W8
1876'
CORNELL
UNIVERSITY
LIBRARY
THIS BOOK IS ONE OF A
COLLECTION MADE BY
BENNO LOEWY
1854-1919
AND BEQUEATHED TO
CORNELL UNIVERSITY
Cornell University Library
PR 4494.W8 1875
The original of this book is in
the Cornell University Library.
There are no known copyright restrictions in
the United States on the use of the text.
http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013466580
I TURNED ON THE INSTANT, WITH MY FINGEKS TIGHTENING BOUND THE
HANDLE OF MY STICK. — [SEE P. 28.]
THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
7l Notjcl.
By WILKIE COLLINS,
AUTHOR OF
'ANTONINA," "POOR MISS FINCH," "MAN AND WIFE," "NO NAME,'
"THE DEAD SECRET," "ARMADALE," &c.
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS.
NEW YORK:
HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS,
FRANKLIN SQUARE.
WlLKIE COLLINS'S NOVELS.
HARPER'S ILLUSTRATED LIBRARY EDITION.
12mo, Cloth, $1 SO per Volume.
ARMADALE.
MAN AND WIFE.
BASIL, TOOK MISS FINC1I.
HIDE-AND-SEEK. THIS MOONSTONE.
THE NEW MAGDALEN. TEE WOMAN IN WHITE.
NO NAME. TaE B^P SECRET.
QUEEN OF BEAUTS. JaFTEB. DARK, and Othir Sl-ri,,.
MY MISCELLANIES. ANT0N1NA.
THE LAW AND THE LADY.
Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873, by
Harper & Brothers,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
faU^ZsU, /^>'3-
TO
BRYAN WALLER PROCTER,
FROM ONE OF HIS YOUNGER BRETHREN IN LITERATURE,
WHO SINCERELY VALUES HIS FRIENDSHIP,
AND WHO GRATEFULLY REMEMBERS
MANY HAPPY HOURS SPENT IN HIS HOUSE.
PREFACE TO THE PRESENT EDITION.
" The Woman in White " has been received with such marked favor 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 on
the subject of the present edition — the first issued in a portable and popular
form — may be summed up in few words.
I have endeavored, 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 inter-
est of the narrative — but it was as well to remove them at the first opportu-
nity, 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 oth-
ers— to preserve myself from unintentionally misleading my readers. A so-
licitor of great experience in his profession most kindly and carefully guided
my steps, whenever the course of the narrative 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 referred 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.
It is no affectation on my part to say that the success of this book has been
especially welcome to me, because it implied the recognition of a literary prin-
ciple 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 performed this first condition of his art, was in danger,
1*
10 PREFACE.
on that account, of neglectiagthe delineation of character— for this plain rea-
son, that the effect produced by any narrative of events is essentially depend-
ent, njjtsBr the events themselves, but on the human interest which is directly
connected with them. It may be possible, in novel-writing, to present charac-
ters successfully without telling a story; but it is not possible to tell a story suc-
cessfully without presenting characters : their existence, as recognizable real-
ities, being the sole condition on which the story can be effectively told. Tho
only narrative which can hope to lay a strong hold on the attention of read-
ers, is a narrative which interests them about men and women — for the per-
fectly obvious reason that they are men and women themselves.
The reception accorded to " The Woman in White " has practically con-
firmed 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 tho
testimony, voluntarily addressed to me, of the readers themselves — is never
disconnected from the interest of character. "Laura," "Miss Halcombe,"
and "AnneCatherick;" "Count Fosco," "Mr. Fairlie," and "Walter Hart-
right;" 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.
THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
The Story begun by Walter Habteight, of Clements Inn,
Teacher of Drawing.
This is the story 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 fathom every
case of suspicion, and to conduct every process of inquiry, with mod-
erate assistance only, from the lubricating influences of oil of gold,
the events which fill these pages 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 might once have heard it, so
the Reader shall hear it now. No circumstance of importance, from
the beginning to the end of the disclosure, shall be related on hear-
say evidence. When the writer of these introductory lines (Walter
Hartright, by name) happens to be more closely connected than oth-
ers with the incidents to be recorded, he will describe them in his
own person. When his experience fails, he will retire from the po-
sition 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 cir-
cumstances under notice from their own knowledge, just as clearly
and positively as he has spoken before them.
Thus, the story here presented will be told by more than one pen,
as the story of an offense against the laws is told in Court 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 complete series of events, by making the per-
sons who have been most closely connected with them, at each suc-
cessive stage, relate their own experience, word for word.
Let Walter Hartright, teacher of drawing, aged twenty-eight years,
be heard first.
12 THE WOMAN IX WHITE.
II.
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 corn-fields,
and the autumn breezes on the sea-shore.
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 managed my professional resources
as carefully as usual ; and my extravagance 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 was dreaming over rather than reading, and left my
chambers to meet the cool night air in the suburbs. It was one of
the^wo evenings in every week which I was accustomed to spend
with my mother and my sister. So I turned my steps northward, 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 labors, 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 neces-
sary to set aside for that purpose. Thanks to his admirable pru-
dence 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 quiet twilight 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 Pro-
fessor Pesca, appeared in the servant's place ; and darted out joy-
ously to receive 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 WOMAN IN WHITE. 13
the Professor merits the honor of a formal introduction. 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 with 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 uni-
formly declined to mention to any one) ; and that he had been for
many years respectably established in London as a teacher of lan-
guages.
Without being actually a dwarf— for he was perfectly well-pro-
portioned from head to foot — Pesca was, I think, the smallest hu-
man being I ever saw, out of a show-room. Eemarkable anywhere,
by his personal appearance, he was still further distinguished among
the rank and file of mankind 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 as-
pired 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 inno-
cence 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 amuse-
ments of the field, by an effort 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 crick-
et-field; and, soon afterward, I saw him risk his life, just as blindly,
in the sea at Brighton.
We had met there accidentally, and were bathing together. 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 wa-
ter 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 me 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
14 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
poor little man was lying quietly coiled up at the bottom, in a hol-
low 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 sub-
ject 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 En-
glish restraints, in a moment.- He overwhelmed me with the wildest
expressions of affection — exclaimed passionately, in his exaggerated
Italian way, that he would hold his life, henceforth, at my disposal
— and declared that he should never be happy again, until he had
found an opportunity 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 protestations,
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 afterward when our pleasant holiday had drawn
to an end — that the opportunity of serving me for which my grate-
ful 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 water on his shingle bed, I should, in all human probabili-
ty, never have been connected with the story which these pages will
relate — I 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.
III.
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 use-
less, 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 un-
usually agreeable kind.
We both bounced into the parlor in a highly abrupt and undigni-
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 15
fied manner. My mother sat by the open window, laughing and
fanning herself. Pesca was one of her especial favorites ; and his
wildest eccentricities were always pardonable 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 pe-
culiarities 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 quali-
ties 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 appear-
ances ; and she was always more or less undisguisedly astonished at
her mother's familiarity with the eccentric little foreigner. I have
observed, 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 al-
together fails to ruffle the tranquillity of their serene grandchildren.
Are we, I wonder, quite such genuine boys and girls now as our sen-
iors 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 ?
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 wom-
an 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 parlor, Sarah was perturbedly picking up the broken pieces
of a tea-cup, which the Professor had knocked off the table in his
precipitate advance to' meet me at the door.
" I don't know what would have happened, Walter," 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," murmured 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 suf-
fered at his hands, was dragging a large arm-chair. 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
16 THE WOMAN IX WHITE.
with its back toward us, he jumped into it on his knees, and excita-
bly 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 Mends "), " listen to me. The time
has come — I recite my good news — I speak at last."
" Hear, hear !" said my mother, humoring the joke. •%
" The next thing he will break, mamma," whispered Sarah, " will
be the back of the best arm-chair."
" I go back into my life, and I address myself to the noblest of
created beings," continued Pesca, vehemently apostrophizing my un-
worthy 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 connection with this sub-
ject 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. I said that
I should never be happy again till I had found the opportunity of
doing a good Something for Walter — and I have never been con-
tented with myself till this most blessed day. Now," cried the en-
thusiastic little man at the top of his voice, " the overflowing happi-
ness bursts out of me at every pore of my skin, like a perspiration ;
for on my faith, and soul, and honorrthe 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 where I teach the language of
my native country," said the Professor, rushing into his long-de-
ferred 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
t 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
THE WOMAN IX WHITE. 17
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 ! — my-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 out-
side, 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 so
far ? or have you said to yourselves, ' Deuce-what-the-deuce ! Pesca
is long-winded to-night V "
We declared that we were deeply interested. The Professor went
on:
" In his hand, the golden Papa has a letter ; and after he has
made his excuse for disturbing us in our Infernal Region with the
common mortal Business of the house, he addresses himself to the
three young Misses, and begins, as you English begin every thing in
this blessed world that you have to say, with a great O. ' O, my
dears,' says the mighty merchant, ' I have got here a letter from my
friend, Mr. ' (the name has slipped out of my mind ; but no mat-
ter ; 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 money, 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 V The
three young Misses all look at each other, and then say (with the in-
dispensable great O to begin) ' 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 !
, o THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
f tlle world! Recommend
The first and foremost drawing-master ^o^ aIld baggage (English
him by the post to-night an dsj and baggage, by the train to-
phrase again-ha ?), send tan , ,iB he a foreignerj or an English-
morrow !' ' St°P, stop,e wy^ ^ feackj, x answer. « Respectable ?'
man?' ' English ; o ^ ^ lagt question 0f ^g outrages me,
says Papa, ^ being famiUar wita hinl))<Bir! the immortal fire
T«miuB 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 country, unless it is accompanied by respectability—
and then we are very glad to have it, very glad indeed. Can your
friend produce testimonials — letters that speak to his character?' I
wave my hand negligently. ' Letters ?' I say. ' Ha ! my-soul-bless-my-
soul ! I should think so, indeed ! Volumes of letters and port-folios
of testimonials, if you like V ' 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 honor, I know noth-
ing more ! The glorious thought that I have caught my opportuni-
ty at last, and that my grateful service for my dearest friend in the
world is as good as clone already, flies up into my head and makes
me drunk. How I pull my young Misses and myself out of our In-
fernal Region again, how my other business is done afterward 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 kmg I 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 hi, shvin t.. v '
ody on an English cheer. Sim11 Itallan V^-
My mother rose the moment he had done, with flush,^ ^i n
brightened eyes. She caught the little man warmly hv W?™ T
" My dear, good Pesca," she said, « I never doubtedVc^ "
fection for Walter— but I am more than ever persuaded of it ,«
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 19
" I am sure we are very much obliged to Professor Pesca, for Wal-
ter's sake," added Sarah. She half rose, while she spoke, as if to
approach the arm-chair, in her turn ; but, observing that Pesca was
rapturously kissing my mother's hands, looked serious, and resumed
her seat. " If the familiar little man treats my mother in that way,
how will he treat me?" Faces sometimes tell truth; and that was
unquestionably the thought in Sarah's mind, as she sat down again.
Although I myself was gratefully sensible of the kindness of Pes-
ca's motives, my spirits were hardly so much elevated as they ought
to have been by the prospect of future employment now placed be-
fore 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 comprehensive,
at any rate. It informed me,.
First, That Frederick Fairlie, Esquire, of Limmeridge House, Cum-
berland, 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 per-
form would be of a twofold kind. He was to superintend the in-
struction of two young ladies in the art of painting in water-colors ;
and he was to devote his leisure time, afterward, 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 under-
take 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 applying for
this situation, unless he could furnish the most unexceptionable ref-
erences 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 was cer-
tainly 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 was least occupied; and the terms, judging by my
20 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
personal experience in my profession, were surprisingly liberal I
Jtnew 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 pain-
fully 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, straight-
ening herself in her chair; " and on such gratifying terms of equali-
ty too!"
" Yes, yes ; the terms, in every sense, are tempting enough," I re-
plied, impatiently. " But before I send in my testimonials, I should
like a little time to consider — "
" Consider !" exclaimed my mother. " Why, Walter, what is the
matter with you ?"
" Consider !" echoed my sister. " What a very extraordinary 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 countiy 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 so-
ciety 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 behavior nor
Pesca's fervid enumeration of the advantages offered to me by the
new employment, had any effect in shaking my unreasonable disin-
clination 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 dis-
comfiture, I tried to set up a last obstacle by asking what was to be-
come 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
THE WOMAN IX WHITE. 21
travels, and that tlie few who remained at home might be confided
to the cafe of one of my brother drawing-masters, whose pupils I
had once taken off his hands under similar circumstances. My sis-
ter reminded me that this gentleman had expressly placed his serv-
ices 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 remon-
strances would have influenced any man with an atom of good feel-
ing in his composition. Though I could not conquer my own un-
accountable 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 an-
ticipations of my coming life with the two young ladies in Cumber-
land. Pesca, inspired by our national grog, which appeared to get
into his head, in the most marvelous 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 suc-
cession ; 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, immediately afterward, for
the whole party. " A secret, Walter," said my little friend confiden-
tially, as we walked home together. " I am flushed by the recollec-
tion of my own eloquence. My sonl bursts itself with ambition.
One of these days, I go into your noble Parliament. It is the dream
of my whole life to be Honorable Pesca, M.P. !"
The next morning I sent my testimonials to the Professor's em-
ployer in Portland Place. Three days passed; and I concluded,
with secret satisfaction, that my papers had not been found .suffi-
ciently explicit. On the fourth day, however, an answer came. It
announced that Mr. Fairlie accepted my services, and requested me
to start for Cumberland immediately. All the necessary instructions
for my journey were carefully and clearly added in a postscript.
I made my arrangements, unwillingly enough, for leaving London
early the next day. Toward 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, gayly,
"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 ; be-
22 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
come Honorable 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 farewell words.
When I was left alone again, nothing remained to be done but to
walk to the Hampstead Cottage and bid my mother and Sarah
good-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 mysteri-
ous 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
purer air, by the most roundabout way I could take ; to follow the
white winding paths across the lonely heath ; and to approach Lon-
don through the most open suburb by striking into the Finchley
road, and so getting back, in the cool of the new morning, by the
western side of the Regent's Park.
I wound my way down slowly over the Heath, enjoying the di-
vine stillness of the scene, and admiring the soft alternations of light
and shade as they followed 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 con-
cerned, I can hardly say that I thought at all.
But when I had left the Heath, and had turned into the by-roarl
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.
Pairlie, and of the two ladies whose practice in the art of water-color
painting I was so soon to superintend.
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 23
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 remem-
ber, 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 han-
dle 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.
" 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 colorless, youthful face, meagre and sharp
to look at, about the cheeks and chin ; large, grave, wistfully-atten-
tive eyes ; nervous, uncertain lips ; and light hair of a pale, brown-
ish-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 cu-
riously still and mechanical in its tones, and the utterance was re-
markably 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 extravagance. This
was all that I could observe of her, in the dim light and under the
perplexingly-strarige 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
have 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 with-
24 THE WOMAN IX WHITE.
out 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 any thing wrong, do ycu ? I
have done nothing wrong. I have met with an accident — I am veiy
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 re-assure 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 road, because it seemed to
me to be empty the instant before I saw you."
She turned, and pointed back to a place at the junction of the
road to London and the road to Hampstead, where there was a gap
in the hedge.
" I heard you coming," she said, " and hid there to see what sort
of man you were, 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 mc ? 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 2" She stopped in confusion ;
shifted her bag from one hand to the other ; and sighed bitterly.
The loneliness 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, which an older, wiser, and
colder man might have summoned to help him in this strange
emergency.
" You may trust me for any harmless purpose," I said. " If it
troubles you to explain your strange situation to me, don't think of
returning to the subject again. I have no right to ask you for any
explanations. Tell me how I can help you; and if I can, I will."
" You are very kind, and I am very, very thankful to have met
you." The first touch of womanly tenderness that I had heard from
her, trembled in her voice as she said the words; but no tears glis-
tened in those large, wistfully-attentive eyes of hers, which were still
fixed on me. "I have only been in London once before," she went
on, more and more rapidly; "and I know nothing about that side
of it, yonder. Can I get a fly, or a carnage of any kind ? Is it too
late ? I don't know. If you could show me where to get a fly—
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 25
and if you 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 glad to receive me — I want nothing else — will you promise ?"
She looked anxiously up and down the road; shifted her bag
again from one hand to the other; repeated the words, "Will you
promise 2" and looked hard in my face, with a pleading fear and
confusion that it troubled me to see.
What could I do ? Here was a stranger utterly and helplessly at
my mercy— ^and that stranger a forlorn woman. No house was near ;
no one was passing whom I could consult ; and no earthly right ex-
isted 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-distrustfully,
with the shadows of after-events darkening the very paper I 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'll 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 stealthiness, 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 toward London, and walked on together in the
first still hour of the new day — I, and this woman, whose name,
whose character, whose story, whose objects in life, whose very pres-
ence 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 companion for some min-
utes. 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 unmistakable tone
of suspicion in the strange question. I hesitated about answering it.
" Some," I said, after a moment's silence.
2
26 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
" Many " — she came to a full stop, and looked me searchingly in
the face — " many men of the rank of Baronet ?"
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, controlled herself
again, and added, in tones lowered to a whisper : " Tell me which
of them you know."
I could hardly refuse to humor her in such a trifle, and I mention-
ed three names. Two, the names of fathers of families whose daugh-
ters I had taught; one the name of a bachelor who had once taken
me a cruise in his yacht, to make sketches for him.
"Ah ! you don't 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 characterized all her actions.
" Not a man of rank and title," she repeated to herself. " Thank
God ! I may trust Aim."
I had hitherto contrived to master my curiosity out of considera-
tion 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
wrong ? 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, bein^
forbidden to make any more inquiries, I stole a look at her face It
was always the same; the lips close shut, the brow frownin" the
eyes looking straight forward, eagerly and yet absently. We 'had
reached the first houses, and were close on the new Wesleyan Col-
lege, before her set features relaxed, and she spoke once more
" Do you live in London ?" she said.
" Yes." As I answered, it struck me that she might have formed
some intention of appealing to me for assistance or advice, and that
I ought to spare her a possible disappointment by warning her of
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 2.7
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 V
" North — to Cumberland."
" Cumberland !" she repeated the word tenderly. " Ah ! I wish I
was going there, too. I was once happy in Cumberland."
I tried again to lift the veil that hung between this woman and
me.
" Perhaps you were born," 1 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 remem-
ber any lakes. It's Limmeridge Tillage, 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 any body calling after us ?" she asked, looking up
and down the road affiightedly, 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 my people. Mrs. Fairlie is dead ; and her husband 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 speaking, we
came within view of the turnpike, at the top of the 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 houses
seemed to agitate her, and to make her impatient.
" 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."
I explained to her that we must walk a little farther to get to a
cab-stand, unless we were fortunate enough to meet with an empty
vehicle ; and then tried to resume the subject of Cumberland. It
was useless. That idea of shutting herself in, and being driven away,
had now got full possession of her mind. She could think and talk
of nothing else.
• We 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,
28 _THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
on the opposite side of the way. A gentleman got out and let him-
self in at the garden door. I hailed the cab, as the driver mounted
the box again. When we crossed the road, my companion's impa-
tience 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 toward Tottenham Court
road," said the driver, civilly, when I opened the cab door. " My
horse is dead beat, and I can't get him no farther 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. v "
I had assured myself that the man was sober as 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
t"
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 distress-
ing 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 stop-
ping again absently. At one moment, I found myself doubting the
reality of my own adventure ; at another, I was perplexed and dis-
tressed by an uneasy sense of having done wrong, which yet left me
confusedly ignorant 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
nothing 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 Eegent'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.
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 29
" Policeman !" cried the first speaker. " Have you seen a woman
pass this way ?"
" What sort of woman, sir 1"
"A woman in a lavender-colored 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.
" Why are we to stop her, sir ? What has she done ?"
"Done! She has escaped from my Asylum. Don't forget: a
woman in white. Drive on."
" She has escaped from my Asylum !"
I can not say with truth that the terrible inference which those
words suggested flashed upon me like a new revelation. Some of the
strange questions put to me by the woman in white, after my ill-con-
sidered 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. 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 connection with 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 stranger had ad-
dressed 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
was 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 jour-
ney to Cumberland. I sat down and tried, first to sketch, then to
read — but the woman in white got between me and my pencil, be-
tween 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 har-
30 THE WOMAN IX WHITE.
rowing to dwell. Where had she stopped the cab ? What had be-
come of her now ? Had she been traced and captured by the men
in the chaise ? Or was she still capable of controlling her own ac-
tions? and were we two following our widely-parted roads toward
one point in the mysterious future, at which we were to meet once
more?
It was a jjelief when the hour came to lock my door, to bid fare-
well to London pursuits, London pupils, and London friends, and to
be in movement again toward 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 traveling 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 Lan-
caster 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 immediately. I had to wait some hours ; and when a later train
finally deposited me at the nearest station to Limmeridge House, it
was past ten, and the night was so dark that I could hardly see my
way to the pony-chaise which Mr. Fairlie had ordered to be in wait-
ing for me.
The driver was evidently discomposed by the lateness of my ar-
rival. He was in that state of highly-respectful sulkiness which is
peculiar to English servants. We drove away slowly through the
darkness in perfect silence. The roads were bad, and the dense ob-
scurity 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 was awaiting me, in a forlorn manner, at one extremity of a
lonesome mahogany 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 elaborately 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 bed-chamber
The solemn servant conducted me into a prettily furnished room-
said, " Breakfast at nine o'clock, sir"— looked all round him to see
that every thing was in its proper place— and noiselessly withdrew
" Wlat 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 in-
TIJE WOMAN IN WHITE. 31
habitants 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 !
VI.
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 melt-
ing 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 in
reference to the present or the future, took possession of my mind.
Circumstances that were but a few days old, faded back in my mem-
ory, 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 Hampstead — had all become like events which might have oc-
curred 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 wander-
ing among the passages, and compassionately 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
toward 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 toward me immedi-
ately. 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 win-
32 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
dow— 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 can not err,
more flatly contradicted— never was the fair promise of a lovely fig-
ure 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 was almost a mustache. 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 dis-
comfort familiar to us all in sleep, when we recognize yet can not
reconcile the anomalies and contradictions of a dream.
"Mr. Hartright?" said the lady, interrogatively ; her dark fece
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 ap-
parent 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 8"
These odd words of welcome were spoken in a clear, ringing, pleas-
ant 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 Si as
cordial and customary a manner as if we had known each other for
years, and had met at Limmeridge-House to talk over „M Ses t
previous appointment. uiuts> vy
"I hope you come here good-humoredly determined to make the
best of your position," continued the lady. « You win l* 7 if
gin this morning by putting up with no o^her Sp^^SSS
than mine. My sister is in her own room, nursing thJ \- f,
feminine malady, a slight headache; and Coll ^Jf I *
Vesey, is charitably attending on her with restorativf tea ^'
cle, Mr. Fairlie, never joins us at any of our meals • he is an • r*5"
and keeps bachelor state in his own apartments. There is nob d
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. - 33
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. Fairlie's invalid condition)
we'produced no such convenience in the house as a flirtable, dance-
able, 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 ta-
ble. You see I don't think much of my own sex, Mr. Hartright —
which 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 you will
have for breakfast? or are you surprised at my careless way of talk-
ing ? 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-bye)
to hold my tongue."
She handed me my cup of tea, laughing gayly. 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 confi-
dence in herself and her position, which would haye secured her the
respect of the most audacious man breathing. While it was impos-
sible 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 gayety of spirits — even while I did my best to
answer her in her own frank, lively way.
" Yes, yes," she said, when I had suggested the only explanation 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 worthy 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.
Faii-lie, 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. Every body thinks me crabbed and odd (with per-
fect justice) ; and every body thinks her sweet-tempered and charm-
ing (with more justice still). In short, she is an angel; and I am —
2*
34 THE -WOMAN IN WHITE.
Try some of that marmalade, Mr. Hartright, and finish the sentence,
in the name of female propriety, for yourself. What am I to tell you
about Mr. Fairlie ? Upon my honor, I hardly know. He is sure to
send for you after breakfast, and you can study him for yourself. In
the mean time, I may inform you, first, that he is the late Mr. Fan-he'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 thrown entirely upon our society. Mrs. Vesey is an ex-
cellent person, who possesses all the cardinal virtues, and counts for
nothing : and Mr. Fairlie is too great an invalid to be a companion
for any body. I don't know what is the matter with 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 humor his little peculiarities, when you see
him to-day. Admire his collection of coins, prints, and water-color
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 will occupy you. After lunch, Miss Fairlie and I shoulder
our sketch-books, and go out to misrepresent nature, under your di-
rections. Drawing is her favorite whim, mind, not mine. Women
can't draw — their minds are too flighty, and their eyes are too inat-
tentive. 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 Fair-
lie 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, back-
gammon, ecartfi, 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 hum-
drum atmosphere of Limmeridge House ?"
She had run on thus far, in her gracefully bantering -way, with no
other interruptions on my part than the unimportant replies which
politenesss required of me. The turn of the expression, however in
her last question, or rather the one chance word, " adventure " light-
ly 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
THE WOiTAN IN WHITE. 35
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 adven-
ture ; and the wonder and excitement of it, I can assure you, Miss
Halcombe, will last me for the whole term of my stay in Cumber-
land, 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 gratitude and regard."
" Mentioned my mother's name ! You interest me indescribably.
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 repeated what
she had said to me about Mrs. Fairlie and Limmeridge House, word
for word.
Miss Halcomb'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," 1* replied. " Whosoever she may be, the woman was
once at school in the village of Limmeridge, was treated with es-
pecial 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."
" You said, I think, that she denied belonging to this place ?"
" Yes, she told me she came from Hampshire."
" And you entirely failed to find out her name ?"
"Entirely."
"Very strange. I think you were quite justified, Mr. Hartright, in
giving the poor creature her liberty, for she seems to have done noth-
ing in your presence to show herself unfit to enjoy it. But I wish
you had been a little more resolute about finding out her name. We
must really clear up this mystery, in some way. You had better not
speak of it yet to Mr. Fairlie, 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 connection with us can be, as I am myself. But they
are also, in widely different ways, rather nervous and sensitive ; apd
36 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
you would only fidget one and alarm the other to no purpose. As
for myself, I am all aflame with curiosity, and I devote my whole en-
ergies to the business of discovery from this moment. When my
mother came here, after her second marriage, she certainly establish-
ed the village school just as it exists at the present time. But the
old teachers are all dead, or gone elsewhere ; and no enlightenment
is to be hoped for from that quarter. The only other alternative I
can think of — "
At this point we were interrupted by the entrance of the servant,
with a message from Mr. Fairlie, 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, addressing me again, " that my sis-
ter 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
constantly away from his country home ; and she was accustomed,
at such times, to write and report to him how things went on at Lim-
meridge. 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. Hartright. I shall have the pleasure of introducing
you to my sister by that time, and we will occupy the afternoon in
driving round the neighborhood and showing you all our pet points
of view. Till two o'clock, then, farewell."
She nodded to me with the lively grace, the delightful refinement
of familiarity, which characterized 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 toward the hall, and fol-
lowed 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 bed-chamber 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 every thing 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 beau-
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 37
ty ; the table in the centre was bright with gayly-bound books, ele-
gant conveniences for writing, and beautiful flowers ; the second ta-
ble, near the window, was covered with all the necessary materials
for mounting water-color drawings, and had a little easel attached to
it, which I could expand or fold up at will ; the walls were hung
with gayly-tinted chintz ; and the floor was spread with Indian mat-
ting in maize-color and red. It was the prettiest and most luxurious
little sitting-room I had ever seen ; and I admired it with the warm-
est enthusiasm.
The solemn servant was far too highly trained to betray the slight-
est satisfaction. He bowed with icy deference when my terms of eu-
logy 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
N a short flight of stairs at the end, crossed a small circular upper hall,
and stopped in front of a door covered with 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. Hartright," 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 of the room was occu-
pied by a long book-case 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 Dresden 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 me, the windows were concealed and the
sunlight was tempered by large blinds of the same pale sea-green
color as the curtains over the door. The light thus produced was de-
liriously 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 that possessed the place; and it surround-
ed, with an appropriate halo of repose, the solitary figure of the mas-
ter 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-
38 THE WOJIAX IS WniTE.
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 reasonably computed at over fifty
and under sixty years. His beardless face was thin, worn, and trans-
parently 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 color which is the last to disclose its own
changes toward gray. He was dressed in a dark frock-coat, of some
substance much thinner than cloth, and in waistcoat and trowsers of
spotless white. His feet were effeminately small, and were clad in
buff-colored silk stockings, and little womanish bronze-leather slip-
pers. 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 morn-
ing's experience of Miss Halcombe had predisposed me to be pleased
with every body in the house; but my sympathies shut themselves
up resolutely at the first sight of Mr. Fairlie.
On approaching nearer to him, I discovered that he was not so en-
tirely without occupation as I had at first supposed. Placed amidst
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 vel-
vet. One of these drawers lay on the small table attached to his
chair; and near it were some tiny jewelers' brushes, a wash-leather
" stump," and a little bottle of liquid, all waiting to be used in vari-
ous 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 any thing but
an agreeable manner, a discordantly high tone with a drowsily lan-
guid utterance. "Pray sit down. And don't trouble yourself to
move the chair, please. In the wretched state of my nerves move-
ment of any kind is exquisitely 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
THE -WOMAN IN WHITE. 39
holding up one of Ms white hands imploringly. I paused in astonish-
ment ; and the croaking voice honored 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 inde-
scribable 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 ev-
ery body. Yes. And you really like the room ?"
" I could wish for nothing prettier and nothing more comfortable,"
I answered, dropping my voice, and beginning to discover already
that Mr. Fairlie's selfish affectation and Mr. Fairlie's wretched nerves
meant one and the same thing.
" So glad. You will find your position here, Mr. Hartright, prop-
erly recognized. There is none of the horrid English 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 gen-
try— detestable word, but I suppose I must use it — of the gentry in
the neighborhood. They are sad G-oths in Art, Mr. Hartright. Peo-
ple, I do assure you, who would have opened their eyes in astonish-
ment if they had seen Charles the Fifth pick up Titian's brush for
him. Do yon 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 favored 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 immediately ; 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 arrangements between us — do
tell me — are they satisfactory ?"
"Most satisfactory, Mr. Fairlie."
" So glad. And — what next ? Ah ! I remember. Yes, in refer-
ence "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 wish-
es. 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 touch-
ing 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.
40 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
" 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 par-
dons, 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 mean time, the valet left
the room, and returned shortly with a little ivory book. Mr. Fairlie,
after first relieving himself by a gentle sigh, let the book drop open
with one hand, and held up the tiny brush with the other, as a sign
to the servant to wait for further orders.
" Yes. Just so 1" said Mr. Fairlie, consulting the tablettes. " Louis,
take down that port-folio." He pointed, as he spoke, to several port-
folios placed near the window, on mahogany stands. "No. Not
the one with the green back — that contains my Rembrandt etchings,
Mr. Hartright. Do you like etchings ? Yes ? So glad we have an-
other taste in common. The port-folio 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 port-folio. 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 smelled of hor-
-rid dealers' and brokers' fingers when I looked at them last. Can
you undertake them ?"
Although my nerves were not delicate enough to detect the odor
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-color Art ; and they had de-
served much better treatment at the hands of their former possessor
than they appeared to have received.
" The drawings," I answered, " require careful straining and mount-
ing ; 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.
THE "WOMAN IN WHITE. 41
" 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 1"
" I can't say, Mr. Fairlie. I heard nothing myself."
" Oblige me — you have been so very good in humoring my 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 carefully
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 chil-
dren, 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 inces-
sant 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 pro-
vided with sitting accommodation for their chins, on balloons of
buff-colored 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 construc-
tion ! I will close my eyes again, if you will allow me. And you
really can manage the drawings ? So glad. Is there any thing 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 ev-
idently was on his, to bring the interview to a speedy conclusion, I
thought I would try to render the summoning of the servant unnec-
essary, by offering the requisite suggestion on my own responsibility.
" The only point, Mr. Fairlie, that remains to be discussed," I said,
" refers, I think, to the instruction in sketching which 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 de-
42 THE WOMAN IX WHITE.
fects. Please take pains with her. Yes. Is there any thing else?
No. We quite understand each other— don't we? I have no right
to detain you any longer from your delightful pursuit— have I ? So
pleasant to have settled every thing— such a sensible relief to have
done business. Do you mind ringing for Louis to carry the port-
folio 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 port-folio ?
Thank you. Gently with the curtains, please — the slightest noise
from them goes through me like a knife. Yes. GM-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 cir-
cular 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 outside of Mr. Fairlie'sroom.
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 apartments occupied by the
master of the house, except in the very improbable event of his hon-
oring me with a special invitation to pay him another visit. Hav-
ing settled this satisfactory plan of future conduct, in 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 mount-
ing 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 re-appearance in that part of the house. My introduc-
tion to Miss Fairlie was now close at hand; and, if Miss Halcombe's
search through her mother's letters had produced the result which
she anticipated, the time had come for clearing np the mystery of
the woman in white.
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 43
VIII.
When I entered 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 governess, 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
Halcorribe'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 walking ; sat before she looked at any thing, before she talked of
any thing, 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 cir-
cumstances. A mild, a compliant, an unutterably tranquil and harm-
less 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 suffered the consequences of a vegetable pre-
occupation 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 undemonstrative old lady
at her side, " what will you have ? A cutlet ?"
Mrs. Vesey crossed her dimpled hands on the edge of the table ;
smiled placidly ; and said, " Yes, dear."
" What is that opposite Mr. Hartright ? Boiled chicken, is it not ?
I thought you liked boiled chicken better than cutlet, Mrs. Vesey ?"
Mrs. Vesey took her dimpled hands off the edge of the table and
crossed them on her lap instead; nodded contemplatively at the
boiled chicken, and said, " Yes, dear."
" Well, but which will you have to-day ? Shall Mr. Hartright give
you some chicken ? or shall I give you some cutlet ?"
Mrs. Vesey put one of her dimpled hands back again on th&
44 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
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 tor
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 ta-
ble, brightened dimly, one moment ; went out again, the next ; bow-
ed 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 af-
ternoon.
As we crossed the lawn, Miss Halcombe looked at me significant-
ly, and shook her head.
" That mysterious adventure of yours," she said, " still remains in-
volved in its own appropriate midnight darkness. I have been all
the morning looking over my mother's letters, and I have made no
discoveries yet. However, don't despair, Mr. Hartright. This is a
matter of curiosity ; and you have got a woman for your ally. Un-
der such conditions success is certain, sooner or later. The letters
are not exhausted. I have three packets still left, and you may con-
fidently rely on my spending the whole evening over them."
Here, then, was one of my anticipations of the morning still unful-
filled. 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 you get on with Mr. Fairlie ?" inquired Miss Hal-
combe, 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 your being obliged to
SHE WAS STANDING NEAB A KUSTIO TABLE.
THE -WOMAN IN WHITE. 47
consider is enough for me. I see in your face that he was particular-
ly 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 cMlet. 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 sec 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-color 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^ 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 shoul-
ders, and a little straw hat of the natural color, plainly and spar-
ingly 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 glossy — that it nearly melts,
here and there, into 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 color, lovely
eyes in form — large and tender and quietly thoughtful — but beauti-
ful above all things in the clear truthfulness of look that dwells in
their inmost depths, and shines through all their changes of expres-
sion 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 blemish-
es 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 toward the chin 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 may be), has erred a little in the other extreme,.
48 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
and has missed the ideal straightness of line; and that t °^e^
sensitive lips. are subject to a ^g* ™™™°°?™%°v, toward the
smiles, which draws them upward ^^^^ Mother wom-
cheek. It might be possible to ^^J^H^, so subtly are
an's face, but it is .not easy o ^}™%Zlcte™cte™tic in her
they connected with all that is individual anu. ^
expression, and so closely does the expression dependfor ite fuUplay
and life, in every other feature, on the moving impulse of the eyes.
Does my poor portrait of her, my fond, patient labor of long and
happy days, show me these things 2 Ah, how few of them are m 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 truth-
ful, innocent blue eyes— that is all the drawing can say; all, per-
haps, 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. Sympa-
thies 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 expression can realize. 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 mys-
tery in our own souls. Then, and then only, has it passed beyond
the narrow region on which light falls, in this world, from the pen-
cil 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 liv-
ing 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 re-
new their bright existence in so few— there was one that troubled
and perplexed me; one that seemed strangely inconsistent and un-
accountably 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 winning sim-
plicity of manner, was another impression, which, in a shadowy wav
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 49
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 impression was always strongest, in the most contra-
dictory 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. Something 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 custom-
ary phrases of reply. Observing my hesitation, and no doubt at-
tributing it, naturally 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 sketch-book
on the table, and to the little delicate wandering hand that was still
trifling with it. "Surely you will acknowledge 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-humor, 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 Hal-
combe 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 embarrass-
ment 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 ? Jf 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
3
50 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
sketch-books, we shall drive him into the last ^p^fgSsionai fin.
paying us compliments, and shall slip through bis p
gers with our pet feathers of vanity all unTO™|~ljmen.ts" said Miss
"I hope Mr. Hartright will pay me no compume ,
Fairlie, as we all left the summer-house j. agked
" May I venture to inquire why you express tridb v
"Because I shall believe all that you say to me, she answered,
^rfthose few words she unconsciously gave me the key to her
whole character; to that generous trust in others which m her na-
ture, 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, 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 to-
gether in front, with the sketch-book open between us, fairly ex-
hibited at last to my professional 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 practiced by herself, her sister,
and ladies in general. I can remember the conversation 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 posi-
tion. The most trifling of the questions that she put to me, on the
subject of using her pencil and mixing her colors ; the slightest al-
terations of expressions 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 waving" moor-land 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 amidst which we 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 eloquentlv describes
ture. As children, we none o.f us possess it. No uninstructed Zn or
woman possesses it. Those whose lives are most exrW, i i
amidst the ever-changing wonders of sea Zl^Z^^
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 51
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 civilized accomplishments which we all learn, as an
Art ; and, more, that very capacity is rarely practiced by any of us ex-
cept when our minds are most indolent and most unoccupied. How
much share have the attractions of Nature ever had in the pleasura-
ble or painful interests and emotions of ourselves or our friends ?
What space do they ever occupy in the thousand little narratives
of personal experience which pass every day by word of mouth from
one of us to the other ? All that our minds 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 sure-
ly a reason for this want of inborn sympathy between the creature
and the creation 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 carriage 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 dis-
satisfied with myself, I hardly knew why. Perhaps I was now con-
scious, for the first time, of having enjoyed our drive too much in
the character 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. Anyhow, 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 con-
trast, rather in material than in color, of the dresses which they now
wore. While Mrs. Vesey and Miss Halcombe were richly clad (each
in the manner most becoming to her age), the first in silver-gray, and
the second in that delicate primrose-yellow color which matches so
well with a dark complexion and black hair, Miss Fairlie was unpre-
tendingly and almost poorly dressed in plain white 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 circurn-
52 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
stances than her own governess. At a later period, when I learned
to know more of Miss Fairlie's: character, I discovered that this curi-
ous 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 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 magnificent condescen-
sion 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 civilized 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 shad-
ing 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
THE^WOMAN IN WHITE. 53
still, when there stole upon it from the 'piano the heavenly tender-
ness 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 «hange 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 un-
lighted, 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 Fair-
lie was, by my advice, just tying her white handkerchief over her
head as a precaution against the night air— when I heard Miss Hal-
combe'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
half-way 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 posi-
tion, 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 ;
walking 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. and Mrs. Fairlie, and my half-sister Laura,
had been living for years in this house ; and I was away from them,
completing 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
54 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
before beginning to read it, Miss Fairlie passed us on the terrace,
looked in for a moment, and, seeing that we were engaged, slowly
walked on.
Miss Halcombe began to read, as follows :
" ' You will be tired, my dear Philip, of hearing perpetually about
my schools and my scholars. Lay the blame, pray, on the dull uni-
formity 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 Hamp-
shire— her name is Mrs. Catherick. Four days ago Mrs. Catherick
came here to see me, and brought her only child with 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 something 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. Catherick's object was to ask me to let her
daughter, Anne, have 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 went 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 handker-
chief which she had tied under her chin— passed by us in the moon-
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 55
light. 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 to 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 acquiring 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 color
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 complexipn look-
ed neater and better all in white than in any thing else. She hes-
itated and seemed puzzled for a minute ; then flushed up, and ap-
peared 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 ! She shall have a stock of white
frocks, made with good 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 you met in the high-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."
While the answer was passing my lips, Miss Fairlie glided into
view on the terrace, for the third time. Instead of proceeding on
her walk, she stopped, with her back turned toward us ; and, leaning
on the balustrade of the terrace, looked down into the garden be-
yond. My eyes fixed upon the whij;e gleam of her muslin gown and
56 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
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 — began to steal over me.
"All in white 2" Miss Halcombe repeated. " The most important
sentences in the letter, Mr. Hartright, are those at the end, which I
will read to you immediately. But I can't help drawing 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 grown out of them ;
and the old grateful fancy about dressing in white, which was a seri-
ous feeling to the girl, may be a serious feeling to the woman still."
I said a few words in answer — I hardly know what. All my at-
tention was concentrated on the white gleam of Miss Fairlie's mus-
lin dress.
" Listen to the last sentences of the letter," said Miss Halcombe.
" I think they will surprise you."
As she raised the letter to the light of the candle, Miss Fairlie
turned from the balustrade, looked doubtfully up and down the
terrace, advanced a step toward 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 that I am at the end of my paper, now
for the real reason, the surprising reason, for my fondness for little
Anne Catherick. My dear Philip, although she is not half so pretty,
she is, nevertheless, by one of those extraordinary caprices of acci-
dental resemblance which one sometimes sees, the living likeness, in
her hair, her complexion, the color of her eyes, and the shape of
her face — ' "
I started up from the ottoman, before Miss Halcombe could pro-
nounce the next words. A thrill of the same feeling which ran
through me when the touch was laid upon my shoulder on the lone-
ly high-road, chilled mc 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 I The doubt which had trou-
bled 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 1" said Miss Halcombe. She dropped the useless let-
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 57
ter, and her eyes flashed as they met mine. " You sec it now, as my
mother saw it eleven years since I"
" I see it — more unwillingly than I can say. To associate that for-
lorn, friendless, lost woman, even by an accidental likeness only, with
Miss Fairlie, seems like casting a shadow on the future of the blight
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 1"
" 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 opportunity 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 schol-
ar at Limmeridge were, however, only of the most vague and gen-
eral kind. She remembered the likeness between herself and her
mother's favorite 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 art-
lessly 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 afterward. Ho 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 per-
plex us. We had identified the unhappy woman whom I had met
in the night-time with Anne Catherick — we had made some ad-
vance, at least, toward connecting the probably defective 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 toward Mrs. Fairlie — and there, so far as
wo knew at that time, our discoveries had ended.
The days passed on, the weeks pagsed on ; and the track of the
3*
58 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
golden autumn -wound its bright way visibly through the green sum-
mer 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 treas-
ures 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 lit-
tle 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 con-
fession with the tenderest woman who reads it and pities me. I can
laugh at it as bitterly as the hardest man who tosses it 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 the quiet and
seclusion of my own room. I had just work enough to do, in mount-
ing 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 soli-
tude, for it was followed by afternoons and^evenings 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 hi°-h-
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 was not close to Miss Fairlie's ; my cheek, as we bent to-
gether over her sketch-book, almost touching hers. The more atten-
tively 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 WOMAN IN "WHITE. 59
The evenings which followed the sketching excursions of the af-
ternoon, 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 nat-
ural 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 conversation; 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 me as two model young 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 se-
cretly 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 employ-
er's outer hall, as coolly as I left my umbrella there before I went up
stairs. I had long since learned to understand, composedly and as
a matter of course, that my situation in life was considered a guar-
antee 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 ad-
mitted among them. This guardian experience I had gained early ;
this guardian experience had sternly and strictly guided me straight
along ay 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 ques-
tioned 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 bar-
ren as a desert when she went out again — why I always noticed and
remembered 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
60 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
should have looked into my own heart, and found this new growth
springing up there, and plucked it out while it was young. Why 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 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 sanc-
tuary of.her heart, and laying it open to others, as I have laid open
my own. Let it be enough to say that the time when she first sur-
prised my secret was, I firmly believe, the time when she first sur-
prised her own, and the time, also, when she changed toward 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 under-
stood 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 understood 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 in-
nocent 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 hei' movements 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
THE WOMAN IN WHITSi. 61
were feeling in common, were not these. There were certain ele-
ments of the change in her that were still secretly drawing -us to-
gether, and others that were as secretly beginning to drive us apart.
In my doubt and perplexity, in my vague suspicion of something
hidden which I was left to find by my own unaided efforts, I ex-
amined Miss Halcombe's looks and manner for enlightenment. Liv-
ing in such intimacy as ours, no serious alteration could take place
in any one of us which did not sympathetically 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 toward myself, her penetrating eyes had contracted a new
habit of always watching me. Sometimes the look was like sup-
pressed anger; sometimes like suppressed dread; sometimes like
neither — like nothing, in short, which I could understand. A week
elapsed, leaving us all three still in this position of secret constraint
toward 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 forever —
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 sustained me under the shock
of hearing it ; and her sense 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 bfeakfast-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 !
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.
62 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
Pairlie 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 ndticed 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-humored dis-
cussion 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 un-
characteristic 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 of her cheeks
spread to her lips, and the lips themselves 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 toward 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 be-
gin to work in your own room 2"
" 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-garderlers 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.
" Kay, miss ; it's just said to be for Miss Fairlie," answered the lad,
holding out the letter as he spoke.
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 03
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, ad-
dressing 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 you knew ?"
" I canna' tak' it on mysel' to say that she was other than a strangei
to me."
" Which way did she go ?"
" That gate," said the under-gardener, turning with great delibera-
tion toward the south, and embracing the whole of that part of En-
gland with one comprehensive sweep of his ami.
" 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 lawn, 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 a frank
avowal to you. I am going to say — without phrase-making, which
I detest; or paying compliments, which I heartily despise — that I
have come, in the course of your residence with us, to feel a strong
friendly regard for you. I was predisposed in your favor when you
first told me of your conduct toward 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-con-
trol, 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 witlnut a result.
64 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
"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 at-
tachment— a serious and devoted attachment, 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 any
body. As it is, I blame the misfortune of your years and your posi-
tion— 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 hon-
or, 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 of my
loss of self-control. " Listen to me, and let us get 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
you to the quick, spare me 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. Hartright, 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.
SDK WAITED A MOMENT, TURNED HER FACE FULL ON ME, AND, REACHING
ACROSS THE TABLE, LAID HER HAND FIRMLY ON MY ARM.
THE WOMAN IX WHITE. % 67
were dead leaves, too, whirled away by the wind like the rest.
Hopes ! Betrothed, or not betrothed, she was equally far from me.
Would other men have remembered 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 my face, which
I felt, and which she saw.
" Crush it I" 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 relinquished — communi-
cated 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 grati-
tude in that way, if I can prove it in no other."
"You have proved it already," she answered, "by those words.
Mr. Hartright, concealment is at an end between us. I can not affect
to hide from you, what my sister has unconsciously shown to me.
You must leave us for her sake, as well as for your own. Your pres-
ence 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
learned 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 dis-
loyal 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 engagement has ever had a strong hold on her
affections. It is an engagement of honor, 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 cour-
age to hope too — that the new thoughts and feelings which have
disturbed the old calmness and the old content have not taken root
68 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
too deeply to be ever removed. Tour absence (if I had lees belief
in your honor, 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 something to
know that you will not be less honest, less manly, less considerate
toward the pupil whose relation to yourself you have had the mis-
fortune to forget, than toward 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 breaking 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 morning to Monday next, and to the necessity of -set-
ting the purple room in order. The visitor whom we expect on
Monday — "
I could not wait for her to be more explicit. 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 some-
thing rose within me at that moment stronger than my own will ;
and I interrupted Miss Holcombe.
" Let me go to-day," I said, bitterly. " The sooner the better."
" No ; not to-day," she replied. " The only reason you can assign
to .Mi". Fairlie for your departure, before the end of your engagement,
__ must be that an unforeseen necessity compels you to ask his permis-
sion to return at once to London. You must wait till to-morrow to
tell him that, at the time when the post comes 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 sick-
ening to descend 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 afterward (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 comino- from
the house to seek for us ! I felt the blood rush into my cheeks, and
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. , 69
then leave them again. Could the third person -who was fast ap-
proaching us, at such a time and under such circumstances, be Miss
Fairlie?"
It was a relief— so sadly, so hopelessly was my position toward
her changed already — it was absolutely a relief to me, when the per-
son who had disturbed us appeared at the entrance of the summer-
house, and proved to be only Miss Pairlie'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 walk-
ed aside a few paces with the maid.
Left by myself, my mind reverted, with a sense of forlorn wretched-
ness which it is not in any words that I can find to describe, to my
approaching return to the solitude and the despair of my lonely Lon-
don home. Thoughts of my kind old mother, and of my sister, who
had rejoiced with her so innocently over my prospects in Cumber-
land— thoughts whose long banishment from my heart it was now
my shame and my reproach to realize 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 hopefully on that last hap-
py night in the Hampstead cottage !
Anne Catherick again ! Even the memory of the farewell evening
with my mother and my sister could not return to me now, uncon-
nected with that other memory of the moonlight walk back to Lon-
don. What did it mean ? Were 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 Halcombe 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 une"asy 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 shrubbery path.
Although Miss Halcombe had ended all that she thought it neces-
sary 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
70 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
visitor at Limmeridge was Miss Fairlie's future husband, I had felt
a bitter curiosity, a burning 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 understood
each other, Miss Halcombe," I said; "now that you are sure of my
gratitude for your forbearance and my obedience 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 hus-
band)—" who the gentleman engaged to Miss Fairlie is ?"
Her mind was evidently occupied with the message she had re-
ceived 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 was 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 suspicious
question about the men of the rank of Baronet whom I might hap-
pen to know — had hardly been dismissed from my mind by Miss
Halcombe's return to me in the summer-house, before it was 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, with 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 niy~ studio to set in order all of Mr. Fair-
lie's drawings that I had not yet mounted and restored before I re-
signed them to the care of other hands. . Thoughts that I had hith-
erto 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 land-
owners 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 words of inquiry that had been spoken to
THE WOMAN IJT WHITE. 71
me by 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
Fairlie ; Miss Fairlie being, in her turn, associated with Anne Cather-
ick, since the night when I had discovered the ominous likeness be-
tween them ? Had the events of the morning so unnerved me al-
ready that I was at the mercy of any delusion which common chances
and common coincidences might suggest to my imagination ? Im-
possible to say. I could only feel that what had passed between
Miss Halcombe and myself, on our wSy 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 Cum-
berland 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, something 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 an-
swering ; 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 underhand villainy at work. to
frighten my sister about her approaching 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
Percival Glyde in my sister's estimation. It has so agitated and
alarmed her that I have had the greatest possible difficulty in com-
posing 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 your pardon, Miss Halcombe. I feel the strongest possible
concern and interest in any thing that affects Miss Fairlie's happiness
or yours."
" I am glad 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 mysteries of all kinds,
72 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
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 neighbors
are just the sort of comfortable, jog-trot acquaintances whom one
can not 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 dis-
cover 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 yery
important 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 circumstances, even my help-
less situation would, perhaps, be no excuse for me. But, as things
are, I can not 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 prelimi-
nary 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 fulfillment
(Genesis xl., 8., xli., 25 ; Daniel iv., 18-25) ; and take the warning I
send you before it is too late.
" Last night, I dreamed about you, Miss Pairlie. 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 toward us, down the aisle of the
church, a man and a woman, coming to be married. Tou 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 eyes 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 rain-
bows, 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 enough to
see. He was neither tall nor short — he was a little below the mid-
dle 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 was
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
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 73
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 dreamed of .the right man ? You
know best, Miss Fairlie; and you can say if I was deceived or not.
Bead,' 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 de-
spair. And I woke with my eyes full of tears and my heart beating
— for J believe in dreams.
" Believe, too, Miss Fairlie — I beg of you, for your own sake, be-
lieve 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 afforded no prospect of a clue. It was traced on
ruled lines, in the cramped, conventional, copy-book character, tech-
nically 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 reference to the bridal dress
and veil, and other little expenses, seem to point to it as the produc-
tion 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."
4
74 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
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 fac-
ulties were not in danger of losing their balance. It seemed almost
like a monomania to be tracing back every thing strange that hap-
pened, every thing unexpected that was said, always to the same
hidden source and the same sinister influence. I resolved, this time,
in defense 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 resolute-
ly on every thing 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 woman 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 alter-
native of consulting 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 with my sister's marriage engagement,
which 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 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 th&t he is ready and anxious, as Laura's guardian, to for-
ward 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 under-
stand now, Mr. Hartright, why I speak of waiting to take legal ad-
vice until to-morrow ? Mr. Gilmore is the old and tried friend of
two generations of Fail-lies; and we can trust him, as. we could trust
no one else."
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 75
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 committed 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, vindic-
tive, hopeless hatred of the man who was to marry her.
" If we are to find out any thing," I said, speaking under the new
influence which was now directing me, " we had better not let an-
other minute slip by us unemployed. I can only suggest, once more,
the propriety of questioning the gardener a second time, and of in-
quiring in the village immediately afterward."
" I think I may be of help to you in both cases," said Miss Hal-
combe, 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 Glyde's
name is not mentioned, I know — but does that description at all re-
semble him I",
"Accurately; even in stating his age to be forty-five—:"
Forty-five ; and she was not yet twenty-one ! Men of his age mar-
ried 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 distrust 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 traveling 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 remem-
ber right ?"
" Yes, and mentioned correctly. He treats it lightly himself, though
it sometimes makes his friends anxious about him."
" I suppose no whispers have ever been heard against his character ?"
"76 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
" Mr. Hartright ! I hope you are not unjust enough to let that in-
famous letter influence you ?" , .
I felt the blood rush into my cheeks, for I knew that it had in-
fluenced me.
"I hope not," I answered, confusedly. "Perhaps I had no right
to ask the question."
" I 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 suc-
cessfully 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 established."
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 to my mortal eyes,
the recording angel would not have convinced me.
We found the gardener at work as usual. No amount of question-
ing 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 toward 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.
XH.
Oub inquiries at Limmeridge were patiently pursued in all direc-
tions, 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 proceeding 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 unobserv-
ant neighbors.
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 in-
quiry of the school-master, whom we might presume to be, in virtue
of his office, the most intelligent man in the place.
" I am afraid the school-master 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."
THE WOMAN IN WHITE,. 7 V
We entered the play-ground inclosiire, and walked by the school-
room, 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 school-master was sitting at his high desk, with his back to
me, apparently haranguing the pupils, who were all gathered togeth-
er 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 school-mas-
ter'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
standing 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 per-
sists in saying he saw the ghost after I have told him that no such
thing can possibly be. If nothing else will 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 awkward moment for our visit,"
said Miss Halcombe, pushing open the door, at the end of the school-
master'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 school-master, " 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
school-fellows 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
78 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
Halcombe, addressing the school-master; "and we 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," an-
swered 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 not have
thought it possible that any of the boys had imagination enough to
see a ghost. This is a new accession indeed to the hard labor of
forming the youthful mind at Limmeridge— 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 school-master 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
school-room, when the forlorn position of Jacob Postlethwaite, pite-
ously sniffing on the stool of penitence, attracted her attention as
she passed him, and made her stop good-humoredly to speak a word
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 in-
deed ! What ghost—"
" I beg your pardon, Miss Halcombe," interposed the school-mas-
ter, a little uneasily — " but I think you had better not question the
boy. The obstinate folly of his story is beyond all belief; and you
might lead him into ignorantly — "
" Ignorantly, 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 com-
pliment in thinking them weak enough to be shocked by such an
urchin as that !" She turned with an air of satirical defiance to lit-
tle 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.
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 79
" 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 yarider, in t' kirk-yard — where a ghaist ought to be."
"As a 'ghaist' should ber-^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 ! Tou 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 big 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 reso-
lutely 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 Fairlie," answered Jacob, in a whisper.
The effect which this extraordinary reply produced on Miss Hal-
combe fully justified the anxiety which the school-master had shown
to prevent her from hearing it. Her face crimsoned with indigna-
tion— 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 mis-
taken," said the school-master. " 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 church-
yard; 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 Mis3 Halcombe did not se.em to be convinced, she evi-
80 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
dently felt that the school-master's statement of the 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 school-room.
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 story, as I be-
lieve, 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 school-room," 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 school-
room encourages me to persevere in the investigation."
" Why does it encourage you J"
" 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 school-master'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 the fancied .ghost in the church-yard 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 school-master unconsciously told you. . When he spoke of
the figure that the boy saw in the church-yard, he called it ' a wom-
an in white.' "
" Not Annie Catheiick 1"
" Yes, Annie Catherick."
She put her hand through my arm, and leaned on it heavily.
" I don't know why,", she said in low tones, " but there is some-
THE "WOMAN IN WHITE. 81
thing in this suspicion of yours that seems to startle and unnerve me.
I feei — » 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 church-yard 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 blowing over the moor-land 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 ex-
tremity, 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 church-yard, rose the white marble cross that distin-
guished 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. " Tou will let me know if you find any thing 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 church-yard, 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 w£ather-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 freedom 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 by artificial
means. Who had begun 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
4*
82 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
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 out-
side 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 al-
most 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 accom-
plished 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 waiting within sight of it till the night fell. The work
of cleansing the monument had been left unfinished ; and the per-
son 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 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 drawings in
order. It was necessary to do this, and doubly necessary to keep
my mind employed on any thing that would help to distract my at-
tention from myself, and from the hopeless future that lay before me.
From time to time, I paused in my work to look out of the 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
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 83
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 suf-
ficient consideration for her, to arrange the hlind 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. Byner side trotted a little
Italian greyhound, the pet companion of all her walks, smartly dress-
ed in a scarlet clqth wrapper, to keep the sharp air from bis 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,
when I had heard of her marriage engagement in the morning,
whirled in the wind before her, and rose and fell and scattered them-
selves at her feet, as she walked on in the pale waning sunlight.
The dog shivered and trembled, and pressed against her dress im-
patiently for, notice and encouragement. 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 put of the
house without meeting any one.
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 moor-land, and beat drearily in my ears,
when I entered the church -yard. Not a living creature was in
6ight. The place looked lonelier than ever, as I chose my posi-
tion, and waited and watched, with my eyes on the white cross that
rose over Mrs. Fairlie's grave.
XIII.
The exposed situation of the church-yard 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 reluc-
tance to conceal myself, indispensable as that concealment was to
the object in view, I had resolved on entering the porch. A loop-
hole window was pierced in each of its side walls. Through one of
84 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
these -windows I could see Mrs. Fairlie's grave. The other looked -
toward 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
hiding-place under the church porch.
It was not twilight 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 footsteps, and a voice. The foot-
steps 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 went his way and I went mine ; and not a living soul
followed me, afterward — 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 foot-
steps still advanced. In another moment, two persons, both women,
passed within my range of view from the porch window. They were
walking straight toward the grave; and therefore they had their
backs turned toward me.
One of the women was dressed in a bonnet and shawl. The oth-
er wore a long traveling-cloak of a dark-blue color, 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 color— it was white.
After advancing about half-way. between the church and the grave,
they stopped ; and the woman in the cloak turned her head toward
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 looking too particular
yesterday, all in white. I'll walk about a little, while you're here;
church-yards 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."
With those words, she turned about, and retracing her steps, ad-
vanced with her face toward me. It was the face of an elderly
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 85
woman, brown, rugged, and healthy, with nothing dishonest or sus-
picious 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. Harmless, though — as
harmless, poorsoul, 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 disap-
peared 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 negative. I could insure see-
ing the woman in the shawl by waiting near the church-yard 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 convinced was
before me in the church-yard.
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 to-
ward the brook. The little stream ran into the church-yard 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 church-yard 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 Ipd stepped over the stile. Then, she looked up,
started to her feet with a faint cry, and stood facing me in speech-
less 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 aflrightedly 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
86 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
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 death-like
stillness which fear had set on her face.
" Don't attempt to speak to me, just yet," 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 to-
gether again ; a grave between us, the dead about us, the lonesome
hills closing us round on every side. The time, the place, the cir-
cumstances under which we 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 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 steadi-
ness 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 my-
self of all my resources ; I did my utmost to turn the few momenta
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 Cumberland ever since ;
I have been staying all the time at Limmeridge House."
"At Limmeridge House I" Her pale face brightened as she repeat-
ed the words ; her wandering eyes fixed on me with a sudden inter-
est. "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 newly-aroused confidence in me, to ob-
serve her face, with an attention and a curiosity which I had hither-
to restrained myself- from showing, for caution's sake. I looked at
her, with my mind full of that other lovely face which had so omi-
nously 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 Annj>Catherick — saw it all the more clearly be-
TUB WOMAN IN WHITE. 87
cause 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 color
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 transparent clearness of her eyes, the smooth purity of her skin,
the tender bloom of color on her lips, were all missing from the
worn, weary face that was now turned toward 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 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 Gatherick
and she would be the twin-sisters of chance resemblance, the living
reflections 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 welcome interrup-
tion to be roused by feeling Anne Catherick's hand laid on my shoul-
der. 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 something," 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 inscription once
more.
" Where should I go, if not here ?" she said. " The friend who
was better then 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 any thing wrong in that ? I hope
not. Surely nothing can be wrong that I do for Mrs. Fairlie's sake 2"
The old grateful sense of her benefactress's Jrindness was evidently
88 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
the ruling idea still in the poor creature's mind — the narrow 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 of her
girlhood had returned and she was patiently learning her lesson once
more at Mrs. Fairlie's knees.
"Should you wonder 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 stand-
ing ; 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 toward 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 1iim
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 my last words had set the pursuers on
her track.
" Stop, and hear the end," I cried. " Stop, and you shall know
how I befriended you. 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. Tiy
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 traveling-bag on the night when I first saw her. Slowly
the purpose of my words seemed to force its way through the con-
fusion 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.
THE WOMAN IN "WHITE. 89
l: You 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 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 sus-
pected 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 you 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 in-
formed me ; a private Asylum not very far from the spot where I
had seen her — and then, with evident suspicion of the use to which
I might put her answer, anxiously repeated her former inquiry :
" You 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 needle-work
in the house, and she helped me to rouse Mrs. Clements. Mrs. Clem-
ents 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 2"
" Yes ; she was a neighbor of ours once, at home, in Hampshire ;
and liked me, and took care of me when I was a little girl. Years
ago, when she went 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 be-
sides— 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 1 he is dead, I suppose."
" And your mother ?"
" I don't get on well with her. "We are a trouble and a fear to
each other."
A Jrouble and a fear to each other ! At those words, the suspi-
cion crossed my mind, for the first time, that her mother might be
the person who had placed her under restraint.
90 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
" Don't ask me about mother," she went on. "I'd rather 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 anon-
ymous hinderances 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 mis-
fortune 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 honor 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 color; 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 uncertainty. The letter, as I knew
from positive testimony, pointed at Sir Percival Glyde, though it
did not name him. She must have had some strong motive, origi-
nating in some deep 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
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
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 91
talking about. Tell me how long you staid -with Mrs. Clements in
London, and how you came here."
" How long ?" she repeated. " I staid with Mrs. Clements till we
both came to this place, two days ago."
" Tou 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 neighborhood,
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 Limmeridgc — oh ! I was so happy I would have
walked all the way barefoot to get there, and see the schools and
the village and Limmeridge House again. They are very good peo-
ple 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 lifetime ; 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 con-
sciousness of the risk she had run in 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 Miss Fairlie was neither well nor happy this
morning ?" I continued.
92 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
"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 down on her knees for some little time past, carefully
removing the last weather-stains left about the inscription while we
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 color that there was nat-
urally in her face left it in an instant.
" How do you know 2" 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, afirightedly ; " 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 any thing 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
was 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 hot 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 you /" Her
lips murmured the words close on the grave-stone ; murmured them
in tones of passionate endearment, to the dead remains beneath.
"You know how I love your child, for your sake ! Oh, Mrs. Fairlie !
Mrs. Fairlie ! tell me how to save her. Be my darling and.my moth-
er 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 stoop-
ed 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
sheappeared to feel, in. connection with me and with my opinion of
her — the anxiety to convince me of her fitness to be mistress of her
own actions.
" Comej come," I said, gently. " Try to compose yourself, or you
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 93
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 extraordinary 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 sud-
denly 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 an-
imal. 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 convulsive strength that the few drops of moist-
ure 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 evi-
dent that the impression left by Mrs. Fairlie's kindness was not, as
I had supposed, the only strong impression on her memory. 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 think of any thing 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 suspiciously.
" 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, backward
and forward ; and whispered to herself, " What is it he said ?" She
turned again toward 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 you 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
94 THE WOMAN Kf WHITE.
about it already, that you will have no difficulty in telling her all.
There can be little necessity for concealment where there is hardly
any thing 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 church-yard and
made my heart leap in me with the terror of it. The dark deform-
ity 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 guilt-
less of imprisoning her in the Asylum. A man had shut her up —
and that man was 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 set her
foot on the stile. " How dare you frighten a poor helpless woman
like that?"
She was at Anne Catherick'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 un-
derstand 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 humoring her whims
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 95
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 until 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-labor-
ers, 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 you 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."
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-bye."
She returned to the grave, rested both hands tenderly on the mar-
ble cross, and kissed it.
".I'm better now," she sighed, looking up at me quietly. "I for-
give 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.
xrv.
Half an hour later, I was back at the house, and was informing
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 — "
96 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
" 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-mor-
row?"
" None whatever. I will go anywhere and do any thing 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. Our
dairy-maid here is the farmer's second daughter. She goes back-
ward and forward 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 re-
turned, and announced that the dairy-maid was then at the farm.
She had not been there for the last three days ; and the housekeep-
er 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 thor-
oughly 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 was Sir Percival Glyde ?"
" There is not the shadow of a doubt. The only mystery that re-
mains, is the mystery of his motive. Looking to the great difference
between his station in life and here, which seems to preclude all idea
of the most distant relationship between them, it is of the last im-
portance— even assuming that she really required to be placed un-
der restraint — to know why Tie should have been the person to as-
sume 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 mainte-
nance 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. My sister's fu-
ture is my dearest care in life ; and I have influence enough over
her to give me some power, where her marriage is concerned in the
disposal of it."
We- parted for the night.
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 97
After breakfast, the next morning, an obstacle, which the events
of the evening before had put out of my memory, interposed to. pre-
vent 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.
Fortunately for the probability of this excuse, so far as appear-
ances were concerned, the post brought 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 anx-
iety-about the manner in which his master might receive my appli-
cation. With Mr. Fairlie's leave or without it, I must go. The con-
sciousness 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 unpre-
pared. 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 cir-
cumstances, 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 hur-
ry his reply. Nearly an hour elapsed before the answer was placed
in my hands. It was written with beautiful regularity and neatness of
character, in violet-colored ink, on note-paper as smooth as ivory and
almost as thick as card-board ; and it addressed me in these terms :
5
98 THE' WOMAN IN WHITE.
1 "Mr. Fairlie's compliments to Mr. Hartright. Mr. Fairlie 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 per-
son confirms Mr. Fairlie's opinion that Mr. Hartright's request to be
allowed to break his engagement can not be justified by any neces-
sity whatever, excepting perhaps a case of life and death. If the
highly-appreciative feeling toward 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 proceed-
ing would have shaken it. It has not done so — except in the in-
stance of Mr. Hartright himself.
" Having stated his opinion — so far, that is to say, as acute nerv-
ous suffering will allow him to state any thing — 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. Per-
fect repose of body and mind being to the last degree important in
his case, Mr. Fairlie will not suffer Mr. Hartright to disturb that re-
pose by remaining in the house under circumstances of an essential-
ly irritating nature to both sides. Accordingly, Mr. Fairlie waives
his right of refusal, purely with a view to the preservation of his
own tranquillity — and informs Mr. Hartright 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 you 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 sinceJ
had known her, took my arm of her own accord. No words could
have expressed so delicately that she understood how the permis-
sion 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 apprehension that my
presence, after what had happened in the church-yard the evening
before, might have the effect of renewing Anne Catherick's nervous
dread, and of rendering her additionally ■distrustful of the advances
THE WOMAN IN "WHITE. 99
of a lady who was a stranger to her. Miss Halcombe left me, with
the intention of speaking, in the first instance, to the farmer's wife
(of whose friendly readiness to help her in any way she was well as-
sured), while I waited for her in the near neighborhood of the house.
I had fully expected to be left alone for some time. To my sur-
prise, however, little more than five minutes had elapsed before Miss
Halcombe returned.
" Does Anne Catherick refuse to see you ?" I asked, in astonish-
ment.
" 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 feel that our last chance of dis-
covery had gone with them.
" All that Mrs. Todd knows about her guests, I know," Miss Hal-
combe 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 at-
tack, 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, however, 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 en-
gagement, 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 which she
sent to our house the next day."
" 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 dairy-maid, who, as
I told you, is one of Mr. Todd's daughters ; and the only conversa-
tion was the usual gossip about local affairs. They heard her cry
out, and saw her turn deadly pale, without the slightest apparent
100 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
reason. Mrs. Todd and Mrs. Clements took her up stairs ; and Mrs.
Clements remained with her. They were heard talking together
until long after the usual bed-time; 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 immediately. It was quite useless to press Mrs. Clem-
ents 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 question
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 them-
selves must be kept a secret from every body. I spare you the re-
cital 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-bye. That is exactly what has taken
place. Search your own memory, Mr. Hartright, and tell me if any
thing 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 ?"
"Yes. But Mrs. Todd's household affairs seem to have divided
her attention, that evening, with the talk in the farm-house parlor.
She could only tell me that it was 'just the news' — meaning, I sup-
pose, that they all talked as usual about each other."
" The dairy-maid's memory may be better than her mother's," I
said. " It may be as well for you to speak to the girl, Miss Hal-
combe, 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 dairy, Hannah," said
THE 'WOMAN IN WHITE. 101
Miss Halcombe. " It is one of the sights of the house, and it always
does you credit."
The girl blushed and courtesied, and said, shyly, that she hoped
she always did her best to keep things neat and clean.
" We have just come from your father's," Miss Halcombe contin-
ued. " You were there yesterday evening, I hear ; and you found
visitors at the house ?"
" Yes, miss."
" One of them was taken faint and ill, I am told ? I suppose noth-
ing was said or done to frighten her ? You were not talking of any
thing very terrible, were you ?"
" Oh, 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."
" And you told them the news at Limmeridge House ?"
" Yes, miss. And I'm quite sure nothing was said to frighten the
poor thing, for I was talking when she was taken ill. 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 whis-
pered 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 understood, and put
the question as soon as the dairy-maid returned to us.
" Oh yes, miss ; I mentioned that," said the girl, simply. " The
company coming, and the accident to the brindled cow, was all the
news I had to take to the farm."
" Did you mention names ? Did you 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. Hartwright ; 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 we were alone
again.
" Is there any doubt in your mind, mm, Miss Halcombe ?"
" Sir Percival Glyde shall remove that doubt, Mr. Hartright — or,
Laura Fairlie shall never be his wife."
XV.
As we walked round to the front of the house, a fly from the rail-
way approached us along the drive. Miss Halcombe waited on the
door-steps until the fly drew up ; and then advanced to shake hands
102 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
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 which 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 experience 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 engagement.
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 nev-
er felt before in the presence of any man breathing who was a total
stranger to me.
In external appearance Mr. Gilmore was the exact opposite of the
conventional idea of an old lawyer. His complexion was florid ; his.
white hair was worn rather long, and kept carefully brushed; his
black coat, waistcoat, and trowsers fitted him with perfect neatness ;
his white cravat was carefully tied ; and his lavender-colored kid
gloves might have adorned the hands of a fashionable clergyman,
without fear and without reproach. His manners were pleasantly
marked by the formal grace and refinement of the old school of po-
liteness, quickened by the invigorating sharpness and readiness of a
man whose business in life obliges him always to keep his faculties
in good working order. A sanguine constitution and fair prospects
to begin with ; a long subsequent career of creditable and comfort-
able prosperity ; a cheerful, diligent, widely respected old age — such
was the general impressions I derived from my introduction to Mr.
Gilmore ; and it is but fair to him to add, that the knowledge 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 departure
the next morning was irrevocably settled ; my share in the investi-
gation which the anonymous letter had rendered necessary, was at
an end. No harm could be done to any one hut myself, if I let my
heart loose again, for the little time that was left me, from the cold
cruelty of restraint which necessity had forced me to inflict upon it,
and took my farewell of the scenes which were associated with the
brief dream-time 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 WOMAN IN WHITE. 103
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 even-
ings ; 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 atmosphere 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 way-side, 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 view which we had so often admired in the hap-
pier time. It was cold and barren — it was no longer the view that I
remembered. 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 occupa-
tions 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 sand-hills,
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 too 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 re-
turned to the house and the garden, where traces were left to speak
of her at every turn.
104 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
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 gentle-
man. "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 oveT
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 connected with the anonymous letter, and of
the share which you have most creditably and properly taken in the
proceedings so far. That share, I quite understand, gives you an in-
terest 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 proceeding ?"
" 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 Glyde'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 every explanation which can be expected from a
gentleman and a man of honor, he will readily give. Sir Percival
stands very high, sir— an eminent position, a reputation above suspi-
cion—rl feel quite easy about results ; quite easy, I am rejoiced to as-
sure 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
THE AVOMAN IN WHITE. 105
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. Good
shooting? Probably not — none of Mr. Fail-lie's land is preserved,
I think. Charming place, though ; and delightful people. You
draw and paint, I hear, Mr. Hartright ? Enviable accomplishment.
What style?"
We dropped into general conversation — or, rather, Mr. Gilmore
talked, and I listened. My attention was far from 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 departure from Limmeridge
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 Cumberland ; 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 daylight 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 oc-
curred 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 invita-
tion— " 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 by-gone
time — the time that could never come again. She had put on the
dross which I used to admire more than any other that she possessed
— a dark blue silk, trimmed quaintly and prettily with old-fashioned
106 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
lace; she came forward to meet me with her former readiness; she
gave- me her hand with the frank, innocent good-will oi nappier
days. The cold fingers that trembled round mine ; the palp cneeKs
with a bright red spot burning in the midst of them; the famt smile
that struggled to live on her lips and died away from them while I
looked at it, told me at what sacrifice of herself her outward com-
posure 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-
humor, and he led the conversation with unflagging spirit. Miss
Halcombe seconded him resolutely ; and I did all I could to follow
her example. The kind blue eyes whose slightest changes of ex-
pression I had learned to interpret so well, looked at me appealing-
ly when we first sat down to table. Help my sister— the sweet anx-
ious 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 pre-
sented 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 dispatched to trace Anne Catherick and
Mrs. Clements, returned 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 f
" 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 sta-
tion?"
" 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. Hartright," continued the old gen-
tleman, when the servant had withdrawn. "For the present, at
least, the women have outmanoeuvred us; and our only resource,
now is to wait till Sir Percival Glyde comes here on Monday next.
Won't you fill your glass again ? Good bottle of port, tha^-sound,
substantial, old wine. I have got better in my own cellar thoueh "
We returned to the drawing-room— the room in which the hap
THE WOIIAST IN WHITE. 107
piest 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 cur-
tains. Instead of the soft twilight obscurity, in which we used to
sit, the bright radiant glow of lamp-light now dazzled my eyes. All
was changed — indoors and out, all was changed.
Miss Halcombe and Mr. Gilmore sat down together at the card-
table ; Mrs. Vesey took her customary chair. There was no re-
straint 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 toward 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 emp-
ty. 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 abrupt-
ly, 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 sink-
ing 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.
" Don't speak of to-morrow," she said. "Let the music speak to
us of to-night, in a happier language than ours."
Her lips 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
108 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
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 hap-
pened.
" 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 will play it," she said, striking the notes almost passionately.
" I will play it on the last night."
" Come, Mrs. Vesey," said Miss Halcombe ; " Mr. Gilmore and I are
tired of ecarte— 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 unintennittingly — 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, feels kindness and attention.
I wish-you happy, sir — I wish you a kind good-bye."
Mr. Gilmore came next.
" I hope we shall have a future opportunity of bettering our ac-
quaintance, 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. Bori
voyage, my dear sir — boii 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' con-
duct to-night has made me your friend for life."
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 109
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 un-
grateful, 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 controlled 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.
" Have I deserved that you should write to me?" was all I could say.
" You have nobly deserved every thing 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. My voice faltered, my eyes moistened, in
spites 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 complex-
ion 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 Tier friend : as my brother and Tier brother." She stop-
ped; 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. " Wait here alone, and
compose yourself — I had better not stay, for both our sakes ; I had
better see you go from the balcony up stairs."
110 THE WOMAN IX WHITE.
She left the room. I turned away toward 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
forever.
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 toward me. My heart beat violently as I turned
round. Miss Fairlie was approaching 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 some-
thing 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 own pencil, of the summer-house 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 my life-long it shall be the treasure that I prize most.
I am very grateful for it — very grateful to you, for not letting me go
away without bidding you good-bye."
" Oh !" she said, innocently, " how could I let you go, after we have
passed so many happy days together !"
" Those days may never return, Miss Fairlie — my way of life and
yours are veiy far apart. But if a time should come, when the de-
votion of my whole heart and soul and strength will give you a mo-
ment's happiness, or spare you a moment's sorrow, will you try to re-
member the poor drawing-master who has taught you ? Miss Hal-
combe 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 cheeks. She rested one trembling
MY HEAD DROOPED OVER IT, MY TEARS FELL ON IT, MY LIPS PRESSED IT.
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 113
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 tears
fell on it, my lips pressed it — not in love ; oh, not in love, at that last
moment, but in the agony and the self-abandonment of despair.
" For God's sake, leave me !" she said, faintly.
The confession of her heart's secret burst from her in those plead-
ing 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 frpm 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 drop-
ped on them wearily. One farewell look ; and the door had closed
upon her — the great gulf of separation had opened between us — the
image of Laura Fairlie was a memory of the past already.
The Story continued by Vincent Gilmoee, of Chancery
Lane, Solicitor.
I.
I wkite these lines at the request of my friend, Mr. "Walter Hart-
right. 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 Limmer-
idge 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 component part. Mr. Hart-
right 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 concerned 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 resi-
dence 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 Novem-
ber.
114 THE WOMAK IN WHITE.
My object was 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 nec-
essary instructions back with me to London, and to occupy myself in
drawing the lady's marriage-settlement.
On the Friday I was not favored 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 me. Miss Halcombe 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.
I did not see Miss Fairlie until later in the day, at dinner-time.
She 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 favorably im-
pressed by Mr. Hartright on our first introduction to one another ;
but I soon discovered that he was not free from the social failings
incidental to his age. 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 com-
pliment. Mr. Hartright was no exception to the general rule. Oth-
erwise, even in those early days and on that short acquaintance, he
struck me as being a modest and gentleman-like young man.
So the Friday passed. I say nothing about the more serious mat-
ters 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 af-
forded by Sir Percival Glyde, having all been fully noticed, as I un-
derstand, in the narrative which 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 walk
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 was well enough to see
me. Be had not altered, at any rate, since I first knew him. His
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 115
talk "was to the same purpose as usual — all about himself and his
ailments, his wonderful coins, and his matchless Rembrandt etch-
ings. The moment I tried to speak of the business that had
brought me to his house, he shut his eyes and said I "upset" him.
I persisted in upsetting him by returning again and again to the
subject. All I could ascertain was that he looked on his niece's
marriage as a settled thing, that her father 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 afterward dive
as deeply as I pleased into my own knowledge of the family affairs,
and get every thing 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 teas-
ing ? No. Then why tease him ?
I might, perhaps, have been a little astonished at this extraordina-
ry 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 suf-
ficient 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 ex-
pectations— 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 Glyde's solicitor, acknowledging 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 altogether unlike herself. I had some talk with
her, and ventured on a delicate allusion to Sir Percival. She list-
ened, and said nothing. All other subjects she pursued willingly ;
but this subject she allowed 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 ex-
pected; his head being bald over the forehead, and his face some-
what marked and worn. 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 we
got on together like old friends. Miss Fairlie was not with us when
he arrived, but she entered the room about ten minutes afterward.
116 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
Sir Peroival rose and paid his compliments 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 contin-
ued 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 with-
drawal 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 em-
barrassment 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 for-
warded by me ; and had traveled on to Cumberland, anxious to sat-
isfy 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 sim-
ple 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 connec-
tions 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 neighborhood in which Sir Per-
cival's property was situated, he had taken care not to lose sight of
her ; his friendly feeling toward the poor woman, in consideration
cf her past services, having been greatly strengthened by his admi-
ration 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 her under proper medical care. Mrs.
Catherick herself recognized 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 pub-
lic Asylum. Sir Percival had respected this prejudice, as he -re-
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 117
spected honest independence of feeling in any rank of life ; and had
resolved to mark his grateful sense of Mrs. Catherick's early attach-
ment to the interests of himself and his family, by defraying the ex-
pense of her daughter's maintenance in a trustworthy private Asy-
lum. 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 Halcombe's or Mr. Gilmore's recollec-
tion 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
solicitor. 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 toward Miss Fairlie and toward her family, in the same plains
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 dis-
pute any human statement, made under any circumstances, and re-
duced 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 ex-
planation, 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 offered 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
wordSj on her side, to the same effect — with a certain 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 re-
sumed the subject, although he might, now, with all propriety, have
allowed it to drop.
"If vmy 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,
118 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
as a gentleman, to believe me on my word ; and when lie 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 of the truth of my
assertion. You can not 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 unfor-
tunate woman — to Mrs. Catherick — to ask for her testimony in sup-
port of the explanation which I have just offered to you."
I saw Miss Halcombe change color, and look a little uneasy. 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 you. Will you excuse my obstinacy if I still ven-
ture 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 favor 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 toward myself? Mr. Gilmore's mind is at ease on this un-
pleasant 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 walked away toward the fire-place.
Miss Fairlie's little Italian greyhound was lying on the rug. He held
out his hand, and called to the dog good-humoredly.
" 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
toward the window very suddenly. Perhaps his temper is irritable
at times ? If so, I can sympathize 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
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 119
paper to Sir Percival. He bowed ; took it from her ; folded it tip
immediately, -without looking at the contents; sealed it; -wrote the
address ; and handed it back to her in silence. I never saw any
thing 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 answered. "And now that it is writ-
ten and sealed up, allow me to ask one or two last questions about
the unhappy woman to whom it refers. I have read the communica-
tion which Mr. Gilmore kindly addressed to my solicitor, describing
the circumstances under which the writer of the anonymous letter
was identified. But there are certain points to which that state-
ment does not refer. Did Anne Catherick see Miss Fairlie 2"
" Certainly not," replied Miss Halcombe.
" Did she see you ?"
"No."
" She saw nobody from the house, then, except a certain Mr. Hart-
right, who accidentally met with her in the church-yard here ?"
" Nobody else."
" Mr. Hartright was employed at Limmeridge as a drawing-mas-
ter, I believe ? Is he a member of one of the Water-color Soci-
eties ?"
" I believe he is," answered Miss Halcombe.
He paused for a moment, as if he was thinking over the last an-
swer, and then added : .
" Did you find out where Anne Catherick was living, when she
was in this neighborhood ?"
"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 mate
inquiries on the chance. In the mean time, as I can not 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 nec-
essary explanation, deferring it of course until you have received
the reply to that note."
Miss Halcombe promised to comply with his request. He thank-
ed her — nodded pleasantly — and left us, to go and establish himself
in his own room. As he opened the door, the cross-grained grey-
hound 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."
120 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
"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 al-
most wish Walter Hartright had staid here long enough to be pres-
ent at the explanation, and to hear the proposal to me to write this
note."
I was a little surprised— perhaps a little piqued, also — by these
last words.
"Events, it is true, connected Mr. Hartright very remarkably with
the aflair of the letter," I said ; " and I readily admit that he con-
ducted himself, all things considered, with great delicacy and dis-
cretion. But I am quite at a loss to understand what useful influ-
ence 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 responsibility, 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.
" If any doubts still trouble you," I said, *' why not mention them
to me at once ? Tell mc plainly, have you any reason to distrust Sir
Percival Glyde 2"
" None whatever."
" Do you see any thing improbable, or contradictory, in his expla-
nation V
" 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 favor, Mr. Gil-
more, 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, can not see what more any friend of Sir Perci-
val'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. Gilmore, unsettles 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
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 121
grew up, in more than one trying family crisis, and my long expe-
rience 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 uneasi-
ness or any doubt ; but she had made me a little uneasy, and a little
doubtful, nevertheless. In my youth, I should have chafed and fret-
ted under the irritation 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 rec-
ognized 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, re-appeared, ev-
ery now and then^ in his manner toward 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 her
into . the conversation, he never lost the slightest chance she gave
him of letting her drift into it by accident, and of saying the words
to her, under those favorable circumstances, -which a man with less
tact and delicacy would have pointedly addressed to her the mo-
ment they occurred to him. Kather to my surprise, Miss Fairlie
appeared to be sensible of his attentions, without being moved by
them. She was a little confused from time to time, when he looked
at her, or spoke to her ; but she never warmed toward him. Bank,
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 afterward 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 pre-
served, and which I may as well present in this place. It ran as fol-
lows:
" Madam, — I beg to acknowledge the receipt of your letter, in-
quiring whether my daughter, Anne, was placed under medical su-
perintendence with my knowledge and approval, and whether the
6
122 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
share taken in the matter by Sir Percival Glyde was such as to merit
the expression of my gratitude toward 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 Glyde's statement. This was my opinion,
and, with certain minor reservations, 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. Cath-
erick was a woman of few words, a clear-headed, straightforward,
unimaginative person, who wrote briefly and plainly, just as she
spoke.
The next duty to be accomplished, now that the answer had been
received, was to acquaint Miss Fairlie with Sir Percival's explana-
tion. Miss Halcombe had undertaken to do this, and had left the
room to go 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 bim and trust him,
we have done all, and more than all, that is necessary," I answered,
a little annoyed by this return of her hesitation. " But if we are en-
emies who suspect him — "
"That alternative is not even to be thought of," she interposed.
" 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 ad-
mirers as well. You know that he saw Mr. Fairlie yesterday, and
that he afterward 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 ob-
served that she was out of spirits, and- he was willing, if not in-
formed to the contrary, to attribute to that cause the alteration in
her manner toward 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. Fair-
lie or by me. All he asked, in that case, was that she would recall
to mind, for the last time, what the circumstances were under which
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 123
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 honor of becoming her
husband — and if she would 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."
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 can not 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 mes-
sage."
" How can that possibly be ?"
" Consult your own knowledge of Laura, Mr. Gilinore. If I tell
her to reflect on the circumstances of her engagement, I at once ap-
peal to two of the strongest feelings in her nature — to her love for
her father's memory, and to her strict regard for truth. Tou know
that she never broke a promise in her life ; you know that she en-
tered on this engagement at the beginning of her father's fatal ill-
ness, 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, an-
grily.
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 traveling out of the record. Whatever the conse-
quences 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 himself in your eyes and in mine. What objection
124 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
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 must attribute our
strange 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 sensi-
ble woman has a serious question put to her, and evades it by a flip-
pant 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 suspecting that Miss Halcombe and Miss Pairlie
had a secret between them which they were keeping from Sir Perci-
val and keeping from me. I thought this hard on both of us — espe-
cially 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 Fair-
lie, it appeared, had listened quietly "while the affair of the letter was
placed before her in the right point of view ; but when Miss Hal-
combe next proceeded to say that the object of Sir Percival's visit
at Limmeridge was to prevail on her to let a day be fixed for the
marriage, she checked all further reference to the subject by beg-
ging 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 discussion 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 em-
barrassing 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 prob-
able that I should find no second opportunity of presenting myself
at Limmeridge House during the remainder of the year. In that
case, supposing Miss Pairlie 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 ques-
tions 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 desired delay. He was too gal-
lant a gentleman not to grant the request immediately. When Miss
THE WOMAJiT 1ST WHITE. 125
Halcombe informed me of this, I told her that I must absolutely
speak to her sister before I left Limmeridge ; and it was, therefore,
arranged that I should see Miss Pairlie 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 Pah-lie'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 way up stairs, failed me on the spot. I led her
back to the chair from which she had risen, and placed myself op-
posite 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 which 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 water-color 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 confusedly;
" it is not my doing."
Her fingers had artless 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 wan-
dered to the album, and toyed absently about the margin of the lit-
tle water-color drawing. The expression 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-bye," I began. " I must get back to London to-day ; and, before
I leave, I want to have a word with you on the subject of your own
affairs."
" I am very sorry you are going, Mr. Gilmore," 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
126 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
memories once more," I continued ; " but as there is some uncertain-
ty about the future, I must take my opportunity 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 offense, of the possibility
of your marrying Sir Percival Glyde."
She took her hand off the little album as suddenly as if it had
turned hot and burned her. Her fingers twined together nervously
in her lap ; her eyes looked down again at the floor ; and an expres-
sion of constraint settled on her face which looked almost like an ex-
pression 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 many.
In the first case, I must be prepared, beforehand, to draw your settle-
ment; 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 mar-
rying, 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 exactly what her prospects were — 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 only, 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.
" Don't let him part me from Marian," she cried, with a sudden
outbreak of energy. " Oh, Mr. Gilmoro, pray make it law that Ma-
rian 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 desperata
clinging to the past which boded ill for the future.
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 127
" Tour 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 dis-
posal 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 color 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 Mari-
an—"
She stopped; her color heightened; and the fingers of the hand
that rested upon the album beat gently on the margin of the draw-
ing, as if her memory had set them going mechanically with the re-
membrance of a favorite tune.
" You mean some other member of the family besides Miss Hal-
combe ?" I suggested, seeing her at a loss to proceed.
The heightening color spread to her forehead and her neck, and
the nervous ringers 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 color 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 the floor as she changed her position, and
she hurriedly hid her face from me in her hands.
Sad ! • To remember her, as I did, the liveliest, 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 toward one
another. I moved my chair close to her, and picked up her hand-
kerchief 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.
128 THE "WOMAN IN WHITE.
"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,! 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 de-
tails 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 be wor^
thier 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 here ! 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 — "bet-
ter 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 dismay at the prospect of
her marriage — and yet she had contrived to win me over to her side
of the question, I neither knew how nor why. I had entered the
room, feeling that Sir Percival Glyde had fair reason to complain of
the manner in which she was treating him. I left it secretly hoping
that matters might end in her taking him at his word and claiming
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 mes-
sage back, written in pencil on a slip of paper : " Kind love and best
wishes, dear Gilmore. Hurry of any kind is inexpressibly injurious
to me. Pray take care of yourself. Good-byje."
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.
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 129
" 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. Gilmore — 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 neighborhood," he said, " pray don't for-
get that I am sincerely anxious to improve our acquaintance. 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, delightfully free
from pride — a gentleman, every inch of him. As I drove, away to
the station, I felt as if I could cheerfully do any thing to promote
the interests of Sir Percival Glyde — any thing in the world, except
drawing the marriage-settlement of his wife.
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 Glyde 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 be-
fore she was of age.
I ought not to have been surprised, I ought not to have been sor-
ry ; but I was surprised and sorry, nevertheless. Some little disap-
pointment, caused by the unsatisfactory shortness of Miss Halcombe's
letter, mingled itself with these feelings, and contributed its share
toward upsetting 'my serenity for the day. In six lines my corre-
spondent 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 cheerful society ; sec-
ondly, 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
6*
130 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
to explain what the circumstances were which had decided Miss
Fairlie 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 ex-
perience 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 remaining event connected with Miss Fairlie's proposed mar-
riage in which I was concerned, namely, the drawing of the settle-
ment.
It is impossible to refer intelligibly to this document, without 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 obscurities and technicalities. . The
matter is of the utmost importance. 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 ; compris-
ing 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 consequence,
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 eight-
een, 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.
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 131
■ 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 settle-
ment 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 dis-
posal. If she died before her husband, he would naturally 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 Mag-
dalen. Thus, Sir Percival's prospects in marrying Miss Fairlie (so far
as his wife's expectations from real property were concerned) prom-
ised 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 in-
come 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 for-
tune. 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 Elea-
nor, as long as she remained a single woman. But when her mar-
riage took place, somewhat late in life, and when that marriage uni-
ted her to an Italian gentleman, named Fosco — or, rather to an Itali-
an nobleman, seeing that he rejoiced in the title of Count — Mr. Fair-
lie disapproved of her conduct so strongly that he ceased to hold any
communication 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 sufficient income
132 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
of his own ; lie 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
Englishman of the old school; and he hated a foreigner, simply and
solely because he was a foreigner. The utmost that he could be pre-
vailed on to do, in after years, mainly at Miss Fail-lie'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 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 re-
ceiving the ten thousand pounds, was thus rendered doubtful in the
extreme ; and Madame Fosco resented her brother's treatment 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 in-
come 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 completing 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 sim-
ply this : The whole amount was to be settled so as to give the in-
come to the lady for her life ; afterward to Sir Percival for his life ;
and the principal to the children of the marriage. In default of is-
sue, the principal was to be disposed of as the lady 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 Hal-
combe, and any other relatives or friends whom she might be anx-
ious 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.
TUB WOMAN IN WHITE. 133
We shall see how my proposals were met on the husband's side.
At the time when Miss Haleombe's letter reached me, I 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 gen-
eral, 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 princvpal to go to Sir Percival Glyde, 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 de-
testable 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 com-
pleted her twenty-first year — was her guardian, Mr. Frederick Fair-
lie. I wrote by that day's post and put the case before him exactly
as it stood ; not only urging every argument I could think of to in-
duce 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 his side were submitted in due
course to my examination, had but too plainly informed me that the
debts on his estate were enormous, and that his 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.
Mr. Fairlie's answer reached mo by return of post, and proved to
be wandering and irrelevant in the extreme. Turned into plain En-
glish, it practically expressed itself to this effect : " "Would dear Gil-
more be so very obliging as not to worry his friend and client about
134 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
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 possible to overestimate the value of peace and quiet-
ness ? 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 inveter-
ate good-humor. 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 ex-
cellent 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 difference 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 pur-
pose— I wish; with all my heart, the responsibility was off my shoul-
ders ; but he is obstinate — or, let me rather say, resolute — and he
won't take it off. ' Merriman, I leave details 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 fortnight 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 in-
terests 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."
"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 fire-place 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
worse. My legal instincts got the better of me ; and I even tried to
bargain.
HE WALKED TO THE FIRE-PLACE AND WABMED HIMSELF.
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 137
" 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, recognizing the interests of the lady's family as
well as the interests of the husband, might not, perhaps, have fright-
ened 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 thou-
sand nine hundred and ninety-nine pounds nineteen shillings and
eleven-pence three farthings. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Excuse me, Mr. Gil-
more. I must 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-humored, on my side ; I
came back to business, and closed the interview.
" 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-way," he said, "your clients in Cumberland have not heard
any thing 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 Per-
cival 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 Cumberland," I
said.
" Quite another party, sir," answered Mr. Merriman. " 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 con-
versation with my legal friend. I was so anxious about the matter
of the settlement, that I had little attention to give to any other sub-
138 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
ject; 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 instruc-
tions, 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 toward Miss Fairlie. I
had an honest feeling of affection and admiration for her ; I remem-
bered gratefully that her father had been the. kindest patron and
friend to me that ever man had ; I had felt toward her, while I was
drawing the settlement, as I might have felt, if I had not been an old
bachelor, toward 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 remonstra-
ting 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 Cumberland, on the chance of persuading him to
adopt the just, the independent, and the honorable course. It was
a poor chance enough, no doubt; but, when 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 wind and a bright
sun. Having felt latterly a return of that fullness 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 on before me, and walking to the
terminus in Euston Square. As I came out into Holborn, a gentle-
man, 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 un-
certain— and his dress, which I remembered as neat and gentleman-
like 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
Glyde's explanation has been considered satisfactory. Will the mar-
riage 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 him. However accident-
ally intimate he might have been with the family at Limmeridge, I
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 139
could not see that he had any right to expect information on their
private affairs ; and I determined to drop him, as easily as might be,
on the subject of Miss Fairlie's marriage.
" Time will show, Mr. Hartright," I said — " time will show. 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 look-
ing so well as you were when 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 significantly 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 influ-
ence, 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, while he said this, at the
throng of strangers passing us by on either side, in a strange, sus-
picious manner, as if he thought that some of them might be watch-
ing us.
" I wish you well through it, and safe back again," I said ; and
then added, so as not to keep him altogether at arms-length on the
subject of the Fairlies, " I am going down to Limmeridge to-day on
business. Miss Halcombe and Miss Eairlie are away just now, on a
visit to some friends in Yorkshire."
His eyes brightened, and he seemed about to say something in an-
swer ; 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 little more
than a stranger to me, I waited for a moment, looking after him al-
most with a feeling of regret. I had gained, in my profession, suffi-
cient 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 Limmeridge 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 bus-
tled absurdly, and made all sorts of annoying mistakes. Even the
butler, who was old enough to have known better, brought me a bot-
140 THE WOilAN IN WHITE.
tie 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 humor, to breakfast by myself
the next morning.
At ten o'clock I was conducted to Mr. Fairlie's apartments. 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 for-
eigner grinned in the most abject manner, and looked ready to drop
with fatigue, while his master composedly turned over the etchings,
and brought their hidden beauties to light with the help of a mag-
nifying-glass.
" You very best of good old friends," said Mr. Fairlie, leaning
back lazily before he could look at me, " are you quite well ? How
nice of you to come here and see me in my solitude. Dear Gil-
more !"
I had expected that the valet would be dismissed when I ap-
peared ; 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 be-
tween 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 faint-
ly repeated my last three words, " better be alone," with every ap-
pearance of the utmost possible astonishment.
I was in no humor for trifling ; and I resolved to make him under-
stand what I meant.
" Oblige me by giving that man permission to withdraw," I said,
pointing to the valet,
Mr. Fairlie arched his eyebrows, and pursed up his lips, in sar-
castic 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 port-folio stand.
Why object, Gilmore, to a port-folio stand 2"
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. , 141
" 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 t 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 hand-
kerchief, 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 'said, "to
serve the interests of your niece and your family ; and I think I have
established some slight claim. to be favored 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 let-
ter, 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. " Nev-
er mind ; go 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 was speaking, with his eyes closed. When I had done, he
opened them indolently, took his silver smelling-bottle from the ta-
ble, and sniffed at it with an air of gentle relish.
" Good Gilmore !" he said, between the sniffs, " how very nice this
is of you ! How you reconcile one to human nature !"
" Give me a plain answer to a plain question, Mr. Fairlie. I tell
you again, Sir Perciyal 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 mar-
rying Miss Fairlie entirely from mercenary motives."
Mr. Fairlie shook the silver smelling-bottle at me playfully.
14r2 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
" 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 provocation,
but, after holding the soundest Conservative principles all my life, I
could not put up with being called a Radical. My 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 Gilmores, I meant
no offense. My own views are so extremely 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 enough. Shall we
drop the subject ? Yes. Come and look at these sweet etchings.
Do let me teach you to understand the heavenly pearliness of these
lines. Do, now, there's a good Gilmore !"
While he was maundering on in this way I was, fortunately 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 main-
tain is a recognized 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 in-
form you that it is against all rule to abandon the lady's money
entirely to the man she marries. He would decline, on grounds
of common legal caution, to give the husband, under any circum-
stances whatever, an interest of twenty thousand pounds in his wife's
death."
" Would he really, Gilmore ?" said Mr. Fairlie. " If he said any
thing 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 away. 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 WOMAN IN WHITE. 143
the world that is likely to happen. No, dear friend — in the interests
and quietness, positively No 1"
" I am to understand, then, that you hold by the determination
expressed in your letter ?"
" 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 la3t 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"
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 after-
noon ; and by that train I returned to London.
On the Tuesday I sent in the alteredjjettlement, which practically
disinherited the very persons whom Miss Fairlie's own lips had in-
formed me she was most anxious to benefit. I had no choice. An-
other 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 further 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.
144 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
The Story continued by Marion Halcombe, in Extracts
from her Diary.
I.
Limmeridge House, Nov. 8th.
# * * * * * * * •}•
Trns morning Mr. Gilmore left us.
His 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 might 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
with Sir Percival, and went up to Laura's room instead.
I have been sadly distrustful of myself, in this difficult and laments
able 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 honor- which drew me to poor
Hartright, and made me so sincerely admire and respect him, were
just the qualities to appeal most irresistibly to Laura's natural sen-
sitiveness and natural generosity of nature. And yet, until she open-
ed her heart to me of her own accord^ I had no suspicion that this
new feeling had taken root so deeply. 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 committed such an error in
judgment as this, makes me hesitate about every thing else. I hesi-
tate 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
forward at once, and spoke to me before I could open my lips.
" I wanted you," she said. " Come and sit down on the sofa with
me. Marian ! I can bear this no longer — I must and will end it"
There was too much color in her cheeks, too much energy in her
manner, too much firmness in her voice. The little book of Hart-
right'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 firm-
ly 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 ?"
t The passages omitted, here and elsewhere, in Miss Halcombe's Diary, are only
those which hear no reference to Miss Fairlie or to any of the persons with whom
she is associated in these pages.
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 145
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 for 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 miniature 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 me. 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 wretch-
edness worse."
" What is it you propose, then ?" I asked.
" To tell Sir Percival Glyde the truth, with my own lips," she an-
swered, " and to let him release me, if he will, not because I ask him,
but because he knows all."
" What do you mean, Laura, by ' all ?' Sir Percival will know
enough (he has told me so himself) if he knows that the engage-
ment 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, turn-
ed 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 Per-
cival's wife."
" Laura ! you will never lower yourself by making a confession 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 I"
" Wrong, Marian, wrong ! I ought to deceive no one — least of all
the man to whom my father gave me, and to whom I gave myself."
She put her lips to mine, and kissed me. " My own love," she said,
softly, " you are so much too fond of 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 mis-
judge 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 hid-
ing the falsehood."
I held her away from me in astonishment. For the first time in
7
146 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
our lives, we 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 empti-
ness. 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 clqse 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 that 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, twin-
ing and twisting my hair with that childish restlessness in her fin-
gers, which 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 right. 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, when he has heard what I have to say, let
him act toward me as he will."
She sighed, and put her head back in its old position on my bo-
som. Sad misgivings about what the end would be, weighed 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 was more easy and more her-
self with Sir Percival, than I have seen her yet. In the even-
ing she went to the piano, choosing new music of the dexterous,
tuneless, florid kind. The lovely old melodies of Mozart, which
poor Hartright was so fond of, she has never 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 break-
fast, and that he would find her in her sitting-room with me. He
changed color 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.
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 147
I went in, as usual, through the door between our two bedrooms,
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 favorite toys when she was a child. I could not find it in iny
heart to say any thing ; 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-bye to it forever."
9th. — 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 offer an opinion on the" conduct
of those who are above him. This is sad ; but his occasional refer-
ences to himself grieve me still more. He says that the effort to re-
turn 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 employment that will necessitate his absence 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 ab-
rupt, mysterious manner, that he has been perpetually watched and
followed by strange men ever since he returned to London. He ac-
knowledges that he can not prove this extraordinary suspicion by
fixing on any particular persons; but he declares that the suspicion
itself is present to him night and day. This has frightened me, be-
cause it looks as if his one fixed idea about Laura was becoming too
much for his mind. I will write immediately to some of my moth-
er's influential 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 in his own
room, and he was still engaged there in writing letters. At eleven
o'clock, if that hour was convenient, he would do himself the honor
of waiting on Miss Fairlie and Miss Halcombe.
My eyes were on Laura's face while the message was being deliv-
ered. I had found her unaccountably quiet and composed on going
into her room in the morning; and so she remained all through
148 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
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
myself with an old friend like Mr. Gilmore, or with a dear sister like
you ; but I will not forget myself with Sir Percival Glyde."
I looked at her, and listened to her in silent surprise. Through
all the years of our close intimacy, this passive force in her character
had been hidden from me — hidden even from herself, till love found
it, and suffering called it forth.
As the clock on the mantel-piece struck eleven, Sir Percival knock-
ed at the door, and came in. There was suppressed anxiety and agi-
tation in every line of his face. The dry, sharp cough, which teases
him at most times, seemed to be troubling him more incessantly than
ever. He sat down opposite to us at the table, and Laura remained
by me. I looked attentively at them both, and he was the palest of
the two.
He said a few unimportant words, with a visible effort to preserve
his customary ease of manner. But his voice was not to be steadied,
and the restless uneasiness in his eyes was not to be concealed. He
must have felt this himself; for he stopped in the middle of a sen-
tence, and gave up even the attempt to hide his embarrassment any
longer.
There was just one moment of dead silence before Laura addressed
him.
" I wish to speak to you, Sir Percival," she said, " on a subject that
is very important to us both. My sister is here, because her presence
helps me, and gives me-Gonfldence. 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 further ?"
Sir Percival bowed. She had proceeded thus far with perfect out-
ward tranquillity, and perfect propriety of manner. She looked at "
him, and he looked at her. They seemed, at the outset at least, re-
solved 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 per-
mission before you honored me with a proposal of marriage. Per-
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 149
haps 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 now ; I have only his memory to love ; but my faith
in that dear dead friend has never been shaken. I believe at this mo-
ment, 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 have ever proved myself unworthy of
the trust, which it has been hitherto my greatest honor and greatest
happiness to possess ?"
-" I have found nothing in your conduct to blame," she answered.
" You have always 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 deserved my father's trust,
out of which mine grew. You have given me no excuse, even if I
had wanted to find one, for asking to be released from my pledge.
What I have said so far, has been spoken with the wish to acknowl-
edge my whole obligation to you. My regard for that obligation,
my regard for my father's memory, and my regard for my own prom-
ise, all forbid me to set the example, on my side, of withdrawing from
our present position. The breaking of our engagement must be en-
tirely your wish and your act, Sir Percival — not mine."
The uneasy beating of his foot suddenly stopped ; and he leaned
forward eagerly across the table.
" My act ?" he said. " What reason can there be, on my side, for
withdrawing ?"
I heard her breath quickening ; I felt her hand growing cold. In
spite of what she had said to me when we were alone, I began to be
afraid of her. I was wrong.
" A reason that it is very hard to tellyou," she answered. " There
is a change in me, Sir Percival — a change which is serious enough
to justify you, to yourself and to me, in breaking off our engage-
ment.';
His face turned so pale again, that even his lips lost their color.
He raised the arm which lay on the table; turned a little away in
his chair ; and supported his head on his hand, so that his profile
only was presented to us.
" What change ?" he asked. The tone in which he put the ques-
tion jarred on me — there was something painfully suppressed in it.
She sighed heavily, and leaned toward me a little, so as to rest her
150 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
shoulder against mine. Pfelt her trembling, and tried to spare her
by speaking myself. She stopped me by a warning pressure of her-
hand, and then addressed Sir Percival once more; but this time
without looking at him.
" I have heard," she said, " and I believe it, that the fondest and
truest of all affections is the affection which a woman ought to bear
to her husband. When our engagement began, that affection was
mine to give, if I could, and yours to win, if you could. Will you
pardon me, and spare me, Sir Percival, if I acknowledge that it is not
so any longer ?"
A few tears gathered in her eyes, and dropped over her cheeks
slowly, as she paused and waited for his answer. He did not utter
a word. At the beginning of her reply, he had moved the hand on
which his head rested, so that it hid his face. I saw nothing but
the upper part of his figure at the table. Not a muscle of him
moved. The fingers of the hand 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
trembling 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 such
right."
The few plain words which would have brought him back to the
point from which he had wandered were just on my lips, wjien
Laura checked me by speaking again.
" I hope I have not made my painful acknowledgment in vain,"
she continued. " I hope it has secured me your entire confidence in
what I have still to say?"
" Pray be assured of it." He made that brief reply, warmly ; drop-
ping his hand on the table while he spoke, and turning toward 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
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 151
only allow me to remain a single woman for the rest of my life. My
fault toward you has begun and ended in my own thoughts. It can
never go any further. No word has passed — " She hesitated, in
doubt about the expression she should use next ; hesitated, in a mo-
mentary confusion which it was very sad and very painful to see.
" No word has passed," she patiently and resolutely resumed, " be-
tween myself and the person to whom I am now referring for the
first and last time in your presence, of my feelings toward him, or of
his feelings toward 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 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 sacrifice of
my own feelings. I trust to- his generosity to pardon me, and to his
honor 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 in withdrawing from your engage-
ment."
" 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 few steps toward the place
where she was sitting.
She started violently, and a faint cry of surprise escaped her. Ev-
ery word she had spoken had innocently betrayed her purity and
truth to a man who thoroughly understood the priceless value of a
pure andtrue woman. Her own noble conduct had been the hid-
den 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 Per-
cival that would give me the opportunity of putting him in the
wrong.
" You have left it to me, Miss Fail-lie, 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 en-
thusiasm, 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 can not give her love."
152 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
"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 maintaining 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 rib man alive could have steeled his heart against 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 delica-
cy 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
grew uneasy and spoke to her softly, in the hope of producing a
change.
The sound of my voice seemed to startle her into consciousness.
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 care-
fully ; and put them in a drawer of her cabinet. She locked the
drawer, and brought the key to me.
" I must part from every thing that reminds me of him," she said.
" Keep the key wherever you please — I shall never want it again."
Before I could say a word, she had turned away to her book-case,
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 my voice, and nothing but sorrow in my
heart.
" It is the last time, Marian," she pleaded. " I am bidding it
good-bye forever."
She laid the book on the table, and drew out the comb that fast-
ened her hair. It fell, in its matchless beauty, over her back and
shoulders, and dropped round her, far below her waist. She sepa-
AND PINNED IT CABEFULLY IN THE FORM OF A CIBCLE.
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 155
rated one long, thin lock from the rest, cut it off, and pinned it care-
fully, in the form of a circle, on the first blank page of the album.
The moment it was fastened 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, Marian — 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
I 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 hysterical 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, sud-
den end for us two, of this memorable day. "When the fit hadTvom
itself out, she was too exhausted to speak. She slumbered toward
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.
10th. — Finding that she was composed and like herself, this morn-
ing, I returned to the painful subject of yesterday, for the sole pur-
pose of imploring her to let me speak to Sir Percival and Mr. Fair-
lie, 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 has 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 unparalleled 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 unworthy jealousy, either at the time when he
was in her presence, or afterward when he had withdrawn from it.
Deeply as he lamented the unfortunate attachment which had hin-
156 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
dered the progress he might otherwise have made in her esteem
and regard, he firmly believed that it had remained unacknowl-
edged in the past, and that it would remain, under all changes of
circumstance which it was possible to contemplate, 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 bad
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 im-
pulsively 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 al-
together.
Here, again, he disarmed me by not attempting to defend himself.
He would merely beg me to remember the difference there was be-
tween 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 un-
changeable 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 toward
the very woman whom he idolized, 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 which she could never acknowledge, could be'
said to promise her a much brighter prospect than her future as the
wife of a man who worshiped the very ground she walked on ? In
the last case there was hope from time, however slight it mi<*ht 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 any thing convincing to say. It was
only too plain that the course Laura had adoptecf the day before
had offered him the advantage if he chose to take it — and that he
Tiad 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
THE WOMAN IN "WHITE. 157
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 interests, to two of my mother's old friends
in London — both men of influence and position. If they can do any
thing 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.
11th. — 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 .1 did not feel called on to say any thing to
him about my own opinion ; but when he proceeded, in his most ag-
gravatingly languid manner, to suggest that^the time for the mar-
riage 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 pro-
posal 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 honor to human nature, and then repeated his sug-
gestion, as coolly as if neither Sir Percival 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 Marian !
how I envy you your robust nervous system ! Don't bang the
door 1"
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 wanted 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 ex-
pected her to make.
" My uncle is right," she said. "I have caused trouble and anxie-
ty enough to you, and to all about me. Let me cause no more, Ma-
rian-Jet Sir Percival decide."
158 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
I remonstrated warmly ; 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.
12th. — 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 win-
dows. They were not more than two or three minutes together ; and,
on their separating, she left the room with Mrs. Vesey, while Sir Per-
cival came to me. He said he had entreated her to favor 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 ac-
knowledgments, and had desired him to mention what his wishes
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 every thing that I can say or do. His
wishes are now what they were, of 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 extraordinary 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 a3
I write it !
13th. — A sleepless night, through uneasiness about Laura. Toward
the morning I came to a resolution to try what change of scene would
do to rouse her. She can not surely remain in her present toipor of
insensibility, if I take her away from Limmeridge and surround her
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 159
with the pleasant faces of old friends ? After some consideration, I
decided on writing to the Arnolds, in Yorkshire. They are simple,
kind-hearted, hospitable people, and she has known them from her
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."
14tA. — I wrote to Mr. Gilmore, informing him that there was really
a prospect of this miserable marriage taking place, and also mention-
ing 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 Hartright's behalf,
informing me that he has been fortunate enough to find an opportu-
nity of complying with my request. The third, from Walter him-
self; thanking me, poor fellow, 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. The
draughtsman who had been already appointed to accompany 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 afterward, if the excava-
tions 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 unbappy position, how can I expect him,
or wish him, to remain at home ?
16th. — The carriage is at the door. Laura and I set out on our
visit to the Arnolds to-day.
****** + *
Polesdean Lodge, Yorkshire.
23d. — A week in these new scenes and among these kind-hearted
people has done her some good, though not so much as I 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.
160 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
%Wh.— Sad news by this morning's post. The expedition to Cen-
tral America sailed on the twenty-first. "We have parted with a true
man ; we have lost a faithful friend. Walter Hartright has left En-
gland.
25^. — Sad news yesterday ; ominous news to-day. Sir Percival
Glyde has written to Mr. Fairlie ; and Mr. Fairlie has written to Lau-
ra and me, to recall us to Limmeridge immediately.
What can this mean ? Has the day for the marriage been fixed in
our absence ?
II.
Limmeridge House.
November %1th. — My forebodings are realized. 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 occupy a much longer time in
completion than he had originally anticipated. The proper esti-
mates were to be submitted to him as soon as possible; and it
would greatly facilitate his entering into definite arrangements
with the work-people, 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 with reference to time, be-
sides writing the necessary apologies to friends who had been en-
gaged to visit him that winter, and who could not, of course, be re-
ceived when the house was in the hands of the workmen.
To this letter Mr. 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 undertook 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 de-
cided, in her absence, on the earliest day mentioned — the twenty-
second of December — and had written to recall us to Limmeridge
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 necessary negotiations to-day. Feeling that re-
sistance 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 consideration undertake to gain her consent to
Sir Percival's wishes. Mr. Fairlie complimented me on my "excel-
lent conscience," much as he would have complimented me, if we
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 161
had been out walking, on my " excellent constitution," and seemed
perfectly satisfied, so i'ar, ■with having simply shifted one more fami-
ly responsibility from his own shoulders to mine.
This morning I spoke to Laura, as I had promised. The compos-
ure— I may almost say, the insensibility — which she has so strange-
ly 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.
Just as my hand was on the door, she caught fast hold of my
dress and stopped me. * v
" 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 slip-
ped both her arms round my waist at the same moment, and held
me more effectually than ever.
" It will only involve us in more trouble and more confusion," she
said. " It will set you and my uncle at variance, and bring Sir Per-
cival here again with fresh causes of complaint — "
" 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 will not alter what must
happen, sooner or later. Let my uncle have his way. Let us have
no more troubles and heart-burnings that any sacrifice of mine can
prevent. Say you will live with me, Marian, when I am married —
and say no more."
162 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.,
But I did say more. I forced back the contemptible tears that
were t 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 suddenly asked a question which turned my sorrow and
my sympathy for her into a new direction.
"While we were at Polesdean," she said, "you had a letter, Ma-
rian— "
Her altered tone ; the abrupt manner in which she looked away
from me, and hid her face on my shoulder ; the hesitation which si-
lenced her before she had completed her question, all told me, but
too plainly, to whom the half-expressed inquiry pointed.
" I 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 En-
gland, or of the manner in which my exertions to serve his new
hopes and projects had connected me with his departure. What
answer could I make ? He was gone where no letters could reach
him for months, perhaps for years, to come.
" Suppose I do mean to write to him again," I said, at last.
" What then, Laura 2"
Her cheek grew burning hot against my neck, and her arms
trembled and tightened round me.
" Don't tell him about the twenty-second," she whispered. " Prom-
ise, 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 win-
dow, and stood looking out, with her back to me. After a moment
she spoke once more, but without turning 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 Glyde to the uttermost ends
of the earth by lifting one of my fingers, that finger would have been
raised without an instant's hesitation. For once my unhappy tem-
per 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
burned 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
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 163
to the twenty-second " — and dashed out again without waiting for
a word of answer. I banged the door after me, and I hope I shat-
tered 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 discov-
ery of this makes me uneasy, what would it make her t It is bad
enough to feel that his departure has deprived us of the friend of all
others to whose devotion 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 can-
dor to tell Laura this, without a pressing and a positive necessity for it ?
I almost doubt whether I ought not to go a step further, and burn
the letter at once, for fear of its one day falling into wrong hands.
It not only refers to Laura in terms which ought to remain a secret
forever 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 opportu-
nity, Miss Halcombe, than I made of it. I speak on strong convic-
tion ; I entreat you to remember what I say." These are his own
expressions. There is no danger of my forgetting them — my mem-
ory 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 burned ! The ashes of his farewell letter — the last he may
ever write to me — lie in a few black fragments on the hearth. Is
this the sad end to all -that sad story ? Oh, not the end — surely,
surely not the end already !
29iA. — The preparations for the maniage have begun. The dress-
164 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
maker has come to receive her orders. Laura is perfectly impassive,
perfectly careless about the question of all others in which a wom-
an's personal interests are most closely bound up. She has left it
all to the dress-maker 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 dress-makers 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 upholsterers could make happiness as well as splendor, 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 no.t 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 sum-
mer. If this plan should not be approved, he is equally ready, al-
though he has no establishment of his own in town, to spend the
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 me 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 traveling 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 gayeties and 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 ?
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 165
Before another month is oyer our heads, she will be his Laura instead
of mine ! His Laura ! I am as little able to realize the idea which
those two words convey — my mind feels almost as dulled and stun-
ned by it— as if writing of her marriage were like writing of her
death.
December 1st. — A sad, sad day ; a day that I have no heart to de--
scribe at any length. After weakly putting it off, last night, I was
obliged to speak to her this morning of Sir Percival's proposal about
the wedding-tour.
In the full conviction that I should be with her wherever 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 Kome
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 afterward. I
was obliged to warn her, that my chance of living with her perma-
nently under her own roof depended entirely on my not arousing Sir
Percival's jealousy and distrust by standing between them at the be-
ginning of their marriage, in the position of the chosen depository of
his wife's closest secrets. Drop by drop, I poured the profaning bit-
terness 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 learned 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 permission, for meet-
ing them and staying with them, when they return to England. In
other words, I am to ask a personal favor, 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.
2d. — On looking back, I find myself always referring to Sir Perci-
val in disparaging terms. In the turn affairs have now taken, I must
and will root out my prejudice against him. I can not 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
PercivaJ's explanation, and of the proof in my possession of the truth
166 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
of it? I can not 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 unfavor-
able manner, I must and will break myself of this unworthy tenden-
cy, 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 16th. — A whole fortnight has passed; and I 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 traveling-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, Ma-
rian," she said ; " I must make the most of you while I can."
They are to be married at Limmeridge Church ; and, thank Heav-
en, not one of the neighbors 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
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 clergy-
man to grant him the hospitality of the rectory during the short pe-
riod of his sojourn at Limmeridge before the marriage. Under the
circumstances, neither Mr. Pairlie nor I thought it at all necessary for
us to trouble ourselves about attending to trifling forms and ceremo-
nies. In our wild moor-land country, and in this great lonely house,
we may well claim to be beyond the reach of the trivial convention-
alities which hamper people in other places. I wrote to Sir Perci-
val to thank him for his polite offer, and to beg that he would occu-
py his old rooms, just as usual, at Limmeridge House.
nth— He arrived to-day, looking, as I thought, a little worn and
anxious, but still talking and laughing like a man in the best possi-
TIIE WOMAN IN WHITE. 167
ble spirits. He brought with him some really beautiful presents in
jewelry, which Laura received with her best grace, and, outwardly at
least, with perfect self-possession. 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 up stairs to-day, after lunch, to put
on my bonnet for a walk, she volunteered to join me ; and again, be-
fore dinner, she threw the door open between our two rooms, so that
we might talk to each other while we were dressing. " Keep me al-
ways 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 Perci-
val. He interprets it, I can see, to his own advantage. There is a fe-
verish 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 gayety 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 appear-
ed to be beyond all expression. The anxiety which I had noticed
on his face when he arrived, totally disappeared from it ; and he
looked, even to my eyes, a good ten years 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 person-
al 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 move-
ment ; untiring animation of manner ; ready, pliant conversational
powers — all these are unquestionable merits, and all these he cer-
tainly 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 mo-
ment to say plainly what defects I have discovered in Sir Percival,
I could only point out two. One, his incessant restlessness and ex-
citability— which may be. caused, naturally enough, by unusual ener-
gy of character. The other, his short, sharp, ill-tempered manner of
speaking to the servants — which may be only a bad habit after all.
No : I can not dispute it, and I will not dispute it — Sir Percival is a
very handsome and a very agreeable man. There I I have written
it down at last, and I am glad it's over.
168 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
18th.— Feeling weary and depressed this morning, I left Laura
with Mrs. Vesey, and went out alone for one of my brisk midday
walks, which I have discontinued too much of late. JL 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 shoot-
ing-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 afra4d
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 further information ?"
" He has neither heard of her, nor seen her, since he left Cumber-
land," I answered.
" Very sad," said Sir Percival, speaking like a man who was dis-
appointed, 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 inexpressi-
bly 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 sympathizing
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 dis-
closed another favorable trait in his character ? Surely it was sin-
gularly considerate and unselfish 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 conduct, under the
circumstances, shows unusual good feeling, and deserves extraordinary
praise. Well ! I give him extraordinary 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, when he brings her hack to England. I had hardly
dropped my first hint in this direction before he caught me warmly
by the hand, and said I had made the very offer to him which he
had been, on his side, most anxious to make to me. I was the com-
panion of all others whom he most sincerely longed to secure for his
wife ; and he begged me to believe that I had conferred a lasting
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 169
favor 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 consider-
ate kindness to both of us, we passed next to the subject of his wed-
ding-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 abrdfcd this winter; They were
all English, as well as I 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 likely to meet the bride and bridegroom on the Conti-
nent, puts Laura's marriage, for the first time, in a distinctly favora-
ble light; It is likely to be the means of healing a family feud.
Hitherto Madame Fosco has chosen to forget her obligations as Lau-
ra's aunt, out of sheer spite against the late Mr. Fairlie for his con-
duct in the affair of the legacy. Now, however, she can persist in
this course of conduct no longer. Sir Percival and Count Fosco are
old and fast friends, and their wives 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 in-
timate friend of Laura's husband ; and, in that capacity, he excites
my strongest interest. Neither Laura nor I have ever seen him.
All I know of him is that his accidental presence, years ago, on the
steps of the Trinita del Monte at Eome, 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 wound-
ed 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 unanswered. 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 —
if 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 toward the unfortunate, and full of affectionate kindness to-
ward me. Really, I hardly know myself again, in my new charac-
ter of Sir Percival's warmest friend.
170 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
20^.-1 hate Sir Percital ! I flatly deny his good looks. I con-
sider him to be eminently ill-tempered and disagreeable, and totally
wanting in kindness and good 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 trans-
formed Miss Fairlie into Lady Glyde^-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 barba-
rously unconscious that he had said any thing to pain her. -All my
old feelings of hostility toward him revived 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.
21$t. — 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 lev-
ity 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 veiy 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 pro-
duced this singular fancy ? Is it the indirect result of my apprehen-
sions for Laura's future ? Or has it been unconsciously suggested to
me by the increasing restlessness and irritability which I have cer-
tainly 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 circumstances, that ever entered
a woman's head ? — tout, try as I may, I can not 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 for-
gotten 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 age and with her habits. The
gift was presented this morning ; and poor warm-hearted Laura com-
pletely broke down when the shawl was put proudly on her shoul-
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 171
ders by the loving old friend and guardian of her motherless child-
hood. I was hardly allowedtinie to quiet them both, or even to dry
my own eyes, when I was sent for by Mr. Fairlie, to be favored with
a long v -\ of his arrangements for the preservation of his own
tranquilk - the wedding-day.
" Dear Lax j.-a" 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 sen-
timents 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 when she was going away, and without tears — " in the name
of pity, in the name of every thing, dear Marian, that is most affec-
tionate and most domestic and most delightfully and charmingly self-
composed, without tears!" I was so exasperated by this miserable,
selfish trifling, at such a time, that I should certainly have shocked
Mr. Fairlie 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 hud-
dled together one on the other, bewildered every body. 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, especial-
ly, was too restless, now, to remain five minutes together in the same
place. That short, shaip 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 perpet-
ual thought, in Laura-'s mind and mine, that we were to part the next
day,, and the haunting dread, unexpressed by either of us, and yet
ever present to^both, that this deplorable marriage might prove to be#
the one fatal error of her life and the one hopeless 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 sor-
rows may be in store for me, I shall always look back on this twenty-
172 THE -WOMAN IN WHITE.
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 were 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 be-
hind her pillow, as she lay beneath me, with one arm and hand rest-
ing on the white coverlet, so still, so quietly breathing, that the frill
on her nightdress 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 aU your wealth, and all
your beauty, how friendless 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, useless woman who writes these sad
lines, and watches by you for the morning, in sorrow that she -can not
compose, in. doubt that she can not 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 away for a mo-
ment in my own room. In the whirl and confusion of my thoughts
I can detect that strange fancy of some hinderance happening to stop
the marriage, still hanging about my mind. Is it hanging about his
mind too ? I 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 WOMAN IN WHITE. 173
THE SECOND EPOCH.
The Story continued by Marian Halcombe.
I..
Biackwater Park, Hampshire.
June 'lliA, 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 travelers return to England. I can hardly realize my
own happiness ; I can hardly believe that the next four-and-twen-
ty hours will complete the last day of separation between Laura
and me.
She and her husband have been in Italy all the winter, and after-
ward in the Tyrol. They come back, accompanied by Count Tosco
and his wife, who propose to settle somewhere in the neighborhood
of London; and who have engaged to stay at Biackwater 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 Biackwater Park, " the an-
cient and interesting seat " (as the county history obligingly in-
forms me) " of Sir Percival Glyde, 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 or in Hampshire ; but this
last letter informed me that Sir Percival proposed to land at South-
ampton, and to travel straight on to his country house. He has spent
so much money abroad that he has none lefFto defray the expenses
of living in London, for the remainder of the season; and he is eco-
nomically resolved to pass the summer and autumn quietly at Black-
water. Laura has had more than enough of excitement and change
1*74 • THE. WOMAN IN WHITE.
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 Black-
water, 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— al-
most 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 serv-
ants 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, apparently by the sound of the bell,
and is howling and yawning drearily, somewhere round a corner. I
hear echoing footsteps in the passages below, and the iron thumping
of bolts and bars at the house door. The servants are evidently go-
ing 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 see-
ing that dear face and hearing that well-known voice to-morrow,
keeps me in a perpetual fever of excitement. If I only had the priv-
ileges .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, hard, heavy, ceaseless gallop of hours and hours, like the fa-
mous highwayman'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 veryftmck neglected of late. What can I recall —
standing, as I 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 ?
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 11 5
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 hopefully than he has written yet. A
month or six weeks' later, I saw an extract from an American news-
paper, describing the departure of the adventurers on their inland
journey. They were last seen entering a wild primeval forest, each
man with his rifle on his shoulder and his baggageat bis back.
Since that time civilization has lost all trace of them. Not a line
more have I received from Waiter, 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 apoplectic fit. He had been long
complaining of fullness and oppression in the head, and his doctor
had warned him of the consequences that would follow his persist-
ency in continuing to work early and late, as if he was still a young
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 part-
ner, and he is himself, at this moment, away in Germany, visiting
some relations who are settled there in mercantile pursuits. Thus
another true friend and trustworthy adviser is lost to us — lost, I ear-
nestly hope and trust, for a time only.
Poor Mrs. Vesey traveled with me as far as London. It was im-
possible to abandon her to solitude at Limmeridge, after Laura and
I had both lefUthe house, and we have arranged that she is to live
with an unmarried younger sister of hers who keeps a school at Clap-
ham. 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
destination, 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
176 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
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 equivalent 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 collec-
tion of the photographs is to be presented to the Mechanics' Institu-
tion of Carlisle, mounted on the finest card-board, with ostentatious
red-letter inscriptions underneath. "Madonna and Child, by Ra-
phael. In the possession of Frederick Fairlie, Esquire." " Copper
coin of the period of Tiglath-pileser. In the possession of Freder-
ick Fairlie, Esquire,," " Unique Rembrandt etching. Known all
over Europe as The Smudge, 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, Esq." Dozens of photo-
graphs 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 pho-
tographers will share the social martyrdom which he has hitherto
inflicted on his valet alone.
So much for the persons and events which hold the .foremost
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 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 con-
tained these two inquiries, put more or less directly, now in one
form, and now in another ; and all, on that point only, have remain-
ed 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 traveling agrees with her ;
that she is getting through the winter, for the first time in her life,
without 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 regret. The name of her husband
is only mentioned in her letters as she might mention the name of a
friend who was traveling with them, and who had undertaken to
make all the arrangements for the journey. " Sir Perciyal " has set-
THE WOMAN IH WHITE. Ill
tied 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 can not find that his habits and opinions have changed and col-
ored 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 impressions, amidst all the wonders she has
seen, exactly as she might -have written to some one else if I had
been traveling 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 speculations
are busied with her future as my sister, and persistently 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 correspond-
ence does not, thank God, lead me to any such distressing conclusion
as that. I only see a sad torpor, an unchangeable indifference, when
I turn my mind from her in the old character of a sister, and look at
her, through the medium of her letters, in the new character of a
wife. 'In other words, it is always Laura Fairlie who has been writ-
ing to me for the last six -months, and never Lady Glydfc.
The strange silence which she maintains on the subject of her hus-
band's character and conduct, she preserves' with almost equal reso-
lution in the few references which her later letters contain to the
name of her husband's bosom friend, Count Fosco:
For some unexplained reason, the Count and his wife appear to
have changejRheir plans abruptly, at the end of last autumn, and to
have gone to Vienna, instead of going to Rome, at which latter place
Sir Percival had expected to find them when he left England. They
only quitted Vienna in the spring, and traveled as far as the Tyrol
to meet the bride and bridegroom on their homeward journey.
Laura writes readily enough about the meeting with Madame Fosco,
and assures me that she has found her aunt so much changed for
the better — so much quieter and so much more sensible as a wife
than she was as a single woman — that I shall hardly know heragain
when I see her here. But on the subject of Count Fosco (who inter-
ests me infinitely more than his wife), Laura is provokingly circum-
spect and silent. She only says that he puzzles her, and that she
will hot tell me what her impression of him is until I have seen him,
and formed my own opinion first.
This, to my mind, looks ill for the Count. Laura has preserved,
far more perfectly than most people do in later life, the child's subtle
faculty of knowing a friend by instinct ; - and if I am right in assum-
8*
118 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
ing that her first impression of Count Fosco has not been favorable,
I, for one, am in some danger of doubting and distrusting that illus-
trious foreigner before I have so much as set eyes on him. But pa-
tience, patience ; this uncertainty,' and many uncertainties more, can
not last much longer. To-morrow will see all my doubts in a fan-
way of being cleared up, sooner or later.
Twelve o'clock has struck ; and I have just come back to close
these pages, after looking out at my open window.
It is a still, sultry, moonless night. The.stars are dull and few.
The trees that shut out the view on all sides look dimly black and
eoUd in the distance, like a great wall of rock. I hear the croaking
of frogs, faint and far off, and the echoes of the great clock hum in
the airless calm long after the strokes have ceased. I wonder how
Blackwater Park will look in the day-time ? I don't altogether like
it by night.
12th. — 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 highly over-
rated woman, Queen Elizabeth. On the ground-floor there are two
hugely long galleries, with low ceilings, lying parallel with each oth-
er, and rendered additionally dark and dismal by hideous family
portraits — every one of which I should like to burn. The rooms on
the floor above the two galleries are kept in tolerable repair, but are
very seldom used. The civil housekeeper who acted as my guide
offered 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 posi-
tively declined exploring the upper regions of dust and dirt at the
risk of soiling my nice clean clothes. The housekeeper 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 an-
cestors—I don't remember, and don't care, which— tacked on the
main building, at right angles to it, in the aforesaid Queen Eliza-
beth's time. 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,
THE "WOMAN IN WHITE. 179
darkness, and rats* Under these circumstances, I unhesitatingly ac-
knowledged myself to be no judge at all, and suggested that we
should treat " the old wing " precisely as we had previously treated
the Elizabethan bedrooms. 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 was built, by way
of co'mpleting 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 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 any thing 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 consideration due to the convenience of their
friends. It is an inexpressible relief to find that the nineteenth cen-
tury 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 formed by
the three sides of the house and by the lofty iron railings and gates
which protect it in front. A large circular fish-pond, 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 be-
fore, 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 walk-
ed toward it, to see what I could discover in that direction.
On a nearer view, the garden proved to be small and poor and ill-
180 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
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 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 lit-
tle 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 far-
ther 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 with rank grass and dismal wil-
lows. 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 overhanging thickets and tangled trees. The frogs were croak-
ing, 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 glim-
mering through a gap in the trees on its dry surface, and a snake
basking in the midst of the spot, fantastically coiled, and treacher-
ously still. Far and near, the view suggested the same dreary im-
pressions 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, toward a shabby old wooden shed which
stood on the outer skirt of the fir plantation, and which had hitherto
been too unimportant to share my notice with the wide, wild pros-
pect of the lake.
On approaching the shed, I found that it had once been a boat-
house, and that an attempt had, apparently, been made to convert it
afterward into a sort of rude arbor, by placing inside it a fir-wood
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.
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 181
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 echoed by something beneath me. I listened 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 span-
iel. The creature moaned feebly when I looked at it and called to
it, but never stirred. I moved away 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 crea-
ture 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 gently 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 house-maids answer-
ed 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?"T asked, as angrily as if she
had been a servant of my own. " 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 irradia-
tion 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."
I was almost wicked enough to wish that Baxter had shot the
house-maid 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 ex-
actly" as she had come in, grinning from ear to ear. As the door
182 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
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 person of some education and intelligence,
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 color.
" Why, Lord bless me," cried the housekeeper, " that must be Mrs.
Catherick's dog !"
" Whose ?" I asked, in the utmost astonishment.
" Mrs. Oatherick's. You seem to know Mrs. Catherick, Miss Hal-
combe ?"
" Not personally. But I have heard of her. Does she live here?
Has she had any news of her daughter 2"
" 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 neighborhood. No such report has reached us here, and no
such report was known in the village when I sent to make inquiries
there on Mrs. Catherick's account. She certainly brought this poor
little dog with her when she came, and I saw it trot out after her
when she went away. I suppose the creature strayed into the plan-
tations, 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 wash 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 name still rang in my ears, as if the house-
keeper had only that moment surprised me by uttering it. While
we were attending to the dog, the words of Walter Hartright's cau-
tion to me returned to my memory. " If ever Anne Catherick cross-
es your path, make better use of the opportunity, Miss Halcombe,
than I made of it." The finding of the wounded spaniel had led
me already to the discovery of Mrs. Catherick'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 neigh-
borhood ?" I asked.
" Oh dear, no," said the housekeeper. " She lives at Welming-
ham ; quite at the other end of the county — five-and-twenty miles
off at least."
" I suppose you have known Mrs. Catherick for some years ?"
THE WOMAN IX WHITE. 183
" On the contrary, Miss Halcombe, I never saw her before she came
here yesterday. 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 respectable-looking. She seemed sorely put out when she
found that there was no foundation — none, at least, that any of *m
could discover — for the report of her daughter having been seen in
this neighborhood."
" I am rather interested about Mrs. Catherick," I went on, continu-
ing 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 staid 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 gentleman 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 certainly led
me to believe, at Limmeridge, that the most perfect confidence exist-
ed 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 ?"
" Very little," replied the housekeeper. " She talked principally
of Sir Percival, and asked a great many questions about where he
' had been traveling, and what sort of 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 Halcombe ! the poor thing is out of its mis-
ery at last !"
The dog was dead. It had given a faint, sobbing cry, it had suf-
fered 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.
184 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
Eight o'clock.— I have just returned from dining down stairs, in sol-
itary state. The sunset is burning redly on .the wilderness of trees
that I see from my window, and I am poring over my J°urnal aSam.
to calm my impatience for the return of the travelers. They ought
to have arrived, by my calculations, before this. How still and lone-
ly 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. Cath-
erick lives. Her note is still in my possession, 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 under-
stand her wishing to conceal her visit to this place from Sir Perci-
val's knowledge ; and I don't feel half so sure, as the housekeeper
seems to do, that her daughter Anne is not in the neighborhood, af-
ter all. What would Walter Hartright have said in this emergen-
cy ? Poor, dear Hartright! I am "beginning to feel the want of his
honest advice and his willing help already.
Surely I heard something. Was it a bustle of footsteps below
stairs ? Yes ! I hear the horses' feet ; I hear the rolling wheels —
n.
June 15th. — The confusion of their arrival has had time to sub-
side. Two days have elapsed since the return of the travelers, 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 sepa-
rated, and one goes abroad and one remains at home, the return of
the relative or friend who has been traveling always seems to place
the relative or friend who has been staying at home at a painful dis-
advantage, 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
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 185
both and uncontrollable by both, between them on either side. Af-
ter 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 strangeness 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 liv-
ing together again — for which reason only I have thought fit to men-
tion it here.
She has found me unaltered ; but I have found her changed.
Changed in. person, and, in one respect, changed in character. I
can not absolutely say that she is less beautiful than she used to be ;
I can only say that she is less beautiful to me.
Others, who do not look at her with my eyes and my recollections,
would probably think her improved. There is more color, and more
decision and roundness of outline, in her face than there used to be ;
and her figure seems more firmly set, and more sure and easy in all
its movements, than it was in her maiden days. But I miss some-
thing when I look at her-rHSomething that once belonged to the
happy, innocent life of Laura Fairlie, and that I can not find in
Lady Glyde. There was, in the old timesj 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 reflection 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 re-appeared 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 let-
ters 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 char-
acter, 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 touch-
ingly, almost painfully, recalled to my memory the days of her girl-
186 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
hood and the happy, by-gone time when there were no secrets be-
tween us.
" Whenever you and I are together, Marian," she said, " we shall
both be happier and easier with one another, if we accept my mar-
ried life for what it is, and say and think as little about it as possi-
ble. I would tell you every thing, darling, about myself," 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 have got you back again ; and I
want you to 'be so happy too—" 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 recogni-
tion, " another old friend found already ! Your book-case, Marian
— your. dear-little-shabby-old-satin-wood book-case — 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 rain-
ed ! And, first and foremost of all, your own dear, dark, clever, gyp-
sy-face, looking at me just as usual ! It is so like home again to be
here. How can we make it more like home still ? I will put my fa-
ther'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 hus-
band— but you won't be very fond of any body 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 under-
stood 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 profes-
sion ? Has he recovered himself — and forgotten me ?"
She should not have asked those questions. She should have re-
membered her own resolution, on the morning when Sir Percival held
her to her marriage engagement, and when she resigned the book of
Hartright's drawings into my hands forever. But, ah me ! where is
the faultless human creature who can persevere in a good resolution
. THE. -WOMAN 1ST WHITE. 187
■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
creatures have existed; but what does our own experience say in
answer to books ?
I made no attempt to remonstrate with her, perhaps because I sin-
cerely appreciated the fearless candor which let me see what other
women in her position might have had reasons for concealing even
from their dearest friends — 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 — my first con-
fidential interview with her since her return. The change which her
marriage has produced in our relations toward 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 un-
willing 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 woman who loves her as dear-
ly, and feels for her as acutely, as I do.
There is only one consolation to set against them — a consolation
that ought to comfort me, and that does comfort me. All the graces
and gentlenesses of her character ; all the frank affection of her na-
ture; 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 traveling companions. Her hus-
band 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 annoyances seem to have
beset him since he came back : and no man, under those circumstan-
ces, is ever presented at his best. He looks, as I think, thinner than
he was when he left England. His wearisome cough and his com-
fortless restlessness have certainly increased. His manner — at least
his manner toward me — is much more abrupt than it used to be. He
greeted me, on the evening of his return, with little or nothing of the
ceremony and civility of former times — no polite speeches of wel-
come— no appearance of extraordinary gratification at seeing me —
nothing but a short shake of the hand, and a sharp " How-d'ye-do,
188 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
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 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 regularity which is quite a new rev-
elation 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 discontentedly as if they
were hot cinders burning holes in it ; and he storms at the servants
if there is a crease in the table-cloth, or a knife missing from its
place at the dinner-table, as fiercely as if they 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 dis-
heartened already about the future. It is certainly trying to any
man's temper to be met by a vexation the moment he sets foot in
his own house again, after a long absence ; and this annoying circum-
stance 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 in-
stant he saw her, Sir Percival asked if any one had called lately.
The housekeeper mentioned to him, in reply, what she had previous-
ly mentioned to me, the visit of the strange gentleman to make in-
quiries about the time of her master's return. He asked immediate-
ly for the gentleman's name. No name had been left. The gentle-
man's busjness ? No business had been mentioned. "What was the
gentler^an like ? The housekeeper tried to describe him, but failed
to distinguish the nameless visitor by any personal peculiarity which
her master could recognize. Sir Percival frowned, stamped angrily
on the floor, and walked on into the house, taking no notice of any
body. "Why he should have been so discomposed by a trifle I can
not 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 conduct in his own
house, until time has enabled him to shake off the anxieties, what-
ever they may be, which now evidently 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 WOMAN IN WHITE. 189
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 writ-
ing me word that I should hardly recognize her aunt again, -when we
met. Never before have I beheld such a change produced in a wom-
an by her marriage as has been produced in Madame Fosco.
As Eleanor Fairiie (aged seven-and-thirty), she was always talking
pretentious nonsense, and always worrying the unfortunate men with
every small exaction which a vain and foolish woman can impose on
long-suffering 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 remember her, like a de-
cent 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,
e:ther in monotonous embroidery work, or in rolling np endless little
cigarettes for the Count's own particular smoking. On the few oc-
casions when her cold blue eyes are off her work 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 betrayed 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 any thing approaching to special interest or attention.
Except in this one particular, she is always, morning, noon, and night,
indoors and out, fair weather or foul, as cold as a statue, and as im-
penetrable as the stone out of which it is cut. For the common pur-
poses of society the extraordinary change thus produced in her is, be-
yond alL doubt, a change for the better, seeing that it has transform-
ed her into a civil, silent, unobtrusive 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 expression on her pinched lips, and heard sudden inflections of
tone in her calm voice, which have led me to suspect that her pres-
190 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
ent state of suppression may have sealed up something dangerous 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, however, is, that I am right. Time
will show.
And the magician who has wrought this wonderful transformation
— the foreign husband who has tamed this once wayward English-
woman 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 any
thing. If he had married a tigress, instead of a- woman, he would
have tamed the tigress. If he had married roe, 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 favor-
able estimation — and how he has worked the miracle is more than I
can tell. > i .
It absolutely startles me, now he is in my mind, to find how plain-
ly I see him ! — how 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 con-
versation was yesterday, as well as if I was hearing it now. How
am I to describe him ? There are peculiarities in his personal ap-
pearance, his habits, and his arnusements, which I should blame in
the boldest terms, or ridicule in the most merciless manner, if I had
seen them in another man. What 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 al-
ways especially disliked corpulent humanity. I have always main-
tained that the popular notion of connecting excessive grossness of
size and excessive good-humor as inseparable allies was equivalent'
to declaring, either that no people but amiable people ever get fat,
or that the accidental addition of so many pounds of flesh has a
directly favorable influence over the • disposition of the person
on whose body they accumulate. I have invariably combated both
these absurd assertions by quoting examples of fat people who were
as mean, vicious, and cruel, as the leanest and worst of their neigh-
bors. 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,
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 191
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 favor at one day's notice, without
let or hinderance from his own odious corpulence. Marvelous in-
deed 1
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 mag-
nificent regularity : his expression recalls the grandly calm, immov-
able 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 unfathomable 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 variance with the dark-brown
"Color 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 promi-
nent personal 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 en-
tirely, so far as I can tell at present, in the extraordinary expression
and extraordinary power of his eyes.
His manner, and his command of our language, may also have as-
sisted him, in some degree, to establish 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 what 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 apti-
tude which many Italians show • in mastering Our strong, hard,
Northern speech; but, until I saw Count Fosco, I had never sup-
posed it possible that any foreigner could have spoken English as
he speaks it. There are times when it is almost impossible to de-
tect, 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
192 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
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 haye some-
thing 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 span-
iels, so that I felt ashamed of my own want of tenderness and sensi-
bility, 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 extraor-
dinary 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 favorites himself, and he has taught the creatures to be sur-
prisingly fond of him and familiar with him. The cockatoo, a most
vicious and treacherous bird toward 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 fearless-
ly on his hand, mount his fat outstretched fingers one by one, when
he tells them to " go up stairs," and sing together as if they would
burst their throats with, delight when they get to the top finger.
His white mice live in a little pagoda of gayly-painted wire-work,
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,
and 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 apol-
ogize 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, amidst an assembly of
English fox-hunters, and would only pity them as barbarians when
they were all laughing their loudest at him.
COUNT FOSOO AND THE DOG.
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 195
It seems hardly credible while I am writing it down, but it is cer-
tainly true, that this same man, who has all the fondness of an old
maid for his cockatoo, and all the small dexterities of an organ-boy
in managing his white mice, can talk, when any thing happens to
rouse him, with a daring independence 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 person-
age 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 mar-
ble, to the end of time. This fat, indolent, elderly man, whose nerves
are so 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 blood-hound— a beast so savage that the very groom who
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 ev-
ery body is afraid of him. Let us see if he flies at me." And he
laid his plump, yellowrwhite fingers, on which. the canary-birds: had
been perching fen minutes before, upon the formidable brute's head,
and looked him straight in the eyes. "You big dogs are all cow-
ards," 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. Any thing that you can surprise unawares —
any thing that is afraid of your big body, and your wicked white
teeth; and your slobbering, blood-thirsty inouth, is the thing you
like to fly at. You could throttle me at this moment, you 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 I" He turned away,
laughing at the astonishment of the men in the yard ; ;arid'th'e- dog
crept back meekly to his kennel. "Ah! my nice waistcoat 1" he
said, pathetically. " I am sorry I came here.' Some of that brute's
slobber has got on my pretty clean waistcoat." Those words ex-
press another of his incomprehensible oddities. He is as fond of
fine clothes as the veriest fool in existence ; and has appeared in
four magnificent waistcoats already — all of light, garish colors, 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 noticeable as
196 THE WOMAN IN WHITE-.
the singular inconsistencies in his character, and the childish triv-
iality 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 ev-
idently 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, composed of 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 manage-
ment of the Countess (in public) is a sight to see. He bows 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 nev-
er appears in company — it is a private rod, and is always kept up
stairs.
His method of recommending himself to me is entirely different.
He flatters my vanity, by talking to me as seriously and sensibly as
if I was a man. Tes ! 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
own room — and yet, when I go down stairs, and get into his com-
pany 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 blood-hound in
the stable-yard, as he manages Sir Percival himself, every hour in the
day. " My good Percival ! how I like your rough English humor !"
— " 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 hi™ in that manner — al-
ways calling the baronet by his Christian name ; smiling at him with
the calmest superiority ; patting him on the shoulder ; and bearing
with him benignantly, as a good-humored father bears with a way-
ward son.
The interest which I really can not help feeling in this strangely
original man has led me to question Sir Percival about his past life.
Sir Percival either knows little, or will tell me little, about it. He
and the Count first met many years ago, at Borne, under the danger-
ous 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.
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 197
Perhaps he has been made the victim of some political persecu-
tion ? 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 En-
gland. On the evening of his arrival, he asked how far we were
from the nearest town, and whether we knew of any Italian gentle-
men who might happen to be settled there. He is certainly in cor-
respondence with people on the Continent, for his letters have all
sorts of odd stamps on them ; and I saw one for him this morn-
ing, waiting in his place at the breakfast-table, with a huge official-
looking seal on it. Perhaps he is in correspondence with his Gov-
ernment ? 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 Posco! And
what does it all amount to ? — as poor, dear Mr. Gilmore would ask,
in his impenetrable, business-like way. I can only repeat that I do
assuredly feel, even on this short acquaintance, a strange, half-will-
ing, half-unwilling liking for the Count. He seems to have estab-
lished over me the same sort of ascendency which he has evidently
gained over Sir Percival. Free, and even rude, as he may occasion-
ally be in his manner toward his fat friend, Sir Percival is neverthe-
less afraid, as I can plainly see, of giving any serious offense 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 ?
Chi sat — as Count Fosco might say in his own language. Who
knows ?
June 16th. — Something to chronicle, to-day, besides my own ideas
and impressions. A visitor has arrived — quite unknown to Laura
and to me, and, apparently, quite unexpected by Sir Percival.
We were all at lunch, in the room with the new French win-
dows that open into the veranda; 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 grave-
ly 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 expression 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."
198 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
He left the table the instant the last answer was given, and hur-
ried 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,
with the bird perched on his shoulder.
" Mr. Merriman is Sir Percival's solicitor," ho, said, quietly.
Sir Percival's solicitor. It was a perfectly straightforward an-
swer 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 wonderful in his leaving
town to obey the summons. But when a lawyer travels from Lon-
don 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 may be
either very good or very bad, but which can not, 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
Went 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 unexpressed 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 vi-
cious 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 sur-
prised— 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.
HI.
June 16£7t. — I have a few lines more to add to this day's entry be-
fore I go to bed to-night.
About two hours after Sir Percival rose from the luncheon-table
THE WOMAN 1ST WHITE. 199
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 pronounced with sufficient distinctness of utterance to
reach my ears.
"Make your mind easy. Sir Percival," 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 where is the woman, in the whole range of our sex, who
can regulate her actions by the abstract principles of honor, when
those principles point one way, and when her affections, and the in-
terests which grow out of them, point the other ?
I listened ; and, under similar circumstances, I would listen again
— yes ! with my ear at the key-hole, 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 — "
" What do you mean by ' if not V " asked Sir Percival, angrily.
" If the thing must be done, it shall be done. I promise you that,
Merriman."
" Just so, Sir Percival — just so ; but there are two alternatives in
all transactions ; and we lawyers like to look both of them in the
face boldly. Ifthrough any extraordinary circumstance the arrange-
ment should not 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 — "
" D — n the bills ! The money is only to be got in one way ; and
in the way, I tell you again, it shall 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 arrange-
ment is complete ? and you will not forget the caution I recom-
mended— "
" 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
200 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
your place. Hold fast, Merriman, and if you are upset, trust to the
devil to save Ms own." With that parting benediction, the baronet
turned about, and walked back to the library.
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 pros-
pect 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 gen-
tleman who called, and declined to leave his name."
" Who do you think the gentleman was, then V I asked.
" Some person who has heavy claims on Sir Percival," she an-
swered ; " and who has been the cause of Mr. Merriman's visit here
to-day."
" Do you know any thing 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 honest-
ly 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. Tou 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 backward and forward on
the grass, sunning himself in the full blaze of the hot June after-
noon. He had a broad straw hat on, with a violet-colored 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 trowsers, displaying, more white fancy-work over
the ankles, and purple morocco slippers, adorned his lower extremi-
ties. He was singing Figaro's famous song in the Barber of Seville,
with that crisply fluent vocalization which is never heard from any
other than an Italian throat ; accompanying himself on the concer-
tina, which he played with ecstatic throwings-up of his arms, and
graceful twistings and turnings of his head, like a fat St. Cecilia
THE WOSIAN IN WHITE. 201
masquerading in male attire. " Figaro quit ! Figaro \& ! Figaro sil 1
Figaro gift !" sang the Count, jauntily tossing up the concertina at
arms-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 salu-
tation 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 at-
tention on our journey home, and he several times checked Sir Per-
cival's outbreaks of temper, in the most considerate manner toward
me. Perhaps I dislike him because he has so much more power
over my husband than I have. Perhaps it hurts my pride to be un-
der 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, check-
mated 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 attentive 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 Perci-
val looking at him for approval more than once in the course of the
evening.
June Vlfh. — 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 " arrangement " fas the law-
9*
202 THE WOMAN I;N WHITE.
yer called it), which is hanging over'our heads." An hour afterward,
however, he suddenly entered the morning-room, where his wife and
I were 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 nervously 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 you 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. Af-
ter 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 express-
ed to submit his own plans and projects to the convenience of oth-
ers. He was evidently relieved at finding any 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 infer-
ence.
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 usual, 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 will 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 1"
He chirruped paternally at his small white children through the
bars of the pagoda ; and we all left the house for the lake.
In the plantation, Sir Percival 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, whf n
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
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 203
been once used Ms 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 conversation, so far as I am
concerned, for it has seriously disposed 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 st^ck 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-humoredly 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, creeping 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 dy-
ing in prison, with the crawling creatures of the dungeon preying
on them undisturbed.
The morning was windy and cloudy, and the rapid alternations
of shadow and sunlight over the waste of the lake made the view
look doubly wild, weird, and gtoomy.
" Some people call that picturesque," said Sir Percival, pointing
over the wide prospect with his half-finished walking-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 af-
ford to drain it, and plant it all over. My bailiff (a superstitious id-
iot) says he is quite sure the lake has a curse on it, like the Dead
Sea. "What do you think, Fosco ? It looks just the place for a mur-
der, 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
204 THE WOMAN IN WHITE,
explained by anyjbody in two words ? If a fool was going to com-
mit a murder, yourlake is the first place lie would choose for it. If
a wise man was going to commit 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 any thing so
horrible as the idea of murder," she said. " And if Count Fosco
must divide murderers into classes, I think he has been very unfor-
tunate in his choice of expressions. To describe them as fools only,
seems like treating them with art indulgence to which they have
no claim. And to describe them as wise men, sounds to me like a
downright contradiction 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. Mention 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 every thing into ridicule," said Laura, resolute-
ly ; " 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."
The Count shrugged 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 mo-
rality for you, Fosco. Crimes cause their own detection. What in-
fernal humbug !"
"I believe it to be true," said Laura, quietly.
Sir Percival burst out laughing; so violently, so outrageously,
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
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 205
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 gay-
ly : " he is the victim of English spleen. But, my dear Miss Hal-
combe, 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 freez-
ing 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 Eights of Women — and freedom of female
opinion was one of them."
" What is your view of the subject, Count ?" asked Madame Fos-
co, 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 blind every body to its blunders from that mo-
ment. Crimes cause their own detection, do they ? And murder
will out (another moral epigram), will it ? Ask Coroners who sit
at inquests in large towns if that is true, Lady Glyde. Ask secreta-
ries of life-assurance companies, if that is true, Miss Halcombe. Read
your own public journals. In the few cases that get into the news-
papers, are there not instances of slain bodies found, and no murder-
ers ever discovered ? Multiply the cases that are reported by the
cases that are not reported, and the bodies that are found by the
bodies that are not 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 individual on the other. When the criminal is a bru-
tal, ignorant fool, the police, in nine cases out of ten, win. When
the criminal is a resolute, educated, highly-intelligent man, the po-
lice, 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 detection ! Yes — all the
crime you know of. And what of the rest?"
" Devilish true, and very well put," cried a voice at the entrance
206 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
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 Posco 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, Posco ?" asked Sir Percival. " Take my ad-
vice, 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 two of the white
mice in his waistcoat, alarmed by the internal convulsion 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 which is the right sort and
which is the wrong. Here, in England, there is one virtue. And
there, in China, there is another virtue. And John Englishman says
my virtue is the genuine virtue. And John Chinaman says my vir-
tue is the genuine virtue. And I say Yes to one, or No to the oth-
er, 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 pigtail.
Ah, nice little Mousey ! come, kiss me. What is your own private
notion of a virtuous man, my pret-pret-pretty ? A man who keeps
you warm, and gives you plenty to eat. And a good notion, too,
for it is intelligible, at the least."
" Stay a minute, Count," I interposed. "Accepting your illustra-
tion, surely we have one unquestionable virtue in England, which is
wanting in China. The Chinese authorities kill thousands of inno-
cent people, on the most frivolous pretexts. We, in England, are
free from all guilt of that kind — we commit no such dreadful crime
• — we abhor reckless bloodshed, 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
stem civility. " You will find, young ladies, that he never speaks
without having excellent reasons for all that he says."
" Thank you, my angel," replied the Count. " Have a bonbon ?"
He took out of his pocket a pretty little inlaid box, and placed it
open on the table. " Chocolat & la Vanille," cried the impenetrable
man, cheerfully rattling the sweetmeats in the box, and bowing all
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 207
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 neighbors', and
the slowest old gentleman at finding out the faults that are his own,
who exists on the face of creation. Is he so very much 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 ene-
my, 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. The worse he is, the more he makes them the objects-
for your sympathy. He often provides, also, for himself. A profli-
gate spendthrift who is always 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 oth-
er 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 work-house that Mr. Honesty
lives in, at the end of his career ? When John-Howard-Philanthro-
pist wants to relieve misery, he goes to find it in prisons, where
crime is wretched — not in huts and hovels, where virtue is wretch-
ed too. "Who is the English poet who has won the most universal
sympathy — who makes the easiest of all subjects for pathetic writ-
ing, and pathetic painting? That niee young person who began
life with a forgery, and ended it by a suicide — your dear, romantic,
interesting Chatterton. Which gets on best, do you think, of two
poor starving dress-makers — the woman who resists temptation,
and is honest, or the woman who falls under temptation, and steals ?
You all know that the stealing is the making of that second wom-
an's fortune — it advertises her from length to breadth of good-hu-
mored, 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 con-
trary, 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
208 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
sanctions the base horror of the vilest of all human bargains ; and
smiles and smirks afterward at your table, if you are polite enough
to ask him to breakfast. Hey ! presto ! pass ! Be a mouse again,
and squeak. If you continue 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 peo-
ple 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 myself any more
harm in your amiable estimations — I will get up, and take a little
airy walk of my own. Dear ladies, as your excellent Sheridan said,
I go — and leave my character behind me."
He got up ; put the cage on the table, and paused, for a moment, to
count the mice in it. " One, two, three, four — Ha !" he cried, with a
look of horror, " where, in the name of Heaven, is the fifth — the young-
est, the whitest, the most amiable of all — my Benjamin of mice !"
Neither Laura nor I was in any favorable disposition to be
amused. The Count's glib 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 large a man at the loss of so
very small a mouse. We laughed, in spite of ourselves ; and when
Madame Fosco rose to set the example of leaving the boat-house
empty, so that her husband might search it to its remotest corners,
we rose also to follow her out.
Before we had taken three steps, the Count's quick eye discover-
ed the lost mouse under the seat that we had been occupying. He
pulled aside the bench ; took the little animal up in his hand ; and
then suddenly stopped, on his knees, looking intently at a particu-
lar place on the ground just beneath him.
When he rose to his feet again, his hand shook so that he could
hardly put the mpuse back in the cage, and his face was of a faint,
livid, yellow hue all over.
" Percival !" he said, in a whisper. " Percival ! come here."
Sir Percival had paid no attention to any of us for the last ten
minutes. He had been entirely absorbed in writing figures on the
sand, and then rubbing them out again, with the point of his stick.
" What's the matter, now ?" he asked, lounging carelessly into the
boat-house.
" Do you see nothing there ?" said the Count, catching him nerv-
ously by the collar with one hand, and pointing with the other to
the place near which he had found the mouse.
" I see plenty of dry sand," answered Sir Percival, " and a spot of
dirt in the middle of it."
THE WOiTAN IN WHITE. 209
" Not dirt," whispered the Count, fastening the other hand sud-
denly on Sir Percival's collar, and shaking it in his agitation.
" Blood." y
Laura was near enough to hear the last word, softly as he whisper-
ed it. She turned to me with a look of terror.
" Nonsense, my dear," I said. " There is no need to be alarmed.
It is only the blood of a poor little stray dog."
Every body was astonished, and every body'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 ques-
tion, a little irritably. " One of mine ?"
" No ; not one of yours."
" Whose then ? Did the housekeeper know 1"
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 answering 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 worse. There was nothing for it but to answer at
once, without reference to results.
"Yes," I said. "The housekeeper knew. 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 was Mrs. Catherick's
dogP'-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 with her ?"
" To this house."
" What the devil did Mrs. Catherick want at this house 2"
210 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
The maimer in which he put the question was even more offensive
than the language in which he expressed it. I marked my sense of
his want of common politeness, 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, offered me an apology.
" I beg your pardon, Miss Halcombe," he said. " I have been out
of order lately ; and I am afraid I am a little irritable. But I should
like to know what Mrs. Catherick could possibly want here. When
did she come ? Was the housekeeper 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 housekeeper 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 ask-
ed 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 exchanging of confidences between Count Fosco and myself.
Laura, however, unconsciously helped him to extract all my infor-
mation, 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 depositary of Sir Percival's secrets. The end of
it was, that, in about ten minutes' time, the Count knew as much as
I know of Mrs. Catherick, and of the events which have so strangely
connected us with her daughter, Anne, from the time when Hart-
right met with her to this day.
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 cer-
tainly as far as I am from knowing any thing of the true story of
THE WOMAN IX WHITE. 211
Anne Catherick. The unsolved mystery in connection 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 word
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 reach-
ed the house, the first object that we saw in front of it was Sir Per-
cival'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 impor-
tant results already.
" 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-jack-
et, and evidently wondering whether the foreign gentleman took it
for his livery. " My master drives himself."
"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 Molly, sir ; and she'll go till she
drops. Sir Percival usually takes Isaac of York for the short dis-
tances."
" And your shining, courageous Brown Molly for the long 2"
" Yes, sir."
" Logical inference, Miss Halcombe," continued the Count, wheel-
ing round briskly, and addressing me : " Sir Percival is going a
long distance to-day."
I made no reply. I had my own inferences to draw, from what I
knew through the housekeeper and from what I saw before me ;
and I did not choose to share them with Count Fosco.
When Sir Percival was in Cumberland (I thought to myself), he
walked away a long distance, on Anne's account, to question the
family at Todd's Corner. Now he is in Hampshire, 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
212 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
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 sorry to say, I am obliged to leave you," he began — " a
long drive— a matter that I can't very well 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 morning, to be settled.
Laura, will you come into the library ? It won'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 afterward, 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 own
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 Fos-
co's fault, Miss Halcombe, not mine. He has started some nonsens-
ical 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 window.
The moment I appeared the Count advanced to meet me, and to
offer his explanations.
" A thousand pardons, Miss Halcombe," he said. " You know
the character which is given to my countrymen by the English ?
"We Italians 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 suspi-
cious Italian. You have thought so yourself, dear lady, have you
not ? Well ! it is part of my willingness and part of my suspicion
to object to Madame Fosco being a witness to Lady Glyde's signa-
ture, when I am also a witness myself."
" There is not the shadow of a reason for Ms objection," inter-
posed Sir Percival. "I have explained to him that the law of En-
gland allows Madame Fosco to witness a signature as well as her
husband."
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 213
" I admit it," resumed the Count. " The law of England says
Yes — but the conscienct-bf 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 Glyde 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 representa-
tives, 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 can not be if
my wife signs as well as myself, 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 coer-
cion, 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 near-
est 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 humor me, I hope, in merciful consideration for my suspi-
cious Italian character, and my uneasy Italian conscience." He
bowed again, stepped back a few paces, and withdrew his con-
science from our society as politely as he had introduced it.
The Count's scruples might have been honorable 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 con-
sideration for Laura would have induced me to consent to be a wit-
ness at all. One look, however, at her anxious face decided me to
risk any thing 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 sharply, as if he was about to say some-
thing. But, at the same moment, Madame Fosco attracted his at-
tention 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, got 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 puffed 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
book-cases, and produced from it a piece of parchment folded, long-
214 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
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 eertain
places. Every line of the writing was hidden in the part which 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 afterward, 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, av<\ joined us at the table,
with his hands carelessly thrust into the bt:;rlet 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 parch-
ment down firmly on the table, and glancing across at me, as I sat
opposite to him, with such a sinister mixture of suspicion and em-
barrassment in his face, that he looked more like a prisoner at the
bar than a gentleman in his own house.
" Sign there," he repeated, turning suddenly on Laura, and point-
ing once more to the place on the parchment.
" What is it I am to sigh ?" 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 document — 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 ex-
plain. 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 any thing : 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 any thing," 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.
'sign there!
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 217
" 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 composure.
" Control your unfortunate temper, Percival," he said. " Lady
Glyde is right."
" Eight !" 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," retorted 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 toward me, and the insolent injustice 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 can not 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 have left his house, never on any earthly consid-
eration 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- 1 sat down again,
without saying a word. She knew what I had suffered, and what I
had suppressed. She ran round to me, with the tears streaming
from her eyes. " Oh, Marian !" she whispered, softly. " If my moth-
er had been alive, she could have done no more for me !" ■
" Come back and sign !" cried Sir Percival, from 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, unless you have read it first.?'
10
218 THE WOMAN IN WHITE,
" 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 you please, to remember it, too.V
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, with the sul-
len submission of a tamed animal, rather than the becoming resigna-
tion of a convinced man.
" I don't want to offend any body," he said, " but my wife's ob-
stinacy 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 what 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 will you not ?"
Laura returned to his side of the table, and took up the pen again.
" I will sign with 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 affect 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 honorably make. If I have a scruple about signing
my name to an engagement of which I know nothing, why 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 ex-
traordinary power over her husband, indirect as it was, set Sir Per-
cival's smouldering temper on fire again in an instant.
"Scruples!" he repeated. "■Tour 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 neces-
sity by marrying me."
The instant he spoke those words, Laura threw 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.
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 219
This strong expression of the most open and the most bitter con-
tempt 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 hus-
band had just addressed to her. There was some lurking insult be-
neath them, of which I was wholly ignorant, but which 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 !"
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 who was conscious that he had let his
own license of language seriously injure him.
" After what you have just said to me," she replied, firmly, " I re-
fuse my signature until I have read every line in that parchment
from the first word to the last. Come away, Marian, we have remain-
ed here long enough."
"One moment!" interposed. the Count, before Sir Percival could
speak again — " one moment, Lady Glyde, I implore you !"
Laura would have left the room without noticing him ; but I stop-
ped her.
" Don't make an enemy of the Count 1" 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 every thing else.
" Lady Glyde," he said, with a gentleness which seemed to ad-
dress itself to our forlorn situation instead of to ourselves, " pray par-
don me, if I venture to offer I one suggestion ; and pray believe that I
speak out of my profound respect and my friendly regard for the
mistress of this house." He turned sharply toward' 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, sulk-
ily. " But that consideration, as you may have noticed, has no in-
fluence with Lady Glyde."
" Answer my plain question plainly. Can the business of the sig-
nature 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 signa-
ture wait till to-morrow — let it wait till you come back."
220 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
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 Glyde time.
Have you forgotten that your dog-cart is waiting at the door ? My
tone surprises you — ha ? I dare 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
your drive. 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 disputing possession of his
mind with his anxiety to obtain Laura's signature. He considered
for a little while 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 bis wife. " If you don't give
me your signature when I come back to-morrow — 1" 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. " Eemember to-morrow !" he said to his wife, and went
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-mor-
row 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 hus-
band's misconduct quietly assumed by his male friend in her own
house — and it was a trial to Tier. I thanked the Count civilly, and
led her out. Yes I I thanked him : for I felt already, with a sense
of inexpressible helplessness 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
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 221
dreaded most, was actually the one tie which'now held me to Laura
in the hour, of her utmost need !
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 2"
After what she had undergone that morning, I was unwilling 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 neighborhood? 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,-! am al-
most heart-broken, 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 my pride compared to the dreadful sacrifice of your
happiness ?"
"You heard what he said to me?" she went on, quickly and ve-
hemently. " 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 you 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 marrying 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 poor head aches, darling-
aches, aches, aches. Where is your smelling-bottle ? . Letl me talk
222 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
to you about yourself. I wish I had given him my signature, for
your sake. Shall I give it to him to-morrow ? 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 thinking 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
wanted the faithful service he had offered to us in his farewell
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 de-
cide for the best."
Putting what she knew of her husband's embarrassments, and
what I had heard of his conversation with the lawyer, together, we
arrived necessarily at the conclusion that the parchment in the li-
brary had been drawn up for the purpose of borrowing money, and
that Laura's signature was absolutely necessary to fit it for the at-
tainment of Sir Percival's object.
The second question, concerning the nature of the legal contract
by which the money was to be obtained, and the degree of personal
responsibility to which Laura might subject herself if she signed
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 domi-
neering temper alone. My sole motive for distrusting his honesty
sprang from the change which I had observed in his language and
his manners at Blackwater Park, a change which convinced me that
he had been acting a part throughout the whole period of his pro-
bation at Limmeridge House. His elaborate delicacy ; his ceremo-
nious politeness, which harmonized so agreeably with Mr. Gilmore's
old-fashioned notions ; his modesty with Laura, his candor with me,
his moderation with Mr. Fairlie — all these were the artifices of a
mean, cunning, and brutal man, who had dropped his disguise when-
his practiced duplicity had gained its end, and had openly shown
himself in the library 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, be-
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 223
cause 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-mor-
row came, was to be provided with an objection to giving the sig-
nature, which might rest on sufficiently firm commercial or legal
grounds to shake Sir'Percival's resolution, and to make him suspect
that we two women understood the laws and obligations of busi-
ness 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 discreetly, in our
forlorn situation. That man was Mr. Gilmorete partner — Mr. Kyrle
— who conducted the business, now that our old friend had been
obliged to withdraw from it, and to leave London on account of his
health. \ explained to Laura that I had Mr. Gilmore's own author-
ity for placing implicit confidence in his partner's integrity, discre-
tion, 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 was ;
and then asked for his advice in return, expressed in plain, down-
right terms which he could comprehend without any danger of mis-
interpretations and mistakes. My letter was as short as I could
possibly make it, and was, I hope, unincumbered by needless apolo-
gies and needless details. .
Just as I was about to put the address on the envelope, an obsta-
cle was discovered by Laura, which, in the effort and preoccupation
of writing, had escaped my mind altogether.
" How are we to get the answer in time ?" she asked. " Your let-
ter 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 an-
swer brought to us from the lawyer's office by a special messenger.
I wrote a postscript to that effect, begging that the messenger might
be dispatched 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 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 misadventures or mistakes,. By following this
224 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
arrangement, I hope and believe we shall avoid being taken by sur-
prise. 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 V
" 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, associ-
ated 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 favor 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 againstthe wall opposite to me.
The house door was open ; and, as I crossed past it, I saw Count
Fosco and his wife standing talking together on the steps outside,
with their faces turned toward me.
The Countess came into the hall rather hastily, and askedif I had
leisure enough for five minutes' private conversation. Feeling a
little surprised by such an appeal from such a person, I put my let-
ter 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 smiled, and
then went at once into the house ; pushing the hall door to aftei
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 1
was astonished to find that Madame Fosco's communication for my
private ear was nothing more than a polite assurance of her sympa-
thy 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 sho
had made up her mind, if any thing 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 re-
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 225
markably 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. How-
ever, 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 an-
swered the Countess, accordingly, in her own tone ; and then, think-
ing we had said all that was necessary on either side, made an at-
tempt 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 convention-
alities 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 can not say, but she stopped as abruptly as she had begun — looked
toward the house door, resumed her icy manner in a moment — and
dropped my arm of her own accord, before I could think of an ex-
cuse 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 Mm ; and 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, wondering 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 dis-
trust on me ; and why the looking at it for the second time instant-
ly 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 every body knows, constant-
ly act on impulses which they can not 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 congratulate
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 insufiicient-
10*
226 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
ly ? - 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 confront-
ing me, in plain black and white.
I almost dread to-morrow — so much depends on my discretion
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 appear-
ances 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.
June 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 determined to efface from our
memories all recollection of what had passed in the library that af-
ternoon. Lively descriptions of his adventures in traveling; amus-
ing anecdotes of remarkable people whom he had met with abroad ;
quaint comparisons between the social customs of various nations,
illustrated by examples drawn from men and women indiscriminate-
ly all over Europe ; humorous confessions of the innocent follies of
his own early life, when he ruled the feshions of a second-rate Ital-
ian town, and wrote preposterous romances, on the French model,
for a second-rate Italian newspaper — all flowed in succession so
easily and so gayly from his lips, and all addressed our various curi-
osities and various interests so directly and so delicately, that Laura
and I listened to him with as much attention, and, inconsistent as it
may seem, with as much admiration also, as Madame Fosco herself.
Women can resist a man's love, a man's fame, a man's personal ap-
pearance, and a man's money ; but they can not resist a man's tongue,
when he knows how to talk to them.
After dinner, while the favorable impression which he had pro-
duced on us was still vivid in our minds, the Count modestly with-
drew 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 politeness, to ask Ma-
dame 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
satisfaction but myself." Her cold blue eyes almost warmed as she
spoke the words — she looked actually proud of being the officiating
medium through which her lord and master composed himself with
tobacco-smoke I
Laura and I went out together alone.
THE WOMAN 1ST WHITE. 227
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 fell of night.
" "Which way shall we go ?" I asked.
" Toward 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 me of Limmeridge. But we will walk in
some other direction, if you prefer it."
" I have no favorite walks at Blackwater Park, my love. One is
the same as another to me. Let us go to the lake — 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 for-
est 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 water-fowl 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
with 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 you any longer to guess it for yourself," she be-
gan. " 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
228 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
you used to call your ' poverty !' how often you have made me mock-
speeches of congratulation on my wealth ! Oh, Marian, never laugh
again. Thank God for your poverty— it has., made you your own
mistress, and has saved you from the lot that has fallen on me."
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.
" 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 remon-
strance 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 Ce-
cilia Metella.-. The sky was 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 toward my husband than I had ever
felt yet. ' Would you build such a tomb for me, Percival ?' I asked
him. ' You said you loved me dearly, before we were married ; and
yet, since that time — ' I could get no further. 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 are all sulky,'. he said.
' What do you want ? compliments and soft speeches ? Well ! I'm
in a good humor this morning. Consider the compliments 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 1" I said.
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 229
" Have I suffered as you have suffered ? What right have I to de-
cide ?"
" I used to think of him," she pursued, dropping her voice, and
moving closer to me — " I used to think of him, when 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 learned
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 Mm
and seen Mm /"
As she said those melancholy words, all the lost tenderness re-
turned 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 Cumber-
land in the dim and threatening sky.
" Don't speak of Walter any more," I said, as soon as I could con-
trol myself. " Oh, Laura, Spare us both the wretchedness of talking
of him, now !"
She roused herself, and looked at me tenderly.
" I would rather be silent about him forever," she answered,
" 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 open-
ed my heart to him at Limmeridge, was a harmless 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 Eome," 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
230 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
guests prevailed on her to show us her drawings. We all admired
them— but something I said attracted her attention particularly to
me. '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 con-
versation. 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 jroung man — mod-
est and gentleman-like — I am sure you will like him.' Think of
those words being spoken to me publicly, in the presence of stran-
gers— strangers who had been invited to meet the bride and bride-
groom ! 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
ine. 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,
£tnd 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 shoul-
ders.' Whenever he is angry with me now, he refers to what I ac-
knowledged to him in your presence, with a sneer or a threat. I
have no power to prevent him from putting his own horrible con-
struction 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, Ma-
rian ! don't ! don't ! you hurt me 1"
I had caught her in my arms ; and the sting and torment of my
remorse had closed them round her like a vise. Yes ! my remorse. '
The white despair of Walter's face, when my cruel words struck
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 231
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 coun-
"try and his friends. Between those two young hearts I had stood,
to sunder them forever, 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 Glyde.
For Sir Percival Glyde.
I heard her speaking, and I knew by the tone of her voice that
she was comforting me — I, who deserved nothing but the reproach
of her silence ! > How long it was before I mastered the absorbing
misery of my own thoughts, I can not 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 planta-
tion." She shook my arm, and repeated, " Marian ! it will be dark
in the plantation."
" Give 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 was 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 go back."
She stopped suddenly, and turned her face from me toward the
entrance of the boat-house.
" Marian I" 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 dis-
tance. It crossed our range of view from the boat-house, and pass-
ed darkly along the outer edge of the mist. It stopped far off, 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
232 THE WOMAN IK WHITE.
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 S"
" 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, Laurav 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 wonder-
ful 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"
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 any thing to alarm us, we shall be near
enough to the house to be heard."
We went on quickly — so quickly that Laura was breathless 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 to me with her
hand to listen once more. We both heard distinctly a long, heavy
sigh 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 fell
of the footsteps again, fainter and fainter — sinking away 'into the
darkness — sinking, sinking, sinking— till they were lost in Ahe si-
lence.
We hurried out from the trees to the open lawn beyond ; crossed
it rapidly ; and without another word passing between us, reached
the house.
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 233
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 up stairs 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 pretense 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 possi-
bility, 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 answered 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. Bhe is as cool at this
moment as a fish in the pond outside."
The Countess allowed herself to thaw under the influence of her
husband's quaint comparison. " I am never warm, Miss Halcombe,"
she Temarked, 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 ap-
pearances.
" Yes ; we went out to get a little air."
" May I ask in what direction ?"
"In the direction x>f the lake — as far as the boat-house."
" Aha ? As far as the boat-house 2"
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 ?"
234 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
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 uneasy, while I do look. An unutterable sus-
picion 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 op-
portunity— 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 2"
" 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."
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. Michel-
son 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 day-time ?"
" No, miss ; not exactly, but the next thing to it. She's been
asleep all the evening, 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 in-
evitable. The figure we saw at the lake was not the figure of Ma-
dame Fosco, of her husband, or of any of the servants. The foot-
steps we heard behind us were not the footsteps of any one be-
longing to the house.
Who could it have been ?
It seems useless to inquire. I can not 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.
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 235
VI.
June 18*ft. — 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 morning 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 morti-
fications, 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 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 re-
turned 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. Gil-
more'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 every body and every 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 1 • 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 ob-
served— now is my time.
Four o'clock. — The three hours that have passed since I made my
236 THE WOMAN IN 'WHITE.
last entry, have turned the whole march of events at Blackwater
Park in a new direction. Whether for good or for evil, I can not
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 went on, as I had proposed, to meet the messenger with my let- '
ter 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
by herself in her favorite 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
the 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.
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 backward and forward. 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 toward 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.''
" Tou 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 Glyde's position, as defined in the settle-
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 231
ment, 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 por-
tion of the- twenty thousand pounds of Lady Glyde's fortune) is in
contemplation, 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 Glyde's signing 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 Glyde should have children, their fortune will then be
diminished by the sum, large or small, so advanced. In plainer
terms still, the transaction, for any thing 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 solic-
itor (in the absence of my partner, Mr. Gilmore). No reasonable ob-
jection can be made to taking this course — for, if the transaction is
an honorable one, there will necessarily be no difficulty in my giv-
ing 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 Kyhlb."
J[ read this kind and sensible letter very thankfully. It supplied
Laura with a reason for objecting to the signature which was unan-
swerable, and which we could both of us understand. The messen-
ger 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 J" I said. " There is no other re-
ply necessary at present."
Exactly at the moment when I was speaking those words, hold-
ing 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 com-
pletely 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.
238 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
"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 affirmative.
"I am- going back too," he said. "Pray allow me the pleasure
of accompanying you. "Will you take my arm ? You look surprised
at seeing me !"
I took his arm. The first of my scattered senses that came back
was the sense that warned me to sacrifice any thing 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 perversity ; 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, with a fluency which
left me no exertion to make beyond the effort of maintaining 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 dishonorable means, the secret of my appli-
cation, in Laura's interest, to the lawyer; and that, having now as-
sured 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 circum-
stances, not to attempt to deceive him by plausible explanations —
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 met 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.
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 239
" 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 Glyde ?"
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 afternoon. 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 honored me with one of his magnificent bows ; and then
addressed himself gayly 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 scru-
ples," he said, " I, for one, won't hear them. I want my lunch !"
" Come out here and speak to me," repeated the Count, still per-
fectly 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, re-
ferred 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 return
to the drawing-room, and lie down on the nearest sofa to recover.
I was just composing myself, when the door opened 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 —
240 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
who is capricious in every thing, as you know — has seen fit to alter
his mind, at the last moment ; and the business of the signature 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 change of circum-
stances to Lady GUyde."
He left me before I had recovered my astonishment. There could
be no doubt that this extraordinary alteration of purpose in the mat-
ter of the signature was 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 ex-
haustion 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 up again, and return to the sofe, 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 was conscious of my own 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 "Walter 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
were 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 gbmmering and grinning at intervals behind leaves and stalks
and branches — surrounded the temple, and shut out the sky, and
threw a idismal shadow over the forlorn band of men on the steps.
White exhalations 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 im-
plored him to escape. " Come back ! come back !" I said. " Re-
member your promise to her and to me. Come back to us, before
the Pestilence reaches you, and lays you dead like the rest !"
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 241
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 wil-
derness, 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 Eetribution and the inevi-
table End. Wait and look. The Pestilence which touches the rest
will pass me."
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 immovable quiet in his face. " Another step," he said,
"on the dark road. Wait and look. The arrows that strike the
rest will spare me."
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 with the ship. I
cried to him to hail the hindmost boat, and to make a last effort 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 ivnd 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 strikes, the Sea that drowns, the Grave that closes over Love
and Hope, are steps of my journey, 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 round 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 bewil-
dered manner. I started the instant I saw her.
-. " What has happened ?" I asked. " What has frightened you ?"
11
242 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
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, look-
ing at her in breathless silence.
■She was too much absorbed by what had happened to notice the
effect 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 have 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 push-
ed 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 not express it in words — I could hard-
ly even realize it dimly in my own thoughts. " Anne Catherick 1"
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 I" — and pointed to the
bosom of her dress.
I saw, for the first time, that the lost brooch was pinned «n its
place again. There was something real in the sight of it, something
real in the touching of it afterward, 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 im-
portant moment.
" SJie found it, Marian."
" Where ?"
" On the floor of the boat-house. Oh, how shall I begin — how
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 243
shall I tell you about it ! She talked to me so strangely — she look-
ed 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 mo-
ment 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 door- way, when I heard a soft, strange
voice, behind me, say, ' Miss Fairlie.' "
" Miss Fairlie !"
" Ye's — my old name — the dear, familiar name that I thought I
had parted from forever." I started up — not frightened, the voice
was too kind and gentle to frighten any body — but very much sur-
prised. There, looking at me from the door-way, stood a woman,
whose face I never remembered to have seen before — "
" How was she dressed ?"
" She had a neat, pretty white gown 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 I 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 any thing 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 V 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 unex-
pected, 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.'
244 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
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 V I said. ' Was it very long ago ? have I ever seen you be-
fore V 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 I 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 considered
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 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 I 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 got your moth-
er'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 toward you,' I said, ' though I
may not be able to express it as I ought. Why do you call me Miss
Fairlie — V '3ecause I love the name of Fairlie and hate the name
of Glyde,' she broke out violently. I had seen nothing like mad-
ness 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, remember-
ing 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 far-
ther 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
THE WOMAN IjST WHITE. 245
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
something 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 bending in 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
husband. I heard you say you had no influence to make him be-
lieve you, and no influence to keep him silent. Ah ! I knew what
those words meant ; my conscience told me while I was listening.
Why did I ever let you marry him ! Oh, my fear — my mad, misera-
ble, wicked fear — !' She covered up her face in her poor worn
shawl, 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. 1 1 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 V
" Yes ; I asked that."
" And what did she say ?"
" She asked me, in return, if I should not be afraid of a man who
had shut me up in a mad-house, 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 V ' 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 V. I shook my head. ' Look at me,'
246 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
she went on. I told her I was grieved to see that she looked very
sorrowful and very ill. She smiled, for the first time. ' 111 ?' she re-
peated ; ' 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 for-
give me, if I do ?' I Tvas 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. ' 8MII I undo the harm ?' she said to
herself, doubtfully. ' You have friends to take your part. If you
know his Secret, he will be afraid of you ; he won't dare use you as
he used me. He must treat you mereifully 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 th& 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. I 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 V she asked, after a while. ' When your moth-
er is in my mind, every thing else goes out of it. What was I say-
ing ? what was I saying V 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 threatened 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
MOT SOW, ' SHE SAID; " WE AKE NOT ALONE — WE AKE WATCHED."
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 249
me in a vacant, unmeaning manner. ' My mother knows the Se-
cret,' she said. ' My mother has wasted under the Secret half her
lifetime. One day, when I was grown up, she said something to
me. And the next day your husband — ' "
" Yes ! yes ! Go on. What did she tell you about your hus-
band?"
" She stopped again, Marian, at that point — "
"And said no more ?"
" And listened eagerly. ' Hush !' she whispered, still waving her
hand at me. 'Hush!' She moved aside out of the door-way,
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 thick-
est."
" Did you run out again ? did you call after her ?"
" How could I ! I was too terrified to move or speak."
" But when you did 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, sup-
posed to have been. secretly- present at the interview, a reality, or
the creature of Anne Catherick's excited fancy ? It was impossible
to determine. The one thing certain was, that we had foiled again
on the very brink of discovery — failed utterly and irretrievably, un-
less Anne Catherick kept her appointment at the boat-house for the
next day.
" Are you quite sure you have told me every thing 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 interest-
ed, that nothing of any importance can possibly have escaped me."
" My dear Laura, the merest trifles are of importance where Anne
11*
250 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
Catherick is concerned. Think again. Did no chance reference es-
cape her as to the place in which she is living at the present tune i
" None that I can remember." ,
"Did she not mention a companion and friend— a woman named
Mrs. Clements ?" „ , , .
" Oh yes ! yes ! I forgot that. She told me Mrs. Clements wanted
sadly to go with her to the lake and take care of her, and begged
and prayed that she would not venture into this neighborhood
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 ilbiess 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 ap-
pointment at the boat-house to-morrow. It is impossible 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 Hartright, and has escaped you. Whatever happens,
she shall not escape me."
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 Cather-
ick'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 youKhusband'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 to-
gether longer, and which it might have been dangerous 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 narrative 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
of Hartright — as I saw him, in the body, when he said farewell ; as
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 251
I saw him, in the spirit, in my dream — and I, too, began to doubt
now whether we were not advancing blindfold 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 render-
ed 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 noth-
ing, 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 com-
pany with that object, in my experience of them. Sir Percival cared
for no exercise but riding ; and the Count (except when he was po-
lite 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 signature to the deed,
which, in the interest of discussing her interview with Anne Cather-
ick, 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 interference
that we are indebted for your husband's sudden change of purpose."
" It seems impossible, Marian. If the object of my signing was, as
we suppose, to obtain money for Sir Percival that he urgently want-
ed, 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 ob-
252 .THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
tain 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 1"
" 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 jour-
nal, and you shall see if I am right or wrong."
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 ac-
curately 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 situa-
tion, it is hard to say what future interests may not depend upon the
regularity of the entries in my journal, and upon the reliability of
my recollection at the time when I make them.
Laura's face and manner suggested to me that this last consider-
ation had occurred tother 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 ring-
ing, Sir Percival and the Count returned from their walk. "We heard
the master of the house storming at the servants for being five min-
utes late ; and the master's guest interposing, as usual, in the inter-
ests of propriety, patience, and peace.
********
The evening has 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 me to my bed, feel-
ing 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 Per-
cival, which is the most false, and which, therefore, means the worst,
is his polite aspect. That long walk with his friend had ended in
improving his manners, especially toward his wife. To Laura's se-
cret 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 was 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
THE W01I AX IN WHITE. 253
should pretend, after dinner, to fall asleep in the drawing-room, and
that his eyes should cunningly 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 Welming-
ham to question 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 ex-
perience of him. He permitted me this evening to make his ac-
quaintance, 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 connection between his showiest finery and his deepest feel-
ing) 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 ex-
pressed a thoughtful, fatherly admiration whenever he spoke to Lau-
ra or to me. He pressed his wife's hand under the table when 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, through sheer astonishment. He
sat by the piano, with his watch-chain resting in folds, like a golden
serpent, on. the sea-green protuberance of his waistcoat. His im-
mense 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 Hart-
right used to praise it, with an innocent enjoyment of the sweet
sounds, but with a clear; cultivated, practical knowledge of the mer-
its 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
burned him up at that moment, I would have gone down to the
kitchen and fetched it myself.
254 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
" Surely you like this modest, trembling English twilight ?" he
said, softly. "Ah! I love it. I feel my inborn admiration 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 mockery on mine. It is hard to be laughed at in my
moments of sentiment, as if my soul was like myself, old and over-
grown. Observe, dear lady, what a light is dying on the trees !
Does it penetrate your 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 Ital-
ian 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 domi-
noes ?"
He addressed us all ; but he looked especially at Laura.
She had learned to feel my dread of offending him, and she ac-
cepted 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 inmost soul
through the thickening obscurity of the twilight. His voice trem-
bled along every nerve in my body, and turned me hot and cold al-
ternately. The mystery and terror of my dream, which had haunt-
ed me at intervals all through the evening, now oppressed my mind
with an unendurable foreboding and an unutterable awe. I saw the
white tomb again, and the veiled woman rising out of it, by Hart-
right'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 forever. 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. Toward midnight
the summer silence was broken by the shuddering of a low, melan-
choly wind among the trees. We all felt the sudden chill in the
atmosphere ; but the Count was the first to notice the stealthy ris-
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 255
ing of the wind. He stopped -while he was lighting my candle for
me, and held up his hand warningly :
" Listen !" he said. " There will be a change to-morrow."
YH.
June 19t7t. — The events of yesterday warned me to be ready, soon-
er 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 proceed-
ing, if no obstacles occurred to thwart us, would enable her to be at
the boat-house before half-past two, and (when I left the 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 raining heavily when I got
up, and it continued to rain until 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 oc-
cupy the early part of the day was by no means set at rest, so far as
Sir Percival was concerned, by his leaving us immediately 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 water-proof 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 ap-
pearances, the sentimental side, of his character was persistently in-
clined to betray itself still. He was silent and sensitive, and ready
to sigh and languish ponderously (as only fat men can sigh and lan-
guish) 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."
256 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
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 Cath-
erick to see Laura accompanied by a second person who was a stran-
ger 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, sit-
ting opposite to her husband, watched the proceedings of his bird
and himself as attentively as if she had never seen any thing of the
sort before in her life. On my way to the plantation I kept care-
fully beyond the range of view from the luncheon-room window.
Nobody 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 slack-
ened 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 must 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 neighborhood 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 pro-
jecting roof, I discovered a little hole in the sand— a hole artificial-
ly made, beyond a doubt. I just noticed it, and then turned away
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 257
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 discov-
ered one afterward, 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
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 examination of the fringe satisfied me
that it had been torn from a shawl of Laura's, and I instantly fol-
lowed the second path. It brought me out, at last, to my great re-
lief, at the back of the house. I say to my great relief, because I in-
ferred that Laura must, for some unknown reason, have returned be-
fore me by this roundabout way. I went in by the court-yard and
the offices. The first person whom I met in crossing the servants'
hall was Mrs. Michelson, the housekeeper.
" Do you know," I asked, " whether Lady Glyde has come in from
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?" I
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, affectionate 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 over-
come ; and I told her to sit down, and try to recover herself."
I went to Mrs. Michelsbn'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 dis-
missal. 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
258 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
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 asked
where she proposed to sleep that night. She replied that she
thought of going to the little inn in the village, the landlady of
which was a respectable woman, known to the servants at Black-
water Park. The next morning, by leaving 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 leav-
ing 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, over-
grown house-maid 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, slatternly, 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 door-way, and slowly nodded her addled head at me.
" Master's orders," she said, and nodded again.
I had need of all my self-control to warn me against contesting
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
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 259
went on to the library; and there I found ^Sir Percival, the Count,
and Madame Fosco. They were all three standing up close togeth-
er, and Sir Percival had a little slip of paper in his hand. As I
opened the door, I heard the Count say to him, " No — a thousand
times over, no."
I walked straight up to him, and looked him full in the face.
" Am I to Understand, Sir Percival, that your wife's room is a pris-
on, and that your house-maid is the jailer who keeps it ?" I asked.
" Yes, that is what you are to understand," he answered. " Take
care my jailer 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
me," I broke out, in the heat of my anger. " There are laws in En-
gland to protect women from cruelty and outrage. If you hurt a
hair of Laura's head, if you dare to interfere 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 you say 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 Posco immediately
moved close to my side, and, in that position, addressed Sir Percival
before either of us could speak again.
" Favor me with your attention for one moment," she said, in her
clear icily-suppressed tones. " I have to thank you, Sir Percival, for
your hospitality, and to decline taking advantage of 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 — seemed to petrify him
with surprise. The Count stood by, and looked at his wife with
the most enthusiastic admiration.
" She is sublime !" he said to himself. He approached her, while
he spoke, and drew her hand through his arm. " I am at your serv-
ice, Eleanor," he went on, with a quiet dignity that I had never
noticed in him before. " And at Miss Halcombe's service, if she
will honor me by accepting all the assistance I can offer her."
" D— n 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."
260 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
Sir Percival crumpled up the paper in his hand, and, pushing 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-tem-
pered man in all England to his senses," answered the Count: " It
means, Miss Halcombe, that Lady Glyde is relieved from a gross in-
dignity, and you from the repetition of an unpardonable insult.
Suffer me to express my admiration of your conduct and your cour-
age 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 out-
rage 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 change for the better from me
than from Sir Percival, and I have therefore expressly returned to
mention it."
" Admirable delicacy 1" said Madame Fosco, paying back her hus-
band'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 stranger, 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."
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 261
" 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 gained 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 rest-
ing wearily on a table, and her face hidden in her hands. She start-
ed 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 persistently repeated her
inquiries.
" The Count, of course," I answered, impatiently. " Whose influ-
ence in the house — ?"
She stopped me, with a gesture of disgust.
" Don't speak of him," she cried. " The Count is the vilest crea-
ture 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 handker-
chief 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 sure and steady at
all other times, trembled violently, and her eyes looked wolflshly
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 slow-
ly 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, Marian, 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 2"
262 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
"I am absolutely certain. He was Sir Percival's spy — he was
Sir Percival's informer-he set Sir Percival watching and waiting,
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 restless-
ness 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 farther."
She complied. I write the lines down here, exactly as she repeat-
ed 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 fol-
low 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 husband'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 probabil-
ity he had followed her there, in his officious way, to relieve her
mind about the matter of the signature, immediately after he had
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 263
mentioned the change in Sir Percival's plans to me in the drawing-
room. In this case he could only have got to the neighborhood 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 conversation 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 information.
" How came you to lose possession of the letter ?" I asked. " What
did you do with it, when you 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 door-way watching me."
" Did you try to hide the letter ?"
" 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 help-
lessly— I could say nothing. 'You understand?' 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 you. 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 2"
" 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, ' What did Anne Cather-
ick say to you yesterday ? — I insist on hearing every word, from first
to last.'"
"Did you tell him?"
"I was alone with. him, Marian — his cruel hand was bruising 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-day. That mark is a weapon to strike him
264 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
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
crying 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, simply, as she
pulled her sleeve down again. " It doesn't hurt me now."
" I will try to think quietly of it, my lovej for your sake. — Well !
well ! And you told him all that Anne Catherick had said to you
— all that you told me 3"
"Yes, all. He insisted on it— I was alone with him — I could con-
ceal nothing."
" Did he say any thing 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 every
thing 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 bet-
ter of it, and tell me the rest V I could only repeat the same words
I had spoken before. He cursed my obstinacy, and went on, and
too'k 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 every thing 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
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 265
me outside — 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 positive-
ly certain that when Anne Catherick left you yesterday, you were on
the eve of discovering a secret, which might have been your vile hus-
band's ruin— and he thinks you ~hame 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 interference has se-
cured me access to you to-day, but he may withdraw that interfer-
ence 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 inter-
ests, and whose dull intelligence lowers her to the level of the watch-
dog in the yard. It is impossible to say what violent measures he
may take nest, unless we make the most of our opportunities while
we have them."
" What can we do, Marian ? Oh, if we could only 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 inflicted on you to-day. I will go into jio 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.
12
266 THK WOMAN IN WHITE.
" You will drive Mm 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 risk-
ing 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 ad-
dressed ?
v " To Mr. Fairlie," I said. " Your uncle is your nearest male rela-
tive, 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 Glyde, and he has no such friend
about him as Count Fosco. I expect nothing from his kindness, or
his tenderness of feeling toward you, or toward me. But he will do
any thing 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 Limmer-
idge 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 alternatives of either
exposing himself to the scandal of legal interference 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.
Good may come of it — and will come of it, I hope."
Saying that, I rose again, and again Laura tried to make me re-
sume 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 wretehes who were at that
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 267
very moment, perhaps, thinking of us and talking of us down stairs.
I explained the miserable necessity to Laura, and prevailed on her
to recognize it, as I did.
" I will come back again, love, in an hour or less," I said. " 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 nobody un-
til I come up stairs 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.
vin.
June \§th. — I had only got as far as the top of the stairs when
the locking of Laura's door suggested to me the precaution 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 writ-
ing 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
£he locked table-drawer seemed to be not sufficiently protected, in
my absence, until the means of access to it had been carefully se-
cured 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 connection
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 hab-
its (I am sorry to say) to put it there ; neither did I remember put-
ting 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 wheth-
er 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 Tosco was alone in the hall, looking at the weather-
glass.
" Still falling," she said. " I am afraid we must expect more
rain." ^
Her face was composed again to its customary expression and its
268 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
customary color. But the hand with which she pointed to the dial
of the weather-glass still trembled.
Could she have told her husband already that she had overheard
Laura reviling him, in my company, as a " Spy ?" My strong sus-
picion that she must have told him ; my irresistible dread (all the
more overpowering from its very vagueness) of the consequences
which might follow ; my fixed conviction, derived from various lit-
tle self-betrayals which women notice in each other, that Madame
vFosco, in spite of her well-assumed external civility, had not for-
given her niece for innocently standing between her and the legacy
of ten thousand pounds — all rushed upon my mind together, all im-
pelled me to speak, in the vain hope of using my own influence and
my own powers of persuasion for the atonement of Laura's offense.
" 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 sol-
emnly, without uttering a word, and without taking her eyes off
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 mention-
ed to the Count ?"
" I think it of no importance whatever," said Madame Fosco,
sharply and suddenly. " But," she added, resuming her icy man-
ner in a moment, " I have no secrets from my husband, even in tri-
fles. When he noticed, just now, that I looked distressed, it was my
painful duty to tell him why I was distressed ; and I frankly ac-
knowledge 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 un-
der the insult and injustice inflicted on her by her husband, and she
was not herself when she said 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 re-
turn to the subject, Miss Halcombe ; let us all comfortably combine
to forget it, from this moment."
HE TOOK MY HAND AND TUT IT TO HIS POISONOUS LIPS.
' THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 271
" You are very kind," I said ; " you relieve me inexpressibly — "
I tried to continue, but his eyes were on me ; his deadly smile,
that hides every thing, 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 conciliate his wife and him-
self, 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 de-
spise 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 — I, 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
color ; 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 Englishwoman 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. 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 cour-
age, there was time for nothing but action.
The letters to the lawyer and to Mr. Fairlie were still to be writ-
ten, and I sat down at once, without a moment's hesitation, 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 neighborhood
whose intercession I could attempt to employ. He was on the cold-
est 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.
212 THE WOMAN IN "WHITE.
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 imminent 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 connected with a mys-
tery which we could not yet explain, and which it would, therefore,
be useless to write about to a professional man. I left my corre-
spondent to attribute Sir Percival'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 pro-
tection, 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 arrangement —
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 Jikely to
make him bestir himself; I inclosed a copy of my letter to the law-
yer, to show him how serious the case was ; and I represented our
removal to Limmeridge as the only compromise which would pre-
vent the danger and distress of Laura's present position from inev-
itably affecting her uncle as well as herself, at no very distant time.
When I 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 any body disturbed you 1" 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 mis-
chief she might do by herself was little to be feared. But the mis-
chief 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 when you no longer
heard it in the anteroom ?" I inquired. " Did you hear it go past
your wall, along the passage ?"
!' Yes. J kept still, and listened, and just heard it."
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 2?3
" Which way did it go ?"
" Toward 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 pa-
per. It was more likely that Madame Fosco would hear the scraping
of my pen than that I should hear the rustling of her dress. An-
other 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 1"
" Before dinner, without fail. Courage, my love. By 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. Gil-
more 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 dis-
covered what was going on in the lower part of the house. I had
not ascertained yet whether Sir Percival was indoors or out.
The singing of the canaries in the library, and the smell of tobac-
co-smoke that came through the door, which was not closed, told
me at once where the Count was. I looked over my shoulder as I
passed the door-way, 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 ac-
cord. 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 favorite circle,
round and round the fish-pond.
12*
274 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
I was a little doubtful how she would meet me, after the outbreak
of jealousy of which I had been the cause so short a time since. But
her husband had tamed her in the interval, 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
Percival. 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," she 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 unrea-
sonably 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 din-
ner."
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.
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 possibility
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 wag-
on. The noise made by the lumbering wheels annoyed me, and
when I found that the wagon 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 toward it, more attentively than before, I thought I detected,
THE W0MA3T IN WHITE. 215
at intervals, the feet of a man walking close behind it, the carter be-
ing 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 wagon 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
wagon had passed me the road behind it was quite clear.
I reached the inn without meeting Sir Percival, and without no-
ticing any thing more, and was glad to find that the landlady had
received Fanny with all possible kindness. The girl had a little
parlor 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 dread-
ful 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 any body — not even by her master who had sent her away.
" Try to make the best of it, Fanny," I said. " Tour mistress 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 your-
self, 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 ?"
276 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
" Oh no, no — not for the world !"
" Has any thing happened ? Has any one 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 V ' 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 1— I'll wring it out of
you !' He went away, with those words— went away, Marian, hard-
ly five minutes ago."
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 little late— I must be care-
ful not to give offense 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 decep-
tion, 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 un-
easiness which was quite new in my experience of him. The one
social obligation which he seemed *to be self-possesse,d 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 polite-
ness toward myself, invariable humility toward Laura, and invari-
able suppression (at any cost) of Sir Percival's clumsy violence; have
been the means he has resolutely and impenetrably used to get to
his end, ever since he set foot in this house. I suspected it when
he first interfered in our favor, on the day when the deed was pro-
duced 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 mean
you, Fosco."
" I am going away because I have had dinner enough, and wine
THE W01IAN IN WHITE. 277
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."
" Civil !" said Sir Percival, savagely. " Civil behavior, 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 carefully abstained
from looking at him in return.' This circumstance, 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, re-
vived in my memory the request which Sir Percival had vainly ad-
dressed 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 was 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 be-
tween them might be, it was clearly an important subject in Sir
Percival's estimation — and perhaps (judging from his evident re-
luctance to approach it) a dangerous subject as well, in the estima-
tion of the Count.
These considerations occurred to me while we were passing from
the dining-room to the drawing-room. Sir Percival's angry com-
mentary on his friend's desertion of binri had not produced the
slightest effect. The Count obstinately accompanied 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 dispatched from
Blackwater Park.
" Have you any letter for the post, Miss Halcombe ?" he asked, ap-
proaching 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.
278 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
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 hus-
band.
Before I could get to the door the Count stopped me, by 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 honor of his country was concerned.
I vainly pleaded my own total ignorance of music, and total want
of taste in that direction. He only appealed to me again with a ve-
hemence which set all further protest on my part at defiance. " The
English and the Germans (he indignantly declared) were always re-
viling 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 act-
ed 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 any thing more sublimely sacred
and grand had ever been composed by mortal man ?" — And, with-
out 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 interrupting him-
self, at intervals, to announce to me fiercely the titles of the differ-
ent pieces of music : " Chorus of Egyptians, in the Plague of Dark-
ness, Miss Halcombe !" — " Eecitativo 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 trem-
bled under his powerful hands ; and the tea-cups on the table rat-
tled, 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 din-
ing-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 veranda, put his hands in his
THE "V701TAN IN WHITE. 279
pockets, and resumed the " recitativo 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 seemed 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. Where 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 any thing.
Nobody had disturbed her — no faint rustling of the silk dress had
been audible, either in the anteroom 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, Tier face was
flushed now. She, who never suffered from the heat, was most un-
doubtedly suffering from it to-night.
" I am afraid, Countess, you are not quite so well as usual 2" I
said.
" The very remark I was about to make to you," 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 before din-
der 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.
280 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
" "With pleasure, Percival, when the ladies have gone to bed," re-
plied the Count.
"Excuse me, Countess, if I set you the example of retiring," I
said. " The only remedy1 for such a headache as mine is going to
bed."
I took my leave. There was the same insolent smile on the wom-
an's face when I shook hands with her. Sir Percival paid no atten-
tion 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 was the impedi-
ment this time.
IX.
June l§th. — Once safely shut into my own 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 difficulty 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,
away, with the strangest persistency, in the one direction of Sir
Percival and the Count ; and all the interest which I tried to con-
centrate on my journal centred, instead, in that private interview
between them, which had been put off all through the day, and
which was new 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.
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 servants, or the
distant sound of a closing door, in the lower part of the house.
Just as I was turning away wearily from the window, to go back
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 281
to the bedroom, and make a second attempt to complete the unfin-
ished entry in my journal, I smelled the odor of tobacco-smoke
stealing toward 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 noth-
ing but the spark. It traveled along in the night, passed the win-
dow at which I was standing, 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, ap-
proaching from the distance. The two met together in the dark-
ness. Remembering who smoked cigarettes, and who smoked ci-
gars, I inferred immediately that the Count had come out first, to
look and listen, under my window, and that Sir Percival had after-
ward joined him. They must both have been walking on the lawn,
or I should certainly 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 you give
the women one other chance, on my sacred word of honor 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 conversation be-
tween 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
282 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
in the darkness, I had made up my mind that there should be a list-
ener when those two men sat down to their talk, and that the list-
ener, 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
conscience, and to -give me courage enough for performing it, and
that motive I had. Laura's honor, Laura's happiness— Laura's life
itself— might depend on my quick ears and my faithful memory to-
night.
I had heard the Count say that he meant to examine the rooms
on each side of the library, and the staircase as well, before he en-
tered on any explanations with Sir Percival. This expression of his
intentions was necessarily sufficient to inform 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 other words, of hearing
what he and Sir Percival said to each other without the risk of de-
scending at all into the lower regions of the house.
In speaking of the rooms on the ground-floor, I have mentioned,
incidentally, the veranda outside them, on which they all opened by
means of French windows, extending from the cornice to the floor.
The top of this veranda 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 inter-
vals 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, at my
sitting-room window, on to 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 veranda, every word they said to each other above a whisper
(and no long conversation, as we all kWw 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 or 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 na-
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 283
ture of our situation, I hoped most fervently that I might escape
this last emergency. My courage was only a woman's courage, af-
ter all ; and it was very near to failing me when I thought of trust-
ing 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 experiment of
the veranda 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 under-cloth-
ing, and replaced them by a petticoat of dark flannel. Over this I
put my black traveling-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 veranda, 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
any thing 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 extin-
guished it, and groped my way back into the sitting-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 ve-
randa.
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 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 windows 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 dress-
ing-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 veranda, except at
that part of it which Madame Fosco's window overlooked. There,
at the very place above the library to which my course was directed
— there, I saw 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 cau-
tion 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
284 THE WOMAN' IN WHITE.
wall of the house. It was better to brush close by the wall than to
risk striking my feet against the flower-pots within 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 windows 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, with my hands to sup-
port me, and so crept to my position, under the protection of the low
wall between the bottom of the lighted window and the veranda
roof.
When I ventured to look up at the window itself, I found that the
top of it only was open, and that the blind inside was drawn down.
While I was looking, I saw the shadow of Madame Fosco pass across
the white field of the blind — then pass slowly back again. Thus far
she could not have heard me, or the shadow would surely have stop-
ped at the blind, even if she had wanted courage enough to open
the window and look out.
I placed myself sideways against the railing of the veranda, 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 by the
opening or closing (most probably the latter) of three doors in suc-
cession— 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 traveling out into the night, from under the veranda, moving
away toward 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 wea-
rily.
His exclamation was followed by the scraping of the garden chairs
on the tiled pavement under the veranda — the welcome sound which
told me they were going to sit close at the window, as usual. So
far the chance was mine. The clock in the turret struck the quar-
ter to twelve as they settled themselves in their chairs. I heard
Madame Fosco through the open window, yawning, and saw her
shadow pass once more across the white field of the blind.
Meanwhile, Sir Percival and the Count began talking together
below, now and then dropping their voices a little lower than usual,
«Wliiilllillli^ttii' '' ' ■'
THE STBANGENESS AND PERIL OF MY SITUATION.
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 287
but never sinking them to a whisper. The strangeness and peril of
my situation, the dread, which I could not master, of Madame Fosco's
lighted window, made it difficult, almost impossible for me, at first,
to keep my presence of mind, and to fix my attention solely on the
conversation beneath. For some minutes, I could only succeed in
gathering the general substance of it. I understood the Count to say
that the one window alight was his wife's ; that the ground-floor of
the house was quite clear ; and that they might now speak to each
other without fear of accidents. Sir Percival merely answered by
upbraiding his friend with having unjustifiably slighted his wishes
and neglected his interests all through the day; The Count, there-
upon, defended himself by declaring that he had been beset by
certain troubles and anxieties which had absorbed all his atten-
tion, and that the only safe time to come to an explanation was a
time when they could feel certain of being neither interrupted nor
overheard. " We are at a serious crisis in our affairs, P«rcival," he
said ; " and if we are to decide on the future at all, we must decide
secretly to-night."
That sentence of the Count's was the first which my attention was
ready enough to master, exactly as it was spoken. From this point,
with certain breaks and interruptions, my- whole interest fixed
breathlessly on the conversation, and I followed it word for word.
" Crisis ?" repeated Sir Percival. " It's a worse crisis than you
think for, I can tell you."
" So I should suppose, from your behavior for the last day or two,"
returned the other, coolly. " But wait a little. Before we-advance
to what I do not know, let us be quite certain of what I do know.
Let us first see if I am right about the time that is past, before I
make any proposal to you for the time that is to come." -
" Stop till I get the brandy-and-water. Have some yourself."
" Thank you, Percival. The cold water with pleasure, a spoon,
and the basin of sugar. Eau sucree, my friend — nothing more."
" Sugar-and-water, for a man of your age ! — There ! mix your sick-
ly mess. You foreigners are all alike."
" Now listen, Percival. I will put our position plainly before you,
as I understand it ; and you shall say^if I am right or wrong. You
and I both came back to this house from the Continent with our
affairs very seriously embarrassed — "
" Cut it short ! I wanted some thousands, and you some hun-
dreds— 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
288 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
(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 V
" How should I know ? Tou talked nineteen to the dozen, I sup-
pose, just as usuaL"
" I said this : Human ingenuity, my friend, has hitherto only dis-
covered 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 diflicult, but, in the end, not less certain) is never to accept a
provocation at a woman's hands. It holds with animals, it holds
with children, and it holds with women, who are nothing but chil-
dren grown up. Quiet resolution is the one quality the animals,
the children, and the women, all fail in. If they can once shake
this superior quality in their master, they get the better of him. If
they can never succeed in disturbing it, he gets the better of them.
I said to you, Remember that plain truth, when you want your wife
to help you to the money. I said, Remember it doubly and trebly,
in the presence of your wife's sister, Miss Halcombe. Have you re-
membered it ? Not once, in all the complications that have twisted
themselves about us in this house. Every provocation that your
wife and her sister could offer to you, you instantly accepted from
them. Your mad temper lost the signature to the deed, lost the
ready money, set Miss Halcombe writing to the lawyer for the first
time — "
" First -time ? Has she written, again ?"
" Yes ; she has written again to-day."
A chair fell on the pavement of the veranda — fell with a crash,
as if it had been kicked down.
It was well for me that the Count's revelation roused Sir Perci-
val's anger as it did. On hearing that I had been once more dis-
covered, I started so that the railing against which I leaned cracked
again. Had he followed me to the inn ? Did he infer that I must
have given my letters to Fanny, when I told him I had none for the
post-bag ? Even if it was so, how could he have examined the let-
ters, when they had gone straight from my hand to the bosom of
the girl's dress ?
" Thank your lucky star," I heard the Count say next, " that you
have me in the house, to undo the harm as fast as you do it. Thank
your lucky star that I said No, when you were mad enough to talk
of turning the key to-day on Miss Halcombe, as you turned it, in
your mischievous folly, on your wife. Where are your eyes ? Can
THE WOMAN IN "WHITE. 289
you look at Miss Halcombe, and not see that she has the foresight
and the resolution of a man ? With that woman for my friend, I
would snap these fingers of mine at the world. "With that woman
for my enemy, I, with all my brains and experience — I, Fosco, cun-
ning as the devil himself, as you have told me a hundred times — I
walk, in your English phrase, upon egg-shells ! And this grand
creature — I drink her health in my sugar-and-water — this grand
creature, who stands, in the strength of her love and her courage,
firm as a rock between us two and that poor flimsy, pretty blonde
wife of yours — this magnificent woman, whom I admire with all my
soul, though I oppose her in your interests and in mine, you drive
to extremities, as if she was no sharper and no bolder than the rest
of her sex. Percival ! Percival ! you deserve to fail, and you fame
failed."
There was a pause. I write the villain's words about myself be-
cause I mean to remember them, because I hope yet for the day
when I may speak out once for all in his presence, and cast them
back, one by one, in his teeth.
Sir Percival was the first to break the silence again.
" Yes, yes, bully and bluster as much as'you like," he said, sulkily ;
" the difficulty about the money is not the only difficulty. You
would be for taking strong measures with the women, yourself— if
you knew as much as I do."
" "We will come to that second difficulty all in good time," re-
joined; the Count. " You may confuse yourself, Percival, as much
as you please, but you shall not confuse me. Let the question of the
money, be settled first. Have I convinced your obstinacy ? have I
shown you that your temper will not let you help yourself? — Or
must I go back, and (as you put it in your dear, straightforward-En-
glish) bully and bluster a little more V
"Pooh! ■ It's easy enough to grumble at me. Say what is to hi
done — that's a little harder."
" Is it ? Bah ! This is what is to be done : You give up all di-
rection in the business from to-night ; you leave it, for the future,
in my hands only. I am talking to a Practical British man — ha ?
Well, Practical, will that do for you ?"
" "What do you propose, if I leave it all to you ?"
" Answer me first. Is it to be in my hands or not ?"
" Say it is in your hands — what then ?"
" A few questions, Percival, to begin with. I must wait a little,
yet, to let circumstances guide me ; and I must know, in every pos-
sible way, what those circumstances are likely to be. There is no
time to lose. I have told you already that Miss Halcombe has writ-
ten to the lawyer to-day for the second -time/'
" How did you find it out ? What did she say ?"
13
290 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
" 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 find-
ing has caused that trouble and anxiety which made me so inac-
cessible 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 sig-
nature, by means of bills at three months — raised at a cost that
makes my poverty-stricken foreign hair stand on end to think of it !
When the bills are due, is there really and truly no earthly way of
paying them but by the help of your wife ?"
" None."
" "What 1 You have no money at the banker's !"
" A few hundreds, when I want as many thousands."
" Have you no other security to borrow upon ?"
" Not a shred."
" What have you actually got with your wife at the present mo-
ment?"
" Nothing but the interest of her twenty thousand pounds-^-bare-
ly enough to pay our daily expenses."
" What do you expect from your wife ?"
" Three thousand a year, when her uncle dies."
" A fine fortune, Percival. What sort of a man is this uncle ?
Old ?"
" No — neither old nor young."
" A good-tempered, freely-living man ? Married ? No — I think
my wife told me, not married."
" Of course not. If he was married, and had a son, Lady Olyde
would not be next heir to the property. I'll tell you what he is.
He's a maudlin, twaddling, selfish fool, and bores every body who
comes near him about the state of his health."
" Men of that sort, Percival, live long, and marry malevolently
when you least expect it. I don't give you much, my "friend, for
your chance of the three thousand a year. Is there nothing more
that comes to you from your wife ?"
" Nothing."
" Absolutely nothing V
" Absolutely nothing — except in case of her death."
"Aha ! in the case of her death."
There was another pause. The Count moved from the veranda
to the gravel-walk outside. I knew that he had moved, by his
voice. " The rain has come at last," I heard him say. It had come.
The state of my cloak showed that it had been falling thickly for
some little time.
The Count went back under the veranda— I heard the chair creak
beneath his weight as he sat down in it again.
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 291
" Well, Percival," he said ; " and in the case of Lady Glyde's
death, what do you get then ?"
" If she leaves no children — ?'
" Which she is likely to do ?"
" Which she is not in the least likely to do — "
"Yes?" .
" Why, then I get her twenty thousand pounds."
" Paid down t"
" Paid down."
They were silent once more. As their voices ceased, Madame
Fosco's shadow darkened the blind again. Instead of passing this
time, it remained, for a moment, quite still. I saw her fingers steal
round the corner of the blind, and draw it oh one side. The dim
white outline of her face, looking out straight over me, appeared
behind the window. I kept still, shrouded from head to foot in my
black cloak. The rain, which was fast wetting me, dripped over
the glass, blurred it, and prevented her from seeing any thing.
" More rain !" I heard her say to herself. She dropped the blind — ■
and I breathed again freely.
The talk went on below me, the Count resuming it this time.
" Percival ! do you care about your wife ?"
" Fosco ! that's rather a downright question."
" I am a downright man, and I repeat it."
" Why the devil do you look at me in that way ?"
" You won't answer me ? Well, then, let us say your wife dies
before the summer is out — "
"Drop it, Fosco!"
" Let us say your wife dies—"
"Drop it, I tell you!"-
" In that case, you would gain twenty thousand pounds, and you
would lose — "
" I should lose the chance of three thousand a year."
"The remote chance, Percival — the remote chance only. And
you want money at once. In your position the gain is certain — the
loss doubtful."
"Speak for yourself as well as for me. Some of the money I
want has been borrowed for you. And if you come to gain, my
wife's death would be ten thousand pounds in your wife's pocket.
Sharp as you are, you seem to have conveniently forgotten Madame
Fosco's legacy. Don't look at me in that way 1 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
292 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
look the deaths of living people in the face. Do lawyers make
your flesh creep ? Why should I ? It is my business to-night to
clear up your position beyond the possibility of mistake — and I
have now done it. Here is your position. If your wife lives, you
pay those bills with her signature to the parchment. If your wife
dies, you pay them with her death."
As he spoke, the light in Madame Fosco's room was extinguished,
and the whole second floor of the house was now sunk in darkness.
" Talk ! talk !" grumbled Sir Percival. " One would think, to
hear you, that my wife's signature to the deed was got already."
" You have left the matter in my hands," retorted the Count,
" and I have more than two months before me to turn round in.
Say no more about it, if you please, for the present. When the bills
are due, you will see for yourself if my ' talk ! talk !' is worth some-
thing, or if it is not. And now, Percival, having done with the
money-matters for to-night, I can place my attention at your dis-
posal, 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 Cath-
erick ?"
" Look here, Fosco, you and I have known each other for a long
time ; and if you have helped me out of one or two scrapes before
this, I have done the best I could to help you in return,- as far as
money would go. We have made as many friendly sacrifices, on
both sides, as men could; but we have had our secrets from each
other, of course — haven't we ?"
" You have had a secret from me, Percival. There is a skeleton
in your cupboard here at Blackwater Park that has peeped out, in
these last few days, at other people besides yourself."
" Well, suppose it has. If it doesn't concern you, you needn't be
curious about it, need you ?"
" Bo I look curious about it ?"
" Yes, you do."
" So 1 so ! my face speaks the truth, then ? What an immense
foundation of good there must be in the nature of a man who ar-
rives at my age, and whose face has not yet lost the habit of speak-
ing the truth !— Come, Glyde ! let us be candid one with the other.
This secret of yours has sought me : I have not sought it. Let us
THE WOMAN IN ■WHITE. 293
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 capa-
ble 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 f Is it
my fault that your skeleton has peeped out at me ? Why do I con-
fess my curiosity? You poor, superficial Englishman, it is to mag-
nify 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. Recognize
them, Percival ! imitate them, Percival ! Shake hands — I forgive
you."
His voice faltered over the last words — faltered as if he was actu-
ally 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 par-
don him without apologies. Tell me, in plain words, do you want
my help ?"
" Yes, badly enough.''
"And you can ask for it without compromising. yourself ?"
" I can try, at any rate."
"Try, then."
" Well, this is how it stands : I told you to-day that I had done
my best to find Annie Catherick, and failed."
" Yes, you did."
" Posco ! I'm a lost man if I don't find her."
" Ha ! Is it so serious as that ?"
A little stream of light traveled out under the veranda, and fell
over the gravel-walk. The Count had taken the lamp from the in-
ner part of the room, to see his friend clearly by the light of it.
294 THE WOMAN IN "WHITE.
" Yes !" he said. " Your fece speaks the truth this time. Seri-
ous, indeed — as serious as the money-matters themselves." .
" More serious. As true as I sit here, more serious 1"
The light disappeared again, and the talk went on.
" I showed you the letter to my wife that Annie Catherick hid in
the sand," Sir Percival continued. "There's no boasting in that
letter, Fosco — she does know the Secret."
" Say as little as possible, Percival, in my presence, of the Secret.
Does she know it from you ?"
" No ; from her mother,"
" Two women in possession of your private mind — bad, bad, bad,
my friend ! One question here, before we go any further. The mo-
tive of your shutting up the daughter in the asylum is now plain
enough to me — but the manner of her escape is not quite so clear.
Do you suspect the people in charge of her of closing their eyes
purposely, at the instance of some enemy who could afford to make
it worth their while ?"
" No ; she was the best-behaved patient they had — and, like fools,
they trusted her. She's just mad enough to be shut up, and just
sane enough to ruin me when she's at large — if you understand
that?"
" I do understand it. Now, Percival, come at once to the point ;
and then I shall know what to do. Where is the danger of your
position at the present moment ?"
"Annie Catherick is in this neighborhood, and in communication
with Lady Glyde — there's the danger, plain enough. Who can read
the letter she hid in the sand, and not see that my wife is in posses-
sion of the secret, deny it as she may !"
" One moment, Percival. If Lady Glyde does know the secret,
she must know, also, that it is a compromising secret for you. As
your wife, surely it is her interest to keep it ?"
" Is it ? I'm coming to that. It might be her interest if she
cared two straws about me. But I happen to be an incumbrance in
the way of another man. She was in love with him before she mar-
ried me — she's in love with him now — an infernal vagabond of a
drawing-master, named Hartright."
" My dear friend ! what is there extraordinary in that ? They are
all in love with some other man. Who gets the first of a woman's
heart ? In all my experience I have never yet met with the man
who was Number One. Number Two, sometimes. Number Three,
Four, Five, often. Number One, never ! He exists, of course — but
I have not met with him."
"Wait! I haven't done yet. Who do you think helped Anne
Catherick to get the start when the people from the mad-house
were after her ? Hartright. Who do you think saw her again in
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 295
Cumberland? Hartright. Both times he spoke to her alone.
Stop ! don't interrupt me. The scoundrel's as sweet on my wife
as she is on him. . He knows the secret, and she knows the secret.
Once let them both get together again, and it's her interest and his
interest to turn their information against me."
" Gently, Percival — gently. Are you insensible to the virtue of
Lady Clyde?"
" 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 vaga-
bond Hartright — "
" Yes, yes, I see. "Where is Mr. Hartright ?"
" Out of the country. If he means to keep a whole skin on his
bones, I recommend him not to come back in a hurry."
"Are you sure he is out of the country ?"
" Certain. I had him watched from the time he left Cumberland
to the time he sailed. Oh, I've been careful, I can tell you ! Anne
Catherick lived with some people at a farm-house near Limmeridge.
I went there myself after she had given me the slip, and made sure
that they knew nothing. I gave her mother a form of letter to
write to Miss Halcombe, exonerating me from any bad motive in
putting her under restraint. I've spent, I'm afraid to say how
much, in trying to trace her. And, in spite of it all, she turns up
here, and escapes me on my own property ! How do I know who
else may see her here, 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 neighborhood, I will answer for our laying hands
on her before Mr. Hartright — even if he does come back. I see !
yes, yes, I see ! The finding of Anne Catherick is the first necessity :
make your mind easy about the rest. Your wife is here, under your
thumb ; Miss Halcombe is inseparable from her, and is, therefore,
under your thumb also ; and Mr. Hartright is out of the country.
This invisible Anne of yours is all we have to think of for the pres-
ent. 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."
296 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
" I am glad to hear it, Percival, for your sake. Don't be discour-
aged, my 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 Glyde
that the little difficulty of her signature was put off, accident took
me there in time to see a strange woman parting in a very suspicious
manner from your wife. But accident did not bring me near enough
to see this same woman's face plainly. . I must know how to recog-
nize our invisible Anne. What is she like ?"
" Like ? Come ! I'll tell you in two words. She's a sickly like-
ness of my wife."
The chair creaked, and the pillar shook once more. The Count
was on his feet again— this time in astonishment.
" What ! ! !" he exclaimed, eagerly.
"Fancy my wife, after a bad illness, with a touch of something
wrong in her head — and there is Anne Catherick for you," answered
Sir Percival.
"Are they related to each other i"
"Not a bit of it."
"And yet so like?"
" Yes, so like. What are you laughing about ?"
There was no answer, and no sound of any kind. The Count was
laughing in his smooth, silent, internal way.
"What are you laughing about?" reiterated Sir Percival.
"Perhaps at my own fancies, my good friend. Allow me my
Italian humor — do I not come of the illustrious nation which in-
vented the exhibition of Punch ? Well, well, well, I shall know
Anne Catherick when I see her — and so enough for to-night. Make
your mind easy, Percival. Sleep, my son, the sleep of the just ; and
see what I will do for you, when daylight comes to help ns both.
I have my projects and my plans, here in my big head. Tou shall
pay those bills and find Anne Catherick — my sacred word of honor
on it, but you shall ! Am I a friend to be treasured in the best cor-
ner 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 ? What-
ever you do, never wound me in my sentiments any more. Recog-
nize 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 li-
brary door. I heard Sir Percival barring up the window-shutters.
It had been raining, raining all the time. I was cramped by my
THE WOJIAN IN "WHITE. 297
position, and chilled to the bones. When I first tried to move, the
effort was so painful to me, that I was obliged to desist. I tried a
second time, and succeeded in rising to my knees on the wet roof.
As I crept to the wall, and raised myself against it, I looked back,
and saw the window of the Count's dressing-room gleam into light.
My sinking courage flickered up in me again, and kept my eyes
fixed on his window, as I stole my way back, step by step, past the
wall of the house.
The clock struck the quarter after one when I laid my hands on
the window-sill of my own room. I had seen nothing and heard
nothing which could lead me to suppose that my retreat had been
discovered.
X.
********
June 20i/i. 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 f looked out into
the darkness of last night, I look out now at the bright stillness of
the morning.
I count the hours that have passed since I escaped to the shelter
of this room by my own sensations — and those hours seem like
weeks.
How short a time, and yet how long to me, since I sank down in
the darkness here, on the floor, drenched to the skin, cramped in ev-
ery limb, cold to the bones, a useless, helpless, panic-stricken creature.
I hardly know when I roused myself. I hardly know when I
groped my way back to the bedroom, and lighted the candle and
searched (with a strange ignorance, at first, of where to look for
th.em) 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 clear-
ness, the feverish strain and excitement of all my faculties which
came with it. I remember my resolution to control myself, to wait
patiently hour after hour, till the chance offered of removing Laura
from this horrible place, without the danger of immediate discovery
and pursuit. I remember the persuasion settling itself in my mind
that the words those two men had said to each other would furnish
us, not only with our justification for leaving the house, but with
our weapons of defense 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 mem-
ory vividly retained them. All this I remember plainly : there is
13*
298 THE WOJTAir IN WHITE.
no confusion in my head yet. The coming in here from the bed-
room, 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 in-
terval before the house was astir again — how clearly I recall it, from
the beginning by candle-light, to the end on the page before this, in
the sunshine of the new day !
Why do I sit here still ? Why do I weary my hot eyes and my
burning head by writing more ? Why not lie down and rest my-
self, and try to quench the fever that consumes me in sleep ?
I dare not attempt it. A fear beyond all other fears has got pos-
session of me. I am afraid of this heat that parches my skin. I am
afraid of the creeping and throbbing that I feel in my head. If I lie
down now, how do I know that I may have the sense and the strength
to rise again ?
Oh, the rain, 'the rain — the cruel rain that chilled me last night !
********
Nine o'clock.— Was it nine struck, or eight ? Nine, surely ? I am
shivering again — shivering from head to foot, in the summer air.
Have I been sitting here asleep ? I don't know what I have been
doing.
Oh, my God ! am I going to 13e ill ?
Ill, at such a time as this !
My head — I am sadly afraid of my head. I can write, but the
lines all run together. I see the words. Laura — I can write Laura,
and see I write it. Eight or nine — which was it ?
So cold, so cold — oh, that rain last night ! — and the strokes of the
clock, the strokes I can't count, keep striking in my head — "
********
[At this place the entry in the Diary ceases to be legible. The
two or three lines which follow contain fragments of words only,
mingled with blots and scratches of the pen. The last marks on
the paper bear some resemblance to the first two letters (L and A)
of the name of Lady Glyde.
On the next page of the Diary another entry appears. It is in a
man's handwriting, large, bold, and firmly regular ; and the date is
" June the 21st." It contains these lines :]
POSTSCRIPT BY A SINCERE FRIEND.
The illness of our excellent Miss Halcombe has afforded me the
opportunity of enjoying an unexpected intellectual pleasure.
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 299
I refer to the perusal (which I have just completed) of this inter-
esting Diary.
There are many hundred pages here. I can lay my hand on my
heart, and declare that every page has charmed, refreshed, delight-
ed me.
To a man of my sentiments, it is unspeakably gratifying to be
able to say this.
Admirable woman !
I allude to Miss Halcombe.
Stupendous effort !
I refer to the Diary.
Yes ! these pages are amazing. The tact which I find here, the
discretion, the rare courage, the wonderful power of memory, the ac-
curate observation of character, the. easy grace of style, the charm-
ing 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 paint-
ed in such strong, such rich, such massive colors as these. I lament
afresh the cruel necessity which sets our interests at variance, and
opposes us to each other. Under happier circumstances how wor-
thy I should have been of Miss Halcombe — how worthy Miss Hal-
combe would have been of he.
The sentiments which animate my heart assure me that the lines
I have just written express a Profound Truth.
Those sentiments exalt jne above all merely personal considera-
tions. I bear witness, in the most disinterested manner, to the ex-
cellence of the stratagem by which this unparalleled woman sur-
prised the private interview between Percival and myself. Also to
the marvelous accuracy of her report of the whole conversation, from
its beginning to its end.
Those sentiments have induced me to offer to the unimpression-
able 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 man-
kind. He has hitherto declined to avail himself of my assistance.
Miserable man !
Finally, those sentiments dictate the lines — grateful, sympatbic,
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. Cir-
cumstances 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 horn-
300 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
age of my admiration is my own. I deposit it, -with respectful ten-
derness, 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 ar-
ranged. I have to thank these pages for awakening the finest sen-
sibilities in my nature — nothing more.
To a person of similar sensibility this simple assertion will ex-
plain and excuse every thing.
Miss Halcombe is a person of similar sensibility.
In that persuasion, I sign myself, Fosco.
The Story continued by Fkederick Faielie, Esq., of XAm-
meridge House.*
It is the grand misfortune of my life that nobody will let me
alone.
Why — I ask every body — why worry me ? Nobody answers that
question, and nobody lets me alone. Relatives, friends, and stran-
gers, all combine to annoy me. What have I done ? I^isk myself,
I ask my servant, Louis, fifty times a day — wjiat have I done ? Nei-
ther of us can tell. Most extraordinary !
The last annoyance that has assailed me is the annoyance of be-
ing 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 se-
rious events, relating to my niece, have happened within my ex-
perience, 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 can not so much as think of
without perfect prostration. There is really no need to threaten
me. Shattered by my miserable health and my family troubles, I
am incapable of resistance. If you insist, you take your unjust ad-
vantage of me, and I give way immediately. I will endeavor to
remember what I can (under protest), and to write what I can (also
under protest) ; and what I can't remember and can't write, Louis
must remember, and write for me. He is an ass and I am an in-
* The manner in which Mr. Fail-lie's Narrative, and other Narratives that are
shortly to follow it, were originally obtained, forms the subject of an explanation
which will appea<* at a later period.
THE "WOMAN IN WHITE. 301
valid, and we are likely to make all sorts of mistakes between us.
How humiliating !
I am told to remember dates. Good heavens ! I never did such
a thing in my life — how am I to begin now ?
I have asked Louis. He is not quite such an ass as I have hith-
erto supposed. He remembers the date of the event, within a week
or two — and I remember the name of the person. The date was
toward the end of June, or the beginning of July, and the name (in
my opinion a remarkably vulgar one) was Fanny.
At the end of June, or the beginning of July, then, I was reclin-
ing, 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 neighborhood. 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 photo-
graphs, I mean, if the clumsy English language will let me mean
any thing) — 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 country-
men was the last gentleman in the world to be unfeelingly worried
about private difficulties and family affairs. Quite a mistake, I as-
sure 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 in-
quire what the deuce he meant by making his appearance, when I
had not rung my bell. I seldom swear — it issuch an ungentleman-
like habit — but when Louis answered by a grin, I think it was also
perfectly natural that I should damn him for grinning. At any
rate, I did.
This rigorous mode of treatment, I have observed, invariably
brings persons in the lower class of life to their senses. It brought
Louis to Ms senses. He was' so obliging as to leave off grinnirig,
and inform me that a Toung Person was outside wanting to see me.
He added (with the odious talkativeness of servants) that her name
was Fanny.
" Who is Fanny ?"
" Lady Glyde's maid, sir."
" What does Lady Glyde's maid want with me ?"
" A letter, sir — "
"Take it."
" She refuses to give it to any body but you, sir."
" Who sends the letter ?"
" Miss Halcombe, sir."
302 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
The moment I heard Miss Halcombe's^ name, I gave up. It is a
habit of mine always to give up' to Miss Haleombe. I find, by ex-
perience, that it saves noise. I gave up on this occasion. Dear
Marian!
"Let Lady Glyde's maid come in, Louis. Stop! Do her shoes
creak ?"
I was obliged to ask the question. Creaking shoes invariably
upset me for the day. I was resigned to see the Young Person, but
I was not resigned to let the Young Person's shoes upset me. There
is a limit even to my endurance.
Louis affirmed distinctly that her shoes were to be depended
upon. I waved my hand. He introduced her. Is it necessary to
say that she expressed her sense of embarrassment by shutting up
her mouth and breathing through her nose ? To the student of fe-
male human nature in the lower orders, surely not.
Let me do the girl justice. Her shoes did not creak. But why
do Young Persons in service all perspire at the hands ? Why have
they all got fat noses and hard cheeks ? And why are their faces
so sadly unfinished, especially about the corners of the eyelids. ? I
am not strong enough to think deeply myself on any subject; but
I appeal to professional men who are. Why have we no variety in
our breed of Young Persons ?
" You have a letter for me from Miss Haleombe ? Put it down
on the table, please, and don't upset any thing. How is Miss Hal-
eombe ?"
" Very well, thank you, sir."
"And Lady Glyde?"
I received no answer. The Young Person's face became more
unfinished than ever, land I think she began to cry. I certainly
saw something moist about her eyes. Tears or perspiration ? Louis
(whom I have just consulted) is inclined to think, tears. He is in
her class of life, and he ought to know best. Let us say, tears.
Except when the refining process of Art judiciously removes from
them all resemblance to Nature, I distinctly object to tears. Tears
are scientifically described as a Secretion. I can understand that a
secretion may be healthy or unhealthy, but I can not 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,
" Endeavor to ascertain what she means."
Louis endeavored, and the Young Person endeavored. They suc-
ceeded in confusing each other to such an extent that I am bound
in common gratitude to say, they really amused me. I think I shall
send for them again, when I am in low spirits. I have just men-
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 303
tioned this idea to Louis. * Strange to say, it seems to make him un-
comfortable. Poor devil !
Surely, I am not expected to repeat my niece's maid's explanation
of her tears, interpreted in the English of my Swiss valet ? The
thing is manifestly impossible. I can give my own impressions and
feelings, perhaps. Will that do as well ? Please say, Yes.
My idea is that she began by telling me (through Louis) that
her master had dismissed* her from her mistress's service. (Observe,
throughout, the strange irrelevancy of the Young Person. "Was it
my fault that she had lost her place ?) On her dismissal, she had
gone to the inn to sleep. (I don't keep the inn — why mention it to
me?) Between six o'clock and seven, Miss Halcombe had come to
say good-bye, and had given her two letters, one for me, and one for
a gentleman in London. (J am not a gentleman in London — hang
the gentleman in London !) She had carefully put the two letters
into her bosom (what have I to do with her bosom ?) ; she had been
very unhappy, when Miss Halcombe had gone away again ; she had
not had the heart to put bit or drop between her lips till it was
near bed-time ; and then, when it was close on nine o'clock, she had
thought she should like a cup of tea. (Am I responsible for any of
these vulgar fluctuations, which begin with unhappiness and end
with tea ?) Just as she was warming the pot (I give the words on
the authority of Louis, who says he knows what they mean, and
wishes to explain, but I snub him on principle) — just as She was
warming the pot, the door opened, and she was struck of a heap
(her own words again, and perfectly unintelligible, this time, to
Louis, as well as to myself) by the appearance, in the inn parlor, of
her ladyship, the Countess. I give my niece's maid's description of
my sister's title with a sense of the highest relish. My poor dear
sister is a tiresome woman who married a foreigner. To resume :
the door opened ; her ladyship, the Countess, appeared in the par-
lor, and the Young Person was struck of a heap. Most remarkable !
I must really rest a little before I can get on any further. "When
I have reclined for a few minutes, with my eyes closed, and when
Louis has refreshed my poor aching temples with a little eau-de-Co-
logne, I may be able to proceed.
Her ladyship, the Countess —
No. I am able to proceed, but not to sit up. I will recline, and
dictate. Louis has a horrid accent-; but he knows the language,
and can write. How very convenient !
Her ladyship, the Countess, explained her unexpected appearance
at the inn by telling Fanny that she had come to bring one or two
little messages which Miss Halcombe, in her hurry, had forgotten.
304 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
The Young Person thereupon waited anxiously to hear what the
messages were ; but the Countess seemed disinclined to mention
them (so. like my sister's tiresome way !) until Fanny had had her
tea. Her ladyship was surprisingly kind and thoughtful about it
(extremely unlike my sister), and said, " I am sure, my poor girl, you
must want your tea. We can let the messages wait till afterward.
Come, come, if nothing else will put you at your ease, I'll make the
tea, and have a cup with you." I think those were the words, as
reported excitably, in my presence, by the Young Person. At any
rate, the Countess insisted on making the tea, and carried her ridic-
ulous 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, solemnized the extraordinary
occasion, five minutes afterward, by fainting dead away, for the first
time in her life. Here, again, I use her own words. Louis thinks .
they were accompanied by an increased secretion of tears. I can't
say, myself. The effort of listening being quite as much as I could
manage, my eyes were closed. *
"Where did I leave off ? Ah, yes — she fainted, after drinking a cup
of tea with the Countess : a proceeding which might have interested
me, if I had been her medical man ; but, being nothing of the sort,
I felt bored by 'hearing of it, nothing more. When she came to her-
self, 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 de-
livered the other letter into my hands, as she was told. This was
the plain truth ; and, though she could not blame herself for any in-
tentional neglect, she was sadly troubled in her mind, and sadly in
want of a word of advice. At this point Louis thinks the secretions
appeared again. Perhaps they did; but it is of infinitely greater
importance to mention that, at this point also, I lost my patience,
opened my eyes, and interfered.
" What is the purport of all this 2" I inquired.
My niece's irrelevant maid stared, and stood speechless.
" Endeavor to explain," I said to my servant. " Translate me,
Louis."
Louis endeavored, and translated. In other words, he descended
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 305
immediately into a bottomless pit of confusion ; and the Young Per-
son followed him down. I really don't know when I have been so
amused. I left them at the bottom of the pit, as long as they divert-
ed me. When they ceased to divert me, I exerted my intelligence,
and pulled them up again.
It is unnecessary to say that my interference enabled me, in due
course of time, to ascertain the purport of the Young Person's re-
marks.
I discovered that she was uneasy in her mind, because the train
of events that she had just described to me had prevented her from
receiving those supplementary messages which Miss Halcombe had
intrusted to the Countess to deliver. She was afraid the messages
might have been of great importance to her mistress's interests.
Her dread of Sir Percival had deterred her from going to Black-
water Park late at night to inquire about them, and Miss Halcombe's
own directions to her, on no account to miss the train in the morn-
ing, had prevented her from waiting at the inn the next day. She
was most anxious that the misfortune of her fainting-fit should not
lead to the second misfortune of making her mistress think her neg-
lectful, and she would humbly beg to ask me whether I would ad-
vise her to write her explanations and excuses to Miss Halcombe, re-
questing to receive the messages by letter, if it was not too late. I
make no apologies for this extremely prosy paragraph. I have been
ordered to write it. There are people, unaccountable as it may
appear, who actually take more interest in what my niece's maid
said to me on this occasion than in what I said to my niece's maid.
Amusing perversity !
" I should feel very much obliged to you, sir, if you would kindly
tell me what I had better do," remarked the Young Person.
" Let things stop as they are," I said, adapting my language to
my listener. "J invariably let things stop as they are. Yes. Is
that all 2"
" If you think it would be a liberty in me, sir, to write, of course
I wouldn't venture to do so. But I am so very anxious to do all I
can to serve my mistress faithfully — "
People in the lower class of life never know when or how to go
out of a room. They invariably require to be helped out by their
betters. I thought it high time to help the Young Person out. I
did it with two judicious words -.
" Good-morning !"
Something, outside or inside this singular girl, suddenly creak-
ed. Louis, who was looking 'at her (which I was not), says she
creaked when she courtesied. Curious. Was it her shoes, her
stays, or her bones ? Louis thinks it was her stays. Most extraor-
dinary !
306 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
As soon as I was left by myself, I had a little nap — I really want-
ed it. "When I awoke again, I noticed dear Marian's letter. If I
had had the least idea of what it contained, I should certainly not
have attempted to open it. Being, unfortunately for myself, quite
innocent of all suspicion, I read the letter. It immediately upset
me for the day.
I am by nature one of the most easy-tempered creatures that ever
lived — I make allowances for every body, and I take offense at noth-
ing. But, as I have before remarked, there are limits to my endur-
ance. I laid down Marian's letter, and felt myself— justly felt my-
self— 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 ap-
pear in this place.
Nothing, in my opinion, sets the odious selfishness of mankind in
such a repulsively vivid light as the treatment, iii all classes of so-
ciety, which the Single people receive at the hands of the Married
people. "When you have once shown yourself too considerate and
self-denying to add a family of your own to an already overcrowded
population, you are vindictively marked out by your married friends,
who have no similar consideration and no similar self-denial, as the
recipient of half their conjugal troubles, and the born friend of all
their children. Husbands and wives talk of the cares of matrimony,
and bachelors and spinsters tear them. Take my own case. I con-
siderately remain single, and my poor dear brother, Philip, inconsid-
erately marries. What does he do when he dies ? He leaves his
daughter to me. She is a sweet girl. She is also a dreadful respon-
sibility. Why lay her on my shoulders ? Because I am bound, in
the harmless character of a single man, to relieve my married con-
nections of all their own troubles. I do my best with my brother's
responsibility ; I marry my niece, with infinite fuss and difficulty, to
the man her father wanted her to marry. She and her husband dis-
agree, and unpleasant consequences follow. "What does she do with
those consequences ? She transfers them to me. "Why transfer them
to me t Because I am bound, in the harmless character of a single
man, to relieve my married connections of all their own troubles.
Poor single people ! Poor human nature !
It is quite unnecessary to say that Marian's letter threatened me.
Every body threatens me. All sorts of horrors were to fall on my
devoted head, if I hesitated to turn Limmeridge House into an asy-
lum for my niece and her misfortunes. I did hesitate, nevertheless.
I have mentioned that my usual course, hitherto, had been to sub-
mit to dear Marian, and save noise. But, on this occasion, the con-
sequences involved in her extremely inconsiderate proposal were of
a nature to make me pause. If I opened Limmeridge House as an
THE WOMAN IS WHITE, 307
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 harboring his wife ? I saw such a perfect labyrinth of trou-
bles 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 an-
swer 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 temporizing on my part
would probably end in bringing Marian here in a state of virtuous
indignation, banging doors. But, then, the other course of proceed-
ing 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. Accord-
ingly, I dispatched 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 him-
self as the acting partner of our man-of-business — our dear, pig-
headed old Gilmore — and he informed me that he had lately re-
ceived, 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 sug-
gesting to his restless legal mind that the letter had been tampered
with) that he had at once written to Miss Halcombe, and had re-
ceived no answer by return of post. In this difficulty, instead of
acting like a sensible man and letting things take their proper
course, his next absurd proceeding, on his own showing, was to pes-
ter me, by writing to inquire if I knew any thing about it. "What
the deuce should I know about it ? "Why alarm me as well as him-
self? I wrote back to that effect. It was one of my keenest letters.
I have produced nothing with a sharper epistolary edge to it, since
I tendered his dismissal in writing to that extremely troublesome
person,'Mr. "Walter Hartright.
My letter produced its effect. I heard nothing more from the
lawyer.
This, perhaps, wa3 not altogether surprising. But it was certain-
308 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
ly 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 sooth-
ing and pleasant to infer (as I did, of course) that my married con-
nections had made it up again. Five days of undisturbed tranquil-
lity, 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 neighborhood. 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 gentlenian, of course, made a difference. I looked at the card.
Gracious Heaven ! my tiresome sister's foreign husband. Count
Fosco.
Is it necessary to say what my first impression was, when I looked
at my visitor's card ? Surely not ? My sister having married a for-
eigner, there was but one impression that any man in his senses
could possibly feel. Of course the Count had come to borrow mon-
ey of me.
" Louis," I said, " do you think he would go away if you gave
him five shillings ?"
Louis looked quite Bhocked. He surprised "me inexpressibly by
declaring that my sister's foreign husband was dressed superblyj
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 sup-
posed, but dear Marian's. Troubles, any way. Oh dear !
" Show him in," I said, resignedly.
The Count's first appearance really startled me. He was such an
alarmingly large person that I quite trembled. I felt certain that
he would shake the floor, and knock down my art-treasures. He
did neither the one nor the other. He was refreshingly dressed in
summer costume; his manner was delightfully self-possessed and
quiet — he had a charming smile. My first impression of him was
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 309
highly favorable. It is not creditable to my penetration — as the
sequel will show — to acknowledge this ; but I am a naturally can-
did 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 honor and the happiness of
being Madame Fosco's husband. Let me take my first, and last,
advantage of that circumstance by entreating you not to make a
stranger of me. I beg you will not disturb yourself— I beg you will
not m«ve."
" 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 dress-
ed up to look like a man."
"I have studied many-subjects in my time," remarked this sym-
pathetic person. "Among others, the inexhaustible subject of
nerves. May I make a suggestion, at once the simplest and the
most profound ? Will you let me alter the light in your room ?"
" Certainly — if you will be so very kind as not to let any of it in
on me."
He walked to the window. Such a contrast to dear Marian ! so
extremely considerate in all his movements ! .
" Light," he said, in that delightfully confidential tone which is
so soothing to an invalid, " is the first essential. Light stimulates,
nourishes, preserves. Tou 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 can not bear it on yourself. Light, sir, is the
grand decree of Providence. Tou accept Providence with your
own restrictions. Accept light— on the same terms."
I thought this very convincing and attentive. He had taken me
in — up to that point about the light, he had certainly taken me in.
" You see me confused," he said, returning to his place — " on my ■
word of honor, 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 feeljngs 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 ac-
knowledgments instead. It did just as well — we both understood
one another.
310 THE •WOMA2T IS WHITE.
" 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 neces-
sity for lacerating those sympathies by referring to domestic events
of a very melancholy kind. "What is the inevitable consequence ?
I have done myself the honor of pointing it out to you already. I
sit confused."
Was it at this point that I began to suspect he was going to bore
me ? I rather think it was.
" Is it absolutely necessary to refer to these unpleasant matters ?"
I inquired. '• In our homely English phrase, Count Fosco, won't
they keep ?"
The Count, with the most alarming solemnity, sighed and shook
his head.
" Must I really hear them ?*'
He shrugged his shoulders (it was the first foreign thing he had
done since he had been in the room), and looked at me in an un-
pleasantly penetrating manner. My instincts told me that I had
better close my eyes. I obeyed my instincts.
'• Please break it gently," I pleaded. "Any body dead ?"
"Dead!"' cried the Count, with unnecessary foreign fierceness.
" Mr. Fairlie ! your national composure terrifies me. In the name
of Heaven, what have I said or done, to make you think me the
messenger of death ?"
" Pray accept my apologies," I answered. " Ton have said and
done nothing. I make it a rule, in these distressing cases, always to
anticipate the worst. It breaks the blow, by meeting it half-way,
and so oi. Inexpressibly relieved, I am sure, to hear that nobody is
dead. Any body 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 cant say ; and I can't ask Louis, because he was not
in the room at the time.
" Any body ill ?" I repeated, observing that my national composure
still appeared to affect him
" That is part of my bad news, Mr. Fairlie. Yes. Somebody is
ill."
'• Grieved, I am sure. Which of them is it ?"
'; To my profound sorrow, Miss Halcombe. Perhaps you were in
some degree prepared to hear this ? Perhaps, when you found that
Miss Halcombe did not come here by herself, as you proposed, and
did not write a second time, your affectionate anxiety may have
made you fear that she was ill ?"
I have no doubt my affectionate anxiety had led to that melan-
choly apprehension at some time or other, but at the moment my
THE WOMAN IK WHITE. 311
wretched memory entirely failed to remind me of the circumstance.
However, I said Yes, in justice to myself I was much shocked. It
was so very uncharacteristic of such a robust person as dear Marian
to be ill, that I could only suppose she had met with an accident.
A horse, or a false step on the stairs, or something of that sort.
" Is it serious ?" I asked.
" Serious — beyond a doubt," he replied. " Dangerous — I hope
and trust not. Hiss Halcombe unhappily exposed herself to be
wetted through by a heavy rain. The cold that followed was of an
aggravated kind, and it has now brought with it the worst conse-
quence— Fever."
When I heard the word Fever, and when I remembered, at the
same moment, that the unscrupulous person who was now address-
ing me had just come from Blackwater Park, I thought I should
have fainted on the spot.
" Good God !" I said. " Is it infectious ?"
" Not at present," he answered, with detestable composure. " It
may turn to infection — but no such deplorable complication had
taken place when I left Blackwater Park. I have felt the deepest
interest in the case, Mr. Fairlie — I have endeavored to assist the reg-
ular medical attendant in watching it — accept my personal assur-
ances of the uninfectious nature of the fever when I last saw it."
Accept his assurances! I never was further from accepting any
thing 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-In-
dian-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.
"Ton will kindly excuse an invalid," I said — "but long confer-
ences of any kind invariably upset me. May I beg to know exactly
what the object is to which I am indebted for the honor of your
visit?"
I fervently hoped that this remarkably broad hint would throw
him off his balance — confuse him — reduce him to polite apologies —
in short, get him out of the room. On the contrary, it only settled
him in his chair. He became additionally solemn and dignified and
confidential. He held up two of his horrid fingers, and gave me an-
other of his unpleasantly penetrating looks. What was I to do ? I
was not strong enough to quarrel with him. Conceive my situa-
tion, if you please. Is language adequate to describe it? I think
not.
" The objects of my visit," he went on, quite irrepressibly, " are
numbered on my fingers. They are two. First, I come to bear my
testimony, with profound sorrow, to the lamentable disagreements
312 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
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-wit-
ness of all that has happened at Blackwater Park. In those three
capacities I speak with authority, with confidence, with honorable
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 ad-
mirable lady has proposed is the only remedy that will spare you
the horrors of public scandal. A temporary separation between
husband and wife is the one peaceable solution of this difficulty/
Part them for the present ; and when all causes of irritation are re-
moved, I, who have now the honor of addressing you — I will under-
take to bring Sir Percival to reason. Lady Glyde is innocent, Lady
Glyde is injured ; but — follow my thought here ! — she is, on that
very account (I say it with shame), the cause of irritation while she
remains under her husband's roof. No other house can receive her
with propriety but yours. I invite you to open it !"
Cool. Here was a matrimonial hailstorm pouring in the South
of England ; and I was invited, by a man with fever in every fold
of his coat, to come out from the North of England and take my
share of the pelting. I tried to put the point forcibly, just as I
have put it here; The Count deliberately lowered one of his hor-
rid fingers ; kept the other up ; and went on — rode over me, as it
were, without even the common coachman-like attention of crying
" Hi !" before he knocked me down.
" Follow my thought once more, if you please," he resumed. " My
first object you have heard. My second object in coming to this
house is to do what Miss Halcombe's illness has prevented her from '
doing for herself. My large experience is consulted on all difficult
matters at Blackwater Park, and my friendly advice was requested
on the interesting subject of your letter to Miss Halcombe. I un-
derstood at once — for my sympathies are your sympathies — why
you wished. to see her here, before you pledged yourself to inviting
Lady Glyde. You are most right, sir, in hesitating to receive the
wife until you are quite certain that the husband will not exert his
authority to reclaim her. I agree to that. I also agree that such
delicate explanations as this difficulty involves are not explanations
which can be properly disposed of by writing only. My presence
here (to my own great inconvenience) is the proof that I speak sin-
cerely. As for the explanations themselves, I — Fosco — I who know
Sir Percival much better than Miss Halcombe knows him, affirm to
you, on my honor and my word, that he will not come near this
house, or attempt to communicate with this house, while, his wife
is living in it. His affairs are embarrassed. Offer him his freedom,
by means of the absence of Lady Glyde. I promise you he will
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 313
take his freedom, and go back to the Continent, at the earliest mo-
ment when he can get away. Is this clear to you as crystal? Yes,
it is. Have you questions to address to me ? Be it so ; I am here
to answer. Ask, Mr. Fairlie — oblige me by asking, to your heart's
content."
He had said so much already in spite of me, and he looked so
dreadfully capable of saying a great deal more, also in spite of me,
that I declined his. amiable invitation, in pure self-defense.
" Many thanks," I replied. " I am sinking fast. In my state of
health, I must take things for granted. Allow me to do so on this
occasion. We quite understand each other. Yes. Much obliged,
I am sure, for your kind interference. If I ever get better, and ever
have a second opportunity of improving our acquaintance^-"
He got up. I thought he was going. No. More talk ; more
time for the development of infectious influences — in my room, too ;
remember that, in my room !
"One moment, yet," he said; "one moment, before I take my
leave. I ask permission, at parting, to impress on you an urgent"
necessity. It is this, sir ! You must not think of waiting till Miss
Halcombe recovers, before you receive Lady Glyde. Miss Halcombe
has the attendance of the doctor, of the housekeeper at Blackwater
Park, and of an experienced nurse as well — three persons for whose
capacity and devotion I answer with my life. I tell you that. I
tell you, also, that the anxiety and alarm of her sister's illness has
already affected the health and spirits of Lady Glyde, and has made
her totally unfit to be of use in the sick-room. Her position with
her husband grows more and more deplorable and dangerous every
day. . If you leave her any longer at Blackwater Park, you do noth-
ing whatever to hasten her sister's recovery, and, at the same time,
you risk the public' scandal, which you, and I, and all of us, are
bound, in the sacred interests of the Family, to avoid. With all my
soul, I advise you to remove the serious responsibility of delay from
your own shoulders, by writing to Lady Glyde to come here at
once. Do your affectionate, your honorable, your inevitable duty ;
and, whatever happens in the future, no one can lay the blame on
you. I speak from my large experience ; I offer my friendly advice.
Is it accepted— Yes, or No ?"
I. looked at him— merely looked at him — with my sense of his
amazing assurance, and my dawning resolution to ring for Louis,
and have him shown out of the room, expressed in every line of my
face.. It is perfectly incredible, but quite true, that my face did not
appear to produce the slightest impression on him; Born without
nerves — evidently, born without nerves !
" You hesitate ?" he said. " Mr. Fairlie ! I understand that hesi-
tation. You object — see, sir, how my sympathies look straight
14
314 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
doWn into your thoughts ! — you object that Lady Glyde is not in
health and not in spirits to take the long journey, from Hampshire
to this place, by herself. Her own maid is removed from her, as
you know ; and, of other servants fit to travel with her, from one
end of England to another, there are none at Blackwater Park.
You object, again, that she can not comfortably stop and rest in
London, on her way here, because she can not comfortably go alone
to a public hotel where she is a total stranger. In one breath, I
grant both objections — in another breath, I remove them. Follow
me, if you please, for the last time. It was my intention, when I re-
turned to England with Sir Percival, to settle myself in the neigh-
borhood of London. That purpose has just been happily accom-
plished. I have taken, for six months, a little furnished house in
the quarter called St. John's "Wood. Be so obliging as to keep this
fact in your mind, and observe the programme I now propose.
Lady Glyde travels to London (a short journey) — I myself meet her
at the station — I take her to rest and sleep at my house, which is
also the house of her aunt — when she is restored, I escort, her to the
station again — she travels to this place, and her own maid (who is
now under your roof) receives her at the carriage-door. Here is
comfort consulted ; here" are the interests of propriety consulted ;
here is your own duty — duty of hospitality, sympathy, protection, to
an unhappy lady in need of all three — smoothed and made easy,
from the beginning to the end. I cordially invite you, sir, to sec-
ond my efforts in the sacred interests of the Family. I seriously
advise you to write, by my hands, offering the hospitality of your
house (and heart), and the hospitality of my house (and heart), to
that injured and unfortunate lady whose cause I plead to-day.".
He waved his horrid hand at me ; he struck his infectious breast ;
he addressed me oratorically — as if I was laid up in the House of
Commons. It was high time to take a desperate course of some
sort. It was also high time to send for Louis, and adopt the pre-
caution of fumigating the room.
In this trying emergency an idea occurred to me — an inestimable
idea which, so to speak, killed two intrusive birds with one stone.
I determined to get rid of the Count's tiresome eloquence, and of
Lady Glyde's tiresome troubles, by complying with this odious for-
eigner's request, and writing the letter at once. There was not the
least danger of the invitation being accepted, for there was not the
least chance that Laura would consent to leave Blackwater Park
while Marian was lying there ill. How this charmingly convenient
obstacle could have escaped the officious penetration of the Count
it was impossible to conceive — but it had escaped him. My dread
that he might yet discover it, if I allowed him any more time to
think, stimulated me to such an amazing degree, that I straggled
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 315
into a sitting position ; seized, really seized, the writing materials
by my side; and produced the letter as rapidly as if I had been a
common clerk in an office. " Dearest Laura — Please come, whenever
you like. Break the journey by sleeping in London at your aunt's
house. Grieved to hear of dear Marian's illness. Ever affectionate-
ly yours." I handed these lines, at arms-length, to the Count — I
sank back in my chair — I said, " Excuse me ; I am entirely pros-
trated: I. can do no more. Will you rest and lunch down stairs?
Love to all, and sympathy, and so on. Good-moming."
He made another speech — the man was absolutely inexhaustible.
I closed my eyes; I endeavored to hear as little as possible. In
spite of my endeavors, I was obliged to hear a great deal: My sis-
ter's endless husband congratulated himself and congratulated me
on the result of our interview; he mentioned a great deal more
about his sympathies and mine ; he deplored my miserable health ;
he offered to write me a prescription ; he impressed on me the ne-
cessity of not forgetting what he had said about the importance of
light; he accepted my obliging invitation to rest and. lunch; he.
recommended me to expect Lady Glyde in two or three days' time •
he begged my permission to look forward to our next meeting,
instead of paining himself and paining me by saying farewell ; he
added a great deal more, which, I rejoice to think, I did not attend
to at the time, and do not remember now. I heard his sympathetic
voice traveling away from me by degrees— ^but, large as he was, I
never heard him. He had the negative merit of being absolutely
noiseless. I don't know when he opened the door, or when he shut
it. I ventured to make use of my eyes again, after an interval of
silence — and he was gone.
I rang for Louis, and retired to my bath-room. Tepid water,
strengthened with aromatic vinegar, for myself, and copious fumi-
gation, for my study, were the obvious precautions to take, and of
course I adopted them. I rejoice to say, they proved successful. I
enjoyed my customary siesta. I awoke moist and cool.
My first inquiries were for the Count. Had we really, got rid of
him ? Yes-— he had gone away by the afternoon train. Had he
lunched ; and,, if so, upon what ? Entirely upon fruit - tart and
cream. What a man ! What a digestion !
Am I expected to say any thing more ? I believe not. I believe
I have reached the limits assigned to me. The shocking circum-
stances 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 cir-
cumstances on me. I did every thing for the best. I am not an-
swerable for a deplorable calamity which it was quite impossible to
316 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
foresee. I am shattered by it ; I have suffered under it, as nobody
else has suffered. My servant, Louis (who is really attached to me,
in his unintelligent way), thinks I shall never get over it. He sees
me dictating at this moment, with my handkerchief to my eyes. I
wish to mention, in justice to myself, that it was not my fault, and
that I am quite exhausted and heart-broken. Need I say more ?
The Story continued by Eliza Michblson, Housekeeper at
Blackwater Park.
I.
I am asked to state plainly what I know of the progress of Miss
Halcombe's illness, and of the circumstances under which Lady
Glyde left Blackwater Park for London.
The reason given for making this demand on me is, that my testi-
mony is wanted in the interests of truth. As the widow of a clergy-
man of the Church of England (reduced by misfortune to the neces-
sity 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 my-
self with distressing family affairs, have hesitated to grant.
I made no memorandum at the time, and I can not, therefore, be
sure to a day of the date, but I believe I am correct in stating that
Miss Halcombe's serious illness began during the last fortnight or
ten days in June. The breakfast hour was late at Blackwater Park
— sometimes as late as ten, never earlier than half-past nine. On the
morning to which I am now referring, Miss Halcombe (who was
usually the first to come down) did not make her appearance at the
table. After the family had waited a quarter of an hour, the upper
house-maid was sent to see after her, and came running out of the
room dreadfully frightened. I met the servant on the stairs, and
went at once to Miss Halcombe to see what was the matter. The
poor lady was incapable of telling me. She was walking about her
room with a pen in her hand, quite light-headed, in a state of burn-
ing fever.
Lady Glyde (being no longer in Sir Percival's service, I may, with-
out impropriety, mention my former mistress by her name, instead
of calling her My Lady) was the first to come in, from her own bed-
room. She was so dreadfully alarmed and distressed that she was
quite useless. The Count Posco and his Lady, who came up stairs
immediately afterward, were both most serviceable and kind. Her
ladyship assisted me to get Miss Halcombe to her bed. His lord-
ship the Count remained in the sitting-room, and, having sent for
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 317
my medicine-chest, made a mixture for Miss Halcombe, and a cool-
ing 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 dispatched 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 respect-
able 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. Daw-
son, not over-courteously, inquired if his lordship's advice was the
advice of a doctor ; and being informed that it was the advice of
one that had studied medicine, unprofessionally, replied that he was
not accustomed to consult with amateur-physicians. The Count,
with truly Christian meekness of temper, smiled, and left the room.
Before he went out, he told me that he might be found, in case he
was wanted in the course of the day, at the boat-house on the banks
of the lake. "Why he should have gone there, I can not say. But
he did go, remaining away the whole day till seven o'clock, which
was dinner-time. Perhaps he wished to set the example of keeping
the house as quiet as possible. It was entirely in his character to
do so. He was a most considerate nobleman.
Miss Halcombe passed a very bad night, the fever coming and
going, and getting worse toward the morning, instead of better.
No nurse fit to wait on her being at hand in the neighborhood, her
ladyship the Countess, and myself, undertook the duty, relieving
each other. Lady Grlyde, 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 her-
self harm, without being of the least real assistance. A more gentle
and affectionate lady never lived ; but she cried, and she was fright-
ened—two weaknesses which made her entirely unfit to be present
in a sick-room.
Sir Percival and the Count came in the morning to make their
inquiries.
Sir Percival (from distress, I presume, at his lady's affliction, and
at Miss Halcombe's illness) appeared much confused and unsettled
in his mind. His lordship testified, on the contrary, a becoming
composure and interest. He had his straw hat in one hand and his
book in the other ; and he mentioned to Sir Percival, in my hear-
ing, that he would go out again and study at the lake. " Let us
keep the house quiet,"- he said. " Let us not smoke indoors, my
friend, now Miss Halcombe is ill. You go your way, and I will
318 THE "WOMAN 1ST WHITE.
go mine. When I study, I like to be alone. Good-morning, Mrs.
Michelson."
Sir Percival was not civil enough— perhaps, I ought in justice to
say, not composed enough— to take leave of me with the same polite
attention. . The . only person in the house, indeed, who treated me,
at that time or at any other, on the footing of a lady in distressed
circumstances, was the Count. He had the manners of a true nobles,
man ; he was considerate toward every one. Even the young per-
son (Fanny by name) who attended on Lady Glyde was not»beneath
his notice. When she was sent away by Sir Percival, his lordship
(showing me his sweet little birds at the time) was most kindly
anxious to know what had become of her, where she was to go the
day she left Blackwater Park, and so on. It is in such little deli-
cate attentions that the advantages of aristocratic birth always show
themselves. I make no apology for introducing these particulars ;
they are brought forward in justice to his lordship, whose character,
I have reason to know, is viewed rather harshly in certain quarters.
A nobleman who can respect a lady in distressed circumstances, and
can take a fatherly interest in the fortunes of an humble servant-girl,
shows principles and feelings of too high an order to be lightly
called in question. I advance no opinions— I offer facts only. My
endeavor through life is to judge not, that I be not judged. One
of my beloved husband's finest sermons was on that text. I read it
constantly — in my own copy of the edition printed by subscription,
in the first days of my widowhood: — and, in 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."
Toward midday I went down stairs to attend to some of my reg-
ular duties. An hour afterward, on my way baok 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 8"
His lordship's large face became dimpled all over with placid
smiles ; but he made no reply in words. At the same time Sir Per-
cival turned his head, observed that I was approaching the stairs,
and looked at me in the most rudely angry manner possible.
THE "WOMAN IN WHITE. 319
" Come in here and tell me \bout it," he said to the Count.
" Whenever there are women in a house, they're always sure to be
going up or down stairs."
" My dear Percival," observed his lordship, kindly, " Mrs. Michel-
son has duties. Pray recognize her admirable performance of them
as sincerely as I do ! How is the sufferer, Mrs. Michelson ?"
" No better, my lord, I regret to say."
" Sad — most sad !" remarked the Count. " You look fatigued,
Mrs. Michelson. It is certainly time you and my wife had some
help in nursing. I think I may be the means of offering you that
help. Circumstances have happened which will oblige Madame
Fosco to travel to London, either to-morrow or the day after. She
will go away in the morning, and return at night; and she will
bring back with her^ to relieve you, a nurse of excellent conduct
and capacity, who is now disengaged. The woman is known to
my wife as a person to be trusted. Before she comes here, say
nothing about her, if you please, to the doctor, because he will look
with an evil eye on any nurse of my providing. , When she appears
in this house she will speak for herself, and Mr. Dawson will be
obliged to acknowledge that there is no excuse for not employing
her. .Lady Glyde will say the same. Pray present my best re-
spects and sympathies to Lady Glyde."
I expressed my grateful acknowledgments for his lordship's kind
consideration.- Sir Percival cut them short by calling to his noble
friend (using, I regret to say, a profane expression) to come into the
library, and not to keep him waiting there any longer.
I proceeded up stairs. We are poor erring creatures, and howev-
er well established a woman's principles may be, she can not always
keep on her guard against the temptation to exercise an idle curi-
osity. I am ashamed to say that an idle curiosity, on this occasion,
got the better of my principles, and made me unduly inquisitive
about the question which Sir Percival had addressed to his noble
friend at the library door. Who was the Count expected to find
in the course of his studious morning rambles at Blackwater Park ?
A woman, it was to be presumed, from the terms of Sir Percival's
inquiry. I did not suspect the Count of any impropriety — I knew
his moral character too well. The only question I asked myself
was — Had he found her ?
To resume. The night passed as usual, without producing any
change for the better in Miss Halcombe. The next day she seemed
to improve a little. The day after that, her ladyship the Countess,
without mentioning the object of her journey to any one in my hear-
ing, proceeded by the morning train to London, her noble husband,
with his customary attention, accompanying her to the station.
I was now left in sole charge of Miss Halcombe, with every appar-
320 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
ent chance, in consequence of her sister's resolution not to leave the
bedside, of having Lady Glyde herself to nurse next.
The only circumstance of any importance that happened in the
course of the day was the occurrence of another unpleasant meeting
between the doctor and the Count.
His lordship, on returning from the station, stepped up into Miss
Halcombe's sitting-room, to make his inquiries. I went out from
the bedroom to speak to him, Mr. Dawson and Lady Glyde being
both with the patient at the' time. The Count asked me many
questions about the treatment and the symptoms. I informed him
that the treatment was of the kind described as " saline," and that
the symptoms between the attacks of fever were certainly those of
increasing weakness and exhaustion. Just as I was mentioning
these last particulars, Mr. Dawson cajne out from the bedroom.
" Good-morning, sir," said his lordship, stepping forward in the
most urbane manner, and stopping the doctor, with a high-bred res-
olution impossible to resist ; " I greatly fear you find no improvement
in the symptoms to-day ?"
" I find decided improvement," answered Mr. Dawson.
" You still persist in your lowering treatment of this case of fe-
ver 2" continued his lordship.
" I persist in the treatment which is justified by my own profes-
sional experience," said Mr. Dawson.
" Permit me to put one question to you on the vast subject of
professional experience," observed the Count. " I presume to offer
no more advice — I only presume to make an inquiry. You live at
some distance, sir, from the gigantic centres of scientific activity —
London and Paris. Have you ever heard of the wasting >effects of
fever being reasonably and intelligibly repaired by fortifying the
exhausted patient with brandy, wine, ammonia, and quinine ? Has
that new heresy of the highest medical authorities ever reached
your ears — Yes, or No ?"
" When a professional man puts that question to me, I shall be
glad to answer him," said the doctor, opening the door to go out.
"You are not a professional man, and I beg to decline answering
you."
Buffeted in this inexcusably uncivil way, on one cheek, the Count,
like a practical Christian, immediately turned the other, and said, in
the sweetest manner, " Good-morning, Mr. Dawson."
If my late beloved husband had been so fortunate as to know his
lordship, how highly he and the Count would have esteemed each
other !
Her ladyship the Countess returned by the last train that night,
and brought with her the nurse from London. I was instructed
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 321
that this person's name was Mrs. Eubelle. Her personal appear-
ance, and her imperfect English, when she spoke, informed me that
she was a foreigner.
I have always cultivated a feeling of humane indulgence for for-
eigners. They do not possess our blessings and advantages, and
they are, for the most part, brought up in the blind errors of popery.
It has also always been my precept and practice, as it was my dear •
husband's precept and practice before me (see Sermon xxix., in the
Collection by the late Rev. Samuel Michelson, M. A.), to do as I
would be done by. On both these accounts, I will not say that
Mrs. Rubelle struck me as being a small, wiry, sly person, of fifty or
thereabouts, with a dark brown or Creole complexion, and watchful,
light 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 trim-
ming 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 man-
ners were — not, perhaps, unpleasantly reserved — but only remarka-
bly 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, per-
haps, 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 for-
giving kindness !), it was arranged that Mrs. Rubelle should not en-
ter on her duties until she had been seen and approved by the doc-
tor the next morning. . I sat up that night. Lady Glyde appeared
to be very unwilling that the new nurse should be employed to at-
tend on Miss Halcombe. Such want of liberality toward a foreign-
er on the part of a lady of her education and refinement surprised
me. I ventured to say, "My lady, we must all remember not to be
hasty in our judgments on our inferiors — especially when they come
from foreign parts." Lady Glyde did not appear to attend to me.
She only sighed, and kissed Miss Halcombe's hand as it lay on the
counterpane. Scarcely a judicious proceeding in a sick-room, with
a patient whom it was highly desirable not to excite. But poor
Lady Glyde knew nothing of nursing — nothing whatever, I am
sorry to say.
The next morning Mrs. Rubelle was sent to the sitting-room, to
be approved by the doctor, on his way through to the bedroom.
I left Lady Glyde with Miss Halcombe, who was slumbering at
the time, and joined Mrs. Rubelle, with the object of kindly prevent-
ing her from feeling strange and nervous in consequence of the un-
14*
322 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
certainty of her situation. She did not appear to see it in that light.
She seemed to be quite satisfied, beforehand, that Mr. Dawson would
approve of her, and she sat calmly looking out of window, with
every appearance of enjoying the country air. Some people might
have thought such conduct suggestive of brazen assurance. I beg
to say that I more liberally set it down to extraordinary strength of
mind.
Instead of the doctor coming up to us, I was sent for to see the
doctor. I thought this change of affairs rather odd, t>ut Mrs. Ru-
belle did not appear to be affected by it in any way. I left her still
calmly looking out of the window, and still silently enjoying the
country air.
Mr. Dawson was waiting for me, by himself, in the breakfast-room.
" About this new nurse, Mrs. Michelson," said the doctor.
" Yes, sir ?"
" I find that she has been brought here from London by the wife
of that fat old foreigner, who is always trying to interfere with me.
Mrs. Michelson, the fat old foreigner ia a Quack."
This was very rude. I was naturally shocked at it.
" Are you aware, sir," I said, " that you are talking of a noble-
man ?"
" 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 Grlyde's,'sir, if he was
not a member of the highest aristocracy — excepting the English
aristocracy, 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 nobleman 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.
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 323
You understand ? Very well, then, we may go up stairs. Is the nurse
there ? I'll say a word to her, before she goes into the sick-room."
We found Mrs. Kubelle still enjoying herself at the window.
When I introduced her to Mr. Dawson, neither the doctor's doubt-
ful looks nor the doctor's searching questions 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. Kubelle looked very attentively at the patient ; courtesied 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 any thing, for fear of rousing Miss Hal-
combe, 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 sup-
pose to speak about Mrs. Kubelle. 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 under-
stood 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. Ru-
belle to a severe scrutiny, at certain intervals, for the next three or
four days. I over and over again entered the room softly and sud-
denly, but I never found her out in any suspicious action. Lady
Glyde, who watched her as attentively as I did, discovered nothing
either. I never detected a sign of the medicine-bottles being tam-
pered with ; I never saw Mrs. Rubelle say a word to the Count, or
the Count to her. She managed Miss Halcombe with unquestiona-
ble care and discretion. The poor lady wavered backward and for-
ward 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 dis-
turbed 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. Honor to whom honor is due (whether foreign or En-
glish)— 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 drawbacks, she
was a good nurse ; and she never gave either Lady Glyde or Mr.
Dawson the shadow of a reason for ccmplaining of her.
324 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
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 morn-
ing of the fourth day after the arrival of Mrs. Kubelle, and at part-
ing he spoke to Lady Glyde, very seriously, in my presence, on the
subject of Miss Halcombe.
" Trust Mr. Dawson," he said, " for a few days 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 honor and from the bottom of my
heart."
His lordship spoke with extreme feeling and kindness. But poor
Lady Glyde'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 without 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 ! Do you 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 lady-
ship's place, I should remember the Count's advice."
Lady Glyde turned away front me suddenly, with an appearance
of despair, for which I was quite unable to account.
"-Sis advice !" she said to herself. " God help us — Tds advice !"
The Count was away from Blackwater Park, as nearly as I re-
member, 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. Occasionally 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 Halcombe, 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
husband — had been near him at this time, cheering moral. progress
might have been made with Sir Percival. I seldom find myself
mistaken on a point of this sort, having had experience to guide me
in my happy married days.
Her ladyship the Countess, who was now the only company for
Sir Percival down- stairs, rather neglected him, as I considered. Or,
perhaps, it might have been that he neglected her. A stranger
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 325
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 toward evening, although Mrs. Kubelle 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 repro-
bating it once more on this occasion.
In the coufse 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 Glyde, 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 authori-
ty, and that she should wait anxiously 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 morning, 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 Hal-
combe, which caused me serious apprehension. Mrs. Eubelle no-
ticed it too. We said nothing on the subject to Lady Glyde, who
was then lying asleep, completely overpowered 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 medicine-chest, disinfecting prepa-
rations 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 infec-
tion ?" 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 igno-
rance of this change for the worse. He himself absolutely forbade
her, on account of her health, to join us in the bedroom 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,
326 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
at eleven o'clock, with a letter to a physician in town, and with or-
ders to bring the new doctor back with him by the earliest possible
train. Half an hour after the messenger had gone the Count re-
turned 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 Halcombe's father; and he saw
her in the presence of a female relative, Lady Glyde's atint. Mr.
Dawson, nevertheless, protested 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 ap-
proached her bedside, her eyes, which had been wandering inces-
santly 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 expression 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 asked.
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.
We were aware, I answered, that the malady was considered in-
fectious. He stopped me before I could add any thing more.
" It is typhus fever," he said.
In the minute that passed, while these questions and answers were
going on, Mr. Dawson recovered himself, and addressed the Count
with 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 I say I have done my duty," he reiterated. " A physician has
THE WOMAN IN "WHITE. 327
been sent for from London. I will consult on the nature of the fe-
ver 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 your treatment is re-
sponsible 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 Glyde
on the threshold.
" I must 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 go in. On all other occasions he was the
last man in the world to forget any thing, but, in the surprise of the
moment, he apparently forgot the danger of infection from typhus,
and the urgent necessity of forcing Lady Glyde to take proper care
of herself.
To my astonishment, Mr. Dawson showed more presence of mind.
He stopped her ladyship at the first step she took toward the bed-
side. " 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 arms and
sank forward. She had fainted. The Countess and I took her from
the doctor, and carried her into her own room. The Count pre-
ceded 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 slow-
ly. 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 treatment I can not
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. Daw-
son said while he was examining 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 ; arid I was nat-
328 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
urally 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 grati-
fied if he had been present in the room, and had heard the confir-
mation of his own opinion.
After giving us some useful directions about the management of
the patient, and mentioning that he would come again in five days'
time, the physician withdrew to consult in private with Mr. Daw-
son. He would offer no opinion on Miss Halcombe's chances of
recovery : he said it was impossible, 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. Ru-
belle, Miss Halcombe's condition growing worse and worse, and
requiring our utmost care and attention. It was a terribly trying
time. Lady Glyde (supported, as Mr. Dawson said, by the constant
strain of her suspense on her sister's account) rallied in the most ex-
traordinary manner, and showed a firmness and determination for
which I should myself never have given 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 dispute with her. She came
in every day, and she self-denyingly kept her promise. I felt it per-
sonally so distressing (as reminding me of my own affliction during
my husband's last illness) to see how she suffered under these cir-
cumstances, 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 lord-
ship 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 ty-
phus would probably decide the result of the illness, and he ar-
ranged 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.
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 329
On the tenth day it pleased a merciful Providence to relieve our
household from all further anxiety and alarm. The physician posi-
tively assured us that Miss Halcombe was out of danger. "She
wants no doctor now — all she requires is careful watching and nurs-
ing, for some time to come; and that I see she has." Those were
his own words. That evening I read my husband's touching ser-
mon on Recovery from Sickness with more happiness and advan-
tage (in a spiritual point of view) than I ever remember to have
derived from it before.
The effect of the good news on poor Lady Grlyde was, I grieve to
say, quite overpowering. She was too weak to bear the violent re-
action, 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 afterward, 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 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 convalescence, 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. Daw-
son's appealing to Sir Percival, and threatening (now that he could
leave without absolute danger to Miss Halcombe) to withdraw from
his attendance at Blackwater Park if the Count's interference was
not peremptorily suppressed from that moment. Sir Percival's re-
ply (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 professional 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
330 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
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 satis-
fled, in my own mind, of the propriety of our concealing the doctor's
absence, as we did, from Lady Glyde. 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 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 library. 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 be-
fore but for the sickness and trouble in the house. In plain words,
I have reasons for wishing to break up my establishment immedi-
ately at this place — leaving you in charge, of course, as usual. As
soon as Lady Glyde 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 neighborhood of London.
And I have reasons for not opening the house to any more com-
pany, with a view to economizing 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 useless 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 indoor
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 stay-
ing 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 serv-
ant in the house, Sir Percival — "
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 331
" 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 objec-
tions, Mrs. Michelson — I send for you to carry out my plans of econ-
omy. Dismiss the whole lazy pack of indoor servants to-morrow,
except Porcher. She is as strong as a horse, and we'll make her
work like a horse."
" Tou 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 glut
tony in the servants'-hall."
This last remark conveyed an aspersion of the most offensive kind
on my management. I had too much self-respect to defend myself
under so gross an imputation. Christian consideration for the help-
less position of Miss Halcombe and Lady Glyde, and for the serious
inconvenience which my sudden absence might inflict on them,
alone prevented 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 remark, Sir Percival, I have nothing more to say.
Tour 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, with all the
horses but one, to London. Of the whole domestic establishment,
indoors 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 help-
less 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.
H.
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 something wrong in the family
which had made me wish myself away from Blackwater Park was
aetually followed, strange to say, by my departure from the house.
332 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
It is true that my 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 circumstances :
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 man-
agement of the household did not, I am happy to say, prevent me
from returning good for evil to the best of my ability, 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, be-
fore I could suppress my feelings. Being accustomed to self-disci-
pline, 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 men-
tioned that both the ladies would probably pass the autumn (by in-
vitation of Frederick Fairlie, Esquire) at Limmeridge House, Cum-
berland. 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 climate of Torquay. The great object, therefore, was to
engage lodgings at that place, affording all the comforts and advan-
tages 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 in-
quire, 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 propo-
sal made in these terms with a positive objection.
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 re-
spectfully suggested 'writing to an agent at Torquay; but I was met
here by being reminded of the imprudence of taking lodgings with-
out first seeing them. I was also informed that the Countess (who
would otherwise have gone to Devonshire herself) could not, in
Lady Glyde's present condition, leave her niece, and that Sir Perci-
val and the Count had business to transact together which would
oblige them to remain at Blackwater Park. In short, it was clearly
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 333
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 Glyde.
It was thereupon arranged that I should leave the next morning ;
that I should occupy ono 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 writ-
ten for me by his lordship, stating the requisites which the place I
was sent to take must be found to possess ; and a note of the pe-
cuniary 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 er-
rand was almost hopeless at starting.
Before I left I took care to satisfy myself that Miss Halcombe was
going on favorably.
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 Glyde, 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. Bubelle, who was still as quietly independent of every one
else in the house as ever. When I knocked at Lady Glyde's door,
before going away, I was told that she was still sadly weak and de-
pressed, my informant being the Countess, who was then keeping
her company in her room. Sir Percival and the Count were walk-
ing on the road to the lodge, as I was driven by in the chaise. I
bowed to them, and quitted the house, with not a living soul left in
the servant's offices but Margaret Porcher.
Every one must feel, what I have felt myself since that time, that
these circumstances were more than unusual — they were almost sus-
picious. 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 fore-
seen. No such lodgings as I was instructedto take could be found
in the whole place, and the terms I was permitted to give were much
too low for the purpose, even if I had been able to discover what I
334 THE WOJIAST IN WHITE. __
wanted. I accordingly returned 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 sub-
ject 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 re-
markable 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 particular in leaving his
kind compliments to me. When I ventured on asking Sir Percival
whether Lady Glyde 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 impro-
priety in permitting an under-house-maid to fill the place of confi-
dential attendant on Lady Glyde. I went up stairs at once, and met
Margaret on the bedroom-landing. Her services had not been re-
quired (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 way, 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 Glyde's room.
I found that her ladyship had certainly gained in health during
the last few days. Although still sadly weak and nervous, she was
able to get up without assistance, and to walk slowly about her room,
feeling no worse effect from the exertion than a slight sensation of
fatigue. She had been made a little 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 Glyde.
" 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."
THE WOMAN IN "WHITE. 335
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 yourself. 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 set-
ting it to rights. There was no one in the spare rooms, or the dress-
ing-rooms, when we looked into them afterward. Sir Percival still
waited for us in the passage. As we were leaving" the last room
that we had examined, Lady Glyde whispered, "Don't go, Mrs.
Michelson 1 don't leave me, for God sake I" Before I could say any
thing in return, she was out again in the passage, speaking to her
husband.
" What 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 strong 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 2"
" Not in my 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
336 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
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 hare risked letting her go ? 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. Kubelle go on with her
themselves to Cumberland — "
"Why does Marian go to Limmeridge, and leave me here by
myself 3" 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 sho ,vn 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 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-bye."
" She would have bid you good-bye this time," returned Sir Per-
cival, " 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 want 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 had been so delicate, or his com-
posure 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 be-
lieve 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 ; I must see that
she is alive and well with my own eyes. Come ! come down with
me to Sir Percival."
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 337
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 be-
fore him. He' raised the glass to his lips as we 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, noth-
ing kept from you or from any one." After speaking those strange
words, loudly and sternly, he filled himself another glass of wine, 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 fol-
low 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. Indeed, he
never once looked at her throughout the conversation. Such a sin-
gular 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 midday train," said Sir Perci-
val. " 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 Glyde'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 Cumberland in
one day. You must rest a night in London, and I don't choose you
to go by yourself to a hotel, Fosco made the offer 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. Kead it, and see what
Mr. Fairlie himself says to you."
15
338 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
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 jour-
ney by sleeping at your aunt's house. Grieved to hear of dear Ma-
rian's illness. Affectionately yours, Frederick Fairlie."
" 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 awkwardly
that he upset it, and spilled 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 intp. his head.
" Pray, don't write to Count Fosco !" persisted Lady Glyde, more
earnestly than ever.
" Why not, I should like to know ?" cried Sir Percival, with a sud-
den 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 sympathized with Lady Glyde in other respects, I could not sym-
pathize 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 effect 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 ; " Ma-
rian 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
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 339
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 veranda,
through the open glass doors. ■
" "Will your ladyship excuse me," I whispered, "if I suggest that
we had better not wait here till Sir Percival comes back ? I am
very much afraid he is overexcited 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 com-
pose her ladyship's spirits. - I reminded her that Mr. Fairlie's let-
ters 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 disposi-
tion—but her fears about Miss Halcombe, and her unaccountable
dread pf sleeping at the Count's house in London, still remained un-
shaken, in spite of every consideration that I could urge. I thought
it my duty to protest against Lady Glyde's unfavorable opinion of
his lordship, and I did so, with becoming forbearance and respect.
"Your ladyship will pardon my freedom," I remarked, in con-
clusion ; " but it is said, ' by their fruits ye shall know them.' I am
sure the Count's constant kindness and constant attention from the
very beginning of Miss Halcombe's illness merit our best confidence
and esteem. Even his lordship's serious misunderstanding with Mr.
Dawson was entirely attributable to his anxiety on Miss Halcombe's
account."
" What misunderstanding ?" inquired her ladyship, with a look
of sudden interest.
I related the unhappy circumstances under which Mr. Dawson had
withdrawn his attendance — mentioning them all the more readily
because I disapproved of Sir Percival's continuing to conceal what
had happened (as he had done in my presence) from the knowledge
of Lady Glyde.
Her ladyship started up with every appearance of being addi-
tionally agitated and alarmed by what I had told her.
" Worse ! worse than I thought !" 'she said, walking about the
room in a bewildered manner. "The Count knew Mr. Dawson
would never consent to Marian's taking a journey— he purposely in-
sulted the doctor, to get him out of the house."
" Oh, my lady ! my lady !" I remonstrated.
" Mrs. Michelson !" she went on, vehemently, " no words that ever
were spoken will persuade me that my sister is in that man's power
and in that man's house with her own consent. My horror of him
is such that nothing Sir Percival could say, and no letters my uncle
340 THE WOMAN IN WHITE;
could write would induce me, if I had only my own feelings to con-
sult, to eat, drink, or sleep under his roof. But my misery of sus-
pense about Marian gives me the courage to follow her anywhere—
to follow her eyen into Count Foscq'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 ac-
count of the matter.
" I am afraid to believe it !" answered her ladyship. ".I am afraid
she is still in that man's house. If I am wrong— if she has really
gone on to Limmeridge— I am resolved I will not sleep to-morrow
night under Count Fosco's roof. My dearest friend in the world,
next to my sister, lives near London. You have heard me, you have
heard Miss Halcombe, speak of Mrs. Vesey ? I mean to write, and
propose to sleep at her house. I don't know how I shall-get there
— I don't know how I shall avoid the Count — but to that refuge I
will escape in some way, if my sister has gone to Cumberland. All
I ask of you to do is to see yourself that my letter to. Mrs; Vesey
goes to London to-night as certainly as Sir Percival's .letter goes to
Count Fosco. I have reasons for not trusting the post-bag down
stairs. Will you keep my secret, and help me h> "this ? it is the last
favor, perhaps, that I shall ever ask of you." .
I hesitated— I thought it all very strange— I almost feared that
her ladyship's mind had been a little affected by recent anxiety and
suffering. At my own risk, however, I ended by giving my consent.
If the letter had been addressed to a stranger, or to any one but a
lady so well known to me by report as Mrs. Vesey, I might have re-
fused. I thank God — looking to what happened afterward — I thank
God I never thwarted that wish, or any other, which Lady Glyde ex-
pressed to me on the last day of her residence at Blackwater Park.
The letter was written, and given into my hands. I myself put it
into the post-box in the village that evening.
"We saw nothing more of Sir Percival for the rest of the day.
I slept, by Lady Glyde's own desire, in the next room to hers, with
the door open between us. There was something so strange and
dreadful in the loneliness and emptiness of the house that I was
glad, on my side, to have a companion near me. Her ladyship sat
up late, reading letters and burning them, and emptying her drawers
and cabinets of little things she prized, as if she never expected to
return to Blackwater Park. Her sleep was sadly disturbed when
she at last went to bed ; she cried out in it several times— once so
loud that she woke herself. Whatever her dreams were, she. did
not think fit to communicate them to me. Perhaps, in my situation,
I had no right to expect that she should do so. It, matters little
now. I was sorry for her — I was indeed heartily sorry for her all
the same.
-THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 341
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 quar-
ter to twelve," the train to London stopping at our station at twenty
minutes after.' . He informed -Lady/ (Hyde that he was obliged to go
out, but added that he hoped to be back before she left. If any un-
foreseen accident delayed him, I was to accompany her to the sta-
tion, and to take special care that she was in time for the train. Sir
Percival communicated these directions very hastily, walking here
and there about the room all the time. Her ladyship looked atten-
tively after him, wherever he went. He never once looked at her in
return.
She only spoke when he had done, and then she stopped him as
he approached the door, by holding out her hand.
" I shall see you no more," she said, in a very marked manner.
" This is our parting— our parting, it may be, forever. Will you try
to forgive me, Percival, as heartily as I forgive you ?"
His face turned of an awful whiteness all over, and great beads of
perspiration broke out on his bald forehead. " I shall come back,"
he said, and made for the door as hastily as if his wife's farewell
words had frightened him out of the room.
I had never liked Sir Percival, but the manner in which he left
Lady Glyde made me feel ashamed of having eaten his bread and
lived in his service. I thought of saying a few comforting and
Christian words to the poor lady ; but there was something in her
face, as she looked after her husband when the door closed on him,
that made me alter my mind and keep silence.
At the time named the chaise drew up at the gates. Her lady-
ship was right — Sir Percival never came back. I waited for him till
the last moment— and waited in' vain.
No positive responsibility lay -on my shoulders, and yet I did not
feel easy in my mind. "It is of your own free-will, I said, as the
chaise drove through the lodge-gates, " that your ladyship goes to
London ?"
" I will go anywhere," she answered, " to end the dreadful suspense
that t am suffering at this moment."
She had made me feel almost as anxious and as uncertain about
Miss Halcombe as she felt herself. I presumed to ask her to write
me a line, if all went well in London. She answered, " Most willing-
ly, 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
342 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
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 the 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 join-
ed her ladyship on the platform. She looked very strangely, and
pressed her hand over her heart, as if some sudden pain or fright had
overcome her at that moment.
" I wish you were going with me I" 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 un-
derstand this herself before I could explain it, and did not repeat
her desire to have me for a traveling companion. The train drew
up at the platform. She gave the gardener a present for his chil-
dren, 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 grate-
fully as long as I live to remember any one. Good-bye — and God
bless you !"
She spoke those words with a tone and a look which brought the
tears into my eyes — she spoke them as if she was bidding me fare-
well forever.
" Good-bye, my lady," I said, putting her into the carriage, and
trying to cheer her ; " good-bye, for the present only ; good-bye, with
my best and kindest wishes for happier times !"
She shook her head, and shuddered as she settled herself in the
carriage. The guard closed the door. - " Do you believe in dreams ?"
she whispered to me, at the window. "My dreams, last night, were
dreams I have never had before. The terror of them is hanging
over me still." The whistle sounded before I could answer, and the
train moved. Her pale, quiet face looked at me for the last time,
looked sorrowfully and solemnly from the window. She waved her
hand — and I saw her no more.
Toward 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
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 343
pressed upon me, I sat down alone in my own room, to try and com-
pose my mind with the volume of my husband's Sermons. For the
first time in my life, I found my attention wandering over those pious
and cheering words. Concluding that Lady Glyde's departure must
have disturbed me far more seriously than I had myself supposed, I
put the book aside, and went out to take a turn in the garden. Sir
Percival had not yet returned, to my knowledge; so I could feel no
hesitation about showing myself in the grounds.
On turning the corner of the house, and gaining a view of the gar-
den, 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 com-
posedly as ever, with her flowers in her hand.
" What is the matter, ma'am ?" she said, quietly.
"You here I" I gasped out. " Not gone to London ! Not gone to
Cumberland !"
Mrs. Eubelle smelled at her flowers with a smile of malicious pity.
" Certainly not," she said. " I have never left Blackwater Park."
I summoned breath enough and courage enough for another ques-
tion.
" Where is Miss Halcombe ?"
Mrs. Rubelle fairly laughed at me this time, and replied in these
words : ,
" Miss Halcombe, ma'am, has not left Blackwater Park, either."
When I heard that astounding answer, all my thoughts were star-
tled 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 ex-
pected me to say something.
I could say nothing. I thought of Lady Glyde's worn-out ener-
gies and weakly health, and I trembled for the time when the shock
of the discovery that -I had made would fall on her. Por 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 toward us, slashing vi-
ciously 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,
344 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
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 f "
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. Tou 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 question."
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 Tor yourself."
He led the way round to the front of the house. I followed 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. Tou 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 that
had passed since we left the garden, helped me to recover my spirits
a little. What I might have done at this critical moment, if all my
life had been passed in service, I can not 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 em-
ployment of a man who had shamefully deceived us both by a se-
ries 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, with great delib-
eration, toward the house door.
" WelV said Sir Percival, sharply ; " what is it now ?"
" I wish to mention, sir, that I am desirous of resigning the situa-
tion I now bold 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 hisvhands
savagely into the pockets of his riding-coat.
" Why ?" he said ; " why, I should like to know ?"
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 345
" It is not for me, Sir Percival, to express an opinion on what has
taken place in this house. I desire to give no offense. 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 sus-
picion 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, un-
derhand view of an innocent deception practiced 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 well as I do she
would never have gone away if she had been told Miss Halcombe
was still left here. . She has been deceived in her own interests, 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 noth-
ing but the truth, or it will be the worse for you ! See Miss Hal-
combe for yourself; 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
any thing against me and my proceedings if you dare !"
He poured, out these words fiercely, all in a breath, walking back-*
ward and forward, and striking about him in the air with his whip.
Nothing that he said or did shook my opinion of the disgraceful
series of falsehoods that he had told, in my presence, the day before,
or of the cruel deception by which he had separated Lady Glyde
from her sister, and had sent her uselessly to London, when she was
half distracted with anxiety on Miss Halcombe's account.. . I natu-
rally kept these thoughts to myself, and said nothing more to irri-
tate him; but I was not the less resolved to persist in" my purpose.
A soft answer turneth away wrath, and I suppressed my own feel-
ings, 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 sup-
pose 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 Perci-
val."
" 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
15*
346 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
your accounts to-night. If you want to study any body's conven-
ience, 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."
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 be-
fallen Lady Glyde and herself. After first distinctly 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 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 successor.
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 toward the house when Sir Perci-
val, 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 be-
tween us, that I hardly knew what to say in answer to it.
" Mind ! I don't know why you are going," he went on. " Tou
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 rea-
son— "
" 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 walk-
ed 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 nev-
er previously used, in my time, at Blackwater Park. The rooms
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 347
themselves I knew well, having entered them myself, on various oc-
casions, 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 desir-
able to make her understand that her attendance had ceased. Ac-
cordingly, 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."
" Do you leave to-day ?" I asked, to make sure of her.
" Now that you have taken charge, ma'am, I leave in half an
hour's time. Sir Percival has kindly placed at my disposition the
gardener and the chaise whenever I want them. I shall want them
in half an hour's time, to go to the station. I am packed up, in an-
ticipation, already. I wish you good-day, ma'am."
She dropped a brisk courtesy and walked back along the' gallery,
humming a little tune, and keeping time to it cheerfully with the
nosegay in her hand. I am sincerely thankful to say that was the
last I saw of Mrs. Rubelle.
When I went into the room Miss Halcombe. was asleep. I looked
at her anxiously, as she lay in the dismal, high, old-fashioned bed.
She was certainly not in any respect altered for the worse since I
had seen her last. She had not been neglected, I. am bound to ad-
mit, in any way that I could perceive. The room. was dreary, and
dusty, and dark ; but the window (looking. on a solitary court-yard
at the back of the house) was opened to let in the fresh air, and all
that could be done to make the place comfortable had been done.
The whole cruelty of Sir Percival's deception had fallen on poor
Lady Glyde. The only ill usage which either he or Mrs. Rubelle
had inflicted on Miss Halcombe consisted, so far as I could see, in
the first offense of hiding her away.
I stole back, leaving the sick lady still peacefully asleep, to give
the gardener instructions about bringing the doctor. I begged the
man, after he had taken Mrs. Rubelle to the station, to drive round
by Mr. Dawson's, and leave a message, in my name, asking him to
call and see me. I knew he would come on my account, and I
knew he would remain when he found Count Fosco had left the
house.
In due course of time the gardener returned, and said that he had
driven round by Mr. Dawson's residence, after leaving Mrs. Rubelle
at the station. The doctor sent me word that he wa9 poorly in
health himself, but that he would call, if possible, the next morning.
Having delivered his message, the gardener was about to with-
draw, but I stopped him to request that he would come back before
348 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
dark, and sit up, that night, in one of the empty bedrooms, so as to
be within call in case I wanted him. He understood readily enough
my unwillingness to be left alone all night, in the most desolate
part of that desolate house, and we arranged that he should come
in between eight and nine.
He came punctually, and I found cause to be thankful that I
had adopted the precaution of calling, him in. Before midnight Sir
Percival's strange temper broke out in the most violent and most
alarming manner, and if the gardener had not been on the spot to
pacify him on the instant, I am afraid to think what might have
happened.
Almost all the afternoon and evening he had been walking about
the house and grounds in an unsettled, excitable manner, having, in
all probability, as I thought, taken an excessive quantity of wine at
his solitary dinner. However that may be, I heard his voice calling
loudly and angrily, in the new wing of the house, as I was taking
a turn backward and forward along the gallery the last thing at
night. The gardener immediately ran down to him, and I closed
the door of .communication,, to keep the alarm, if possible, from
reaching Miss Halcombe's ears. It was full half an hour before the
gardener came back. He declared that his master was quite out
of his senses — not through the excitement of drink, as I had sup-
posed, but through a kind of panic or frenzy of mind, for which it
was impossible to account. He had found Sir Percival walking
backward and forward by himself in the hall, swearing, with every
appearance of the most violent passion, that he would not stop an-
other minute alone in such a dungeon as his own house, and that
he would take the first stage of his journey immediately, in the
middle of the night. The gardener, on approaching him, had been
hunted out, with oaths and threats, to get the horse and chaise
ready instantly. In a quarter of an hour Sir Percival had joined
him in the yard, had jumped into the chaise, and, lashing the horse
into a gallop, had driven himself away, with his face as pale as
ashes in the moonlight. The gardener had heard him shouting
and cursing at the lodge-keeper to get up and open the gate — had
heard the wheels roll furiously on again, in the still night, when the
gate was unlocked — and knew no more.
The next day, or a day or two after, I forget which, the chaise
was brought back from Knowlesbury, our nearest town, by the hos-
tler at the old inn. Sir Percival had stopped there, and had after-
ward left by the train — for what destination the man could not tell.
I never received any further information, either from himself or from /
any one else, of Sir Percival's proceedings, and I am not even aware,
at this moment, whether he is in England or out of it. He arid I
have not met since he drove away, like an escaped criminal, from
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 349
his own house, and it is my fervent hope and prayer that we may
never meet again.
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 an-
swered by the present narrative. It will be sufficient for me to say,
in this place, that she was not herself conscious of the means adopt-
ed 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
artificially 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 disposal during the few days of her imprisonment with the Sick
lady. She had declined to answer the questions which Miss Hal-
combe 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 Glyde's de-
parture, or by the far more melancholy tidings which reached us
only too soon afterward at Blackwater Park. In both cases I pre-
pared 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 relig-
ious consolation which I endeavored to convey were long in reach-
ing 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. Pair-
lie'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.
In the first place, I wish to record my own personal conviction
that no blame whatever in connection with the events which I have
350 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
now related attaches to Count Fosco. I am informed that a dread-
ful suspicion has been raised, and that some very, serious construc-
tions 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 foreigner and a stranger, he was not to blame. If he
was concerned in bringing 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 in-
ability to remember the precise day on which Lady Glyde left
Blackwater Park for London. I am told that it is of the last impor-
tance 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 remember now that it was toward the latter
part of July. We all know the difficulty, after a lapse of time, of fix-
ing precisely on a past date, unless it has been previously written
down. That difficulty is greatly increased, in my case, by. the alarm-
ing and confusing events which took place about the period of Lady
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 sorrow-
fully for the last time from the carriage window.
THE STORY CONTINUED IN SEVERAL NARRATIVES.
1. The Narrative of Hester Pinhorn, Cook in the Service of Count
Fosco.
[Taken down from her own statement.]
I am sorry to say that I have never learned 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 language right as he goes on, 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 Num-
ber 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.
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 351
He was Count, and she was Countess. There was a girl to do house-
maid'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 company was expect-
ed from the country.
The company was my mistress's niece, and the back bedroom on
the first floor was got ready for her. My mistress mentioned to me
that Lady Clyde (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 my 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, when 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, I think ; and the house-maid;open-
ed the door to them, and showed them into the. parlor. Before she
had been long down in the kitchen again with me, we heard a hur-
ry-skurry up stairs, and the parlor 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 clinched, 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 convul-
sions. : I ran out, knowing the neighborhood a little better than the
rest of them, to fetch the nearest doctor's help. The nearest help
was at Goodricke's and Garth's, who worked together as partners,
and had a good name and connection, 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 as helpless as a new-born
babe. We then got her to bed. Mr. Goodricke went 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 recommend you to write
to Lady Glyde's friends directly." My mistress says to him, " Is it
352 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
heart-disease?" And he says, "Yes, heart-disease of a most dan-
gerous kind." He told her exactly what he thought was the mat-
ter, 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 Glyde ! poor dear Lady Glyde !" he says— and went stalking
about, wringing his fat hands more like a play-actor than a gentle-
man. 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.
Toward 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 any body. 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, with 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 from her some-
where. 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 mis-
tress 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
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 353
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 woke, the lady took a sud-
den turn, and got seemingly a great deal better. I was not let in
again to see her, no more was the house-maid, for the reason that
she was not to be disturbed by strangers. What I heard of her be-
ing better was through my master. He was in wonderful good spir-
its about the change, and looked in at the kitchen window from the
garden, with his great big curly-brimmed white 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 you, 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 way. He was past sixty, and fond of pastry. Just think of
that! v "
The doctor came again in the forenoon, and saw fpr 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 was 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 he 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 to 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, and turning all of a tremble from head to
foot.
"Yes," says the doctor, very quiet and grave. "Dead.. I was
354 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
afraid it would happen suddenly, when I examined her heart yes-
terday." My mistress stepped back from the bedside while he was
speaking, and trembled and trembled again. " Dead !" she whis-
pers to herself; " dead so suddenly ! dead so soon ! What will the
Count say?" Mr. Goodrieke 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 neces-
sary 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. Goodrieke, when my
mistress had left us. " Does he understand about registering 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 person?" 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 ?" says I. " No," says he, " noth-
ing ; she must have suffered sadly before ever I saw her : the 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.
Goodrieke sent the person in, as he had promised. She was by
name Jane Gould. I considered her to be a respectable-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 man-
aged 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 WOMAN IN WHITE. 355
the same grave along with her mother. Every thing 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 hat-band — that, he did !
In conclusion, I have to say, in answer to questions put to me,
(1) 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 Pinhokn, Her + Mark.
2. The Narrative of the Doctor.
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 Thurs-
day, the 25th July, 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.B.O.S. Mng. L.S.A.
Address. 12 Croydon Gardens, St. John's Wood.
3. The Narrative 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 pre-
pared it, at the proper time, for the grave. It was laid in the coffin
in my presence, and I afterward saw the coffin screwed down,.pre-
vious 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) Jake Go old.
356 THE WOMAN IN WHfTE.
4. The Narrative of the Tombstone.
Sacked 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 Limmeridge House, in this parish. Born,
March 27th, 1829; married, December 22d, 1849; died, July 25th,
1850.
5. The Narrative o/ Walter Haktright.
Early in the summer of 1850 I and my surviving companions
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 the thirteenth
day of October, 1850. We landed late in the afternoon, and I ar-
rived 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 had 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 learned to be strong, my heart to be reso-
lute, 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 bit-
terness of the past, but not with my heart's remembrance of the sor-
row and the tenderness of that memorable time. I had not ceased
to feel the one irreparable disappointment of my life — I had only
learned 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.
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 35?
My first anxieties and first hopes, when the morning came, cen-
tred 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 receive any tidings of me
for months past. Early in the morning I sent a letter to the Hamp-
stead 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 no concealments from each other. She knew how the hope
of my life 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 sis-
ter 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 restrainedly,
" 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.
Itrwas 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 imbitter the happiness of my return, to them, as it was imbittered
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 sym-
pathy 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,J' I said. " I shall bear
it better when I have looked once more at the place where I first saw
358 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
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 the 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 warm and still; the peacefulness of the lonely coun-
try was overshadowed and saddened by the influence of the falling
year.
I reached the moor ; I stood again on the brow of the hill ; I look-
ed on, along the path — and there were the familiar garden 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
shriveled 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 Tose. On one
side of it, on the side nearest to me, the newly-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 part-
ing 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 was nothing to read— nothing
of earthly vileness to force its way between her spirit and mine.
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 359
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 the earth around,
on the light "above. I let her come back to me. Oh, my lore ! 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 eyes looked their last on you. My love, my love !
Time had flowed on ; and Silence had fallen, 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, until it came changed to my ear — came
like footsteps moving onward — then stopped.
I looked up.
The sunset was near at hand. The clouds had parted ; the slant-
ing 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 looking
toward the tomb — looking toward 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 evening 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 toward 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 compan-
ion, and came toward me slowly. Left by herself, standing by her-
self, 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 softly,
in the awful silence. She sank on her knees, and raised her clasped
hands to the heaven. " Father I strengthen him. Father ! help
him, in his hour of need."
, 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
360 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
rose on a sudden, and called afirightedly, 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 Glyde — "
Laura, Lady Glyde, was standing by the inscriptionj-and was look-
ing at me over the grave.
LAURA, LADY GLYDE, WAS STANDING BY THE INSCRIPTION, AND WAS
LOOKING AT ME OVEK THE GRATE.
.16
THE W01IAN IX WHITE. 363
THE THIRD EPOCH.
The Story continued by Walter Haeteight.
I.
I open a new page. I advance my 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
confusion, 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, if the
clue that leads through the windings of the Story is to remain, from
end to end, untangled in my hands.
A life suddenly changed — its whole purpose created afresh ; its
hopes and fears, its struggles, its interests, and its sacrifices, all turn-
ed at once and forever into a new direction — this is the prospect
which now opens before me, like the burst of view from a mount-
ain'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 neighborhood. The
ground-floor of one of the houses in it is occupied by a small news-
vender'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. On the up-
per floor I live, with a room to work in, a room to sleep in. 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 en-
graving on wood for the cheap periodicals. My sisters are supposed
to help me by taking in a little needle-work. Our poor place of
abode, our humble calling, our assumed relationship, and our as-
sumed name, 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
3G4 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
at once the dupes and the agents of a daring imposture. We are
supposed to be the accomplices 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 of relatives and
friends, according to every received formality of civilized society,
" Laura, Lady Glyde," lay buried with her mother in Limmeridge
church-yard. 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 recognize her ; -
dead to the persons in authority who had transmitted her fortune
to her husband and her aunt ; dead to my 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 Cath-
erick'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 record-
ed 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, recognized by her. " If
ever the time comes 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-mas-
ter who has taught you 2" She, who now remembered so little of
the trouble and terror of a later time, remembered those words, and
laid her poor head innocently and trustingly on the bosom of the
man who had spoken them. In that moment, when she called me
by my name, when she said, " They have tried to make me forget
every thing, "Walter ; but I remember Marian, and I remember you — "
in that moment, I, who had long since given her my love, gave her
my lifp, and thanked God that it was mine to bestow on her. Yes !
the time had come. From thousands on thousands of miles away ;
through forest and wilderness, where companions stronger than I
had fallen by my side ; through peril of death thrice renewed, and
thrice escaped, the Hand that leads men on the dark road to the
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 365
future, had led me to meet that time. Forlorn and disowned, sorely
tried and sadly changed ; her beauty faded, her mind clouded ; rob-
bed of her station in the world, of her place among living creatures
— the devotion I had promised, the devotion of my whole heart and
soul and strength, might be laid blamelessly, now, at those dear feet.
In the right of her calamity, in the right of her friendlessness, she
was mine at last I Mine to support, to protect, to cherish, to restore.
Mine to love and honor as father and brother both. Mine to vin-
dicate through all risks and all sacrifices — through the hopeless
struggle against Rank and Power, through the long fight with arm-
ed deceit and fortified Success, through the waste of my reputation,
through the less of my friends, through the hazard of my life.
n.
Mv position is defined; my motives are acknowledged.' The
story of Marian and the story of Laura must come next.
I shall relate both narratives, not in the words (often interrupted,
often inevitably confused) of the speakers themselves, but in the
words of the brief, plain, studiously simple abstract which I com-
mitted to writing for my own guidance, and for the guidance of
my legal adviser. So the tangled web will be most speedily and
most intelligibly unrolled.
The story of Marian begins where the narrative of the house-
keeper at Blackwater Park left off.
On Lady Glyde's departure from her husband's house, the fact of
that departure, and the necessary statement of the circumstances
under which it had taken place, were communicated to Miss Hal-
combe by the housekeeper. It was not till some days afterward
(how many days exactly, Mrs. Michelson, in the absence of any
written memorandum on the subject, could not undertake to say)
that a letter arrived from Madame Fosco announcing Lady Glyde's
sudden death in Count Posco's house. The letter avoided men-
tioning 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 re-
ceived or on the day after. It is not necessary to dwell here upon
the effect which the intelligence of Lady Glyde's sudden death pro-
duced 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 afterward.
At the end of that time she proceeded to London, accompanied by
366 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
the housekeeper. They parted there, Mrs. Michelson previously in-
forming 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. Gilmore and Kyrle, to consult with the latter
gentleman, in Mr. Gilmore'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 un-
der which Lady Glyde 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.
To exhaust this part of the subject before going further, it may
be here mentioned that Count Fosco offered every facility to Mr.
Kyrle, on that gentleman's stating that he was sent by Miss Hal-
combe to collect such particulars as had not yet reached her of
Lady Glyde's decease. Mr. Kyrle was placed in communication
with the medical man, Mr. Goodricke, and with the two servants.
In the absence of any means of ascertaining the exact date of Lady
Glyde's departure from Blackwater Park, the result of the doctor's
and the servant's 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 suffer-
ing under the loss of her sister had misled her judgment in a most
deplorable manner, and he wrote her word that the shocking suspi-
cion to which she had alluded in his presence was, in his opinion,
destitute of the smallest fragment 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 Lim-
meridge church-yard. Count Fosco had accompanied the remains
to Cumberland, and had attended the funeral at Limmeridge, which
took place on the 30th of July. It was followed, as a mark of re-
spect, by all the inhabitants of the village and the neighborhood.
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
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 367
had been received as a guest at Limmeridge House ; but no inter-
view had taken place between Mr. Fairlie and himself, by -the for-
mer gentleman's desire. They had communicated 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 neighborhood
of Blackwater Park, and had been, for the second time, placed un-
der the charge of the medical man 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 aggra-
vated 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-ac-
quired form. The unfortunate woman's last idea in connection
with Sir Percival was the idea of annoying and distressing him,
and of elevating herself, as she supposed, in the estimation of the
patients and nurses, by assuming the character of his deceased wife,
the scheme of this personation having evidently occurred to her
after a stolen interview which she had succeeded in obtaining with
Lady Glyde, and at which she had observed the extraordinary ac-
cidental likeness between the deceased lady and herself. It was to
the last degree improbable that she would succeed a second time in
escaping from the Asylum ; but it was just possible she might find
some means of annoying the late Lady Glyde's relatives with letters;
and, in that case, Mr. Fairlie was warned beforehand how to receive
them.
The_postscript, expressed in these terms, was shown to Miss Hal-
combe when she arrived at Limmeridge. There were also placed
in her possession the clothes Lady Glyde had worn, and the other
effects she had brought with her to her aunt's house. They had
been carefully collected and sent to Cumberland by Madame Fosco.
Such was the posture of affairs when Miss Halcombe reached
Limmeridge, in the early part of September.
Shortly afterward she was confined to her room by a relapse, her
weakened physical energies giving way under the severe mental
affliction from which she was now suffering. On getting stronger
again, in a month's time, her suspicion of the circumstances de-
scribed as attending her sister's death still remained unshaken.
368 THE WOMAN IN WIIITE.
She had heard nothing, in the interim, of Sir Percival Glyde ; but
letters had reached her from Madame Fosco, making the most affec-
tionate inquiries on the part of her husband and herself. Instead of
answering these letters, Miss Halcombe caused the house in St. John's
Wood, and the proceedings of its inmates, to be privately watched.
Nothing doubtful was discovered. The same result attended the
next investigations, which were secretly instituted, on the subject of
Mrs. Rubelle. She had arrived .in London about six months before,
with her husband. They had come from Lyons, and they had taken
a house in the neighborhood of Leicester Square, to be fitted up as a
boarding-house for foreigners, who were expected to visit England
in large numbers, to see the Exhibition of" 1851. Nothing was
known against husband or wife in the neighborhood. They were
quiet people, and they had paid their way honestly up to the present
time. The final inquiries related to Sir Percival Glyde. He was
settled in Paris, and living there quietly in a small circle of English
and French friends.
Foiled at all points, but still not able to rest, Miss Halcombe next
determined to visit the Asylum in which she then supposed Anne
Catherick to be for the second time confined. She had felt a strong
curiosity about the woman in former days ; and she was now doubly
interested — first, in ascertaining whether the report of Anne Cather-
ick's attempted personation of Lady Glyde was true ; and, secondly
(if it proved to be true), in discovering for herself what the poor
creature's real motives were for attempting the deceit.
Although Count Fosco's letter to Mr. Fairlie did not mention the
address of the Asylum, that important omission cast no difficulties
in Miss Halcombe's way. When Mr. Hartright had met Anne
Catherick at Limmeridge, she had informed him of the locality in
which the house was situated ; and Miss Halcombe had noted down
the direction in her diary, with all the other particulars of the inter-
view, exactly as she heard them from Mr. Hartright's own lips. Ac-
cordingly, she looked back at the entry, and extracted the address ;
furnished herself with the Count's letter to Mr. Fairlie, a3 a species
of credential which might be useful to her ; and started by herself
for the Asylum, on the eleventh of October.
She passed the night of the eleventh in London. It had been her
intention to sleep at the house inhabited by Lady Glyde's old gov-
erness ; but Mrs. Vesey's agitation at the sight of her lost pupil's
nearest and dearest friend was so distressing, that Miss Halcombe
considerately refrained from remaining in her presence, and removed
to a respectable boarding-house in the neighborhood, recommended
by Mrs. Vesey's married sister. The next day she proceeded to the
Asylum, which was situated not far from London, on the northern
side of the metropolis.
THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
She was immediately admitted to see the proprietor.
At first he appeared to be decidedly unwilling to let her commu-
nicate with his patient. But on her showing him the postscript to
Count Fosco's letter — on her reminding him that she was the " Miss
Halcombe " there referred to ; that she was a near relative of the
deceased Lady Glyde ; and that she was therefore naturally inter-
ested, for family reasons, in observing for herself the extent of Anne
Catherick's delusion in relation to her late sister — the tone and man-
ner of the owner of the Asylum altered, and he withdrew his objec-
tions. He probably felt that a continued refusal, under these circum-
stances, would not only be an act of discourtesy in itself, but would
also imply that the proceedings in his establishment were not of a
nature to bear investigation by respectable strangers.
Miss Halcombe's own impression was that the owner of the Asy-
lum had not been received into the confidence of Sir Percival and
the Count. His consenting at all to let her visit his patient seemed
to afford one proof of this, and his readiness in making admissions
which could scarcely have escaped the lips of an accomplice certain-
ly appeared to furnish another.
For example, in the course of the introductory conversation which
took place, he informed Miss Halcombe that Anne Catherick had
been brought back to him, with the necessary order and certificates,
by Count Fosco, on the twenty-seventh of July, the Count also pro-
ducing a letter of explanations and instructions signed by Sir Perci-
val Glyde. On receiving his inmate again, the proprietor of the
Asylum acknowledged that he had observed some curious personal
changes in her. Such changes, no doubt, were not without prece-
dent in his experience of persons mentally afflicted. Insane people
were often, at one time, outwardly as well as inwardly, unlike what
they were at another ; the change from better to worse, or from
worse to better, in the madness, having a necessary tendency to pro-
duce alterations of appearance externally. He allowed for these ;
and he allowed also for the modification in the form of Anne Cath-
erick's delusion, which was reflected, no doubt, in her manner and
expression. But he was still perplexed, at times, by certain differ-
ences between his patient before she had escaped and his patient
since she had been brought back. Those differences were too mi-
nute to be described. He could not say, of course, that she was ab-
solutely altered in height or shape or complexion, or in the color of
her hair and eyes, or in the general form of her face : the change
was something that he felt, more than something that he saw. In
short, the case had been a puzzle from the first, and one more per-
plexity was added to it now.
It can not be said that this conversation led to the result of even
partially preparing Miss Halcombe's mind for what was to come,
1G*
310 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
But it produced, nevertheless, a very serious effect upon her. She
was so completely unnerved by it that some little time elapsed before
she could summon composure enough to follow the proprietor of the
Asylum to that part of the house in which the inmates were confined.
On inquiry, it turned out that the supposed Anne Catherick was
then taking exercise in the grounds attached to the establishment.
One of the nurses volunteered to conduct Miss Halcombe to the
place, the proprietor of the Asylum remaining in the house for a few
minutes to attend to a case which required his services, and then
engaging to join his visitor in the grounds.
The nurse led Miss Halcombe to a distant part of the property,
which was prettily laid out, and, after looking about her a little,
turned into a turf walk, shaded by a shrubbery on either side.
About half-way down this walk two women were slowly approach-
ing. The nurse pointed to them and said, " There is Anne Cather-
iek, ma'am, with the attendant who waits on her. The attendant
will answer any questions you wish to put." With those words the
nurse left her, to return to the duties of the house.
Miss Halcombe advanced on her side, and the women advanced
on theirs. When they were within a dozen paces of each other, one
of the women stopped for an instant, looked eagerly at the strange
lady, shook off the nurse's grasp on her, and the next moment rush-
ed into Miss Halcombe's arms. In that moment Miss Halcombe
recognized her sister — recognized the dead-alive.
Fortunately for the success of the measures taken subsequently,
no one was present at that moment but the nurse. She was a young
woman ; and she was so startled that she was at first quite incapable
of interfering. When she was able'to do so, her whole services were
required by Miss Halcombe, who had for the moment sunk altogeth-
er in the effort to keep her own senses under the shock of the dis-
covery. After waiting a few minutes in the fresh air and the cool
shade, her natural energy and courage helped her a little, and she
became sufficiently mistress of herself to feel the necessity of recall-
ing her presence of mind for her unfortunate sister's sake.
She obtained permission to speak alone with the patient, on con-
dition that they both remained well within the nurse's view. There
was no time for questions — there was only time for Miss Halcombe
to impress on the unhappy lady the necessity of controlling herself,
and to assure her of immediate help and rescue if she did so. The
prospect of escaping from the Asylum by obedience to her sister's
directions was sufficient to quiet Lady Glyde, and to make her un-
derstand what was required of her. Miss Halcombe next returned
to the nurse, placed all the gold she then had in her pocket (three
sovereigns) in the nurse's hands, and asked when and where she
could speak to her alone.
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 371
The woman was at first surprised and distrustful. But on Miss
Halcombe's declaring that she only wanted to put 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 dereliction 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 north 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 no-
ticed his visitor's agitation, which Miss Halcombe accounted for by
saying that her interview 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 returned, con-
vinced her that any attempt to identify Lady Glyde and to rescue
her by legal means would, even if successful, involve a delay tbat
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 de-
termined to effect Lady Glyde's escape privately, by means of tlie
nurse.
She went at once to her stock-broker, and sold out of the funds all
the little property she possessed, amounting to rather less than sev-
en hundred pounds. Determined, if necessary, to pay the price of
her sister's liberty with every farthing she had in the world, she re-
paired the next day, having the whole sum about her in bank-notes,
to her appointment outside the Asylum wall.
The nurse was there. Miss Halcombe approached the subject
cautiously, by many preliminary questions. She discovered, 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 consequence. 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 wait-
ing till they could save, together, between two and three hundred
pounds to start in business. The nurse's wages were good, and she
might succeed, by strict economy, in contributing her small share
toward the sum required in two years' time.
On this hint Miss Halcombe spoke. She declared that the sup-
372. THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
posed Anne Catherick was nearly related to her ; that she had been
placed in the Asylum under a fatal mistake; and that the nurse
would be doing a good and a Chjistian action ia 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 compensation for the risk she was to run and for the loss of her
place.
The nurse hesitated, through sheer incredulity and surprise. Miss
Halcombe pressed the point on her firmly.
" 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," an-
swered 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 un-
der the north wall. The nurse could fix no time for her appearance,
caution requiring that she should wait, and be guided by circum-
stances. On that understanding, 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 Glyde by
the arm. The moment they met, Miss Halcombe put the bank-notes
and the letter into her hand — and the sisters were united again.
The nurse had dressed Lady Glyde, with excellent forethought,
in a bonnet, veil, and "shawl of her own. Miss Halcombe only de-
tained her to suggest a means of turning the pursuit in a false di-
rection, when the escape was discovered at the Asylum. She was
to go back to the house : to mention in 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 im-
agine that his patient had returned to Blaokwater Park, under the
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 373
influence of the delusion which made her persist in asserting herself
to be Lady Glyde ; and the first pursuit would, in all probability, be
turned in that direction.
The nurse consented to follow these suggestions — the more readi-
ly, as they offered her the means of securing herself against any
worse consequences than the loss of her place, by remaining in the
Asylum, and so maintaining the appearance 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 Lim-
meridge, without accident or difficulty of any kind, that night.
During the latter part of their journey they were alone in the car-
riage, and Miss Halcombe was able to collect such remembrances
of the past as her sister's confused and weakened 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 Glyde's recollection of the events which followed her de-
parture 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 jour-
ney. All hope of fixing that important 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 Glyde found
Count Fosco waiting for her. He was at the carriage door as soon
as the porter could open it. The train was unusually crowded, and
there was 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 notice at the time.
Her first question, on leaving the terminus, referred to Miss Hal-
combe. The Count informed her that Miss Halcombe had not yet
gone to Cumberland ; after-consideration having caused him to
doubt the prudence of her taking so long a journey without some
days' previous rest.
Lady Glyde next inquired whether her sister was then staying 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
Glyde's experience of London was so limited that she could not
tell, at the time, through what streets they were driving. But they
374 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
never left the streets, and they never passed any gardens or trees:
When the carriage 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 Glyde
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 servant opened the door, and a man with a dark beard,
apparently a foreigner, met them in the hall, and with great polite-
ness showed them the way up stairs. In answer to Lady Glyde'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 her-
self 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 went 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 Halcombe was then taking
rest, and could not be disturbed for a little while. He was accom-
panied 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 Glyde'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 after-
ward a second stranger — also an Englishman — came in. This per-
son introduced himself as another friend of Count Fosco's ; and he,
in his turn, looked at her very oddly, and asked some curious ques-
tions— 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 was 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 wom-
an 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 ac-
knowledged, with great apparent reluctance, that Miss Halcombe
was by no means so well as he had hitherto represented her to be.
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 375
His tone and manner, in making this reply, so alarmed Lady Glyde,
or rather so painfully increased the uneasiness which she had felt
in the company of the two strangers, that a sudden faintness over-
came her, and she was obliged to ask for a glass of water. 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 Glyde attempted to drink it, had so
strange a taste that it increased her faintness, and she hastily took
the bottle of salts from Count Fosco, and smelled 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 confused, frag-
mentary, and difficult to reconcile with any reasonable 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 help-
ed to undress and get to bed by Mrs. Rubelle ! She could not re-
member what the conversation was at Mrs. Vesey'sJ or whom she
saw there besides that lady, or why 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 vague 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 fe-
male 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 impres-
sions of the faintest kind to communicate — no idea whether one
day, or more than one day, had passed — until she came to herself
suddenly in a strange place, surrounded by 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 circum-
stance in the story of the conspiracy, her own eyes informed 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 under-clothing as it was taken off, and had said, not at all irri-
3 TO THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
tably or unkindly, " Look at your own name on your own clothes,
and don't worry us all any more about being Lady Glyde. 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 Catherick, as plain as print !" And there it was, when Miss
Halcombe examined the linen her sister wore, on the night of 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
Glyde, by careful questioning, on the journey to Cumberland. Miss
Halcombe abstained from pressing her with any inquiries relating
to events in the Asylum : her mind being but too evidently unfit to
bear the trial of reverting to them. It was known, by the volunta-
ry admission of the owner of the mad-house, that she was received
there on the twenty -seventh of July. From that date until the
fifteenth of October (the day of her rescue) she had been under re-
straint, her identity with Anne Catherick systematically asserted,
and her sanity, from first to last, practically denied. Faculties less
delicately balanced, constitutions less tenderly organized, must have
suffered under such an ordeal as this. No man could have gone
through it and come out of it unchanged.
Arriving at Limmeridge late on the evening of the fifteenth, Miss
Halcombe wisely resolved not to attempt the assertion of Lady
Glyde'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 her-
self 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 mad- woman whom it was an insult and
an outrage to ha,ve brought into his house at all.
Miss Halcombe left the room ; waited till the first heat of her in-
dignation 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 Halcombednsisted 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,
MR. IfAIRLIE DECLARED IN THE MOST POSITIVE TEEMS THAT HE DID
NOT RECOGNIZE THE WOMAN.
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 3 1 9
was too painful to be described — Miss Halcombe herself shrank
from referring to it. Let it be enough to say that Mr. Fairlie de-
clared, in the most positive terms, that he did not recognize 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 Limmeridge church-yard; and that he would
call on the law to protect him if before the day was over she was
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 sup-
pose that he was capable of such infamy as secretly recognizing 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 for what had happened in that way. But when she next
put the servants to the test, and found that they too were, in every
case, uncertain, to say the least of it, whether the lady presented to
them was their young mistress or Anne Catherick, of whose resem-
blance to her they had all heard, the sad conclusion was inevitable
that the change produced in Lady Glyde's face and manner by her
imprisonment in the Asylum was far more serious than Miss Hal-
combe had at first supposed. The vile deception which had assert-
ed 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 Glyde might have been privately kept in
the house, or in the village, to wait until her health was a little re-
covered, and her mind was a little steadied again. When her mem-
ory could be once more trusted to serve her, she would naturally
refer to persons and events in the past with a certainty and a fa-
miliarity which no impostor could stimulate ; 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 free-
dom rendered all recourse to such means as these simply imprac-
ticable. The pursuit from the Asylum, diverted to Hampshire for
the time only, would infallibly next take the direction of Cumber-
land. The persons appointed to seek the fugitive might arrive at
380 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
Limmeridge House at a few hours' notice, and in Mr. Fairlie's pres-
ent temper of mind they might count on the immediate exertion of
his local influence and authority to assist them. The commonest
consideration for Lady (Hyde's safety forced on Miss Halcombe the
necessity of resigning the struggle to do her justice, and of remov-
ing her at once from the place of all others that was now most dan-
gerous to her — the neighborhood 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 afternoon of that memorable day of the six-
teenth, Miss Halcombe roused her sister to a last exertion of cour-
age ; and, without a living soul to wish them well at parting, the
two took their way into the world alone, and turned their backs
forever on Limmeridge House.
They had passed the hill above the church-yard, 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 in-
stance 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.
in.
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 cir-
cumstances had been handled to insure impunity to a daring and an
intricate crime. "While all details were still a mystery to me, the vile
manner in which the personal resemblance between the woman in
white and Lady Glyde had been turned to account was clear be-
yond a doubt. It was plain that Anne Catherick had been intro-
duced 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
substitution having been so managed as to make innocent people
(the doctor and the two servants certainly, and the owner of the
mad-house in all probability) accomplices in the crime.
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 381
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, tnrough his wife. They
had that interest, as well as other interests, in insuring their impuni-
ty from exposure ; and they would leave no stone unturned, no sac-
rifice 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 pop-
ulous neighborhood — because the harder the struggle for existence
among the men and women about us, the less the risk of their hav-
ing 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 J>y 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 ab-
sence from home^they should let no one inta their rooms, on any
pretense 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 employment, 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 hun-
dred pounds left of her own property, and I had nearly as much re-
maining from the purchase-money obtained by the sale of my draw-
382 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
ing-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 for the expense of those secret inqui-
ries 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 calcu-
lated 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 aims told
their sad story of the past as she turned up the sleeves qf the poor
plain dress that she wore for safety's sake ; but the unquenchable
spirit of the woman burned 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 ooifrage, Walter," she pleaded ; " it's my weak-
ness that cries, not me. . The house- work shall conquer it, if J 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 by-gone days.
" I am not quite broken down yet," she said ; "lam 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 of our lives had
assumed its settled direction, and we three were as completely isola-
ted in our place of concealment as if the house we lived in had been
a desert island, and the great net-work of streets and the thousands
of our fellow-creatures all around 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 more certain than any exercise of reasoning, far
keener than any process of observation, even we might have hesi-
tated, on first seeing her.
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 383
The outward changes wrought by the suffering and the terror of
the past had fearfully, almost hopelessly, strengthened the fatal re-
semblance between Anne Catherick and herself. In my narrative of
events at the time of my residence in Limmeridge House, I have re-
corded, from my own observation of the two, how the likeness, strik-
ing as it was when viewed generally, 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 mo-
ment 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 with-
out 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. Ev-
ery little caution that Marian and I practiced toward her ; every lit-
tle remedy we tried, to strengthen and steady slowly the weakened,
shaken faculties, was a fresh protest in itself against the risk of turn-
ing 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" morn-
ing 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 in-
terest/with a faltering thoughtfuhiess in them, which from that mo-
ment we cherished and kept alive. I bought her a little box of col-
ors, and a sketch-book like the old sketch-book which I had seen in
her hands on the morning when we first met. Once again— oh me,
once again !— at spare hours saved from my work, in the dull Lon-
don light, in the poor London room, I sat by her side, to guide the
faltering 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
384 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
was at last assured— till she could think of her drawing, and talk of
it, and patiently practice 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 despair-
ed of her. But to take her mercilessly from seclusion and repose ;
to confront her with strangers, or with acquaintances who were lit-
tle better than strangers ; to rouse the painful impressions of her
past life which we had so carefully hushed to rest — this, even in her
own interests, we dared not do. Whatever sacrifices it cost, what-
ever 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 proceedings
should be.
After consulting with Marian, I resolved to begin by gathering
together as many facts as could be collected — then to ask the ad-
vice of Mr. Kyrle (whom we knew we could trust) ; and to ascer-
tain 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 re-
liable assistance of any kind.
The first source of information to which I applied was the journal
kept at Blackwater Park by Marian Halcombe. There were pas-
sages in this diary, relating to myself, which she thought it best
that I should not see. Accordingly, she read to me from the manu-
script, 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 exciting suspicion. I
went myself to Mrs. Vcsey, to ascertain if Laura's impression of hav-
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 385
ing 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
Glyde."
Mrs. Vesey's answer to my inquiries only confirmed the appre-
hensions which I had previously felt. Laura had certainly written
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 be-
sides, confusedly presented to her something which she had only
intended to do in the false light of something which she had really
done. The unconscious contradiction of herself was easy to ac-
count for in this way — 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 you 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 you
every thing. Your affectionate Laura." What help was there in
those lines ? None.
On returning from Mrs. Vesey's, I instructed Marian to write (ob-
serving the same caution which I practiced myself) to Mrs. Mich-
elson. She was to express, if she pleased, some general suspicion
of Count Fosco's conduct ; and she was to 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 pro-
cure. By Mr. Goodricke's assistance I obtained a copy of the cer-
tificate of death, and an interview with the woman (Jane . Gould)
who had been employed to prepare the body for the grave.
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 neighborhood whom Mrs. Gould
knew. In the manner here indicated I obtained the Narratives of
17
386 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
the housekeeper, of the doctor, of Jane Gould, and of Hester Pin-
horn, exactly as they are presented in these pages.
Furnished with such additional evidence as these documents af-
forded, I considered myself to be sufficiently prepared for a consul-
tation 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
afterward. 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 min-
utes 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, when you are not here to help me."
" 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 which 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 any thing 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
ho probably knows me by sight, although I don't know him ?"
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 387
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 em-
ploy. • 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
you 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 de-
layed— and fear nothing."
" Nothing !" she answered, firmly. " You shall not regret, Wal-
ter, that you have only a woman to help you." She paused, and de-
tained 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 card was being taken in to Mr. Kyrle, a consideration
occurred to me which I deeply regretted not having thought 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 ad-
dress of the office, and he would naturally infer that if Marian want-
ed 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 per-
sons 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 recognized in the streets; but
the specialrisk connected with the office had never occurred to me
until the present moment. It was too late now to repair this un-
fortunate error in judgment — too late to wish that I had made ar-
rangements for meeting the lawyer in some place privately appoint-
ed beforehand. I could only resolve to be cautious on leaving
Chancery Lane, and not to go straight home again under any cir-
cumstances whatever.
After waiting a few minutes, I was shown into Mr. Kyrle's private
room. He was a pale, thin, quiet, self-possessed man, with a very
388 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
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 com-
posure. A better man for my purpose could hardly have been
found. If he committed himself to a decision at all, and if the de-
cision was favorable, 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 Uttle time."
" My time is at Miss Halcombe's disposal," he replied. " "Where
any interests of hers are concerned, I represent my partner person-
ally, as well as professionally. It was his jequest 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 riot: he is living with his relatives in Germany. His
health has improved, but the period of his return is still uncertain."
While we were exchanging these few preliminary words, he had
been searching among the papers before him, and he now produced
from them a sealed letter. I thought he was about to hand the let-
ter 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 en-
tered 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, interrupted 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 tak-
ing time to recover his self-possession first.
" Before I give my opinion," he said, " I must beg permission 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 ask-
ed, 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
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 389
Miss Halcombe, and I have therefore every reason to respect a gen-
tleman whose mediation she trusts in a matter of this kind. I will
even go further, if you like, and admit, for courtesy's sake and^ for
argument's sake, that the identity of Lady Glyde, as a living person,
is a proved fact to Miss Halcombe and yoursel£ 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
Glyde's death is, on the face of it, clear and satisfactory. 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 prove the death, and to show that it took place
under natural circumstances. There is the fact of the funeral at
Limmeridge, 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 statement 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
Gatherick, 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 warn-
ed Mr. Fairlie that it was part of 'her insanity to be bent on person-
ating his dead niece ; and it is known that she did repeatedly de-
clare 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 af-
ter-events invalidate or contradict. Does Miss Halcombe assert her
supposed sister's identity to the owner 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 released in this doubtful man-
ner, and is taken to Mr. Fairlie, does he recognize her ? is he stag-
gered for one instant in his belief of his niece's death ? No. Do
the servants recognize her ?. No. Is she kept in the neighborhood
to assert her own identity, and to stand the test of further proceed-
ings ? No : she is privately taken to London. In the mean time
you have recognized 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
390 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
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 story of Mari-
an 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 charapter.
" There can be no doubt," I said, " that the facts, as you have
stated them, appear to tell against us ; but — "
" But you think those facts can be explained away," interposed
Mr. Kyrle. " Let me tell you the result of my experience on that
point. When an English jury has to choose between a plain fact,
ore the surface, and a long explanation under the surface, it always
takes the fact, in preference to the explanation. For example, Lady
Clyde (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 meta-
physical 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 exer-
tion, to discover additional evidence ? Miss Halcombe and I have
a few hundred pounds — ■"
He looked at me with a half-suppressed pity, 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 difficul-
ty would be thrown in the way of your getting fresh evidence. Ev-
ery 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 prob-
ability, be against us. Questions of identity, where instances of per-
sonal 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 extraordina-
ry affair. Even if the person buried in Limmeridge church-yard 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 author-
HE LOOKED MB ATTENTIVELY IN THE FACE, -WITH MORE ArPEARANCE OF
INTEREST THAN HE HAD SHOWN TET.
THE WOMAN IS WHITE. 393
ity to have the body exhumed. In short, there is no case, Mr. Hart-
right — there is really no case."
I was determined to believe that there was a case, and, in that de-
termination, 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 replied. " 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
Glyde's journey to London, the matter would wear a totally differ-
ent 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 we 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 probability, the only per-
sons 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 Glyde."
Mr. Kyrle's calmly attentive face relaxed, for the first time, into a
smile.
" With your opinion of the conduct of those two gentlemen," 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 ?"
"Byrne."
"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.
" Tou are very determined," he said. " You have, no doubt, a per-
sonal motive for proceeding, into which it is not my business to in-
quire. 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
Glyde'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
enough to transfer almost any sum of money he may possess from
himself to his creditors. You are, of course, aware — "
17*
394 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
I stopped him at that point.
" Let me beg that we may not. discuss Lady Glyde's affairs," I
said. " I have never known any thing 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 sup-
pose, 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 Glyde. 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 re-
sponsible 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 author-
ity of the head of the family ; and those two men shall answer for
their crime to me, though the justice that sits in tribunals is power-
less to pursue them. I have given my life to that purpose, and.
alone as I stand, if God spares me, I will accomplish it."
He drew back toward his table, and said nothing. His face show-
ed plainly that he thought my delusion had got the better of my rea-
son, 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 ev-
ery sense of the word, beyond our means. We can not 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 time,
that I sincerely regret being, thus far, 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. GUmore and Kyrle, Chancery
Lane." The handwriting was quite unknown to me.
On leaving the room, I asked one last question.
THE WOMAN IX WHITE. 395
" Do you happen to know," I said, " if Sir Percival Glyde 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 toward one of the quietest of the large squares on the north
of HolboTn — then suddenly stopped, arid 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 stationary. I looked at him as I passed, and
instantly recognized 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 consequences. 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 door-way. He was
a stranger to me ; and I was glad to make sure of his personal ap-
pearance, in case of future annoyance. Having done this, I again
walked northward, till I reached the New-road. There, I turned
. asjde 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 cab-stand, 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 toward 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 a cab-stand,
came in their way. But I had the start of them ; and when I. stop-
ped 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 homeward, 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
396 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
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 al-
most hear Laura's breathing, and we might have disturbed her if
we had spoken aloud.
Marian preserved her composure while I described my interview
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 Percival's return.
" Bad news, Walter," she said ; " the worst news you 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 recognized the handwriting in-
stantly.
" You know your correspondent ?" I said.
" Too well," she answered. "My correspondent is Count Fosco."
With that reply she opened the note. Her face flushed deeply
while 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 honorable admiration — honorable to myself, honor-
able to you — I write, magnificent Marian, in the interests of your
tranquillity, to say two consoling words :
" Fear nothing !
"Exercise your fine natural sense, and remain in retirement.
Dear and admirable woman, invite no dangerous publicity. Resig-
nation is sublime — adopt it. The modest repose of home is eternal-
ly fresh — enjoy it. The storms of life pass harmless over the valley
of Seclusion — dwell, dear lady, in the valley.
" Do this, and I authorize you to fear nothing. Ho new calamity
shall lacerate your sensibilities — sensibilities precious to me as my
own. You shall not be molested ; the fair companion of your re-
treat shall not be pursued. She has found a new asylum in your
heart. Priceless asylum ! — I envy her, and leave here there.
" One last word of affectionate warning, of paternal caution — and
I tear myself from the charm of addressing you ; I close these fer-
vent lines.
"Advance no further than you have gone already; compromise
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
THE WOMAN EST "WHITE. 397
friends, moderate their deplorable ardor. If Mr. Hartright returns
to England, hold no communication with him. I walk on a path
of my own ; and Percival follows 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, sur-
rounded 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 I" 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 will 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 pock-
et-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 ?"
" 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-mor-
row— "
" 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
night."
"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, centres 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 doc-
tor's certificate ?"
" Certainly."
" What makes you think it might have been after ? Laura can
tell us nothing of the time she was in London."
398 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
" But the owner of the Asylum told you 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 try-
ing to obtain it. One of them is to question the doctor, Mr. Daw-
son— who must know when he resumed his attendance at Blackwa-
ter 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 look 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 Lon-
don— Sir Percival and the Count. Innocent people may well for-
get the date ; but they are guilty, and they know it. If I fail every-
where 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, where there is the best chance
of success," I replied.
The color faded from her face again, and she shook her head
sadly.
" Yes," she said, " you 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 tem-
per still left, and it will 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 Perci-
val's life—"
" You mean the secret 1"
" Yes : the Secret. It is our only sure hold on him. I can force
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 399
him from his position of security, I can drag him and his villainy
into the face of day, by no other means. Whatever the Count may
have done, Sir Percival has consented 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 ? Tou heard him say that he was a lost man if the secret of
Anne Catherick 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 woman in white is a living influence in our three lives.
The End is appointed ; the End is drawing us on — and Anne Cath-
erick, 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. Daw-
son's house in the forenoon. Our interview, so far as the object of
my visit was concerned, led to no satisfactory result.
Mr. 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, with-
out such help from Mrs. Michelson as I knew she was unable to af-
ford. She could not say from memory (who, in similar cases, ever
can ?) how many days had elapsed between the renewal of the doc-
tor's attendance on his patient and the previous departure of Lady
Glyde. She was almost certain of having mentioned the circum-
stance of the departure to Miss Halcombe on the day after it hap-
pened— 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 be-
fore, when Lady Glyde had left for London. Neither could she calcu-
late, with any nearer approach to exactness, the time that had pass-
ed 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 Perciyal'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
400 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
business, and the old inn (which we knew 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 sta-
tion to Blackwater Park, with the purpose of questioning the gar-
dener and the person who kept the lodge. If they, too, proved un-
able 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.
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
looking back. When I passed through the gates myself a little
while afterward, 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, receiving 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 sum-
mer. 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
remembered her master calling her out of bed, and remembered his
frightening her by swearing, but the date at which the occurrence
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 mas-
ter 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 WOMAN IN WHITE. 401
the large hat, come out from the house, and stand at some little dis-
tance observing us.
Certain suspicions of his errand at Blackwater Park had already-
crossed my mind. They were now increased by the gardener's imv-
bility (or unwillingness) to tell me who the man was ; and I deter-
mined 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.
His look and manner unmistakably betrayed that he knew who I
was, and that he wanted to irritate me into quarreling 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, apologized for my involuntary in-
trusion (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
Glyde, and the man in black had been sent to the park in anticipa-
tion of my making inquiries at the house, or in the neighborhood.
If I had given him the least chance of lodging any sort of legal com-
plaint against me, the interference 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 afterward on my arrival at the London
terminus, in the evening. T reached home on foot, taking the pre-
caution, before I approached our own door, of walking round by
the loneliest street in the neighborhood, and there stopping and
looking back more than once over the open space behind me. I
had first learned to use this stratagem against suspected treachery
in the wilds of Central America — and now I was practicing it again,
with the same purpose and with even greater caution, in the heart
of civilized London I
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, arid I had«x-
402 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
pected nothing from them. In the state of my mind at that time it
was almost a relief to me to know that the struggle was now nar-
rowed to a trial of strength between myself and Sir Percival Glyde.
The vindictive motive had mingled itself, all along, with my other
and better motives ; 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 favor on the other side. - Ho base specu-
lation on the future relations of Laura and myself, and on the pri-
vate 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 com-
passion which her father or her brother might have felt, and which
I felt, God knows, in my inmost heart. All my hopes looked no
further on, now, than to the day of her recovery. There, till she was
strong again 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-contem-
plation. Passages in this narrative are soon to come 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 impene-
trable 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 ascertainable 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
carefully, I felt certain that I could only begin the new inquiries by
placing myself in communication with the faithful friend and pro.
tectress of Anne Catherick.
The first difficulty, then, was to find Mrs. Clements.
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 403
I was indebted to Marian's quick perception for meeting this ne-
cessity 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 ef-
fected, it would certainly occur to Mrs. Clements to inquire after
the missing woman in the neighborhood of all others to which she
was known to be most attached — the neighborhood of Limmeridge.
I saw directly that Marian's proposal offered us a prospect of suc-
cess, and she wrote to Mrs. Todd accordingly by that day's post.
While we were waiting for the 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 Grlyde, had
suffered, from his birth, under a painful and incurable deformity,
and had shunned all society from his earliest years. His sole hap-
piness 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 accom-
plished musician. He inherited the Blackwater property while still
a young man. Neither he nor his wife, after taking possession,
made advances of any sort toward the society of the .neighborhood,
and no one endeavored to tempt them into abandoning their re-
serve, 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 of being little better than a revolutionist in pol-
itics 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 enunciated 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 fami-
lies in the neighborhood sent letters of indignant remonstrance to
the park; and even the tenants on the Blackwater property ex-
pressed 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 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
404 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
own personal deformity had made a necessity to Sir Felix. Their
son, Pereival, 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 Pereival had been in England, as a young man, once or
twice before that period; but his acquaintance with the late Mr.
Fairlie did not begin till after the time of his father's death. They
soon became very intimate, although Sir Pereival 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 purpose,
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 hither-
to, turned, from this moment, in our favor. Mrs. Todd's letter con-
tained 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 Lim-
meridge church-yard) ; and then informing Mrs. Todd of Anne's
disappearance, and entreating that she would cause inquiries to be
made in the neighborhood, on the chance that the lost woman might
have strayed 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 trans-
mitted 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 in-
terview 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.
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
THE WOMAK IX WHITE. 405
was. I recalled to her our meeting in Limmeridge church-yard, at
the close of my interview there with the woman in white, taking
special care to remind her that I was the person who assisted Anne
Catherick (as Anne had herself declared) to escape the pursuit from
the Asylum. This was my only claim to the confidence of Mrs.
Clements. She remembered the circumstance the moment I spoke
of it, and asked me into the parlor, 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 con-
spiracy which it would have been dangerous to confide to a stran-
ger. 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 we should never see her alive
again ; and that my main interest in the affair was to bring to pun-
ishment two men whom I suspected to be concerned in luring her
away, and at whose hands I and some dear-friends of mine had suf-
fered a grievous wrong. "With this explanation, I left it to Mrs.
Clements to say whether our interest in the matter (whatever differ-
ence there might be in the motives which actuated us) was not the
same, 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 any thing she could tell me in return for the
kindness I had shown to Anne. Bnt 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 attainable from
persons who are not accustomed to arrange their ideas, is the nar-
rative 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, Mrsi Clements and Anne
had traveled, that day, as far as Derby, and had remained there a
week, on Anne's account. They had then gone on to London, and
406 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
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 neighborhood, 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 s'.ie had been removed to
the Asylum from that place, and because Sir Percival would be cer-
tain 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 them-
selves in Anne. They appeared soon after the news of Lady Glyde'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 dis-
covered at once that she was suffering from a serious affection 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
new year, and there they might probably have staid much longer,
but for the sudden resolution which Anne took, at this time, to ven-
ture back to Hampshire, for the purpose of obtaining a private in-
terview with Lady Glyde.
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 something 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 be-
ing 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 dis-
covered that one of their fellow -passengers was well acquainted
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 407
with the. neighborhood 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 be-
tween three and four miles — and that distance, and back again,
Anne had walked, on each occasion when she had appeared in the
neighborhood of the lake.
For the few days during which they were at Sandon without be-
ing discovered, they had lived a little away 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
Limmeridge had made Anne resolute to speak this time, and obsti-
nate in the determination to go on her errand' alone.
Mrs. Clements, nevertheless, followed her privately on each occa-
sion when she went to the lake— without, however, venturing near
enough to the boat-house to be witness of what took place there.
When Anne returned for the last time from the dangerous neigh-
borhood, the fatigue of walking, day after day, distances which
were far too great for her strength, added to the exhausting effect
of the agitation from which she had suffered, produced the result
which Mrs. Clements had dreaded all along. The old pain over
the heart and the other symptoms of the illness at Grimsby return-
ed, and Anne was confined to her bed in the cottage.
In this emergency the first necessity, as Mrs. Clements knew by ex-
perience, was to endeavor to quiet Anne's anxiety of mind ; and, for
this purpose, the good woman went herself the next day to the lake,
to try if she could find Lady Glyde (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 Glyde,
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, be-
fore she could reply, that he was waiting there with a message from
Lady- Glyde, but that he was not quite certain whether the person
then before him answered the description of the person with whom
he was desired to communicate.
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
408 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
her request. The message, he said, was a very important one. Lady
Glyde entreated Anne and her good friend to return immediately to
London, as she felt certain that Sir Percival would discover them if
they remained any longer in the neighborhood of Blackwater. She
was herself going to London in a short time, and if Mrs. Clements
and AnDe 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 dan-
gerous neighborhood, as she lay ill in her bed at that moment. 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 man, and that he would go back with
her if she pleased, and see what could be done for Anne. Mrs.
' 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 looking 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 himself, and told
Mrs. Clements that the medicine was a powerful 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
THB WOMAN IN "WHITE. 409
a week in Hampshire altogether) they arrived at the station. The
Count was waiting there for them, and was 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 car-
riage himself, begging Mrs. Clements not to forget to send her ad-
dress to Lady Glyde. The elderly lady did not travel in the same
compartment, and they did not notice what became of her on
reaching the London terminus. Mrs. Clements secured respectable
lodgings in a quiet neighborhood, and then wrote, as she had en-
gaged 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 that she came from
Lady Gly.de, who was then at a hotel in London, and who wished
to see Mrs. Clements for the purpose of arranging a future interview
with Anne. Mrs. Clements expressed her willingness (Anne being
present at the time and entreating her to do so) to forward the ob-
ject 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 stop-
ped 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 or-
dered the cab-man 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- afterward,
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 Lon-
don 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 nat-
urally occurred to Mrs. Clements was to. go and make inquiries at
the Asylum, to which she dreaded that Anne had been taken back.
18
410 THE WOMAN IX WHITE.
She went there the next day, having been informed of the locality
in which the house was situated by Anne herself The answer she
received (her application having, in all probability, been made a day
or two before the false Anne Catherick had really been consigned to
safe-keeping in the Asylum) was, that no such person had been
brought back there. She had then written to Mrs. Catherick, at
Welmingham, to know if she had seen or heard any thing of her
daughter, and had received an answer in the negative. After- that
reply had reached her, she was at the end of her resources, and per-
fectly ignorant where else to inquire, or what else to do. From that
time to this she had remained in total ignorance of the cause of
Anne's disappearance, and of the end of Anne's story.
vn.
Thtjb far, the information which I had received from Mrs. Clem-
ents— though it established facts of which I had not previously been
aware — was of a preh"minary character only.
• It was clear that the series of deceptions which had removed
Anne Catherick to London and separated her from Mrs. Clements
had been accomplished solely by Count Fosco and the Countess ;
and the question whether any part of the conduct of husband or
wife had been of a kind to place either of them within reach of the
law, might be well worthy of future consideration. But the purpose
I had now in view led me in another direction, than this. The im-
mediate object of my visit to Mrs. Clements was to make some ap-
proach, at least, to the discovery of Sir Percival's secret ; and she
had «aid nothing as yet which advanced me on my way to that im-
portant end. I felt the necessity of trying to awaken her recollec-
tions of other times, persons, and events, ^han those on which her
memory had hitherto been employed ; and when I next spoke, I
spoke with that object indirectly in view.
."I wish I could be of any help to you in this sad calamity," I
said. "All I can do is to feel heartily for your distress. If Anne
had been your own child, Mrs. Clements, you could have shown her
no truer kindness— you could have made no readier sacrifices for
her sake."^
" There's no great merit in that, sir," said Mrs. Clements, simply.
" The poor thing was as good as my own child to me. I nursed her
from a baby, sir, bringing her up by hand— and a hard job it was to
rear her. It wouldn't go to my heart so to lose her, if I hadn't
made her "first short-clothes, and taught her to walk. I always said
she was sent to console me for never having chick or child of my
own. And now she's lost, the old times keep coming back to my
mind ; and, even at my age, I can't help crying about her— I can't
indeed, sir!"
THE WOMAN IN "WHITE. 411
I waited a little to give Mrs. Clements time to compose herself.
Was the light that I had been looking for so long, glimmering on
me — fer off, as yet — in the good woman's recollectipns of Anne's ear-
ly life? . .
" Did you know Mrs. Catherick before Anne was born ?" I asked.
"Not very long, sir — not above four months. We saw a great
deal of each, other in that time, but we were never very friendly to-
gether."
Her voice was steadier as she made that reply. Painful as many
of her recollections might he, I observed that it was, unconsciously,
a relief to her mind to revert to the dimly-seen troubles of the past,
after dwelling sp long on the vivid sorrows of the present.
" Were you and Mrs. Oatherick neighbors ?" I inquired, leading
her memory on as encouragingly as I could.*
" Yes, sir — neighbors 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, con-
venient to the river — and Old Welmingham, which was never much
more than a village, got, in time, to be deserted. The new town is
the place they call Welmingham now, but the old parish church is
the parish church still. It stands by itself, with the houses pulled
down or gone to ruin, all round it. I've lived to see sad changes.
It was a pleasant, pretty place in my time.".
" Did you live there before your marriage, Mrs. Clements ?" •
" No, sir — I'm a Norfolk woman. It wasn't the place my husband
belonged to either. He was from Grimsby, as I told you^ and he
served his apprenticeship there. But having friends down south,
and hearing of an opening, he got into business at Southampton.
It was in a small way, but he made enough for a plain man to retire
on, and settled at Old Welmingham. I went there with him when
he married me. We were neither of us young, but we lived: very
happy together — happier than our neighbor, Mr. Catherick, lived
along with his wife, when they came to Old Welmingham, a year or
two afterward."
" 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 clerk at Welmingham church, which was the
reason of his coming to settle in our neighborhood. 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 Yarneck
Hall, near Southampton. Catherick had found it a hard matter to
get her to marry him, in consequence of her holding herself uncom-
412 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
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 reason, seemingly. My poor husband al-
ways said that was the time to have given her a lesson. But Cath-
erick was too fond of her to do any thing of the sort ; he never
checked her, either before they were married or after. He was a
quick man in his feelings, letting them carry him a deal too far,
now in one way, and now in, another; and he would have spoiled
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 wom-
an, with a terrible will of her own, fond of foolish admiration and
fine clothes, and not caring to show so much as decent outward re-
spect 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 neighborhood there was a dreadful scan-
dal and a miserable break-up in their household. Both of them
were in fault — I am afraid both of them were equally in fault."
" You mean both husband and wife ?"
" Oh no, sir ! I don't mean Catherick — he was only to be pitied.
I meant his wife and the person — "
■ " And the person who caused the scandal ?"
" Tes, 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 on 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 neighborhood at that time ?" I
asked.
" No, sir. He came among us as a stranger. His father had died,
not long before, in foreign parts. I remember he was in mourning.
He put up at the little inn on the river • (they have pulled it down
since that time), where gentlemen used to go to fish. He wasn't
much noticed when he first came — it was a common thing enough
for gentlemen to travel from all parts of England to fish in our
river."
" Did he make his appearance in the village before Anne was
born ?"
" Yes, sir. Anne was born in the June month of eighteen hun-
dred and twenty-seven,- and I think he came at the end of April or
the beginning of May."
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 413
" Came as a stranger to all of you ? A stranger to Mrs. Catherick,
as well as to the rest of the neighbors ?"
" So we thought at first, sir. But when the scandal broke out no-
body 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 to-
gether 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 wom-
an should, with that gentleman in mourning — Sir Percival Glyde.
Don't you say any thing about it — Eve quieted Catherick for to-
night. Eve 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 aecord, after saying No over and over again when he
asked her. There have been wicked women before her time, Liz-
zie', who have used honest men who loved them as a means of sav-
ing their characters, and I'm sorely afraid this Mrs. Catherick is as
wicked as the worst of them. "We shall see,' says my husband,
' we shall soon see.' And only two days afterward we did see."
Mrs. Clements waited for a moment before she went on. Even in
that moment I began to doubt whether the clue that I thought I
had found was really leading me to the central mystery of the laby-
rinth, 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
414 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
On the second day, he found his wife and Sir Percival whispering
together quite familiar, close under the vestry of the church. I sup-
pose they thought the neighborhood of the vestry was the last place
in the world where any body would think of looking after them ;
but," however that may be, there they were. Sir Percival, being
seemingly surprised and confounded, defended himself in such a
guilty way that poor Catherick (whose quick temper I have told
you of already) fell into a kind of frenzy at his own disgrace, and
struck Sir Percival. He was no match (and I am sorry to say it) for
the man who had wronged him, and he was beaten in the cruelest
manner before the neighbors, who had come to the place on hearing
the disturbance, could run in to part them. All this, happened to-
ward evening ; and before nightfall, when my husband went to
Catherick's house, he was gone, nobody knew where. No living
soul in the village ever saw him again. He knew too well, by that
time, what his wife's vile reason had been for marrying him ; and he
felt his misery and disgrace — especially after what had happened to
him with Sir Percival — too keenly. The clergyman of the parish
put an advertisement in the paper, begging him to come back, and
saying that he should not lose his situation or his friends. But
Catherick had too much pride and spirit, as some people said — too
much feeling, as I think, sir — to face his neighbors 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
neighborhood ?"
" 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."
"And Mrs. Catherick ? Surely she never remained in the village,
among the people who knew of her disgrace ?"
" She did, sir. She was hard enough and heartless enough to set
the opinions of all her neighbors at flat defiance. She declared to
every body, from the clergyman downward, 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 Welmingham ; and after my time,
when the new town was building, and the respectable neighbors
began moving to it, she moved too, as if she was determined to live
among them and scandalize 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."
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 415
" But how has she lived, through all these years ?" I asked. " Was
her husband able and -willing to help her 2"
" 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 some
small allowance, 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 hundred. 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 ?"
" Very little, if any, sir. It was 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 was now plain
that no approach, direct or indirect, to the Secret had yet been re-
vealed 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 dis-
heartening failure.
But there was one point in the narrative which made me doubt
the propriety of accepting it unreservedly, and which suggested the
idea of something hidden below the surface.
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, who was the
likeliest person to possess the power of compelling her to remain at
Welmingham? The person, unquestionably, from whom she de-
rived the means of living. She had refused assistance from her hus-
band, she had no adequate resources of her own, she was a friendless,
degraded woman : from what source should she derive help, but
from the source at which report pointed— Sir Percival Clyde ?
Reasoning on these assumptions, and always bearing in mind the
one certain fact to guide me, that Mrs. Catherick was in possession
416 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
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
certain to isolate her from all communication with female neighbors,
and to allow her no opportunities of talking incautiously, in mo-
ments of free intercourse with inquisitive bosom friends. But what
was the mystery to be concealed? Not Sir Percival's infamous con-
nection with Mrs.*Catherick's disgrace — for the neighbors were the
very people who knew of it. Not the suspicion that he was Anne's
father — for "Welmingham was the place in whieh that suspicion
must inevitably exist. If I accepted the guilty appearances de-
scribed to me as unreservedly as others had accepted them ; if I
drew from them the same superficial conclusion which Mr. Cather-
ick and all his neighbors 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 whisperings
between the clerk's wife and " the gentleman in mourning," 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 di-
rection ? 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 some inconceivable error ? Had Sir
Percival, by any chance, courted the suspicion that was wrong, for
the sake of diverting from himself some other suspicion that was
right ? Here, if I could find it — here was the approach to the Se-
cret, 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 ascer-
taining 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 reputa-
tion, 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 par-
ticularly, 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.
THE ■WOMAN IN WHITE. 417
" I suppose you often saw Sir Percival, when he was in your vil-
lage ?" 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 trust-
ed— but, on the other hand, it was not to be altogether rejected on
that account. "Was it possible to strengthen the evidence, by dis-
covering any conclusive facts in relation to the lives of Mrs. Cather-
ick 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 neighborhood," 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, immedi-
ately before her marriage ?"
"Yes, sir."
"And had she been long in her place 2"
" Three or four years, sir ; I am not quite certain which.'7
" Did you ever hear the name of the gentleman to whom Varneck
Hall belonged at that time?"
" Yes, sir. His name was Major Donthorne."
" Did Mr. Catherick, or did any one else you knew, ever hear that
Sir Percival was a friend of Major Donthorne's, or ever see Sir Per-
cival in the neighborhood 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 fu-
ture 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 favorable to the conclusion that the
secret of his stolen interviews with Mrs. Catherick was entirely un-
connected with the disgrace which the woman had inflicted on her
husband's good name. I could think of no further inquiries which
I might make to strengthen this impression — I could only en-
courage 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.
18*
418 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
" I have not heard yet," I said, " how the poor child, born 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 offer 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 fan-
cies 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 re-
turned 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 Limmeridge. Just at that time I lost my husband, and
I felt it was as well, in "that miserable affliction, that Anne should
not 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 girl 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
parting us. All I could do was to give Anne my direction, and to
tell 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 mad-house."
" You know, Mrs. Clements, why Sir Percival Glyde shut her up ?"
" I only know what Anne herself told me, sir. The poor thing
used to ramble and wander about it, sadly. 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
THE WOMAN IN "WHITE. 419
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 whole 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 knowledge of the Secret on no better
grounds than vague suspicion, derived from hints which her moth-
er had incautiously let drop in her presence. Sir Percival's guilty
distrust would, in that ca%, infallibly inspire him with the false
idea that Anne knew all from her mother, just as it had afterward
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 staid longer, whether I should hear any thing more
from Mrs. Clements that would be at all useful to my purpose. I
had already discovered those local and family particulars hi rela-
tion to Mrs. Catherick of which I had been in search ; and I had
arrived at certain conclusibns, entirely new to me, which might im-
mensely 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 any thing I can tell you," an-
swered Mrs. Clements. She stopped, and looked at me 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 ex-
pected 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 unspeak-
ably 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 ?"
420 THE WOMAN IX WHITE.
" No one has told me, Mrs. Clements. But I have reasons for feel-
ing 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 suf-
fered 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
buried in a quiet country church-yard ; in a pretty, peaceful place,
which you might have chosen for her yourself."
" Dead I" said Mrs. Clements ; " dead so young — 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 me — and now I am left,
and Anne is taken ! Did you say, sir," said the poor woman, remov-
ing the handkerchief from her face, and looking up at me for the
first time — " did you say that she had blbn 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 inexplicable
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. " Tou are sure
to see me again," I said ; " for I have a favor to ask, when you are a
little more composed — 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 any thing
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 Welmingham."
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 Glyde.
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 neighbors, ever suspected. There is a Secret we none
of us know of between those two — and I am going to Mrs. Cather-
ick, 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 wom-
an—you don't know her as I do. Think twice about it."
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 421
" I am sure your warning is kindly meant, Mrs. Clements. But I
am determined to see the woman, whatever comes of it."
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 her hand to
say farewell.
" You shall hear from me soon," I said ; " you shall know all that
I have promised to tell you."
Mrs. dements sighed, and shook her head doubtfully.
''An old woman's advice is sometimes worth taking, sir," she said.
" Think twice before you go to Welmingham."
vni.
When I reached home again, after my interview with Mrs. Clem-
ents, I was struck by the appearance of a change in Laura.
The unvarying gentleness and patience which long misfortune
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
if 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 ter-
rible 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 an-
swered, 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 you like me^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 ! my lost, af-
flicted sister ! " You shaU help us, Laura," I said ; " you shall be-
gin, my darling, to-day."
422 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
She looked at me with a feverish eagerness, with a breathless in-
terest, 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 improved,
you shall begin to work and get money, too. Try to finish this lit-
tle 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 mo-
ment 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 growth and
strength in her mind; unconsciously expressing themselves 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 her own little position of impor-
tance, to raise herself in her own estimation and in ours — and, from
that day, we tenderly helped the new ambition which 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 toward the expenses, and wonder-
ed, 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
forward to the happier time which my narrative has not yet reached ?
Yes. Back again— back to the days of doubt and dread, when the
spirit within me struggled hard for its life, in the icy stillness 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.
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 423
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 subject of my proposed journey to Welmingham -which Mrs.
Clements had already expressed to me.
" Surely, "Walter," she said, " you hardly know enough yet 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 ex-
istence 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. Kubelle. Would it not be far easier, and far less danger-
ous, to insist on a confession from her, than to force it from Sir Per-
cival ?"
" It might be easier," I replied ; " but we are not aware of the
full extent of Mrs. Rubelle's connivance and interest in the conspir-
acy ; and we are therefore not certain that the date has been im-
pressed on her mind, as it has been assuredly impressed 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 discov-
ery of the one assailable point in Sir Percival's life. Are you think-
ing 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, decidedly,
"because he will not be helped in resisting you by the impenetrable
wickedness of the Count."
" What has led you to that conclusion f " I asked, in some sur-
prise.
"My own knowledge of Sir Percival's obstinacy and impatience
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 time for suspecting the Count's
interference will be the time when you have Sir Percival at your
mercy. His own interests will then be directly threatened — and he
will act, Walter, to terrible purpose in his own defense."
" 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 strengthen-
ing the case may be at our disposal. There are passages in Mrs.
Michelson's narrative which show that the Count found it necessa-
ry to place himself in communication with Mr. Fairlie, and there
may be circumstances which- compromise him in that proceeding.
While I am away, Marian, write to Mr. Fairlie, and say that you
424 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
■want an answer describing 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 connection 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 deter-
mined to go to "Welmingham J"
"Absolutely determined. I will devote the next two 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 Lendon 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 draw-
ings and for mine, and I left her occupied and happy. Marian fol-
lowed me down stairs to the street door.
".Remember what anxious hearts you leave here," she 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 J" 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
temper if you come in contact with" that man !"
" Never fear, Marian ! I answer for my self-control."
With those words we parted.
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 set-
ting out for Hampshire. But there was something so repellent to
me in the idea — sbmething 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
I
t
\
\ THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 425
risen in niy mind. Even as a mere matter of expediency, the pro-
ceeding wa$ doubtful in the extreme. If I tried the experiment at
home, the landlord of the house would, sooner or later, discover me,
and would hVve hi8 suspicions aroused immediately. If I tried it
away from hoiiue, the same persons might see me, by the commonest
accident, with\f he disguise and without it ; and I should, in that
way, be inviting\ the notice and distrust which it was my most
pressing interest tQ^ 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 aft Welmingham early in the afternoon.
Is there any wildernes3s£i 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 depressing influence on
the mind, of an English country tawn in the first stage of its exist-
ence, 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 torpor 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
an* squares ; the dead house-carcasses 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
civilized 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 myself in. a square of
small houses, one story high. There was a bare little plot of gras8
in the middle, protected by a cheap wire fence. An elderly nurse-
maid and two children were standing in a corner of the inclosure,
looking at a lean goat tethered to the grass. Two foot-passen-
gers 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 dis-
tance, accompanied by the intermittent knocking of a hammer near-
er at hand. These were all the sights and sounds of life that en-
countered 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 myselfwhen- 1 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-serv-
/
I
426 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. /
ant. I gave her my card, and asked if I could see Mrs/catherick.
The card was taken into the front parlor, and the servant returned
with a message requesting me to mention what my business was.
" Say, if you please, that my business relates to Mrjg. Catheriek's
daughter," I replied. This was the best "pretext I. ctjrald think of,
on the spur of the moment, to account for my visit.
The servant again retired to the parhjr, again rjsturned, and this
time begged me, with a look of gloomy amazement, to walk in. .
I entered a little room with a flaring paper, o^the largest pattern,
on the walls. Chairs, tables, chiffonier, and &/ofa, all gleamed with
the glutinous brightness of cheap upholsterg/ On the largest table,
in the middle of the room, stood a smaj# Bible, placed exactly in
the centre, on a red and yellow wookwmat ; and at the side of the
table nearest to the window, with a/Bttle knitting-basket on her lap,
and a wheezing, blear-eyed old s^f&raA crouched at her feet, there sat
an elderly woman, wearing aJ,black net cap and a black silk gown,
and having slate-colored jHittens 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, sijuare cheeks ; a long, firm chin ; and thick, sensual, color-
less lips. Her figure was stout and sturdy, and her manner aggress-
ively self-possessed. This was Mrs. Catherick.
" You have come to speak to me about" my daughter," she 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 by 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 appear-
ed more perfectly unconcerned if I had told her of the death of the
goat in the inclosure olitside.
" 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 any thing about my daughter ?"
THK WOMAN IKT WHITE. 427
" 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 heather mother say so.''
" Her mother does, say so. H#w do you know she is dead ?"
" I am not at liberty to say how I know it ; but I da know 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
might have some natural interest in knowing whether she was alive
or dead."
" Just so," said Mrs. Catherick, with additional self-possession.
" Had you no other motive ?"
I 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, deliberately taking
off her slate-colored mittens and rolling them up, " I have only to
thank you for your visit, and to say that I will not detain yon 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 suppose, in going into mourning. There is not
much alteration necessary 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 avow-
ing that the purpose of my visit had not been answered yet.
" I ha/oe 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. Goon."
"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 knowledge, in doing that wrong.
One of them is Sir Percival Glyde."
" Indeed !"
428 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
I looked attentively to see if she flinched at the sudden mention
of that name. Not a muscle of her stirred — the hard, defiant, im-
placable 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 inter-
ested 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 Percival
Glyde to account for the wickedness he has committed."
" 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.
You know them, and for that reason I come to you"
" 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 born."
I had reached the woman at last, through the barrier of impen-
etrable 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 Mrs. Clements could tell me," I answered.
There was a momentary flush on her firm, square face, a moment-
ary stillness in her restless hands, which seemed to betoken a com-
ing 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 Glyde— 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 any thing you ask, for fear you may in-
jure her in the opinions of the townspeople. I see through you
and your precious speculation— I do ! and it amuses me. Ha ! ha !"
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 429
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 my character, and
determined to claim it back. I've been years and years about it —
and I have claimed it back. I have matched the respectable peo-
ple fairly and openly, on their own ground. If they say any thing
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 clergyman hows to me. Aha ! you didn't bar-
gain 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 ! otjk morals. I signed that petition this
morning. Go to the book-seller's shop. The clergyman's Wednes-
day evening 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. Church- warden 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 trades-people than I do with mine ? Has she
always lived within her income ? I have always lived within mine.
— Ah ! there is 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 sol-
emnly. The clergyman ceremoniously raised his hat, and walked on.
Mrs. Catherick returned to her chair, and looked at me with a grim-
mer 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.
430 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
"Exactly as it looked when I first came in," I answered. " I don't
doubt the position you have gained in the town, and I don't wish to
assail it even if I could. I came here because Sir Pefcival Glyde is,
to my certain knowledge, 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, fierce-
ly, vindictively. I had stirred in its lair the serpent-hatred of years
— but only for a moment. .Like a lurking reptile, it leaped up at
me — as she eagerly bent forward toward 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 me J" I said.
"No."
" You are afraid ?"
" Do I look as if I was ?"
" You are afraid of Sir Percival Glyde."
"Ami?"
Her color was rising, and her hands were at work again, smooth-
ing her gown. I pressed the point further and further 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 laugh-
ing.
" 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.
"I advise you not to be too sure of that," I rejoined. "I know
some things about him — and I suspect many more."
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 431
" What do you suspect ?",
"I'll tellyou what I dpnH suspect. I don't 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, daugh-
ter'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,"*
went on, determined to press her back to her last defenses. " 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
flush 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 five last 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 2" I asked.
She could not call the color that had left it back to her face, but
she had steadied her voice, she had recovered the defiant self-posses-
sion 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.
"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 fur-
tive light of hatred lurking deep in her steady eyes.
As I opened the door of the room to go out, she looked round at
432 THE WOMAN IX WHITE.
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 spec-
ulating, 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 they 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 com-
mon 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 parlor window.
• Mrs. Catherick had heard his footsteps approaching, in the silence
of that lonely place ; and 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 me a step
forward, in spite of herself. Before I had reached the turning which
led out of the square, my attention was suddenly aroused by the
sound of a closing dooir behind me.
I looked round, and saw 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 ihe side nearest to me.
The man did not hesitate a moment about the direction he should
take. He advanced rapidly toward the turning at which I had
stopped. I recognized 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
TDB WOMAN IN WHITE. 433
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 Bide, to keep him cautiously in view, and to dis-
cover what the business might be on which he was now employed.
Without caring whether he saw me or not, I walked 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 passen-
gers 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 Hamp-
shire. Before many days were 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 stop-
ping or turning aside, for Sir Percival or for any one. The great
responsibility which weighed on me heavily in London — the respon-
sibility 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 Hampshire. I could go and come
as I pleased, at Welmingham ; and if I chanced to fail in observing
any necessary precautions, the immediate results, at least, would af-
fect 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 neighborhood that was strange to me. Ac-
cordingly, I made my way to the nearest hotel, and ordered my din-
ner 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 sec-
ond day's letter to the same address. I could easily receive it, by
19
434 THE WOMAN IS WHITE.
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, be-
came a perfect solitude. I was left to reflect on what I had accom-
plished 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 whieh 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 neighborhood of the vestry was first re-
ferred 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 repre-
sented one of the minor peculiarities of the story, which occurred to
me while I was speaking. I was prepared for her answering me
confusedly, or angrily ; but the blank terror that seized her when I
said the words took me completely by surprise. I had, long before,
associated Sir Percival's Secret with the concealment of a serious
crime, which Mr-.. Catherick knew of— but I had gone no further
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 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 wze a con-
temptible 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 dis-
played. 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 further
from this point.
Mrs. Cathcrick's undisguised contempt for Sir Percival plainly ex-
tended 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 hi- mother's reputation was damaged by some hidden flaw
with which Mrs. Catherick and Sir Percival were both privately ac-
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 435
quainted? I could only put the first explanation to the test by
looking at the register of her marriage, and so ascertaining her
maiden name and her parentage, as a preliminary to further in-
quiries.
On the other hand, if the second case supposed were the true one,
what had been the flaw in her reputation ? Eemembering the ac-
count which Marian had given me of Sir Percival's father and moth-
er, and of the suspiciously 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
offering written evidence of the marriage, prove to me, at any rate,
that this doubt had no foundation in truth. But where was the
rogister 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 reg-
ister, also, in the vestry of Old Welmingham church.
These were the results of my interview with Mrs. Catherick — these
were the various considerations, all steadily converging to one point,
which docided 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, and, after in-
quiring the way, set forth on foot for Old Welmingham 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-beat-
en 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 dreary
as the modern town that I had just left. Here there was the brown,
breezy sweep of surrounding fields for the eye to repose on ; hero
the trees, leafless as they were, still varied the monotony of the pros-
pect, 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
mo to the clerk, I saw two men saunter out after me, from behind a
wall. The taller of the two — a stout, muscular man, in the dress of
a gamekeeper — was a stranger to me. The other was one of the
436 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
men who had followed me in London, on the day when I left Mr.
Kyrle'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 neighborhood 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 lookout,
near the church, in anticipation of my appearance at Old Welming-
ham. 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 in-
habited houses, with a patch of kitchen garden attached to it, on
which a laborer was at work. He directed me to the clerk's abode
— a cottage, at some little distance off, standing by itself, on the
outskirts of the forsaken village. The clerk was indoors, 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 neighbors 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 fire-place, and locked his cottage door behind us.
" Nobody at home to keep house for me," said the clerk, with a
cheerful sense of perfect freedom from all family incumbrances.
" My wife's in the church-yard there, and my children are all mar-
ried. 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. What's the news there now, if you please 2"
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
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 43 V
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 who 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 enough for a pris-
on-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 church-
warden 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 1 We
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, moldy, 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 burst-
ing 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
sky-light was now substituted for it. The atmosphere of the place
was heavy and moldy, '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 we, 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 !"
438 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
" 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. "Por-
traits 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."
"And why were they going to London ? To be repaired ?"
" That's it, sir. To be repaired ; and where they were past re-
pair, to be copied in sound wood. But, bless you, the money fell
short — and there they are, waiting for new subscriptions, and no-
body to subscribe. It was all done a year ago, sir. Six gentlemen
dined together about it at thchotel in the new town. They made
speeches, and passed resolutions, 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 was a
disgrace not to restore the .church and repair the famous carvings,'
and so on. There are the prospectuses that couldn't be distributed,
and the architect's plans and estimates, and the whole correspond-
ence, which set every body 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 can you expect out of
London ? There was 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 half-penny left. There the things are, as I said
before. We have nowhere else to put them — nobody in the new
town cares about accommodating us — we'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 want to
look back, sir ?"
Marian had informed me of Sir Percival's age at the time when
we had spoken together of his marriage engagement with Laura.
She had then described him as being forty-five years old. Calcu-
lating 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 safe-
ly start on my search through the register from that date.
" I want to begin with the year eighteen hundred and four " I
said.
'WHICH TBAE DID TOU SAY, Silt?"
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 441
" Which way after that, sir ?" asked the clerk. " Forward to our
time, or backward away from us ?"
" Backward from eighteen hundred and four."
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 small-
est 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 carefully in an iron safe I"
" 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 al-
ways 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 V 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-clerk to this church. A fine,
hearty old gentleman — and the most particular man breathing. As
long as he lived he kept a copy of this book in his office at Knowles-
bury, 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
hi? 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 notmatch him even there. Which year did you
say, sir? Eighteen hundred and what ?"
"Eighteen hundred and four," I replied, mentally resolving to
give the old man no more opportunities of talking until my exam-
ination 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 at every third page.
" There it is, sir," he said, with another cheerful smack on the open
volume. " There's the year you want."
As I was ignorant of the month in which Sir Percival was bom, I
19*
442 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
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 sep-
arated 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 traveled 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 noticea-
ble 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 information given in such cases. She was de-
scribed 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 further from my reach than ever.
What suggestions of any mystery unexplained had arisen out of
my visit to the vestry? I saw no suggestions anywhere. "What
progress had I made toward 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 de-
lays, 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-
bury," on the chance of advancing toward the main object of my in-
vestigation, by. first discovering the secret of Mrs. Catherick's con-
tempt for Sir Percival's mother.
" Have you found what you wanted, sir ?" said the clerk, as I
closed the register-book.. . ,
"Yes," I replied ; "but I have some inquiries, still to make. I
suppose the clergyman who". officiated here in .the year eighteen
hundred and three is no longer alive ?"
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 443
" No, no, sir ; he was dead three or four years before I came here —
and 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 say he was driven out of house and home by
his wife — and she's living still, down in the new town there. . I don't
know the rights of the story myself; all I know is, I got 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 lived ;
rides to the hounds, keeps his pointers, and all that. He's vestry-
clerk here now, as his father was before him."
" Did you not tell me your former master lived at Knowlesbury ?"
I asked, calling to mind the long story about the precise gentleman
of the old school, with which my talkative friend had wearied me
before he opened the register-book.
" Yes, to be sure, sir," replied the clerk. " Old Mr. Wansborough
lived at Knowlesbury, and young Mr. Wansborough lives there too."
" You said just now he was vestry-clerk, like his father before
him. I am not quite sure that I know what a vestry-clerk is."
" Don't you indeed, sir ? — and you come from London too ! Every
parish church, you know, has a vestry-clerk and a parish-clerk. The
parish-clerk is a man like me (except that I've got a deal more learn-
ing 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 business 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."
" Then, young Mr. Wansborough is a lawyer, I suppose ?"
" Of course he is, sir ! A lawyer in High Street, Knowlesbury^-
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 trot-
ting in to business on his 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 Knowlesbury 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 I"
It was still early in the forenoon. There was plenty of time for a
walk to Knowlesbury, and back again to Welmingham ; and there
was no person, probably, in the town who was fitter to assist my in-
quiries 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.
444 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
" 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 sepa-
rated.' The man in black went away by himself toward Welming-
ham ; 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 ir-
ritation of feeling at that moment ; on the contrary ,-they rather re-
vived my sinking hopes. In .the surprise of discovering the evi-
dence of the marriage, I had forgotten the inference I had drawn,
on first perceiving the men in the neighborhood of the vestry.
Their re-appearance reminded me that Sir Percival had anticipated
my visit to Old Welmingham church, as the next result of my inter-
view with Mrs. Catherick ; otherwise, he would never have placed
his spies there to wait for me. Smoothly and fairly as appearances
looked in the vestry, there was something 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
way 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, evi-
dently, in view ; and they seemed to. be hesitating, or differing,
about the best means of accomplishing it. I could not guess exact-
ly 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'
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 445
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 hus-
tled me with his shoulder. I had been more irritated by the man-
ner in which he and his companion had dogged my steps all the
way from Old Welmingham than I was myself aware of; and I un-
fortunately pushed the fellow away smartly with my open hand.
He instantly shouted for help. His companion, the tallman in the
gamekeeper'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 move-
ment 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 laborer was at work in an adjoining field, who must have wit-
nessed 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 make 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 compan-
ion 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 road-side. The men at once appeal-
ed to him. He replied that the magistrate was then sitting at the
town-hall, and recommended that we should appear before him im-
mediately.
"We went on to the town-hall. The clerk made out a formal sum-
mons ; and the charge was preferred against me, with the customary
exaggeration and the customary perversion of the truth, on such oc-
casions. The magistrate (an ill-tempered man, with a sour enjoy-
ment in the exercise of his own power) inquired if any one on or
near the road had witnessed the assault ; and, greatly to my sur-
prise, the complainant admitted the presence of the laborer in the
446 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
field. I was enlightened, however, as to the object of the admis-
sion, by the magistrate's next words. He remanded me at once for
the production of the witness, expressing, at the same time, his will-
ingness to take bail for my re-appearance, if I. could produce one
responsible surety to offer it. If I had been known in the town,
he would have liberated me on my own recognizances; but, as I
was a total stranger, it was necessary that I should find responsible
bail.
The whole object of the stratagem was now 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 extended 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 proceedings — perhaps to screen himself from
detection altogether — without the slightest fear of any hinderance
on my part. At the end of the three days, the charge would, no
doubt, be 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 unfit-
ted 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
vexation of my helpless position to conquer me — that a course of
action suddenly occurred to my mind, which Sir Percival had prob-
ably 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 remembered, at
the time of my first inquiries in the Blackwater Park neighborhood ;
and I had presented to. him a letter of introduction from Miss Hal-
combe, 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 dan-
gerous 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 ;tbe> same caution still, I now account-
ed for my presence . at Knowlesbury in the same manner— and I put
THE WOMAN IN 'WHITE.
447
it to the doctor to say whether the trust reposed in me by a lady
whom he well knew, and the hospitality I had myself received in
his house, justified me or not in asking him to come to my assist-
ance 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 drive 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 re-
sult 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.
Before half-past three he returned, and brought the doctor with
him. Mr. Dawson's kindness, and the delicacy with which he treat-
ed his prompt assistance quite as a matter of course, almost over-
powered me. The bail required was offered, and accepted immedi-
ately. 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 Knowlesbury.
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. Wansborough'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 eertainty, 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, unscrupulous nature of the
man, the local influence he possessed, the desperate peril of expo-
sure with which my blindfold inquiries 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 por-
tions of the conversation of the talkative old clerk, which had wea-
ried me at the time, now recurred to my memory with a new signifi-
cance ; and a suspicion crossed my mind darkly, which had not oc-
curred to me while I was in the vestry. On my way to Knowles-
bury, I had only proposed to apply to Mr. Wansborough for inforr
448 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
mation 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 coun-
try squire than a lawyer — and he seemed to be both surprised 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 oth-
er papers that had not been disturbed since his father's death. It
was a pity (Mr. "Wansborough said) that the old gentleman was not
alive to hear his precious copy asked for at last. He would have
ridden his favorite hobby harder than ever now. How had I come
to hear of the copy ? was it through any body in the town ?
I parried the question as well as I could. It was impossible, at
this stage of the investigation, to be too cautious ; and it was just as
well not to let Mr. Wansborough know prematurely that I had al-
ready 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 cer-
tain particulars to London by that day's post ; and one look at the
duplicate register (paying, of course, the necessary fees) might sup-
ply what I required, and save me a further journey to Old Welming-
ham. I added that, in the event of my subsequently requiring a
copy of the original register, I should make application to Mr. Wans-
borough's office to furnish me with the document.
After this explanation, no objection was made to producing 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
volume in the vestry; the only difference being that the copy was
more smartly bound. I took it with 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
persons 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 afterward pompared, entry by entry,
with the original, by myself. (Signed) Robert Wansborough, vestry-
clerk." Below this note there was a line added, in another hand-
writing, as follows : " Extending 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 WOHAN IN WHITE. 449
the two brothers. And between these entries, at the bottom of the
page — ?
Nothing ! Not a vestige of the entry which recorded the mar-
riage 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 evidence 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 con-
tain 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 solemnized and the copy had been made) to eighteen hundred
and twenty-seven, when Sir Percival 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 Blackwater Park than the poorest laborer 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 I had thought he might have been Anne Catherick's husband
— the offense 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 mag-
nitude and daring of the crime that it represented, the horror of the
consequences involved in its discovery, overwhelmed me. Who
could wonder now at the brute-restlessness of the wretch's life ; at
his desperate alternations between abject duplicity and reckless' vi-
olence; at the madness of guilty distrust which had made him im-
prison 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, the whole social
existence that he had usurped. This was the Secret, and it was
450 THE WOMAN IK "WHITE.
mine ' A word from me, and house, lands, baronetcy, were gone
from him forever— 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 precious than
my own depended on the caution which must now guide my slight-
est 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 staggered 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 posi-
tive 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 po-
sition of the original in the vestry was, as I had seen with my own
eyes, any thing 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 regis-
ter, 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 determination to keep my present pro-
ceedings 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
Mr. 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 defense. I stopped, before leaving Knowlesbury, and bought a
stout country cudgel, short, and heavy at the head. 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 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
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 451
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 frqm the church, I saw a man run by me in the rain, and then
heard the gate of a field by the road-side 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 darkness. Be-
fore 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 foot-path.^ 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 circum-
stance 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 run-
ners ; 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 per-
ilous 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 obsta-
cle in the road would have thrown me down to a certainty. Ere
long I felt the ground changing : it descended from the level at a
turn, and then rose again beyond. Down hill the men rather gain-
ed on me ; but up hill I began to distance them. The rapid, regu-
lar 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. Diver-
ging to the foot-path, 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 oth-
er 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, and, when I had reached the farther extremity of it, waited
there for a minute to recover my breath.
It was impossible to venture back to the road ; but I was deter-
mined, 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
452 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
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
following 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 acquaintance 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.
" Where are the keys ?" he asked. " Have you taken them ?"
" What 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 1 what shall
I do ? The keys are gone ! Do you hear f " cried the old man, shak-
ing 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 in the
darkness. " I've only just got back. I told you I had a long day's
work this morning — 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 the vestry
together. Quick ! quick 1"
I hurried him into the house. The treachery that I had every
reason to expect, the treachery that might deprive me of every ad-
vantage 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.
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 453
Before I had advanced ten paces, a man approached me from the
direction leading to the church. He spoke respectfully 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. " I am not Sir Percival."
The man drew back directly.
" I thought it was my master," he muttered, in a confused, doubt-
ful 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 any thing
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 recog-
nized the clerk.
" I say, measter," said the boy, pulling officiously at the clerk's
coat, " there be summun up yander in the church. I heerd 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 fol-
low 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 be-
trayed 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 sky-light on the roof brilliantly lit up from within.
It shone out with dazzling brightness against the murky, starless sky.
I hurried through the church-yard to the door.
454 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
As I got near, there was 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-J 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 fc* help.
The servant, who had followed me, staggered back shuddering,
and dropped to his knees. " Oh, my God !" he said ; " it's Sir Per-
cival !"
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 thoughts, 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 deserved — passed from my memory like a dream.
I remembered nothing but the horror of his situation. I felt noth-
ing 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 mo-
ment on it I"
There had been no renewed cry for help when the key was turn-
ed 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 sky-light
above.
I looked round at my two companions. The servant had risen to
his feet : he had taken the lantern, and was holding it up vacantly
at the door. Terror seemed to have struck him with downright
idiocy — he waited at my heels, he followed me about when I moved,
like a dog. The clerk sat crouched up on one of the tombstones,
shivering, and moaning 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 im-
pulse that occurred to me, I seized the servant and pushed him
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 455
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
sky-light, 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 sky-light, 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 occupied, to set it away from me, my exertions might
have ended then and there. I crouched on the rcof 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, wringing his
hands in despair ; and the scanty population of the village, haggard
men and terrified women, clustered beyond in the church-yard — 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, suffocating, burning, 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.
" The key of the church !" I shouted to the clerk. " "We must try it
that way — we may save him yet if we can burst open the inner door."
" No, no, no !" cried the old man. " No hope ! the church key and
the vestry key are on the same ring — both inside there ! Oh, sir,
he's past saving — he's dust and ashes by this time !"
" They'll see the fire from the town," said a voice from among the
men behind me. " There's a ingine in the town. They'll save the
church."
I called to that man — he had his wits about him — I called to him
to come and speak to me.- It would be a quarter of an hour at least
before the town engine could reach us. The horror of remaining in-
active all that time was more than I could face. In defiance of my
own reason, I persuaded myself that the doomed and lost wretch in
the vestry might still be lying senseless on the floor, might not be
dead yet. If we broke open the door, might we save him ? I knew
the strength of the heavy lock — I knew the thickness of the nailed
oak — I knew the hopelessness of assailing the one and the other by
ordinary means. But surely there were beams still left in the dis-
mantled cottages near the church ? What if we got one, and used
it as a battering-ram against the door ?
The thought leaped through me, like the fire leaping out of the
shattered sky-light. I appealed to the man who had spoken first of
456 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
the fire-engine in the town. " Have you got your pickaxes handy ?"
Yes ; they had. " And a hatchet, and a saw, and a bit of rope ?"
Yes ! yes ! yes { I ran down among the villagers, with the lantern
in my hand. " Five shillings apiece to every man who helps me !"
They started into life at the words. That ravenous second hunger
of poverty — the hunger for money — roused them into tumult and
activity in a moment. " Two of you for more lanterns, if you have
them ! Two of you for the pickaxes and the tools ! The rest after
me to find the beam !" They cheered — with shrill starveling voices
they cheered. The women and the children fled back on either
side. We rushed in a body down the church-yard path to the first
empty cottage. Not a man was left behind but the clerk- — the poor
old clerk standing on the flat tombstone sobbing and wailing over
the church. The servant was still at my heels : his white, helpless,
panic-stricken face was close over my shoulder as we pushed iyto
the cottage. There were rafters from the torn:down floor above ly-
ing loose on the ground, but they were too light. A beam ran across
over our heads, but not out of reach of 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 brick-work after it. There was a scream from the women,
all huddled in the door-way 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 door-way. Now for the work ! now for the rush at the
door ! There is the fire streaming into the sky, streaming brighter
than ever to light us ! Steady, along the church-yard 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 al-
ready ; 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 awe, a still-
ness of breathless expectation, possesses every living soul of us. We
look for the body. The scorching heat on our faces drives us back :
we see nothing— 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."
THE WOSIAN IN WHITE. 457
Those were the only two who spoke. When they were silent
again, nothing -stirred in the stillness but the babble 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 clamoring and shouting to-
gether. 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 tomb-
stones. " Save the church !" he cried out, faintly, as if the firemen
could hear him already. " Save the church !"
The only man who never moved was the servant. There he stood,
his "ayes 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 door-
way 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 tuimoil of my thoughts was fearfully and sud-
denly stilled, now I knew that he was dead. I stood useless and
helpless^T-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 smouldering 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 door-way-— then a consultation in low voices
— and then two men were detached from the rest, and sent out of
the church-yard 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 door-way; 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 questions and answers re-
peated 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
20
458 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
church. His head was against it ; he was down on his face." — " Is
his face burned ?" "No." "Yes, it is." " No ; scorched, not burn-
ed ; he lay on his face, I tell you."—" Who was he ? A lord, they
say." " No, not a lord. Sir Something ; 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 vestry."—" Is he dreadful to look at ?" " Dreadful !"—
" Not about the face, though ?" " No, no ; not so much about the
face." — "Don't any body 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 was 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 Visitation of
(jod 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 wit-
nesses summoned to assist the objects of the investigation.
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 459
My first proceeding in the morning was to go to the post-office
and inquire for the letter which I expected from Marian. No change
of circumstances, however extraordinary, could 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 ab-
sorbing interest with which my day began.
To my relief, the letter from Marian was at the office 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 evening before vivid in my memory. The
necessity of sparing Laura any sudden knowledge of the truth was
the first consideration 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 thing as a newspaper fall in Laura's way
while I was absent. In the case of any other woman less cour-
ageous and less reliable, I might have hesitated 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 investigation 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 ab-
straction 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 condi-
tion of the servant had made the police distrustful of his asserted
recognition of his master. They had sent to Knowlesbury over-
night to secure the attendance of witnesses who were well acquaint-
ed 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 by competent witnesses, and by the
460 THE -WOMAN IN WHITE.
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 Btruck
in the vestry, were the first witnesses called. The boy gave his evi-
dence 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, my 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 ves-
try 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 ac-
quainted 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 neighborhood,
and a total stranger to Sir Percival Glyde, could not be in a position
to offer any evidence on these two points.
The course that I was myself bound to take, when my formal ex-
amination had closedj 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 support of any surmises of mine was burned
with the burned register ; in the second place, because I could not
have intelligibly stated my opinion— my unsupported opinion —
without disclosing the whole story of the conspiracy; and producing,
beyond a doubt, the same unsatisfactory effect on the minds 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 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
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 461
crime, by destroying the page of the register on which the forgery
had been committed, was the other, and the surest of the two. If I
could produce no extract from the original book, to compare with
the certified copy at Knowlesbury, I could produce no positive evi-
dence, and cotfld 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 waited 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 way to the right regis-
ter ; and common caution would suggest his locking the door on
the inside in case of intrusion on the part of any inquisitive stran-
ger, or on my part, if I happened to be in the neighborhood at the
time.
. I can not believe that it was 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 con-
sideration, to dismiss any idea of this sort from his mind. Remem-
bering 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, was doubtless 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 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 sky-light window. Even if we had been able af-
terward 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
462 THE WOMAN IN WHITE;
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
toward 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 recognize having been discovered thus farto
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 invited to at-
tend. 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 evidence 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 noth-
ing else, except that the deceased was certainly his master.
My own impression was that he had been, first used (without 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 afterward 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 Perci-
val and myself. It is necessary to add that the mart's own testimo-
ny was never obtained to confirm this view. The medical report
of him declared that what little mental faculty he possessed was se-
riously shaken ; nothing satisfactory was extracted from bim at the
adjourned inquest; and, for aught I know to the contrary, he may
never have recovered to this day.
I returned to the hotel at Welmingham, 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 Knowlesbury. Our slender resources had suffered
already ; and the doubtful future — more doubtful than ever now —
made me dread decreasing our means unnecessarily by allowing my-
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 463
self 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
lead 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 circum-
stances 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 door-
way. Rude caricatures were scrawled on it already ; and the vil-
lage 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 bur-
den 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 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 giggling with another woman,
the picture of inanity, over an old washing-tub. There is nothing
serious in mortality ! Solomon, in all his glory, 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 Lau-
ra's identity had" now suffered through Sir PercivaVs death. He
was gone — and, with him, the chance was gone which had been the
one object of all my labors and all my hopes.
Could I look at my failure from no truer point of view 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 rob-
bery of the rights of others was the essence of Sir Percival's crime ?
464 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
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 honor, I must have gone at once to the stran-
ger 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 fece
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 which
Mrs. Catherick lived. Should I go back to the house, and make an-
other attempt to see her ? No.' That news of Sir Percival's death,
which was the last news she ever expected to hear, must have reach-
ed her hours since. All the proceedings at the inquest had been re-
ported 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
bad spoken those words. Some instinct, deep in my heart, which I
felt to be a true one, made the prospect of again entering her pres-
ence repulsive to me — I turned away 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 me by
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 who 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 correspondent was. Mrs. Cath-
erick.
The letter ran as follows— I copy it exactly, word for word :
THE WOMAN IN WHITE, 465
The Story continued by Mks. Catherick.
Sib, — You have not come back, as you said you would. No mat-
ter ; I know the news, and I write to tell you so. Did you see any
thing 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 whether 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 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 without 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 Welming-
ham. I had a contemptible fool for a husband. I had also the
honor of being acquainted (never mind how) with a certain gentle-
man (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 well as I do.
It will be more to the purpose to tell you how he worked himself
into my good graces. I was bom 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 — especial-
ly 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
20*
460 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
•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 overscrupulous where other people's affairs were con-
cerned ; and I was not overscrupulous 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 it. And I
had not got a gold watch and chain — which was another, still bet-
ter. And he had promised me one from London only the day be-
fore— which was a third, best of all. If I had known what the law
considered the crime to be, and Tiow 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 every thing. I was as curious about his
affairs 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 will-
ingly tell me all that I tell you here. I drew some of it from him
by persuasion and some o,f 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 liini
nay. His father and mother had always lived as man and wife —
none of the few people who were acquainted with them ever sup-
posed them to be any thing 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, be-
fore he could do this. One was a certificate of his birth, and the
other was a certificate of his "parents' marriage. The certificate 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 Welmingham..
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 467
But for one consideration, he might have gone to Knowlesbury
instead.
His mother had been living there just before she met with his fa-
ther— living under her maiden name ; the truth being that she was
really a married woman ; married in Ireland, where her husband had
ill-used her, and had afterward gone off with some other person. I
give you this fact on good authority : Sir Felix mentioned it to his
son, as the reason why he had not married. You may wonder why
the son, knowing that his parents had met each other at Knowles-
bury, 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 neighborhood. There no such danger existed, the former cler-
gyman at our church having been dead for some years. '
Old Welmingham suited his purpose as well as Knowlesbury. His
father had removed his mother from Knowlesbury, and had lived
with her at a cottage on the river, a little. distance from our village.
People who had known his solitary ways when he was single, did
not wonder at his solitary ways 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 hid-
ing his ugliness and his deformity in the. strictest privacy surprised
nobody. He lived in our neighborhood 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 place
at Old Welmingham- Church ?
So, as I told you, the son found our neighborhood 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-regis-
ter 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 London, and to tell
the lawyers to get him. the necessary certificate of his father's mar-
riage, 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.
408 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 hun-
dred 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 opportunity 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. How-
ever, 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 calculated 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 iault either. A more scrupulous woman than I was —
a woman who'ijiad 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 color (mixing it over
and over again in pot's.iAd bottles of mine), and, some time after-
ward, in practicing the nlBlwriting. 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 honorably enough
to myself. He gave me my watch and chain, and spared no expense
in buying them ; both were of superior workmanship, and very ex-
pensive. I have got them still — the watch goes beautifully.
You said, the other day, that Mrs. Clements had told you every
thing 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 suf-
ferer, 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 private-
ly, 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 him, on your word of honor 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 neigh-
THE WOJIAN IN WHITE. 469
bors 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.
Tes ! it had come to that. He had deceived.me about the risk I
ran in helping him. He had practiced 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 offense, 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 were not treated like la-
dies 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 L am taking all this
trouble — thankfully taking it — to gratify the curiositf of the merito-
rious young gentleman who hunted him down ?
Well, to go on. He was hardly fool enough to drive me to down-
right desperation. I was not the sort of woman whom it was quite
safe to hunt into a corner — he knew thq^, and wisely quieted me
with proposals for the future. 6
I deserved some reward (he was kind enough to say) for the serv-
ice I had done him, and some compensation r(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 Welmingham without first Jetting him know, and waiting till
I had obtained his permission. In my own neighborhood, no virtu-
ous female friends would tempt me into dangerous gossiping at the
tea-table. In my own neighborhood, 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 prospect of
a coming incumbrance in the shape of a child. What 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 with my respectable neighbors on their
own ground, and won it in course of time — as you saw yourself.
470 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
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, immediately. But
you must excuse one thing — you must excuse 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 overfond of my late, daughter. She was a wor-
ry to me from first to last, with the additional disadvantage of being
always weak in the head. You like candor, and I hope this satisfies
you..
There is no need to trouble you with many personal particulars
relating to those past times. It will be enough to say that I ob-
served 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 reasonably 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 mon-
ey ; 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 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 bom 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 tak-
ing a violent fancy to my girl. The consequence was, she learned
nothing at school, and was petted and spoiled at Limmeridge House.
Among other whims and fancies which they taught her there,
they put some nonsense into her head about always wearing white.
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 471
Hating white and liking- colors myself, I determined to take the non-
sense out of her head as soon as we got home again.
Strange to say, my daughter resolutely resisted me. "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 quarreled
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 new town ; and was
steadily living down my bad character, and slowly gaining ground
among the respectable inhabitants. It helped me forward greatly
toward this objectj to have my daughter with me. Her harmless-
ness, and her fancy for dressing in white, excited a certain amount
of sympathy. I left off opposing her favorite 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 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 command over myself,
and abused him, in my daughter's presence, 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 year ; and when I thought of the chance there might
be of her repeating my words in the town, and mentioning Ms name
in connection with them, if inquisitive people got hold of her, I was
finely terrified at the possible consequences. My worst fears for my-
self,-my worst dread of what he might do, led me no further than
472 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
this. I was quite unprepared for what really did happen, only the
next day.
On that next day, without any warning to me to expect him, he
came to the house.
His first words, and the tone in which he spoke them, surlyas it
was, 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 Jier which he was afraid to show to me.
" Leave us," he said, looking at her over his shoulder. She look-
ed back over Tier 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 always 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 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 re-
covered 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 ? Suppose, 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 insisting on
securing his own safety by shutting her up.
I tried to set things right. I told him that she had merely re-
peated, like a parrot, the words she had heard me say, and that she
knew no particulars whatever, because I had mentioned 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 jnst
spoken ; and that my unlucky words gave her just the chance of do-
ing 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
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 473
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, if you please. I have my feelings as a
mother, and my character to preserve in the town ; and I will sub-
mit to nothing but a Private Establishment, of the sort which my
genteel neighbors would choose for afflicted relatives of their own."
Those were my words. It is gratifying to me to reflect that I did
my duty. Though never overfond 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 conse-
quence of the facilities Offered by private Asylums), I could not re-
fuse 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 set people suspecting and inquiring, by re-
peating 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 cun-
ning enough to see that she had seriously frightened him, and
sharp enough afterward to discover that he was concerned in shut-
ting 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 confinement 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, name-
less gentleman, lately deceased. If either you or that unlucky lady
had questioned my daughter closely, and had insisted on her ex-
plaining what she really 'meant; you would have found her lose all
her self-importance suddenly, and get vacant, and restless, and con-
fused—you 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 suffer by its be-
ing 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 more. v.
Have I satisfied your curiosity ? I have taken pains enough to
474 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
sa#sfy ifc at any rate- Tnere is really nothing else I have to tell
you about myself, or my daughter. My worst responsibilities, 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 un-
der 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 m'e from a certain tongue well accustomed
to the telling of the same. And I did what I could afterward to
trace my runaway daughter, and prevent her from doing mischief,
by making inquiries myself in the neighborhood 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 I can
not close this letter without adding a word here of serious remon-
strance 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 ungentleman-like on your part! If we see each other
again, remember, if you please, that I will allow no liberties to be
taken with my reputation, and that the moral atmosphere of "Wel-
mingham (to use a favorite expression of my friend the rector's)
must not be tainted by loose conversation of any kind. If you al-
low yourself to doubt that my husband was Anne's father, you per-
sonally insult me 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 hap-
pen on the other, that curiosity will never be gratified.
Perhaps, after what I have just said, you will see the necessity of
writing me an apology. Do so ; and I will willingly receive it. I
will afterward, if your wishes point to a second interview with me,
go a step further, and receive you. 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 favor me with your company, pray understand that the
conversation must be entirely on general subjects. Any attempted
Missing Page
Missing Page
THE WOMA.T m WHITE, 477
reference to this letter will be quite us<\t intervals during the ad-
to acknowledge having written it. The evX^g which the Coroner
ed in the fire, I know ; but I think it desirable T&fent inquiry which
caution, nevertheless. "every available
On this account, no names are mentioned here, norVy verdict in
ture attached to these lines : the handwriting is disguisecNanal de-
out, and I mean to deliver the letter myself, under circumsV.the
which will prevent all fear of. its being traced to my house. !><s
can have no possible cause to complain of these precautions, seeing>Sv
that they do not affect the information I here communicate, in con- >v
sideration 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.
The Story continued by Walter Haeteight.
My first impulse, after reading Mrs. Catherick's extraordinary
narrative, was to destroy it. The hardened, shameless depravity
of the whole composition, from, beginning to end — the atrocious
perversity of mind which persistently associated me with a calamity
for which I was in no sense answerable, and with a death which I
had risked my life in trying to avert — so disgusted me, that I was
on the point of tearing the letter, when a consideration suggested
itself, which warned me to wait 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 which I had already
arrived.
He had committed his offense as I had supposed him to have com-
mitted 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 Per-
cival. My interest in the question of the forgery was now 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 re--
mained to baffle me — the parentage of Anne Catherick, on the fa-
ther's side. There were one or two sentences dropped in' her moth-
er's narrative, which it might be useful to refer to again, when mat-
ters of more immediate importance allowed mc leisure to search for
the missing evidence. I did not despair of still finding that evi-
dence ; and I had lost none of my anxiety to discover it, for I had
478 THE WOMAN IN "WHITE.
ed Laura into 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 me — the necessary formalities were ob-
served— 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
kindness, and apologizing for not expressing my thanks personal-
ly, 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.
II.
It was 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 sur-
prise me, on my return, with a change from the close, noisy street,
to the pleasant neighborhood of trees and fields, and the river. She
was full of projects for the future — of the drawings she was to fin-
ish ; 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.
When Laura had left us, and when we could speak to one anoth-
er without restraint, I tried to give some expression to the gratitude
and the admiration which filled my heart. But the generous crea-
ture would not wait to hear me. That sublime self-forgetfulness of
THE WOMAN IS WHITE. 479
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 worn and' weary,
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 recognized him. He was the owner of the Lunatic Asy-
lum."
" Was the 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 be-
hind 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 below us. I ran past Laura before
she could 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 landing 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 under-
neath in pencil : ' Dear lady ' (yes 1 the villain could address me in
that way still) — ' dear lady, one word, I implore you, on a matter se-
480 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
rious 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 of what he might do
in your absence would be ten times more trying to me if I declined
to see 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 horri-
ble 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 you — but I can't repeat what he said to me. 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, protesting softly all the way. In the first by-street I turn-
ed, 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 you left us. . I told you, if you remember,
that Sir Percival would be too headstrong to take his friend's ad-
vice 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 ad-
vice, 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 jour-
ney to Hampshire— by the lawyer's men for some distance from the
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 481
railway, and by the Count himself to the door of the house. How
he contrived 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 him-
self, because he believed you would next proceed against the dead
man's partner in the conspiracy. He at once made his arrange-
ments 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 offense, so far as he was concerned. That
was his purpose, on his own confession to me. The only considera-
tion which made him hesitate at the last moment — "
"Yes?"
" It is hard to acknowledge it, "Walter — and yet I must. I was
the only consideration. No words can say how degraded 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 doc-
tor he thought of my misery if I- was separated from Laura, of my
responsibility if I was called on to answer for effecting her escape —
and he risked the worst that you could do to him the second time,
for my sake. All he asked was that I would remember the sacrifice,
and restrain your rashness, in my own 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
what he can not really do. I doubt his power of annoying us, by
means of the owner of the Asylum, now that Sir Percival is dead,
and Mrs. Catherick is 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
21
482 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
said, in his loftiest manner. ' He has a man of brains to deal with,
a man who 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 t'.ie body of Mr. Hartright. But my lamented friend was ob-
stinate. See I I mourn his loss — inwardly in my soul ; outwardly
on my hat. This trivial crape expresses sensibilities which I sum-
mon Mr. Hartright to respect. They may be transformed to im-
measurable 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 gray eyes settled on my face — he took off
his hat solemnly — bowed, bare-headed — 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 indoors 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 certain
of nothing, and I acted at once on my own impulse. You had
spoken, before leaving us, of moving into a quieter neighborhood
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 you think of coming to this place ?"
" My ignorance of other localities in the neighborhood T>f 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 dispatched a messenger with a note, on the
chance that the school might still be in existence. It was in exist-
ence ; 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 ad-
dress 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
THE WOAIAN IN WHITE. 483
anxious look still remained on her face while I was speaking; and
the first question she asked, when 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 hundred-fold her distrust of his unfathomable cun-
ning, 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 what I
thought of his message, and what I meant to do next, after hear-
ing 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 fam-
ily ; and the two men who have wronged her shall answer for their
crime to me, though the justice that sits in tribunals is powerless to
pursue them.' One of those men is beyond mortal reach. The
other remains — and my resolution remains."
Her eyes lit up ; her color rose. She said nothing ; but I saw all
her sympathies gathering 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 Mm. I have learned 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, toward you and toward 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 forever — I must be silent now, even to you, till I see for my-
self that I can harmlessly and honorably speak. Let us leave that
subject. There is another which has more pressing claims on our
484 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
attention. You have kept Laura, mercifully kept her, in ignorance
of her husband's death — "
" Oh, Walter, surely 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 hus-
band's death besides the reason you have just mentioned ?"
"I have."
"A reason connected with that subject which must not be men-
tioned 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.
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 sor-
rows 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. Thenceforward 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 on ourselves. We both watched Laura more anx-
iously 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 im-
plied on my increased exertions was strengthened by the doubtful-
ness 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
permanent and more lucrative employment than had yet been offi=red
TIIE WOMAN IN WHITE. 485
to me was a necessity of our position — a necessity for which I now
diligently set myself to prpvide.
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 — or, in other words, to re-
maining within my reach. I contrived 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 neighborhood ; and having found out the
agent who had the disposal of the furnished house in which he
lived, I asked if number five, Forest Eoad, was likely to be let with-
in 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 pres-
ence of Mrs. Clements. I had promised to return, and to confide to
her those particulars relating to the death and burial of Anne Cath-
erick, which I had been obliged to withhold at our first interview.
Changed as circumstances now were, there was no hinderance to my
trusting the good woman with as much of the story of the conspira-
cy as it was necessary to tell. I had every reason that sympathy
and friendly feeling could suggest to urge on me the speedy perform-
ance 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
Catherick's parentage on the father's side.
A multitude of small considerations in connection with this sub-
ject— trifling 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 Ma-
jor 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
486 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
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 dispatched 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.
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 answer-
ed my questions, by communicating these important facts :
In the first place, " the late Sir Percival Glyde, of Blackwater
Park," had never set foot in Varneck Hall. The deceased gentle-
man was a total stranger to Major Donthorne, and to all his family.
In the second place, " the late Mr. Philip Fairlie, of Limmeridge
House," had been, in his younger days, the intimate friend and con-
stant 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 twen-
ty-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 val-
ue— but, taken in connection with certain facts, every one of which
either Marian or I knew to be true, it suggested one plain conclu-
sion that was, to our minds, irresistible.
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 hun-
dred 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 disposi-
tion entirely unlike his brother Frederick, he was the spoiled dar-
ling of society, especially of the women — an easy, light-hearted, im-
pulsive, affectionate man; generous to a fault; constitutionally 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 as-
THE "WOMAN IN WHITE. 487
sistance toward strengthening the conclusion at which I had ar-
rived. She had described Mrs. Fairlie (in writing to me) as " plain-
looking," and as having " entrapped the handsomest man in En-
gland 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 malice 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 cir-
cumstances 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 let-
ter 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, be-
yond all question, in perfect innocence of heart. It even seemed
doubtful, on consideration, whether Mr. Philip Fairlie himself had
been nearer than his wife to any suspicion of the truth. The dis-
gracefully deceitful circumstances under which Mrs. Catherick had
married, the purpose of concealment which the marriage was in-
tended to answer, might well keep her silent for caution's sake, per-
haps for her own pride's sake also — even assuming that she had the
means, in his absence, of communicating with the father of her un-
born child.
As this surmise floated through my mind, there rose on my mem-
ory 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 conspir-
acy of which Anne had been the innocent instrument and Laura the
innocent victim, could never have been planned. With what un-
erring 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 church-yard where Anne
Catherick now lay buried. I thought of the by-gone 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 you /" 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
488 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
lake, the very words had now come true. "Oh, if I could only he
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 !" 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 companionship let her remain undisturbed.
So the ghostly figure which has haunted these pages as it haunt-
ed my life, goes down into the impenetrable Gloom. Like a Shad-
ow she first came to me, in the loneliness of the night. Like a
Shadow she passes away, in the loneliness of the dead.
III.
Fouit 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 vigor 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 prematurely 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 return-
ed. My closest observation of her detected but one serious result of
the conspiracy which had once threatened her reason and her life.
Her memory of events, from the period of her leaving Blackwater
Park to the period of our meeting in the burial-ground of Limmer-
idge 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 wandered and lost itself as helpless-
ly 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 now
awoke, which were one and all alike, the memories of our love.
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 489
Gradually and insensibly our daily relations toward 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 me in the morning. The kiss seem-
ed 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 oft-
en flagged between us when we were alone. When I touched her
by accident, I felt my heart beating fast, as it used to beat at Lim-
meridge 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 inter-
vals of silence and thoughtfulness, and denied she had been think-
ing when Marian asked her the question. I surprised myself one
day, neglecting my work, to dream over the little water-color por-
trait 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 by-gone time.
Changed as all the circumstances now were, our position toward 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 wreck 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 Tier. The utter helplessness of
her position; her friendless dependence on air the forbearing gen-
tleness 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 on both sides must be ended; that the relations in
which we stood toward one another must be altered, in some set-
tled manner, for the future ; and that it rested with me, in the first
instance, to recognize the necessity for a change.
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
can not account for the capricious state of mind in which this feel-
ing originated, but the idea nevertheless possessed me, that some
previous change of place and circumstances, some sudden break in
the quiet monotony of our lives, so managed as to vary 4he home
aspect under which we had been accustomed to see each other, might
prepare the way for me to speak, and make it easier and less em-
barrassing for Laura and Marian to hear.
21*
490 THE WOMAN '\S WHITE.
"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 welcome to us. The air
was mild ; the prospects over hill and wood and down were beauti-
fully varied by the shifting April light and shade ; and the restless
sea leaped 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 afterward by her advice.
On the third day from our arrival I found a fit opportunity 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 household, Walter ; we can not go on
much longer as we are now. I see it as plainly as you do — as plain-
ly 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 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 tlds confidence between us," I said, "wheth-
er 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
THE "WOMAN IN "WHITE. 491
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 establishing the fact of Laura's existence,
the least selfish reason that I can advance for our marriage is rec-
ognized 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 oc-
curred to you, in considering this difficult subject, which have oc-
curred to me. Ought we to return with her to Limmeridge, now
that she is like herself again, and trust to the 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 handwriting 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 iden-
tity to Mr. Fairlie, and take her back to Limmeridge House, against
the evidence of her aunt, against the evidence of the medical certifi-
cate, 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 preju-
dices might be reasoned away ; that the false testimony of the Count
and his wife, and all the rest of the false testimony, might be con-
futed ; that the recognition could not possibly be ascribed to a mis-
take between Laura and Anne Catherick, or the handwriting be
declared by our enemies to be a clever fraud — all these are assump-
tions which, more or less,, set plain probabilities at defiance, but let
them pass — and let us ask ourselves what would be the first cpnse^
492 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
quence 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 ex-
amine her publicly, she is utterly incapable of assisting the asser-
tion 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 delays would be
unendurable; the perpetual suspense, after what we have suffered
already, would be heart-breaking. You are right about the hope-
lessness 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 V
"Beyond a doubt, yes. It is the chance of recovering the lost
date of Laura's journey to London. Without returning to the rea-
sons 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 ; 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 suffer-
ed will in this world never be redressed."
" Do you fear failure yourself, Walter 2"
" 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 unas-
sailable, and who may remain unassailable to the end. With every
worldly 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 who
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
clanger 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
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 493
for hers. "Wait here, my Brother ! — wait my dearest, best friend, till
Laura comes and tells you what I have done now !"
For the first time since the farewell morning at Limmeridge, 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 intensity of all familiar per-
ceptions. The sun grew blinding bright ; the white sea-birds, chas-
ing 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 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 nest-
led with a tender contentedness on my bosom. " Oh," she said, in-
nocently, " 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 shad-
ow 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 oc-
cupation at the house in Forest Road expired in June. If he renew-
ed 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 coun-
try, then I had no time to lose in arming myself to meet him as I
best might.
In the first fullness of my new happiness, there had been moments
when my resolution faltered — moments when I was tempted to be
safely content, now that the dearest aspiration of my life was ful-
filled in the possession of Laura's love. For the first time I thought
494 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
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. Innocently
Laura had tempted me aside from the hard path-^-innocently 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 mem-
ory had lost all trace. One night (barely two weeks after outmar-
riage), when I was watching her at rest, I saw the tears come slowly
through her closed eyelids, I heard the faint murmuring words es-
cape her which told me that her spirit was back again on the fatal
journey from Blackwater Park. That unconscious appeal, so touch-
ing 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 following 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 particulars 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 appearance. She
describes him as " not having crossed the frontiers of his native
country for years past " — as " anxious to know if any Italian gentle-
men were settled in the nearest town to Blackwater Park " — as "re-
ceiving 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
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 495
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 con-
clusion 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 anger at
his proceedings toward herself. 2" applied it to him, with the de-
liberate 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 gain-
ed, 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 En-
gland. Men were among us by hundreds, whom the ceaseless dis-
trustfulness of their governments had followed privately, by means
of appointed agents, to our shores. My surmises did not for a mo-
ment class a man of the Count's abilities and social position with
the ordinary rank and file of foreign spies. I suspected him of hold-
ing a position of authority, of being intrusted by the government
which he secretly served with the 'Organization and management of
agents- specially employed in this country, both men and women ;
and I believed Mrs. Kubelle, 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 ossailable 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 coun-
tryman 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 circum-
stances, was also the only Italian with whom I was intimately ac-
quainted— 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 favor of my personal partiality, but
by right of their direct connection with the circumstances to be de-
tailed. For this reason, not Pesca only, but my mother and sister as
496 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
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
which, in their jealous affection for me, they both continued to ad-
here ; the painful necessity which that prejudice imposed on me of
concealing my marriage from them till they had learned to do jus-
tice 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 imbit-
tered my disappointments— the steady march of events has inexora-
bly 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 residence 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
I knew that his honor 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 connection with me and my interests, although he has hith-
erto been separated from all connection 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 necessary 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 Koad, 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 recognizing me in the day-time, for the only
occasion when I had been seen by him was the occasion on which
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.
MY POOE LITTLE MAN! HE SAID.
THE W01TAN IN WHITE. 499
I saw nobody ; but I heard, in the room, first a shrill whistling and
singing of birds — then the deep ringing voice which Marian's de-
scription had made familiar to me. " Come out on my little finger,
my pret-pret-pretties !" 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 exercising
his canaries, as he used to exercise them in Marian's time, at Black-
water 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 gar-
den gate opened and closed. The Count had come out.
He crossed the road, and walked toward 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 cor-
pulence, 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 neighborhood 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-humor, 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 ter-
races of the Park.
Here he stopped at a pastry-cook's, went in (probably to give an
order), and came out again immediately with a tart in his hand.
An Italian was grinding an organ before the shop, and a miserable
little shriveled 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 gro-
tesque tenderness ; " you look hungry. In the sacred name of hu-
manity, I offer you some lunch !" The organ-grinder piteously put
in his claim to a penny from the benevolent stranger. The Count
shrugged his shoulders contemptuously, and passed on.
500 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
We reached the streets and the better class of shops between the
New Road and Oxford Street. The Count stopped again, and en-
tered 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 per-
formance announced was " Lucrezia Borgia," and it was to take
place that evening. The opera-glass in the Count's hand, his care-
ful 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 was a chance, at
least, that the Count might be easily visible among the audience, to
me, 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 Professor'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.
" Eight-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 performance. I went first to the bar-
rier separating us from the. stalls, and looked for the Count in that
part of the theatre. He was not there. Returning along the pas-
sage 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
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 501
of the purpose for which I had brought him to the theatre, and he
was rather surprised that we did not move nearer to the stage.
The curtain rose, and the opera began.
Throughout the whole of the first act we remained in our posi-
tion — 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
neighbors, 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 will ap-
plaud), without the least consideration 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, ladorned with perfectly-fitting
filack 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 neighbors on either side
— hearty, ruddyJaced 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 the pit that
night started from the soft, comfortable patting of the black-gloved
hands. The man's voracious vanity devoured this implied tribute
to 'his local and critical supremacy, with an appearance of the high-
est relish. Smiles rippled continuously over his fat face. He look-
ed about him, at the pauses in the music, serenely satisfied with him-
self and his fellow-creatures. " Yes ! yes ! these barbarous English
people are learning something from me. Here, there, and every-
where, I — Fosco — am an Influence that is felt, a Man who sits su-
preme !" If ever face spoke, his face spoke then — and that was its
language.
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 of the boxes
grandly with his opera -glass. At first his back was toward us;
but he turned round in time to our side of the theatre, and looked
at the boxes above us ; using his glass for a few minutes — then re-
moving it, but still continuing to look up. This was the moment I
chose, when his full face was in view, for directing Pesca's attention
to him.
" Do you know that man ?" I asked.
" Which man, my friend ?"
502 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
" The tall fat man standing there, with his face toward us."
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 some-
thing 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."
" Are you quite sure you don't recognize 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 of the raised
dais upon which the pit seats were all placed. Here his small stat-
ure was no hinderance to him ; here he could see over the heads of
the ladies who were seated near the outermost part of the bench.
A slim, light-haired man, standing by us, whom I had not noticed*
before — a man with a scar on his left cheek — looked attentively at
Pesca as I helped him up, and then looked still more attentively,
following the direction of Pesca's eyes, at the Count. Our conver-
sation might have reached his ears, and might, as it struck me, have
roused his curiosity.
Meanwhile Pesca fixed his eyes earnestly on the broad, full, smil-
ing face, turned a little upward, exactly opposite to him.
"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 downward toward the boxes be-
hind us on the pit tier.
The eyes of the two Italians met.
The instant before, I had been perfectly satisfied, from his own re-
iterated assertion, that Pesca did not know the Count. The instant
afterward, I was equally certain that the Count knew Pesca !
Knew him ; and — more surprising still — feared 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 mo-
ment, the sudden rigidity of all his features, the furtive scrutiny of
his cold gray 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 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 Jby the sight of Pesca, as I had drawn mine. He was *
mild, gentleman-like man, looking like a foreigner ; and his interest
in our proceedings was not expressed in any thing approaching to
an offensive manner.
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 503
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 f 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 recognized 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 us, avoiding a stoppage caused by some people on our side
of the pit leaving their places, by which Pesca and myself were de-
layed. 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 ex-
tremest bewilderment. , " What on earth is the matter ?"
I walked on rapidly, without answering. The circumstances
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 hundred-fold
by telling him what my purpose was, as plainly and unreservedly as
I have acknowledged it here.
" My friend, what can I do ?" cried the Professor, piteously appeal-
504 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
ing 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. Tou left Italy, as
you have told me yourself, for political reasons. Tou 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 pro-
duced in that man."
To my unutterable surprise, these words, harmless as they ap-
peared 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 know what you ask."
He spoke in a whisper — he looked at me as if I had suddenly re-
vealed to him some hidden danger to both of us. In less than one
minute of time, he was so altered from the 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 re-
dressed, 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 door.
" 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, talk-
ing to himself incoherently in his own language. After several
turns backward and forward, 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 me?"
" 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.
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 505
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 extraor-
dinary warning carried with it to my mind the conviction that he
spoke the truth.
" Mind this !" he went on, shaking his hands at me in the vehe-
mence 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 you 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 occa-
sion too serious to permit him the use of the quaint turns and
phrases of his ordinary vocabulary, was painfully increasing the
difficulty he had felt from the first in speaking to me at all. Hav-
ing learned 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 nec-
essary to my enlightenment. 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 "wild-
ness 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 Italy," he began,
" except that it was for political reasons. If I had been driven to
this country by the persecution of my government, I should not
have kept those reasons a secret from you or from any one. I have
concealed them because no government authority has pronounced
the sentence of my exile. Tou 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 di-
rection of my Chief. I was overzealous, in my yoirhger 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
• 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
leader are those which caution renders absolutely necessary in this portion of the
narrative.
22
506 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
years hence I may be called away. It is all one to me — I am here,
I support myself by teaching, and I wait. I violate no oath (you
shall hear why presently) in making my confidence complete by tell-
ing 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 individualized for the purpose of these pages if I call
it " The Brotherhood," on the few 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 prin-
ciples 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-men, 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 suffering this Society took its rise.
It is not for you to say — you Englishmen, who have conquered your
freedom so long ago, that you have conveniently forgotten what
blood you shed, and what extremities you proceeded to, in the con-
quering— it is not for you to say how far the worst of all exasper-
ations 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, dis-
trust him, open your eyes in wonder at that secret self which
smoulders in him, sometimes under the every-day respectability and
tranquillity of a man like me ; sometimes under the grinding pov-
erty, 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 themselves
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
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 507
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 Presi-
dents 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 necessity of the So-
ciety, to make them known to each other. With such a safeguard
as this, there is no oath among us on admittance. "We are iden-
tified with the Brotherhood by a secret mark, which we all bear,
which lasts while our lives last. We are told to go about our ordi-
nary business, and to report ourselves to the -President, or the Sec-
retary, 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 Brother-
hood— 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. Sometimes the death is de-
layed ; sometimes it follows close on the treachery. It is our first
business to know how to wait, our second business to know how to
obey when the word is spoken. Some of us may wait our lives
through, and may not be wanted. Some of us may be called to the
work, or to the preparation for the work, the very day of our ad-
mission. I myself — the little, easy, cheerful man you know, who
of his own accord would hardly lift up his handkerchief to strike
down the fly that buzzes about his face — I, in my younger time, un-
der provocation so dreadful that I will not teU you of it, entered the
Brotherhood by an impulse, as I might have killed myself by an im-
pulse. I must remain in it, now — it has got me, 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 was chosen Secretary ;
and all the members of that time, who were brought face to face
with my President, were brought face to face also with me."
I began to understand him; I saw the end toward which his
extraordinary disclosure was 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 conclusions 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
508 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
•whispered, speaking close at my ear, with his eyes looking watch-
fully at the door. "Whatever comes of it, you shall not reproach
me with having hidden any thing from you which it was necessary
to your interests to know. I have said that the Brotherhood iden-
tifies 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 deeply burned in the flesh, and
stained of a bright blood-red color. 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 who has this mark branded in this place," he said, cov-
ering 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
laws can protect him. Remember what you have seen and heard ;
draw what conclusions you like ; act as you please. But, in the
name of God, whatever you discover, whatever you do, tell me noth-
ing ! Let me remain free from a responsibility which it . horrifies
me to think of — which I know, in my conscience,- is not my respon-
sibility now. For the last time, I say it — on my honor 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 En-
gland— 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, when 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 few parting words 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-morrow ? 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, was to get back to
our former relations toward 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."
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 509
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 infor-
mation I had received — to make sure of the Count, that night, or
to risk the loss, if I only delayed till the morning, 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 even-
ing was, beyond all question, the preliminary only to his escape from
London. The mark of the Brotherhood 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 recogni-
tion of Pesca.
It was easy to understand why that recognition had not been mu-
tual. 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 migLt
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 recognized 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 inust 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 from throwing me off my
guard and taking that way, when he had me alone within his reach.
The only means of defense against him on which I could at all rely
to lessen the risk, presented themselves, after a little careful think-
510 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. •
ing, clearly enough. Before I made a"ny 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 absolute-
ly 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 prep-
arations, and absolutely to commit myself to an interview with the
Count, before either Laura or Marian could have the slightest sus-
picion of what I intended to do.
A letter addressed to Pesca represented the surest measure of pre-
caution which it was now possible for me to take. I wrote as fol-
lows:
" 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. Tou 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 intrusted to you, without
mercy and without 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, inclosed them in an envelope, and
sealed it up. On the outside, I wrote this direction : " Keep the in-
closure 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 inclosing it in a second sealed envelope, ad-
dressed 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 any thing happen-
ed.to me in the Count's house, I had now provided for his answer-
ing it with his life.
That the means of preventing his escape under any circumstances
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 unenlightened as to the Count's identity^-or,
in other words, to be left uncertain enough about facts to justify him
to his own conscience in remaining passive — betrayed plainly that
THE W01T AN IN WHITE. 511
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 al-
low of any doubt. Considering 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 written
Count Fosco's death-warrant, if the fatal emergency happened which
authorized Pesca to open my inclosure.
I left my room to go down to the ground-floor of the house, and
speak to the landlord about finding me a messenger. 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 hear-
ing what I wanted. We had the boy up stairs ; and I gave him his
directions. He was to take the letter in a cab, to put it into Pro-
fessor Pesca's own hands, and to bring me back a line of acknowl-
edgment from that gentleman ; returning in the cab, and keeping it
at the door for my use. It was then nearly half-past ten. I calcu-
lated 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 be easily 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 on the outside of the
little 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 was in the room but Marian. She was 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 wishing to see whether
512 THE WOMAN IS WHITE.
Laura was asleep. Marian's quick eyes were beginning to look in-
quiringly at my face ; Marian's quick instinct was beginning to dis-
cover that I had something weighing on my mind.
When I entered the bed-chamber, and softly approached the bed-
side by the dim flicker of the night-lamp, my wife 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 sleeps — when I saw
her hand resting open on the coverlet, as if it was waiting uncon-
sciously for mine — surely there was some excuse for me ? I only al-
lowed 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 you, 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 con-
tained these two, sentences, in Pesca's handwriting :
" Your letter is received. If I don't see you before the time yon
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 candle-light 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 her. 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 every thing else. Come, Marian,
give me a' kiss, and show that you have the courage to wait till I
come back."
THE WOMAN IX WHITE. 513
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 em-
harked at last, without let or hinderance, on my hazardous enter-
prise, heated me into such a fever of excitement 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 away from the
Count's honse — paid and dismissed him— and walked on to the
door.
As I approached the garden gate, I saw another person advan-
cing toward it also, from the direction opposite to mine. We met
under the gas lamp in the road, and looked at each other. I in-
stantly recognized the light-haired foreigner, with the scar on his
cheek; and I thought he recognized me. 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 .2 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 wish-
ing to see him at that late hour. Accordingly, while I was waiting,
I took out my card, and wrote under my name, " On important busi-
ness." 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 to 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
92*
514 THE W03IA2T IN WHITE.
by the confidence with which I gave her the card. After staring
at me in great perturbation, 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 re-appeared. " Her master's compliments,
and would I be so obliging as to say what my business was?"
"Take my compliments back," I replied; "and say that the busi-
ness can not 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.
Theke 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 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 a chair. His shirt-sleeves were turned up at the
wrists — but no higher. A carpet-bag was on one side of him, and
a box on the other. Books, papers, and articles of wearing apparel
were scattered about the room. On a table, at one side of the door,
stood the cage, so well known to me by description, which contained
his white mice. The canaries and the .cockatoo were probably in
some other room. He was seated before the box, packing it, when
I went in, and rose with some papers in his hand to receive me.
His face still betrayed plain traces of the shock that had over-
whelmed him at the Opera. His fat checks hung loose ; his cold
gray eyes were furtively vigilant ; his voice, look, and manner were
all sharply suspicious alike, as he advanced a step to meet me, and
requested, with distant civility, that I would 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 with which he looked hard in my face
while he spoke, convinced me that I had passed unnoticed by him
at the Opera. He had seen Pesca first ; and from that moment, till
he left the theatre, he had evidently seen nothing else. My name
would necessarily suggest to him that I had not come into his house
with other than a hostile purpose toward himself; but he appeared
to be utterly ignorant, thus far, of the real nature,£f my errand.
"I am fortunate in finding you here to-night," I said. "You
seem to be on the point of taking a journey ?"
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 515
" Is your business connected with my journey ?"
" In some degree."
" In what degree 3 Do you know where I am going to 2"
" 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 key in his pocket.
"You and I, Mr. Hartright, are excellently well acquainted with
one another by reputation," he said. " Did it, by any chance, occur
to you 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 trifle
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 fire-place. 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 2" 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 rea-
son, if you like."
" How can you show it ?"
" You have got your coat off," I said. . " Eoll 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 something 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,
516 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
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 composure,
so unnatural and so ghastly, that it tried my nerves as no outbreak
of violence could have tried them. " I want one moment for my
own thoughts, 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 fire-
place."
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 my pocket-book, handed it to him at arms-length, and return-
ed to my former position in front of the fire-place.
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 explana-
tion of those words — the Count felt no such necessity. One read-
ing 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 fire-place yet. But
I am a just man, even to my enemy — and I will acknowledge before-
hand 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 2"
" On no conditions."
His hand dropped into the drawer again.
"Bah! we" are traveling in a circle," he said; "and those clever
brains of yours are in danger again. Your tone is deplorably im-
prudent, 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
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 511
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 my impene-
trable 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."
" Ho 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 tha# 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 whom you
have, every reason to fear."
My answer reached bim 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 be-
fore 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 carelessly waved
his right hand.
"I consent to hazard a guess," he said, jeeringly. "A lady's in-
terests, 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 mo-
518 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
inent. He shut up the drawer 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 at-
tempted denial of plain facts will be quite useless in my presence.
You are guilty of an infamous conspiracy. And the gain of a for-
tune of ten thousand pounds was 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 immediate-
ly, and his eyes opened on me in wider and wider astonishment.)
" I am not here to disgrace myself by bargaining for money which
has passed through your hands, and which has been the price of a
vile crime — "
" Gently, Mr. Hartright. Your moral claptraps have an excellent
effect in England — keep them for yourself and your own country-
men, 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 senti-
ments, 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 conspiracy,
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 de-
pend on your personal asseveration, of the date at which my wife
left Blackwater Park and traveled to London."
" So ! so 1 you can lay your finger, I see, on the weak place," he
remarked, composedly. "Anymore?" ■>
" 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 re-
sponsibility 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 pro-
duced. 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
to fetch my visitor from the railway on the day when she arrived —
his order-book may help you to your date, even if his coachman who
drove me proves to be of no use. These things I can do, and will
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 519
do, on conditions. I recite them. First condition ! Madame Fos-
co and I leave this house when and how we please, without inter-
ference of any kind on your part. Second condition! You wait
here, in company with me, to see my agent, who is coming at seven
o'clock in* the morning to regulate my affairs. You give my agent
a written order to the man who has got your sealed letter to resign
his possession of it. You wait here till my agent places that letter
unopened in my hands ; and you then allow me one clear half-hour
to leave the house — after which you resume your own freedom of
action, and go where you please. Third condition ! You give me
the satisfaction of a gentleman for your "intrusion into my private
affairs, and for the language you have allowed yourself to use to me
at this conference. The time and place, abroad, to be fixed in a let-
ter from my hand when I am safe on the Continent ; and that letter to
contain a strip of paper measuring accurately the length of my sword.
Those are my terms. Inform me if you accept them — Yes or No."
The extraordinary mixture of prompt decision, far-sighted cun-
ning, and mountebank bravado in this speech, staggered me for a
moment — and only for a moment. The one question to consider
was, whether I was justified or not in possessing myself of the means
of establishing Laura's identity, at the cost of allowing the scoun-
drel who had robbed her of it to escape me with impunity. I knew
that the motive of securing the just recognition of my wife in the
birthplace from which she had been driven out as an impostor, and
of publicly erasing the lie that still profaned her mother's tomb-
stone, was- far purer, in its freedom from all taint of evil passion,
than the vindictive' motive which had mingled itself with my pur-
pose from the first. And yet I can not honestly say that my own
moral convictions were strong enough to decide the struggle in me
by themselves. They were helped by my remembrance of Sir.Per-
cival's death. How awfully, at the last moment, had the working
of the retribution there been snatched from my feeble hands ! What
right had I to decide, in my poor mortal ignorance of the future,
that this man, too, must escape with impunity because he escaped
met I thought of these things — perhaps with the superstition in-
herent in my nature ; perhaps with a sense worthier of me than su-
perstition. 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."
520 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
" What reservation may that be?" he asked.
" It refers to the sealed letter," I answered. " I require you to de-
stroy 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 communi-
cation with Pesca.- The fact of my communication he would neces-
sarily 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 ex-
cite in me the slightest apprehension on Pesca's account,
" I grant your reservation," he replied, after considering the ques-
tion 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, stretching 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, ex-
change 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 vpice. 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
labors 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.
The Count walked to a, writing-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 profes-
sional writers for the press. " I shall make this a remarkable docu-
ment," he said, looking at me over his shoulder. " Habits of literary
composition 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 1 I possess it.
Do you ?"
He marched backward and forward in the room until the coffee
appeared, humming to himself, and marking the places at which
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 521
obstacles occurred in the arrangement', of Ms ideas, by striking his
forehead from time to time with the palm of his hand. The enor-
mous 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 Ms character, even in its most trivial as-
pects, impressed 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, gayly. " 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 be-
fore Mm with a thump of Ms 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 cer-
tainly from the time when he started at the top. Each slip, as
he fiMshed 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 scat-
tered about the table. Slip after slip, by dozens, by fifties, by hun-
dreds, 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 that was 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, your profound astonishment, when you read what I
522 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
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
ear. 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 honors by which he was personally distin-
guished at the head of the first page ; and then read the manuscript
to me, with loud theatrical emphasis and profuse theatrical gesticu-
lation. 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 fly, and handed me Sir Percival's letter. It was dated
from Hampshire on the 25th of July ; and it announced the jour-
ney of " Lady Glyde " to London, on the 26th. Thus, on the very
day (the 25th), when the doctor's certificate declared that she had
died in St. John's "Wood, she was alive, by Sir Percival's own show-
ing, 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.
"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. Hartright — I also resem-
ble 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 Fos-
co to insure 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 vir-
tuous 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 for-
got and never forgave.
" I have been listening to your conversation with my husband,"
she said. " If I had been in Tiis place, /would have laid you dead
on the hearth-rug."
THE WOUAN IN WHITE. 523
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 traveling-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 no-
where ; 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 per- .
plexed 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 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 un-
rivaled vivacity and intelligence ; worthy of the garden of Eden,
worthy also of the garden in the Regent's Park. Homage to Brit-
ish Zoology. Offered by Posco."
The pen spluttered again, and the flourish was attached to his
signature.
" Count ! you have not included the mice," said Madame Posco.
He left the table, took her hand, and placed it on his heart.
"All human resolution, Eleanor," he said, solemnly, " has its lim-
its. My limits are inscribed on that Document. I can not part
with my white mice. Bear with me, my angel, and remove them to
their traveling-cage lip stairs."
"Admirable tenderness 1" said Madame Fosco, admiring her hus-
band 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 assump-
tion of composure, he was getting anxious for the agent's arrival.
524 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
The candles had long since been extinguished, and the sunlight of
the new morning poured into the room. It was not till five min-
utes past seven that the gate-bell rang, and the agent made his ap-
pearance. He was a foreigner, with a dark beard.
" Mr. Hartright — Monsieur Eubelle," said the Count, introducing
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 favor him with his instructions. I wrote two lines to Pesca,
authorizing him to deliver my sealed letter " to the Bearer," direct-
ed the note, and handed it to Monsieur.Rubelle.
The agent waited with me till his employer returned, equipped in
traveling costume. The Count examined the address of my letter
before he dismissed the agent. "-I thought so 1" he said, turning on
me with a dark look, and altering again in his manner from that
moment.
He completed his packing, and then sat consulting a traveling-
map, making entries in his pocket-book, and looking every now
and then impatiently at his watch. Not another word, addressed
to myself, passed his lips. The near approach of the hour for his
departure, and the proof he had seen of the communication estab-
lished between Pesca and myself, had plainly recalled his whole at-
tention 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 burned 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 return-
ed. He and the maid-servant now busied themselves in removing
the luggage. Madame Posco came down stairs, thickly veiled, with
the traveling -cage of the white mice in her hand. She neither
spoke to me nor looked toward me. Her husband escorted her to
the cab. "Pollow 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 in-
side 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
THE WOMAN IK WHITE. 525
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 inplore 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 thferoad. 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.
" You wait here with me, sir, for half an hour more !" said Mon-
sieur Rubelle.
" I do."
"We returned to the sitting-room. I was in no humor 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 per-
petrated it.
The Story continued by Isidok, Ottavio, Baldassaee Fos-
co; Count of the Holy Roman ■ Empire ; Knight Grand
Cross of the Order of the Brazen Crown ; Perpetual Arch-
Master of the Rosicrucian Masons of Mesopotamia ; At-
tached (in Honorary Capacities) to Societies Musical,
Societies Medical, Societies Philosophical, and Societies
General Benevolent, throughout Europe / etc., etc., etc.
The Count's Narrative.
In the summer of eighteen hundred and fifty I arrived in England,
charged with a delicate political mission from abroad. Confidential
persons were semi-officially 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 sub-
urbs of London. Curiosity may stop here, to ask for some explana-
tion 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,
~o26 THE WOMAN EST WHITE.
Sir Percival Glyde. He arrived from the Continent with Ms wife.
I arrived from the Continent with mine. England is the land of
domestic happiness — how appropriately we entered it under these
domestic circumstances !
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 feei for us ? j_jw insensible must that
man be! Or how rich! _/
I enter into no sordir6T '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.
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 Halcombe."
Just Heaven ! with what inconceivable rapidity I learned to adore
that woman. At sixty, I worshiped her with the volcanic ardor 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 1
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 pro-
found 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 jour-
nal— to which I obtained access by clandestine means, unspeakably
precious to me in the remembrance — warns my eager pen from top-
ics 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 Perci-
val (I say nothing of the modicum equally necessary to myself) ;
THE WOMAN IK WHITE. 527
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 further 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 Cather-
ick, was hidden in the neighborhood ; that she was in communica-
tion with Lady Glyde ; 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 interests ? Courageous as I am by
nature, I absolutely trembled at the idea !
The whole force of my intelligence was now directed to the find-
ing of Anne Catherick. Our money affairs, important as they were,
admitted of delay — but the necessity of discovering the woman ad-
mitted of none. I only knew her, by description, 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 addi-
tional information that Anne Catherick had escaped from a mad-
house, started the first immense conception in my mind, which sub-
sequently led to such amazing results. That conception involved
nothing less than the complete transformation of two separate iden-
tities. Lady Glyde and Anne Catherick were to change names,
places, and destinies, the one with the other — the prodigious con-
sequences contemplated by the change being the gain of thirty
thousand pounds, and the eternal preservation of Sir Percival's se-
cret.
My instincts (which seldom err) suggested to me, on reviewing the
circumstances, that our invisible Anne would, sooner or later, return
to the boat-house at Blackwater Lake. There I posted myself; pre-
viously mentioning to Mrs. Michelson, 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 suspecting me for want of a little seasonable candor on my
part. Mrs. Michelson believed in me from first to last. This lady-
like 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 ab-
sorbed it all.
I was rewarded for posting myself sentinel at the lake by the ap-
pearance—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
528 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
describe the circumstances (if she has not done so already) under
which she introduces 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 outline
only, up to that period, occurred to me, in all their masterly' com-
bination, at the sight of the sleeping face. At the same time, my
heart, always accessible to tender influences, dissolved in tears at the
spectacle of suffering before me. I instantly set myself to impart re-
lief. In other words, I provided the necessary stimulant for strength-
ening Anne Catherick 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 em-
phatically, 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 Shakspeare has conceived Hamlet, and sits
down to execute the conception — with a few grains of powder drop-
ped 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 de-
graded paper. Under similar circumstances, revive me the illustri-
ous 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 Alexander the Great
shall make Alexander run for his life, at the first sight of the enemy,
the same afternoon. ; On my sacred word of honor, 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 2
Because my conduct has been misrepresented ; because my mo-
tives have been misunderstood. It has been assumed that I used
THE WOMAN IX WHITE. 529
my vast chemical resources against Anne Catherick; and that I
would have used them, if I could, against the magnificent Marian
herself. Odious insinuations both ! All my interests were concern-
ed (as will be seen presently) in the 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 confirmed, from first to last, by the physician from
London. On two occasions only — both equally harmless to the in-
dividual on whom I practiced — did I summon to myself the assist-
ance of chemical knowledge. On the first of the two, after follow-
ing Marian to the Inn at Blackwater (studying, behind the conven-
ient wagon which hid me from her, the poetry of motion, as em-
bodied 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 intrusted to a discarded 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 instructor/ seal them, and
put them back again, by scientific assistance — W h assistance I
rendered in a half-ounce bottle. The second of :on when the
same means were employed, was the occasion (to j I shall soon
refer) of Lady Glyde's arrival in London. Neverj - other time,
was I indebted to my Art, as distinguished from myself. To all
other emergencies and complications my natural capacity for grap-
pling, single-handed, with circumstances, was invariably equal. I
affirm the all-pervading intelligence of that capacity. At the ex-
pense of the Chemist, I vindicate the Man.
Respect this outburst of generous indignation. It has inexpressi-
bly relieved me. En route ! Let us proceed.
Having suggested to Mr3. 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 propo-
sal was eagerly received; and having appointed a day to meet the
travelers at the station, and to see them leave it — I was at liberty to
return to the house, and to confront the difficulties which still re-
mained 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 Glydc.
But this was not enough. Designing persons, in my absence, might
shake the simple confidence of Mrs. Clements, and she might not
write after all. Who could I find capable of traveling to London
by the train she traveled by, and of privately seeing her home ? I
asked myself this- question. The conjugal part of me immediately
answered— Madame Fosco.
23
530 THE W Oil AX IX W'HITE.
After deciding on my wife's mission to London, I arranged that
the journey should serve a double purpose. A nurse for the suffer-
ing Marian, equally devoted to the patient and to myself, was a ne-
cessity of my position. One of the most eminently confidential and
capable women in existence was, by good fortune, at my disposal.
I refer to that respectable matron, Madame Bubelle — to whom I ad-
dressed 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. I politely saw Madame
Fosco off by the same train. The last thing at night my wife re-
turned to Blackwater, having followed her instructions with the
most unimpeachable accuracy. She was accompanied by Madame
Rubelle, and she brought me the London address of Mrs. Clements.
After-events proved this last precaution to have been unnecessary.
Mrs. Clements punctually informed Lady Glyde of her place of
abode. With a wary eye on future emergencies, I kept the letter.
The same day I had a brief interview with the doctor, at which I
protested, in the sacred interests of humanity, against his treatment
of Marian's case. He was insolent, as all ignorant people are. I
showed no resentment ; I deferred quarreling with him till it was
necessary to quarrel to some purpose.
My next proceeding was to leave Blackwater myself. I had my
London residence to take, in anticipation of coming events. ■&. had
also a little business, of the domestic sort, to transact with Mr. Fred-
erick Fairlie. I found the house I wanted in St. John's Wood. I
found Mr. Fairlie at Limmeridge, Cumberland.
My own private familiarity with the nature of Marian's corre-
spondence had previously informed me that she had written to Mr.
Fairlie, proposing, as a relief to Lady Glyde's matrimonial embarrass-
ments, to take her on a visit to her uncle in Cumberland. This let-
ter I had wisely allowed to reach its destination, feeling, at the time,
that it could do no harm, and might do good. I now presented my-
self before Mr. Fairlie, to support Marian's own proposal, with cer-
tain modifications which, happily for the success of my plans, were
rendered really inevitable by her illness. It was necessary that
Lady Glyde should leave Blackwater alone, by her uncle's invita-
tion, and that she should rest a night on the journey at her aunt's
house (the house I had in St. John's Wood), by her uncle's express
advice. To achieve these results, and to secure a note of invitation
which could be 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 con-
quered Fairlie.
TIIE WOMAN IX WIUTE. 531
On my return to Blackwater Park (with the letter of invitation) 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 of-
fered no hinderance to her putting herself in danger. If she had
succeeded in doing so, the intricate knot which I was slowly and pa-
tiently 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 Lon-
don. This course had been now taken. The physician, on his ar-
rival, confirmed my view of the case. The crisis was serious. But
we had hope of our charming patient on the fifth day from the ap-
pearance 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 Kubelle. I returned at night. Five days afterward, the
physician pronounced our interesting Marian to be out of all dan-
ger, 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 assert-
ing 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 interfere) 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 incumbrances to get rid of. Again I
instructed Percival (whose moral courage required perpetual stimu-
lants), and Mrs. Michelson was amazed one day by hearing from 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 pur-
poses, and whose lumpish stupidity we could trust to make no em-
barrassing discoveries. When they were gone, nothing remained,
but to relieve ourselves of Mrs. Michelson — a result which was easi-
ly 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 Glyde was confined to her room by nervous illness ;
532 THE WOSIAN IN WHITE.
and the lumpish house-maid (I forget her name) was shut up there
at night, in attendance on her mistress. Marian, though fast recov-
ering, still kept her bed, with Mrs. Rubelle for nurse. No other liv-
ing creatures but my wife, myself, and Percival were in the "house.
With all the chances thus in our favor, I confronted the next emer-
gency, and played the second move in the game.
The object of the second move was to induce Lady Glyde to
leave Blackwater, unaccompanied by her sister. Unless we could
persuade her that Marian had gone on to Cumberland first, there
was no chance of removing her, of her own free-will, from the house.
To produce this necessary operation in her mind, we concealed our
interesting invalid in one of the uninhabited bedrooms at Blackwa-
ter. 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, dramatic,
in the highest degree. By my directions, the bed had been made
in the morning on a strong movable frame-work of wood. "We had
only to lift the frame -work 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 convales-
cence. We placed the candles and opened the doors, beforehand.
I, in right of my great personal strength-, took the head of the
frame-work — my wife and Madame Rubelle took the foot. * bore
my share of that inestimably precious burden with a manly tender-
ness, 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 Ma-
rian secluded, in the uninhabited middle of the house, under care
of Madame Rubelle ; who kindly consented 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 (instruct-
ing her to sleep on the journey to Cumberland at her aunt's house),
with directions to show it to Lady Glyde 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, an-
nouncing 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 precau-
tion, we were enabled that same day to play the third move in the
game— the getting possession of Anne Catherick.
THE WOMAjr 1ST WHITE. 533
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 sup-
posed message from Lady Glyde 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 pretense of purchasing something at
a shop) gave her the slip, and returned to receive her expected visit-
or 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 Glyde."
In the mean while I had followed in another cab, with a note for
Anne Catherick, merely mentioning that Lady Glyde 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 Perci-
val. The "good gentleman" 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 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 neg-
lected 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 dan-
ger in the air, as a dog scents the presence of some creature unseen,
her alarm could not have displayed itself more suddenly and more
causelessly. I interposed in vain. The fear from which she was
suffering I might have soothed — but the serious heart disease, un-
der which she labored, was beyond the reach of all moral, pallia-
tives. To my unspeakable horror, she was seized with convulsions
— a shock to the system, 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 ca-
pable man. I represented my visitor to him as a person of weak in-
534 THE WOJIAS in white;
tellect, 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 Bubelle, telling
her to join me at her husband's house on the evening of Friday,
the 26th ; with 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 dispatch her to town by the midday train on
the 26th also. On reflection, I had felt the necessity, in Anne Cath-
erick's state of health, of precipitating events, and of having Lady
Glyde at my disposal earlier than I had originally contemplated.
What fresh directions, 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 apos-
trophes— 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. In anticipation of their
following my directions, which, accident 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 laboring under temporary embarrass-
ments— 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 Oather-
ick was dead. Dead on the 25th ; and Lady Glyde was not to ar-
rive 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 manful-
THE WOUAX IX WHITE. 535
ly 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 re-
called my impenetrable calm — and played it.
On the morning of the 26th Percival's letter reached me, announ-
cing his wife's arrival by the midday train. Madame Eubelle 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 carriage, 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 crowding 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 neighborhood of Leicester Square,
and was in the occupation of Monsieur Rubelle, who received us in
the hall.
I took my visitor up stairs into a back room ; the two medical gen-
tlemen 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, sep-
arately, to her presence. They performed the formalities of the oc-
casion, 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 fright-
ened, and turned faint. For the second time, and the last, I called
Science to my assistance. A medicated glass of water, and a medi-
cated bottle of smelling-salts, relieved her of "all further embarrass-
ment and alarm. Additional applications, later in the evening, pro-
cured her the inestimable blessing of a good night's rest. Madame
Eubelle arrived in time to preside at Lady Glyde'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 propri-
ety, by the matronly hands of the good Rubelle. Throughout the
day I kept our patient in a state of partially-suspended conscious-
ness, until the dexterous assistance of my medical friends enabled
me to procure the necessary order rather earlier than I had ventured
53G THE AV01IAN IX TVHITJE.
to liope. 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 condition at the
time. I returned at once to assist Madame Fosco in the prepara-
tions for the'burial of the false " Lady Glyde," having the clothes
and luggage of the true " Lady Glyde " in my possession. They
were afterward sent to Cumberland by the conveyance which was
used for the funeral. I attended the funeral with becoming dignity,
attired in the deepest mourning. »
My narrative of these remarkable events, written under equally
remarkable circumstances, closes here. The minor precautions
which I' observed in communicating with Limmeridge House are
already known — so is the magnificent success of my enterprise — so
are the solid pecuniary results 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
admiration 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 Glyde's identity. If
either Marian or Mr. Hartright attempted to assert that identity,
they would publicly expose themselves to the imputation of sustain-
ing a rank deception ; they would be distrusted and discredited ac-
cordingly ; and they would, therefore, be powerless to place my in-
terests, or Percival's secret, in jeopardy. I committed one error in
trusting myself 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 Glyde a second reprieve
from the mad-house, and allowing Mr. Hartright a second chance
of escaping me. In brief, Fosco, at this serious crisis, was untrue to
himself. Deplorable and uncharacteristic 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 confession.
Youths ! I invoke your sympathy. Maidens ! I claim your tears.
A word more — and the attention of the reader (concentrated
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 unhesita-
THE "WOMAN IN WHITE. 537
ting devotion of herself to the fulfillment of my boldest wishes, to
the furtherance of my deepest plans ? I might answer this by sim-
ply 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, honor, 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 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 open-
ed 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 circumstances — Is
my conduct worthy of any serious blame ? Most emphatically, No !
Have I not carefully avoided "exposing myself to the odium of com-
mitting unnecessary crime ? With my vast resources in chemistry,
I might have taken Lady Glyde's life. At immense personal sacri-
fice, 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 re-
markable do.cument. 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 by Walter Haeteight.
I.
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 ex-
pired. 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 by-ways of villainy and deceit, they had crawled
across our path — into the same by-ways they crawled back secretly,
and were lost.
28*
538 -THE WOMAN IX WHITE.
In a quarter of an hour after leaving Forest Koad, I was at home
again.
But few words sufficed to tell Laura and Marian how my desper-
ate 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.
The address in my possession led me to some "livery-stables"
about a quarter of a mile distant from Forest Koad. The proprietor
proved to be a civil and respectable man. When I explained that
an important family matter obliged me to ask him to xefer to his
books for the purpose of ascertaining a date with which the record
of his business transactions 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 employed 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 sta-
tion ?" 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 re-
markably 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 sta-
tion, and it was from Forest Road. There was a jparrot, or summut
like it, screeching in the window. The gentleman was in a mor-
tal hurry about the lady's luggage ; and he gave 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 lug-
gage 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 ypung or old I"
" 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." -
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 539
" 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 ?"'
The man smiled, and shifted his feet in some little embarrass-
ment.
"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 ehanged 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 V 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 gen-
tlefolks' 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 irresistible 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 evi-
dence of his order-book and the evidence of his driver. An ar-
rangement to compensate him for the temporary loss of the man's
services was easily made, arid 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 pe-
riod, if necessity required it.
I now had in my possession all the papers that I wanted ; the dis-
trict registrar's own copy of the certificate of death, and Sir Perci-
val's dated letter to the Count, being safe in my pocket-book.
With this written evidence about me, and with the coachman'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 resolution to take my wife to Limmeridge the next
morning, and to have her publicly received and recognized in her
uncle's house. I left it to Mr. Kyrle to decide under these circum-
stances, and in Mr. Gilmore's absence, whether he was or was not
bound, as the family solicitor, to be present on that occasion 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 the first stage
540 THE WOMAN' IN WHITE.
of the investigation to the last. It is only necessary to mention that
he at once decided on accompanying 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 recognized 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 be-
wilderment 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 can not write at any length of om» interview with Mr. Fairlie,
for I can not recall it to mind, without feelings of impatience and
contempt, which make the scene, even in remembrance only, utterly
repulsive to me. I prefer to record simply that I carried my point.
Mr. Fairlie attempted to treat us on his customary plan. "We passed
without notice his 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 ? No. Then
why hurry him ?" He reiterated these remonstrances at every avail-
able 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, or facing the conse-
quences 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.
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 attend-
ed the false funeral, summoning them, in Mr. Fairlie's name, to as-
semble 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 church-yard; for the purpose
of erasing an inscription — Mr. Kyrle, who had arranged to sleep in
THE WOMAN IN "WHITE. 541
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 narra-
tive of the conspiracy, and in adding to it a statement of the prac-
tical contradiction which facts offered to the assertion 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 which the
evidence should be presented at the close of the reading. ' After
these matters were settled, Mr. Kyrle endeavored to turn the con-
versation 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-inter-
est in the legacy left to Madame Fosco, I begged Mr. Kyrle to ex-
cuse me if I abstained from discussing the subject. It was connect-
ed, as I could truly tell him, with those sorrows and troubles of the
past, which we never referred to among ourselves, and which we in-
stinctively shrank from discussing with others.
My last labor, as the evening approached, was to obtain " The
Narrative of the Tombstone," by taking a copy of the false inscrip-
tion on the grave before it was erased.
The day came — the day when Laura once more entered the famil-
iar breakfast-room at Limmeridge House. All the persons assem-
bled rose from their seats as Marian and I led her in. A percepti-
ble shock of surprise, an audible murmur of interest, ran through
them, at the sight of her face. Mr. Fairlie was present (by my ex-
press stipulation), with Mr. Kyrle by his side. His valet stood be-
hind him with a smelling-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 ex-
press sanction. He extended an arm on either 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 (I 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 church-yard was
542 THE WOMAN IS WHITE.
the funeral of another woman ; thirdly, to give them a plain account
of how it had all happened. 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 complicating my statement by unnecessary reference to Sir
Percival's secret. This done, I reminded my audience of the date
on the inscription in the church-yard (the 25th), and confirmed 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 performed it on the ap-
pointed day by the order-book at the livery-stables. Marian then
added her own statement of the meeting between Laura and herself
at the mad-house, and of her sister's escape. After which I closed
the proceedings by informing the persons present of Sir Percival's
death, and of my marriage.
Mr. Kyrle rose, when I resumed my seat, and declared, as the le-
gal 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 opin-
ion?" I asked, advancing toward 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-gray hair, mounted
on the window-seat, waving his heavy riding-whip over his head,
and leading the cheers. " There she is, alive 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 laborers in the village and the boys from the
school, assembled on the lawn, caught up the cheering and echoed
it back on us. The farmers' wives clustered round Laura, and
struggled which should be first to shake hands with her, and to im-
plore her, with the tears pouring over their own cheeks, to bear up
bravely, and not to cry. She was so completely overwhelmed, 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 church-yard,
and see the false inscription struck off the tombstone with their
own eyes.
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 543
They all left the house, and all joined the throng of villagers col-
lected round the grave, where the statuary's man was waiting for
us. In a breathless silence, the first sharp stroke of the steel sound-
ed on the marble. Not a voice was heard, not a soul moved, till
those three words, " Laura, Lady Clyde," 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 withdrew. It was late in the day
before the whole inscription was erased. One line only was after-
ward 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 re-
quested 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.
We went back to our friends at the farm to rest that night; and the
next morning — escorted to the station, with the heartiest enthusiasm
and good-will, by the whole village, and by all the farmers in the
neighborhood — 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 pursued. 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, what 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 happen-
ed— 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 oppression 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
544 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
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 engage-
ments had not allowed him leisure time to undertake the errand,
and he had most kindly suggested that it should be transferred to
me. I could have no hesitation in thankfully accepting the offer ;
for if I acquitted myself of my commission as I hoped I should, the
result would be a permanent engagement on the illustrated newspa-
per, 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 circum-
stances !) in her sister's care, a serious consideration 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 t I tried to
say this, 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 your fireside. I will teach them to
speak for me in their language ; 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 re-
covered 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 intrusted to me, and drew out the neces-
sary 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 eagerly, in low tones, and
in his own language : " I remember the name, but I don't know
the man. You saw at the Opera he was so changed that I could
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 545
not recognize 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
friead.with you till I saw him come out."
" No friend," said Pesca, eagerly. " I see him to-day for the first
time, and the last."
" I am afraid he has brought you bad news ?"
"Horrible news, Walter! Let us go back to London — I don't
want to stop here — I am sorry I ever came. The misfortunes 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 me /"
" 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 departed 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
clamored and heaved round the door. There was evidently some-
thing inside which excited the popular curiosity, and fed the popu-
lar 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 neigh-
bors, 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 mo 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
546 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
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.
Slowly, inch by inch, I pressed in with the crowd, moving nearer
and nearer to the great glass screen that parts the dead from the
living at the Morgue — nearer and nearer, till I was close behind the
front row of spectators, and could look in.
There he lay, unowned, unknown ; exposed to the flippant curiosi-
ty of a French mob ! There was the dreadful end of that long life
of degraded ability and heartless crime ! Hushed in the sublime
repose of death, the broad, firm, massive face and head fronted us
so grandly, that the chattering Frenchwomen about me lifted their
hands in admiration, and cried, in shrill chorus, "Ah, what a hand-
some man !" The wound that had killed him had been struck with
a knife or dagger exactly over his heart. No other traces of violence
appeared about the body except on the left arm ; and there, exactly
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 obliterated the
mark of the Brotherhood. His clothes, hung about him, showed
that he had been himself conscious of his danger ; they were clothes
that had disguised him as a French artisan. For a few moments, but
not for longer, I forced myself to see these things through the glass
screen. I can write of them at no greater length, for I saw no more.
The few facts, in connection with his death which I subsequently
ascertained (partly from Pesca and partly from other sources), may
be stated here, before the subject is dismissed from these pages.
His body was taken out of the Seine, in the disguise which I 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 he was 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 Mem-
ber of the Brotherhood (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, signi-
fied the Italian word, " Traditore," and showed that justice had been
done by the Brotherhood on a traitor, I have contributed all that I
know toward elucidating the mystery of Count Fosco's death.
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 54*7
The body was identified, the day after I had seen it, by means of
an anonymous letter addressed to his wife. He was buried by Ma-
dame Fosco in the cemetery of Pere la Chaise. 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
whatever on the name that was really his own, or on the secret his-
tory of his life : it is almost entirely devoted to the praise of his do-
mestic virtues, the assertion of his rare abilities, and the enumeration
of the honors conferred on him. The circumstances 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
Martyr to his cause."
1 . 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 stead-
ily earning sufficed 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 Pes-
ca 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 oc-
curred 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, corresponding 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 let-
ters. I performed the latter part of my 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.
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 Lim-
meridge House. Marian had prohibited any attempt at written ex-
planations— I was entreated to follow them the moment I came
back— complete enlightenment awaited mc on my arrival in Cum-
543 THE WOMAN IX WHITE.
berland— 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 em-
ployed on Mr. Pairlie'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 immediately to Limmeridge
House.
Some dim perception of a great change dawned on my .mind.
Laura spoke before I had quite realized 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 any thing of the kind,"
said Marian. " We can be just as explicit, and much more interest-
ing, 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 gayety of old times.
" Do you talk in that familiar manner of one of the landed gentry
of England ? Are you aware, when I present this illustrious baby
to your notice, in whose presence you stand ? Evidently not ! Let
me make two eminent personages known to one another : Mr. Wal-
ter Hartright — the Heir of Limmeridge."
So she spoke. In writing those last words, I have written all.
The pen falters in my hand ; the long, happy labor of many months
is over ! Marian was the good angel of our lives — let Marian end
our Story.
THE END.
By the Author of "John Halifax."
From the North British Reviciv.
She attempts to show how the trials, perplexities, joy3, sorrows, la-
bors, and successes of life deepen or wither the character according to
its inward bent
She cares to teach, not how dishonesty, is always plunging men into
infinitely more complicated external difficulties than it would in real life,
but how any continued insincerity gradually darkens and corrupts the
very life-springs of the mind ; not how all events conspire to crush an
unreal being who is to be the " example " of the story, but how every
event, adverse or fortunate, tends to strengthen and expand a high mind,
and to break the springs of a selfish or merely weak and self-indulgent
nature.
She does not limit herself to domestic conversations, and the mere
shock of character on character ; she includes a long range of events —
the influence of worldly successes and failures — the risks of commercial
enterprises — the power of social position — in short, the various elements
of a wider economy than that generally admitted into a tale.
She has a true respect for her work, and never permits herself to
"make books," and yet she has evidently very great facility in making
them.
There are few writers who have exhibited a more marked progress,
whether in freedom of touch or in depth of purpose, than the authoress
of "The Ogilvies" and "John Halifax."
JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 8vo, Paper, 75 cents; i2mo,
Illustrated, Cloth, $1 50.
OLIVE. 8vo, Paper, 50 cents ; i2mo, Cloth, $1 50.
OGILVIES. Svo, Paper, 50 cents ; i2mo, Cloth, Jjr 50.
NOTHING NEW. 8vo, Paper, 50 cents.
MISTRESS AND MAID. 8vo, Paper, 50 cents ; i2mo, Cloth, $1 50.
AGATHA'S HUSBAND. 8vo, Paper, 50 cents ; i2mo, Cloth, $ I 5a
A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 8vo, Paper, 50 cents ; i2mo, Cloth, $1 50.
A NOBLE LIFE. i2mo, Cloth, Si 50.
CHRISTIAN'S MISTAKE. i2mo, Cloth, $1 50.
By the Author of "John Halifax.'
AVILLION, and Other Tales. 8vo, Paper, $i 25.
THE HEAD OF THE FAMILY. 8vo, Paper, 75 cents; i2mo, Cloth,
$1 50.
THE TWO MARRIAGES. l2mo, Cloth, $1 50.
THE UNKIND WORD, and Other Stories. i2mo, Cloth, $1 50.
THE WOMAN'S KINGDOM. Illustrated 8vo, Paper, $1 00;
Cloth, $1 50; l2mo, Cloth, $1 50.
A BRAVE LADY. With Illustrations. 8vo, Paper, $1 00 ; Cloth,
$1 50; i2mo, Cloth, $1 50.
HANNAH. 8vo, Paper, 50 cents ; i2mo, Cloth, $1 50.
MY MOTHER AND I. Illustrated. i2mo, Cloth, $1 50; 8vo,
Paper, 50 cents.
A HERO, and Other Tales. i2mo, Cloth, $1 25.
FAIR FRANCE. Impressions of a Traveler. i2mo, Cloth, $1 50.
OUR YEAR. Illustrated. i6mo, Cloth, Gilt Edges, JSi 00.
STUDIES FROM LIFE. i2mo, Cloth, $1 25.-
MOTHERLESS ; or, A Parisian Family. Translated from the French
of Madame De Witt, nle Guizot. For Girls in their Teens. Il-
lustrated. i2mo, Cloth, $1 50.
A FRENCH COUNTRY FAMILY. Translated from the- French
of Madame De Witt, nee Guizot. Illustrated. i2mo, Cloth, {Si 50.
THE ADVENTURES OF A BROWNIE. Illustrated. Square
i6mo, 90 cents.
FAIRY BOOK. Illustrated. i2mo, Cloth, $1 50.
THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE AND HIS TRAVELLING
CLOAK. Illustrated. Square i6mo, Cloth, Jt 00.
BOOKS FOR GIRLS. Written or Edited by the Author of "John
Halifax.'' Illustrated. i6mo, Cloth, 90 cents each. Now ready :
LITTLE SUNSHINE'S HOLIDAY. IS IT TRUE!
THE COUSIN FROM INDIA. AN ONLY SISTER.
TWENTY YEARS AGO. MISS MOORE.
Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York.
CS^* HARPER & Brothers "will send any of tin above works by mail, postage prepaid,
to any pari of the United States, on receipt of the Price*
LORD LYTTON'S WORKS.
PUBLISHED BY
HARPER & BROTHERS, New York.
Who is there uniting in one person the imagination, the passion, the hn-
mor, the energy, the knowledge of the heart, the artist-like eye, the original-
ity, the fancy, and the learning of Edward Lytton Bulwer ? In a vivid wit-
in profundity and a Gothic massiveness of thought— in style— in a calm cer-
tainty and definitive i) ess of purpose — in industry— and, ahove all, in the
power of controlling and regulating, by volition, his illimitable faculties of
mind, he is unequaled— he is nnapproached.— Edgar A. Poe.
KENELM CHILLINGLY. 8vo, Paper, 75 cents ; I2mo, Cloth,
$1 25.
THE PARISIANS. Illustrated. 8vo, Taper, $1 00; 12mo,
Cloth, 9 1 50.
THE COMING RACE. 12mo, Paper, 50 cents ; Cloth, $1 00.
KING ARTHUR. A Poem. 12mo, Cloth, $1 75.
THE ODES AND EPODES OP HORACE. A Metrical
Translation into English. With Introduction and Commenta-
ries. With Latin Text from the Editions of Orelli, Macleane,
and Yonge. 12mo, Cloth, $1 75.
MISCELLANEOUS PROSE 'WORKS. 2 vols., 12mo,
Cloth, $3 50.
CAXTONIANA : a Series of Essays on Life, Literature, and
Manners. 12mo, Cloth, $1 75. -
THE LOST TALES OP MILETUS. 12mo, Cloth, $ I 50.
A STRANGE STORY. A Novel. Illustrated by American
Artists. 8vo, Paper, $1 00 ; 12mo, Cloth, $1 25.
■WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? A Novel. 8vo, Paper,
fl 50; Cloth, $2 00.
MY NOVEL ; or, Varieties in English Life. 8vo, Paper, $1 50;
Library Edition, 12mo, Cloth, $2 50.
THE CAXTONS. A Novel. 8ro, Paper, 75 cents ; Library
Edition, 12mo, Cloth, $1 25.
LUCRETIA ; or, The Children of Night. A Novel. 8vo, Paper,
75 cents.
The Works of Lord Lytton.
THE LAST OP THE BARONS. A Novel. 8vo, Paper,
$1 00.
NIGHT AND MORNING. A Novel. 8vo, Paper, 75 cents.
HAROLD, the Last of the Saxon Kings. A Novel. 8vo, Paper,
$100.
PELHAM; or, The Adventures of a Gentleman. A Novel.
8vo, Paper, 75 cents.
DEVEREUX. A Tale. 8vo, Paper, 50 rents.
THE DISOWNED. A Novel. 8vo, Paper, 75 cents.
THE LAST DAYS OP POMPEII. A Novel. 8vo, Paper,
50 cents.
THE PILGRIMS OP THE RHINE. A Novel. 8vo, Pa-
per, 25 cents.
ZANONI. A Novel. 8vo, Paper, 50 cents.
PAUL CLIPPORD. A Novel. 8vo, Paper, 50 couts.
EUGENE ARAM. A Tale. 8vo, Paper, 50 cents.
ERNEST MALTR AVERS. A Novel 8vo, Paper, 50 cents.
ALICE; or, The Mysteries. A Novel. A Sequel to "Ernest
Maltxavers." 8vo, Paper, 50 cents.
LEILA ; or, The Siege of Grenada. A Novel. 12mo, Cloth,
$1 00 ; 8vo, Paper, 50 cents.
RIENZI. A Novel. 8vo, Paper, 75 cents.
GODOLPHIN. A Novel. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50 ; 8vo, Paper, 50 cts.
THE STUDENT. A Novel. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50.
ATHENS, ITS RISE AND PALL. With Views of the Lit-
erature, Philosophy, and Social Life of the Athenians. 2 vols.,
12mo, Cloth, $1 50.
ENGLAND AND THE ENGLISH. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50.
THE RIGHTFUL HEIR. A Play. 16mo, Paper, 15 cents.
Harper & Brothers will send the above books by mail,
postage free, on receipt of price.