any false hopes, and then explain that the object
of my visit was to discover the persons who were really
responsible for Anne's disappearance. I even added, so as
to exonerate myself from any after-reproach of my own
conscience, that I entertained not the least hope of being able
to trace her ; that I believed vve should never see her alive
again ; and that my main interest in the affair was to bring
to punishment two men whom I suspected to be concerned in
luring her away, and at whose hands I and some dear friends
of mine had suffered a grievous wrong. With this explana-
tion, I left it to Mrs. Clements to say whether our interest in
the matter (whatever difference there might be in the motives
which actuated us) was not the samiC ; and whether she felt
any reluctance to forward my object by giving me such
information on the subject of my inquiries as she happened
to possess.

The poor woman was, at first, too much confused and
agitated to understand thoroughly what I said to her. She
could only reply that I was welcome to anything she could tell
me in return for the kindness I had shown to Anne. But as
she was not very quick and ready, at the best of times, in
talking to strangers, she would beg me to put her in the
right way, and to say where I wished her to begin.

Knowing by experience that the plainest narrative attain-

411

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

able from persons who are not accustomed to arrange their
ideas, is the narrative which goes far enough back at the
beginning to avoid all impediments of retrospection in its
course, I asked Mrs. Clements to tell me, first, what had
happened after she had left Limmeridge ; and so, by watchful
questioning, carried her on from point to point till we reached
the period of Anne's disappearance.

The substance of the information which I thus obtained,
was as follows :

On leaving the farm at Todd's Corner, Mrs. Clements and
Anne had travelled, that day, as far as Derby ; and had
remained there a week, on Anne's account. They had then
gone on to London, and had lived in the lodging occupied
by Mrs. Clements, at that time, for a month or more, when
circumstances connected with the house and the landlord had
obliged them to change their quarters. Anne's terror of
being discovered in London or its neighbourhood, whenever
they ventured to walk out, had gradually communicated itself
to Mrs. Clements ; and she had determined on removing to
one of the most out-of-the-way places in England — to the town
of Grimsby in Lincolnshire, where her deceased husband had
passed all his early life. His relatives were respectable people
settled in the town ; they had always treated Mrs. Clements
with great kindness ; and she thought it impossible to do
better than go there, and take the advice of her husband's
friends. Anne would not hear of returning to her mother at
Welmingham, because she had been removed to the Asylum
from that place, and because Sir Percival would be certain to
go back there and find her again. There was serious weight
in this objection, and Mrs. Clements felt that it was not to be
easily removed.

At Grimsby the first serious symptoms of illness had
shown themselves in Anne. They appeared soon after the
news of Lady Clyde's marriage had been made public in the
newspapers, and had reached her through that medium.

The medical man who was sent for to attend the sick woman,
discovered at once that she was suffering from a serious affec-
tion of the heart. The illness lasted long, left her very weak,
and returned, at intervals, though with mitigated severity,
again and again. They remained at Grimsby, in consequence,
during the first half of the nev/ year ; and there they might
probably have stayed much longer, but for the sudden
resolution which Anne took, at this time, to venture back to
Hampshire, for the purpose of obtaining a private interview
with Lady Glyde.

412

the: woman in white

Mrs. Clements did all in her power to oppose the execution
of this hazardous and unaccountable project. No explanation
of her motives was offered by Anne, except that she believed
the day of her death was not far off, and that she had some-
thing- on her mind which must be communicated to Lady
Glyde, at any risk, in secret. Her resolution to accomplish
this purpose was so firmly settled, that she declared her
intention of going- to Hampshire by herself, if Mrs. Clements
felt any unwillingness to go with her. The doctor, on being
consulted, was of opinion that serious opposition to her wishes
would, in all probability, produce another and perhaps a fatal
fit of illness ; and Mrs. Clements, under this advice, yielded
to necessity, and once more, with sad forebodings of trouble
and danger to come, allowed Anne Catherick to have her own
way.

On the journey from London to Hampshire, Mrs.
Clements discovered that one of their fellow-passengers was
well acquainted with the neighbourhood of Blackwater, and
could give her all the information she needed on the subject
of localities. In this way, she found out that the only place
they could go to which was not dangerously near to Sir
Percival's residence, was a large village, called Sandon. The
distance, here, from Blackwater Park was between three and
four miles — and that distance, and back again, Anne had
walked, on each occasion when she had appeared in the
neighbourhood of the lake.

For the few days, during which they were at Sandon
without being discovered, they had lived a little w-ay from
the village, in the cottage of a decent widow-woman, who
had a bedroom to let, and whose discreet silence Mrs.
Clements had done her best to secure, for the first week at
least. She had also tried hard to induce Anne to be content
with writing to Lady Glyde, in the first instance. But the
failure of the warning contained in the anonymous letter sent
to Limmcridgc had made Anne resolute to speak this time,
and obstinate in the determination to go on her errand
alone.

Mrs. Clements, nevertheless, followed her privately on
each occasion when she went to the lake — without, however,
venturing near enough to the boat-house to be witness of
what took place there. When A.nne returned for the last
time from the dangerous neighbourhood, the fatigue of
walking, day after day, distances which were far too great
for her strength, added to the exhausting effect of the agita-
tion from which she had suffered, produced the result which

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

Mrs. Clements had dreaded all along-. The old pain over the
heart and the other symptoms of the illness at Grimsby re-
turned ; and Anne was confined to her bed in the cottage.

In this emergency, the first necessity, as Mrs. Clements
knew by experience, was to endeavour to quiet Anne's anxiety
of mind ; and, for this purpose, the -qrood woman went her-
self the next day to the lake, to try if she could find Lady
Clyde (who would be sure, as Anne said, to take her daily
walk to the boat-house), and prevail on her to come back
privately to the cottage near Sandon. On reaching the out-
skirts of the plantation, Mrs. Clements encountered, not
Lady Clyde, but a tall, stout, elderly gentleman with a book
in his hand — in other words. Count Fosco.

The Count, after looking at her very attentively for a
moment, asked if she expected to see any one in that place ;
and added, before she could repl}^, that he was waiting there
with a message from Lady Clyde, but that he was not quite
certain whether the person then before him answered the
description of the pers-on with whom he was desired to com-
municate.

Upon this, Mrs. Clements at once confided her errand to
him, and entreated that he would help to allay Anne's anxiety
by trusting his message to her. The Count most readily and
kindly complied with her request. The message, he said,
was a very important one. Lady Clyde entreated Anne and
her good friend to return immediately to London, as she felt
certain that Sir Percival v/ould discover them, if they remained
any longer in the neighbourhood of Blackwater. .She was
herself going to London in a short time ; and if Mrs. Clements
and Anne would go there first, and would let her know what
their address was, they should hear from her and see her, in
a fortnight or less. The Count added, that he had already
attempted to give a friendly warning to Anne herself, but
that she had been too much startled by seeing that he was a
stranger, to let him approach and speak to her.

To this, Mrs. Clements replied, in the greatest alarm and
distress, that she asked nothing better than to take Anne
safely to London ; but that there was no present hope of
removing her from the dangerous neighbourhood, as she lay
ill in her bed at that mom.ent. The Count inquired if Mrs.
Clements had sent for medical advice ; and hearing that she
had hitherto hesitated to do so, from the fear of making their
position publicly known in the village, informed her that he
was himself a medical inan, and that he would go back with
her if she pleased, and see what could be done for Anne.

414

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

r»Irs. Clements (feeling' a natural confidence in the Count, as
a person trusted with a secret message from Lady Glyde)
gratefully accepted the offer ; and they went back together to
the cottage.

Anne was asleep when they got there. The Count started
at the sight of her (evidently from astonishment at her
resemblance to Lady Glyde). Poor Mrs. Clements supposed
that he was only shocked to see how ill she was. He would
not allow her to be awakened ; he was contented with putting
questions to Mrs. Clements about her symptoms, with look-
ing at her, and with lightly touching her pulse. Sandon was
a large enough place to have a grocer's and druggist's shop
in it ; and thither the Count went, to write his prescription,
and to get the medicine made up. He brought it back him-
self : and told Mrs. Clements that the medicine was a power-
ful stimulant, and that it would certainly give Anne strength
to get up and bear the fatigue of a journey to London of only
a few hours. The remedy was to be administered at stated
times, on that day, and on the day after. On the third day
she would be well enough to travel ; and he arranged to meet
Mrs. Clements at the Blackwater station, and to see them
off by the midday train. If they- did not appear, he would
assume that Anne was worse, and would proceed at once to
the cottage.

As events turned out, no such emergency as this occurred.
The medicine had an extraordinary effect on Anne, and
the good results of it were helped by the assurance Mrs.
Clements could now give her that she would soon see Lady
Glyde in London. . At the appointed day and time (when they
had not been quite so long as a week in Hampshire, alto-
gether), they arrived at the station. The Count was waiting
there for them, and v/as talking to an elderly lady, who
appeared to be going to travel by the train to London also.
He most kindly assisted them, and put them into the carriage
himself; begging Mrs. Clements not to forget to send her
address to Lady Glyde. The elderly lady did not travel in
the same compartment ; and they did not notice v/hat became
of her on reaching the London terminus. Mrs. Clements
secured respectable lodgings in a quiet neighbourhood ; and
then wrote, as she had engaged to do, to inform Lady Glyde
of the address.

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

415

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

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 arrang-ing- a future interview with Anne. Mrs.
Clements expressed her wihingness (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 down-stairs ; 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
maJce 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 ail proba-
bility, been made a day or two before the false Anne Cathe-
rick had really been consigned to safe keeping in the A.sylum)
was, that no such person had been brought back there. She
had then written to Mrs. Catherick, at Welmingham, to knov%7
if she had seen or heard anything of her daughter ; and had
received an answer in the negative. After that reply had

416

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

reached her, she was at Ihe end of her resourceSj and perfectly
ig-norant 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.

VII.

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 con-
sideration. 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 im-
portant 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 shortclothes,
and taught her to walk. I always said she was sent to con-
sole 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 x^'aited a little to give I^Irs. 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 ?

417 E E

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

* 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 Vv"e 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 dovv'n, 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 Wel-
mingham. I went there with him, when he married me. We
were neither of us young ; but v.'e lived very happy together
— happier than our neighbour, Mr. Catherick, lived along w^ith
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 gentleman had made interest
for Catherick ; and he got the situation of clei-k at Welming-
ham 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

418

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

to marry him — in consequence of her holding herself uncom-
monly 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 i-eason
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
liis 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 admira-
tion 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 tlie 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 Clyde ? '
'Yes. Sir Percival Clyde.'

My heart beat fast — I thought I had my hand o\\ the clue.
How little I knew, then, of the windings of the labyrinth 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 litlie inn on the river
(they have pulled it down since that time) where gentlemen
used to ^o to fish. He v.'asn't much noticed vvhen 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 ? '

419 EE2

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

* Yes, sir. Anne was bom 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 up-stairs, 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,
" VvC shall soon see." And only two days afterwards, we did
see.'

Mrs. Clements waited for a moment, before she went on.
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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

Even in that moment, I began to doubt whether the ckie that
1 thoug-ht 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 crudest 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 clergy,
man 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.'

' What became of Sir Percival ? ' I Inquired. ' Did he
stay in the neighbourhood ? '

* Not he, sir. The place was too hot to hold him. He
was heard at high words with Mrs. Catherick, the same
night when the scandal broke out — and the next morning he
took himself off.'

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

* And Mrs. Catherick ? Surely she never remained in the
villag-e, among' the people who knew of her disg-race ? *

' She did, sir. She was hard enoug^h and heartless enough
to set the opinions of all her neighbours at flat defiance. She
declared to ever3'body, from the clerg}^man downwards, that
she was the victim of a dreadful mistake, and that all the
scandal-mongers in the place should not drive her out of it as
if she was a guilty woman. All through my time, she lived
at Old W^elrningham ; and, after my time, when the new
town was building, and the respectable neighbours began
moving to it, she moved too, as if she was determined to live
among them and scandalise them to the very last. There she
is now, and there she will stop, in defiance of the best of them,
to her dying day.'

' But how has she lived, through all these years ? ' I asked.
Was her husband able and willing to help her ? '

' Both able and willing, sir,' said Mrs, Clements. ' In the
second letter he wrote to my good man, he said she had
borne his name, and lived in his home, and, wicked as she
was, she must not starve like a beggar in the street. He
could afford to make her som.e small allov/ance, and she
might draw for it quarterly, at a place in London.'

' Did she accept the allowance ? '

' Not a farthing of it, sir. She said she would never be
beholden to Catherick for bit or drop, if she lived to be a hun-
dred. And she has kept her word ever since. When my poor
dear husband died, and left all to me, Catherick's letter was
put in my possession with the other things — and I told her to
let me know if she was ever in want. " I'll let all England
know I'm in want," she said, "before I tell Catherick, or any
friend of Catherick's. Take that for your answer — and give
it to him for an answer if he ever writes again." '

' Do you suppose that she had money of her own ? '

* Ver}' little, if any, sir. It v.-as said, and said truly, I am
afraid, that her means of living came privately from Sir
Percival Clyde.'

After that last reply, I waited a little, to reconsider what I
had heard. If I unreservedly accepted the story so far, it vvas
now plain that no approach, direct or indirect, to the Secret
had yet been revealed to me, and that the pursuit of my object
had ended again in leaving me face to face with the most
palpable and the most disheartening failure.

But there was one point in the narrative which made
me doubt the propriety of accepting it unreservedly, and

422

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

which suggested the idea of something hidden below the sur-
face.

I could not account to myself for the circumstance of the
clerk's guilty wife voluntarily living out all her after-existence
on the scene of her disgrace. The woman's own reported
statement that she had taken this strange course as a practical
assertion of her innocence, did not satisfy me. It seemed, to
my mind, more natural and more probable to assume that she
was not so completely a free agent in this matter as she had
herself asserted. In that case, v\'ho was the likeliest person
to possess the power of compelling her to remain at Welming-
ham ? The person unquestionably from whom she derived
the means of living. She had refused assistance from her
husband, she had no adequate resources of her own, she was
a friendless, degraded woman : from v.'hat source should she
derive help, but from the source at which report pointed — Sir
Percival Gl3-de ?

Reasoning on these assumptions, and always bearing in
mind the one certain fact to guide me, that Mrs. Catherick was
in possession of the Secret, I easily understood that it was
Sir Percival's interest to keep her at Welmingham, because
her character in that place was cei^tain to isolate her from all
communication with female neighbours, and to allow her no
opportunities of talking incautiously, in moments of free inter-
course with inquisitive bosom friends. But what was the
mystery to be concealed ? Not Sir Percival's infamous con-
nexion with Mrs. Catherick's disgrace — for the neighbours
were the very people who knew of it. Not the suspicion that
he was Anne's father — for Welmingham was the place in
which that suspicion must inevitably exist. If I accepted the
guilty appearances described to me, as unreservedly as others
had accepted them ; if I drew from them the same superficial
conclusion Vv^hich Mr. Catherick and all his neighbours had
drawn — where was the suggestion, in all that I had heard, of
a dangerous secret between Sir Percival and Mrs. Catherick,
which had been kept hidden from that time to this ?

And yet, in those stolen meetings, in those familiar whis-
perings between the clerk's wife and ' the gentleman in mourn-
ing,' the clue to discovery existed beyond a doubt.

Was it possible that appearances, in this case, had pointed
one way while the truth lay, all the while, unsuspected, in
another direction ? Could Mrs. Catherick's assertion that she
was the victim of a dreadful mistake, by any possibility be
true? Or, assuming it to be false, could the conclusion which
associated Sir Percival with her guilt, have been founded in

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

some inconceivable error ? Had Sir Percival, by any chance,
courted the suspicion that was wrong, for the sake of divert-
ing from himseh' some other suspicion that was right ? Here,
if I could find it — here was the approach to the Secret, hidden
deep under the surface of the apparently unpromising story
which I had just heard.

My next questions were now directed to the one object of
ascertaining whether Mr. Catherick had, or had not, arrived
truly at the conviction of his wife's misconduct. The answers
I received from Mrs. Clements, left me in no doubt whatever
on that point. Mrs. Catherick had, on the clearest evidence,
compromised her reputation, while a single woman, with some
person unknown ; and had married to save her character. It
had been positively ascertained, by calculations of time and
place into which I need not enter particularly, that the
daughter who bore her husband's name was not her husband's
child.

The next object of inquiry, whether it was equally certain
that Sir Percival must have been the father of Anne, was
beset by far greater difficulties. I was in no position to try
the probabilities on one side or on the other, in this instance,
by any better test than the test of personal resemblance.

* I suppose you often saw Sir Percival, when he was in
yOur village ? ' I said.

' Yes, sir — very often,' replied Mrs. Clements.

* Did you ever observe that Anne was like him ? *
' She was not at all like him, sir.'

* Was she like her mother, then ? '

* Not like her mother, either, sir. Mrs. Catherick was
dark, and full in the face.'

Not like her mother, and not like her (supposed) father.
I knew that the test by personal resemblance was not to be
implicitly trusted — but, on the other hand, it was not to be
altogether rejected on that account. Was it possible to
strengthen the evidence, by discovering any conclusive facts
in relation to the lives of Mrs. Catherick and Sir Percival,
before they either of them appeared at Old Welmingham ?
When I asked my next questions, I put them with this view.

* When Sir Percival first arrived in your neighbourhood,'
I said, * did you hear where he had come from last ? '

' No, sir. Some said from Blackwater Park, and some
said from Scotland — but nobody knew.'

' Was Mrs. Catherick living in service at Varneck Hall,
immediately before her marriage ? '

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

'Yes, sir.'

' And had she been long in her phice ? '

' Three or four years, sir ; I am not quite certain which.'

' Did you ever hear the name of the g-entleman to whom
Varneck Hall belonged at that time ? '

'Yes, sir. His name was Major Donthorne.'

* Did Mr. Catherlck, or did any one else you knew, ever
hear that Sir Percival was a friend of Major Donthorne's, or
ever see Sir Percival in the neighbourhood of Varneck Hall ? '

' Catherick never did, sir, that I can remember— nor any
one else, either, that I know of.'

I noted down Major Donthorne's name and address, on
the chance that he might still be alive, and that it might be
useful, at some future time, to apply to him. Meanwhile,
the impression on my mind was now decidedly adverse to the
opinion that Sir Percival was Anne's father, and decidedly
favourable to the conclusion that the secret of his stolen inter-
views with Mrs. Catherick was entirely unconnected with the
disgrace which the woman had inflicted on her husband's
good name. I could think of no further inquiries which 1
might make to strengthen this impression — I could only
encourage Mrs. Clements to speak next of Anne's early days,
and watch for any chance-suggestion which might in this way
offer itself to me.

' I have not heard yet,' I said, 'how the poor child, borii
in all this sin and misery, came to be trusted, Mrs. Clements,
to your care.'

' There was nobody else, sir, to take the little helpless
creature in hand,' replied Mrs. Clements. ' The wicked
mother seemed to hate it — as if the poor baby was in fault !
— from the day it was born. My heart was heavy for the child ;
and I made the ofter to bring it up as tenderly as if it was my
own.'

' Did Anne remain entirely under your care, from that
time ? '

' Not quite entirely, sir. Mrs. Catherick had her whims
and fancies about it, at times ; and used now and then to lay
claim to the child, as if she wanted to spite me for bringing it
up. But these fits of hers never lasted for long. Poor little
Anne was always returned to me, and was always glad to get
back — though she led but a gloomy life in my house, having
no playmates, like other children, to brighten her up. Our
longest separation was when her mother took her to Lim-
meridge. Just at that time, I lost my husband ; and I felt it
was as well, in that miserable affliction, that Anne should not

425

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

be in the house. She was between ten and eleven years old,
then ; slow at her lessons, poor soul, and not so cheerful as
other children— but as pretty a little g-irl to look at as you
would wish to see. I waited at home till her mother brought
her back ; and then I made the offer to take her with me to
London — the truth being, sir, that I could not find it in my
heart to stop at Old Welmingham, after my husband's death,
the place was so changed and so dismal to me.'

* And did Mrs. Catherick consent to your proposal ? '

* No, sir. She came back from the north, harder and
bitterer than ever. Folks did say that she had been obliged
to ask Sir Percival's leave to go, to begin with ; and that she
only went to nurse her dying sister at Limmeridge because
the poor woman was reported to have saved money — the
truth being that she hardly left enough to bury her. These
things may have soured Mrs. Catherick, likely enough — but,
however that may be, she wouldn't hear of my taking the
child away. She seemed to like distressing us both by part-
ing us. AH I could do was to give Anne my direction, and
totell her, privately, if she was ever in trouble, to come to
me. But years passed before she was free to come. I never
saw her again, poor soul, till the night she escaped from the
madhouse.'

' You know, Mrs. Clements, why Sir Percival Clyde shut
her up ? '

' I only know what Anne herself told me, sir. The poor
thing used to ramble and wander about it, sadl}^ She said
her mother had got some secret of Sir Percival's to keep, and
had let it out to her, long after I left Hampshire — and when
Sir Percival found she knew it, he shut her up. But she
never could say what it was, when I asked her. All she
could tell me was that her mother might be the ruin and
destruction of Sir Percival, if she chose. Mrs. Catherick may
have let out just as much as that, and no more. I'm next to
certain I should have heard the v/hole truth from Anne, if she
had really known it, as she pretended to do — and as she very
likely fancied she did, poor soul.'

This idea had more than once occurred to my own mind.
I had already told Marian that I doubted whether Laura was
really on the point of making any important discovery when
she and Anne Catherick were disturbed by Count Fosco at
the boat-house. It was perfectly in character with Anne's
mental affliction that she should assume an absolute know-
ledge of the Secret on no better grounds than vague suspicion,
derived from hints which her mother had incautiously let drop

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

in her presence. Sir Percival's g^uilty distrust would, in that
case, infallibly inspire him with the false idea that Anne knew
all from her mother, just as it had afterwards fixed in his
mind the equally false suspicion that his wife knew all from
Anne.

The time was passing- ; the morning- was wearing- away.
It was doubtful, if I stayed long-er, whether I should hear
anything- more from Mrs. Clements that would be at all useful
to my purpose. I had already discovered those local and
family particulars, in relation to Mrs. Catherick, of which I
had been in search, and I had arrived at certain conclusions,
entirely new to me, which mig-ht immensely assist in directing-
the course of my future proceedings. I rose to take my leave,
and to thank Mrs. Clements for the friendly readiness she
had shown in affording- me information.

" I am afraid you must have thought me very inquisitive,'
I said. ' I have troubled you with more questions than many
people would have cared to answer.'

' You are heartily welcome, sir, to anything- 1 can tell you,'
answered Mrs. Clements. She stopped, and looked at nie
wistfully. ' But I do wish,' said the poor woman, ' you could
have told me a little more about Anne, sir. I thought I saw
something in your face, when you came in, which looked as
if you could. You can't think how hard it is, not even to
know whether she is living or dead. I could bear it better if
I was only certain. You said you never expected we should
see her alive again. Do you know, sir — do you know for
truth — that it has pleased God to take her ? '

I was not proof against this appeal ; it would have been
vuispeakably mean and cruel of me if I had resisted it.

' I am afraid there is no doubt of the truth,' I answered,
gently : ' I have the certainty, in my own mind, that her
troubles in this world are over.'

The poor woman dropped into her chair, and hid her face
from me. ' Oh, sir,' she said, 'how do you know it? Who
can have told you ? '

' No one has told me, Mrs. Clements. But I have reasons
for feeling sure of it — reasons which I promise you shall
know, as soon as I can safely explain them. I am certain
she was not neglected in her last moments ; I am certain the
heart-complaint, from which she suffered so sadly, was the
true cause of her death. You shall feel as sure of this as I
do, soon — you shall know, before long, that she is burled in
a quiet country churc'nyard ; in a pretty, peaceful place, which
you might have chosen for her 3'ourself.'

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

' Dead ! ' said Mrs. Clements ; * dead so youngf — and I
am left to hear it ! I made her first short frocks. I taught
her to walk. The first time she ever said, Mother, she said
it to w^— and, now, I am left, and Anne is taken ! Did you
say, sir,' said the poor woman, removing- the handkerchief
from her face, and looking up at me for the first time — ' did
you say that she had been nicely buried ? Was it the sort of
funeral she might have had, if she had really been my own
child ? ' _

I assured her that it was. She seemed to take an inex-
plicable pride in my answer — to find a comfort in it, which no
other and higher considerations could afford. ' It would
have broken my heart,' she said, simply, 'if Anne had not
been nicely buried — but, how do you know it, sir? who told
you ? ' I once more entreated her to wait until I could speak
to her unreservedly. 'You are sure to see me again,' I said;
' for I have a favour to ask, when you are a little more com-
posed— perhaps in a day or two.'

* Don't keep it waiting, sir, on my account,' said Mrs.
Clements. ' Never mind my crying, if I can be of use. If
you have anything on your mind to say to me, sir — please to
say it now.'

' I only wish to ask you one last question,' I said. ' I only
want to know Mrs. Catherick's address at W^elmingham.'

My request so startled Mrs. Clements, that, for the
moment, even the tidings of Anne's death seemed to be driven
from her mind. Her tears suddenly ceased to flow, and she
sat looking at me in blank amazement.

' For the Lord's sake, sir ! ' she said, ' what do you want
with Mrs. Catherick ? '

' I want this, Mrs. Clements,' I replied : ' I want to know
the secret of those private meetings of hers with Sir Percival
Clyde. There is something more, in what you have told me
of that woman's past conduct and of that man's past relations
with her, than you, or any of your neighbours, ever suspected.
There is a Secret we none of us know of between those two
— and I am going to Mrs. Catherick, with the resolution to
find it out.'

' Think twice about it, sir ! ' said Mrs. Clements, rising,
in her earnestness, and laying her hand on my arm. ' She's
an awful woman — you don't know her as I do. Think twice
about it.'

' I am sure your warning is kindly meant, Mrs. Clements.
But I am determined to see the woman, whatever comes
of it.'

42S

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

Mrs. Clements looked me anxiously in the face.

* I see your mind is made up, sir,' she said. ' I will give
you the address.'

I wrote it down in my pocket-book ; and then took het
hand, to say farewell.

' You shall hear from me, soon,' I said ; ' you shall know
all that I have promised to tell you.'

Mrs. Clements sighed, and shook her head doubtfulh'.

'An old woman's advice is sometimes worth taking-, sir,'
she said. ' Think twice before you go to Welmingham.'

VHI.

W^HEN I reached home again, after my interview with Mrs.
Clements, I was struck by the appearance of a change in
Laura.

The unvarying gentleness and patience which long mis-
fortune had tried so cruelly and had never conquered yet,
seemed now to have suddenly failed her. Insensible to all
Marian's attempts to soothe and amuse her, she sat, with her
neglected drawing pushed away on the table ; her eyes
resolutely cast down, her fingers twining and untwining
themselves restlessly in her lap. Marian rose when I came in,
with a silent distress in her face ; waited for a moment, to
see if Laura would look up at my approach ; whispered to
me, 'Try \i you can rouse her ; ' and left the room.

I sat down in the vacant chair ; gently unclasped the poor,
worn, restless fingers ; and took both her hands in mine.

' What are you thinking of, Laura ? Tell me, my darling
— try and tell me what it is.'

She struggled with herself, and raised her eyes to mine.

' I can't feel happy,' she said ; ' I can't help thinking ' She

stopped, bent forward a little, and laid her head on my
shoulder, with a terrible mute helplessness that struck me to
the heart.

'Try to tell me,' I repeated, gently ; 'try to tell me why
you are not happy.'

' I am so useless — I am such a burden on both of you,' she
answered, with a weary, hopeless sigh. ' You work and get
money, Walter ; and Marian helps you. Why is there nothing
I can do ? You will end in liking Marian better than 5'ou like
nie — you will, because I am so helpless ! Oh, don't, don't,
don't treat me like a child ! '

I raised her head, and smoothed away the tangled hair
that fell over her face, and kissed her — my poor, faded flower !

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

my lost, afflicted sister! 'You shall help us, Laura,' I said ;
' you shall begin, my darling, to-day.'

She looked at me with a feverish eagerness, with a breath-
less interest, that made me tremble for the new life of hope
which I had called into being by those few words.

I rose, and set her drawing materials in order, and placed
them near her again.

' You know that I work and get money by drawing,' I said.
* Now you have taken such pains, now you are so much im-
proved, you shall begin to work and get money, too. Try to
finish this little sketch as nicely and prettily as you can.
When it is done, I will take it away with me ; and the same
person will buy it who buys all that I do. You shall keep your
own earnings in your own purse ; and Marian shall come to you
to help US; as often as she comes to me. Think how useful
you are going to make yourself to both of us, and you will
soon be as happy, Laura, as the day is long,'

Her face grew eager, and brightened into a smile. In the
moment while it lasted, in the moment when she again took
up the pencils that had been laid aside, she almost looked like
the Laura of past days.

I had rightly interpreted the first signs of a new grov.lh
and strength in her mind, unconsciously expressing them-
selves in the notice she had taken of the occupations which
filled her sister's life and mine. Marian (when I told her what
had passed) saw, as I saw, that she was longing to assume
lier own little position of importance, to raise herself in her
own estimation and in ours— and, from that day, we tenderly
helped the new ambition vv^hich gave promise of the hopeful,
happier future, that might now not be far off. Her drawings,
as she finished them, or tried to finish them, were placed in
my hands ; Marian took them from me and hid them carefully,
and I set aside a little weekly tribute from my earnings, to be
offered to her as the price paid by strangers for the poor,
faint, valueless sketches, of which I was the only purchaser.
It was hard sometimes to maintain our innocent deception,
when she proudly brought out her purse to contribute her
share towards the expenses, and wondered, with serious
interest, whether I or she had earned the most that week.
I have all those hidden drawings in my possession still : they
are my treasures beyond price — the dear remembrances that I
love to keep alive — the friends, in past adversity, that my
heart will never part from, my tenderness never forget.

Am I trifling, here, with the necessities of my task ? am I
looking forvv^ard to the happier time which my narrative

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

has not j'et reached ? Yes. Back ag'ain — back to the days of
doubt and dread, Vvhen the spirit within me struggled hard
for its hfe, in the icy stilhiess of perpetual suspense. I have
paused and rested for a while on my forward course. It is
not, perhaps, time wasted, if the friends who read these pages
have paused and rested too.

I took the first opportunity I could find of speaking to
Marian in private, and of communicating to her the result of
the inquiries which I had made that morning. She seemed
to share the opinion on the svibject of my proposed journey
to Welmingham, v.-hich Mrs. Clements had already expressed
to me.

'Surely, Walter,' she said, 'you hardly know enough j-et
to give you any hope of claiming Mrs. Catherick's confidence ?
Is it wise to proceed to these extremities, before you have really
exhausted all safer and simpler means of attaining your object ?
When you told me that Sir Percival and the Count were the
only two people in existence who knew the exact date
of Laura's journey, you forgot, and I forgot, that there was a
third person who must surely know it — I mean Mrs. Rubella.
Would it not be far easier, and far less dangerous, to insist on
a confession from her, than to force it from Sir Percival ? '

* It might be easier,' I replied ; ' but we are not aware of
the full extent of Mrs. Rubelle's connivance and interest in the
conspiracy ; and we are therefore not certain that the date has
been impressed on her mind, as it has been assuredly im-
pressed on the minds of Sir Percival and the Count. It is too
late, now, to waste the time on Mrs. Rubelle, which may be
all important to the discovery of the one assailable point in
Sir Percival's life. Are you thinking a little too seriously,
Marian, of the risk I may run in returning to Hampshire ?
Are you beginning to doubt whether Sir Percival Clyde may
not, in the end, be more than a match for me? '

' He will not be more than your match,' she replied de-
cidedly, ' because he will not be helped in resisting you by the
impenetrable wickedness of the Count.'

' What has led you to that conclusion ? ' I asked, in some
surprise.

' My own knowledge of Sir Percival's obstinacy and im-
patience of the Count's control,' she answered. ' I believe he
will insist on meeting you single-handed — ^just as he insisted,
at first, on acting for himself at Blackwater Park. The tim.e
for suspecting the Count's interference, will be the titne w^hen
you have Sir Percival at j-our mercy. His ovs^i interests will

431

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

then be directly threatened — and he will act, Walter, to terrible
purpose, in his own defence.'

' We may deprive him of his weapons, beforehand,' I said.
* Some of the particulars I have heard from Mrs. Clements
may yet be turned to account against him ; and other means
of strengthening the case may be at our disposal. There are
passages in Mrs. Michelson's narrative which show that the
Count found it necessary to place himself in communication
with Mr. Fairlie ; and there may be circumstances which com-
promise him in that proceeding. While I am away, Marian,
write to Mr. Fairlie, and say that you want an answer describ-
ing exactly what passed between the Count and himself, and
informing you also of any particulars that may have come to
his knowledge at the same time, in connexion with his niece.
Tell him that the statement you request will, sooner or later,
be insisted on, if he shows any reluctance to furnish you with
it of his own accord.'

' The letter shall be written, Walter. But are you really
determined to go to W^elmingham ? '

' Absolutely determined. I will devote the next tvv-o days
to earning what we want for the week to come ; and, on the
third day, I go to Hampshire.'

When the third day came, I was ready for my journey.

As it was possible that I might be absent for some little
time, I arranged with Marian that we were to correspond every
day ; of course addressing each other by assumed names, for
caution's sake. As long as I heard from her regularly, I should
assume that nothing was wrong. But if the morning came
and brought me no letter, my return to London would take
place, as a matter of course, by the first train. I contrived to
reconcile Laura to my departure by telling her that I was
going to the country to find new purchasers for her drawings
and for mine ; and I left her occupied and happy. Marian
followed me down-stairs to the street door.

' Remember what anxious hearts you leave here,' slie
whispered, as we stood together in the passage ; ' remember
all the hopes that hang on your safe return. If strange things
happen to you on this journey ; if you and Sir Percival meet

' What makes you think we shall meet ? ' I asked.

' I don't know — I have fears and fancies that I can't account
for. Laugh at them, Walter, if you like — but, for God's sake,
keep your tem.per, if you come in contact with that man ! '

' Never fear, Marian ! I answer for my self-control.'

With those words we parted.

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

I walked briskly to the station. There was a glow of hope
in me ; there was a growing- conviction in my mind that my
journey, this time, would not be taken in vain. It was a fine,
clear, cold morning ; my nerves were firmly strung, and I felt
all the strength of my resolution stirring in me vigorously from
head to foot.

As I crossed the railway platform, and looked right and
left among- the people congregated on it, to search for any
faces among them that I knew, the doubt occurred to me
whether it might not have been to my advantage if I had
adopted a disguise, before setting out for Hampshire. But
there was something so repellent to me in the idea — something
so meanly like the common herd of spies and informers in the
mere act of adopting a disguise — that I dismissed the question
from consideration, almost as soon as it had risen in my mind.
Even as a mere matter of expediency the proceeding was doubt-
ful in the extreme. If I tried the experiment at home, the land-
lord of the house would, sooner or later, discover me, and would
have his suspicions aroused immediately. If I tried it away
from home, the same persons might see me, by the commonest
accident, with the disguise and without it ; and I should, in
that v.'ay, be inviting the notice and distrust which it was my
most pressing interest to avoid. In my own character I had
acted thus far — and in my own character I was resolved to
continue to the end.

The train left me at Welmingham, early in the afternoon.

Is there any wilderness of sand in the deserts of Arabia, is
there any prospect of desolation among the ruins of Palestine,
which can rival the repelling effect on the eye, and the de-
pressing influence on the mind, of an English country town,
in the first stage of its existence, and in the transition state of
its prosperity ? I asked myself that question, as I passed
through the clean desolation, the neat ugliness, the prim tor-
por of the streets of Welmingham. And the tradesmen who
stared after me from their lonely shops ; the trees that drooped
helpless in their arid exile of unfinished crescents and squares ;
the dead house-carcases that waited in vain for the vivifying
human element to animate them with the breath of life ; every
creature that I saw ; every object that I passed — seemed to
answer with one accord : The deserts of Arabia are innocent
of our civilised desolation ; the ruins of Palestine are incapable
of our modern gloom !

I inquired my way to the quarter of the town in which Mrs.
Catherick lived ; and on reaching it found mvself in a square

^33 ' F F

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

of small houses, one story high. There was a bare little plot
of grass in the middle, protected by a cheap wire fence. An
elderly nursemaid and two children v.ere standing in a corner
of the enclosure, looking- at a lean goat tethered to the grass.
Two foot-passengers were talking together on one side of the
pavement before the houses, and an idle little boy was leading
an idle little dog along by a string, on the other. I heard the
dull tinkling of a piano at a distance, accompanied by the in-
termittent knocking of a hammer nearer at hand. These were
all the sights and sounds of life that encountered me when I
entered the square.

I walked at once to the door of Number Thirteen — the
number of Mrs. Catherick's house — and knocked, without
waiting to consider beforehand how I might best present myself
when I got in. The first necessity was to see Mrs. Catherick.
I could then judge, from my own observation, of the safest
and easiest manner of approaching the object of my visit.

The door was opened by a melancholy middle-aged woman
servant. I gave her my card, and asked if I could see
Mrs. Catherick. The card was taken into the front parlour ;
and the servant returned with a message requesting me to
mention what my business was.

' Say, if you please, that my business relates to Mrs. Cathe-
rick's daughter,' I replied. This was the best pretext I could
think of, on the spur of the moment, to account for my visit.

The servant again retired to the parlour ; again returned ;
and, this time, begged me, with a look of gloomy amazement,
to walk in.

I entered a little room, wit'n a flaring paper, of the largest
pattern, on the walls. Chairs, tables, cheffonier, and sofa, all
gleamed with the glutinous brightness of cheap upholstery.
On the largest table, in the middle of the room, stood a smart
Bible, placed exactly in the centre, on a red and yellow
woollen mat ; and at the side of the table nearest to the
window, with a little knitting-basket on her lap, and a
wheezing, blear-eyed old spaniel crouched at her feet, there
sat an elderly woman, vvearing a black net cap and a black
silk gov\'n, and having slate-coloured mittens on her hands.
Her iron-gray hair hung in heavy bands on either side of her
face ; her dark eyes looked straight forward, with a hard,
defiant, implacable stare. She had full square cheeks ; along,
firm chin ; and thick, sensual, colourless lips. Her figure
was stout and sturdy, and her manner aggressively self-
possessed. This was Mrs. Catherick.

* You have come to speak to me about my daughter,' she

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

said, before I could utter a word on my side. ' Be so good as
to mention what you have to say.'

The tone of her voice was as hard, as defiant, as implacable
as the expression of her eyes. She pointed to a chair, and
looked me all over attentively, from head to foot, as I sat
down in it. I saw that my only chance with this woman was
to speak to her in her own tone, and to meet her, at the outset
of our interview, on her own ground.

' You are aware,' I said, ' that your daughter has been
lost ? '

* I am perfectly aware of it.'

' Have you felt any apprehension that the misfortune of
her loss might be followed Ly the misfortune of her death ? '
' Yes. Have you come here to tell me she is dead? '

* I have.'

* Why ? '

She put that extraordinary question without the slightest
change in her voice, her face, or her manner. She could not
have appeared more perfectly unconcerned if I had told her of
the death of the goat in the enclosure outside.

' Why ? ' I repeated. ' Do you. ask why I come here to
tell you of your daughter's death ? '

' Yes. What interest have you in me, or In her ? How
do you come to know anything about my daughter ? '

' In this way. I met her on the night when she escaped
from the Asylum ; and I assisted her in reaching a place of
safety.'

' You did very wrong.'

' I am sorry to hear her mother say so.'

* Her mother does say so. How do you know she Is dead ? '
' I am not at liberty to say how I know it — but I do knov/ it.'
'Are you at liberty to say how you found out my

address ? '

' Certainly. I got your address from Mrs. Clements.'
' Mrs. Clements Is a foolish woman. Did she tell you to

come here ? '

* She did not.*

'Then, I ask you again, why did you come ? '
As she was determined to have her answer, I gave it to
her in the plainest possible form.

* I came,' I said, ' because I thought Anne Catherick's
mother miight have some natural Interest in knowing whether
she was alive or dead.'

' Just so,' said Mrs. Catherick, with additional self-posses-
sion. * Had you no other motive ? '

435 P^a

THE WOMAN IN WHITE'

1 hesitated. The right answer to that question was not
easy to find, at a moment's notice.

' If you have no other motive,' she went on, dehberately
taking off her slate-coloured mittens, and rolling them up, * I
have only to thank you for your visit ; and to say that I will
not detain you here any longer. Your information would
be more satisfactory if you were willing to explain how you
became possessed of it. However, it justifies me, I svippose,
in going into mourning. There is not much alteration neces-
sary in my dress, as you see. When I have changed my
mittens, I shall be all in black.'

She searched in the pocket of her gown ; drew out a pair
of black lace mittens ; put them on with the stoniest and
steadiest composure ; and then quietly crossed her hands in
her lap.

' I wish you good morning,' she said.

The cool contempt of her manner irritated me into directly
avowing that the purpose of my visit had not been answered

' I /lavc another motive in coming here,' I said.
'Ah ! I thought so,' remarked Mrs. Catherick.

* Your daughter's death '

'What did she die of?'

* Of disease of the heart.'

* Yes. Go on.'

' Your daughter's death has been made the pretext for
Inflicting serious injury on a person who is very dear to
me. Two men have been concerned, to my certain know-
ledge, in doing that wrong. One of them is Sir Percival
Clyde.'

' Indeed ! '

I looked attentively to see if she flinched at the sudden
mention of that name. Not a muscle of her stirred — the hard,
defiant, implacable stare in her eyes never wavered for an
instant.

' You may wonder,' I went on, ' how the event of your
daughter's death can have been made the means of inflicting
injury on another person.'

' No,' said Mrs. Catherick ; ' I don't wonder at all. This
appears to be your affair. You are interested in my affairs,
I am not interested in yours.'

'You may ask, then,' I persisted, 'why I mention the
matter, in your presence.'

' Yes : I do ask that. '

' I mention it because I am determined to bring Sir

436

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

Percival Clyde to account for the wickedness he has com-
mitted.'

' What have I to do with your determination ? '
' You shall hear. There are certain events in Sir Percival's
past life which it is necessary to my purpose to be fully
acquainted with. Vou knov\^ them — and for that reason, I
come tojj'o?^'

* What events do you mean ? '

' Events that occurred at Old Welmingham, when your
husband was parish-clerk at that place, and before the time
when your daughter was b®rn.'

I had reached the woman at last, through the barrier of
impenetrable reserve that she had tried to set up between us.
I saw her temper smouldering in her eyes — as plainly as I
saw her hands grow restless, then unclasp themselves, and
begin mechanically smoothing her dress over her knees.

' What do you know of those events ? ' she asked.

* All that INIrs. Clements covdd tell me,' I answered.
There was a momentary flush on her firm, square face, a

momentary stillness in her restless hands, which seemed to
betoken a coming outburst of anger that might throw her off
her guard. But, no— she mastered the rising irritation ;
leaned back in her chair ; crossed her arms on her broad
bosom ; and, with a smile of grim sarcasm on her thick lips,
looked at me as steadily as ever.

'Ah! I begin to understand it all, now,' she said; her
tamed and disciplined anger only expressing itself in the
elaborate mockery of her tone and manner. ' You have got
a grudge of your own against Sir Percival Clyde — and I must
help you to wreak it. I must tell you this, that, and the other
about Sir Percival and myself, must I ? Yes, indeed ? You
have been prying into my private affairs. You think you
have found a lost woman to deal with, who lives here on
sufferance ; and who will do anything you ask, for fear you
may injure her in the opinions of the townspeople. I see
through you and your precious speculation — I do ! and it
amuses me. Ha ! ha ! '

She stopped for a moment : her arms tightened over her
bosom, and she laughed to herself — a hard, harsh, angry
laugh.

'You don't know how I have lived in this place, and
what I have done in this place, Mr. What's-your-name,' she
went on. ' I'll tell you, before I ring the bell and have you
shown out. I came here a wronged woman. I came here
robbed of mv character and determined to claim it back. I've

^ THE WOMAN IN WHITE

been years and years about It — and I have claimed it back.
I have matched the respectable people fairly and openly, on
their own ground. If they say anything against me, now,
they must say it in secret : they can't say it, they daren't
say it, openly. I stand high enough in this town to be out
of your reach. The clergymian bows to me. Aha ! you didn't
bargain for that, when you came here. Go to the church,
and inquire about me — you will find Mrs. Catherick has her
sitting, like the rest of them, and pays the rent on the day it's
due. Go to the town-hall. There's a petition lying there ;
a petition of the respectable inhabitants against allowing a
Circus to come and perform here and corrupt our morals :
yes ! OUR morals. I signed that petition this morning. Go
to the bookseller's shop. The clergyman's Wednesday even-
ing Lectures on Justification by Faith are publishing there by
subscription — I'm down on the list. The doctor's wife only
put a shilling in the plate at our last charity sermon — I put
half a crown. Mr. Churchwarden Soward held the plate,
and bowed to me. Ten years ago he told Pigrum, the
chemist, I ought to be whipped out of the town, at the cart's
tail. Is your mother alive ? Has she got a better Bible on
her table than I have got on mine ? Does she stand better
with her tradespeople than I do wit'n mine ? Has she ahvays
lived within her income ? I have always lived within mine. —
Ah ! there ts the clergyman coming along the square. Look,
Mr. What's-your-name — look, if you please ! '

She started up, with the activity of a young woman ;
went to the window ; waited till the clergyman passed ; and
bowed to him solemnly. The clergyman ceremoniously raised
his hat, and walked on. Mrs. Catherick returned to her
chair, and looked at me with a grimmer sarcasm than ever.

* There ! ' she said. * What do you think of that for a
woman with a lost character ? How does your speculation
look now ? '

The singular manner in which she had chosen to assert
herself, the extraordinary practical vindication of her position
in the town which she had just offered, had so perplexed me,
that I listened to her in silent surprise. I was not the less
resolved, however, to make another effort to throw her off
her guard. If the woman's fierce temper once got beyond
her control, and once flamed out on me, she might yet say
the words which would put the clue in my hands.

' How does your speculation look now? ' she repeated.

' Exactly as it looked when I first came in,' I answered.
* I don't doubt the position you have gained in the town ;

438

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

.and I don't wish to assail it, even if I could. I came here
because Sir Percival Glyde is, to my certain knowledg-e, your
enemy, as well as mine. If I have a grudge against him,
you have a grudge against him too. You may deny it, if you
like ; you may distrust me as much as you please ; you may
be as angry as you will — but, of all the women in England,
you, if you have any sense of injury, are the woman who
ought to help me to crush that man.'

' Crush him for yourself,' she said — ' then come back here,
and see what I say to you.'

She spoke those words, as she had not spoken yet — ■
quickly, fiercely, vindictively. I had stirred in its lair the
serpent-hatred of years — but only for a moment. Like a
lurking reptile, it leapt up at me — as she eagerly bent
forward towards the place in which I was sitting. Like a
lurking reptile, it dropped out of sight again — as she instantly
resumed her former position in the chair.

' You won't trust m.e ? ' I said.

'No.'

' You are afraid ? '

' Do I look as if I was ? '

' You are afraid of Sir Percivar Glyde.'

'Am I?'

Her colour was rising, and her hands were at work
again, smoothing her gown. I pressed the point farther and
farther home — I went on, without allowing her a moment of
delay.

' Sir Percival has a high position in the world,' I said ; ' it
would be no wonder if you were afraid of him. Sir Percival
is a powerful man — a baronet — the possessor of a fine estate
— the descendant of a great family '

She amazed me beyond expression by suddenly bursting
out laughing.

' Yes,' she repeated, in tones of the bitterest, steadiest
contempt. ' A baronet — the possessor of a fine estate — the
descendant of a great family. Yes, indeed ! A great family
— especially by the mother's side.'

There was no time to reflect on the words that had just
escaped her ; there was only time to feel that they were well
worth thinking over the moment I left the house.

' I am not here to dispute with you about family
questions,' I said. * I know nothing of Sir Percival's
mother '

'And you know as little of Sir Percival himself,' she
interposed, sharply.

439

THE WOiMAN IN WHITE

* I advise you not to be too sure of that,' I rejoined. * I
know some things about him — and I suspect many more.'

* What do you suspect ? '

* I'll tell you what I dont suspect. I doiit suspect him of
being Anne's father.'

She started to her feet, and came close up to me with a
look of fury.

* How dare you talk to me about Anne's father ! How
dare you say who was her father, or who wasn't ! ' she broke
out, her face quivering, her voice trembling with passion.

' The secret between you and Sir Percival is not that
secret,' I persisted. ' The mystery which darkens Sir
Percival's life was not born with your daughter's birth, and
has not died with your daughter's death.'

She drew back a step. ' Go ! ' she said, and pointed
sternly to the door.

' There was no thought of the child in your heart or in
his,' I went on, determined to press her back to her last
defences. ' There was no bond of guilty love between you
and him, when you held those stolen meetings — when your
husband found you whispering together under the vestry of
the church.'

Her pointing hand instantly dropped to her side, and the
deep flus'n of anger faded from her face while I spoke. I saw
the change pass over her ; I saw that hard, firm, fearless,
self-possessed woman quail under a terror which her utmost
resolution was not strong enough to resist — when I said
those last five words, 'the vestry of the church.'

For a minute, or more, we stood looking at each other in
silence. I spoke first.

' Do you still refuse to trust me ? ' I asked.

She could not call the colour that had left it back to her
face — but she had steadied her voice, she had recovered the
defiant self-possession of her manner when she answered me.

' I do refuse,' she said.

* Do you still tell me to go ? '

* Yes. Go — and never come back.'

I walked to the door, waited a moment before I opened it,
and turned round to look at her again.

* I may have news to bring you of Sir Percival which you
don't expect,' I said ; ' and in that case, I shall come back.'

* There is no news of Sir Percival that I don't expect,
except '

She stopped ; her pale face darkened ; and she stole back,
with a quiet, stealthy, cat-like step to her chair.

440

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

'Except the news of his death,' she said, sitting down
again, with the mockery of a smile just hovering- on her cruel
lips, and the furtive hght of hatred lurking deep in her steady
eyes.

As I opened the door of the room to go out, she looked
round at me quickly. The cruel smile slowly widened her
lips — she eyed me with a strange, stealthy interest, from head
to foot — an unutterable expectation showed itself wickedly
all over her face. Was she speculating, in the secrecy of her
own heart, on my youth and strength, on the force of my
sense of injury and the limits of my self-control ; and was she
considering the lengths to which the}- might carry me, if Sir
Percival and I ever chanced to meet ? The bare doubt that
it might be so, drove me from her presence, and silenced even
the common forms of farewell on my lips. Without a word
more, on my side or on hers, I left the room.

As I opened the outer door, I saw the same clergyman
who had already passed the house once, about to pass it
again, on his way back through the square. I waited on the
door-step to let him go by, and looked round, as I did so, at
the parlour window.

Mrs. Catherick had heard his footsteps approaching, in
the silence of that lonely place ; arid she was on her feet at
the window again, waiting for him. Not all the strength of
all the terrible passions I had roused in that woman's heart,
could loosen her desperate hold on the one fragment of social
consideration which years of resolute effort had just dragged
within her grasp. There she was again, not a minute after I
had left her, placed purposely in a position which made it a
matter of common courtesy on the part of the clergyman to
bow to her for a second time. He raised his hat, once more.
I saw the hard ghastly face behind the window, soften, and
light up with gratified pride ; I saw the head with the grim
black cap bend ceremoniously in return. The clergyman had
bowed to her — and in my presence — twice in one day !

IX.

I LEFT the house, feeling that Mrs. Catherick had helped mc
a step forward, in spite of herself. Before 1 had reached the
turning which led out of the square, my attention was sud-
denly aroused by the sound of a closing door behind me.

I looked round, and sa.y^r an undersized man in black, on
the door-step of a house, which, as well as I could judge,
stood next to Mrs. Catherick's place of abode — next to it, on

441

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

the side nearest to me. The man did not hesitate a moment
about the direction he should take. He advanced rapidly
towards the turning at which I had stopped. I recognised
him as the lawyer's clerk who had preceded me in my visit to
Blackwater Park, and who had tried to pick a quarrel with
me, when I asked him if I could see the house.

I waited where I was, to ascertain whether his object was
to come to close quarters and speak, on this occasion. To
my surprise, he passed on rapidly, without saying a word,
without even looking up in my face as he went by. This was
such a complete inversion of the course of proceeding which
I had every reason to expect on his part, that my curiosity,
or rather my suspicion, was aroused, and I determined, on
my side, to keep him cautiously in view, and to discover what
the business might be on which he was now employed.
Without caring whether he saw me or not, I w^alked after
him. He never looked back ; and he led me straight through
the streets to the railway station.

The train was on the point of starting, and two or three
passengers who were late were clustering round the small
opening through which the tickets were issued. I joined
them, and distinctly heard the lawyer's clerk demand a ticket
for the Blackwater station. I satisfied myself that he had
actually left by the train, before I came away.

There was only one interpretation that I could place on what
I had just seen and heard. I had unquestionably observed
the man leaving a house which closely adjoined Mrs.
Catherick's residence. He had been probably placed there,
by Sir Percival's directions, as a lodger, in anticipation of my
inquiries leading me, sooner or later, to communicate with
Mrs. Catherick. He had doubtless seen me go in and come
out ; and he had hurried away by the first train to make his
report at Blackwater Park — to which place Sir Percival would
naturally betake himself (knowing what he evidently knew
of my movements), in order to be ready on the spot, if I
returned to Hampshire. Before many days Avere over,
there seemed every likelihood, now, that he and I might
meet.

Whatever result events might be destined to produce, I
resolved to pursue my own course, straight to the end in view,
without stopping or turning aside, for Sir Percival or for any
one. The great responsibilit}^ which weighed on me heavily in
London — the responsibility of so guiding my slightest actions
as to prevent them from leading accidentally to the discovery
of Laura's place of refuge — was removed, now that I was in

442

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

Hampshire. I could go and come as I pleased, at Welming"-
ham ; and if I chanced to fail in observing any necessary
precautions, the immediate results, at least, would affect no
one but myself.

When I left the station, the winter evening was beginning
to close in. There was little hope of continuing my inquiries
after dark to any useful purpose, in a neighbourhood that
was strange to me. Accordingly, I made my way to the
nearest hotel, and ordered my dinner and my bed. This
done, I wrote to Marian, to tell her that I was safe and well,
and that I had fair prospects of success. I had directed her,
on leaving home, to address the first letter she wrote to me
(the letter I expected to receive the next morning) to ' The
Post Office, Welmingham ; ' and I now begged her to send
her second day's letter to the same address. I could easily
receive it, by writing to the postmaster, if I happened to be
away from the town when it arrived.

The coffee-room of the hotel, as it grew late in the evening,
became a perfect solitude. I was left to reflect on what I
had accomplished that afternoon, as uninterruptedly as if the
house had been my own. Before I retired to rest, I had
attentively thought over my extraordinary interview with
Mrs. Catherick, from beginning to end ; and had verified, at
my leisure, the conclusions which I had hastily drawn in the
earlier part of the day.

The vestry of Old Welmingham church was the starting-
point from which my mind slowly worked its way back
through all that I had heard Mrs. Catherick say, and through
all I had seen Mrs. Catherick do.

At the time when the neighbourhood of the vestry was
first referred to in my presence by Mrs. Clements, I had
thought it the strangest and most unaccountable of all places
for Sir Percival to select for a clandestine meeting with the
clerk's wife. Influenced by this impression, and by no other,
I had mentioned ' the vestry of the church,' before Mrs.
Catherick, on pure speculation — it represented one of the
minor peculiarities of the story, which occurred to me while
I was speaking. I was prepared for her answering me con-
fusedly, or angrily ; but the blank terror that seized her,
when I said the words, took me completeh' by surprise. I
had, long before, associated Sir Percival's Secret with the
concealment of a serious crime, which Mrs. Catherick knew
of — but I had gone no farther than this. Now, the woman's
paroxysm of terror associated the crime, either directly or
indirectly, with the vestry, and convinced me that she had

443

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

been more than the mere witness of it — she was also the
accomplice, beyond a doubt.

What had been the nature of the crime? Surely there
was a contemptible side to it, as well as a dangerous side
— or Mrs. Catherick would not have repeated my own
words, referring to Sir Percival's rank and power, with such
marked disdain as she had certainly displayed. It was a
contemptible crime, then, and a dangerous crime ; and she
had shared in it, and it was associated with the vestry of the
church.

The next consideration to be disposed of led me a step
farther from this point.

Mrs. Catherick's undisguised contempt for Sir Percival
plainly extended to his mother as well. She had referred,
with the bitterest sarcasm, to the great family he had
descended from — 'especially by the mother's side.' What
did this mean ? There appeared to be only two explanations
of it. Either his mother's birth had been low ? or his
mother's reputation was damaged by some hidden flaw with
which Mrs. Catherick and Sir Percival were both privately
acquainted ? I could only put the first explanation to the
test by looking at the register of her marriage, and so ascer-
taining her maiden name and her parentage, as a preliminary
to further inquiries.

On the other hand, if the second case supposed were the
true one, what had been the flaw in her reputation ?
Remembering the account which Marian had given me of
Sir Percival's father and mother, and of the suspiciousl)'^
unsocial secluded life they had both led, I now asked myself,
whether it might not be possible that his mother had never
been married at all. Here, again, the register might, by
oflfering written evidence of the marriage, prove to me, at
any rate, that this doubt had no foundation in truth. But
where was the register to be found ? At this point, I took
up the conclusions which I had previously formed ; and the
same mental process which had discovered the locality of the
concealed crime, now lodged the register, also, in the vestry
of Old Welmingham church.

These were the results of my interview with Mrs. Cathe-
rick— these were the various considerations, all steadily
converging to one point, which decided the course of my
proceedings on the next day.

The morning was cloudy and lowering, but no rain fell.
I left my bag at the hotel, to wait there till I called for it ;

444

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

and, after inquiring- the way, set forth on foot for Old Wel-
mingham church.

It was a walk of rather more than two miles, the ground
rising- slowly all the way.

On the highest point stood the church — an ancient,
weather-beaten building, with heavy buttresses at its sides,
and a clumsy square tower in front. The vestry, at the back,
was built out from the church, and seemed to be of the same
age. Round the building, at intervals, appeared the remains
of the village which Mrs. Clements had described to me as
her husband's place of abode in former years, and which the
principal inhabitants had long since deserted for the new
town. Some of the empty houses had been dismantled to
their outer walls ; some had been left to decay with time ; and
some were still inhabited by persons evidently of the poorest
class. It was a dreary scene — and yet, in the worst aspect
of its ruin, not so drear}' as the modern town that I had just
left. Here, there was the brown, breezy sweep of surround-
ing fields for the eye to repose on ; here the trees, leafless as
they were, still varied the monotony of the prospect, and
helped the mind to look forward to summer-time and shade.

As I moved away from the back of the church, and passed
some of the dismantled cottages in search of a person who
might direct me to the clerk, I saw two men saunter out
after me, from behind a wall. The tallest of the two — a
stout muscular man in the dress of a gamekeeper — was a
stranger to me. The other was one of the men who had
followed me in London, on the day when I left Mr. Kyrlc's
office. I had taken particular notice of him at the time ; and
I felt sure that I was not mistaken in identifying the fellow
on this occasion.

Neither he nor his companion attempted to speak to me,
and both kept themselves at a respectful distance — but the
motive of their presence in the neighbourhood of the church
was plainly apparent. It was exactly as I had supposed —
Sir Percival was already prepared for me. My visit to
Mrs. Catherick had been reported to him the evening before ;
and those two men had been placed on the look-out, near
the church, in anticipation of my appearance at Old
Welmingham. If I had wanted any further proof that my
investigations had taken the right direction at last, the plan
now adopted for watching me would have supplied it.

I walked on, away from the church, till I reached one of
the inhabited houses, with a patch of kitchen garden attached
to it, on which a labourer was at work. He directed me to

445

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

the clerk's abode — a cottage, at some little distance off,
standing by itself on the outskirts of the forsaken viliage.
The clerk was in-doors, and was just putting- on his great-
coat. He was a cheerful, familiar, loudly-talkative old man,
with a very poor opinion (as I soon discovered) of the place
in which he lived, and a happy sense of superiority to his
neighbours in virtue of the great personal distinction of
having once been in London.

' It's well you came so early, sir,' said the old man, when
I had mentioned the object of my visit. ' I should have been
away in ten minutes more. Parish business, sir — and a
goodish long trot before it's all done, for a man at my age.
But, bless you, I'm strong- on my legs, still ! As long as a
man don't give at his legs, there's a deal of work left in him.
Don't you think so, yourself, sir ? '

He took his keys down, while he was talking, from a
hook behind the fireplace, and locked his cottage door be-
hind us.

' Nobody at home to keep house for me,' said the clerk,
with a cheerful sense of perfect freedom from all family
encumbrances. ' My wife's in the churchyard, there ; and
my children are all married. A wretched place this, isn't it,
sir ? But the parish is a large one — every man couldn't get
through the business as I do. It's learning does it ; and
I've had my share, and a little more. I can talk the Queen's
English (God bless the Queen !) — and that's more than most
of the people about here can do. You're from London, I
suppose, sir ? I've been in London, a matter of five-and-
twenty year ago. Wliat's the news there, now, if you
please? '

Chattering on in this way, he led me back to the vestry.
I looked about, to see if the two spies were still in sight.
They were not visible anywhere. After having discovered
my application to the clerk, they had probably concealed
themselves where they could watch my next proceedings in
perfect freedom.

The vestry door was of stout old oak, studded with strong
nails ; and the clerk put his large heavy key into the lock,
with the air of a man v/ho knew that he had a difficulty to
encounter, and who was not quite certain of creditably
conquering it.

' I'm obliged to bring you this way, sir,' he said, ' because
the door from the vestry to the church is bolted on the vestry
side. We might have got in through the church, otherwise.
This is a perverse lock, if ever there was one yet. It's big

446

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

enough for a prison-door ; it's been hampered over and over
again ; and it ought to be changed for a new one. I've
mentioned that to the churchwarden fifty times over at least ;
he's always saying "I'll see about it " — and he never does
see. Ah, it's a sort of lost corner, this place. Not like
London — is it, sir? Bless you, we are all asleep here ! JVe
don't march with the times.'

After some twisting and turning of the key, the heavy
lock yielded ; and he opened the door.

The vestry was larger than I should have supposed it to
be, judging from the outside only. It was a dim, mouldy,
melancholy old room, with a low, raftered ceiling. Round
two sides of it, the sides nearest to the interior of the church,
ran heavy wooden presses, worm-eaten and gaping with
age. Hooked to the inner corner of. one of these presses
hung several surplices, all bulging out at their lower ends
in an irreverent-looking bundle of limp drapery. Below the
surplices, on the floor, stood three packing-cases, with the
lids half off, half on, and the straw profusely bursting out of
their cracks and crevices in every direction. Behind them,
in a corner, was a litter of dusty papers, some large and
rolled up, like architects' plans ; some loosely strung together
on files, like bills or letters. The room had once been lighted
by a small side window ; but this had been bricked up, and
a lantern skylight was now substituted for it. The atmo-
sphere of the place was heavy and mouldy ; being rendered
additionally oppressive by the closing of the door which led
into the church. This door also was composed of solid oak,
and was bolted, at top and bottom, on the vestry side.

' We might be tidier, mightn't v.-e, sir ? ' said the cheerful
clerk. ' But when you're in a lost corner of a place like this,
what are you to do ? Why, look here, now — ^just look at
these packing cases. There they've been, for a year or more,
ready to go down to London — there they are, littering the
place — and there they'll stop as long as the nails hold them
together. I'll tell you what, sir, as I said before, this is not
London. We are all asleep here. Bless you, we don't march
with the times ! '

' What is there in the packing-cases ? ' I asked.

' Bits of old wood carvings from the pulpit, and panels
from the chancel, and images from the organ-loft,' said the
clerk. ' Portraits of the twelve apostles in wood — and not a
whole nose among 'em. All broken, and worm-eaten, and
crumbling to dust at the edges — as brittle as crockery, sir,
and as old as the church, if not older.'

447

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

' And why were they gonig to London ? To be repaired?'
' That's it, sir. To be repaired ; and where they were
past repair, to be copied in sound wood. But, bless you, the
money fell short— and there they are, waiting- for new sub-
scriptions, and nobody to subscribe. It was all done a year
ao-o, sir. Six gentlemen dined together about it, at the hotel
in the new town. They made speeches, and passed resolu-
tions, and put their names down, and printed off thousands
of prospectuses. Beautiful prospectuses, sir, all flourished
over with Gothic devices in red ink, saying it w^as a disgrace
not to restore the church and repair the famous carvings, and
so on. There are the prospectuses that couldn't be distri-
buted, and the architect's plans and estimates, and the whole
correspondence which set everybody at loggerheads and
ended in a dispute, all down together in that corner, behind
the packing-cases. The money dribbled in a little at first —
but what ca?i you expect out of London ? There w^as just
enough, you know, to pack the broken carvings, and get the
estimates, and pay the printer's bill— and after that, there
wasn't a halfpenny left. There the things are, as I said
before. We have nowhere else to put them — nobody in the
new town cares about accommodating iis — w-e're in a lost
corner — and this is an untidy vestry — and who's to help it? —
that's what I want to know.'

My anxiety to examine the register did not dispose me to
offer much encouragement to the old man's talkativeness. I
agreed with him that nobody could help the untidiness of the
vestry — and then suggested that we should proceed to our
business without more delay.

' Ay, ay, the marriage register, to be sure,' said the clerk,
taking a little bunch of keys from his pocket. ' How far do
you w^ant to look back, sir ? '

Marian had informed me of Sir Percival's age, at the time
when W'e had spoken together of his marriage engagement
with Laura. She had then described him as being forty-five
years old. Calculating back from this, and making due
allowance for the year that had passed since I had gained my
information, I found that he must have been born in eighteen
hundred and four, and that I might safely start on my search
through the register from that date.

' I want to begin with the year eighteen hundred and
four,' I said.

' Which way after that, sir?' asked the clerk. 'Forwards
to our time, or backwards away from us.'

* Backwards from eighteen hundred and four.'
448

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

He opened the door of one of the presses — the press from
the side of which the surplices were hanging — and produced
a large volume bound in greasy brown leather. I was struck
by the insecurity of the place in which the register was kept.
The door of the press was warped and cracked with age ;
and the lock was of the smallest and commonest kind. I
could have forced it easily with the walking-stick I carried in
my hand.

' Is that considered a sufficiently secure place for the
register ? ' I inquired. * Surely, a book of such importance
as this ought to be protected by a better lock, and kept care-
fully in an iron safe ? '

' Well, now, that's curious ! ' said the clerk, shutting up
the book again, just after he had opened it, and smacking his
hand cheerfully on the cover. ' Those were the very words
my old master was always saying years and years ago, when
I was a lad. " Why isn't the register " (meaning this register
here, under my hand) — "why isn't it kept in an iron safe ? "
If I've heard him say that once, I've heard him say it a
hundred times. He was the solicitor, in those days, sir, who
had the appointment of vestry-clerl-c to this church. A fine
hearty old gentleman — and the most particular man breath-
ing. As long as he lived, he kept a copy of this book, in his
office at Knowlesbury, and had it posted up regular, from
time to time, to correspond with the fresh entries here. You
would hardly think it, but he had his own appointed days,
once or twice, in every quarter, for riding over to this church
on his old white pony to check the copy, by the register, with
his own eyes and hands. "How do I know" (he used to
say) — " how do I know that the register in this vestry may
not be stolen or destroyed ? Why isn't it kept in an iron
safe ? Why can't I make other people as careful as I am
myself ? Some of these days there will be an accident
happen — and when the register's lost, then the parish will
find out the value of my copy." He used to take his pinch
of snuff after that, and look about him as bold as a lord.
Ah ! the like of him for doing business isn't easy to find now.
You may go to London, and not match him, even there.
Which year did you say, sir ? Eighteen hundred and
what ? '

' Eighteen hundred and four,' I replied ; mentally re«
solving to give the old man no more opportunities of talking,
until my examination of the register was over.

The clerk put on his spectacles, and turned over the
leaves of the register, carefully wetting his finger and thumb

449 G G

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

at every third page. ' There it is, sir,' he said, with another
cheerful smack on the open v okuiie. ' There's the year you
want.'

As I was ignorant of the month in which Sir Percival was
born, I began my backward search with the early part of the
year. The register-book was of the old-fashioned kind ; the
entries being all made on blank pages, in manuscript, and the
divisions which separated them being indicated by ink lines
drawn across the page, at the close of each entry.

I reached the beginning of the year eighteen hundred and
four, without encountering the marriage ; and then travelled
back through December, eighteen hundred and three ;
through November, and October ; through

No ! not through September also. Under the heading of
that month in the year, I found the marriage.

I looked carefully at the entry. It was at the bottom of
a page, and was, for want of room, compressed into a
smaller space than that occupied by the marriages above.
The marriage immediately before it was impressed on my
attention by the circumstance of the bridegroom's Christian
name being the same as my own. The entry immediately
following it (on the top of the next page) was noticeable, in
another way, from the large space it occupied ; the record,
in this case, registering the marriages of two brothers at the
same time. The register of the marriage of Sir Felix Glyde
was in no respect remarkable, except for the narrowness of
the space into which it was compressed at the bottom of the
page. The information about his wife, was the usual infor-
mation given in such cases. She was described as ' Cecilia
Jane Elster, of Park View Cottages, Knowlesbury ; only
daughter of the late Patrick Elster, Esq., formerly of Bath.'

I noted down these particulars in my pocket-book, feeling,
as I did so, both doubtful and disheartened about my next
proceedings. The Secret, which I had believed, until this
moment, to be within my grasp, seemed now farther from
my reach than ever.

What suggestions of any mystery unexplained had arisen
out of my visit to the vestry ? I saw no suggestions any-
where. What progress had I made towards discovering the
suspected stain on the reputation of Sir Percival's mother ?
The one fact I had ascertained, vindicated her reputation.
Fresh doubts, fresh difficulties, fresh delays, began to open
before me in interminable prospect. What was I to do next ?
The one immediate resource left to me, appeared to be this.
I might institute inquiries about * Miss Elster, of Knowles-

450

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

bury,' on the_ chance of advancing towards the main obiecl
ot my mvestigation, by first discovering the secret of Mrc
Cathenck s contempt for Sir Percival's mother.

' Have you found what you wanted, sir? ' said the cleric
as I closed the register-book.

' Yes,' I repHed ; ' but I have some inquiries still to make
I suppose the clergyman who officiated here in the vear
eighteen hundred and three is no longer alive ? '

'No, no, sir; he was dead three or four'years before I
ttZl ^^-fd that was as long ago as the year twenty-
seven. I got this place, sir,' persisted my talkative old
friend, 'through the clerk before me leaving it. They sav
he;vvas driven out of house and home by his wife-and she's
hving still down in the new town there. I don't know the

M^wJ h" ''°?' "^"•'^^.' "" ' '^"^^^ '^' ^ ^°t the place
Mr Wansborough got it for me-the son of my old master
that I was telling you of. He's a free pleasant gentleman as
ever hv^d ,• rides to the hounds, keeps his pointers, and all
him ' ^ vestry-clerk here now, as his father was before

' Did you not tell me your former master lived at Knowlec
bury ? I asked, calling to mind the long story about the pre-
cise gentleman of the old school, with which my talka?ive
friend had weaned me before he opened the register-book

\ es to be sure, sir,' replied the clerk. ' Old Mr Wans
Ih-erthereTol)'''* Knowlesbury ; and young Mr. Wansborough
i,.f'^'T- ^''^'^ J'^^t "o^^ l^e was vestry-clerk, like his father
clerk is ''""■ ''''' "°^ "^""'^^ ^''"' ^^""^ ^ ^'"°'" '"'^'^t ^ "'es^O'-

inn\^°/^ ^'°'' -"u^^"^' ^,'^'-and you come from I ondon,
too ! Every parish church, you know, has a vestry-clerk and
a parish-clerk. The parish-clerk is a man like me (exce t
lu ul F\ ^ ^^^^ "'°^^ learning than most of them—
though I don t boast of it). The vestry-clerk is a sort of
an appointment that the lawyers get ; and if there's any busi-
ness to be done for the vestry, why there they are to' do it
It s just the same in London. Every parish church there has
got Its vestry-clerk-and, you may take my word for it, he's
sure to be a lawyer.' , »ic :>

; Then, young Mr. Wansborough is a lawyer, I suppose ? '

burv th^'u y ' "'' V-^V'^' ^" "'^^ Street, Knowles-
burj-the old offices that his father had before him The
number of times I've swept those offices out, and seen the
old gentleman come trotting in to business on his white

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

pony, looking right and left all down the street, and nodding
to everybody ! Bless you, he was a popular character ! —
he'd have done in London ! '

* How far is it to Knowlesbur}' from this place ? '

* A long stretch, sir,' said the clerk, with that exaggerated
idea of distances and that vivid perception of difficulties in
getting from place to place, which is peculiar to all country
people. ' Nigh on five mile, I can tell you ! '

It was still early in the forenoon. There was plenty of
time for a walk to Knowlesbury, and back again to Welming-
ham ; and there was no person probably in the town who was
fitter to assist my inquiries about the character and position
of Sir Percival's mother, before her marriage, than the local
solicitor. Resolving to go at once to Knowlesbury on foot,
I led the way out of the vestry.

* Thank you kindly, sir,' said the clerk, as I slipped my
little present into his hand. ' Are you really going to walk
all the way to Knowlesbury and back ? Well ! you're strong
on your legs, too — and what a blessing that is, isn't it ?
There's the road; you can't miss it. I wish I was going
your way — it's pleasant to meet with gentlemen from
London, in a lost corner like this. One hears the news.
Wish you good morning, sir — and thank you kindly once
more.'

We parted. As I left the church behind me, I looked
back — and there were the two men again, on the road
below, with a third in their company ; that third person
being the short man in black, whom I had traced to the
railway the evening before.

The three stood talking together for a little while — then
separated. The man in black went away by himself towards
Welmingham ; the other two remained together, evidently
waiting to follow me, as soon as I walked on.

I proceeded on my way, without letting the fellows see
that I took any special notice of them. They caused me no
conscious irritation of feeling at that moment — on the con-
trary, they rather revived my sinking hopes. In the surprise
of discovering the evidence of the marriage, I had forgotten
the inference I had drawn, on first perceiving the men in the
neighbourhood of the vestry. Their reappearance reminded
me that Sir Percival had anticipated my visit to Old Wel-
mingham church, as the next result of my interview with
Mrs. Catheriok — otherwise, he would never have placed his
spies there to wait for me. Smoothly and fairly as appear-

4^2

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

ances looked in the vestry, there was somethhig wrong
beneath them — there was something in the register-book, for
aught I knew, that I had not discovered yet.

Once out of sight of the church, I pressed forward briskly on
my Avay to Knowlesbury.

The road was, for the most part, straight and level.
Whenever I looked back over it, I saw the two spies, steadily
following me. For the greater part of the way, they kept at
a safe distance behind. But, once or twice, they quickened
their pace, as if with the purpose of overtaking me — then
stopped — consulted together — and fell back again to their
former position. They had some special object evidently in
view ; and they seemed to be hesitating, or differing, about
the best means of accomplishing it. I could not guess
exactly what their design might be ; but I felt serious doubts
of reaching Knowlesbury without some mischance happening
to me on the way. Those doubts were realized.

I had just entered on a lonely part of the road, with a
sharp turn at some distance ahead, and had just concluded
(calculating by time) that I must be getting near to the town,
when I suddenly heard the steps of the men close behind me.

Before I could look round, one of them (the man by
whom I had been followed in London) passed rapidly on my
left side, and hustled me with his shoulder. I had been
more irritated by the manner in which he and his companion
had dogged my steps all the way from Old Welmingham
than I was myself aware of ; and I unfortunately pushed the
fellow away smartly with my open hand. He instantly
shouted for help. His companion, the tall man in the game-
keeper's clothes, sprang to my right side — and the next
moment the two scoundrels held me pinioned between them
in the middle of the road.

The conviction that a trap had been laid for me, and the
vexation of knowing that I had fallen into it, fortunately
restrained me from making my position still worse by an
unavailing struggle with two men — one of whom would
in all probability have been more than a match for me, single
handed. I repressed the first natural movement by which I
had attempted to shake them off, and looked about to see if
there was any person near to whom I could appeal.

A labourer was at work in an adjoining field, who must

453

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

have witnessed all that had passed : I called to him to follow
us to the town. He shook his head with stolid obstinacy,
and walked away, in the direction of a cottage which stood
back from the high road. At the same time the men who
held me between them declared their intention of charging
me with an assault. I was cool enough and wise enough,
now, to m.ake no opposition. ' Drop your hold of my arms,'
I said, ' and I will go with you to the town.' The man in
the gamekeeper's dress roughly refused. But the shorter
man was sharp enough to look to consequences, and not to
let his companion commit himself by unnecessary violence.
He made a sign to the other, and I walked on between them,
with my arms free.

We reached the turning in the road ; and there, close
before us, were the suburbs of Knowlesbury. One of the
local policemen was walking along the path by the roadside.
The men at once appealed to him. He replied that the
magistrate was then sitting at the town-hall ; and recom-
mended that we should appear before him immediately.

We went on to the town-hall. The clerk made out a
formal sum.mons ; and the charge vv-as preferred against me,
with the customar}- exaggeration and the customary perver-
sion of the truth, on such occasions. The magistrate (an
ill-tempered man, with a sour enjoyment in the exercise of
his own power) inquired if any one on, or near, the road had
Avitnessed the assault ; and, greatly to my surprise, the com-
plainant admitted the presence of the labourer in the field.
I was enlightened, however, as to the object of the admission,
by the magistrate's next words. He remanded me, at once,
for the production of the witness ; expressing, at the same
time, his willingness to take bail for my reappearance, if I
could produce one responsible surety to offer it. If I had
been known in the town, he vvould have liberated me on my
own recognisances ; but, as I was a total stranger, it was
necessary that I should find responsible bail.

The whole object of the stratagem was nov/ disclosed to
me. It had been so managed as to make a remand necessary
in a town where I was a perfect stranger, and where I could
not hope to get my liberty on bail. The remand merely ex-
tended over three days, until the next sitting of the magistrate.
But, in that time, while I was in confinement. Sir Percival
might use any means he pleased to embarrass my future pro-
ceedings— perhaps to screen himself from detection altogether
— without the slightest fear of any hindrance on my part. At
the end of the three days, the charge would, no doubt, be

•151

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

withdrawn ; and the attendance of the witness would be
perfectly useless.

My indignation, I may almost say, my despair, at this
mischievous check to all further progress — so base and trifling
in itself, and yet so disheartening and so serious in its probable
results — quite unfitted me, at first, to reflect on the best means
of extricating myself from the dilemma in which I now stood.
I had the folly to call for writing materials, and to think of
privately communicating my real position to the magistrate.
The hopelessness and the imprudence of this proceeding failed
to strike me before I had actually written the opening lines of
the letter. It was not till I had pushed the paper away —
not till, I am ashamed to say, I had almost allowed the vexa-
tion of my helpless position to conquer me — that a course of
action suddenly occurred to my mind, which Sir Percival had
probably not anticipated, and which might set me free again
in a few hours. I determined to communicate the situation
in which I was placed to Mr. Dawson, of Oak Lodge.

I had visited this gentleman's house, it may be remem-
bered, at the time of my first inquiries in the Blackwater
Park neighbourhood ; and I had presented to him a letter of
introduction from Miss Halcombe, in which she recommended
me to his friendly attention in the strongest terms. I now
wrote, referring to this letter, and to what I had previously
told Mr. Dawson of the delicate and dangerous nature of my
inquiries. I had not revealed to him the truth about Laura;
having merely described my errand as being of the utmost
importance to private family interests with which Miss Hal-
combe was concerned. Using the same caution still, I now
accounted for my presence at Knowlesbury in the same
manner — and I put it to the doctor to say whether the trust
reposed in me by. a lady whom he well knew, and the hospi-
tality I had myself received in his house, justified me or not
in asking him to come to my assistance in a place where I
was quite friendless.

I obtained permission to hire a messenger to drive away
at once with my letter, in a conveyance which might be used
to bring the doctor back immediately. Oak Lodge was on
the Knowlesbury side of Blackwater. The man declared he
could driA'e there in forty minutes, and could bring Mr.
Dawson back in forty more. I directed him to follow the
doctor wherever he might happen to be, if he was not at
home — and then sat down to wait for the result with all the
patience and all the hope that I could summon to help me.

It was not quite half-past one when the messenger departed.

455

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

Before half-past three, he returned, and brought the doctor
with him. Mr. Dawson's kindness, and the delicacy with
which he treated his prompt assistance quite as a matter of
course, almost overpowered me. The bail required was
offered, and accepted immediately. Before four o'clock, on
that afternoon, I was shaking hands warmly with the good
old doctor — a free man again — in the streets of Knowles-
bury.

Mr. Dawson hospitably invited me to go back with him to
Oak Lodge, and take up my quarters there for the night. I
could only reply that my time was not my own ; and I could
only ask him to let me pay my visit in a few days, when I
might repeat my thanks, and offer to him all the explanations
which I felt to be only his due, but which I was not then in a
position to make. We parted with friendly assurances on
both sides ; and I turned my steps at once to Mr. Wans-
borough's office in the High Street.

Time was now of the last importance.

The news of my being free on bail would reach Sir Percival,
to an absolute certainty, before night. If the next few hours
did not put me in a position to justify his worst fears, and to
hold him helpless at my mercy, I might lose every inch of the
ground I had gained, never to recover it again. The unscru-
pulous nature of the man, the local influence he possessed,
the desperate peril of exposure with which my blindfold in-
quiries threatened him — all warned me to press on to positive
discovery, without the useless waste of a single minute. I
had found time to think, while I was waiting for Mr. Dawson's
arrival ; and I had well employed it. Certain portions of the
conversation of the talkative old clerk, which had wearied me
at the time, now recurred to my memory with a new signifi-
cance ; and a suspicion crossed my mind darkly, which had
not occurred to me while I was in the vestry. On my way to
Knowlesbury, I had only proposed to apply to Mr. Wans-
borough for information on the subject of Sir Percival's
mother. My object, now, was to examine the duplicate
register of Old Welmingham church.

Mr. Wansborough was in his office when I inquired for
him.

He was a jovial, red-faced, easy-looking man — more like a
country squire than a lawyer — and he seemed to be both sur-
prised and amused by my application. He had heard of his
father's copy of the register ; but had not even seen it himself.
It had never been inquired after — and it was no doubt in the
Strong room, among other papers that had not been disturbed

4$6

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

since his father's death. It was a pity (Mr. Wansborougli
said) that the old g-entleman was not ahve to hear his precious
copy asked for at last. He would have ridden his favourite
hobby harder than ever, now. How had I come to hear of
the copy ? was it through anybody in the town ?

I parried the question as well as I could. It was impos-
sible at this stage of the investigation to be too cautious ; an-d
it was just as well not to let Mr. Wansborough know prema-
turely that I had already examined the original register. I
described myself, therefore, as pursuing a family inquiry, to
the object of which every possible saving of time was of great
importance. I was anxious to send certain particulars to
London by that day's post ; and one look at the duplicate
register (paying, of course, the necessary fees) might supply
what I required, and save me a further journey to Old Wel-
mingham. I added that, in the event of my subsequently
requiring a copy of the original register, I should make ap-
plication to Mr. Wansborough's office to furnish me with the
document.

After this explanation, no objection was made to pro-
ducing the copy. A clerk was sent to the strong room,
and, after some delay, returned with the volume. It was of
exactly the same size as the v^olume in the vestry, the only
difference being that the copy was more smartly bound. I
took it v.dth me to an unoccupied desk. My hands were
trembling — my head was burning hot — I felt the necessity
of concealing my agitation as well as I could from the per-
sons about me in the room, before I ventured on opening the
book.

On the blank page at the beginning, to which I first
turned, were traced some lines, in faded ink. They contained
these words :

' Copy of the Marriage Register of Welmingham Parish
Church. Executed under my orders ; and afterwards com-
pared, entry by entr}-, with the original, by myself. (Signed)
Robert Wansborough, vestry-clerk.' Below this note, there
was a line added, in another handwriting, as follows : ' Ex-
tending from the first of January, 1800, to the thirtieth of
June, 1815.'

I turned to the month of September, eighteen hundred and
three. I found the marriage of the man whose Christian
name was the same as my own. I found the double register
of the marriages of the two brothers. And between these
entries, at the bottom of the page ?

Nothing ! Not a vestige of the entry which recorded the

457

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

marriagfe of Sir Felix Glyde and Cecilia Jane Elster, in the
register of the church !

My heart gave a great bound, and throbbed as if it would
stifle me. I looked again— I was afraid to believe the evi-
dence of my own eyes. No ! not a doubt. The marriage
was not there. The entries on the copy occupied exactly the
same places on the page as the entries in the original. The
last entry on one page recorded the marriage of the man with
my Christian name. Below it, there was a blank space — a
space evidently left because it was too narrow to contain the
entry of the marriages of the two brothers, which in the copy,
as in the original, occupied the top of the next page. That
space told the whole story ! There it must have remained,
in the church register, from eighteen hundred and three (when
the marriages had been solemnised and the copy had been
made) to eighteen hundred and twenty-seven, when Sir Per-
cival appeared at Old Welmingham. Here, at Knowlesbury,
was the chance of committing the forgery, shown to me in
the copy — and there, at Old Welmingham, was the forgery
committed, in the register of the church.

My head turned giddy ; I held by the desk to keep myself
from falling. Of all the suspicions which had struck me in
relation to that desperate man, not one had been near the
truth. The idea that he was not Sir Percival Glyde at all,
that he had no more claim to the baronetcy and to Black-
water Park than the poorest labourer who worked on the
estate, had never once occurred to my mind. At one time I
had thought he might be Anne Catherick's father ; at another
time 1 had thought he might have been Anne Catherick's
husband — the offence of which he was really guilty had been,
from first to last, beyond the widest reach of my imagination.

The paltry means by which the fraud had been effected,
the magnitude and daring of the crime that it represented,
the horror of the consequences involved in its discover}-, over-
whelmed me. Who could wonder now at the brute-restless-
ness of the wretch's life; at his desperate alternations between
abject duplicity and reckless violence ; at the madness of
guilty distrust which had made him imprison Anne Catherick
in the Asylum, and had given him over to the vile conspiracy
against his wife, on the bare suspicion that the one and the
other knew his terrible secret ? The disclosure of that secret
might, in past years, have hanged him — might now transport
him for life. The disclosure of that secret, even if the sufferers
by his deception spared him the penalties of the law, would
deprive him, at one blow, of the name, the rank, the estate,

458

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

the whole social existence that he had usurped. This was
the Secret, and it was mine ! A word from me ; and house,
lands, baronetcy, were gone from him for ever— a word
from me, and he was driven out into the world, a nameless,
penniless, friendless outcast ! The man's whole future
hung- on my lips — and he knew it by this time as certainly as
I did !

That last thought steadied me. Interests far more pre-
cious than my own, depended on the caution which must now
guide my slightest actions. There was no possible treachery
which Sir Percival might not attempt against me. In the
danger and desperation of his position, he would be stagg"ered
by no risks, he would recoil at no crime — he would, literally,
hesitate at nothing to save himself.

I considered for a minute. My first necessity was to
secure positive evidence, in writing, of the discovery that I
had just made, and, in the event of any personal misadventure
happening to me, to place that evidence beyond Sir Percival's
reach. The copy of the register was sure to be safe in Mr.
Wansborough's strong room. But the position of the original,
in the vestry, was, as I had seen with my own eyes, anything
but secure.

In this emergency, I resolved to return to the church, to
apply again to the clerk, and to take the necessary extract
from the register, before I slept that night. I was not then
aware that a legally-certified copy was necessary, and that no
document merely drawn out by myself could claim the proper
importance, as a proof. I was not aware of this ; and my de-
termination to keep my present proceedings a secret, prevented
me from asking any questions which might have procured the
necessary information. My one anxiety was the anxiety to
get back to Old Welmingham. I made the best excuses I
could for the discomposure in my face and manner, which
IMr. Wansborough had already noticed ; laid the necessary
fee on his table ; arranged that I should write to him in a day
or two ; and left the office with my head in a whirl, and my
blood throbbing through my veins at fever heat.

It was just getting dark. The idea occurred to me that I
might be followed again, and attacked on the high road.

My walking-stick was a light one, of little or no use for
purposes of defence. I stopped, before lea\-ing Knowlesbury,
and bought a stout country cudgel, short, and heav}' at the
liead. With this homely weapon, if any one man tried to
stop me, I was a match for him. If more than one attacked
me, I could trust to my heels. In my school-days, I had been

459

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

a noted runner — and I had not wanted for practice since, in
the later time of my experience in Central America.

I started from the town at a brisk pace, and kept the
middle of the road.

A small misty rain was falling- ; and it was impossible, for
the first half of the way, to make sure whether I was followed
or not. But at the last half of my journey, when I supposed
myself to be about two miles from the church, I saw a man
run by me in the rain — and then heard the gate of a field by
the roadside, shut to sharply. I kept straight on, with my
cudgel ready in my hand, my ears on the alert, and my eyes
straining to see through the mist and the darkness. Before
I had advanced a hundred yards, there was a rustling in the
hedge on my right, and three men sprang out into the road.

I drew aside on the instant to the footpath. The two
foremost men were carried beyond me, before they could
check themselves. The third was as quick as lightning. He
stopped — half turned — and struck at me with his stick. The
blow was aimed at hazard, and was not a severe one. It fell
on my left shoulder. I returned it heavily on his head. He
staggered back, and jostled his two companions, just as they
were both rushing at me. This circumstance gave me a
moment's start. I slipped by them, and took to the middle of
the road again, at the top of my speed.

The two unhurt men pursued me. They were both good
runners ; the road was smooth and level ; and, for the first
five minutes or more, I was conscious that I did not gain on
them. It was perilous work to run for long in the darkness.
I could barely see the dim black line of the hedges on either
side ; and any chance obstacle in the road would have thrown
me down to a certainty. Ere long, I felt the ground chang-
ing : it descended from the level, at a turn, and then rose
again beyond. Down-hill the men rather gained on me, but
up-hill I began to distance them. The rapid, regular thump
of their feet grew fainter on my ear ; and I calculated by the
sound that I was far enough in advance to take to the fields,
with a good chance of their passing me in the darkness.
Diverging to the footpath, I made for the first break that I
could guess at, rather than see, in the hedge- It proved to
be a closed gate. I vaulted over, and finding myself in a
field, kept across it steadily, with my back to the road. I
heard the men pass the gate, still running — then, in a minute
more, heard one of them call to the other to come back. It
was no matter what they did, now ; I was out of their sight
and out of their hearing. I kept straight across the field,

460

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

and, when I had reached the further extremity of it, waited
there for a minute to recover my breath.

It was impossible to venture back to the road ; but I was
determined, nevertheless, to get to Old Welmingham that
evening-.

Neither moon nor stars appeared to guide me. I only
knew that I had kept the wind and rain at my back on leaving
Knowlesbury — and if I now kept them at my back still, I
might at least be certain of not advancing altogether in the
wrong direction.

Proceeding on this plan, I crossed the country — meeting
with no worse obstacles than hedges, ditches, and thickets,
which every now and then obliged me to alter my course for
a little while — until I found myself on a hill-side, with the
ground sloping away steeply before me. I descended to the
bottom of the hollow, squeezed my way through a hedge,
and got out into a lane. Having turned to the right on
leaving the road, I now turned to the left, on the chance of
regaining the line from which I had wandered. After follow-
ing the muddy windings of the lane for ten minutes or more,
I saw a cottage with a light in one of the windows. The
garden gate was open to the lane ; and I went in at once to
inquire my way.

Before I could knock at the door, it was suddenly opened,
and a man came running out with a lighted lantern in his
hand. He stopped and held it up at the sight of me. We
both started as we saw each other. My wanderings had led
me round the outskirts of the village, and had brought me
out at the lower end of it. I was back at Old Welmingham ;
and the man with the lantern was no other than my acquaint-
ance of the morning, the parish clerk.

His manner appeared to have altered strangely, in the
interval since I had last seen him. He looked suspicious
and confused ; his ruddy cheeks were deeply flushed ; and his
first words, when he spoke, were quite unintelligible to me.

' W^here are the keys ? ' he asked. ' Have you taken
them ? '

' W hat keys ? ' I repeated. * I have this moment come
from Knowlesbury. What keys do you mean ? '

' The keys of the vestry. Lord save us and help us !
what shall I do ? The keys are gone ! Do you hear ? ' cried
the old man, shaking the lantern at me in his agitation ; ' the
keys are gone ! '

* How ? When ? Who can have taken them ? '

' I don't know,' said the clerk, staring about him wildly

461

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

in the darkness. * I've only just gfot back. I told you I
had a long day's work this mornuig' — I locked the door, and
shut the window down — it's open now, the window's open.
Look ! somebody has got in there, and taken the keys.'

He turned to the casement window to show me that it
was wide open. The door of the lantern came loose from its
fastening as he swayed it round ; and the wind blew the
candle out instantly.

'Get another light,' I said; 'and let us both go to th.e
vestry together. Quick ! quick ! '

I hurried him into the house. The treachery that I had
every reason to expect, the treachery that might deprive me
of every advantage I had gained, was, at that moment,
perhaps, in process of accomplishment. My impatience to
reach the church was so great, that I could not remain inactive
in the cottage while the clerk lit the lantern again. I walked
out, down the garden path, into the lane.

Before I had advanced ten paces, a man approached me
from the direction leading to the church. He spoke respect-
fully as we met. I could not see his face ; but, judging by
his voice only, he was a perfect stranger to me.

* I beg your pardon, Sir Percival ' he began.

I stopped him before he could say more.

' The darkness misleads you, ' I said. ' 1 am not Sir Percival. *

The man drew back directly.

' I thought it was my master,' he muttered, in a confused,
doubtful way.

' You expected to meet your master here ? '

' I was told to wait in the lane.'

With that answer, he retraced his steps. I looked back
at the cottage, and saw the clerk coming out, with the lantern
lighted once more. I took the old man's arm to help him on
the more quickly. We hastened along the lane, and passed
the person who had accosted me. As well as I could see by
the light of the lantern, he was a servant out of livery.

' Who's that ? ' whispered the clerk. * Does he know
anything about the keys ? '

' We won't wait to ask him,' I replied. ' We will go on
to the vestry first.'

The church was not visible, even by day-time, until the
end of the lane was reached. As we mounted the rising
ground which led to the building from that point, one of the
village children — a boy — came close up to us attracted by the
light we carried, and recognised the clerk.

' I say, measter,' said the boy, pulling officiously at the

462

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

clerk's coat, ' there be summun up yander in the church. I
heard un lock the door on hisself— I heerd un strike a loight
wi' a match. '

The clerk trembled, and leaned against me heavily.

' Come ! come ! ' I said, encouragingly. ' We are not too
late. We will catch the man, whoever he is. Keep the
lantern, and follow me as fast as you can.'

I mounted the hill rapidly. The dark mass of the church-
tower was the first object I discerned dimly against the night
sky. As I turned aside to get round to the vestry, I heard
heavy footsteps close to me. The servant had ascended to
the church after us. ' I don't mean any harm,' he said, when
I turned round on him; 'I'm only looking for my master.'
The tones in which he spoke betrayed unmistakable fear. I
took no notice of him, and went on.

The instant I turned the corner, and came in view of the
vestry, I saw the lantern-skylight on the roof brilliantly lit up
from within. It shone out with dazzling brightness against
the murky, starless sky.

I hurried through the churchyard to the door.

As I got near there w^as a strange smell stealing out on
the damp night air. I heard a snapping noise inside — I saw
the light above grow brighter and brighter — a pane of the
glass cracked — I ran to the door, and put my hand on it.
The vestry was on fire !

Before I could move, before I could draw my breath after
that discovery, I was horror-struck by a heavy thump against
the door, from the inside. I heard the key worked violently
in the lock — I heard a man's voice, behind the door, raised to
a dreadful shrillness, screaming for help.

The servant, who had followed me, staggered back
shuddering, and dropped to his knees. ' Oh, my God ! ' he
said ; ' it's Sir Perclval ! '

As the words passed his lips, the clerk joined us — and, at
the same moment, there was another, and a last, grating
turn of the key in the lock.

' The Lord have mercy on his soul ! ' said the old man.
* He is doomed and dead. He has hampered the lock.'

I rushed to the door. The one absorbing purpose that
had filled all my thou- hts, that had controlled all my actions,
for weeks and weeks past, vanished in an instant from my
mind. All remembrance of the heartless injury the man's
crimes had inflicted ; of the love, the innocence, the happiness
he had pitilessly laid waste ; of the oath I had sworn in my
own heart to summon him to the terrible reckoning that he

463

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

deserved — passed from my memory like a dream. I remem-
bered nothing- but the horror of his situation. I felt nothing but
the natural human impulse to save him from a frightful death.

' Try the other door ! ' I shouted. ' Try the door into the
church ! The lock's hampered. You're a dead man if you
waste another moment on it ! '

There had been no renewed cry for help, vi^hen the key
was turned for the last time. There was no sound, now, of
any kind, to give token that he was still alive. I heard
nothing but the quickening crackle of the flames, and the
sharp snap of the glass in the skylight above.

I looked round at my two companions. The servant had
risen to his feet : he had taken the lantern, and was holdings
it up vacantly at the door. Terror seemed to have struck
him with downright idiocy — he waited at my heels, he fol-
lowed me about v/hen I moved, like a dog. The clerk sat
crouched up on one of the tombstones, shivering, and moan-
ing- to himself. The one moment in which I looked at them
was enough to show me that they were both helpless.

Hardly knowing what I did, acting desperately on the
first impulse that occurred to me, I seized the servant and
pushed him against the vestry wall. ' Stoop ! ' I said, ' and
hold by the stones. I am going to climb over you to the roof
— I am going to break the skylight, and give him some air ! '

The man trembled from head to foot, but he held firm. I
got on his back, with my cudgel in my mouth ; seized the
parapet with both hands ; and was instantly on the roof. In
the frantic hurry and agitation of the moment, it never struck
me that I might let out the flame instead of letting in the air.
I struck at the skylight, and battered in the cracked, loosened
glass at a blow. The fire leaped out like a wild beast from
its lair. If the wind had not chanced, in the position I occu-
pied, to set it away from me, my exertions might have ended
then and there. I crouched on the roof as the smoke poured
out above me, with the flame. The gleams and flashes of the
light showed me the servant's face staring up vacantly under
the wall ; the clerk risen to his feet on the tombstone, wring-
ing his hands in despair; and the scanty population of the
village, haggard men and terrified women, clustered beyond
in the churchyard — all appearing and disappearing, in the red
of the dreadful glare, in the black of the choking smoke.
And the man beneath my feet! — the man, suff"ocating, burn-
ing, dying so near us all, so utterly beyond our reach !

The thought half maddened me. I lowered myself from
the roof, by my hands, and dropped to the ground.

464

THE WOMAN IN WHITE
mus7trv it'fhnf '^' "^"'"'^ • ' ^ ^^^°"t^^ to the clerk. < We

key' alTd 'S Testry tev'tV^' 'Th" ' ""^ ^?°P^ '' ^'^ ^^urch
there! Oh! sir he's L^°" '^' same ring-both inside
this time ! ' ' ^^^^ savmg--he's dust and ashes by

am^S'/hT m^. thind^ me°" ^l^""' ' ''^' '^ ^^^^ ^--
They'll save the church ' ^''' ' "^ '"-me u. the town.

an hour at least bcforo f h A • ^ '''''"''^ ^^ ^'^ quarter of

horror of remaLh ^i.a \14 ^Jui^Mlm^"'' '''''' "" . ^^^
could face. In dffi{ S of' ,tv ' ''^''^ "'^''^ t^^" I

mvself Lhat the do .med nn.l ?^\ '' T^^'^"' ' P^^'-suaded
still be lying s^nseles on he°fln '"'■'' -'^"^ '^^ ^'^^^''^ '^^^^^

irwe broLVn the doo'" n igh'tTe' s^if H.^^^ '? 'k^^' ^.f
strenMh of the hpa,-„ i^„i », ■■ "'^ '•i^': l''m ■' 1 knew the

nailed oak-IkLw?hr,n'r '^""'^^ '^^ thickness of the
the other by ordinary means Slff °^ T"^'"^ "''' °"^ ^"^

^■- saw, and a bit of rope?'' Yes^ y^s ' ves i J ""'^ ^"''
among the villagers, wi'th the lanter'n i^ ^m? 'hand"" • pl've
^t 'Tf^ a-J'ThVrrd?' "^:"' '^'^^ ■"= ' Thty s. JtTd
poverty-the hunir^'fo, Il^t/l^red tS^in^'T^ f.
™u Tavir^ ? "¥r 'of ' ^™ ?' >- fo^e", anter

The J^ a'r me^riind'the beam ."" tT" ^"'' '"^ '""'^ '
shrill starveling voiees hev eheered Jhey cheered-with

children fled ba°k on e tl er^ide "we r.^h'L^'^l!' .f '"I ""^
the churchyard nafh tr. ,ul l I '"shed m a bodvdown

The servant was still at mvheek- h;V .fv u , , church,
stricken face ivas close mer ,?v J i7 ^^' ^^^P^^^^^, panic
the cottage. There xi^e/n^r/ r^"^"',^' '^^ P"^'^^^ ^"to

465 H H

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

our arms and our pickaxes — a beam fast at each end in the
ruined wall, with ceiling and flooring all ripped away, and a
great gap in the roof above, open to the sky. We attacked
the beam at both ends at once. God ! how it held— how the
brick and mortar of the wall resisted us ! We struck, and
tugged, and tore. The beam gave at one end — it came down
with a lump of brickwork after it. There was a scream from
the women, all huddled in the doorway to look at us— a
shout from the men — two of them down, but not hurt.
Another tug all together — and the beam was loose at both
ends. We raised it, and gave the word to clear the doorway.
Now for the work ! now for the rush at the door ! 1 here is
the fire streaming into the sky, streaming brighter than ever
to light us ! Steady, along the churchyard path— steady
with the beam, for a rush at the door. One, two, three— and
off. Out rings the cheering again, irrepressibly. We have
shaken it already ; the hinges must give, if the lock won't.
Another run with the beam ! One, two, three— and off. It's
loose ! the stealthy fire darts at us through the crevice all
round it. Another, and a last rush ! The door falls in with
a crash. A great hush of av/e, a stillness of breathless expec-
tation, possesses every living soul of us. We look for the
body. The scorching heat on our faces drives us back : we
see Clothing- above, below, all through the room, we see
nothing but a sheet of living fire.

' Where is he ? ' whispered the servant, staring vacantly at
the flames.

' He's dust and ashes,' said the clerk. ' And the books are
dust and ashes— and oh, sirs ! the church will be dust and
ashes soon.'

Those were the only two Avho spoke. When they were
silent again, nothing stirred in the stillness but the bubble and
the crackle of the flames.

Hark !

A harsh rattling sound in the distance — then, the hollow
beat of horses' hoofs at full gallop— then, the low roar, the
all-predominant tumult of hundreds of human voices clamour-
ing and shouting together. The engine at last !

The people "about me all turned from the fire, and ran
eagerly to the brow of the hill. The old clerk tried to go with
the rest ; but his strength was exhausted. I saw him holding
by one of the tombstones. ' Save the church ! ' he cried out,
faintly, as if the firemen could hear him already. ' Save the
church ! '

466

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

The only man who never moved was the servant. There
he stood, his eyes still fastened on the flames in a changeless,
vacant stare. I spoke to him, I shook him by the arm. He
was past rousing. He only whispered once more, ' Where is
he ? '

In ten minutes, the engine was in position ; the well at
the back of the church was feeding it ; and the hose was
carried to the doorway of the vestry. If help had been wanted
from me, I could not have afforded it now. My energy of will
was gone — my strength was exhausted — the turmoil of my
thoughts was fearfully and suddenly stilled, now I knew that
he was dead. I stood useless and helpless — looking, looking,
looking into the burning room.

I saw the fire slowly conquered. The brightness of the
glare faded — the steam rose in white clouds, and the smoulder-
ing heaps of embers showed red and black through it on the
floor. There was a pause — then, an advance altogether of the
firemen and the police, which blocked up the doorway — then a
consultation in low voices — and then, two men were detached
from the rest, and sent out of the churchyard through the
crowd. The crowd drew back on. either side, in dead silence,
to let them pass.

After a while, a great shudder ran through the people ; and
the living lane widened slowly. The men came back along it,
with a door from one of the empty houses. They carried it
to the vestry, and went in. The police closed again round the
doorwa}- ; and men stole out from among the crowd by twos
and threes, and stood behind them, to be the first to see.
Others waited near, to be the first to hear. Women and
children were among these last.

The tidings from the vestry began to flow out among the
crowd — they dropped slowly from mouth to mouth, till they
reached the place where I was standing. I heard the ques-
tions and answers repeated again and again, in low, eager
tones, all round me.

' Have they found him ? ' ' Yes.' — ' Where ? ' ' Against
the door; on his face.' — 'Which door?' 'The door that
goes into the church. His head v/as against it ; he was down
on his face.' — ' Is his face burnt ? ' ' No.' ' Yes, it is.' ' No ;
scorched, not burnt ; he lay on his face, I tell you.' — 'Who
was he ? A lord, they say. ' ' No, not a lord. Sir Some-
thing ; Sir means Knight.' 'And Baronight, too.' 'No.'
' Yes, it does.' — ' What did he want in there ? ' * No good,
you may depend on it.' — ' Did he do it on purpose ? ' — ' Burn
himself on purpose!' — 'I don't mean himself; I mean the

467 H H 2

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

vestry.'— ' Is he dreadful to look at?' * Dreadful. '—' Not
about the face, though ? ' ' No, no ; not so much about the
face.' — ' Don't anybody know him ? ' ' There's a man says he
does.' — 'Who?' 'A servant, they say. But he's struck
stupid-like, and the police don't believe him.' — ' Don't any-
body else know who it is ? ' ' Hush — ! '

The loud, clear voice of a man in authority silenced the low
hum of talking all round me, in an instant.

' Where is the gentleman who tried to save him ? ' said
the voice.

' Here, sir — here he is ! ' Dozens of eager faces pressed
about me — dozens of eager arms parted the crowd. The
man in authority came up to me with a lantern in his hand.

'This way, sir, if you please,' he said, quietly.

I was unable to speak to him ; I was unable to resist him,
when he took my arm. I tried to say that I had never seen
the dead man, in his lifetime — that there was no hope of
identifying him by means of a stranger like me. But the
words failed on my lips. I was faint and silent and helpless.

' Do you know him, sir ? '

I w'as standing inside a circle of men. Three of them,
opposite to me, were holding lanterns low down to the ground.
Their eyes, and the eyes of all the rest, were fixed silently
and expectantly on my face. I knew^ what was at my feet —
I knew why they were holding the lanterns so low to the
ground.

' Can you identify him, sir ? '

My eyes dropped slowly. At first, I saw nothing under
them but a coarse canvas cloth. The dripping of the rain on
it was audible in the dreadful silence. I looked up, along the
cloth ; and there at the end, stark and grim and black, in the
yellow light — there, was his dead face.

So, for the first and last time, I saw him. So the Visita-
tion of God ruled it that he and I should meet.

XI.

The Inquest was hurried for certain local reasons which
weighed with the coroner and the town authorities. It was
held on the afternoon of the next day. I was, necessarily,
one among the witnesses summoned to assist the objects of
the investigation.

My first proceeding, in the morning, was to go to the post-
office, and inquire for the letter which I expected from INIarian.
No change of circumstances, however extraordinary, could

468

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

affect the one great anxiety which weighed on my mind while
I was away from London. The morning's letter, which was
the only assurance I could receive that no misfortune had
happened in my absence, was still the absorbing interest with
which my day began.

To my relief, the letter from Marian was at the oftice
waiting for me.

Nothing had happened — they were both as safe and as well
as when I had left them. Laura sent her love, and begged
that I would let her know of my return a day beforehand.
Her sister added, in explanation of this message, that she had
saved ' nearly a sovereign ' out of her own private purse, and
that she had claimed the privilege of ordering the dinner and
giving the dinner which was to celebrate the day of my return.
I read these little domestic confidences, in the bright morning,
with the terrible recollection of what had happened the even-
ing before, vivid in my memory. The necessity of sparing
Laura any sudden knowledge of the truth was the first con-
sideration which the letter suggested to me. I wrote at once
to Marian, to tell her what I have told in these pages ; pre-
senting the tidings as gradually and gently as I could, and
warning her not to let any such thiiig as a. newspaper fall in
Laura's way while I was absent. In the case of any other
woman, less courageous and less reliable, I might have hesi-
tated before I ventured on unreservedly disclosing the whole
truth. But I owed it to Marian to be faithful to my past
experience of her, and to trust her as I trusted myself

My letter was necessarily a long one. It occupied me
until the time came for proceeding to the Inquest.

The objects of the legal inquiry were necessarily beset by
peculiar complications and difficulties. Besides the investi-
gation into the manner in which the deceased had met his
death, there were serious questions to be settled relating to
the cause of the fire, to the abstraction of the keys, and to
the presence of a stranger in the vestry at the time when the
flames broke out. Even the identification of the dead man
had not yet been accomplished. The helpless condition of the
servant had made the police distrustful of his asserted recog-
nition of his master. They had sent to Knowlesbury over-
night to secure the attendance of witnesses who were well
acquainted with the personal appearance of Sir Percival Glyde,
and they had communicated, the first thing in the morning, with
Blackwater Park. These precautions enabled the coroner
and jury to settle the question of identity, and to confirm the
correctness of the servant's assertion ; the evidence offered

469

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

by competent witnesses, and by the discovery of certain facts,
being- subsequently strengthened by an examination of the
dead man's watch. The crest and the name of Sir Percival
Glyde were engraved inside it.

The next inquiries related to the fire.

The servant and I, and the boy who had heard the light
struck in the vestry, were the first witnesses called. The boy
gave his evidence clearly enough ; but the servant's mind had
not yet recovered the shock inflicted on it — he was plainly
incapable of assisting the objects of the inquiry, and he was
desired to stand down.

To my own relief, niy examination was not a long one. I
had not known the deceased ; I had never seen him ; I was
not aware of his presence at Old Welmingham ; and I had
not been in the vestry at the finding of the body. All I could
prove was that I had stopped at the clerk's cottage to ask my
way ; that I had heard from him of the loss of the keys ; that
I had accompanied him to the church to render what help I
could ; that I had seen the fire ; that I had heard some person
unknown, inside the vestry, trying vainly to unlock the door ;
and that I had done what I could, from motives of humanity,
to save the man. Other witnesses, who had been acquainted
with the deceased, were asked if they could explain the
mystery of his presumed abstraction of the keys, and his
presence in the burning room. But the coroner seemed to
take it for granted, naturally enough, that I, as a total stranger
in the neighbourhood, and a total stranger to Sir Percival
Glyde, could not be in a position to off"er any evidence on
these two points.

The course that I was myself bound to take, when my
formal examination had closed, seemed clear to me. I did
not feel called on to volunteer any statement of my own
private convictions ; in the first place, because my doing so
could serve no practical purpose, now that all proof in sup-
port of any surmises of mine was burnt with the burnt regis-
ter ; in the second place, because I could not have intelligibly
stated my opinion — my unsupported opinion — without dis-
closing the whole story of the conspiracy, and producing,
beyond a doubt, the same unsatisfactory eff"ect on the mind
of the coroner and the jury which I had already produced on
the mind of Mr. Kyrle.

In these pages, however, and after the time that has now
elapsed, no such cautions and restraints as are here described,
need fetter the free expression of my opinion. I will state
briefly, before my pen occupies itself with other events, how

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

my own convictions lead me to account for the abstraction of
the keys, for the outbreak of the fire, and for the death of the
man.

The news of my being free on bail drove Sir Percival, as
I believe, to his last resources. The attempted attack on the
road was one of those resources ; and the suppression of all
practical proof of his crime, by destroying the page of the
register on which the forgery had been committed, v.-as the
other, and the surest of the two. If I could produce no ex-
tract from the original book, to compare v.-ith the certified
copy at Knowlesbury, I could produce no positive evidence,
and could threaten him with no fatal exposure. All that was
necessary to the attainment of his end was, that he should
get into the vestry unperceived, that he should tear out the
page in the register, and that he should leave the vestry again
as privately as he had entered it.

On this supposition, it is easy to understand why he v.'aited
until nightfall before he made the attempt, and why he took
advantage of the clerk's absence to possess himself of the
keys. Necessity would oblige him to strike a light to find
his Vi'ay to the right register ; and common caution would
suggest his locking the door on the inside in case of intrusion
on the part of any inquisitive stranger, or on my part, if I
happened to be in the neighbourhood at the time.

I cannot believe that ic V\'as any part of his intention to
make the destruction of the register appear to be the result
of accident, by purposely setting the vestry on fire. The bare
chance that prompt assistance might arrive, and that the
books might, by the remotest possibility, be saved, would
have been enough, on a moment's consideration, to dismiss
any idea of this sort from his mind. Remembering the
quantity of combustible objects in the vestry — the straw,
the papers, the packing-cases, the dry wood, the old worm-
eaten presses — all the probabilities, in my estimation, point to
the fire as the result of an accident with his matches or his
light.

His first impulse, under these circumstances, v\-as doubt-
less to try to extinguish the flames — and, failing in that, his
second impulse (ignorant as he was of the state of the lock)
had been to attempt to escape by the door which had given
him entrance. When I had called to him, the flames must
have reached across the door leading into the church, on
either side of which the presses extended, and close to which
the other combustible objects were placed. In all probability,
the smoke and flame (confined as they were to the room) had

471

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

been too much for him, when he tried to escape by the inner
door. He must have dropped in his death-swoon — he must
have sunk in the place where he was found — just as I got on
the roof to break the skyHght-window. Even if we had been
able, afterwards, to get into the church, and to burst open
the door from that side, the delay must have been fatal. He
would have been past saving, long past saving, by that time.
We should only have given the flames free ingress into the
church : the church, which was now preserved, but which, in
that event, would have shared the fate of the vestry. There
is no doubt in my mind — there can be no doubt in the mind
of any one — that he was a dead man before ever we got to
the empty cottage, and worked with might and main to tear
down the beam.

This is the nearest approach that any theory of mine can
make towards accounting for a result which was visible matter
of fact. As I have described them, so events passed to us
outside. As I have related it, so his body was found.

The Inquest was adjourned over one day ; no explanation
that the eye of the law could recognise having been dis-
covered, thus far, to account for the mysterious circumstances
of the case.

It was arranged that more witnesses should be summoned,
and that the London solicitor of the deceased should be in-
vited to attend. A medical man was also charged with the
duty of reporting on the mental condition of the servant,
which appeared at present to debar him from giving any evi-
dence of the least importance. He could only declare, in a
dazed way, that he had been ordered, on the night of the fire,
to wait in the lane, and that he knew nothing else, except that
the deceased was certainly his master.

My own impression was, that he had been first used (with-
out any guilty knowledge on his own part) to ascertain the
fact of the clerk's absence from home on the previous day ;
and that he had been afterwards ordered to wait near the
church (but out of sight of the vestry) to assist his master,
in the event of my escaping the attack on the road, and of a
collision occurring between Sir Percival and myself. It is
necessary to add, that the man's own testimony was never
obtained to confirm this view. The medical report of him
declared that what little mental faculty he possessed was
seriously shaken ; nothing satisfactory was extracted from
him at the adjourned Inquest ; and, for aught I know to the
contrary, he may never have recovered to this day.

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

I returned to the hotel at Welmhig-ham, so jaded in body
and mind, so weakened and depressed by all that I had gone
through, as to be quite unfit to endure the local gossip about
the Inquest, and to answer the trivial questions that the
talkers addressed to me in the coffee-room. I withdrew from
my scanty dinner to my cheap garret-chamber, to secure
myself a little quiet, and to think, undisturbed, of Laura and
Marian.

If I had been a richer man, I would have gone back to
London, and would have comforted myself with a sight of the
two dear faces again, that night. But, I was bound to
appear, if called on, at the adjourned Inquest, and doubly
bound to answer my bail before the magistrate at Knowles-
bury. Our slender resources had suffered already ; and the
doubtful future — more doubtful than ever now — made me
dread decreasing our means unnecessarily, by allowing myself
an indulgence, even at the small cost of a double railway
journey, in the carriages of the second class.

The next day— the day immediately following the Inquest
— was left at my own disposal. I began the morning by
again applying at the post-office for my regular report from
Marian. It was waiting for me, as -before, and it was written,
throughout, in good spirits. I read the letter thankfully ;
and then set forth, with my mind at ease for the day, to go to
Old Welmingham, and to view the scene of the fire by the
morning light.

What changes met me when I got there !

Through all the ways of our unintelligible world, the
trivial and the terrible walk hand in hand together. The
irony of circumstances holds no mortal catastrophe in respect.
When I reached the church, the trampled condition of the
burial-ground was the only serious trace left to tell of the fire
and the death. A rough hoarding of boards had been
knocked up before the vestry doorway. Rude caricatures
were scrawled on it already ; and the village children were
fighting and shouting for the possession of the best peep-hole
to see through. On the spot where I had heard the cry for
help from the burning room, on the spot where the panic-
stricken servant had dropped on his knees, a fussy flock of
poultry was now scrambling for the first choice of worms
after the rain — and on the ground at my feet, where the door
and its dreadful burden had been laid, a workman's dinner
was waiting for him, tied up in a yellow basin, and his faithful
cur in charge was yelping at me for coming- near the food.
The old clerk, looking idly at the slow commencement of the

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

repairs, had only one interest that he could talk about, now —
the interest of escaping- all blame, for his own part, on account
of the accident that had happened. One of the village women,
whose white wild face I remembered, the picture of terror,
when we pulled down the beam, was gig'gling' with another
woman, the picture of inanity, over an old washing--tub.
There is nothing- serious in mortality ! Solomon in all his
g'lory, was Solomon with the elements of the contemptible
lurking in every fold of his robes and in every corner of his
palace.

As I left the place, my thoughts turned, not for the first
time, to the complete overthrow that all present hope of
establishing Laura's identity had now suffered, through Sir
Percival's death. He was gone — and, with him, the chance
was gone which had been the one object of all my labours
and all my hopes.

Could I look at my failure from no truer point of vievv'
than this ?

Suppose he had lived — would that change of circumstance
have altered the result ? Could I have made my discovery
a marketable commodity, even for Laura's sake, after I had
found out that robbery of the rights of others was the
essence of Sir Percival's crime ? Could I have offered the
price of my silence for his confession of the conspiracy, when
the effect of that silence must have been to keep the right
heir from the estates, and the right owner from the name ?
Impossible ! If Sir Percival had lived, the discovery, from
which (in my ignorance of the true nature of the Secret) I had
hoped so much, could not have been mine to suppress, or to
make public, as I thought best, for the vindication of Laura's
rights. In common honesty and common honour I must have
gone at once to the stranger whose birthright had been
usurped — I must have renounced the victory at the moment
when it was mine, by placing my discovery unreservedly in
that stranger's hands — and I must have faced afresh all the
difficulties which stood between me and the one object of my
life, exactly as I was resolved, in my heart of hearts, to face
them now !

I returned to Welmingham with my mind composed ;
feeling more sure of myself and my resolution than I had felt
yet.

On my way to the hotel, I passed the end of the square in
v.'hich Mrs. Catherick lived. Should I go back to the house,
and make another attempt to see her? No. That news of
Sir Percival's death, which was the last news she ever

474

TiiE WOMAN IN WHITE

expected to hear, must have reached her, hours since. All
the proceedings at the Inquest had been reported in the local
paper that morning : there was nothing I could tell her which
she did not know already. My interest in making her speak
had slackened. I remembered the furtive hatred in her face,
when she said, ' There is no news of Sir Percival that I don't
expect — except the news of his death.' I remembered the
stealthy interest in her eyes when they settled on me at
parting, after she had spoken those words. Some instinct,
deep in my heart, which I felt to be a true one, made the
prospect of again entering her presence repulsive to me — I
turned avv^ay from the square, and went straight back to the
hotel.

Some hours later, while I was resting in the coffee-room,
a letter was placed in my hands by the waiter. It was
addressed to m.e, b}^ name ; and I found on inquiry, that it
had been left at the bar by a woman, just as it was near dusk,
and just before the gas was lighted. She had said nothing ;
and she had gone away again before there was time to speak
to her, or even to notice v.-ho she was.

I opened the letter. It was neither dated, nor signed ;
and the handwriting was palpably disguised. Before I had
read the first sentence, however, I knew who my corre-
spondent was. Mrs. Catherick.

The letter ran as follows — I copy it exactly, word for
word :

The Story contiijued by Mrs. Catherick.

Sir,

You have not come back, as you said you would. No
matter ; I knov>f the news, and I write to tell you so. Did
you s>ee anything particular in my face when you left me ?
I was wondering, in my own mind, whether the day of his
downfall had come at last, and v.-hether you were the chosen
instrument for working it. You were — and you have
worked it.

You were weak enough, as I have heard, to try and save
his life. If you had succeeded, I should have looked upon
you as my enemy. Now you have failed, I hold you as my
friend. Your inquiries frightened him into the vestry by
night ; your inquiries, without your privity and against your
will, have served the hatred and wreaked the vengeance of
three-and-twenty years. Thank you, sir, in spite of yourself.

I owe something to the man who has done this. How

475

THE WOMAN IN Vv^HITE

can I pay my debt ? If I was a young woman still, I might
say, ' Come ! put your arm round my waist, and kiss me, if
you like.' I should have been fond enough of you, even to
go that length ; and you would have accepted my invitation —
you would, sir, twenty years ago ! But I am an old woman,
now. Well ! I can satisfy your curiosity, and pay my debt
in that way. You had a great curiosity to know certain
private affairs of mine, when you came to see me — private
affairs which all your sharpness could not look into with-
out my help — private affairs which you have not discovered,
even now. You shall discover them ; your curiosity shall be
satisfied. I will take any trouble to please you, my estimable
young friend !

You were a little boy, I suppose, in the year twenty-
seven ? I was a handsome young woman, at that time,
living at Old Welmingham. I had a contemptible fool for a
husband. I had also the honour of being acquainted (never
mind hov>^) with a certain gentleman (never mind whom). I
shall not call him by his name. Why should I ? It was not
his own. He never had a name : you know that, by this
time, as w^ell as I do.

It W'ill be more to the purpose to tell you how he worked
himself into my good graces. I was born with the tastes of
a lady ; and he gratified them. In other words, he admired
me, and he made me presents. No woman can resist
admiration and presents — especially presents, provided they
happen to be just the things she wants. He was sharp
enough to know that — most men are. Naturally, he wanted
something in return — all men do. And what do you think
was the something? The merest trifle. Nothing but the
key of the vestry, and the key of the press inside it, when my
husband's back was turned. Of course he lied when I asked
him why he wished me to get him the keys, in that private
way. He might have saved himself the trouble — I didn't
believe him. But I liked my presents, and I wanted more.
So I got him the keys, without my husband's knowledge ;
and I watched him, without his own knowledge. Once,
twice, four times, I watched him — and the fourth time I
found him out.

I was never over-scrupulous where other people's affairs
were concerned ; and I was not over-scrupulous about his
adding one to the marriages in the register, on his own
account.

Of course, I knew it was wrong ; but it did no harm to
me — which was one good reason for not making a fuss about

476

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

it. And I had not g"ot a gold watch and chain — which was
another, still better. And he had promised me one from
London, only the day before — which was a third, best of all.
If I had known what the law considered the crime to be, and
how the law punished it, I should have taken proper care of
myself, and have exposed him then and there. But I knew
nothing- — and I longed for the gold watch. All the conditions
I insisted on were that he should take me into his confidence
and tell me everything. I was as curious about his afi"airs
then, as you are about mine now. He granted my conditions
— why, you will see presently.

This, put in short, is what I heard from him. He did not
willingly tell me all that I tell you here. I drew some of it
from him by persuasion and some of it by questions. I was
determined to have all the truth — and I believe I got it.

He knew no more than any one else of what the state of
things really was between his father and mother, till after
his mother's death. Then, his father confessed it, and
promised to do what he could for his son. He died having
done nothing — not having even made a will. The son (who
can blame him ?) wisely provided for himself. He came to
England at once, and took possession of the property.
There was no one to suspect him, and no one to say him nay.
His father and mother had always lived as man and wife —
none of the few people who v\-ere acquainted with them ever
supposed them to be anything else. The right person to
claim the property (if the truth had been known) was a
distant relation, who had no idea of ever getting it, and who
was away at sea when his father died. He had no difficulty,
so far — he took possession, as a matter of course. But he
could not borrow money on the property as a matter of
course. There were two things wanted of him, before he
could do this. One was a certificate of his birth, and the
other was a certificate of his parents' marriage. The certifi-
cate of his birth was easily got — he was born abroad, and the
certificate was there in due form. The other matter was a
difficulty — and that difficulty brought him to Old Wel-
mingham.

But for one consideration, he might have gone to Knowles-
bury instead.

His mother had been living there just before she met with
his father — living under her maiden name ; the truth being
that she was really a married woman ; married in Ireland,
whei'e her husband had ill-used her and had afterwards gone
off" with some other person. I give you this fact on good

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

authority : Sir Felix mentioned it to his son, as the reason
\vhy he had not married. You may wonder why the son,
knowing that his parents had met each other at Knowlesbury,
did not play his first tricks with the register of that church,
where it might have been fairly presumed his father and
mother were married. The reason was, that the clergyman
who did duty at Knowlesbury church, in the year eighteen
hundred and three (when, according to his birth-certificate,
his father and mother ought to have been married), was alive
still, when he took possession of the property in the New
Year of eighteen hundred and twenty-seven. This awkward
circumstance forced him to extend his inquiries to our neigh-
bourhood. There, no such danger existed : the former
clergyman at our church having been dead for some years.

Old Welmingham suited his purpose as well as Knowles-
bury. His father had removed his mother from Knov/lesbury,
and had lived with her at a cottage on the river, a little
distance from our village. People who had known his soli-
tary ways when he was single, did not wonder at his solitary
vi^ays when he was supposed to be married. If he had not
been a hideous creature to look at, his retired life with the
lady might have raised suspicions : but, as things were, his
hiding his ugliness and his deformity in the strictest privacy
surprised nobody. He lived in our neighbourhood till he came
in possession of the Park. After three or four and twenty
years had passed, who was to say (the clergyman being
dead) that his marriage had not been as private as the rest of
his life, and that it had not taken pla,ce at Old Welmingham
church ?

So, as I told you, the son found our neighbourhood the
surest place he could choose, to set things right secretly in
his own interests. It may surprise you to hear that what he
really did to the marriage-register was done on the spur of
the moment — done on second thoughts.

His first notion was only to tear the leaf out (in the right
year and month), to destroy it privately, to go back to Lon-
don, and to tell the lawyers to get him the necessary certifi-
cate of his father's marriage, innocently referring them of
course to the date on the leaf that was gone. Nobody could
say his father and mother had -not been married after that —
and whether, under the circumstances, they would stretch a
point or not about lending him the money (he thought they
would), he had his answer ready at all events, if a
question was ever raised about his right to the name and the
estate.

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

But when he came to look privately at the register for
himself, he found at the bottom of one of the pages for the
year eighteen hundred and three, a blank space left, seemingly
through there being no room to make a long entry there,
which was made instead at the top of the next page. The
sight of this chance altered all his plans. It was an opportu-
nity he had never hoped for, or thought of — and he took it,
you know how. The blank space, to have exactly tallied
with his birth-certificate, ought to have occurred in the July
part of the register. It occurred in the September part
instead. However, in this case, if suspicious questions were
asked, the answer was not hard to find. He had only to
describe himself as a seven months' child.

I was fool enough, when he told me his story, to feel some
interest and some pity for him — which was just what he calcu-
lated on, as you will see. I thought him hardly used. It
was not his fault that his father and mother were not married;
and it was not his father's and mother's fault either. A more
scrupulous woman than I w^as — a woman who had not set her
heart on a gold watch and chain — would have found some
excuses for him. At all events, I held my tongue, and helped
to screen what he was about.

He was some time getting the ink the right colour (mixing
it over and over again in pots and bottles of mine), and some
time, afterwards, in practising the handwriting. But he
succeeded in the end — and made an honest woman of his
mother, after she was dead in her grave ! So far, I don't
deny that he behaved honourably enough to myself. He gave
me my watch and chain, and spared no expense in buying
them ; both were of superior workmanship, and very expen-
sive. I have got them still — the watch goes beautifullv.

You said, the other day, that Mrs. Clements had told you
everything she knew. In that case, there is no need for me
to write about the trumpery scandal by which I was the
sufferer — the innocent sufferer, I positively assert. You must
know as well as I do what the notion was which my husband
took into his head, when he found me and my fine-gentleman
acquaintance meeting each other privately, and talking secrets
together. But what you don't know, is how it ended between
that same gentleman and myself. You shall read, and see
how he behaved to me.

The first words I said to him, when I saw the turn things
had taken, were, ' Do me justice — clear my character of a
stain on it which you know I don't deserve. I don't want
you to make a clean breast of it to my husband — only tell

479

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

him, on your word of honour as a gentleman, that he is
wrong, and that I am not to blame in the way he thinks I
am. Do me that justice, at least, after all I have done for
you.' He flatly refused, in so many words. He told me,
plainly, that it was his interest to let my husband and all my
neighbours believe the falsehood — because, as long as they
did so, they were quite certain never to suspect the truth. I
had a spirit of my own ; and I told him they should know the
truth from my lips. His reply was short, and to the point.
If I spoke, I was a lost woman, as certainly as he was a lost
man.

Yes ! it had come to that. He had deceived me about the
risk I ran in helping him. He had practised on my ignorance ;
he had tempted me with his gifts ; he had interested me with
his story — and the result of it was that he made me his
accomplice. He owned this coolly ; and he ended by telling
me, for the first time, what the frightful punishment really
was for his offence, and for any one who helped him to commit
it. In those days, the law was not so tender-hearted as I hear
it is now. Murderers were not the only people liable to be
hanged ; and women convicts Avere not treated like ladies in
undeserved distress. I confess he frightened me — the mean
impostor ! the cowardly blackguard ! Do you understand,
now, how I hated him ? Do you understand why I am taking
all this trouble — thankfully taking it — to gratify the curiosity
of the meritorious young gentleman who hunted him down ?

Well, to go on. He was hardly fool enough to drive me
to downright desperation. I was not the sort of vv^oman whom
it was quite safe to hunt into a corner — he knew that, and
wisely quieted me with proposals for the future.

I deserved some reward (he was kind enough to say) for
the service I had done him, and some compensation (he was
so obliging as to add) for what I had suffered. He was quite
willing — generous scoundrel ! — to make me a handsome yearly
allowance, payable quarterly, on two conditions. First, I was
to hold my tongue — in my own interests as well as in his.
Secondly, I was not to stir away from Wehningham, without
first letting him know, and waiting till I had obtained his
permission. In my own neighbourhood, no virtuous female
friends would tempt me into dangerous gossiping at the tea-
table. In my own neighbourhood, he would always know
where to find me. A hard condition, that second one — but I
accepted it.

What else was I to do ? I was left helpless, with the pro-
spect of a coming incumbrance in the shape of a child. What

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

else was I to do ? Cast myself on the mercy of my runaway
idiot of a husband who had raised the scandal against me ?
I would have died first. Besides, the allowance was a handsome
one. I had a better income, a better house over my head,
better carpets on my floors, than half the women who turned
up the whites of their eyes at the sight of me. The dress of
Virtue, in our parts, was cotton print. I had silk.

So, I accepted the conditions he offered me, and made the
best of them, and fought my battle vv^ith my respectable neigh-
bours on their own ground, and won it in course of time —
as you saw yourself. How I kept his Secret (and mine)
through all the years that have passed from that time to
this ; and whether my late daughter, Anne, ever really crept
into my confidence, and got the keeping of the Secret too
— are questions, I dare say, to which you are curious to
find an answer. Well ! my gratitude refuses you nothing.
I will turn to a fresh page, and give you the answer, imme-
diately. But you must excuse one thing— you must excvise
my beginning, Mr. Hartright, with an expression of surprise
at the interest which you appear to have felt in my late
daughter. It is quite unaccountable to me. If that interest
makes you anxious for any particulars of her early life, I
must refer you to Mrs. Clements, who knows more of the
subject than I do. Pray understand that I do not profess
to have been at all over-fond of my late daughter.

She was a worry to me from first to last, with the
additional disadvantage of being always weak in the head.
You like candour, and I hope this satisfies you.

There is no need to trouble you with many personal par-
ticulars relating to those past times. It will be enough to say
that I observed the terms of the bargain on my side, and that
I enjoyed my comfortable income, in return, paid quarterly.

Now and then I got away, and changed the scene for a
short time ; always asking leave of my lord and master first,
and generally getting it. He was not, as I have already told
you, fool enough to drive me too hard ; and he could reason-
ably rely on my holding my tongue, for my own sake, if not
for his. One of my longest trips away from home was the
trip I took to Limmeridge, to nurse a half-sister there, who
was dying. She was reported to have saved money ; and I
thought it as well (in case any accident happened to stop my
allowance) to look after my own interests in that direction.
As things turned out, however, my pains were all thrown
away ; and I got nothing, because nothing was to be had.

I had taken Anne to the north with me ; having my whims

481 I I

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

and fancies, occasionally, about my child, and getting, at such
times, jealous of Mrs. Clements's influence over her. I never
liked Mrs. Clements. She was a poor empty-headed spiritless
woman — what you call a born drudge — and I was, now and
then, not averse to plaguing her by taking Anne away. Not
knowing what else to do with my girl, while I was nursing
in Cumberland, I put her to school at Limmeridge. The
lady of the manor, Mrs. Fairlie (a remarkably plain-looking
woman, who had entrapped one of the handsomest men in
England into marrying her), amused me wonderfully, by
taking a violent fancy to m.y girl. The consequence was,
she learnt nothing at school, and was petted and spoilt at
Limmeridge House. Among other whims and fancies which
they taught her there, they put some nonsense into her head
about always wearing white. Hating white and liking colours
myself, I determined to take the nonsense out of her head as
soon as we got home again.

Strange to say, my daughter resolutely resisted m.e.
When she had got a notion once fixed in her mind she was,
like other half-witted people, as obstinate as a mule in keeping
it. We quarrelled finely ; and Mrs. Clements, not liking to
see it I suppose, offered to take Anne away to live in London
with her. I should have said Yes, if Mrs. Clements had not
sided with my daughter about her dressing herself in white.
But, being determined she should not dress herself in white,
and disliking Mrs. Clements more than ever for taking part
against me, I said No, and meant No, and stuck to No. The
consequence was, my daughter remained with me ; and the
consequence of that, in its turn, was the first serious quarrel
that happened about the Secret.

The circumstance took place long after the time I have
just been writing of. I had been settled for years in the nev/
town ; and w^as steadily living down my bad character, and
slowly gaining ground among the respectable inhabitants.
It helped me forward greatly towards this object, to have my
daughter with me. Her harmlessness, and licr fancy for
dressing in white, excited a certain amount of sympathy. I
left off opposing her favourite whim, on that account, because
some of the sympathy was sure, in course of time, to fall to
my share. Some of it did fall. I date my getting a choice
of the two best sittings to let in the church, from that time ;
and I date the clergyman's first bow from my getting the
sittings.

Well, being settled in this way, I received a letter one
morning from that highly born gentleman (now deceased), in

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

answer to one of mine, warning him, according to agreement,
of my wishing to leave the town, for a little change of air
and scene.

The ruffianly side of him must have been uppermost, I
suppose, when he got my letter— for he wrote back, refusing
me in such abominably insolent language, that I lost all com-
mand over myself ; and abused him, in my daughter's pre-
sence, as, ' a low impostor whom I could ruin for life, if I chose
to open my lips and let out his secret.' I said no more
about him than that ; being brought to my senses, as soon as
those words had escaped me, by the sight of my daughter's
face, looking eagerly and curiously at mine. I instantly
ordered her out of the room, until I had composed myself
again.

My sensations were not pleasant, I can tell you, when I
came to reflect on my own folly. Anne had been more than
usually crazy and queer, that 3'ear ; and wlien I thought of
the chance there might be of her repeating my words in the
town, and mentioning his name in connexion with them, if
inquisitive people got hold of her, I was finely terrified at the
possible consequences. My worst fears for myself, my worst
dread of vv^hat he might do, led me no farther than this. I was
quite unprepared for what really did happen, only the next day.

On that next day, v.ithout any vvarning to me to expect
liim, he came to the house.

"His first words, and the tone in which he spoke them,
surly as it v/as, showed me plainly enough that he had repented
already of his insolent answer to my application, and that he
had come, in a mighty bad temper, to try and set matters
right again, before it was too late. Seeing my daughter in
the room with me (I had been afraid to let her out of my sight,
after what had happened the day before), he ordered her away.
They neither of them liked each other ; and he vented the ill-
temper on her, which he was afraid to show to me.

' Leave us,' he said, looking at her over his shoulder. She
looked back over her shoulder, and waited, as if she didn't
care to go. ' Do you hear ? ' he roared out ; ' leave the room.'
' Speak to me civilly,' says she, getting red in the face. ' Turn
the idiot out,' says he, looking my way. She had ahvays had
crazy notions of her own about her dignity ; and that word
* idiot ' upset her in a moment. Before I could interfere, she
stepped up to him, in a fine passion. * Beg my pardon,
directly,' says she, ' or I'll make it the worse for you. I'll let
out your Secret. I can ruin you for life, if I choose to open
my lips.' My own words ! — repeated exactly from what I had

483 112

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

said the day before— repeated, in his presence, as if they had
come from herself. He sat speechless, as white as the paper
I am writing on, while I pushed her out of the room. When

he recovered himself

No ! I am too respectable a woman to mention what
he said when he recovered himself. My pen is the pen of a
member of the rector's congregation, and a subscriber to the
' Wednesday Lectures on Justification by Faith ' — how can
you expect me to employ it in writing bad language ? Sup-
pose, for yourself, the raging, swearing frenzy of the lowest
ruffian in England ; and let us get on together, as fast as may
be, to the way in which it all ended.

It ended, as you probably guess, by this time, in his in-
sisting on securing his own safety by shutting her up.

I tried to set things right. I told him that she had merely
repeated, like a parrot, the words she had heard me say, and
that she knew no particulars whatever, because I had men-
tioned none. I explained that she had affected, out of crazy
spite against him, to know what she really did not know ; that
she only wanted to threaten him and aggravate him, for
speaking to her as he had just spoken ; and that my unlucky
words gave her just the chance of doing mischief of which she
was in search. I referred him to other queer ways of hers,
and to his own experience of the vagaries of half-witted people
— it was all to no purpose — he would not believe me on my oath
— he was absolutely certain I had betrayed the whole Secret.
In short, he would hear of nothing but shutting her up.

Under these circumstances, I did my duty as a mother.
' No pauper Asylum,' I said ; ' I won't have her put in a pauper
Asylum. A Private Establishment, \i yoji, please. I have my
feelings as a mother, and my character to preserve in the town ;
and I will submit to nothing but a Private Establishment, of
the sort which my genteel neighbours would choose for afflicted
relatives of their own.' Those were my words. It is grati-
fying to me to reflect that I did my duty. Though never
over-fond of my late daughter, I had a proper pride about her.
No pauper stain — thanks to my firmness and resolution — ever
rested on my child.

Having carried my point (which I did the more easily, in
consequence of the facilities offered by private Asylums), I
could not refuse to admit that there were certain advantages
gained by shutting her up. In the first place, she was taken
excellent care of — being treated (as I took care to mention in
the town) on the footing of a Lady. In the second place, she
was kept away from Welmingham, where she might have

484

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

set people suspecting and inquiring, by repeating my own
incautious words.

The only drawback of putting her under restraint was a
very slight one. We merely turned her empty boast about
knowing the Secret, into a fixed delusion. Having first spoken
in sheer crazy spitefulness against the man who had offended
her, she was cunning enough to see that she had seriously
frightened him, and sharp enough afterwards to discover that //<?
was concerned in shutting her up. The consequence was she
flamed out into a perfect frenzy of passion against him, going
to the Asylum ; and the first words she said to the nurses,
after they had quieted her, were, that she was put in confine-
ment for knowing his secret, and that she meant to open her
lips and ruin him, when the right time came.

She may have said the same thing to you, when you
thoughtlessly assisted her escape. She certainly said it (as I
heard last summer) to the unfortunate woman who married
our sweet-tempered, nameless gentleman, lately deceased.
If either you, or that unlucky lady, had questioned my
daughter closely, and had insisted on her explaining what she
really meant, you would have found her lose all her self-
importance suddenly, and get vacant, and restless, and con-
fused—vou would have discovered that I am writing nothing
here but the plain truth. She knew that there was a Secret —
she knew who was connected with it — she knew who would
suff"er by its being known — and, beyond that, whatever airs
of importance she may have given herself, whatever crazy
boasting she may have indulged in with strangers, she never
to her dying day knew moi^e.

Have I satisfied your curiosity ? I have taken pains enough
to satisfy it at any rate. There is really nothing else I have
to tell you about myself, or my daughter. My worst responsi-
bilities, so far as she was concerned, were all over when she
was secured in the Asylum. I had a form of letter relating to
the circumstances under which she was shut up, given me to
write, in answer to one Miss Halcombe, who was curious in
the matter, and who must have heard plenty of lies about me
from a certain tongue well accustomed to the telling of the
same. And I did w^hat I could afterv/ards to trace my runaway
daughter, and prevent her from doing mischief, by making
inquiries, myself, in the neighbourhood where she was falsely
reported to have been seen. But these and other trifles like
them, are of little or no interest to you after what you have
heard already.

So far, I have written in the friendliest possible spirit. But

485

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

I cannot close this letter without adding a word here of serious
remonstrance and reproof, addressed to yourself.

In the course of your personal interview with me, you
audaciously referred to my late daughter's parentage, on the
father's side, as if that parentage was a matter of doubt.
This was highly improper and very ungentlemanlike on yovu*
part ! If we see each other again, remember, if you please,
that I W'ill allow no liberties to be taken v.ith my reputation,
and that the moral atmosphere of Welmingham (to use a
favourite expression of my friend the rector's) must not be
tainted by loose conversation of any kind. If you allow your-
self to doubt that my husband was Anne's father, you person-
ally insult m.e in the grossest manner. If you have felt, and
if you still continue to feel, an unhallowed curiosity on this
subject, I recommend you, in your own interests, to check it
at once and for ever. On this side of the grave, Mr. Hartright,
whatever may happen on the other, that curiosity will never
be gratified.

Perhaps, after what I have just said, you will see the
necessity of WTiting me an apology. Do so ; and I will
willingly receive it. I will, afterwards, if your wishes point
to a second interview with me, go a step farther, and receive
yoii. My circumstances only enable me to invite you to tea —
not that they are at all altered for the worse by what has
happened. I have always lived, as I think I told you, well
within my income ; and I have saved enough, in the last twenty
years, to make me quite comfortable for the rest of my life. It
is not my intention to leave Welmingham. There are one or
two little advantages which I have still to gain in the town.
The clergyman bows to me — as you saw\ He is married ; and
his wife is not quite so civil. I propose to join the Dorcas
Society ; and I mean to make the clergyman's wife bow to me
next.

If you favour me with )our company, pray understand that
the conversation must be entirely on general subjects. Any
attempted reference to this letter will be quite useless — I am
determined not to acknowledge having written it. The
evidence has been destroyed in the fire, I know ; but I think
it desirable to err on the side of caution, nevertheless.

On this account, no names are mentioned here, nor is any
signature attached to these lines : the handwriting is disguised
throughout, and I mean to deliver the letter myself, under
circumstances which will prevent all fear of its being traced
to my house. You can have no possible cause to complain of
these precautions ; seeing that they do not affect the informa-

486

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

lion I here CGmmunicate, in consideralion of the special
indulgence which you have deserved at my hands. My hour
for tea is half-past five, and my buttered toast waits for nobody.

Hie Story co;itinued by Walter Hartright.

My first im.pulse, after reading- Mrs. Catherick's extraordinary
narrative, was to destroy it. The hardened, shameless de-
pravity of the whole composition, from beginning to end —
the atrocious perversity of mind which persistently associated
me v.ith a calamity for which I was in no sense answerable,
and with a death which I had risked my life in tr3-ing to avert
■ — so disgusted me, that I was on the point of tearing the
letter, when a consideration suggested itself, which warned
me to Vv'ait a little before I destroyed it.

This consideration was entirely unconnected with Sir
Percival. The information communicated to me, so far as it
concerned him, did little more than confirm the conclusions at
v.'hich I had already arrived.

He had committed his oflfence as I had supposed him to
have committed it ; and the absence of all reference, on Mrs.
Catherick's part, to the duplicate register at Knowlesbury,
strengthened my previous conviction that the existence of
the book, and the risk of detection which it implied, must
have been necessarily unknown to Sir Percival. My interest
in the question of the forgery was novv' at an end ; and my
only object in keeping the letter was to make it of some future
service, in clearing up the last mystery that still remained to
baffle me — the parentage of Anne Catherick, on the father's
side. There were one or two sentences dropped in her mother's
narrative, which it might be useful to refer to again, when
matters of more immediate importance allovv'ed me leisure to
search for the missing evidence. I did not despair of still
finding that evidence ; and I had lost none of my anxiety to
discover it, for I had lost none of my interest in tracing the
father of the poor creature who now lay at rest in Mrs. Fairlie's
grave.

Accordingly, I sealed up the letter, and put it away care-
fully in my pocket-book to be referred to again when the time
came.

The next day was my last in Hampshire. When I had
appeared again before the magistrate at Knowlesbury, and
when I had attended at the adjourned Inquest, I should be

487

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

free to return to London by the afternoon or the eveningf
train.

My first errand hi the morning was, as usual, to the post-
office. The letter from Marian was there, but I thought,
when it was handed to me, that it felt unusually light. I
anxiously opened the envelope. There was nothing inside
but a small strip of paper, folded in two. The few blotted,
hurriedly-written lines which were traced on it contained these-
words :

' Come back as soon as you can. I have been obliged to
move. Come to Gower's Walk, Fulham (number five). I
will be on the look-out for you. Don't be alarmed about us ;
we are both safe and well. But come back. — Marian.'

The news which those lines contained — news v/hich I
instantly associated with some attempted treachery on the
part of Count Fosco — fairly overwhelmed me. I stood breath-
less, with the paper crumpled up in my hand. What had
happened? What subtle wickedness had the Count planned
and executed in my absence ? A night had passed since
Marian's note was written — hours must elapse still, before I
could get back to them — some new disaster might have hap-
pened already, of which I was ignorant. And here, miles and
miles away from them, here I must remain — held doubly held,
at the disposal of the law !

I hardly know to what forgetfulness of my obligations
anxiety and alarm might not have tempted me, but for the
quieting influence of my faith in Marian. ]\Iy absolute
reliance on her was the one earthly consideration which
helped me to restrain myself, and gave me courage to wait.
The Inquest was the first of the impediments In the way of my
freedom of action. I attended it at the appointed time ; the
legal formalities requiring my presence in the room, but, as
it turned out, not calling on me to repeat my evidence. This
useless delay was a hard trial, although I did my best to quiet
my impatience by following the course of the proceedings as
closely as I could.

The London solicitor of the deceased (Mr. Merriman) was
among the persons present. But he was quite unable to
assist the objects of the inquir}^ He could only say that he
was inexpressibly shocked and astonished, and that he could
throw no light whatever on the mysterious circumstances of
the case. At intervals during the adjourned investigation, he
suggested questions, which the Coroner put, but which led to
no results. After a patient inquiry, which lasted nearly three
hours, and which exhausted every available source of infor-

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

mation, thejury pronounced the customary verdict in cases of
sudden death by accident. They added to the formal decision
a statement that there had been no evidence to show how the
keys had been abstracted, hou^ the fire had been caused, or
what the purpose was for which the deceased had entered
the vestry. This act closed the proceedings. The legal
representative of the dead man was left to provide for the
necessities of the interment ; and the witnesses were free
to retire.

Resolved not to lose a minute in getting to Knowlesbury,
I paid my bill at the hotel, and hired a fly to take me to the
town. A gentleman who heard me give the order, and who
saw that i was going alone, informed me that he lived in the
neighbourhood of Knowlesbury, and asked if I would have
any objection to his getting home by sharing the fly with me.
I accepted his proposal as a matter of course.

Our conversation during the drive was naturally occupied
by the one absorbing subject of local interest.

My new acquaintance had some knowledge of the late Sir
Percival's solicitor; and he and Mr. Merriman had been
discussing the state of the deceased gentleman's afi^airs and
the succession to the property. Sir Percival's embarrassments
were so well known all over the county that his solicitor could
only make a virtue of necessity and plainly acknowledge
them. He had died without leaving a will, and he had no
personal property to bequeath, even if he had made one ; the
whole fortune which he had derived from his wife having
been swallowed up by his creditors. The heir to the estate
(Sir Percival having left no issue) was a son of Sir Felix
Clyde's first cousin- — an oflScer in command of an East India-
man. He would find his unexpected inheritance sadly
encumbered ; but the property would recover with time, and,
if ' the captain ' was careful, he might be a rich man yet,
before he died.

Absorbed as I was in the one idea of getting to London,
this information (which events proved to be perfectly correct)
had an interest of its own to attract my attention. I thought
it justified me in keeping secret my discovery of Sir Percival's
fraud. The heir whose rights he had usurped was the heir
who would now have the estate. The income from it, for the
last three-and-tv.-enty years, which should properly have been
his, and which the dead man had squandered to the last farthing,
was gone beyond recall. If I spoke, my speaking would confer
advantage on no one. If I kept the secret, my silence con-
cealed the character of the man who had cheated Laura into

489

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

marrying' him. For her sake, I wished to conceal it — for her
sake, still, I tell this story under feigned names.

I parted with my chance companion at Knowlesbury ; and
went at once to the town-hall. As I had anticipated, no one
was present to prosecute the case against rne — the necessary
formalities were observed — and I was discharged. On leaving
the court, a letter from Mr, Dawson was put into my hand.
It informed me that he was absent on professional duty, and
it reiterated the offer I had already received from, him of any
assistance which I might require at his hands. I wrote back,
warmly acknowledging my obligations to his kindnes:^, and
apologising for not expressing my thanks personally, in
consequence of my immediate recall, on pressing business, to
town.

Half an hour later I was speeding back to London by the
express train.

11.

It v/as between nine and ten o'clock before I reached Fulham,
and found my way to Gower's Walk.

Both Laura and Marian came to the door to let me in. I
think we had hardly known how close the tie was which
bound us three together, until the evening came which united
us again. We met as if we had been parted for months,
instead of for a few days only. Marian's face was sadly worn
and anxious. I saw who had known all the danger, and
borne all the trouble, in my absence, the moment I looked at
her. Laura's brighter looks and better spirits told me how
carefully she had been spared all knowledge of the dreadful
death at Welmingham, and of the true reason for our change
of abode.

The stir of the removal seemed to have cheered and
interested her. She only spoke of it as a happy thought of
Marian's to surprise me, on my return, with a change from
the close, noisy street, to the pleasant neighbourhood of trees
and fields and the river. She was full of projects for the
future — of the drawings she was to finish ; of the purchasers
I had found in the country, who were to buy them ; of the
shillings and sixpences she had saved, till her purse was so
heavy that she proudly asked me to weigh it in my own hand.
The change for the better which had been wrought in her,
during the few days of my absence, was a surprise to me for
which I was quite unprepared— and for all the unspeakable
happiness of seeing it, I was indebted to Marian's courage
and to Marian's love.

490

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

When Laura had left us, and when we could speak to one
another without restrauit, I tried to g'ive some expression to
the gratitude and the admiration which filled my heart. But
the generous creature would not wait to hear me. That
sublim.e self-forgetfulness of women, which yields so much
and asks so little, turned all her thoughts from herself to me.

* I had only a moment left before post-time/ she said, * or
I should have written less abruptly. You look v/orn and
wear}', Walter — I am afraid my letter must have seriously
alarmed you ? '

' Only at first,' I replied. ' My mind was quieted, Marian,
by my trust in you. Was I right in attributing this sudden
change of place to some threatened annoyance on the part of
Count Fosco ? '

' Perfectly right,' she said. * I saw him yesterday ; and,
worse than that, Walter — I spoke to him.'

' Spoke to him ? Did he know where we lived ? Did he
come to the house ? '

' He did. To the house — but not up-stairs. Laura never
saw him ; Laura suspects nothing. I will tell you how it
happened : the danger, I believe and hope, is over now.
Yesterday, I was in the sitting-room, at our old lodgings.
Laura was drawing at the table ; and I was walking about
and setting things to rights. I passed the window, and, as I
passed it, looked out into the street. There, on the opposite
side of the way, I saw the Count, with a man talking to
him '

' Did he notice you at the window ? '

' No — at least, I thought not. I was too violently startled
to be quite sure.'

' Who was the other man ? A stranger ? '

' Not a stranger, Walter. As soon as I could draw my
breath again, I recognised him. He was the owner of the
Lunatic Asylum.'

' Was tile Count pointing out the house to him ? '

* No ; they were talking together as if they had accidentally
met in the street. I remained at the window looking at them
from behind the curtain. If I had turned round, and if Laura

had seen my face at that moment Thank God, she was

absorbed over her drawing ! They soon parted. The man
from the Asylum went one way, and the Count the other. I
began to hope they were in the street by chance, till I saw
the Count come back, stop opposite to us again, take out his
card-case and pencil, write something, and then cross the
road to the shop belovv^ us. I ran past Laura before she could

491

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

see me, and said I had forgotten something up-stairs. As
soon as I was out of the room, I went down to the first land-
ing, and waited — I was determined to stop him if he tried to
come up-stairs. He made no such attempt. The girl from
the shop came through the door into the passage, with his
card in her hand — a large gilt card, with his name, and a
coronet above it, and these lines underneath in pencil : ** Dear
lady " (yes ! the villain could address me in that way still) —
"dear lady, one word, I implore you, on a m.atter serious to
us both." If one can think at all, in serious difficulties, one
thinks quick. I felt directly that it might be a fatal mistake
to leave myself and to leave you in the dark, where such a
man as the Count was concerned. I felt that the doubt o{
what he might do, in your absence, would be ten times more
trying to me if I declined to nee him than if I consented.
"Ask the gentleman to wait in the shop," I said. " I will be
with him in a moment." I ran up-stairs for my bonnet,
being determined not to let him speak to me in-doors. I
knew his deep ringing voice ; and I was afraid Laura might
hear it, even in the shop. In less than a minute I was down
again in the passage, and had opened the door into the street.
He came round to meet me from the shop. There he was,
in deep mourning, with his smooth bow and his deadly smile,
and some idle boys and women near him, staring at his great
size, his fine black clothes, and his large cane with the gold
knob to it. All the horrible time at Blackwater came back
to me the moment I set eyes on him. All the old loathing
crept and crawled through me, when he took off his hat with
a flourish, and spoke to me, as if we had parted on the
friendliest terms hardly a day since.'

* You remember what he said ? '

' I can't repeat it, Walter. You shall know directly what
he said about yozi — but I can't repeat what he said to 7ne. It
was worse than the polite insolence of his letter. My hands
tingled to strike him, as if I had been a man ! I only kept
them quiet by tearing his card to pieces under my shawl.
Without saying a word on my side, I walked away from the
house (for fear of Laura seeing us) ; and he followed, protest-
ing softly all the way. In the first by-street I turned, and
asked him what he wanted with me. He wanted two things.
First, if I had no objection, to express his sentiments. I
declined to hear them. Secondly, to repeat the warning in
his letter. I asked, what occasion there was for repeating it.
He bowed and smiled, and said he would explain. The
explanation exactly confirmed the fears I expressed before

492

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

you left us. I told you, if you remember, that Sir Percival
would be too headstrong to take his friend's advice where
you were concerned ; and that there was no danger to be
dreaded from the Count till his own interests were threatened,
and he was roused into acting for himself? '

' I recollect, Marian.'

' Well ; so it has really turned out. The Count offered
his advice ; but it was refused. Sir Percival would only take
counsel of his own violence, his own obstinacy, and his own
hatred of you. The Count let him have his way ; first
privately ascertaining, in case of his own interests being
threatened next, where we lived. You were followed, Walter,
on returning here, after your first journey to Hampshire — by
the lawyer's men for some distance from the railway, and by
the Count himself to the door of the house. How he con-
trived to escape being seen by you, he did not tell me, but he
found us out on that occasion, and in that way. Having made
the discovery, he took no advantage of it till the news reached
him of Sir Percival's death — and then, as I told you, he acted
for himself, because he believed you would next proceed
against the dead man's partner in the conspiracy. He at
once made his arrangements to meet the owner of the Asylum
in London, and to take him to the place where his runaway
patient was hidden ; believing that the results, whichever way
they ended, would be to involve you in interminable legal
disputes and difficulties, and to tie your hands for all purposes
of offence, so far as he was concerned. That was his purpose,
on his own confession to me. The only consideration which
made him hesitate, at the last moment '

' Yes ? '

' It is hard to acknowledge it, Walter — and yet I must.
/ was the only consideration. No words can say how de-
graded I feel in my own estimation when I think of it — but
the one weak point in that man's iron character is the horrible
admiration he feels for me. I have tried, for the sake of my
own self-respect, to disbelieve it as long as I could ; but his
looks, his actions, force on me the shameful conviction of the
truth. The eyes of that monster of wickedness moistened
while he was speaking to me — they did, Walter ! He declared,
that at the moment of pointing out the house to the doctor,
he thought of my misery if I was separated from Laura, of
my responsibility if I was called on to answer for eff"ecting
her escape — and he risked the worst that you could do to him,
the second time, for 7ny sake. All he asked was that I would
remember the sacrifice, and restrain your rashness, in my own

493

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

interests — interests which he might never be able to consult
again. I made no such bargain with him ; I would have died
first. But believe him, or not — whether it is true or false that
he sent the doctor away with an excuse — one thing is certain,
I saw the man leave him, without so much as a glance at our
window, or even at our side of the way.'

' I believe it, Marian. The best men are not consistent in
good — why should the worst men be consistent in evil ? At
the same time, I suspect him of merely attempting to frighten
you, by threatening v/hat he cannot really do. I doubt his
power of annoying us, by means of the owner of the Asylum,
now that Sir Percival is dSad, and Mrs. Catherickis free from
all control. But let me hear more. What did the Count say
of me ? '

' He spoke last of you. His eyes brightened and hardened,
and his manner changed to what I remember it, in past times
— to that mixture of pitiless resolution and mountebank
mockery which makes it so impossible to fathom him. " Warn
Mr. Hartright ! " he said, in his loftiest manner. " He has a
man of brains to deal with, a man w^ho snaps his big fingers
at the laws and conventions of society, when he measures
himself with me. If my lamented friend had taken my advice,
the business of the Inquest would have been with the body of
Mr. Hartright. But my lamented friend was obstinate.
See ! I mourn his loss — inwardly in my soul ; outwardly on
my hat. This trivial crape expresses sensibilities which I-
summon Mr. Hartright to respect. They may be transformed
to immeasurable enmities, if he- ventures to disturb them.
Let him be content with what he has got — with what I leave
unmolested, for your sake, to him and to you. Say to him
(with my compliments), if he stirs me, he has Fosco to deal
with. In the English of the Popular Tongue, I inform him
— Fosco sticks at nothing! Dear lady, good morning."
His cold grey eyes settled on my face — he took off" i.is hat
solemnly — bowed, bareheaded — and left me.'

' Without returning ? without saying more last words ? '

' He turned at the corner of the street, and waved his
hand, and then struck it theatrically on his breast. I lost
sight of him, after that. He disappeared in the opposite
direction to our house ; and I ran back to Laura. Before I
was in-doors again, I had made up my mind that we must
go. The house (especially in your absence) was a place of
danger instead of a place of safety, now that the Count had
discovered it. If I could have felt certain of your return, I
should have risked waiting till you came back. But I was

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certain of nothing, and I acted at once on my own impulse.
You had spoken, before leaving us, of moving into a quieter
neighbourhood and purer air, for the sake of Laura's health.
I had only to remind her of that, and to suggest surprising
you and saving you trouble by managing the move in your
absence, to make her quite as anxious for the change as I
was. She helped me to pack up your things — and she
has arranged them all for you in your new working-room
here.'

' What made }'ou think of coming to this place ? '

' My ignorance of other localities in the neighbourhood of
London. I felt the necessity of getting as far away as
possible from our old lodgings ; and I knew something of
Fulham because I had once been at school there. I despatched
a messenger v/ith a note, on the chance that the school might
still be in existence. It was in existence ; the daughters of
my old mistress were carrying it on for her ; and they engaged
this place from the instructions I had sent. It was just post-
time when the messenger returned to me with the address of
the house. We moved after dark— we came here quite un-
observed. Have I done right, Walter ? Have I justified
your trust in me ? '

I answered her warmly and gratefully, as I really felt.
But the anxious look still remained on her face while I was
speaking ; and the first question she asked, Avhen I had done,
related to Count Fosco.

I saw that she was thinking of him now with a changed
mind. No fresh outbreak of anger against him, no new appeal
to me to hasten the day of reckoning, escaped her. Her
conviction that the man's hateful admiration of herself was
really sincere, seemed to have increased a hundredfold her
distrust of his unfathomable cunning, her inborn dread of the
wicked energy and vigilance of all his faculties. Her voice
fell low, her manner was hesitating, her eyes searched into
mine with an eager fear when she asked me v/hat I thought
of his message, and what I meant to do next, after hearing it.

' Not many weeks have passed, Marian,' I answered, ' since
my interview with Mr. Kyrle. When he and I parted, the
last words I said to him about Laura were these: "Her
uncle's house shall open to receive her, in the presence of
every soul who followed the false funeral to the grave ; the
lie that records her death shall be publicly erased from the
tombstone by the authority of the head of the family ; and the
tv.'o m.en who have wronged her shall answer for their crime
to ME, though the justice that sits in tribunals is powerless to

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pursue them." One of those men is beyond mortal reach.
The other remains — and my resolution remains.'

Her eyes lit up ; her colour rose. She said nothing ; but
I saw all her sympathies g-athering to mine, in her face.

' I don't disguise from myself, or from you,' I went on,
' that the prospect before us is more than doubtful. The risks
we have run already are, it may be, trifles, compared with
the risks that threaten us in the future — but the venture shall
be tried, Marian, for all that. I am not rash enough to
measure myself against such a man as the Count, before I am
well prepared for him. I have learnt patience ; I can wait
my time. Let him believe that his message has produced its
effect ; let him know nothing of us, and hear nothing of us ;
let us give him full time to feel secure — his own boastful
nature, unless I seriously mistake him, will hasten that result.
This is one reason for waiting ; but there is another more
important still. My position, Marian, towards you and towards
Laura, ought to be a stronger one than it is now, before I
try our last chance.'

She leaned near to me, with a look of surprise.

' How can it be stronger ? ' she asked.

* I will tell you,' I replied, ' when the time comes. It has
not come yet : it may never come at all. I may be silent
about it to Laura for ever — I must be silent, now, even toyou,
till I see for myself that I can harmlessly and honourably
speak. Let us leave that subject. There is another which
has more pressing claims on our attention. You have kept
Laura, mercifully kept her, in ignorance of her husband's
death '

' Oh, Walter, surelv it must be long yet, before we tell her
of it?'

' No, Marian. Better that you should reveal it to her
now, than that accident which no one can guard against,
should reveal it to her at some future time. Spare her all the
details — break it to her very tenderly — but tell her that he is
dead.'

' You have a reason, Walter, for wishing her to know of
her husband's death, besides the reason you have just
mentioned ? '

' I have.'

* A reason connected with that subject which must not be
mentioned between us yet ? — which may never be mentioned
to Laura at all ? '

She dwelt on the last words, meaningly. When I
answered her, in the affirmative, I dwelt on them too.

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

Her face grew pale. For a while, she looked at me with
a sad, hesitating interest. An unaccustomed tenderness
trembled in her dark eyes and softened her firm lips, as she
glanced aside at the empty chair in which the dear companion
of all our joys and sorrows had been sitting.

' I think I understand,' she said. ' I think I owe it to her
and to you. Walter, to tell her of her husband's death.'

She sighed, and held my hand fast for a moment — then
dropped it abruptly, and left the room. On the next day,
Laura knew that his death had released her, and that the
error and the calamity of her life lay buried in his tomb.

His name was mentioned among us no more. Thencefor-
ward, we shrank from the slightest approach to the subject
of his death ; and, in the same scrupulous manner, Marian and
I avoided all further reference to that other subject, which, by
her consent and mine, was not to be mentioned between us
yet. It was not the less present to our minds — it was rather
kept alive in them by the restraint which we had imposed en
ourselves. We both watched Laura more anxiously than
ever ; sometimes waiting and hoping, sometimes waiting and
fearing, till the time came.

By degrees, we returned to our accustomed way of life.
I resumed the daily work, which had been suspended during
my absence in Hampshire. Our new lodgings cost us more
than the smaller and less convenient rooms which we had left ;
and the claim thus implied on my increased exertions was
strengthened by the doubtfulness of our future prospects.
Emergencies might yet happen which would exhaust our little
fund at the banker's ; and the work of my hands might be,
ultimately, all we had to look to for support. More perma-
nent and more lucrative employment than had yet been
offered to me was a necessity of our position — a necessity for
which I now diligently set myself to provide.

It must not be supposed that the interval of rest and
seclusion of which I am now writing, entirely suspended, on
my part, all pursuit of the one absorbing purpose with which
my thoughts and actions are associated, in these pages.
That purpose was, for months and months yet, never to relax
its claims on me. The slow ripening of it still left me a
measure of precaution to take, an obligation of gratitude to
perform, and a doubtful question to solve.

The measure of precaution related, necessarily, to the
Count. It was of the last importance to ascertain, if possible,
whether his plans committed him to remaining in England —

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

or, In other words, to remainingf within my reach. I con-
trived to set this doubt at rest by very simple means. His
address in St. John's Wood being known to me, I inquired in
the neighbourhood ; and having found out the agent who had
the disposal of the furnished house in which he lived, I asked
if number five. Forest Road, was likely to be let within a
reasonable time. The reply was in the negative. I was in-
formed that the foreign gentleman then residing in the house
had renewed his term of occupation for another six months,
and would remain in possession until the end of June in the
following year. We were then at the beginning of December
only. I left the agent with my mind relieved from all present
fear of the Count's escaping me.

The obligation I had to perform, took me once more into
the presence of Mrs. Clements. I had promised to return,
and to confide to her those particulars relating to the death
and burial of Anne Catherick, which I had been obliged to
withhold at our first Interview. Changed as circumstances
nov/ were, there was no hindrance to my trusting the good
woman with as much of the story of the conspiracy as it was
necessary to tell. I had every reason that sympathy and
friendly feeling could suggest to urge on me the speedy per-
formance of my promise — and I did conscientiously and
carefully perform It. There is no need to burden these pages
with any statement of what passed at the interview. It will
be more to the purpose to say that the interview Itself
necessarily brought to my mind the one doubtful question still
remaining to be solved— the question of Anne Catherlck's
parentage on the father's side.

A multitude of small considerations In connexion with
this subject — trifiing enough in themselves, but strikingly
important, when massed together— had latterly led my mind
to a conclusion which I resolved to verify. I obtained
Marian's permission to write to Major Donthorne, of Varneck
Hall (where Mrs. Catherick had lived in service for some
years previous to her marriage), to ask him certain questions.
I made the inquiries in Marian's name, and described them
as relating to matters of personal Interest in her family, which
might explain and excuse my application. When I wrote the
letter, I had no certain knowledge that Major Donthorne was
still alive ; I despatched it on the chance that he might be
living, and able and willing to reply.

After a lapse of two days, proof came, in the shape of a
letter, that the Major was living, and that he was ready to
help us.

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

The idea in my mind when I wrote to him, and the nature
of my inquiries, will be easily inferred from his reply. His
letter answered my questions, by communicating- these im-
portant facts :

In the first place, ' the late Sir Percival Clyde, of Black-
water Park,' had never set foot in Varneck Hall. The
deceased gentleman was a total stranger to Major Donthorne,
and to all his family.

In the second place, * the late Mr. Philip Fairlie, of Lim-
meridge House,' had been, in his younger days, the intimate
friend and constant guest of Major Donthorne. Having-
refreshed his memory by looking back to old letters and other
papers, the Major was in a position to say positively, that Mr.
Philip Fairlie was staying at Varneck Hall in the month of
August, eighteen hundred and twenty-six, and that he
remained there, for the shooting, during- the month of
September and part of October following. He then left, to
the best of the Major's belief, for Scotland, and did not
return to Varneck Hall till after a lapse of time, when he re-
appeared in the character of a newly-married man.

Taken by itself, this statement was, perhaps, of little
positive value— but, taken in connexion with certain facts,
every one of which either Marian or I knew to be true, it
suggested one plain conclusion that was, to our minds, irre-
sistible.

Knowing, now, that Mr. Philip Fairlie had been at
Varneck Hall in the autumn of eighteen hundred and twenty-
six, and that Mrs. Catherick had been living there in service
at the same time, we knew also : — first, that Anne had been
born in June, eighteen hundred and twenty-seven ; secondly,
that she had always presented an extraordinary personal
resemblance to Laura ; and, thirdly, that Laura herself was
strikingly like her father. Mr. Philip Fairlie had been one
of the notoriously handsome men of his time. In disposition
entirely unlike his brother Frederick, he was the spoilt darling
of society, especially of the women — an easy, light-hearted,
impulsive, affectionate man ; generous to a fault ; constitu-
tionally lax in his principles, and notoriously thoughtless of
moral obligations where women were concerned. Such were
the facts we knew ; such was the character of the man.
Surely, the plain inference that follows needs no pointing out ?

Read by the new light which had now broken upon me,
even Mrs. Catherick's letter, in despite of herself, rendered its
mite of assistance towards strengthening the conclusion at
which I had arrived. She had described Mrs. Fairlie (in

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

writing- to me) as ' plain-looking,' and as having- ' entrapped
the handsomest man in Eng-land into marrying her.' Both
assertions were gratuitously made, and both were false.
Jealous dislike (which, in such a woman as Mrs. Catherick,
would express itself in petty inalice rather than not express
itself at all) appeared to me to be the only assignable cause
for the peculiar insolence of her reference to Mrs. Fairlie,
under circumstances which did not necessitate any reference
at all.

The mention here of Mrs. Fairlie's name naturally suggests
one other question. Did she ever suspect whose child the
little girl brought to her at Limmeridge might be ?

Marian's testimony was positive on this point. Mrs.
Fairlie's letter to her husband, which had been read to me in
former days— the letter describing Anne's resemblance to
Laura, and acknowledging her affectionate interest in the
little stranger — had been written, beyond all question, in
perfect Innocence of heart. It even seemed doubtful, on con-
sideration, whether Mr. Philip Fairlie himiself had been nearer
than his wife to any suspicion of the truth. The disgracefully
deceitful circumstances under which Mrs. Catherick had
married, the purpose of concealment which the marriage was
intended to answer, might well keep her silent for caution's
sake, perhaps for her own pride's sake also — even assuming
that she had the means, in his absence, of communicating with
the father of her unborn child.

As this surmise floated through my mind, there rose on
my memory the remembrance of the Scripture denunciation
which we have all thought of. In our time, with wonder and
with awe : ' The sins of the fathers shall be visited on the
children.' But for the fatal resemblance between the two
daughters of one father, the conspiracy of which Anne had
been the innocent Instrument and Laura the innocent victim,
could never have been planned. With what unerring and
terrible directness the long chain of circumstances led down
from the thoughtless wrong committed by the father to the
heartless Injury Inflicted on the child !

These thoughts came to me, and others with them, which
drew my mind away to the little Cumberland churchyard where
Anne Catherick now lay buried. I thought of the bygone
days when I had met her by Mrs. Fairlie's grave, and met
her for the last time. I thought of her poor helpless hands
beating on the tombstone, and her weary, yearning words,
murmured to the dead remains of her protectress and her
friend. * Oh, if I could die, and be hidden and at rest with

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

yoti ! ' Little more than a year had passed since she breathed
that wish ; and how inscrutably, how awfully, it had been
fulfilled ! The words she had spoken to Laura by the shores
of the lake, the very words had now come true. ' Oh, if
I could only be buried with your mother ! If I could only
wake at her side when the ang-el's trumpet sounds, and the
graves give up their dead at the resurrection ! ' Through
what mortal crime and horror, through what darkest windings
of the way down to Death, the lost creature had wandered in
God's leading to the last home that, living, she never hoped to
reach ! In that sacred rest, I leave her — in that dread com-
panionship, let her remain undisturbed.

So the ghostly figure which has haunted these pages as it
haunted my life, goes down into the impenetrable Gloom.
Like a Shadow she first came to me, in the loneliness of the
night. Like a Shadow she passes away, in the loneliness of
the dead.

III.

Four months elapsed. April came— the month of Spring;
the month of change.

The course of Time had flowed through the interval since
the winter, peacefully and happily in our new home. I had
turned my long leisure to good account ; had largely increased
my sources of employment ; and had placed our means of
subsistence on surer grounds. Freed from the suspense and
the anxiety which had tried her so sorely, and hung over her
so long, Marian's spirits rallied ; and her natural energy of
character began to assert itself again, with something, if
not all, of the freedom and the vigour of former times.

More pliable under change than her sister, Laura showed
more plainly the progress made by the healing influences of
her new life. The worn and wasted look which had prema-
turely aged her face, was fast leaving it ; and the expression
which had been the first of its charms in past days, was
the first of its beauties that now returned. My closest
observation of her detected but one serious result of the con-
spiracy which had once threatened her reason and her life.
Her memory of events, from the period of her leaving Black-
water Park to the period of our meeting in the burial-ground
of Limmeridge church, was lost beyond all hope of recovery.
At the slightest reference to that time, she changed and
trembled still ; her words became confused ; her memory

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

wandered and lost itself as helplessly as ever. Here, and here
only, the traces of the past lay deep— too deep to be effaced.

In all else, she was now so far on the way to recovery,
that, on her best and brightest days, she sometimes looked
and spoke like the Laura of old times. The happy change
wrought its natural result in us both. From their long
slumber, on her side and on mine, those imperishable
memories of our past life in Cumberland nov/ awoke, which
were one and all alike, the memories of our love.

Gradually and insensibly, our daily relations towards each
other became constrained. The fond words which I had
spoken to her so naturally, in the days of her sorrow and
her suffering, faltered strangely on my lips. In the time
when my dread of losing her was most present to my
mind, I had always kissed her when she left me at night and
when she met m.e in the morning. The kiss seemed now
to have dropped between us — to be lost out of our lives. Our
hands began to tremble again when they met. We hardly
ever looked long at one another out of Marian's presence.
The talk often flagged between us when we v/ere alone.
When I touched her by accident, I felt my heart beating fast,
as it used to beat at Limmeridge House — I saw the lovely
answering flush glowing again in her cheeks, as if we were
back among the Cumberland Hills, in our past characters
of master and pupil once more. She had long intervals of
silence and thoughtfulness ; and denied she had been think-
ing, when Marian asked her the question. I surprised
myself, one clay, neglecting my work, to dream over the
little water-colour portrait of her which I had taken in the
summer-house where we first met — just as I used to neglect
Mr. Fairlie's drawings, to dream over the same likeness,
when it was newly finished in the bygone time. Changed
as all the circumstances now were, our position towards each
other in the golden days of our first companionship, seemed
to be revived with the revival of our love. It was as if Time
had drifted us back on the v/rcck of our early hopes, to
the old familiar shore !

To any other woman, I could have spoken the decisive
words which I still hesitated to speak to her. The utter
helplessness of her position ; her friendless dependence on all
the forbearing gentleness that I could show her ; my fear of
touching too soon some secret sensitiveness in her, which
my instinct, as a man, might not have been fine enough to
discover — these considerations, and others like them, kept
me self-distrustfully silent. And yet, I knew that the restraint

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

on both sides must be ended ; that the relations in which wc
stood towards one another must be altered, in some settled
manner, for the future ; and that it rested with me, in the
first instance, to recognise the necessity for a chang-e.

The more I thought of our position, the harder the attempt
to alter it appeared, while the domestic conditions on which
we three had been living together since the winter, remained
undisturbed. I cannot account for the capricious state of
mind in which this feeling originated — but the idea nevertheless
possessed me, that some previous change of place and circum-
stances, some sudden break in the quiet monotony of our
lives, so managed as to vary the home aspect under which
v,"e had been accustomed to see each other, might prepare the
way for me to speak, and might make it easier and less em-
barrassing for Laura and Marian to hear.

With this purpose in view, I said, one morning, that I
thought we had all earned a little holiday and a change of
scene. After some consideration, it was decided that we
should go for a fortnight to the sea-side.

On the next day, we left Fulham for a quiet town on the
south coast. At that early season of the year, we were the
only visitors in the place. The cliffs, the beach, and the walks
inland, were all in the solitary condition which was most wel-
come to us. The air was mild ; tin prospects over hill and
wood and down were beautifully varied by the shifting April
light and shade ; and the restless sea leapt under our
windows, as if it felt, like the land, the glow and freshness of
spring.

I owed it to Marian to consult her before I spoke to Laura,
and to be guided afterwards by her advice.

On the third day from our arrival, I found a fit oppor-
tunity of speaking to her alone. The moment we looked at
one another, her quick instinct detected the thought in my
mind before I could give it expression. With her customary
energy and directness, she spoke at once, and spoke first.

' You are thinking of that subject which was mentioned
between us on the evening of your return from Hampshire,'
she said. ' I have been expecting you to allude to it, for
some time past. There must be a change in our little house-
hold, Walter ; we cannot go on much longer as we are now.
I see it as plainly as you do — as plainly as Laura sees it,
though she says nothing. How strangely the old times in
Cumberland seem to have come back ! You and I are
together again ; and the one subject of interest between us is
Laura once more. I could almost fancy that this room is the

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

summer-house at Limmeridge, and that those waves beyond
us are beating on our sea-shore.'

' I was guided by your advice in those past days,' I said;
' and now, Marian, with reliance tenfold greater, I will be
guided by it again.'

She answered by pressing my hand. I saw that she was
deeply touched by my reference to the past. We sat together
near the window ; and, while I spoke and she listened, we looked
at the glory of the sunlight shining on the majesty of the sea.

' Whatever comes of this confidence between us,' I said,
* whether it ends happily or sorrowfully for me, Laura's
interests will still be the interests of my life. When we leave
this place, on whatever terms we leave it, my determination
to wrest from Count Fosco the confession which I failed to
obtain from his accomplice, goes back with me to London, as
certainly as I go back myself. Neither you nor I can tell how
that man may turn on me, if I bring him to bay ; we only
know by his own words and actions, that he is capable of
striking at me, through Laura, without a moment's hesitation,
or a moment's remorse. In our present position, I have no
claim on her, which society sanctions, which the law allows,
to strengthen me in resisting him, and in protecting her.
This places me at a serious disadvantage. If I am to fight
our cause with the Count, strong in the consciousness of
Laura's safety, I must fight it for my Wife. Do you agree
to that Marian, so far ? '

' To every word of it,' she answered.

' I will not plead out of my own heart,' I went on ; * I will
not appeal to the love which has survived all changes and all
shocks — I will rest my only vindication of myself for thinking
of her and speaking of her as my wife, on what I have just
said. If the chance of forcing a confession from the Count,
is, as I believe it to be, the last chance left of publicly esta-
blishing the fact of Laura's existence, the least selfish reason
that I can advance for our marriage is recognised by us both.
But I may be wrong in my conviction ; other means of
achieving our purpose may be in our power, which are less
uncertain and less dangerous. I have searched anxiously, in
my own mind, for those means — and I have not found them.
Have you ? '

' No. I have thought about it too, and thought in vain.'

' In all likelihood,' I continued, ' the same questions have
occurred to you, in considering this difficult subject, which
have occurred to me. Ought we to return with her to Lim-
meridge, now that she is like herself again, and trust to the

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

recognition of her by the people of the village, or by the
children at the school ? Ought we to appeal to the practical
test of her handwriting? Suppose we did so. Suppose the
recognition of her obtained, and the identity of the hand-
writing established. Would success in both those cases do
more than supply an excellent foundation for a trial in a court
of law ? Would the recognition and the handwriting prove
her identity to Mr. Fairlie and take her back to Limmeridge
House, against the evidence of her aunt, against the evidence
of the medical certificate, against the fact of the funeral and
the fact of the inscription on the tomb ? No ! We could
only hope to succeed in throwing a serious doubt on the
assertion of her death — a doubt which nothing short of a legal
inquiry can settle. I will assume that we possess (what we
have certainly not got) money enough to carry this inquiry
on through all its stages. I will assume that Mr. Fairlie's
prejudices might be reasoned away ; that the false testimony
of the Count and his wife, and all the rest of the false testi-
mony, might be confuted ; that the recognition could not
possibly be ascribed to a mistake between Laura and Anne
Catherick, or the handwriting be declared by our enemies to
be a clever fraud — all these are assumptions which, more or
less, set plain probabilities at defiance, but let them pass —
and let us ask ourselves what would be the first consequence
of the first questions put to Laura herself on the subject of
the conspiracy. We know only too well what the consequence
would be — for we know that she has never recovered her
memory of what happened to her in London. Examine her
privately, or examine her publicly, she is utterly incapable of
assisting the assertion of her own case. If you don't see
this, Marian, as plainly as I see it, we will go to Limmeridge
and try the experiment, to-morrow.'

' I do see it, Walter. Even if we had the means of paying
all the law expenses, even if we succeeded in the end, the
delay.s would be unendurable ; the perpetual suspense, after
what we have suffered already, would be heart-breaking.
You are right about the hopelessness of going to Limmeridge.
I wish I could feel sure that you are right also in determining
to try that last chance with the Count. Is it a chance at all ? '

' Beyond a doubt, Yes. It is the chance of recovering the
lost date of Laura's journey to London. Without returning
to the reasons I gave you some time since, I am still as
firmly persuaded as ever, that there is a discrepancy between
the date of that journey and the date on the certificate of
death. There lies the weak point of the whole conspiracy —

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

it crumbles to pieces if we attack it in that way ; and the
means of attacking it are in possession of the Count. If I
succeed in wresting them from him, the object of your life
and mine is fulfilled. If I fail, the wrong that Laura has
suffered will, in this world, never be redressed.'

' Do you fear failure, yourself, Walter ? '

* I dare not anticipate success ; and, for that very reason,
Marian, I speak openly and plainly, as I have spoken now.
In my heart and my conscience, I can say it — Laura's hopes
for the future are at their lowest ebb. I know that her fortune
is gone ; I know that the last chance of restoring her to her
place in the world lies at the mercy of her worst enemy, of a
man who is now absolutely unassailable, and who may remain
unassailable to the end. With every worldl}^ advantage gone
from her ; with all prospect of recovering her rank and
station more than doubtful ; with no clearer future before her
than the future which her husband can provide — the poor
drawing-master may harmlessly open his heart at last. In
the days of her prosperity, Marian, I was only the teacher
Avho guided her hand — I ask for it, in her adversity, as the
hand of my wife ! '

Marian's eyes met mine affectionately — I could say no
more. My heart was full, my lips were trembling. In spite
of myself, I was in danger of appealing to her pity. I got up
to leave the room. She rose at the same moment, laid her
hand gently on my shoulder, and stopped me.

' Walter ! ' she said, ' I once parted you both, for your
good and for hers. Wait here, my Brother ! — v/ait, my
dearest, best friend, till Laura comes, and tells you what I
have done now ! '

For the first time since the farewell morning at Limme-
ridge, she touched my forehead with her lips. A tear dropped
on my face, as she kissed me. She turned quickly, pointed
to the chair from which I had risen, and left the room.

I sat down alone at the window, to wait through the crisis
of my life. My mind, in that breathless interval, felt like a
total blank. I was conscious of nothing but a painful inten-
sity of all familiar perceptions. The sun grew blinding
bright ; the white sea birds chasing- each other far beyond
me, seemed to be flitting before my face ; the mellow murmur
of the waves on the beach was like thunder in my ears.

The door opened ; and Laura came in alone. So she had
entered the breakfast-room at Limmeridge House, on the
morning when we parted. Slowly and falteringly, in sorrow
and in hesitation, she had once approached me. Now, she

So6

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

came with the haste of happiness in her feet, with the light of
happiness radiant in her face. Of their own accord, those
dear arms clasped themselves round me ; of their own accord,
the sweet lips came to meet mine. ' My darling ! ' she
whispered, ' we may own we love each other, now ? ' Her
head nestled with a tender contentedness on my bosom.
' Oh,' she said, innocently, ' I am so happy at last ! '

Ten days later, we were happier still. We were married.

IV.

The course of this narrative, steadily flowing- on, bears me
away from the morning-time of our married life, and carries
me forward to the end.

In a fortnight more we three were back in London ; and
the shadow was stealing over us of the struggle to come.

Marian and I were careful to keep Laura in ignorance of
the cause that had hurried us back — the necessity of making
sure of the Count. It was now the beginning of May, and
his term of occupation at the house in Forest Road expired
in June. If he renewed it (and I had reasons, shortly to be
mentioned, for anticipating that he would), I might be certain
of his not escaping me. But, if by any chance he disappointed
my expectations, and left the country — then, I had no time to
lose in arming myself to meet him as best I might.

In the first fulness of my new happiness, there had been
moments when m_y resolution faltered — moments, when I was
tempted to be safely content, now that the dearest aspiration
of my life was fvilfiUed in the possession of Laura's love. For
the first time, I thought faint-heartedly of the greatness of the
risk ; of the adverse chances arrayed against me : of the fair
promise of our new lives, and of the peril in which I might
place the happiness which we had so hardly earned. Yes !
let me own it honestly. For a brief time, I wandered, in the
sweet guiding of love, far from the purpose to which I had
been true, under sterner discipline and in darker days. Inno-
cently, Laura had tem.pted me aside from the hard path —
innocentl}', she was destined to lead me back again.

At times, dreams of the terrible past still disconnectedly
recalled to her, in the mystery of sleep, the events of which
her waking memory had lost all trace. One night (barely
two weeks after our marriage), when I was watching her at
rest, I saw the tears come slowly through her closed eyelids,
I heard the faint murmuring words escape her which told me

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

that her spirit was back again on the fatal journey from
Blackwater Park. That unconscious appeal, so touching
and so awful in the sacredness of her sleep, ran through me
like fire. The next day was the day we came back to London
— the day when my resolution returned to me with tenfold
strength.

The first necessity was to know something of the man.
Thus far, the true story of his life was an impenetrable mystery
to me.

I began with such scanty sources of information as were
at my own disposal. The important narrative written by
Mr. Frederick Fairlie (which Marian had obtained by follow-
ing the directions I had given to her in the winter) proved to
be of no service to the special object with which I now looked
at it. While reading it, I reconsidered the disclosure revealed
to me by Mrs. Clements, of the series of deceptions which had
brought Anne Catherick to London, and which had there
devoted her to the interests of the conspiracy. Here, again,
the Count had not openly committed himself ; here, again, he
was, to all practical purpose, out of my reach.

I next returned to Marian's journal at Blackwater Park.
At my request she read to me again a passage which referred
to her past curiosity about the Count, and to the few particu-
lars which she had discovered relating to him.

The passage to which I allude occurs in that part of her
journal which delineates his character and his personal appear-
ance. She describes him as * not having crossed the frontiers
of his native country for years past ' — as ' anxious to know if
any Italian gentlemen were settled in the nearest town to
Blackwater Park ' — as ' receiving letters with all sorts of odd
stamps on them, and one with a large, official-looking seal on
it.' She is inclined to consider that his long absence from his
native country may be accounted for by assuming that he is
a political exile. But she is, on the other hand, unable to
reconcile this idea with the reception of the letter from abroad,
bearing ' the large official-looking seal '■ — letters from the
Continent addressed to political exiles being usually the last
to court attention from foreign post-offices in that way.

The considerations thus presented to me in the diary,
joined to certain surmises of my own that grew out of them,
suggested a conclusion which I wondered I had not arrived
at before. I now said to myself — what Laura had once said
to Marian at Blackwater Park ; what Madame Fosco had
overheard by listening at the door — the Count is a Spy !

Laura had applied the word to him at hazard, in natural

508

THE WOiMAN IN WHITE

anger at his proceeding's towards herself. / applied it to
him, with the deliberate conviction that his vocation in life
was the vocation of a Spy. On this assumption the reason
for his extraordinary stay in England, so long after the
objects of the conspiracy had been gained, became, to my
mind, quite intelligible.

The year of which I am now writing, was the year of the
famous Crystal Palace Exhibition in Hyde Park. Foreigners,
in unusually large numbers, had arrived already, and were
still arriving in England. Men were among us, by hundreds,
whom the ceaseless distrustfulness of their governments had
followed privately, by means of appointed agents, to our
shores. My surmises did not for a moment class a man of
the Count's abilities and social position with the ordinary
rank and file of foreign spies. I suspected him of holding a
position of authority, of being entrusted by the government
which he secretly served, with the organisation and manage-
ment of agents specially employed in this country, both men
and women ; and I believed Mrs. Rubelle, who had been so
opportunely found to act as nurse at Blackwater Park, to be,
in all probability, one of the number.

Assuming that this idea of mine had a foundation in truth,
the position of the Count might prove to be more assailable
than I had hitherto ventured to hope. To whom could I
apply to know something more of the man's history, and of
the man himself, than I knew now.

In this emergency, it naturally occurred to my mind that
a countryman of his own, on whom I could rely, might be the
fittest person to help me. The first man whom I thought of,
under these circumstances, was also the only Italian with
whom I was intimately^ acquainted — my quaint little friend,
Professor Pesca.

The professor has been so long absent from these pages,
that he has run some risk of being forgotten altogether.

It is the necessary law of such a story as mine, that the
persons concerned in it only appear when the course of events
takes them up — they come and go, not by favour of my per-
sonal partiality, but by right of their direct connexion with
the circumstances to be detailed. For this reason, not Pesca
only, but my mother and sister as well, have been left far in
the background of the narrative. My visits to the Hampstead
cottage ; my mother's belief in the denial of Laura's identity
which the conspiracy had accomplished ; my vain efforts to
overcome the prejudice, on her part and on my sister's, to

509

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

which, in their jealous affection for me, they both continued to
adhere ; the painful necessity which that prejudice imposed
on me of concealing my marriage from them till they had
learned to do justice to my wife — all these little domestic
occurrences have been left unrecorded, because they were not
essential to the main interest of the story. It is nothing that
they added to my anxieties and embittered my disappoint-
ments— the steady march of events has inexorably passed
them by.

For the same reason, I have said nothing, here, of the
consolation that I found in Pesca's brotherly affection for me,
when I saw him again after the sudden cessation of my resi-
dence at Limmeridge House. I have not recorded the fidelity
with which my warm-hearted little friend followed me to the
place of embarkation, when I sailed for Central America,
or the noisy transport of joy with which he received me when
we next met in London. If I had felt justified in accepting
the offers of service which he made to me, on my return, he
would have appeared again, long ere this. But, though 1
knew that his honour and his courage were to be implicitly
relied on, I was not so sure that his discretion was to be
trusted ; and, for that reason only, I followed the course of all
my inquiries alone. It will now be sufficiently understood that
Pesca was not separated from all connexion with me and my
interests, although he has hitherto been separated from all con-
nexion with the progress of this narrative. He was as true and
as ready a friend of mine still, as ever he had been in his life.

Before I summoned Pesca to my assistance, it was neces-
sary to see for myself what sort of man I had to deal with.
Up to this time, I had never once set eyes on Count Fosco.

Three days after my return with Laura and Marian to
London, I set forth alone for Forest Road, St. John's
Wood, between ten and eleven o'clock in the morning. It
was a fine day — I had some hours to spare — and I thought it
likely, if I waited a little for him, that the Count might be
tempted out. I had no great reason to fear the chance of his
recognising me in the day-time, for the only occasion when I
had been seen by him was the occasion on w^hich he had
followed me home at night.

No one appeared at the windows in the front of the house.
I walked down a turning which ran past the side of it, and
looked over the low garden wall. One of the back windows
on the lower floor was thrown up, and a net was stretched
across the opening. I saw nobody ; but I heard, in the room,

510

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

first a shrill whistling and singing of birds — then, the deep
ringing voice which Marian's description had made familiar
to me. ' Come out on my little finger, my pret-pret-pret-
ties ! ' cried the voice. ' Come out, and hop up-stairs ! One,
two, three — and up ? Three, two, one — and down ! One,
two, three— twit-twit-twit-tweet ! ' The Count was exer-
cising his canaries, as he used to exercise them in Marian's
time, at Blackwater Park.

I waited a little while, and the singing and the whistling
ceased. ' Come, kiss me, my pretties ! ' said the deep voice.
There was a responsive twittering and chirping — a low, oily
laugh — a silence of a minute or so — and then I heard the
opening of the house door. I turned, and retraced my steps.
The magnificent melody of the Prayer in Rossini's ' Moses,'
sung in a sonorous bass voice, rose grandly through the
suburban silence of the place. The front garden gate opened
and closed. The Count had come out.

He crossed the road, and walked towards the western
boundary of the Regent's Park. I kept on my own side of
the way, a little behind him, and walked in that direction also.

Marian had prepared me for his high stature, his monstrous
corpulence, and his ostentatious mourning garments — but not
for the horrible freshness and cheerfulness and vitality of the
man. He carried his sixty years as if they had been fewer
than forty. He sauntered along, wearing his hat a little on
one side, with a light jaunty step ; swinging his big stick ;
humming to himself ; looking up, from time to time, at the
houses and gardens on either side of him, with superb,
smiling patronage. If a stranger had been told that the
whole neighbourhood belonged to him, that stranger would
not have been surprised to hear it. He never looked back :
he paid no apparent attention to me, no apparent attention to
any one who passed him on his own side of the road — except,
now and then, when he smiled and smirked, with an easy,
paternal good humour, at the nursery maids and the children
whom he met. In this way, he led me on, till we reached a
colony of shops outside the western terraces of the Park.

Here, he stopped at a pastrycook's, went in (probably to
give an order), and came out again imm.ediately with a tart
in his hand. An Italian was grinding an organ before the
shop, and a miserable little shrivelled monkey was sitting on
the instrument. The Count stopped ; bit a piece for himself
out of the tart ; and gravely handed the rest to the monkey.
' My poor little man ! ' he said, with grotesque tenderness ;
' you look hungry. In the sacred name of humanity, I offer

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

you some lunch ! ' The organ-grinder piteously put hi his
claim to a penny from the benevolent stranger. The Count
shrugged his shoulders contemptuously — and passed on.

We reached the streets and the better class of shops,
between the New Road and Oxford Street. The Count
stopped again, and entered a small optician's shop, with an
inscription in the window, announcing that repairs were
neatly executed inside. He came out again, with an opera-
glass in his hand ; walked a few paces on ; and stopped to
look at a bill of the Opera, placed outside a music-seller's
shop. He read the bill attentively, considered a moment,
and then hailed an empty cab as it passed him, ' Opera-box-
office,' he said to the man — and was driven away.

I crossed the road, and looked at the bill in my turn.
The performance announced was ' Lucrezia Borgia,' and it
was to take place that evening. The opera-glass in the
Count's hand, his careful reading of the bill, and his direction
to the cabman, all suggested that he proposed making one of
the audience. I had the means of getting an admission for
myself and a friend, to the pit, by applying to one of the
scene-painters attached to the theatre, with whom I had been
well acquainted in past times. There Vv'as a chance, at least,
that the Count might be easily visible among the audience,
to mo, and to any one with me ; and, in this case, I had the
means of ascertaining whether Pesca knew his countryman,
or not, that very night.

This consideration at once decided the disposal of my
evening. I procured the tickets, leaving a note at the Pro-
fessor's lodgings on the way. At a quarter to eight, I
called to take him with me to the theatre. My little friend
was in a state of the highest excitement, with a festive flower
in his button-hole, and the largest opera-glass I ever saw
hugged up under his arm.

' Are you ready ? ' I asked.

* Right-all-right,' said Pesca.

We started for the theatre.

The last notes of the introduction to the opera were being
played, and the seats in the pit were all filled, when Pesca and
I reached the theatre.

There was plenty of room, however, in the passage that
ran round the pit — precisely the position best calculated to
answer the purpose for which I was attending the per-

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

formance. I went first to the barrier separating- us from the
stalls ; and looked for the Count in that part of the theatre.
He was not there. Returning along the passage, on the left-
hand side from the stage, and looking about me attentively,
I discovered him in the pit. He occupied an excellent place,
some twelve or fourteen seats from the end of a bench,
within three rows of the stalls. I placed myself exactly on a
line with him ; Pesca standing by my side. The Professor
was not yet aware of the purpose for which I had brought
him to the theatre, and he vvas rather surprised that we did
not move nearer to the stage.

The curtain rose, and the opera began.

Throughout the vv'hole of the first act, we remained in our
position ; the Count, absorbed by the orchestra and the
stage, never casting so much as a chance glance at us. Not
a note of Donizetti's delicious music was lost on him. There he
sat, high above his neighbours, smiling, and nodding his great
head enjoyingly, from time to time. When the people near him
applauded the close of an air (as an English audience in such
circumstances always iinll applaud), without the least con-
sideration for the orchestral movement which immediately
followed it, he looked round at them with an expression of
compassionate remonstrance, and held up one hand with a
gesture of polite entreaty. At the more refined passages of
the singing, at the more delicate phrases of the music, which
passed unapplauded by others, his fat hands adorned vvith
perfectly-fitting black kid gloves, softly patted each other, in
token of the cultivated appreciation of a musical man. At
such times, his oily murmur of approval, ' Bravo ! Bra-a-a-a ! '
hummed through the silence, like the purring of a great cat.
His immediate neighbours on either side — heart)-, ruddy-
faced people from the country, basking amazedly in the
sunshine of fashionable London — seeing and hearing- him,
began to follow his lead. Many a burst of applause from tl-e
pit, that night, started from the soft, comfortable patting of
the black-gloved hands. The man's voracious vanity de-
voured this implied tribute to his local and critical supremacy,
with an appearance of the highest relish. Sm.iles rippled
continuously over his fat face. He looked about him, at the
pauses in the music, serenely satisfied with himself and his
fellow-creatures. * Yes ! Yes ! these barbarous English
people are learning something from me. Here, there, and
everywhere, I — Fosco — am an Influence that is felt, a Man
who sits supreme ! ' If ever face spoke, his face spoke then
— and that was his language.

513 LL

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

The curtain fell on the first act ; and the audience rose to
look about them. This was the time I had waited for— the
time to try if Pesca knew him.

He rose with the rest, and surveyed the occupants ot the
boxes grandly with his opera-glass. At first, his back was
towards us ; but he turned round in time, to our side of the
theatre, and looked at the boxes above us ; usmg his glass
for a few minutes— then removing it, but still continuing to
look up. This was the moment I chose, when his full tace
was in view, for directing Pesca's attention to him.

' Do you know that man ? ' I asked.

* Which man, my friend ? '

' The tall, fat man, standing there, with his face towards

us.' f~,

Pesca raised himself on tiptoe, and looked at the Count.

' No,' said the Professor. ' The big fat man is a stranger
to me. ' Is he famous ? Why do you point him out ? '

' Because I have particular reasons for wishing to know
something of him. He is a countryman of yours ; his name
is Count Fosco. Do you know that name ? '

' Not I, Walter. Neither the name nor the man is known

to me.' , • 1 • Q T I

'Are you quite sure you don't recognise him.-' Look
again ; look carefully. I will tell you why I am so anxious
about it, when we leave the theatre. Stop ! let me help you
up here, where you can see him better.'

I helped the little man to perch himself on the edge ot
the raised dais upon which the pit-seats were all placed.
Here, his small stature was no hindrance to him ; here, lie
could see over the heads of the ladies who were seated near
the outermost part of the bench. t i i

A slim, light-haired man, standing by us, whom 1 had
not noticed before— a man with a scar on his left cheek-
looked attentivelv at Pesca as I helped him up, and then
looked still more attentively, following the direction ot
Pesca's eyes, at the Count. Our conversation might have
reached his ears, and might, as it struck me, have roused his

curiositv. , .l u ^

Mea'nAvhile, Pesca fixed his e3-es earnestly on the broad,
full, smiling face turned a little upward, exactly opposite to

hmi.

'No,' he said ; ' I have never set my two eyes on that big
fat man before, in all my life.'

As he spoke, the Count looked downwards towards the
boxes behind us on the pit tier.

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

The eyes of the two Italians met.

The instant before, I had been perfectly satisfied, from
his own reiterated assertion, that Pesca did not know the
Count. The instant afterwards, I was equally certain that
the Count knew Pesca.

Knew him ; and — more surprising still— /eared him as
well ! There was no mistaking the change that passed over
the villain's face. The leaden hue that altered his yellow
complexion in a moment, the sudden rigidity of all his
features, the furtive scrutiny of his cold grey eyes, the
motionless stillness of him from head to foot, told their own
tale. A mortal dread had mastered him, body and soul — and
his own recognition of Pesca was the cause of it !

The slim man, with the scar on his cheek, was still close
by us. He had apparently drawn his inference from the
effect produced on the Count by the sight of Pesca, as I had
drawn mine. He was a mild gentlemanlike man, looking
like a foreigner ; and his interest in our proceedings was not
expressed in anything approaching to an offensive manner.

For my own part, I was so startled by the change in the
Count's face, so astounded at the entirely unexpected turn
which events had taken, that I knew neither what to say or
do next. Pesca roused me by stepping back to his former
place at my side, and speaking first.

' How the fat man stares ! ' he exclaimed. * Is it at me ?
Am / famous ? How can he know me, when I don't know
him?'

I kept my eye still on the Count. I saw him move for
the first time when Pesca moved, so as not to lose sight of
the little man, in the lower position in which he now stood.
I was curious to see what would happen if Pesca's attention,
under these circumstances, was withdrawn from him, and I
accordingly asked the Professor if he recognised any of his
pupils, that evening, among the ladies in the boxes. Pesca
immediately raised the large opera-glass to his eyes, and
moved it slowly all round the upper part of the theatre,
searching for his pupils with the most conscientious scrutiny.

The moment he showed himself to be thus engaged, the
Count turned round ; slipped past the persons who occupied
seats on the farther side of him from where we stood ; and
disappeared in the middle passage down the centre of the
pit. I caught Pesca by the arm ; and, to his inexpressible
astonishment, hurried him round with me to the back of the
pit, to intercept the Count before he could get to the door.
Somewhat to my surprise, the slim man hastened out before

?IS L L 2

THE WOMAN IN V/HITE

us, avoiding a stoppage caused by some people on our side
of the pit leaving their places, by which Pesca and myself
were delayed. When we reached the lobby the Count had
disappeared — and the foreigner with the scar was gone too.

'Come home,' I said; 'come home, Pesca, to your
lodgings. I must speak to you in private — I must speak
directly.'

' My-soul-bless-my-soul ! ' cried the Professor, in a state
of the extremest bewilderment. ' What on earth is the
matter ? '

I walked on rapidly, without answering. The circum-
stances under which the Count had left the theatre suggested
to me that his extraordinary anxiety to escape Pesca might
carry him to further extremities still. He might escape me,
too, by leaving London. I doubted the future, if I allowed
him so much as a day's freedom to act as he pleased. And I
doubted that foreign stranger who had got the start of us,
and whom I suspected of intentionally following him out.

With this double distrust in my mind, I was not long in
making Pesca understand what I wanted. As soon as we
two were alone in his room, I increased his confusion and
amazement a hundredfold by telling him what my purpose
was, as plainly and unreservedly as I have acknowledged it
he-re.

' My friend, what can I do ? ' cried the Professor, piteously
appealing to me with both hands. ' Deuce-what-the-deuce !
how can I help you, Walter, when I don't know the man ? '

* He knows you — he is afraid of you — he has left the
theatre to escape you. Pesca ! there must be a reason for
this. Look back into your own life, before you came to
England. You left Italy, as you have told me yourself, for
political reasons. You have never mentioned those reasons
to me ; and I don't inquire into them, now. I only ask you
to consult your own recollections, and to say if they suggest
no past cause for the terror which the first sight of you
produced in that man.

To my unutterable surprise, these words, harmless as they
appeared to me, produced the same astounding effect on
Pesca which the sight of Pesca had produced on the Count.
The rosy face of my little friend whitened in an instant ; and
he drew back from me slowly, trembling from head to foot.

* Walter ! ' he said. ' You don't knovv^ what you ask.'
He spoke in a whisper — he looked at me as if I had

suddenly revealed to him some hidden danger to both of us.
In less than one minute of time, b-; was so altered from the

516

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

easy, lively, quaint little man of all my past experience, that
if I had met him in the street, changed as I saw him now, I
should most certainly not have known him again.

' Forgive me, if I have unintentionally pained and shocked
you,' I replied. * Remember the cruel wrong my wife has
suffered at Count Fosco's hands. Remember that the wrong"
can never be redressed, unless the means are in my power of
forcing him to do her justice. I spoke in her interests, Pesca
— I ask you again to forgive me — I can say no more.'

I rose to go. He stopped me before I reached the acow

' Wait,' he said. ' You have shaken me from head to foot.
You don't know how I left my country, and why I left my
country. Let me compose myself — let me think, if I can.'

I returned to my chair. He walked up and down the
room, talking to himself incoherently in his own language.
After several turns backwards and forwards, he suddenly
came up to me, and laid his little hands with a strange
tenderness and solemnity on my breast.

'On your heart and soul, Walter,' he said, 'is there no
other way to get to that man but the chance-way through
w^? '

'There is no other way,' I answered.

He left me again : opened the door of the room and looked
out cautiously into the passage ; closed it once more ; and
came back.

* You won your right over me, Walter,' he said, *on the
day when you saved my life. It was yours from that moment,
when you pleased to take it. Take it now. Yes ! I mean
what I say. My next words, as true as the good God is
above us, will put my life into your hands.'

The trembling earnestness with which he uttered this
extraordinary warning, carried with it to my mind the con-
viction that he spoke the truth.

' Mind this ! ' he went on, shaking his hands at me in the
vehemence of his agitation. ' I hold no thread, in my own
mind, between that man, Fosco, and the past time which I
call back to me, for your sake. If yoit find the thread, keep
it to yourself — tell me nothing — on my knees, I beg and pray,
let me be ignorant, let me be innocent, let me be blind to all
the future, as I am now ! '

He said a few words more, hesitatingly and disconnectedly
— then stopped again.

I saw that the effort of expressing himself in English, on
an occasion too serious to permit him the use of the quaint
turns and phrases of his ordinary vocabulary, was painfully

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

increasing the difficulty he had felt from the first in speaking
to me at all. Having learnt to read and understand his
native language (though not to speak it), in the earlier days
of our intimate companionship, I now suggested to him that
he should express himself in Italian, while I used English in
putting any questions which might be necessary to my en-
lightenment. He accepted the proposal. In his smooth-
flowing language — spoken with a vehement agitation which
betrayed itself in the perpetual working of his features, in the
wildness and the suddenness of his foreign gesticulations,
but never in the raising of his voice — I now heard the words
which armed me to meet the last struggle that is left for this
story to record.*

'You know nothing of my motive for leaving Ital)',* he
began, * except that it was for political reasons. If I had
been driven to this country by the persecution of my govern-
ment, I should not have kept those reasons a secret from you
or from any one. I have concealed them because no govern-
ment authority has pronounced the sentence of my exile.
You have heard, Walter, of the political Societies that are
hidden in every great city on the continent of Europe ? To
one of those Societies I belonged in Italy — and belong still, in
England. When I came to this country, I came by the
direction of my Chief. I was over-zealous, in my younger
time ; I ran the risk of compromising myself and others.
For those reasons, I was ordered to emigrate to England,
and to wait. I emigrated — I have waited — I wait, still. To-
morrow, I may be called away : ten years hence, I may be
called away. It is all one to me — I am here, I support my-
self by teaching, and I wait. I violate no oath (you shall
hear why presently) in making my confidence complete by
telling you the name of the Society to which I belong. All I
do is to put my life in your hands. If what I say to you
now is ever known by others to have passed my lips, as
certainly as we two sit here, I am a dead man.'

He whispered the next words in my ear. I keep the
secret which he thus communicated. The Society to which
he belonged will be sufficiently individualised for the purpose
of these pages if I call it 'The Brotherhood,' on the few

* It is only right to mention here, that I repeat Pesca's statement to me,
with the careful suppressions and alterations which the serious nature of the
subject and my own sense of duty to my friend demand. My first and last
concealments from the reader are those which caution renders absolutely
necessary in this portion of the narrative.

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

occasions when any reference to the subject will be needed in
this place.

'The object of the Brotherhood,' Pesca went on, 'is,
briefly, the object of other political societies of the same sort
— the destruction of tyranny, and the assertion of the rights
of the people. The principles of the Brotherhood are two.
So long as a man's life is useful, or even harmless only, he
has the right to enjoy it. But, if his life inflicts injury on the
well-being of his fellow-m_en, from that moment he forfeits
the right, and it is not only no crime but a positive merit to
deprive him of it. It is not for me to say in what frightful
circumstances of oppression and suff"ering this Society took its
rise. It is not for you to say — you Englishmen, who have con-
quered your freedom so long ago, that you have conveniently
forgotten what blood you shed, and what extremities you
proceeded to, in the conquering — it is not for you to say how
far the worst of all exasperations may, or may not, carry the
maddened men of an enslaved nation. The iron that has
entered into our souls has gone too deep for you to find it.
Leave the refugee alone ! Laugh at him, distrust him, open
your eyes in wonder at that secret self Vvhich smoulders in
him, sometimes under the every-day respectability and tran-
quillity of a man like me ; sometimes under the grinding
poverty, the fierce squalor, of men less lucky, less pliable,
less patient than I am — but judge us not ! In the time of
your first Charles you might have done us justice ; the long
luxury of your own freedom has made you incapable of doing
us justice now.'

All the deepest feelings of his nature seemed to force them-
selves to the surface in those words ; all his heart was poured
out to me, for the first time in our lives — but still, his voice
never rose ; still his dread of the terrible revelation he was
making to me, never left him.

'So far,' he resumed, 'you think the Society like other
Societies. Its object (in your English opinion) is anarchy and
revolution. It takes the life of a bad King or a bad Minister,
as if the one and the other were dangerous wild beasts to be
shot at the first opportunity. I grant you this. But the laws
of the Brotherhood are the laws of no other political society
on the face of the earth. The members are not known to one
another. There is a President in Italy ; there are Presidents
abroad. Each of these has his Secretary. The Presidents
and the Secretaries know the members, but the members,
among themselves, are all strangers, until their Chiefs see
fit, in the political necessity of the time, or in the private

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

necessity of the Society, to make them known to each other.
With such a safeguard as this, there is no oath among- us on
admittance. We are identified with the Brotherhood by a
secret mark, which we all bear, which lasts while our lives
last. We are told to go about our ordinary business, and to
report ourselves to the President, or the Secretary, four times
a year, in the event of our services being required. We are
warned, if we betray the Brotherhood, or if we injure it by
serving other interests, that we die by the principles of the
Brotherhood — die by the hand of a stranger who may be sent
from the other end of the world to strike the blow— or by the
hand of our own bosom-friend who may have been a member
unknown to us through all the years of our intimacy. Some-
times, the death is delayed ; sometimes, it follows close on
the treachery. It is our first business to know how to wait —
our second business to know hov\^ to obey v/hen the word is
spoken. Some of us may wait our lives through, and may
not be wanted. Some of us maj- be called to the work, or to
the preparation for the work, the very day of our admission.
I myself — the little, easy, cheerful man you know, v,"ho, of his
own accord, vrould hardly lift up his handkerchief to strike
down the fly that buzzes about his face — I, in my younger
time, under provocation so dreadful that I v/ill not tell you of
it, entered the Brotherhood by an impulse, as I might have
killed myself by an impulse. I must rem.ain in it, now — it has
got m.e, whatever I may think of it in my better circumstances
and my cooler manhood, to my dying day. While I was still
in Italy, I v^^as chosen Secretary ; and all the members of that
time, who v* ere brought face to face with my President, were
brought face to face also with me.''

I began to understand him ; I saw the end towards which
his extraordinary disclosure v/as now tending. He waited a
moment, watching me earnestly — watching, till he had evidently
guessed what was passing in my mind, before he resumed.

* You have drawn your own conclusion already,' he said.
* I see it in your face. Tell me nothing ; keep me out of the
secret of your thoughts. Let me make my one last sacrifice
of myself, for your sake — and then have done with this subject,
never to return to it again.

He signed to me not to answer him — rose — removed his
coat — and rolled up the shirt-sleeve on his left arm.

' I promised you that this confidence should be complete,'
he whispered, speaking close at my ear, with his eyes looking
watchfully at the door. ' Whatever comes of it, you shall not
reproach me with having hidden anything from you which it

520

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

was necessary to your interests to know. I have said that the
Brotherhood identifies its members by a mark that lasts for
life. See the place, and the mark on it for yourself.'

He raised his bare arm, and showed me, high on the upper
part of it and on the inner side, a brand deepl}^ burnt in the
flesh and stained of a bright blood-red colour. I abstain
from describing- the device which the brand represented. It
will be sufficient to say that it was circular in form, and so
small that it would have been completely covered by a shilling
coin.

' A man v.'ho has this mark, branded in this place,' he said,
covering his arm again, ' is a member of the Brotherhood. A
man who has been false to the Brotherhood is discovered
sooner or later, by the Chiefs who know him — Presidents or
Secretaries, as the case may be. And a man discovered by
the Chiefs is dead. No human laivs can protect him. Remem-
ber what you have seen and heard ; draw what conclusions you
like ; act as you please. But, in the nam.e of God, whatever
you discover, whatever you do, tell me nothing ! Let me
remain free from a responsibility which it horrifies me to think
of — which I know, in my conscience, is not my responsibility,
now. For the last time, I say it — on my honour as a gentle-
man, on my oath as a Christian, if the man you pointed out
at the Opera knows me, he is so altered, or so disguised, that
I do not know him. I am ignorant of his proceedings or his
purposes in England — I never saw him, I never heard the name
he goes by, to my knowledge, before to-night. I say no more.
Leave me a little, Walter : I am overpowered by what has
happened ; I am shaken by what I have said. Let me try to
be like myself again, vvhen we meet next.'

He dropped into a chair ; and, turning away from me, hid
his face in his hands. I gently opened the door, so as not to
disturb him^and spoke my fev/ parting vvcrds in low tones,
which he might hear or not, as he pleased.

' I will keep the memory of to-night in my heart of hearts,'
I said. ' You shall never repent the trust you have reposed
in me. May I come to you to-morroAV ? May I come as early
as nine o'clock ? '

'Yes, Walter,' he replied, looking up at me kindly, and
speaking in English once more, as if his one anxiety, now,
v.-as to get back to our former relations towards each other.
' Come to my little bit of breakfast before I go my ways
among the pupils that I teach.'

' Good night, Pesca.'

' Good night, my friend.'

521

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

VI.

My first conviction, as soon as I found myself outside the
house, was that no alternative was left me but to act at once
on the information I had received— to make sure of the Count,
that night, or to risk the loss, if I only delayed till the morn-
ing, of Laura's last chance. I looked at my watch : it was
ten o'clock.

Not the shadow of a doubt crossed my mind of the purpose
for which the Count had left the theatre. His escape from
us, that evening, was beyond all question, the preliminary
only to his escape from London. The mark of the Brother-
hood was on his arm — I felt as certain of it as if he had shown
me the brand — and the betrayal of the Brotherhood was on
his conscience — I had seen it in his recognition of Pesca.

It was easy to understand why that recognition had not
been mutual. A man of the Count's character would never
risk the terrible consequences of turning spy without looking
to his personal security quite as carefully as he looked to his
golden reward. The shaven face, which I had pointed out at
the Opera, might have been covered by a beard in Pesca's
time ; his dark brown hair might be a wig ; his name was
evidently a false one. The accident of time might have helped
him as well — his immense corpulence might have come with
his later years. There was every reason why Pesca should
not have known him again — every reason, also, why he should
have known Pesca, whose singular personal appearance made
a marked man of him, go where he might.

I have said that I felt certain of the purpose in the Count's
mind when he escaped us at the theatre. How could I doubt
it, when I saw, with my own eyes, that he believed himself,
in spite of the change in his appearance, to have been recog-
nised by Pesca, and to be therefore in danger of his life ? If
I could get speech of him that night, if I could show him that
I, too, knew of the mortal peril in which he stood, what
result would follow ? Plainly this. One of us must be master
of the situation — one of us must inevitably be at the mercy of
the other.

I owed it to myself to consider the chances against me,
before I confronted them. I owed it to my wife to do all that
lay in my power to lessen the risk.

The chances against me wanted no reckoning up : they
were all merged in one. If the Count discovered, by my own
avowal, that the direct way to his safety lay through my life,
he was probably the last man in existence who would shrink

52?

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

from throwing me off my guard and taking that way, when
he had me alone within his reach. The only means of defence
against him on which I could at all rely to lessen the risk,
presented themselves, after a little careful thinking, clearly
enough. Before I made any personal acknowledgment of my
discovery in his presence, I must place the discovery itself
where it would be ready for instant use against him, and safe
from any attempt at suppression on his part. If I laid the
mine under his feet before I approached him, and if I left
instructions with a third person to fire it, on the expiration of
a certain time, unless directions to the contrary were previously
received under my own hand, or from my own lips — in that
event, the Count's security was absolutely dependent upon
mine, and I might hold the vantage ground over him securely,
even in his own house.

This idea occurred to me when I was close to the new
lodgings which we had taken on returning from the sea-side.
I went in, without disturbing any one, by the help of my key.
A light was in the hall ; and I stole up with it to my work-
room, to make my preparations, and absolutely to commit
myself to an interview with the Count, before either Laura or
Marian could have the slightest suspicion of what I intended
to do.

A letter addressed to Pesca represented the surest measure
of precaution which it was now possible for me to take. I
wrote as follows :

' The man whom I pointed out to you at the Opera, is a
member of the Brotherhood, and has been false to his trust.
Put both these assertions to the test, instantly. You know
the name he goes by in England. His address is No. 5,
Forest Road, St. John's Wood. On the love you once bore
me, use the power entrusted to you without mercy and with-
out delay, against that man. I have risked all and lost all — -
and the forfeit of my failure has been paid with my life.'

I signed and dated these lines, enclosed them in an envelope,
and sealed it up. On the outside, I wrote this direction :
' Keep the enclosure unopened, until nine o'clock to-morrow
morning. If you do not hear from me, or see me, before that
time, break the seal when the clock strikes, and read the
contents.' I added my initials ; and protected the whole by
enclosing it in a second sealed envelope, addressed to Pesca
at his lodgings.

Nothing remained to be done after this but to find the
means of sending my letter to its destination immediately. I
should then have accomplished all that lay in my power.. If

523

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

anything happened to me in the Count's house, I had nov/
provided for his answering it with his Hfe.

That the means of preventing his escape under any cir-
cumstances whatever, were at Pesca's disposal, if he chose to
exert them, I did not for an instant doubt. The extraordinary
anxiety which he had expressed to remain unenhghtened as
to the Count's identity — or, in other words, to be left un-
certain enough about facts to justify him to his own con-
science in remaining passive — betrayed plainly that the means
of exercising the terrible justice of the Brotherhood were
ready to his hand, although, as a naturally humane man, he
had shrunk from plainly saying as much in my presence.
The deadly certainty with which the vengeance of foreign
political societies can hunt down a traitor to the cause, hide
himself where he may, had been too often exemplified, even
in my superficial experience, to allov/ of any doubt. Con-
sidering the subject only as a reader of newspapers, cases
recurred to my memory, both in London and in Paris, of
foreigners found stabbed in the streets, whose assassins
could never be traced — of bodies and parts of bodies, thrown
into the Thames and the Seine, by hands that could never be
discovered — of deaths by secret violence which could only be
accounted for in one way. I have disguised nothing relating
to myself in these pages — and I do not disguise here, that I
believed I had wTitten Count Fosco's death-warrant, if the
fatal emergency happened which authorised Pesca to open my
enclosure.

I left my room to go down to the ground floor of the
house, and speak to the landlord about finding me a mes-
senger. He happened to be ascending the stairs at the time,
and we met on the landing. His son, a quick lad, was the
messenger he proposed to me, on hearing what I wanted.
We had the boy upstairs ; and I gave him his directions. He
was to take the letter in a cab, to put it into Professor Pesca's
own hands, and to bring me back a line of acknowledgment
from that gentleman ; returning in the cab, and keeping it at
the door for my use. It was then nearly half-past ten. I cal-
culated that the boy might be back in twenty minutes ; and
that I might drive to St. John's Wood, on his return, in twenty
minutes more.

When the lad had departed on his errand, I returned to my
own room for a little while, to put certain papers in order, so
that they might easily be found, in case of the worst. The key
of the old-fashioned bureau in which the papers were kept, I
sealed up, and left it on my table, with Marian's name written

524

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

on the outside of the Httle packet. This done, I went down-
stairs to the sitting-room, in which I expected to find Laura
and Marian awaiting my return from the Opera. I felt my
hand trembling for the first time, when I laid it on the lock of
the door.'

No one \vas in the room but Marian. She v/as reading ;
and she looked at her watch, in surprise, when I came in.

' How early you are back ! ' she said. ' You must have
come away before the opera was over.

* Yes,' I replied ; ' neither Pesca nor I waited for the end.'

* Where Is Laura ? '

' She had one of her bad headaches this evening ; and I
advised her to go to bed, when we had done tea.'

I left the room again, on the pretext of v/ishing to see
whether Laura was asleep. Marian's quick eyes v/ere begin-
ning to look inquiringly at my face ; Marian's quick instinct
was beginning to discover that I had something weighing
on my mind.

When I entered the bed-chamber, and softly approached
the bedside by the dim flicker of the night-lamp, my Vv'ife was
asleep.

We had not been married quite a month yet. If my heart
was heavy, if my resolution for a moment faltered again, when
I looked at her face turned faithfully to my pillow in her sleep
— when I saw her hand resting open on the coverlid, as if it was
waiting unconsciously for mine— surely there was som.e excuse
for me ? I only allowed myself a few minutes to kneel down at
the bedside, and to look close at her — so close that her breath,
as It came and went, fluttered on my face. I only touched
her hand and her cheek with my lips, at parting. She stirred
in her sleep and murmured my name — but without waking.
I lingered for an instant at the door to look at her again.

' God bless and keep 3'ou, my darling ! ' I whispered — and
left her.

Marian was at the stair-head waiting for me. She had a
folded slip of paper in her hand.

' The landlord's son has brought this for you,' she said.

* He has got a cab at the door — he says you ordered him
to keep it at your disposal.'

' Quite right, Marian. I want the cab ; I am going out
again.'

I descended the stairs as I spoke, and looked into the sitting-
room to read the slip of paper by the light on the table. It
contained these two sentences, in Pesca's handwriting : —

' Your letter is received. If I don't see you before the

525

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

time you mention, I will break the seal when the clock
strikes.'

I placed the paper in my pocket-book, and made for the
door. Marian met me on the threshold, and pushed me
back into the room where the candlelight fell full on my face.
She held me by both hands, and her eyes fastened searchingly
on mine.

'I see!' she said, in a low eager whisper. 'You are
trying the last chance to-night.'

' Yes — the last chance and the best,' I whispered back.

* Not alone ! Oh, Walter, for God's sake not alone !
Let me go with you. Don't refuse me because I'm only a
woman. I must go ! I will go ! I'll wait outside in the
cab ! '

It was my turn now to hold Jicr. She tried to break away
from me, and get down first to the door.

' If you want to help me,' I said, ' stop here, and sleep in
my wife's room to-night. Only let me go away, with my
mind easy about Laura, and I answer for everything else.
Come, Marian, give me a kiss, and show that you have
the courage to wait till I come back.'

I dared not allow her time to say a word more. She
tried to hold me again. I unclasped her hands — and was
out of the room in a moment. The boy below heard me on
the stairs, and opened the hall-door. I jumped into the cab,
before the driver could get off the box. ' Forest Road, St.
John's Wood,' I called to him through the front window.
' Double fare, if you get there in a quarter of an hour.' * I'll
do it, sir.' I looked at my watch. Eleven o'clock — not a
minute to lose.

The rapid motion of the cab, the sense that every instant
now was bringing me nearer to the Count, the conviction
that I was embarked at last, without let or hindrance, on my
hazardous enterprise, heated me into such a fever of excite-
ment that I shouted to the man to go faster and faster. As
we left the streets, and crossed St. John's Wood Road, my
impatience so completely overpowered me that I stood up in
the cab and stretched my head out of the window, to see the
end of the journey before we reached it. Just as a church
clock in the distance struck the quarter past, we turned into
the Forest Road. I stopped the driver a little way from the
Count's house — paid and dismissed him — and walked on to
the door.

As I approached the garden gate, I saw another person
advancing towards it also, from the direction opposite to

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

mine. We met under the gas lamp in the road, and looked
at each other. I instantly recognised the light-haired
foreigner, with the scar on his cheek ; and I thought he
recognised inc. He said nothing ; and, instead of stopping
at the house, as I did, he slowly walked on. Was he in the
Forest Road by accident ? Or had he followed the Count
home from the Opera ?

I did not pursue those questions. After waiting a little,
till the foreigner had slowly passed out of sight, I rang the
gate bell. It was then twenty minutes past eleven — late
enough to make it quite easy for the Count to get rid of me
by the excuse that he was in bed.

The only way of providing against this contingency was
to send in my name, without asking any preliminary questions,
and to let him know, at the same time, that I had a serious
motive for wishing to see him at that late hour. Accordingly,
while I was waiting, I took out my card, and wrote under
my name, ' On important business.' The maid-servant
answered the door while I was writing the last word in
pencil ; and asked me distrustfully what I 'pleased to want.'

* Be so good as to take that tp your master,' I replied,
giving her the card.

I saw, by the girl's hesitation of manner, that if I had
asked for the Count in the first instance, she would only
have followed her instructions by telling me he was not at
home. She was staggered by the confidence with which I
gave her the card. After staring at me in great perturba-
tion, she went back into the house with my message, closing
the door, and leaving me to wait in the garden.

In a minute or so, she reappeared. ' Her master's com-
pliments, and would I be so obliging as to say what my
business was?' 'Take my compliments back,' I replied;
* and say that the business cannot be mentioned to any one
but your master.' She left me again — again returned — and,
this time, asked me to walk in.

I followed her at once. In another moment, I was inside
the Count's house.

VII.

There was no lamp in the hall ; but by the dim light of
the kitchen candle which the girl had brought up-stairs with
her, I saw an elderly lady steal noiselessly out of a back
room on the ground floor. She cast one viperish look at me
as I entered the hall, but said nothing, and went slowly

527

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

up-stairs, without returning- my bow. My familiarity with
Marian's journal sufficiently assured me that the elderly lady
was Madame Fosco.

The servant led me to the room which the Countess had
just left. I entered it ; and found myself face to face with
the Count.

He was still in his evening dress, except his coat, which
he had thrown across the chair. His shirt-sleeves were
turned up at the wrists — but no higher. A carpet-bag v.^as
on one side of him, and a box on the other. Books, papers,
and articles of vvearing apparel were scattered about the
room. On a table, at one side of the door, stood the cage,
so Vv-ell known to me by description, v/hich contained his
white mice. The canaries and the cockatoo were probably
in some other room. He v/as seated before the box, packing
it, when I went in, and rose Vv'ith some papers in his hand to
receive me. His face still betrayed plain traces of the shock
that had overwhelmed him at the Opera. His fat cheeks
hung- loose ; his cold grey e3es v/ere furtively vigilant ; his
voice, look, and manner were all sharply suspicious alike, as
he advanced a step to meet m.e, and requested, with distant
civility, that I v.'ould take a chair.

* You come here on business, sir ? ' he said. ' I am at a
loss to know what that business can possibly be.'

The unconcealed curiosity vvith which he looked hard in
my face v.-hile he spoke, convinced me that I had passed
unnoticed by him at the Opera. He had seen Pesca first ;
and from that m.oment, till he left the theatre, he had evi-
dently seen nothing else. My name vv'ould necessarily suggest
to him that I had not come into his house with other than a
hostile purpose towards himself — but he appeared to be utterly
ignorant, thus far, of the real nature of my errand.

'I am fortunate in finding you here to-night,' I said.
* You seem to be on the point of taking a journey ? '

* Is j-our business connected with my journey ? '

* In some degree.'

' In what degree ? Do you know where I am going to ? '

* No. I only know why you are leaving London.'

He slipped by me with the quickness of thought ; locked
the door of the room ; and put the ke}' in his pocket.

'You and I, Mr. Hartright, are excellently well acquainted
v/ith one another by reputation,' he said. 'Did it, by any
chance, occur to j-ou when you came to this house that I was
not the sort of man you could trifle with ? '

* It did occur to me,' I replied. ' And I have not come to

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

trifie with you. I am here on a matter of life and death — and
if that door which you have locked was open at this moment,
nothing you could say or do would induce me to pass through
it.'

I walked farther into the room and stood opposite to him,
on the rug before the fireplace. He drew a chair in front of
the door, and sat down on it, with his left arm resting on the
table. The cage with the white mice was close to him ; and
the little creatures scampered out of their sleeping-place, as
his heavy arm shook the table, and peered at him through the
gaps in the smartly painted wires.

' On a matter of life and death ? ' he repeated to himself.
' Those words are more serious, perhaps, than you think.
What do you mean ? '

' What I say.'

The perspiration broke out thickly on his broad forehead.
His left hand stole over the edge of the table. There was a
drawer in it, with a lock, and the key was in the lock. His
finger and thumb closed over the key but did not turn it.

' So you know why I am leaving London ? ' he went on.
'Tell me the reason, if you please.' He turned the key, and
unlocked the drawer as he spoke.

' I can do better than that,' I replied ; * I can show you the
reason, if you like.'

* How can you show it ? '

' You have got your coat off,' I said. ' Roll up the shirt-
sleeve on your left arm— and you will see it there.'

The same livid, leaden change passed over his face, which
I had seen pass over it at the theatre. The deadly glitter in
his eyes shone steady and straight into mine. He said
nothing. But his left hand slowly opened the table drawer,
and softly slipped into it. The harsh grating noise of some-
thing heavy that he was moving, unseen to me, sounded for
a moment — then ceased. The silence that followed was so
intense, that the faint ticking nibble of the white mice at their
wires was distinctly audible where I stood.

My life hung by a thread — and I knew it. At that final
moment, I thought with his mind ; I felt with his fingers — I
was as certain, as if I had seen it, of what he kept hidden
from me in the drawer.

' Wait a little,' I said. ' You have got the door locked —
you see I don't move — you see my hands are empty. Wait a
little. I have something more to say.'

'You have said enough,' he replied, with a sudden com-
posure, so unnatural and so ghastly that it tried my nerves as

529 M M

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

no outbreak of violence could have tried them. ' I want one
moment for my own thoug^hts, if you please. Do you guess
what I am thinking- about ? '

' Perhaps I do.'

'I am thinking,' he remarked quietly, 'whether I shall
add to the disorder in this room, by scattering your brains
about the fireplace.'

If I had moved at that moment, I saw in his face that he
would have done it.

* I advise you to read two lines of writing which I have
about me,' I rejoined, ' before you finally decide that question.'

The proposal appeared to excite his curiosity. He nodded
his head. I took Pesca's acknowledgment of the receipt of
my letter out of mj' pocket-book ; handed it to him at arm's
length ; and returned to my former position in front of the
fireplace.

He read the lines aloud : ' " Your letter is received. If I
don't hear from you before the time you mention, I will break
the seal when the clock strikes." '

Another man, in his position, would have needed some
explanation of those words — the Count felt no such necessity.
One reading of the note showed him the precaution that I
had taken, as plainly as if he had been present at the time
when I adopted it. The expression of his face changed on
the instant ; and his hand came out of the drawer, empty.

* I don't lock up my drawer, Mr. Hartright,' he said ;
* and I don't say that I may not scatter your brains about
the fireplace, yet. But I am a just man, even to my enemy —
and I will acknowledge, beforehand, that they are cleverer
brains than I thought them. Come to the point, sir ! You
want something of me ? '

' I do — and I mean to have it.*

* On conditions ? '

' On no conditions.'

His hand dropped into the drawer again.

' Bah ! we are travelling in a circle,' he said ; * and those
clever brains of yours are in danger again. Your tone is
deplorably imprudent, sir — moderate it on the spot ! The
risk of shooting- you on the place where you stand, is less to
■me, than the risk of letting you out of this house, except on
conditions that I dictate and approve. You have not got my
lamented friend to deal with, now — you are face to face with
Fosco ! If the lives of twenty Mr. Hartrights were the
stepping--stones to my safety, over all those stones I would
go, sustained by my sublime indifference, self-balanced by

530

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

my impenetrable calm. Respect me, if you love your own
life ! I summon you to answer three questions, before you
open your lips again. Hear them — they are necessary to
this interview. Answer them — they are necessary to me.'
He held up one finger of his right hand. * First question ! '
he said. ' You come here possessed of information, which
may be true, or may be false — where did you get it ? '

* I decline to tell you.'

* No matter : I shall find out. If that information is true
— mind I say, with the whole force of my resolution, if- — you
are making your market of it here, by treachery of your own,
or by treachery of some other man. I note that circumstance,
for future use, in my memory which forgets nothing, and
proceed.' He held up another finger. * Second question !
Those lines you invited me to read, are without signature.
Who wrote them ? '

' A man whom / have every reason to depend on ; and
\\\\ovcl yoii have every reason to fear.'

My answer reached him to some purpose. His left hand
trembled audibly in the drawer.

'How long do you give me,' he asked, putting his third
question in a quieter tone, ' before the clock strikes and the
seal is broken ? '

'Time enough for you to come to my terms,' I replied.

' Give me a plainer answer, Mr. Hartright. What hour is
the clock to strike ? '

' Nine, to-morrow morning.'

* Nine, to-morrow morning ? Yes, yes — your trap is laid
for me, before I can get my passport regulated, and leave
London. It is not earlier, I suppose ? We will see about
that, presently — I can keep you hostage here, and bargain
with you to send for your letter before I let you go. In the
mean time, be so good, next, as to mention your terms.'

* You shall hear them. They are simple, and soon
stated. You know whose interests I represent in coming
here ? '

He smiled with the most supreme composure ; and care-
lessly waved his right hand.

*I consent to hazard a guess,' he said, jeeringly. *A
lady's interests, of course ! '

' My Wife's interests.'

He looked at me with the first honest expression that had
crossed his face in my presence — an expression of blank
amazement. I could see that I sank in his estimation, as a
dangerous man, from that moment. He shut up the drawer

CXI M M 2

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

at once, folded his arms over his breast, and listened to me
with a smile of satirical attention.

' You are well enough aware,' I went on, 'of the course
which my inquiries have taken for many months past, to
know that any attempted denial of plain facts will be quite
useless in my presence. You are guilty of an infamous con-
spiracy. And the gain of a fortune of ten thousand pounds
Vv'as your motive for it.'

He said nothing. But his face became overclouded
suddenly by a lowering anxiety.

' Keep your gain,' I said. (His face lightened again
immediately, and his eyes opened on me in wider and wider
astonishment.) ' I am not here to disgrace myself by bar-
gaining for money which has passed through your hands, and
which has been the price of a vile crime '

' Gently, Mr. Hartright. Your moral clap-traps have an
excellent effect in England — keep them for yourself and your
own countrymen, if you please. The ten thousand pounds
was a legacy left to my excellent wife by the late Mr. Fairlie.
Place the affair on those grounds ; and I will discuss it if you
like. To a man of my sentiments, however, the subject is
deplorably sordid. I prefer to pass it over. I invite you to
resume the discussion of your terms. What do you demand ? '

' In the first place, I demand a full confession of the con-
spiracy, written and signed in my presence, by yourself.'

He raised his finger again. ' One ! ' he said, checking me
off with the steady attention of a practical man.

' In the second place, I demand a plain proof, which does
not depend on your personal asseveration, of the date at
which my wife left Blackwater Park, and travelled to
London.'

' So ! so ! you can lay your finger, I see, on the weak
place,' he remarked, composedly. 'Any more?'

'At present, no more.'

' Good ! you have mentioned your terms ; now listen to
mine. The responsibility to myself of admitting, what you are
pleased to call the "conspiracy," is less, perhaps, upon the
whole, than the responsibility of laying you dead on that
hearth-rug. Let us say that I meet your proposal — on my
own conditions. The statement you demand of me shall be
written, and the plain proof shall be produced. You call a
letter from my late lamented friend, informing me of the day
and hour of his wife's arrival in London, written, signed, and
dated by himself, a proof, I suppose ? I can give you this.
I can also send you to the man of whom I hired the carriage

532

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

to fetch my visitor from the railway, on the day when she
a;nved-his order-book may help you to your datreven if
h,s coachman who drove me proves to be of no use These
thmgs I can do and will do, on conditions. I recite them

^:::i'!TL^^''"'' .FC.SCO and I leave ?hif hot";
niien and ..ow we please, without interference of anv kind

pa.nX;'; fr""' '°"'^^'"" • ^— it here? Scorn:
Sv ti! • .u ' ^° .^^"^ "">' ^^§'^"t, who is comin- at seven
o Clock m the mornmg- to regulate my affairs. You o-ive mv
agent a written order to the man who has got your sea^^
letter to resign his possession of it. You wait her" tHl mv
agent places that letter unopened in my hands ; and you hel^
allow me one clear half-hour to leave the hous;-afte^r which
you resume your own freedom of action, and go where you

Sntlem J /"^ '°"^^-^°" ' ■ ^^^-^ ^'''^ "^^ ^he satisfaction of a
gen leman, for your intrusion into my private affairs, and for

conterence. The time and place, abroad, to be fixed in a

that letter to contam a strip of paper m.easuring accurately
the length of my sword. Those are my terms. Inform me
ifyouacceptthem— Yes, or No.' xmoim me

The extraordinary mixture of prompt decision, far-sighted
cunning, and mountebank bravado in this speech, stao-^ered
me for a moment-and only for a moment. The one question

ng myself of he means of establishing Laura's identity, at
the cost of allowing the scoundrel who had robbed her of it
to escape me with impunity. I knew that the motive of
securing the jus^t recognition of my wife in the birthplace from
which she had been driven out as an impostor, and of publiclv
erasing the he that still profaned her mother's tombstone
was far purer, in its freedom from all taint of evil passion!
than the vindictive motive which had mingled itself vvith mv
purpose from the first. And yet I cannot honestly say that
my own moral convictions were strong enough to decide the
struggle in me by themselves. They were helped by mv
remembrance of Sir Percival's death. How awfully, at the
last nioment, had the working of the retribution, ^Aere, been
snatched from my feeble hands ! What right had I to decide
m my poor mortal ignorance of the future, that this man, too'
must escape with impunity, because he escaped me^ I
thought of these things-perhaps, ^vith the superstition
inherent in my nature ; perhaps, with a sense worthier of me

533

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

than superstition. It was hard, when I had fastened my hold
on him, at last, to loosen it again of my own accord — but I
forced myself to make the sacrifice. In plainer words, I
determined to be guided by the one higher motive of which I
was certain, the motive of serving the cause of Laura and the
cause of Truth.

' I accept your conditions,' I said. * With one reservation,
on my part.'

* What reservation may that be ? ' he asked.

* It refers to the sealed letter,' I answered. 'I require
you to destroy it, unopened, in my presence, as soon as it is
placed in your hands.

My object in making this stipulation was simply to
prevent him from carrying away written evidence of the nature
of my communication with Pesca. The /ac^ of my communi-
cation he would necessarily discover, when I gave the
address to his agent, in the morning. But he could make
no use of it, on his own unsupported testimony — even if he
really ventured to try the experiment — which need excite in
me the slightest apprehension on Pesca's account.

' I grant your reservation,' he replied, after considering
the question gravely for a minute or two. * It is not worth
dispute — the letter shall be destroyed when it comes into my
hands.'

He rose, as he spoke, from the chair in which he had been
sitting opposite to me, up to this time. With one effort, he
appeared to free his mind from the whole pressure on it of
the interview between us, thus far. ' Ouf ! ' he cried, stretch-
ing his arms luxuriously ; * the skirmish was hot while it
lasted. Take a seat, Mr. Hartright. We meet as mortal
enemies hereafter — let us, like gallant gentlemen, exchange
polite attentions in the mean time. Permit me to take the
liberty of calling for my wife.'

He unlocked and opened the door. * Eleanor ! ' he called
out, in his deep voice. The lady of the viperish face came in.
' Madame Fosco — Mr. Hartright,' said the Count, introducing
us with easy dignity. 'My angel,' he went on, addressing
his wife ; ' will your labours of packing-up allow you time
to make me some nice strong coffee ? I have writing-
business to transact with Mr. Hartright — and I require the
full possession of my intelligence to do justice to myself.'

Madame Fosco bowed her head twice — once sternly to me ;
once submissively to her husband — and glided out of the
room.
' ?^ 534

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

The Count walked to a writingf-table near the window ;
opened his desk, and took from it several quires of paper and
a bundle of quill pens. He scattered the pens about the
table, so that they might lie ready in all directions to be taken
up when wanted, and then cut the paper into a heap of
narrow slips, of the form used by professional writers for the
press. ' I shall make this a remarkable document,' he said,
looking at me over his shoulder. ' Habits of literary com-
position are perfectly familiar to me. One of the rarest of all
the intellectual accomplishments that a man can possess, is
the grand faculty of arranging his ideas. Immense privilege!
I possess it. Do you ? '

He marched backwards and forwards in the room, until
the coffee appeared, humming to himself, and marking the
places at which obstacles occurred in the arrangement of his
ideas, by striking his forehead, from time to time, with the
palm of his hand. The enormous audacity with which he
seized on the situation in which I had placed him, and made
it the pedestal on which his vanity mounted for the one
cherished purpose of self-display, mastered my astonishment
by main force. Sincerely as I loathed the man, the prodigious
strength of his character, even in its most trivial aspects, im-
pressed me in spite of myself.

The coffee was brought in by Madame Fosco. He kissed
her hand, in grateful acknowledgment, and escorted her to
the door ; returned, poured out a cup of coffee for himself,
and took it to the writing-table.

* May I offer you some coffee, Mr. Hartright ? ' he said,
before he sat down.

I declined.

' What ! you think I shall poison you ? ' he said, gaily.
* The English intellect is sound, so far as it goes,' he continued,
seating himself at the table ; ' but it has one grave defect — it
is always cautious in the wrong place.'

He dipped his pen in the ink ; placed the first slip of paper
before him, with a thump of his hand on the desk ; cleared
his throat ; and began. He wrote with great noise and
rapidity, in so large and bold a hand, and with such wide
spaces between the lines, that he reached the bottom of the
slip in not more than two minutes certainly from the time
when he started at the top. Each slip as he finished it, was
paged, and tossed over his shoulder, out of his way, on the
floor. When his first pen was worn out, that went over his
shoulder too ; and he pounced on a second from the supply
scattered about the table. Slip after slip, by dozens, by fifties,

535

THE Vv^OMAN IN WHITE

by hundreds, flew over his shoulders on either side of him, till
he had snowed himself up in paper all round his chair. Hour
after hour passed — and there I sat watching ; there he sat,
writing-. He never stopped, except to sip his coffee ; and when
thatw'as exhausted, to smack his forehead, from time to time.
One o'clock struck, two, three, four — and still the slips flew
about all round him ; still the untiring pen scraped its way
ceaselessly from top to bottom of the page ; still the white
chaos of paper rose higher and higher all round his chair. At
four o'clock, I heard a sudden splutter of the pen, indicative
of the flourish with which he signed his name. ' Bravo ! ' he
cried — springing to his feet with the activity of a young man,
and looking me straight in the face with a smile of superb
triumph.

' Done, Mr. Hartright ! ' he announced, with a self-
renovating thump of his fist on his broad breast. ' Done, to
my own profound satisfaction — to jvo/^r profound astonishment,
when you read what I have written. The subject is exhausted :
the man — Fosco — is not. I proceed to the arrangement of
my slips, to the revision of my slips, to the reading of my slips
— addressed, emphatically, to your private car. Four o'clock
has just struck. Good ! Arrangement, revision, reading,
from four to five. Short snooze of restoration for myself,
from five to six. Final preparations, from six to seven.
Affair of agent and sealed letter, from seven to eight. At eight,
en route. Behold the programme ! '

He sat down cross-legged on the floor, among his papers ;
strung them together with a bodkin and a piece of string ;
revised them ; wrote all the titles and honours by which he
was personally distinguished, at the head of the first page ;
and then read the manuscript to me, with loud theatrical
emphasis and profuse theatrical gesticulation. The reader will
have an opportunity, ere long, of forming his own opinion of
the document. It will be sufficient to mention here that it
answered my purpose.

He next wrote me the address of the person from whom he
had hired the fl}^, and handed me Sir Percival's letter. It was
dated from Hampshire on the 25th of July ; and it announced
the journey of * Lady Glyde ' to London, on the 26th. Thus,
on the very day (the 25th), when the doctor's certificate de-
clared that she had died in St. John's Wood, she was alive,
by Sir Percival's own showing, at Blackwater — and, on the
day after, she was to take a journey ! When the proof of
that journey was obtained from the flyman, the evidence
would be complete.

536

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

' A quarter past five,' said the Count, looking at his watch.
* Time for my restorative snooze. I personally resemble
Napoleon the Great, as you may have remarked, Mr. Hart-
right — I also resemble that immortal man in my power of
commanding sleep at will. Excuse me, one moment. I will
summon Madame Fosco, to keep you from feeling dull.'

Knowing as well as he did, that he was summoning
Madame Fosco, to ensure my not leaving the house while he
was asleep, I made no reply, and occupied myself in tying up
the papers which he had placed in my possession.

The lady came in, cool, pale, and venomous as ever.
'Amuse Mr. Hartright, my angel,' said the Count. He
placed a chair for her, kissed her hand for the second time,
withdrew to a sofa, and, in three minutes, was as peacefully
and happily asleep as the most virtuous man in existence.

Madame Fosco took a book from the table — sat down —
and looked at me, with the steady, vindictive malice of a
woman who never forgot and never forgave.

* I have been listening to 5-our conversation with my hus-
band,' she said. 'If I had been in his place — /would have
laid you dead on the hearth-rug.'

With those words, she opened her book ; and never looked
at me, or spoke to me, from that time till the time when her
husband woke.

He opened his eyes and rose from the sofa, accurately to
an hour from the time when he had gone to sleep.

' I feel infinitely refreshed,' he remarked. ' Eleanor, my
good wife, are you all ready, up-stairs ? That is well. My
little packing here can be completed in ten minutes — my
travelling-dress assumed in ten minutes more. What remains,
before the agent comes ? ' He looked about the room, and
noticed the cage with his white mice in it. ' Ah ! ' he cried
piteously ; ' a last laceration of my sympathies still remains.
My innocent pets ! my little cherished children ! what am I to
do with them ? For the present, we are settled nowhere ; for
the present, we travel incessantly — the less baggage we carry,
the better for ourselves. My cockatoo, my canaries, and my
little mice — who will cherish them, when their good Papa is
gone ? '

He walked about the room, deep in thought. He had not
been at all troubled about writing his confession, but he was
visibly perplexed and distressed about the far more important
question of the disposal of his pets. After long consideration,
he suddenly sat down again at the writing-table.

' An idea ! ' he exclaimed. ' I will offer my canaries and
537

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

my cockatoo to this vast Metropolis — my agent shall present
them, in my name, to the Zoological Gardens of London.
The Document that describes them shall be drawn out on the
spot.'

He began to write, repeating the words as they flowed
from his pen.

' Number One. Cockatoo of transcendent plumage :
attraction, of himself, to all visitors of taste. Number Two.
Canaries of unrivalled vivacity and intelligence : worthy of the
garden of Eden, worthy also of the garden in the Regent's
Park. Homage to British Zoology. Offered by Fosco.'

The pen spluttered again ; and the flourish was attached
to his signature.

'Count! you have not included the mice,' said Madame
Fosco.

He left the table, took her hand, and placed it on his
heart.

* All human resolution, Eleanor,' he said, solemnly, 'has
its limits. My limits are inscribed on that Document. I cannot
part with my white mice. Bear with me, my angel, and
remove them to their travelling-cage up-stairs.'

* Admirable tenderness ! ' said Madame Fosco, admiring
her husband, with a last viperish look in my direction. She
took up the cage carefully ; and left the room.

The Count looked at his watch. In spite of his resolute
assumption of composure, he was getting anxious for the
agent's arrival. The candles had long since been extinguished ;
and the sunlight of the new morning poured into the room.
It was not till five minutes past seven that the gate bell rang,
and the agent made his appearance. He was a foreigner with
a dark beard.

* Mr. Hartright — Monsieur Rubelle,' said the Count, intro-
ducing us. He took the agent (a foreign spy, in every line of
his face, if ever there was one yet) into a corner of the room ;
whispered some directions to him ; and then left us together.
' Monsieur Rubelle,' as soon as we were alone, suggested, with
great politeness, that I should favour him with his instructions.
I wrote two lines to Pesca, authorising him to deliver my
sealed letter ' to the Bearer ; ' directed the note ; and handed
it to Monsieur Rubelle.

The agent waited with me till his employer returned,
equipped in travelling costume. The Count examined the
address of my letter before he dismissed the agent. * I thought
so ! ' he said, turning on me with a dark look, and altering
again in his manner from that moment.

538

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

He completed his packing- ; and then sat consulting" a
travelling map, making entries in his pocket-book, and looking-,
every now and then, impatiently at his watch. Not another
Vvord, addressed to myself, passed his lips. The near approach
of the hour for his departure, and the proof he had seen of the
comm.unication established between Pesca and myself, had
plainly recalled his whole attention to the measures that were
necessary for securing his escape.

A little before eight o'clock. Monsieur Rubelle came back
with my unopened letter in his hand. The Count looked
carefully at the superscription and the seal — lit a candle — and
burnt the letter. ' I perform my promise,' he said ; ' but this
matter, Mr, Hartright, shall not end here.'

The agent had kept at the door the cab in which he had
returned. He and the maid-servant now busied themselv^es
in removing the luggage. Madame Fosco came down-stairs,
thickly veiled, with the travelling-cage of the white mice in
her hand. She neither spoke to me, nor looked towards me.
Her husband escorted her to the cab. ' Follow me, as far as
the passage,' he whispered in my ear ; * I may want to speak
to you at the last moment.'

I went out to the door ; the agent standing below me in
the front garden. The Count came back alone, and drew me
a few steps inside the passage.

' Remember the Third condition ! ' he whispered. * You
shall hear from me, Mr. Hartright — I may claim from you
the satisfaction of a gentleman sooner than you think for.'
He caught my hand, before I was aware of him, and wrung
it hard — then turned to the door, stopped, and came back to
me again.

'One word more,' he said, confidentially. 'When I last
saw Miss Halcombe, she looked thin and ill. I am anxious
about that admirable woman. Take care of her, sir ! With
my hand on my heart, I solemnly implore you — take care of
Miss Halcombe ! '

Those were the last words he said to me before he
squeezed his huge body into the cab, and drove off.

The agent and I waited at the door a few moments, looking
after him. While we were standing together, a second cab
appeared from a turning a little way down the road. It
followed the direction previously taken by the Count's cab ;
and, as it passed the house and the open garden gate, a
person inside looked at us out of the window. The stranger
at the Opera again ! — the foreigner with the scar on his left
cheek.

539

THE WOMAN IN Vv^HITE

* You wait here with me, sir, for half an hour more ! ' said
Monsieur Rubelle.

« I do.*

We returned to the sitting-room. I was in no humour to
speak to the agent, or to allow him to speak to me. I took
out the papers which the Count had placed in my hands ; and
read the terrible story of the conspiracy told by the man who
had planned and perpetrated it.

The Story coniiinica by IsiDOR Ottavio Baldassare Fosco ; Count of the
Holy Roman E7npire ; Knight Grand Cross of the Order of the Brazen
Crowti ; Perpetual Arch- Master of the Rosicnician Masons of Alesopotaniia ;
Attached (?n Honorary Capacities) to Societies Musical, Societies Medical,
Societies Philosophical, and Societies General Benevolent, throughout Europe ;

The Count's Nan-ative.

In the summer of eighteen hvmdred and fifty, I arrived in Eng-
land, charged with a delicate political mission from abroad.
Confidential persons were semi-ofiicially connected with me,
whose exertions I was authorized to direct— Monsieur and
Madame Rubelle being among the number. Some weeks of
spare time were at my disposal, before I entered on my
functions by establishing myself in the suburbs of London.
Curiosity may stop here, to ask for some explanation of those
functions on my part. I entirely sympathize with the request.
I also regret that diplomatic reserve forbids me to comply
with it.

I arranged to pass the preliminary period of repose, to
which I have just referred, in the superb mansion of my late
lamented friend. Sir Percival Clyde. He arrived from tfie
Continent with liis wife. / arrived from the Continent with
mine. England is the land of domestic happiness — how
appropriately we entered it under these domestic circum-
stances !

The bond of friendship which united Percival and myself,
was strengthened, on this occasion, by a touching similarity
in the pecuniary position, on his side and on mine. We both
wanted money. Immense necessity ! Universal want ! Is
there a civilized human being who does not feel for us ?
How insensible must that man be ! Or how rich !

I enter into no sordid particulars, in discussing this part
of the subject. My mind recoils from them. With a Roman
austerity, I show my empty purse and Percival's to the
shrinking public gaze. Let us allow the deplorable fact to
assert itself, once for all, in that manner — and pass on.

540

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

We were received at the mansion by the magnificent
creature who is inscribed on my heart as ' Marian '• — who is
known in the colder atmosphere of Society, as ' Miss Hal-
combe.'

Just Heaven ! with what inconceivable rapidity I learnt to
adore that woman. At sixty, I worshipped her with the
volcanic ardour of eighteen. All the gold of my rich nature
was poured hopelessly at her feet. My wife — poor angel ! —
my wife who adores me, got nothing but the shillings and
the pennies. Such is the World ; such Man ; such Love.
What are we (I ask) but puppets in a show-box? Oh,
omnipotent Destiny, pull our strings gently ! Dance us
mercifully off our miserable little stage !

The preceding lines, rightly understood, express an
entire system of philosophy. It is Mine.

I resume.

The domestic position at the commencement of our
residence at Blackwater Park has been drawn with amazing
accuracy, with profound mental insight, by the hand of Marian
herself. (Pass me the intoxicating familiarity of mentioning
this sublime creature by her Christian name.) Accurate
knowledge of the contents of her journal — to which I obtained
access by clandestine means, unspeakably precious to me in
the remembrance — warns my eager pen from topics which
this essentially exhaustive woman has already made her own.

The interests — interests, breathless and immense ! — with
which I am here concerned, begin with the deplorable calamity
of Marian's illness.

The situation, at this period, was emphatically a serious
one. Large sums of money, due at a certain time, were
wanted by Percival (I say nothing of the modicum equally
necessary to myself) ; and the one source to look to for
supplying them was the fortune of his wife, of which not one
farthing was at his disposal until her death. Bad, so far ;
and worse still farther on. My lamented friend had private
troubles of his own, into which the delicacy of my disinterested
attachment to him forbade me from inquiring too curiously.
I knew nothing but that a woman, named Anne Catherick,
was hidden in the neighbourhood ; that she was in communi-
cation with Lady Clyde ; and that the disclosure of a secret,
which would be the certain ruin of Percival, might be the
result. He had told me himself that he was a lost man, unless
his wife was silenced, and unless Anne Catherick was found.
If he was a lost man, what would become of our pecuniary

541

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

interests? Courageous as I am by nature, I absolutely
trembled at the idea !

The whole force of my intelligence was now directed to the
finding of Anne Catherick. Our money affairs, important as
they were, admitted of delay — but the necessity of discovering
the woman admitted of none. I only knew her, by descrip-
tion, as presenting an extraordinary personal resemblance to
Lady Glyde. The statement of this curious fact — intended
merely to assist me in identifying the person of whom we were
in search — when coupled with the additional information that
Anne Catherick had escaped from a madhouse, started the
first immense conception in my mind, which subsequently led
to such amazing results. That conception involved nothing
less than the complete transformation of two separate identities.
Lady Glyde and Anne Catherick were to change names, places,
and destinies, the one with the other — the prodigious conse-
quences contemplated by the change, being the gain of thirty
thousand pounds, and the eternal preservation of Sir Percival's
secret.

My instincts (which seldom err) suggested to me, on review-
ing the circumstances, that our invisible Anne would, sooner
or later, return to the boat-house at the Blackwater lake.
There I posted myself; previously mentioning to Mrs. Michel-
son, the housekeeper, that I might be found when wanted,
immersed in study, in that solitary place. It is my rule never
to make unnecessary mysteries, and never to set people sus-
pecting me for want of a little seasonable candour, on my
part. Mrs. Michelson believed in me from first to last. This
ladylike person (widow of a Protestant Priest) overflowed
with faith. Touched by such superfluity of simple confidence,
in a woman of her mature years, I opened the ample reservoirs
of my nature, and absorbed it all.

I was rewarded for posting myself sentinel at the lake, by
the appearance — not of Anne Catherick herself, but of the
person in charge of her. This individual also overflowed with
simple faith, which I absorbed in myself, as in the case already
mentioned. I leave her to describe the circumstances (if she
has not done so already) under which she introduced me to
the object of her maternal care. When I first saw Anne
Catherick, she was asleep. I was electrified by the likeness
between this unhappy woman and Lady Glyde. The details
of the grand scheme, which had suggested themselves in out-
line only, up to that period, occurred to me, in all their
masterly combination, at the sight of the sleeping face. At
the same time, my heart, always accessible to tender influences,

542

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

dissolved in tears at the spectacle of suffering before me. I
instantly set myself to impart relief. In other words, I pro-
vided the necessary stimulant for strengthening Anne Cathe-
rick to perform the journey to London.

At this point, I enter a necessary protest, and correct a
lamentable error.

' The best years of my life have been passed in the ardent
study of medical and chemical science. Chemistry, especially,
has always had irresistible attractions for me, from the
enormous, the illimitable power which the knowledge of it
confers. Chemists, I assert it emphatically, might sway, if
they pleased, the destinies of humanity. Let me explain this
before I go further.

Mind, they say, rules the world. But what rules the mind ?
The body. The body (follow me closely here) lies at the
mercy of the most omnipotent of all potentates — the Chemist.
Give me — Fosco — chemistry ; and when Shakespeare has con-
ceived Hamlet, and sits down to execute the conception —
with a few grains of powder dropped into his daily food, I will
reduce his mind, by the action of his body, till his pen pours
out the most abject drivel that has ever degraded paper.
Under similar circumstances, revive me the illustrious Newton.
I guarantee that, when he sees the apple fall, he shall eat it,
instead of discovering the principle of gravitation. Nero's
dinner shall transform Nero into the mildest of men, before
he has done digesting it ; and the morning draught of Alex-
ander the Great shall make Alexander run for his life, at the
first sight of the enemy, the same afternoon. On my sacred
word of honour, it is lucky for society that modern chemists
are, by incomprehensible good fortune, the most harmless of
mankind. The mass are worthy fathers of families, who keep
shops. The few are philosophers besotted with admiration
for the sound of their own lecturing voices ; visionaries who
waste their lives on fantastic impossibilities ; or quacks whose
ambition soars no higher than our corns. Thus Society
escapes ; and the illimitable power of Chemistry remains the
slave of the most superficial and the most insignificant ends.

Why this outburst ? Why this withering eloquence ?

Because my conduct has been misrepresented ; because my
motives have been misunderstood. It has been assumed that
I used my vast chemical resources against Anne Catherick ;
and that I would have used them, if I could, against the mag-
nificent Marian herself. Odious insinuations both ! All my
interests were concerned (as will be seen presently) in the

543

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

preservation of Anne Catherick's life. All my anxieties were
concentrated on Marian's rescue from the hands of the licensed
Imbecile who attended her, and who found my advice con-
firmed, from first to last, by the physician from London. On
tVv'O occasions only — both equally harmless to the individual
on whom I practised — did I summon to myself the assistance
of chemical knowledge. On the first of the two, after follow-
ing Marian to the inn at Blackwater (studying, behind a con-
venient waggon which hid me from her, the poetry of motion,
as embodied in her walk), I availed myself of the services of
my invaluable wife, to copy one and to intercept the other of
two letters which my adored enemy had entrusted to a dis-
carded maid. In this case, the letters being in the bosom of
the girl's dress, Madame Fosco could only open them, read
them, perform her instructions, seal them, and put them back
again, by scientific assistance — which assistance I rendered
in a half-ounce bottle. The second occasion when the same
means were employed, was the occasion (to which I shall soon
refer) of Lady Clyde's arrival in London. Never, at any
other time, was I indebted to my Art, as distinguished from
myself. To all other emergencies and complications my
natural capacity for grappling, single-handed, with circum-
stances, was invariably equal. I affirm the all-pervading
intelligence of that capacity. At the expense of the Chemist,
I vindicate the Man.

Respect this outburst of generous indignation. It has
inexpressibly relieved me. En route ! Let us proceed.

Having suggested to Mrs. Clement (or Clements, I am
not sure which) that the best method of keeping Anne out of
Percival's reach was to remove her to London ; having found
that my proposal was eagerly received ; and having appointed
a day to meet the travellers at the station, and to see them
leave it — I was at liberty to return to the house, and to con-
front the difficulties which still remained to be met.

My first proceeding was to avail myself of the sublime
devotion of my wife. I had arranged with Mrs. Clements
that she should communicate her London address, in Anne's
interests, to Lady Clyde. But this was not enough. Design-
ing persons, in my absence, might shake the simple confi-
dence of Mrs. Clements, and she might not write, after all.
Who could I find capable of travelling to London by the train
she travelled by, and of privately seeing her home ? I asked
myself this question. The conjugal part of me immediately
answered — Madame Fosco.

544

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

thp;\^h'/,-''''''^'"^tf " ?7 "^'^^'^ "^'""^^^ to London, I arranged
that the journey should serve a double purpose. A nurse for

mvs'lf w"^ Manan,equallydovoted to the patient and to
m>self, was a necessity of my position. One of the mns^
eminently confidential and capable women in exitenceTas
by good fortune at my disposal. I refer to that resnectrWe
matron Madame Rubelle-to whom I addressed a letter at
her residence in London, by the hands of my wife '

On the appointed day Mrs. Clements and Anne Catherick
met me at the station. I politely saw them off Ipolitelv
saw Madame Fosco off by the same train. The bst thh f at
night, my wite returned to Blackvvater, having Sllowed her
.Instructions with the most unimpeachable accurac She
was accompanied by Madame Rubelle ; and she S^ht me
he London address or Mrs. Clements. After-events proved
this last precaution to have been unnecessary. Mrs Clements

Twa vti'"%"r' '^"'>- ^'>'^^ of herplaclof abode v"th
a war> e>e on future emerg-encies, I kept the letter.

The same day, I had a brief interview with the doctor at
which I protested in the sacred interests of humanitralains
his treatment of Marian's case. He was insolen; fs .^
Ignorant people are. I showed no resentiJi^t-T deferred
^urpTse."^ "^^' '"" ^^" '' ^^'^^ — -y 'o qua;rel to tme

My next proceeding was to leave Blackwater mvself I
event? Yh'S" T"'?^? 'l '"•^^' ^" -^^icipation o? oming
trant. wi^h^M^^ Frederic rSe^^ fl^:^^'^' ^5
wanted, in St. John's Wood.^ ^ found Mn' Fat i'/ a't^^Um'
meridg-e, Cumberland. ' ""

My own private familiarity with the nature of Marian's

wruSftolT; jj^^ P----'y iniormed me that flTlla
wiitten to Ml. Fairlie, proposmg- as a relief to Lady Clyde's
matrimonial embarrassments, to take her on a vis^t to her

"h Its de"r"'r"'- .^'r '''''' ' ^-'^ wisely allowed to
reach its destination ; feeling-, at the time, that it could do

Mr'Sii:lo"s'^'' '?ir'- > ' '^^^^ p^^^^"*-' -v-if bei':

Mr ^airl e, to support Marian's own proposal— with certain
modifications which, happily for the success of ml plans
were rendered really inevitable by her illness. It ^^Tas neces^
ary hat Lady Clyde should leave Blackwater alone by her
uncles invitation, and that she should rest a nio-ht' on fhe

Wood? by rer'""''l '^"^^ ^^'^ ^°^^^ ' ^^^ ^" ^f John'
^suits' and fn "" '' express advice. To achieve these
results, and to secure a note of invitation which could be

545 NN

THE V/OMAN IN WHITE

shown to Lady Glyde, were the objects of my visit to Mr.
Fairlie. When I have mentioned that this gentleman was
equally feeble in mind and body, and that I let loose the
whole force of my character on him, I have said enough. I
came, saw, and conquered Fairlie.

On my return to Blackwater Park (with the letter of invi-
tation) I found that the doctor's imbecile treatment of Marian's
case had led to the most alarming results. The fever had
turned to Typhus. Lady Glyde, on the day of my return,
tried to force herself into the room to nurse her sister. She
and I had no affinities of sympathy ; she had committed the
unpardonable outrage on my sensibilities of calling me a Spy;
she was a stumbling-block in my way and in Percival's — but,
for all that, my magnanimity forbade me to put her in danger
of infection with my own hand. At the same time, I offered
no hindrance to her putting herself in danger. If she had
succeeded in doing so, the intricate knot which I was slowly
and patiently operating on, might perhaps have been cut, by
circumstances. As it was, the doctor interfered, and she was
kept out of the room.

I had myself previously recommended sending for advice
to London. This course had been now taken. The physician,
on his arrival, confirmed my view of the case. The crisis was
serious. But we had hope of our charming patient on the fifth
day from the appearance of the Typhus. I was only once
absent from Blackwater at this time — when I went to London
by the morning train, to make the final arrangements at my
house in St. John's Wood ; to assure myself, by private
inquiry, that Mrs. Clements had not moved ; and to settle
one or two little preliminary matters with the husband of
Madame Rubelle. I returned at night. Five days afterwards,
the physician pronounced our interesting Marian to be out of
all danger, and to be in need of nothing but careful nursing.
This was the time I had waited for. Now that medical
attendance was no longer indispensable, I played the first
move in the game by asserting myself against the doctor.
He was one among many witnesses in my way, whom it was
necessary to remove. A lively altercation between us (in
which Percival, previously instructed by me, refused to inter-
fere) served the purpose in view. I descended on the miser-
able man in an irresistible avalanche of indignation— and
swept him from the house.

The servants were the next encumbrances to get rid of.
Again I instructed Percival (whose moral courage required
perpetual stimulants), and Mrs. Michelson was amazed, one

546

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

day, by hearing irom her master that the establishment was
to be broken up. We cleared the house of all the servants
but one, who was kept for domestic purposes, and whose
lumpish stupidity we could trust to make no embarrassing
discoveries. When they were gone, nothing remained but to
reheve ourselves of Mrs. Michelson— a result which was
easily achieved by sending this amiable lady to find lodgings
for her mistress at the sea-side.

The circumstances were now— exactly what they were
required to be. Lady Clyde was confined to her room by
nervous illness ; and the lumpish housemaid (I forget her
name) was shut up there, at night, in attendance *'on her
mistress. Marian, though fast recovering, still kept her bed,
with Mrs. Rubelle for nurse. No other living creatures but
my wife, myself, and Percival, were in the house. With all
the chances thus in our favour, I confronted the next emer-
gency, and played the second move in the game.

The object of the second move was to induce Lady Clyde
to leave Blackwater, unaccompanied by her sister. Unless
we could persuade her that Marian had gone on to Cumber-
land first, there was no chance of removing her, of her own
free will, from the house. To produce this necessary opera-
tion in her mind, we concealed our interesting invalid in one
of the uninhabited bedrooms at Blackwater. At the dead of
night, Madame Fosco, Madame Rubelle, and myself (Percival
not being cool enough to be trusted), accomplished the
concealment. The scene was picturesque, mysterious, dra-
matic, in the highest degree. By my directions, the bed had
been made, in the morning, on a strong movable framework
of wood. We had only to lift the framework gently at the
head and foot, and to transport our patient where we pleased,
without disturbing herself or her bed. No chemical assistance
was_ needed, or used, in this case. Our interesting Marian
lay in the deep repose of convalescence. We placed the
candles and opened the doors, beforehand. I, in right of my
great personal strength, took the head of the framework— my
wife and Madame Rubelle took the foot. I bore my share of
that inestimably precious burden with a manly tenderness,
with a fatherly care. Where is the modern Rembrandt who
could depict our midnight procession ? Alas for the Arts !
alas for this most pictorial of subjects ! the modern Rembrandt
is nowhere to be found.

The next morning, my wife and I started for London-
leaving Marian secluded, in the uninhabited middle of the
house, under care of Madame Rubelle ; who kindly consented

547 ^ N 2

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

to imprison herself with her patient for two or three days.
Before taking our departure, I gave Percival Mr. Fairlie's
letter of invitation to his niece (instructing her to sleep on the
journey to Cumberland at her aunt's house), with directions
to show it to Lady Clyde on hearing from me. I also obtained
from him the address of the Asylum in which Anne Catherick
had been confined, and a letter to the proprietor, announcing
to that gentleman the return of his runaway patient to
medical care.

I had arranged, at my last visit to the metropolis, to have
our modest domestic establishment ready to receive us when
we arrived in London by the early train. In consequence of
this wise precaution, we were enabled that same day to play
the third move in the game — the getting possession of Anne
Catherick.

Dates are of importance here. I combine in myself the
opposite characteristics of a Man of Sentiment and a Man of
Business. I have all the dates at my fingers' ends.

On Wednesday, the 24th of July, 1850, I sent my wife, in
a cab, to clear Mrs. Clements out of the way, in the first place.
A supposed message from Lady Clyde in London, was sufficient
to obtain this result. Mrs. Clements was taken away in the
cab, and was left in the cab, while my wife (on pretence of
purchasing something at a shop) gave her the slip, and returned
to receive her expected visitor at our house in St. John's
Wood. It is hardly necessary to add that the visitor had
been described to the servants as ' Lady Clyde.'

In the m.eanwhile I had followed in another cab, with a
note for Anne Catherick, merely mentioning that Lady Clyde
intended to keep Mrs. Clements to spend the day with her,
and that she was to join them, under care of the good
gentleman waiting outside, who had already saved her from
discovery in Hampshire by Sir Percival. The ' good gentle-
man ' sent in this note by a street boy, and paused for results,
a door or two farther on. At the moment when Anne appeared
at the house-door and closed It, this excellent man had the
cab-door open ready for her — absorbed her into the vehicle —
and drove off.

(Pass me, here, one exclamation in parenthesis. How
interesting this is !)

On the way to Forest Road, my companion showed no fear.
I can be paternal — no man more so — when I please ; and I
was intensely paternal on this occasion. What titles I had to
her confidence ! I had compounded the medicine which had
done her good; I had warned her of her danger from Sir

548

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

Percival. Perhaps, I trusted too implicitly to these titles ;
perhaps, I underrated the keenness of the lower instincts in
persons of weak intellect — it is certain that I neglected to
prepare her sufficiently for a disappointment on entering my
house. When I took her into the drawing-room — when she
saw no one present but Madame Fosco, who was a stranger
to her — she exhibited the most violent agitation : if she had
scented danger in the air, as a dog scents the presence of som.e
creature unseen, her alarm could not have displayed itself
more suddenly and m.ore causelessly. I interposed in vain.
The fear from v/hich she was suffering, I might have soothed
— but the serious heart disease, under which she laboured, was
beyond the reach of all moral palliatives. To my unspeakable
horror, she was seized with convulsions — a shock to the sys-
tem, in her condition, which might have laid her dead at any
moment, at our feet.

The nearest doctor was sent for, and was told that ' Lady
Glyde ' required his immediate services. To my infinite relief,
he was a capable man. I represented my visitor to him as a
person of weak intellect, and subject to delusions ; and I
arranged that no nurse but my wife should watch in the sick-
room. The unhappy woman was too ill, however, to cause
any anxiety about what she might say. The one dread which
now oppressed me, was the dread that the false Lady Glyde
might die, before the true Lady Glyde arrived in London.

I had written a note in the morning to Madame Rubelle,
telling her to join me, at her husband's house, on the evening
of Friday, the 26th ; v/ith another note to Percival, warning
him to show his wife her uncle's letter of invitation, to assert
that Marian had gone on before her, and to despatch her to
town, by the mid-day train, on the 26th, also. On reflection,
I had felt the necessity, in Anne Catherick's state of health, of
precipitating events, and of having Lady Glyde at my disposal
earlier than I had originally contemplated. What fresh direc-
tions, in the terrible uncertainty of my position, could I now
issue ? I could do nothing but trust to chance and the doctor.
My emotions expressed themselves in pathetic apostrophes —
which I was just self-possessed enough to couple, in the
hearing of other people, with the name of ' Lady Glyde.' In
all other respects, Fosco, on that memorable day, was Fosco
shrouded in total eclipse.

She passed a bad night — she awoke worn out — but, later
in the day, she revived amazingly. My elastic spirits revived
with her. I could receive no answers from Percival and
Madame Rubelle till the morning of the next day — the 26th.

549

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

In anticipation of their following my directions, which, acci-
dent apart, I knew they would do, I went to secure a fly to
fetch Lady Glyde from the railway ; directing it to be at my
house on the 26th, at two o'clock. After seeing the order
entered in the book, I went on to arrange matters with
Monsieur Rubelle. I also procured the services of two gentle-
men, who could furnish me with the necessary certificates of
lunacy. One of them I knew personally : the other was known
to Monsieur Rubelle. Both were men whose vigorous minds
soared superior to narrow scruples— both were labouring under
temporary embarrassments — both believed in me.

It was past five o'clock in the afternoon before I returned
from the performance of these duties. When I got back, Anne
Catherick was dead. Dead on the 25th ; and Lady Glyde was
not to arrive in London till the 26th !

I was stunned. Meditate on that. Fosco stunned !

It was too late to retrace our steps. Before my return,
the doctor had officiously undertaken to save me all trouble,
by registering the death on the date when it happened, with
his own hand. My grand scheme, unassailable hitherto, had
its weak place now — no efforts, on my part, could alter the
fatal event of the 25th. I turned manfully to the future.
Percival's interests and mine being still at stake, nothing was
left but to play the game through to the end. I recalled my
impenetrable calm — and played it.

On the morning of the 26th, Percival's letter reached me,
announcing his wife's arrival by the mid-day train. Madame
Rubelle also wrote to say she would follow in the evening. I
started in the fly, leaving the false Lady Glyde dead in the
house, to receive the true Lady Glyde, on her arrival by the
railway at three o'clock. Hidden under the seat of the car-
riage, I carried with me all the clothes Anne Catherick had
worn on coming into my house — they were destined to assist
the resurrection of the woman who was dead in the person of
the woman who was living. What a situation ! I suggest it
to the rising romance writers of England. I offer it, as totally
new, to the worn-out dramatists of France.

Lady Glyde was at the station. There was great crowd-
ing and confusion, and more delay than I liked (in case any of
her friends had happened to be on the spot), in reclaiming
her luggage. Her first questions, as we drove off, implored
me to tell her news of her sister. I invented news of the
most pacifying kind ; assuring her that she was about to see
her sister at my house. My house, on this occasion only,
was in the neighbourhood of Leicester Square, and was in

550

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

the occupation of Monsieur Rubelle, who received us in the
hall.

I took my visitor upstairs into a back room ; the two
medical gentlemen being there in waiting on the floor beneath,
to see the patient, and to give me their certificates. After
quieting Lady Glyde by the necessary assurances about her
sister, I introduced my friends, separately, to her presence.
They performed the formalities of the occasion, briefly,
intelligently, conscientiously. I entered the room again, as
soon as they had left it ; and at once precipitated events by
a reference, of the alarming kind, to 'Miss Halcombe's*
state of health.

Results followed as I had anticipated. Lady Glyde
became frightened, and turned faint. For the second time,
and the last, I called Science to my assistance. A medicated
glass of water, and a medicated bottle of smelling-salts,
relieved her of all further embarrassment and alarm. Addi-
tional applications, later in the evening, procured her the
inestimable blessing of a good night's rest. Madame Rubelle
arrived in time to preside at Lady Clyde's toilet. Her own
clothes were taken away from her at night, and Anne
Catherick's were put on her in the morning, with the strictest
regard to propriety, by the matronly hands of the good
Rubelle. Throughout the day, I kept our patient in a state of
partially-suspended consciousness, until the dexterous assist-
ance of my medical friends enabled me to procure the neces-
sary order, rather earlier than I had ventured to hope. That
evening (the evening of the 27th) Madame Rubelle and I took
our revived ' Anne Catherick ' to the Asylum. She was received,
with great surprise — but without suspicion ; thanks to the
order and certificates, to Percival's letter, to the likeness, to
the clothes, and to the patient's own confused mental con-
dition at the time. I returned at once to assist Madame
Fosco in the preparations for the burial of the false ' Lady
Glyde,' having the clothes and luggage of the true ' Lady
Glyde ' in my possession. They were afterwards sent to
Cumberland by the conveyance which was used for the
funeral. I attended the funeral, with becoming dignity,
attired in the deepest movirning.

My narrative of these remarkable events, written under
equally remarkable circumstances, closes here. The minor
precautions which I observed in communicating with Lim-
meridge House, are already known — so is the magnificent
success of my enterprise — so are the solid pecuniary results

551

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

which followed it. I have to assert, with the whole force of
my conviction, that the one weak place in my scheme would
never have been found out, if the one weak place in my heart
had not been discovered first. Nothing but my fatal admira-
tion for Marian restrained me from stepping in to my own
rescue, when she effected her sister's escape. I ran the risk,
and trusted in the complete destruction of Lady Clyde's
identity. If either Marian or Mr. Hartright attempted to
assert that identity, they would publicly expose themselves to
the imputation of sustaining a rank deception ; they would
be distrusted and discredited accordingly ; and they would,
therefore, be powerless to place my interests, or Percival's
secret, in jeopardy. I committed one error in trusting my-
self to such a blindfold calculation of chances as this. I
committed another when Percival had paid the penalty of his
own obstinacy and violence, by granting Lady Clyde a second
reprieve from the madhouse, and allowing Mr. Hartright a
second chance of escaping me. In brief, Fosco, at this
serious crisis, was untrue to himself. Deplorable and un-
characteristic fault ! Behold the cause, in my Heart —
behold, in the image of Marian Halcombe, the first and last
weakness of Fosco's life !

At the ripe age of sixty, I make this unparalleled con-
fession. Youths ! I invoke your sympathy. Maidens ! I
claim your tears.

A word more — and the attention of the reader (concen-
trated breathlessly on myself) shall be released.

My own mental insight informs me that three inevitable
questions will be asked, here, by persons of inquiring minds.
They shall be stated : they shall be answered.

First question. What is the secret of Madame Fosco's
unhesitating devotion of herself to the fulfilment of my
boldest wishes, to the furtherance of my deepest plans? I
might answer this, by simply referring to my own character,
and by asking, in my turn : — Where, in the history of the
world, has a man of my order ever been found without a
woman in the background, self-immolated on the altar of his
life ? But, I remember that I am writing in England ; I
remember that I was married in England — and I ask, if a
woman's marriage obligations, in this country, provide for
her private opinion of her husband's principles ? No ! They
charge her unreservedly to love, honour, and obey him.
That is exactly what my wife has done. I stand, here, on a
supreme moral elevation ; and I loftily assert her accurate

552

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

performance of her conjugal duties. Silence, Calumny ! Your
sympathy, Wives of England, for Madame Fosco !

Second question. If Anne Catherick had not died when
she did, what should I have done ? I should, in that case,
have assisted worn-out Nature in finding permanent repose.
I should have opened the doors of the Prison of Life, and
have extended to the captive (incurably afflicted in mind and
body both) a happy release.

Third question. On a calm revision of all the circum-
stances—Is my conduct worthy of any serious blame ? Most
emphatically, No ! Have I not carefully avoided exposing
myself to the odium of committing unnecessary crime ? With
m.y vast resources in chemistry, I might have taken Lady
Clyde's life. At immense personal sacrifice, I followed the
dictates of my own ingenuity, my own humanity, my own
caution — and took her identity, instead. Judge me by what
I might have done. How comparatively innocent ! how
indirectly virtuous I appear, in what I really did !

I announced, on beginning it, that this narrative would
be a remarkable document. It has entirely answered my
expectations. Receive these fervid lines — my last legacy to
the country I leave for ever. They are worthy of the occasion,
and worthy of

FOSCO.

The Story concluded hy\NM.-VEK Hartright.

When I closed the last leaf of the Count's manuscript,
the half-hour during which I had engaged to remain at
Forest Road had expired. Monsieur Rubelle looked at his
watch, and bowed. I rose immediately, and left the agent in
possession of the empty house. I never saw him again ; I
never heard more of him or of his wife. Out of the dark
byways of villany and deceit, they had crawled across our
path — into the same byways they crawled back secretly and
were lost.

In a quarter of an hour after leaving Forest Road, I was at
home again.

But few words sufficed to tell Laura and Marian how my
desperate venture had ended, and what the next event in
our lives was likely to be. I left all details to be described
later in the day ; and hastened back to St. John's Wood, to
see the person of whom Count Fosco had ordered the fly when
he went to meet Laura at the station.

553

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

The address in my possession led me to some ' livery
stables,' about a quarter of a mile distant from Forest Road.
The proprietor proved to be a civil and respectable man.
When I explained that an important family matter obliged
me to ask him to refer to his books, for the purpose of
ascertaining a date with which the record of his business trans-
actions might supply me, he offered no objection to granting my
request. The book was produced ; and there, under the date
of 'July 26th, 1850,' the order was entered, in these words :

' Brougham to Count Fosco, 5, Forest Road. Two o'clock.
(John Owen.)'

I found, on inquiry, that the name of 'John Owen,'
attached to the entry, referred to the man who had been em-
ployed to drive the fly. He was then at work in the stable-
yard, and was sent for to see me, at my request.

' Do you remember driving a gentleman, in the month of
July last,' from Number Five, Forest Road, to the Waterloo
Bridge station ? ' I asked.

' Well, sir,' said the man ; ' I can't exactly say I do.'

' Perhaps you remember the gentleman himself? Can you
call to mind driving a foreigner, last summer — a tall gentleman,
and remarkably fat ? '

The man's face brightened directly. ' I remember him,
sir ! The fattest gentleman as ever I see — and the heaviest
customer as ever I drove. Yes, yes— I call him to mind, sir.
We did go to the station, and it was from Forest Road.
There was a parrot, or summat like it, screeching in the
window. The gentleman was in a mortal hurry about the
lady's luggage ; and he give me a handsome present for
looking sharp and getting the boxes.'

Getting the boxes! I recollected immediately that Laura's
own account of herself, on her arrival in London, described
her luggage as being collected for her by some person whom
Count Fosco brought with him to the station. This was the
man.

' Did you see the lady ? ' I asked. ' What did she look
like ? Was she young or old ? '

' Well, sir, what with the hurry and the crowd of people
pushing about, I can't rightly say what the lady looked like.
I can't call nothing to mind about her that I know of —
excepting her name.'

' You remember her name ! '

' Yes, sir. Her name was Lady Glyde.'

' How do you come to remember that, when you have
forgotten what she looked like ? '

554

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

The man smiled, and shifted his feet in some little em-
barrassment.

' Why, to tell you the truth, sir,' he said, ' I hadn't been
long married at that time ; and my wife's name, before she
changed it for mine, was the same as the lady's — meaning the
name of Glyde, sir. The lady mentioned it herself. " Is your
name on your boxes, ma'am?" says I. "Yes," says she,
** my name is on my luggage — it is Lady Glyde." ** Come ! "
I says to myself, "I've a bad head for gentlefolks' names in
general — but this one comes like an old friend, at any rate."
I can't say nothing about the time, sir : it might be nigh on a
year ago, or it mightn't. But I can swear to the stout gentle-
man, and swear to the lady's name.'

There was no need that he should remember the time ; the
date was positively established by his master's order-book.
I felt at once that the means were now in my power of
striking down the whole conspiracy at a blow with the irre-
sistible weapon of plain fact. Without a moment's hesitation,
I took the proprietor of the livery stables aside, and told him
what the real importance was of the evidence of his order-book
and the evidence of his driver. An arrangement to compen-
sate him for the temporary loss of the man's services was
easily made ; and a copy of the entry in the book was taken
by myself, and certified as true by the master's own signature.
I left the livery stables, having settled that John Owen was to
hold himself at my disposal for the next three days, or for a
longer period, if necessity required it.

I now had in my possession all the papers that I wanted ;
the district registrar's own copy of the certificate of death,
and Sir Percival's dated letter to the Count, being safe in my
pocket-book.

With this written evidence about me, and with the coach-
man's answers fresh in my memory, I next turned my steps,
for the first time since the beginning of all my inquiries, in
the direction of Mr. Kyrle's office. One of my objects, in
paying him this second visit, was, necessarily, to tell him
what I had done. The other, was to warn him of my resolu-
tion to take my wife to Limmeridge the next morning, and to
have her publicly received and recognised in her uncle's house.
I left it to Mr. Kyrle to decide, under these circumstances,
and in Mr. Gilmore's absence, whether he was or was not
bound, as the family solicitor, to be present, on that occa-
sion, in the family interests.

I will say nothing of Mr. Kyrle's amazement, or of the
terms in which he expressed his opinion of my conduct, from

555

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

the first stage of the investigation to the last. It 15> only
necessary to mention that he at once decided on accompany-
ing us to Cumberland.

We started the next morning, by the early train. Laura,
Marian, Mr. Kyrle, and myself in one carriage ; and John
Owen, with a clerk from Mr. Kyrle's office, occupying places
in another. On reaching the Limmeridge station, we went
first to the farm-house at Todd's Corner. It was my firm
determination that Laura should not enter her uncle's house
till she appeared there publicly recognised as his niece. I
left Marian to settle the question of accommodation with Mrs.
Todd, as soon as the good woman had recovered from the
bewilderment of hearing what our errand was in Cumberland ;
and I arranged with her husband that John Owen was to be
committed to the ready hospitality of the farm-servants.
These preliminaries completed, Mr. Kyrle and I set forth
together for Limmeridge House.

I cannot write at any length of our interview with Mr.
Fairlie, for I cannot recall it to mind, without feelings of
impatience and contempt, which make the scene, even in re-
membrance only, utterly repulsive to me. I prefer to record
simply that I carried my point. Mr. Fairlie attempted to
tr at us on his customary plan. We passed without notice
hi3 polite insolence at the outset of the interview. We heard
without sympathy the protestations with which he tried next
to persuade us that the disclosure of the conspiracy had over-
whelmed him. He absolutely whined and whimpered, at
last, like a fretful child. ' How was he to know that his
niece was alive, when he was told that she was dead ? He
would welcome dear Laura, with pleasure, if we would only
allow him time to recover. Did we think he looked as if he
wanted hurrying into his grave ? TJo. Then, why hurry
him ? ' He reiterated these remonstrances at every available
opportunity, until I checked them once for all, by placing
him firmly between two inevitable alternatives. I gave him
his choice between doing his niece justice, on my terms — of
facing the consequences of a public assertion of her existence
in a court of law. Mr. Kyrle, to whom he turned for help,
told him plainly that he must decide the question, then and
there. Characteristically choosing the alternative which
promised soonest to release him from all personal anxiety, he
announced, with a sudden outburst of energy, that he was
not strong enough to bear any more bullying, and that we
might do as we pleased.

556

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

Mr. Kyrle and I at once went down-stairs, and agreed
upon a form of letter which was to be sent round to the
tenants who had attended the false funeral, summoning them,
in Mr. Fairlie's name, to assemble in Limmeridge House, on
the next day but one. An order, referring to the same
date, was also written, directing a statuary in Carlisle to
send a man to Limmeridge churchyard, for the purpose
of erasing an inscription — Mr. Kyrle, who had arranged to
sleep in the house, undertaking that Mr. Fairlie should hear
these letters read to him, and should sign them with his own
hand.

I occupied the interval day, at the farm, in writing a plain
narrative of the conspiracy, and in adding to it a statement
of the practical contradiction which facts offered to the asser-
tion of Laura's death. This I submitted to Mr. Kyrle, before
I read it, the next day, to the assembled tenants. We also
arranged the form in v.'hich the evidence should be presented at
the close of the reading. After these matters were settled, Mr.
Kyrle endeavoured to turn the conversation, next, to Laura's
affairs. Knowing, and desiring to know, nothing of those
affairs ; and doubting whether he would approve, as a man
of business, of my conduct in relation to my wife's life-
interest in the legacy left to Madame Fosco, I begged Mr.
Kyrle to excuse me if I abstained from discussing the subject.
It was connected, as I could truly tell him, with those sorrows
and troubles of the past, which we never referred to among
ourselves, and which we instinctively shrank from discussing
with others.

My last labour, as the evening approached, was to obtain
'The Narrative of the Tombstone,' by taking a copy of the
false inscription on the grave, before it was erased.

The day came — the day when Laura once more entered
the familiar breakfast-room at Limmeridge House. All the
persons assembled rose from their seats as Marian and I led
her in. A perceptible shock of surprise, an audible murmur
of interest, ran through them, at the sight of her face. Mr.
Fairlie was present (by my express stipulation), with Mr.
Kyrle by his side. His valet stood behind him with a smell-
ing-bottle ready in one hand, and a white handkerchief,
saturated with eau-de-Cologne, in the other.

I opened the proceedings by publicly appealing to Mr.
Fairlie to say whether I appeared there with his authority and
under his express sanction. He extended an arm, on either

557

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

side, to Mr. Kyrle and to his valet ; was by them assisted to
stand on his legs ; and then expressed himself in these terms :
'Allow me to present Mr. Hartright. I am as great an
invalid as ever ; and he is so very obliging as to speak for me.
The subject is dreadfully embarrassing. Please hear him —
and don't make a noise ! ' With those words, he slowly sank
back again into the chair, and took refuge in his scented
pocket-handkerchief.

The disclosure of the conspiracy followed — after I had
offered my preliminary explanation, first of all, in the fewest
and the plainest words. I was there present (1 informed my
hearers) to declare first, that my wife, then sitting by me, was
the daughter of the late Mr. Philip Fairlie ; secondly, to prove
by positive facts, that the funeral which they had attended in
Limmeridge churchyard, was the funeral of another woman ;
thirdly, to give them a plain account of how it had all hap-
pened. Without further preface, I at once read the narrative
of the conspiracy, describing it in clear outline, and dwelling
only upon the pecuniary motive for it, in order to avoid com-
plicating my statement by unnecessary reference to Sir
Percival's secret. This done, I reminded my audience of the
date on the inscription in the churchyard (the 25th), and con-
firmed its correctness by producing the certificate of death.
I then read them Sir Percival's letter of the 25th, announcing
his wife's intended journey from Hampshire to London on the
26th. I next showed that she had taken that journey, by the
personal testimony of the driver of the fly ; and I proved that
she had p>erformed it on the appointed day, by the order-book
at the livery stables. Marian then added her own statement
of the meeting between Laura and herself at the madhouse,
and of her sister's escape. After which I closed the proceed-
ings by informing the persons present of Sir Percival's death,
and of ray marriage.

Mr. Kyrle rose, when I resumed my seat, and declared, as
the legal adviser of the family, that my case was proved by
the plainest evidence he had ever heard in his life. As he
spoke those words, I put my arm round Laura, and raised
her so that she was plainly visible to every one in the room.
' Are you all of the same opinion ? ' I asked, advancing towards
them a few steps, and pointing to my wife.

The effect of the question was electrical. Far down at the
lower end of the room, one of the oldest tenants on the estate
started to his feet, and led the rest with him in an instant. I
see the man now, with his honest brown face and his iron-
grey hair, mounted on the window seat, waving his heavy

558

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

riding-whip over his head, and leading- the cheers. ' There
she is aUve and hearty — God bless her ! Gi' it tongue, lads !
Gi' it tongue ! ' The shout that answered him, reiterated
again and again, was the sweetest music I ever heard. The
labourers in the village and the boys from the school, assem-
bled on the lawn, caught up the cheering and echoed it back
on us. The farmers' wives clustered round Laura, and strug-
gled which should be first to shake hands with her, and to
implore her, with the tears pouring over their own cheeks, to
bear up bravely and not to cry. She was so completely over-
whelmed, that I was obliged to take her from them, and carry
her to the door. There I gave her into Marian's care —
Marian, who had never failed us yet, whose courageous self-
control did not fail us now. Left by myself at the door, I
invited all the persons present (after thanking them in Laura's
name and mine) to follow me to the churchyard, and see the
false inscription struck off the tombstone with their own
eyes.

They all left the house, and all joined the throng of vil-
lagers collected round the grave, where the statuary's man
was waiting for us. In a breathless silence, the first sharp
stroke of the steel sounded on the marble. Not a voice was
heard ; not a soul moved, till those three words, ' Laura,
Lady Glyde,' had vanished from sight. Then, there was a
great heave of relief among the crowd, as if they felt that the
last fetters of the conspiracy had been struck off Laura herself
— and the assembly slowly withdrev.'. It was late in the day
before the whole inscription was erased. One line only was
afterwards engraved in its place : ' Anne Catherick, July 25th,
1850.'

I returned to Limmeridge House early enough in the
evening to take leave of Mr. Kyrle. He, and his clerk, and
the driver of the fly, went back to London by the night train.
On their departure, an insolent message was delivered to me
from Mr. Fairlie — who had been carried from the room in a
shattered condition, when the first outbreak of cheering
answered my appeal to the tenantry. The message conveyed
to us ' Mr. Fairlie's best congratulations,' and requested to
know whether ' we contemplated stopping in the house.' I
sent back word that the only object for which we had entered
his doors was accomplished ; that I contemplated stopping
in no man's house but my own ; and that Mr. Fairlie need
not entertain the slightest apprehension of ever seeing us, or
hearing from us again. W^e went back to our friends at the
farm, to rest that night ; and the next morning — escorted to

559

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

the station, with the heartiest enthusiasm and good v.-ill, by
the whole village and by all the farmers in the neighbourhood
— we returned to London.

As our view of the Cumberland hills faded in the distance,
I thought of the first disheartening circumstances under which
the long struggle that was now past and over had been pur-
sued. It was strange to look back and to see, now, that the
poverty which had denied us all hope of assistance, had been
the indirect means of our success, by forcing me to act for
myself. If we had been rich enough to find legal help, v.-hat
would have been the result ? The gain (on Mr. Kyrle's own
showing) would have been more than doubtful ; the loss —
judging by the plain test of events as they had really happened
— certain. The Law would never have obtained me my inter-
view with Mrs. Catherick. The Law would never have made
Pesca the means of forcing a confession from the Count.

II.

Two more events remain to be added to the chain, before it
reaches fairly from the outset of the story to the close.

While our new sense of freedom from the long oppres-
sion of the past was still strange to us, I was sent for by the
friend who had given me my first employment in wood
engraving, to receive from him a fresh testimony of his regard
for my welfare. He had been commissioned by his employers
to go to Paris, and to examine for them a French discovery
in the practical application of his Art, the merits of which
they were anxious to ascertain. His own engagements
had not allowed him leisure time to undertake the errand ;
and he had most kindly suggested that it should be trans-
ferred to me. I could have no hesitation in thankfully
accepting the offer ; for if I acquitted myself of my commis-
sion as I hoped I should, the result would be a permanent
engagement on the illustrated newspaper, to which I was now
only occasionally attached.

I received my instructions and packed up for the journey
the next day. On leaving Laura once more (under what
changed circumstances !) in her sister's care, a serious con-
sideration recurred to me, which had more than once crossed
my wife's mind, as well as my own, already — I mean the
consideration of Marian's future. Had we any right to let
our selfish affection accept the devotion of all that generous
life ? Was it not our duty, our best expression of gratitude,
to forget ourselves, and to think only of her ? I tried to say

560

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

th)j, when we were alone for a moment, before I went away.
She took my hand, and silenced me at the first words.

After all that we three have suffered together,' she said,
' there can be no parting: between us, till the last parting of
all. My heart and my happiness, Walter, are with Laura
and you. Wait a little till there are children's voices at vour
fireside. I v/ill teach them to speak for me, in ///r/V' lan-
guage ; and the first lesson they say to their father and mother
shall be — We can't spare our aunt ! '

My journey to Paris was not undertaken alone. At the
eleventh hour, Pesca decided that he would accompany me.
He had not recovered his customary cheerfulness since the
night at the Opera ; and he determined to try what a week's
holiday would do to raise his spirits.

I performed the errand entrusted to me, and drew out the
necessary report, on the fourth day from our arrival in Paris.
The fifth day, I arranged to devote to sight-seeing and
amusements in Pesca's company.

Our hotel had been too full to accommodate us both on
the same floor. My room was on the second story, and
Pesca s was above me, on the third. On the morning of the
fifth day, I went up-stairs to see if the Professor was ready to
go out. Just before I reached the landing, I saw his door
opened from the inside ; a long, delicate, nervous hand (not
my friend's hand certainly) held it ajar. At the same time I
heard Pesca's voice saying eagerlv, in low tones, and in his
own language : ' I remember the name, but I don't know the
man. \ou saw at the Opera, he was so changed that I
could not recognise him. I will forward the report— I can do
no more.' 'No more need be done,' answered a second voice.
The door opened wide ; and the light-haired man with the
scar on his cheek— the man I had seen following Count
Fosco's cab a week before— came out. He bowed, as I drew
aside to let him pass— his face was fearfully pale— and he
held fast by the banisters, as he descended the" stairs.

I pushed open the door, and entered Pesca's room. He
was crouched up, in the strangest manner, in a corner of the
sofa. He seemed to shrink from me, when I approached
him.

' Am I disturbing you ? ' I asked. ' I did not know you
had a friend with you till I saw him come out. '

* No friend,' said Pesca, eagerly. ' I see him to-day for
tne first time, and the last.'

' I am afraid he has brought you bad news ? '

56J 00

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

* Horrible news, Walter ! Let us go back to London — I
don't want to stop here — I am sorry I ever came. The mis-
fortunes of my youth are very hard upon me,' he said, turning
his face to the wall ; ' very hard upon me, in my later time.
I try to forget them — and they will not forget mc !

'We can't return, I am afraid, before the afternoon,' I
replied. ' Would you like to come out with me, in the mean
time ? •

* No, my friend ; I will wait here. But let us go back to-
day— pray let us go back.'

' I left him with the assurance that he should leave Paris
that afternoon. We had arranged, the evening before, to
ascend the Cathedral of Notre-Dame, with Victor Hugo's
noble romance for our guide. There was nothing in the
French capital that I was more anxious to see — and I de-
parted by myself for the church.

Approaching Notre-Dame by the river-side, I passed, on
my way, the terrible dead-house of Paris — the Morgue. A
great crowd clamoured and heaved round the door. There
was evidently something inside which excited the popular
curiosity, and fed the popular appetite for horror.

I should have walked on to the church, if the conversation
of two men and a woman on the outskirts of the crowd had
not caught my ear. They had just come out from seeing the
sight in the Morgue ; and the account they were giving of the
dead body to their neighbours, described it as the corpse of a
man — a man of immense size, with a strange mark on his left
arm.

The moment those words reached me, I stopped, and took
my place with the crowd going in. Some dim foreshadowing
of the truth had crossed my mind, when I heard Pesca's voice
through the open door, and when I saw the stranger's face as
he passed me on the stairs of the hotel. Now, the truth itself
was revealed to me — revealed, in the chance words that had
just reached my ears. Other vengeance than mine had
followed that fated man from the theatre to his own door ;
from his own door to his refuge in Paris. Other vengeance
than mine had called him to the day of reckoning, and had
exacted from him the penalty of his life. The moment when
I had pointed him out to Pesca at the theatre, in the hearing
of that stranger by our side, who was looking for him too — •
was the moment that sealed his doom. I remembered the
struggle in my own heart, when he and I stood face to face —
the struggle before I could let him escape me — and shuddered
as I recalled it.

562

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

Slowly, inch by inch, I pressed in with the crowd, movino-
nearer and nearer to the gfreat glass screen that parts the
dead from the living at the Morgue— nearer and nearer, till
1 was close behind the front row of spectators, and could
look in.

There he lay, unowned, unknown ; exposed to the flippant
curiosity of a French mob ! There was the dreadful end of
that long life of degraded ability and heartless crime ! Hushed
in tne sublime repose of death, the broad, firm, massive face
and head fronted us so grandly, that the chattering French-
u-omen about me lifted their hands in admiration, and cried
in shri chorus, ' Ah, what a handsome man ! The wound that
had killed him had been struck with a knife or dagger exactlv
over his heart. No other traces of violence appeared about
the body, except on the left arm ; and there, exactlv in the
place where I had seen the brand on Pesca's arm, were two
deep cuts in the shape of the letter T, which entirely oblite-
rated the mark of the Brotherhood. His clothes, hung above
him, showed that he had been himself conscious of his dano-er
—they were clothes that had disguised him as a French
artisan. For a few moments, but not for longer, I forced my-
selt to see these things through the glass screen. I can write
ot them at no greater length, for I saw no more.

The few facts in connexion with his death which I subse-
quently ascertained (partly from Pesca and partlv from other
sources), may be stated here, before the subject 'is dismissed
rrom these pages.

His body was taken out of the Seine, in the disguise which
1 have described, nothing being found on him which revealed
his name, his rank, or his place of abode. The hand that
struck him was never traced, and the circumstances under
which hewas killed were never discovered. I leave others to
draw their own conclusions, in reference to the secret of the
assassination, as I have drawn mine. When I have intimated
that the foreigner with the scar was a Member of the Brother-
hood (admitted in Italy, after Pesca's departure from his native
country), and when I have further added that the two cuts
in the form of a T, on the left arm of the dead man, signified
the Italian word, ' Traditore,' and showed that justice had
been done by the Brotherhood on a traitor, I have contributed
all that I know towards elucidating the mystery of Count
I'osco's death.

The body was identified, the day after I had seen it, by
means of an anonymous letter addressed to his wife. He was

563

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

buried, by Madame Fosco, In the cemetery of P^re-Lachaise.
Fresh funeral wreaths continue, to this day, to be hung-
on the ornamental bronze railings round the tomb, by the
Countess's own hand. She lives, in the strictest retirement,
at Versailles. Not long- since, she published a Biography
of her deceased husband. The work throws no light what-
ever on the name that was really his own, or on the secret
history of his life : it is almost entirely devoted to the praise of
his domestic virtues, the assertion of his rare abilities, and the
enumeration of the honours conferred on him. The clrcum.-
stances attending his death are very briefly noticed ; and are
summed up, on the last page, in this sentence : — ' His life was
one long assertion of the rights of the aristocracy and the
sacred principles of Order — and he died a r>Iartyr to his
cause.'

III.

The summer and autumn passed, after my return from Paris,
and brought no changes with them which need be noticed
here. We lived so simply and quietly, that the income which
I was now steadily earning sufticed for all our wants.

In the February of the new year, our first child was born
— a son. My mother and sister and Mrs. Vesey were our
guests at the little christening party ; and Mrs. Clements was
present, to assist my wife, on the same occasion. Marian
was our boy's godmother ; and Pesca and Mr. Gilmore (the
latter acting by proxy) were his godfathers. I may add here,
that when Mr. Gilmore returned to us, a year later, he
assisted the design of these pages, at my request, by writing
the Narrative which appears early in the story under his name,
and which, though first in order of precedence, was thus, in
order of time, the last that I received.

The only event in our lives which now remains to be
recorded, occurred when our little Walter was six months
old.

At that time, I was sent to Ireland, to make sketches for
certain forthcoming illustrations in the newspaper to which I
was attached. I was away for nearly a fortnight, corre-
sponding regularly with my wife and Marian, except during
the last three days of my absence, when my movements were
too uncertain to enable me to receive letters. I performed
the latter part of m}' journey back, at night ; and when I
reached home in the morning, to my utter astonishment,
there was no one to receive me. Laura and Marian and the
child had left the house on the day before my return.

564

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

A note from my wife, which was given to me by the servant,
only increased my surprise, by informing- me that they had
gone to Limmeridge House. Marian had prohibited any
attempt at written explanations — I was entreated to follow
them the moment I came back — complete enlightenment
awaited me on my arrival in Cumberland — and I was forbidden
to feel the slightest anxiety, in the mean time. There the
note ended.

It was still early enough to catch the morning train. I
reached Limmeridge House the same afternoon.

My wife and Marian were both up-stairs. They had
established themselves (by way of completing my amazement)
in the little room which had been once assigned to me for a
studio, when I was employed on Mr. Fairlie's drawings. On
the very chair which I used to occupy when I was at work,
Marian was sitting now, with the child industriously sucking
his coral upon her lap — while Laura was standing by the well-
remembered drawing-table which I had so often used, with
the little album that I had filled for her, in past times, open
under her hand.

' What in the name of Heaven has brought you here ? ' I
asked. * Does Mr. Fairlie know ? '

Marian suspended the question on my lips, by telling me
that Mr. Fairlie was dead. He had been struck by paralysis,
and had never rallied after the shock. Mr. Kyrle had informed
them of his death, and had advised them to proceed im-
mediately to Limmeridge House.

Some dim perception of a great change dawned on my
mind. Laura spoke before I had quite realised it. She stole
close to me, to enjoy the surprise which was still expressed in
my face.

'My darling Walter," she said, 'must we really account
for our boldness in coming here ? I am afraid, love, I can
only explain it by breaking through our rule, and referring to
the past.'

' There is not the least necessity for doing anything of the
kind,' said Marian. 'We can be just as expHcit, and much
more interesting, by referring to the future.' She rose ; and
held up the child, kicking and crowing in her arms. ' Do you
know who this is, Walter ? ' she asked, with bright tears of
happiness gathering in her eyes.

' Even my bewilderment has its limits,' I replied. ' I think
I can still answer for knowing my own child.'

* Child ! ' she exclaimed, with all her easy gaiety of old
times. ' Do you talk in that familiar manner of one of the

565

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

landed gentry of England ? Are you aware, when I present j
this illustrious baby to your notice, in whose presence you
stand ? Evidently not ! Let me make two eminent person-
ages known to one another : Mr. Walter Hartright — the Heir
of Lirnmeridge.^

So she spoke. In writing those last words, I have written
all. The pen falters in my hand ; the long, happy labour of
many months is over ! Marian was the good angel of our lives '
■ — let Marian end our Story.

THE END

PRINTED BV

SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARg

LONDON

BINDING Si SEP 1

PR Collins, Wilkie

UU9U The woman in white

1896

PLEASE DO NOT REMOVE
CARDS OR SLIPS FROM THIS POCKET

UNIVERSITY OF TORONTO LIBRARY

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