APDL Eductation Resources/APDL Eductation Resources.iso/text/books/wmn_white/WHITE_5

Text File | 1994-09-03 | 174.3 KB | 3,484 lines

June 19th. –; 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 concentrate on my journal centred instead in that
private interview between them which had been put off all through the
day, and which was now to take place in the silence and solitude of the
night.

In this perverse state of my mind, the recollection of what had passed
since the morning would not come back to me, and there was no resource
but to close my journal and to get away from it for a little while.

I opened the door which led from my bedroom into my sittingroom, 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 the
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 to the
bedroom and make a second attempt to complete the unfinished entry in my
journal, I smelt the odour of tobaccosmoke stealing towards me on the
heavy night air. The next moment I saw a tiny red spark advancing from
the farther end of the house in the pitch darkness. I heard no
footsteps, and I could see nothing but the spark. It travelled along in
the night, passed the window at which I was 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, approaching from the distance.
The two met together in the darkness. Remembering who smoked cigarettes
and who smoked cigars, I inferred immediately that the Count had come
out first to look and listen under my window, and that Sir Percival had
afterwards joined him. They must both have been walking on the lawn –;
or I should 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 downstairs 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 honour they will push you over it!'

`What the devil do you mean?'

`We will come to our explanations, Percival, when the light is out of
that window, and when I have had one little look at the rooms on each
side of the library, and a peep at the staircase as well.'

They slowly moved away, and the rest of the conversation between them
(which had been conducted throughout in the same low tones) ceased to be
audible. It was no matter. I had heard enough to deternine me on
justifying the Count's opinion of my sharpness and my courage. Before
the red sparks were out of sight in the darkness I had made up my mind
that there should be a listener when those two men sat down to their
talk –; and that the listener, in spite of all the Count's precautions
to the contrary, should be myself. I wanted but one motive to sanction
the act to my own conscience, and to give me courage enough for
performing it –; and that motive I had. Laura's honour, Laura's
happiness –; Laura's life itself –; might depend on my quick ears and my
faithful memory tonight.

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 entered on any
explanation 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 descending at all into the lower regions of
the house.

In speaking of the rooms on the ground floor I have mentioned
incidentally the verandah outside them, on which they all opened by
means of French windows, extending from the cornice to the floor. The
top of this verandah was flat, the rain-water being carried off from it
by pipes into tanks which helped to supply the house. On the narrow
leaden roof, which ran along past the bedrooms, and which was rather
less, I should think, than three feet below the sills of the window, a
row of flowerpots was ranged, with wide intervals between each pot –;
the whole being protected from falling in high winds by an ornamental
iron railing along the edge of the roof.

The plan which had now occurred to me was to get out 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 tonight, as I had seen them
sitting and smoking many nights before, with their chairs close at the
open window, and their feet stretched on the zinc garden seats which
were placed under the verandah, every word they said to each other above
a whisper (and no long conversation, as we all know by experience, can
be carried on in a whisper) must inevitably reach my ears. If, on the
other hand, they chose tonight 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 downstairs.

Strongly as I was fortified in my resolution by the desperate nature of
our situation, I hoped most fervently that I might escape this last
emergency. My courage was only a woman's courage after all, and it was
very near to failing me when I thought of trusting myself on the ground
floor, at the dead of night, within reach of Sir Percival and the Count.

I went softly back to my bedroom to try the safer experiment of the
verandah roof first.

A complete change in my dress was imperatively necessary for many
reasons. I took off my silk gown to begin with, because the slightest
noise from it on that still night might have betrayed me. I next removed
the white and cumbersome parts of my underclothing, and replaced them by
a petticoat of dark flannel. Over this I put my black travelling cloak,
and pulled the hood on to my head. In my ordinary evening costume I took
up the room of three men at least. In my present dress, when it was held
close about me, no man could have passed through the narrowest spaces
more easily than I. The little breadth left on the roof of the verandah,
between the flower-pots on one side and the wall and the windows of the
house on the other, made this a serious consideration. If I knocked
anything down, if I made the least noise, who could say what the
consequences might be?

I only waited to put the matches near the candle before I extinguished
it, and groped my way back into the sitting-room. I locked the door, as
I had locked my bedroom door –; then quietly got out of the window, and
cautiously set my feet on the leaden roof of the verandah.

My two rooms were at the inner extremity of the new wing of the house in
which we all lived, and I had five windows to 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 dressing-room, of the bathroom, and of the second empty
spare room.

No sound reached my ears –; the black blinding darkness of the night was
all round me when I first stood on the verandah, except at that part of
it which Madame Fosco's window overlooked. There, at the very place
above the library to which my course was directed –; there I saw a gleam
of light I The Countess was not yet in bed.

It was too late to draw back –; it was no time to wait. I determined to
go on at all hazards, and trust for security to my own caution and to
the darkness of the night. `For Laura's sake !' I thought to myself, as
I took the first step forward on the roof, with one hand holding my
cloak close round me, and the other groping against the wall of the
house. It was better to brush close by the wall than to risk striking my
feet against the flowerpots 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
tonight!'). I passed the dark window of Sir Percival's room. Then I
waited a moment, knelt down with my hands to support me, and so crept to
my position, under the protection of the low wall between the bottom of
the lighted window and the verandah 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 stopped 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 verandah –; first
ascertaining, by touching them, the position of the flowerpots 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 succession –;
the doors, no doubt, leading into the hall and into the rooms on each
side of the library, which the Count had pledged himself to examine. The
first object that I saw was the red spark again travelling out into the
night from under the verandah, moving away towards my window, waiting a
moment, and then returning to the place from which it had set out.

`The devil take your restlessness! When do you mean to sit down ?'
growled Sir Percival's voice beneath me.

`Ouf! how hot it is!' said the Count, sighing and puffing wearily.

His exclamation was followed by the scraping of the garden chairs on the
tiled pavement under the verandah –; 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 quarter 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, 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 thereupon defended himself by declaring
that he had been beset by certain troubles and anxieties which had
absorbed all his attention, and that the only safe time to come to an
explanation was a time when they could feel certain of being neither
interrupted nor overheard. `We are at a serious crisis in our affairs,
Percival,' he said, `and if we are to decide on the future at all, we
must decide secretly tonight'

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 behaviour for the last day or two,'
returned the other coolly. `But wait a little. Before we advance to what
I do not know, let us be quite 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 sickly
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 wrongYou and I both
came back to this house from the Continent with our affairs very
seriously embarrassed –;'

`Cut it short! I wanted some thousands and you some hundreds, and
without the money we were both in a fair way to go to the dogs together.
There's the situation. Make what you can of it. Go on.'

`Well, Percival, in vour own solid English words, you wanted some
thousands and I wanted some hundreds, and the only way of getting them
was for you to raise the money for your own necessity (with a small
margin beyond for my poor little hundreds) by the help of your wife.
What did I tell you about your wife on our way to England? –; and what
did I tell you again when we had come here, and when I had seen for
myself the sort of woman Miss Halcombe was?'

`How should I know?  You talked nineteen to the dozen, l suppose, just
as usual.'

`I said this: Human ingenuity, my friend, has hitherto only discovered
two ways in which a man can manage a woman. One way is to knock her down
–; a method largely adopted by the brutal lower orders of the people,
but utterly abhorrent to the refined and educated classes above them.
The other way (much longer, much more difficult, but in the end not less
certain) is never to accept a provocation at a woman's hands. It holds
with

animals, it holds with children, and it holds with women, who

are nothing but children grown up. Quiet 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
remembered 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 today.'

A chair fell on the pavement of the verandah –; fell with a crash, as if
it had been kicked down.

It was well for me that the Count's revelation roused Sir Percival's
anger as it did. On hearing that I had been once more discovered 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 letters 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
today on Miss Halcombe, as you turned it in your mischievous folly on
your wife. Where are your eyes? Can 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, cunning 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 have failed.'

There was a pause. I write the villain's words about myself because 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,' rejoined the
Count. `You may confuse yourself, Percival, as much as you please, but
you shall not confuse me. Let the question of the money be settled
first. Have I 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 English) bully and bluster a little
more ?'

`Pooh! It's easy Enough to grumble at me. Say what is to be done –;
that's a little harder.'

`Is it? Bah! This is what is to be done: You give up all direction in
the business from tonight –; 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 propcse if I leave it all to you?'

`Answer me first. Is it to a in my hands or not?'

`Say it is in your hands –; what then?'

`A few questions, Percival, to begin with. I must wait a little yet, to
let circumstances guide me, and I must know, in every possible way, what
those circumstances are likely to be. There is no time to lose. I have
told you already that Miss Halcombe has written to the lawyer today for
the second time.'

`How did you find it out? What did she say?'

`If I told you, Percival, we should only come back at the end to where
we are now. Enough that I have found it out –; and the finding has
caused that trouble and anxiety which made me so inaccessible to you all
through today. Now, to refresh my memory about your affairs –; it is
some time since I talked them over with you. The money has been raised,
in the absence of your wife's signature, by means of bills at three
months –; raised at a cost that makes my poverty-stricken foreign hair
stand on end to think of it! When the bills are due, is there really and
truly no earthly way of paying them but by the help of your wife?'

`None.'

`What ! You have no money at the bankers ?'

`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 moment?'

`Nothing but the interest of her twenty thousand pounds –; barely 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 Glyde would not
be next heir to the property. I'll tell you what he is. He's a maudlin,
twaddling, selfish fool, and bores everybody 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 ?'

`Absolutely nothing –; except in case of her death.'

`Aha ! in the case of her death.'

There was another pause. The Count moved from the verandah 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 verandah –; I heard the chair creak
beneath his weight as he sat down in it again,

`Well, Percival,' he said, `and in the case of Lady Glyde's death, what
do you get then?'

`lf 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?'

`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 on 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 anything. `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
thousamd poumds in your wife's pocket. Sharp as you are, you seem to
have conveniently forgotten Madame Fosco's legacy. Don't look at me in
that way! I won't have it ! What with your looks and your questions,
upon my soul, you make my flesh creep !'

`Your flesh? Does flesh mean conscience in English? I speak of your
wife's death as I speak of a possibility. Why not? The respectable
lawyers who scribble-scrabble your deeds and your wills look the deaths
of living people in the face. Do lawyers make your flesh creep? Why
should l? It is my business tonight to clear up your position beyond the
possibility of a 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 something, or if it is not. And
now, Percival, having done with the money matters for tonight, I can
place my attention at your disposal, if you wish to consult me on that
second difficulty which has mixed itself up with our little
embarrassments, and which has so altered you for the worse, that I
hardly know you again. Speak, my friend –; and pardon me if I shock your
fiery national tastes by mixing myself a second glass of
sugar-andwater.'

`It's very well to say speak,' replied Sir Percival, in a far more quiet
and more polite tone than he had yet adopted, `but it's not so easy to
know how to begin.'

`Shall I help you?' suggested the Count. `Shall I give this private
difficulty of yours a name? What if I call it –; Anne Catherick?'

`Look here, Fosco, you and I have known each other for a long time, and
if you have helped me out of one or two scrapes before this, I have done
the best I could to help you in return, as far as money would go. We
have made as many friendly sacrifices, on both sides, as men could, but
we have had our secrets from each other, of course –; haven't we ?'

`You have had a secret from 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 ?'

`Do I look cnrious about it?'

Yes, you do.'

`So! so! my face speaks the truth, then? What an immense foundation of
good there must be in the nature of a man who arrives at my age, and
whose face has not yet lost the habit of speaking the truth ! –; Come,
Glyde! let us be candid one with the other. This secret of yours has
sought me : I have not sought it. Let us say I am curious –; do you ask
me, as your old friend, to respect your secret, and to leave it, once
for all, in your owm 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 trelliswork pillar
under me shake from top to bottom. The Count had started to his feet,
and had struck it with his hand in indignation.

`Percival ! Percival!' he cried passionately, `do you know me no better
than that? Has all your experience shown you nothing of my character
yet? I am a man of the antique type! I am capable of the most exalted
acts of virtue –; when I have the chance of performing them. It has been
the misfortune of my life that I have had few chances. My conception of
friendship is sublime I Is it my fault that your skeleton has peeped out
at me? Why do I confess my curiosity? You poor superficial Englishman,
it is to magnify my own self-control. I could draw your secret out of
you, if I liked, as I draw this finger out of the palm of my hand –; you
know I could! But you have appealed to my friendship, and the duties of
friendship are sacred to me. See! I trample my base curiosity under my
feet. My exalted sentiments lift me above it. Recognise them, Percival !
imitate them, Percival ! Shake hands –; I forgive you.'

His voice faltered over the last words –; faltered, as if he were
actually shedding tears !

Sir Percival confusedly attempted to excuse himself, but the Count was
too magnanimous to listen to him.

`No!' he said. `When my friend has wounded me, I can pardon him without
apologies. Tell me, in plain words, do you 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 today that I had done my
best to find Anne Catherick, and failed.'

`Yes, you did.'

`Fosco! I'm a lost man if I don't find her.'

`Ha ! Is it so serious as that?'

A little stream of light travelled out under the verandah, and fell over
the gravel-walk. The Count had taken the lamp from the inner part of the
room to see his friend clearly by the light of it.

`Yes !' he said. `Your face speaks the truth this time. Serious, indeed
–; as serious as the money matters themselves.'

`More serious. As true as I sit here, more serious!'

The light disappeared again and the talk went on.

`I showed you the letter to my wife that Anne Catherick hid in the
sand,' Sir Percival continued. `There's no 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 I One question here, before we go any farther. The motive of your
shutting up the daughter in the asylum is now plain enough to me, but
the manner of her escape is not quite so clear. Do you suspect the
people in charge of her of closing their eyes purposely, at the instance
of some enemy who could afford to make it 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?'

`Anne Catherick is in this neighbourhood, 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 possession 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 in her interest to keep it?'

`Is it? I'm coming to that. It might be her interest if she cared two
straws about me. But I happen to be an encumbrance in the way of another
man. She was in love with him before she married me –; she's in love
with him now –; 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 hun-  .'

`Wait! I haven't done yet. Who do you think helped Anne Catherick to get
the start, when the people from the mad-house were after her? Hartright.
Who do you think saw her again in Cumberland? Hartright Both times he
spoke to her alone. Stop ! don't interrupt me. The scoundrel's as sweet
on my wife as she is on him. He knows the Secret, and she knows the
Secret. Once let them both get together again, and it's her interest and
his interest to tum their information against me.'

`Gently, Percival –; gently I Are you insensible to the virtue of Lady
Glyde?'

`That for the virtue of Lady Glyde I 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 had that vagabond Hartright –;'

` Yes, yes, I see. Where is Mr Hartright ?'

`Out of the country. lf 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 tiying to trace her, and in spite of it all,
she turns up here and escapes me on my own property! How do I know who
else may see her, who else may speak to her? That prying scoundrel,
Hartright, may come back without my knowing it, and may make use of her
tomorrow –;'

`Not he, Percival! While I am on the spot, and while that woman is in
the neighbourhood, I will answer for our laying hands on her before Mr
Hartright –; even if he does come back. I see! yes, yes, I 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 present. You have made your inquiries?'

`Yes. I have been to her mother, I have ransacked the village –; and all
to no purpose.'

`Is her mother to be depended on?'

`Yes,'

` She has told your secret once.'

`She won't tell it again.'

`Why not? Are her own interests concerned in keeping it, as well as
yours ?'

`Yes –; deeply concerned.'

`I am glad to hear it, Percival, for your sake. Don't be discouraged, my
friend. Our money matters, as I told you, leave me plenty of time to
turn round in, and I may search for Anne Catherick tomorrow 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 recognise our invisible Anne.
What is she like?'

`Like? Come! I'll tell you in two words. She's a sickly likeness of my
wife.'

The chair creaked, and the pillar shook once more. The Count was on his
feet again –; this time in astonishment.

`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?'

`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 humour
–; do I not come of the illustrious nation which invented the exhibition
of Punch? Well, well, well, I shall know Anne Catherick when I see her
–; and so enough for tonight. Make your mind easy, Percival. Sleep, my
son, the sleep of the just, and see what I will do for you when daylight
comes to help us both. I have my projects and my plans here in my big
head. You shall pay those bills and find Anne Catherick –; my sacred
word of honour on it, but you shall! Am I a friend to be treasured in
the best corner of your heart, or am I not? Am I worth those loans of
money which you so delicately reminded me of a little while since?
Whatever you do, never wound me in my sentiments any more. Recognise
them, Percival ! imitate them, Percival ! I forgive you again –; I shake
hands again. Good night !'

Not another word was spoken. I heard the Count close the library door. I
heard Sir Percival barring up the window-shutters. It had been raining,
raining all the time. I was cramped by my position and chilled to the
bones. When I first tried to move, the effort was so painful to me that
I was obliged to desist. I tried a second time, and succeeded in rising
to my knees on the wet roof.

As I crept to the wall, and raised myself against it, I looked back, and
saw the window of the Count's 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.




June 2Oth. –; Eight o'clock. The sun is shining in a clear sky. I have
not been near my bed –; I have not once closed my weary wakeful eyes.
From the same window at which I looked out into the darkness of last
night, I look out now at the bright stillness of the morming.

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 every
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 them) for dry clothes
to warm me. The doing of these things is in my mind, but not the time
when they were done.

Can I even remember when the chilled, cramped feeling left me, and the
throbbing heat came in its place?

Surely it was before the sun rose? Yes, I heard the clock strike three.
I remember the time by the sudden brightness and clearness, the feverish
strain and excitement of all my faculties which came with it. I remember
my 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
setthng itself in my mind that the words those two men had said to each
other would furnish us, not only with our justification for leaving the
house, but with our weapons of defence against them as well. I recall
the impulse that awakened in me to preserve those words in writing,
exactly as they were spoken, while the time was my own, and while my
memory vividly retained them. All this I remember plainly: there is no
confusion in my head yet. The coming in here from the bedroom, with my
pen and ink and paper, before sunrise –; the sitting down at the
widely-opened window to get all the air I could to cool me –; the
ceaseless writing, faster and faster, hotter and hotter, driving on more
and more wakefully, all through the dreadful interval before the house
was astir again –; how clearly I recall it, from the beginning by
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 myself, and try to quench the
fever that consumes me, in sleep?

I dare not attempt it. A fear beyond all other fears has got possession
of me. I am afraid of this heat that parches my skin. I am afraid of the
creeping and throbbing that I feel in my head. If I lie down now, how do
I know that I may have the sense and the strength to rise again?

Oh, the rain, the rain –; the cruel rain that chilled me last night !

Nine o'clock. Was it nine struck, or eight? Nine, surely? I am shivering
again –; shivering, from head to foot, in the summer air. Have I been
sitting here asleep? I don't know what I have been doing.

Oh, my God ! am I going to be ill?

Ill, at such a time as this !

My head –; I am sadly afraid of my head. I can write, but the lines all
run together. I see the words. Laura –; I can write Laura, and see I
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 –; NOTE

&osb;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 –;&csb; POSTSCRIPT BY A SINCERE FRIEND

The illness of our excellent Miss Halcombe has afforded me the
opportunity of enjoying an unexpected intellectual pleasure.

I refer to the perusal (which I have just completed) of this interesting
Diary.

There are many hundred pages here. I can lay my hand on my heart, and
declare that every page has charmed, refreshed, delighted me.

To a man of my sentiments it is unspeakably gratifying to be able to say
this.

Admirable woman !

I allude to Miss Halcombe.

Stupendous effort !

I refer to the Diary.

Yes ! these pages are amazing. The tact which I find here, the
discretion, the rare courage, the wonderful power of memory, the
accurate observation of character, the easy grace of style, the charming
outbursts of womanly feeling, have all inexpressibly increased my
admiration of this sublime creature, of this magnificent Marian. The
presentation of my own character is masterly in the extreme. I certify,
with my whole heart, to the fidelity of the portrait. I feel how vivid
an impression I must have produced to have been painted in such strong,
such rich, such massive colours as these. I lament afresh the cruel
necessity which sets our interests at variance, and opposes us to each
other. Under happier circumstances how worthy I should have been of Miss
Halcombe –; how worthy Miss Halcombe would have been of ME.

The sentiments which animate my heart assure me that the lines I have
just written express a Profound Truth.

Those sentiments exalt me above all merely personal considerations. I
bear witness, in the most disinterested manner, to the excellence of the
stratagem by which this unparalleled woman surprised the private
interview between Percival and myself –; also to the marvellous accuracy
of her report of the whole conversation from its beginning to its end.

Those sentiments have induced me to offer to the unimpressionable doctor
who attends on her my vast knowledge of chemistry, and my luminous
experience of the more subtle resources which medical and magnetic
science have placed at the disposal of mankind. He has hitherto declined
to avail himself of my assistance. Miserable man!

Finally, those sentiments dictate the lines –; grateful, sympathetic,
paternal lines –; which appear in this place. I close the hook. My
strict sense of propriety restores it (by the hands of my wife) to its
place on the writer's table. Events are hurrying me away. Circumstances
are guiding me to serious issues. Vast perspectives of success unroll
themselves before my eyes. I accomplish my destiny with a calmness which
is terrible to myself. Nothing but the homage of my admiration is my
own. I deposit it with respectful tenderness at the feet of Miss
Halcombe.

I breathe my wishes for her recovery.

I condole with her on the inevitable failure of every plan that she has
formed for her sister's benefit. At the same time, I entreat her to
believe that the information which I have derived from her Diary will in
no respect help me to contribute to that failure. It simply confirms the
plan of conduct which I had previously arranged. I have to thank these
pages for awakening the finest sensibilities in my nature –; nothing
more.

To a person of similar sensibility this simple assertion will explain
and excuse everything.

Miss Halcombe is a person of similar sensibility.

In that persuasion I sign myself. FOSCO.




THE STORY CONTINUED BY FREDERICK FARLIE, ESQ., OF LIMMERIDGE HOUSE* 1.
The manner in which Mr Fairlie's Narrative, and other Narratives that
are shortly to follow it, were originally obtained, forms the subject of
an explanation which will appear at a later period.

IT is the grand misfortune of my life that nobody will let me alone.

Why –; I ask everybody –; why worry me? Nobody answers that question,
and nobody lets me alone. Relatives, friends, and strangers all combine
to annoy me. What have I done? I ask myself, I ask my servant, Louis,
fifty times a day –; what have I done? Neither of us can tell. Most
extraordinary!

The last annoyance that has assailed me is the annoyance of being called
upon to write this Narrative. Is a man in my state of nervous
wretchedness capable of writing narratives? When I put this extremely
reasonable objection, I am told that certain very serious events
relating to my niece have happened within my experience, and that I am
the fit person to describe them on that account. I am threatened if I
fail to exert myself in the manner required, with consequences which I
cannot so much as think of without perfect prostration. There is really
no need to threaten me. Shattered by my miserable health and my family
troubles, I am incapable of resistance. lf you insist, you take your
unjust advantage of me, and I give way immediately. I will endeavour 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 invalid, 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 hitherto
supposed. He remembers the date of the event. within a week or two –;
and I remember the name of the person. The date was towards 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 reclining in
my customary state, surrounded by the various objects of Art which I
have collected about me to improve the taste of the barbarous people in
my neighbourhood. That is to say, I had the photographs of my pictures,
and prints, and coins, and so forth, all about me, which I intend, one
of these days, to present (the photographs, I mean, if the clumsy
English language will let me mean anything) –; to present to the
institution at Carlisle (horrid place!), with a view to improving the
tastes of the members (Goths and Vandals to a man). It might be supposed
that a gentleman who was in course of conferring a great national
benefit on his countrymen was the last gentleman in the world to be
unfeelingly worried about private difficulties and family affairs. Quite
a mistake, I assure you, in my case.

However, there I was, reclining, with my art-treasures about me, and
wanting a quiet morning. Because I wanted a quiet morning, of course
Louis came in. It was perfectly natural that I should inquire what the
deuce he meant by making his appearance when I had not rung my bell. I
seldom swear –; it is such an ungentlemanlike 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
his senses. He was so obliging as to leave off grinning, and inform me
that a Young 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 anybody but you, sir.'

`Who sends the letter?'

`Miss Halcombe, sir.'

The moment I heard Miss Halcombe's name I gave up. It is a habit of mine
always to give up to Miss Halcombe. I find, by experience, that it saves
noise. I gave up on this occasion. Dear Marian !

`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 female 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? l am not strong enough to
think deeply myself on any subject, but I appeal to professional men,
who are. Why have we no variety in our breed of Young Persons?

`You have a letter for me, from Miss Halcombe? Put it down on the table,
please, and don't upset anything. How is Miss Halcombe?'

`Very well, thank you, sir.'

`And Lady Glyde?'

I received no answer. The Young Person's face became more unfinished
than ever, and 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 cannot see the interest of
a secretion from a sentimental point of view. Perhaps my own secretions
being all wrong together, I am a little prejudiced on the subject. No
matter. I behaved, on this occasion, with all possible propriety and
feehng. I closed my eyes and said to Louis –;

`Endeavour to ascertain what she means.'

Louis endeavoured, and the Young Person endeavoured. They succeeded in
confusing each other to such an extent that I am bound in common
gratitude to say they really amused me. I think I shall send for them
again when I am in low spirits. I have just mentioned this idea to
Louis. Strange to say, it seems to make him uncomfortable. 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 sir 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. (I 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 bedtime, 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
wulgar fluctuations, which begin with unhappiness and end with tea?)
rust 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 parlour 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 parlour, and the Young Person was struck of a heap. Most
remarkable !

I must really rest a little before I can get on any farther. 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-Cologne, 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 convenientl

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. 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 afterwards. 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 ridiculous ostentation of humility so far as to take one cup
herself, and to insist on the girl's taking the other. The girl drank
the tea, and according to her own account, solemnised the extraordinary
occasion five minutes afterwards by fainting dead away for the first
time in her life. Here again I use her own words. Louis thinks they were
accompanied by an increased secretion of tears. I can't say myself. The
effort of listening being quite as much as I could manage, my eyes were
closed.

Where did I leave off? Ah, yes –; she fainted after 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 herself in half an
hours 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 upstairs to bed.

Left by herself, she had felt in her bosom (I regret the necessity of
referring to this part of the subject a second time), and had found the
two letters there quite safe, but strangely crumpled. She had been giddy
in the night, but had got up well enough to travel in the morning. She
had put the letter addressed to that obtrusive stranger, the gentleman
in London, into the post, and had now delivered the other letter into my
hands as she was told. This was the plain truth, and though she could
not blame herself for any intentional neglect, she was sadly troubled in
her mind, and sadly in want of a word of advice. At this point Louis
thinks the secretions appeared again. Perhaps they did, but it is of
infinitely greater importance to mention that at this point also I lost
my patience, opened my eyes, and interfered.

`What is the purport of all this?' I inquired.

My niece's irrelevant maid stared, and stood speechless.

`Endeavour to explain,' I said to my servant. `Translate me, Louis.'

Louis endeavoured and translated. In other words, he descended
immediately into a bottomless pit of confusion, and the Young Person
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 diverted 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 remarks.

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 Blackwater 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 morning, 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 neglectful, and she would humbly beg to ask me
whether I would advise her to write her explanations and excuses to Miss
Halcombe, requesting 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. `I invariably let things stop as they are. Yes. Is that all ?'

`lf 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 creaked. Louis,
who was looking at her (which I was not), says she creaked when she
curtseyed. Curious. Was it her shoes, her stays, or her bones? Louis
thinks it was her stays. Most extraordinary!

As soon as I was left by myself I had a little nap –; I really wanted
it. When I awoke again I noticed dear Marian's letter. If I had had the
last 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 everybody, and I take offence at nothing. But
as I have before remarked, there are limits to my endurance. I laid down
Marian's letter, and felt myself –; justly felt myself –; an injured
man.

I am about to make a remark. It is, of course, applicable to the very
serious matter now under notice, or I should not allow it to appear in
this place.

Nothing, in my opinion, sets the odious selfishness of mankind in such a
repulsively vivid light as the treatment, in all classes of society,
which the Single people receive at the hands of the Married people. When
you have once shown yourself too considerate and self-denying to add a
family of your own to an already overcrowded population, you are
vindictively marked out by your married friends, who have no similar
consideration and no similar self-denial, as the recipient of half their
conjugal troubles, and the born friend of all their children. Husbands
and wives talk of the cares of matrimony, and bachelors and spinsters
bear them. Take my own case. I considerately remain single, and my poor
dear brother Philip inconsiderately marries. What does he do when he
dies? He leaves his daughter to me. She is a sweet girl –; she is also a
dreadful responsibility. Why lay her on my shoulders? Because I am
bound, in the harmless character of a single man, to relieve my married
connections 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 disagree,
and unpleasant consequences follow. What does she do with those
consequences? She transfers them to me. Why transfer them to me? Because
I am bound, in the 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.
Everybody threatens me. All sorts of horrors were to fall on my devoted
head if I hesitated to turn Limmeridge House into an

asylum for my niece and her misfortunes. I did hesitate, nevertheless.

I have mentioned that my usual course, hitherto, had been to submit to
dear Marian, and save noise. But on this occasion, the consequences
involved in her extremely inconsiderate proposal were of a nature to
make me pause. If I opened Limmeridge House as an asylum to Lady Glyde,
what security had I against Sir Percival Glyde's following her here in a
state of violent resentnient against me for harbouring his wife? I saw
such a perfect labyrinth of troubles involved in this proceeding that I
determined to feel my ground, as it were. I wrote, therefore, to dear
Marian to beg (as she had no husband to lay claim to her) that she would
come here by herself, first, and talk the matter over with me. If she
could answer my objections to my own perfect satisfaction, then I
assured her that I would receive our sweet Laura with the greatest
pleasure, but not otherwise.

I felt, of course, at the time, that this temporising on my part would
probably end in bringing Marian here in a state of virtuous indignation,
banging doors. But then, the other course of proceeding might end in
bringing Sir Percival here in a state of virtuous indignation, banging
doors also, and of the two indignations and bangings I preferred
Marian's, because I was used to her. Accordingly I despatched the letter
by return of post. It gained me time, at all events –; and, oh dear me!
what a point that was to begin with.

When I am totally prostrated (did I mention that I was totally
prostrated by Marian's letter?) it always takes me three days to get up
again. I was very unreasonable –; I expected three days of quiet. Of
course I didn't get them.

The third day's post brought me a most impertinent letter from a person
with whom I was totally unacquainted. He described himself as the acting
partner of our man of business –; our

dear, pig-headed old Gilmore –; and he informed me that he had lately
received, by the post, a letter addressed to him in Miss Halcombe's
handwriting. On opening the envelope, he had discovered, to his
astonishment, that it contained nothing but a blank sheet of notepaper.
This circumstance appeared to him so suspicious (as suggesting to his
restless legal mind that the letter had been tampered with) that he had
at once written to Miss Halcombe, and had received no answer by return
of post. In this

difficulty, instead of acting like a sensible man and letting things
take their proper course, his next absurd proceeding, on his own
showing, was to pester me by writing to inquire if I knew anything about
it. What the deuce should I know about it? Why aiarm mr as well as
himself? I wrote back to that effect. It was one of my keenest letters.
I have produced nothing with a sharper epistolary edge to it since I
tendered his dismissal in writing to that extremely troublesome person,
Mr Walter Hartright.

My letter produced its effect. I heard nothing more from the lawyer.

This perhaps was not altogether surprising. But it was certainly a
remarkable circumstance that no second letter reached me from Marian,
and that no warning signs appeared of her arrival. Her unexpected
absence did me amazing good. It was so very soothing and pleasant to
infer (as I did of course) that my married connections had made it up
again. Five days of undisturbed tranquillity, of delicious single
blessedness, quite restored me. On the sixth day I felt strong enough to
send for my photographer, and to set him at work again on the
presentation copies of my art-treasures, with a view, as I have already
mentioned, to the improvement of taste in this barbarous neighbourhood.
I had just dismissed him to his workshop, and had just begun coquetting
with my coins, when Louis suddenly made his appearance with a card in
his hand.

`Another Young Person?' I said. `I won't see her. In my state of health
Young persons disagree with me. Not at home.'

`It is a gentleman this time, sir.'

A gentleman of course made a difference. I looked at the card.

Gracious Heaven! niy 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 foreiner, there
was but one impression that any man in his senses could possibly feel.
Of course the Count had come to borrow money of nie.

`Louis,' I said, `do you think he would go away if you gave him five
shillings?-'

Louis looked quite shocked. He surprised me inexpressibly by declaring
that my sister's foreign husband was dressed superbly, and looked the
picture of prosperity. Under these circumstances my first impression
altered to a certain extent. I now took it for granted that the Count
had matrimonial difficulties of his own to contend with, and that he had
come, like the rest of the family, to cast them all on my shoulders.

`Did he mention his business ?' I asked.

`Count Fosco said he had come here, sir, because Miss Halcombe was
unable to leave Blackwater Park.'

Fresh troubles, apparently. Not exactly his own, as I had supposed, but
dear Marian's. Troubles, anyway. 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 highly favourable. It is
not creditable to my penetration –; as the sequel will show –; to
acknowledge this, but I am a naturally candid man, and I do acknowledge
it notwithstanding.

`Allow me to present myself, Mr Fairlie,' he said. `l come from
Blackwater Park, and I have the honour and the happiness of being Madame
Fosco's husband. Let me take my first and last advantage of that
circumstance by entreating you not to make a stranger of me. I beg you
will not disturb yourself –; I beg you will not move.'

`You are very good,' I replied. `I wish I was strong enough to get up.
Charmed to see you at Limmeridge. Please take a chair.'

`I am afraid you are suffering today,' said the Count.

`As usual,' I said. `l am nothing but a bundle of nerves dressed up to
look like a man.'

`I have studied many subjects in my time,' remarked this sympathetic
person.  `Among others the inexhaustible 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 delightful confidential tone which is so
soothing to an invalid, `is the first essential. Light stimulates.
nourishes, preserves. You can no more do without it, Mr Fairlie, than if
you were a flower. Observe. Here, where you sit, I close the shutters to
compose you. There, where you do not sit, I draw up the blind and let in
the invigorating sun. Admit the light into your room if you cannot bear
it on yourself. Light, sir, is the grand decree of Providence. You
accept Providence with your own 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
honour, Mr Fairlie, you see me confused in your presence.'

`Shocked to hear it, I am sure. May I inquire why?'

`Sir, can I enter this room (where you sit a sufferer), and see you
surrounded by these admirable objects of Art, without discovering that
you are a man whose feelings are acutely impressionable, whose
sympathies are perpetually alive? Tell me, can I do this?'

If I had been strong enough to sit up in my chair I should, of course,
have bowed. Not being strong enough, I smiled my acknowledgments
instead. It did just as well, we both understood one another.

`Pray follow my train of thought,' continued the Count. `I sit here, a
man of refined sympathies myself, in the presence of another man of
refined sympathies also. I am conscious of a terrible necessity for
lacerating those sympathies by referring to domestic events of a very
melancholy kind. What is the inevitable consequence? I have done myself
the honour 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 unpleasantly
penetrating manner. My instincts told me that I had better close my
eyes. I obeyed my instincts.

`Please break it gently,' I pleaded. `Anybody dead?'

`Dead!' cried the Count, with uiinecessary 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. `You have said and done nothing.
I make it a rule in these distressing cases always to anticipate the
worst- It breaks the blow by meeting it half-way, and so on.
Inexpressibly relieved, I am sure, to hear that nobody is dead. Anybody
ill?'

I opened my eyes and looked at him. Was he very yellow when he came in,
or had he turned very yellow in the last minute or two? I really can't
say, and I can't ask Louis, because he was not in the room at the time.

`Anybody ill?' I repeated, observing that my national composure still
appeared to affect him.

`That is part of my bad news, Mr Fairlie. Yes. 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 melancholy
apprehension at some time or other, but at the moment my wretched memory
entirely failed to remind me of the circumstance. However, I said yes,
in justice to 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. Miss 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 consequences –; fever.'

When I heard the word fever, and when I remembered at the same moment
that the unscrupulous person who was now addressing 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 endeavoured to assist the regular medical attendant in
watching it –; accept my personal assurances of the uninfectious nature
of the fever when I last saw it.'

Accept his assurances ! I never was farther from accepting anything in
my life. I would not have believed him on his oath. He was too yellow to
be believed. He looked like a walking-WestIndian-epidemic. He was big
enough to carry typhus by the ton, and to dye the very carpet he walked
on with scarlet fever. In certain emergencies my mind is remarkably soon
made up. I instantly determined to get rid of him.

`You will kindly excuse an invalid,' I said –; `but long conferences of
any kind invariably upset me. May I beg to know exactly what the object
is to which I am indebted for the honour of your visit?'

I fervently hoped that this remarkably broad hint would throw him off
his balance –; confuse him –; reduce him to polite apologies –; in
short, get him out of the room. On the 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 another
of his unpleasantly penetrating looks. What was I to do?  I was not
strong enough to quarrel with him. Conceive my situation, if you please.
ls 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 between
Sir Percival and Lady Glyde. I am Sir Percival's oldest friend –; I am
related to Lady Glyde by marriage –; I am an eye-witness of all that has
happened at Blackwater Park. In those three capacities I speak with
authority, with confidence, with honourable regret. Sir, I inform you,
as the head of lady Glyde's family, that Miss Halcombe has exaggerated
nothing in the letter which she wrote to your address. I affirm that the
remedy which that admirable lady has proposed is the only remedy that
will 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 removed, I, who have now the honour of addressing you –; I will
undertake 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 liouse 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 horrid fingers, kept the other up, and
went on –; rode over me, as it were, without even the common
coachmanlike attention of crying `Hi!' before he knocked me dowii

`Follow my thought once more, if you please,' he resumed. `My first
object you have heard. My second object in coming to this house is to do
what Miss Halcombe's illness has prevented her from doing for herself.
My large experience is consulted on all difficult matters at Blackwater
Park, and my friendly advice was requested on the interesting subject of
your letter to Miss Halcombe- I understood at once –; for my sympathies
are your sympathies –; why you wished to see her here before you pledged
yourself to inviting Lady Glyde. You are most right, sir, in hesitating
to receive the wife until you are quite certain that the husband will
not exert his authority to reclaim her. I agree to that. I also agree
that such delicate explanations as this difficulty involves are not
explanations which can be properly disposed of by writing only. Mv
presence here (to my own great inconvenience) is the proof that I speak
sincerely. As for the explanations themselves, I –; Fosco –; I, who know
Sir Percival much better than Miss Halcombe knows him, affirm to you, on
my honour and my word, that he will not come near this house, or attempt
to communicate with this house, while his wife is living in it. His
affairs are embarrassed. Offer him his freedom bv means of the absence
of Lady Glyde. I promise you he will take his freedom, and go back to
the Continent at the earliest moment when he can get away. Is this clear
to you as crystal? Yes, it is. Have you questions to address to me? Be
it so, I am here to answer- Ask, Mr Fairlie –; oblige me by asking to
your heart's content.

He had said so much already in spite of me, and he looked so dreadfully
capable of saving a great deal more also in spite of me, that I declined
his amiable invitation in pure self-defence.

`Many thanks. I replied. `l 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, l am sure, for your kind
interference. If I ever get better, and ever havc 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 vet.' 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 sickroom. Her
position with her husband grows more and more deplorable and dangerous
every day. If you leave her any longer at Blackwater Park, you do
nothing whatever to hasten her sister's recovery, and at the same time,
you risk the public scandal. which you and I, and all of us, are bound
in the sacred interests of the family to avoid. With all my soul, I
advise you to remove the serious responsibility of delay from your own
shoulders by writing to Lady Glyde to come here at once. Do your
affectionate, your honourable, your inevitable duty, and whatever
happens in the future, no one can lay the blame on you. I speak from my
large experience –; I offer my friendly advice. Is it accepted –; Yes,
or No?'

I looked at him –; merely looked at him –; with my sense of his amazing
assurance, and my dawning resolution to ring for Louis and have him
shown out of the room expressed in every line of my face. It is
perfectly incredible, but quite true, that my face did not appear to
produce the slightest impression on him. Born without nerves –;
evidently born without nerves.

`You hesitate?' he said. `Mr Fairlie ! I understand that hesitation. You
object –; see, sir, how my sympathies look straight down into your
thoughts ! –; you object that Lady Glyde is not in health and not in
spirits to take the long journey, from Hampshire to this place, by
herself. Her own maid is removed from her, as you know, and of other
servants fit to travel with her, from one end of England to another,
there are none at Blackwater Park. You object, again, that she cannot
comfortably stop and rest in London, on her way here, because she cannot
comfortably go alone to a public hotel where she is a total stranger. In
one breath, I grant both objections –; in another breath, I remove them.
Follow me, if you please, for the last time. It was my intention, when I
returned to England with Sir Percival, to settle myself in the
neighbourhood of London. That purpose has just been happily
accomplished. I have taken, for six months, a little furnished house in
the quarter called St John's Wood. Be so obliging as to keep this fact
in your mind, and observe the programme I now propose. Lady Glyde
travels to London (a short journey) –; I myself meet her at the station
–; I take her to rest and sleep at my house, which is also the house of
her aunt –; when she is restored I escort her to the station again –;
she travels to this place, and her own maid (who is now under your roof)
receives her at the carriage-door. Here is comfort consulted –; here are
the interests of propriety consulted –; here is your owm duty –; duty of
hospitality, sympathy, protection, to an unhappy lady in need of all
three –; smoothed and made easy, from the beginning to the end. I
cordially invite you, sir, to second my efforts in the sacred interests
of the family- I seriously advise you to write, by my hands, offering
the hospitality of your house (and heart), and the hospitality of my
house (and heart), to that injured and unfortunate lady whose cause I
plead today.'

He waved his horrid hand at me –; he snuck his infectious breast –; he
addressed me oratorically, as if I was laid up in the House of Commons.
It was high time to take a desperate course of some sort. It was also
high time to send for Louis, and adopt the precaution of fumigating the
room.

In this trying emergency an idea occurred to me –; an inestimable idea
which, so to speak, killed two intrusive birds with one stone. I
determined to get rid of the Count's tiresome eloquence, and of Lady
Glyde's tiresome troubles, by complying with this odious foreigner's
request, and writing the letter at once. There was not the least danger
of the invitation being accepted, for there was not the least chance
that Laura would consent to leave Blackwater Park while Marian was lying
there ill. How this charmingly convenient obstacle could have escaped
the officious penetration of the Count, it was impossible to conceive –;
but it had escaped him. My dread that he might yet discover it, if l
allowed him any more time to think, stimulated me to such an amazing
degree, that I struggled into a sitting position –; seized, really
seized, the writing materials by my side, and produced the letter as
rapidly as if I had been a common clerk in an office. `Dearest Laura,
Please come, whenever you like. Break the journey by sleeping in London
at your aunt's house. Grieved to hear of dear Marian's illness. Ever
affectionately yours.' I handed these lines, at arm's length, to the
Count –; I sank back in my chair –; I said, `Excuse me –; I am entirely
prostrated –; I can do no more. Will you rest and lunch downstairs? Love
to all, and sympathy, and so on. Good morning.'

He made another speech –; the man was absolutely inexhaustible. I closed
my eyes –; I endeavoured to hear as little as possible. In spite of my
endeavours I was obliged to hear a great deal. My sister's endless
husband congratulated himself, and congratulated me, on the result of
our interview –; he mentioned a great deal more about his sympathies and
mine –; he deplored my miserable health –; he offered to write me a
prescription –; he impressed on me the necessity of not forgetting what
he had said about the importance of light –; he accepted my obliging
invitation to rest and lunch –; he recommended me to expect Lady Glyde
in two or three days' time –; he begged my permission to look forward to
our next meeting, instead of paining himself and paining me, by saying
farewell –; he added a great deal more, which, I rejoice to think, I did
not attend to at the time, and do not remember now. I heard his
sympathetic voice travelling away from me by degrees –; but, large as he
was, I never heard him. He had the negative merit of being absolutely
noiseless. I don't know when he opened the door, or when he shut it. I
ventured to make use of my eyes again, after an interval of silence –;
and he was gone.

I rang for Louis, and retired to my bathroom. Tepid water, strengthened
with aromatic vinegar, for myself, and copious fumigation for my study,
were the obvious precautions to take, and of course I adopted them. I
rejoice to say they proved successful. I enjoyed my customary siesta. I
awoke moist and cool.

My first inquiries were for the Count. Had we really got rid of him? Yes
–; he had gone away by the afternoon train. Had he lunched, and if so,
upon what? Entirely upon fruit-tart and cream. What a man ! What a
digestion !

Am I expected to say anything more? I believe not. I believe I have
reached the limits assigned to me. The shocking circumstances which
happened at a later period did not, I am thankful to say, happen in my
presence. I do beg and entreat that nobody will be so very unfeeling as
to lay any part of the blame of those circumstances on me. I did
everything for the best. I am not answerable for a deplorable calamity,
which it was quite impossible to foresee. I am shattered by it –; I have
suffered under it, as nobody else has suffered. My servant, Louis (who
is really attached to me in his unintelligent way), thinks I shall never
get over it. He sees me dictating at this moment, with my handkerchief
to my eyes. I wish to mention, in justice to myself, that it was not my
fault, and that I am quite exhausted and heartbroken. Need I say more ?




THE STORY CONTINUED BY ELIZA MICHELSON (Housekeeper at Blackwater Park)

I AM asked to state plainly what I know of the progress of Miss
Halcombe's illness and of the circumstances under which Lady Glyde left
Blackwater Park for London.

The reason given for making this demand on me is, that my testimony is
wanted in the interests of truth. As the widow of a clergyman of the
Church of England (reduced by misfortune to the necessity of accepting a
situation), I have been taught to place the claims of truth above all
other considerations. I therefore comply with a request which I might
otherwise. through reluctance to connect myself with distressing family
affairs, have hesitated to grant.

I made no memorandum at the time, and I cannot therefore be sure to a
day of the date, but I believe I am correct in stating that Miss
Halcombe's serious illness began during the last fortnight or ten days
in June. The breakfast hour was late at Blackwater Park –; sometimes as
late as ten, never earlier than half-past nine. On the morning to which
I am now referring, Miss Halcombe (who was usually the first to come
down) did not make her appearance at the table. After the family had
waited a quarter of an hour, the upper housemaid was sent to see after
her, and came running out of the room dreadfully frightened. I met the
servant on the stairs, and went at once to Miss Halcombe to see what was
the matter. The poor lady was incapable of telling me. She was walking
about her room with a pen in her hand, quite lightheaded, in a state of
burning fever.

Lady Glyde (being no longer in Sir Percival's service, I may, without
impropriety, mention my former mistress by her name, instead of calling
her my lady) was the first to come in from her own bedroom. She was so
dreadfully alarmed and distressed that she was quite useless. The Count
Fosco, and his lady, who came upstairs immediately afterwards, were both
most serviceable and kind. Her ladyship assisted me to get Miss Halcombe
to her bed. His lordship the Count remained in the sitting-room, and
having sent for my medicine-chest, made a mixture for Miss Halcombe, and
a cooling lotion to be applied to her head, so as to lose no time before
the doctor came. We applied the lotion, but we could not get her to take
the mixture. Sir Percival undertook to send for the doctor. He
despatched a groom, on horseback, for the nearest medical man, Mr
Dawson, of Oak Lodge.

Mr Dawson arrived in less than an hour's time. He was a respectable
elderly man, well known all round the country, and we were much alarmed
when we found that he considered the case to be a very serious one.

His lordship the Count affably entered into conversation with Mr Dawson,
and gave his opinions with a judicious freedom. Mr Dawson, not
over-courteously, inquired if his lordship's advice was the advice of a
doctor, and being informed that it was the advice of one who had studied
medicine unprofessionally, replied that he was not accustomed to consult
with amateur physicians. The Count, with truly Christian meekness of
temper, smiled and left the room. Before he went out he told me that he
might be found, in case he was wanted in the course of the day, at the
boathouse on the banks of the lake. Why he should have gone there, I
cannot say. But he did go, remaining away the whole day till seven
o'clock, which was dinner-time. Perhaps he wished to set the example of
keeping the house as quiet as possible. It was entirely in his character
to do so. He was a most considerate nobleman.

Miss Halcombe passed a very bad night, the fever coming and going, and
getting worse towards the morning instead of better. No nurse fit to
wait on her being at hand in the neighbourhood, her ladyship the
Countess and myself undertook the duty, relieving each other. Lady
Glyde, most unwisely, insisted on sitting up with us. She was much too
nervous and too delicate in health to bear the anxiety of Miss
Halcombe's illness calmly. She only did herself harm, without being of
the least real assistance. A more gentle and affectionate lady never
lived –; but she cried, and she was frightened, two weaknesses which
made her entirely unfit to be present in a sick-room.

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
Hiss 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 hearing 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 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 nobleman –;
he was considerate towards every one. Even the young person (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 delicate attentions that the advantages of
aristocratic birth always show themselves. I make no apology for
introducing these particulars –; they are brought foiward 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 endeavour 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 at every fresh
perusal I derive an increase of spiritual benefit and edification.

There was no improvement in Miss Halcombe, and the second night was even
worse than the first. Mr Dawson was constant in his attendance. The
practical duties of nursing were still divided between the Countess and
myself, Lady Glyde persisting in sitting up with us, though we both
entreated her to take some rest. `My place is by Marian's bedside,' was
her only answer. `Whether I am ill, or well, nothing will induce me to
lose sight of her.'

Towards midday I went downstairs to attend to some of my regular duties.
An hour afterwards, on my way back to the sickroom, I saw the Count (who
had gone out again early, for the third tiine) entering the hall, to all
appearance in the highest good spirits. Sir Percival, at the same
moment, put his head out of the library door, and addressed his noble
friend, with extreme eagerness, in these words –;

`Have you found her?'

His lordship's large face became dimpled all over with placid smiles,
but he made no reply in words. At the same time Sir Percival turned his
head, observed that I was approaching the stairs, and looked at me in
the most rudely angry manner possible `Come in here and tell me about
it,' he said to the Count. `Whenever there are women in a house they're
always sure to be going up or down stairs.'

`My dear Percival,' observed his lordship kindly, `Mrs Michelson has
duties. Pray recognise 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 tomorrow 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 respects 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, regret to say, a profane expression) to come into the
library, and not to keep him waiting there any longer.

I proceeded upstairs. We are poor erring creatures, and however well
established a woman's principles may be she cannot always keep on her
guard against the temptation to exercise an idle curiosity. 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 hearing, 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 apparent
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.
rust as I was mentioning these last particulars, Mr Dawson came 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 resolution
impossible to resist, `I greatly fear you find no improvement in the
symptoms today?'

`I find decided improvement,' answered Mr Dawson.

`You still persist in your lowering treatment of this case of fever ?'
continued his lordship.

`I persist in the treatment which is justified by my own professional
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 morming, 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 that this
person's name was Mrs Rubelle. Her personal appearance, and her
imperfect English when she spoke, informed me that she was a foreigner.

I have always cultivated a feeling of humane indulgence for foreigners.
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 grey 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 trinming and finish, for a person in her position in life. I
should not like these things to be said of me, and therefore it is my
duty not to say them of Mrs Rubelle. I will merely mention that her
manners were, not perhaps unpleasantly reserved, but only remarkably
quiet and retiring –; that she looked about her a great deal, and said
very little, which might have arisen quite as much from her own modesty
as from distrust of her position at Blackwater Park; and that she
declined to partake of supper (which was curious perhaps, but surely not
suspicious?), although I myself politely invited her to that meal in my
own room.

At the Count's particular suggestion (so like his lordship's forgiving
kindness !), it was arranged that Mrs Rubelle should not enter on her
duties until she had been seen and approved by the doctor the next
morning. I sat up that night. Lady Glyde appeared to be very unwilling
that the new nurse should be employed to attend on Miss Halcombe. Such
want of liberality towards a foreigner on 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 preventing her from
feeling strange and nervous in consequence of the uncertainty of her
situation. She did not appear to see it in that light. She seemed to be
quite satisfied, beforehand, that Mr Dawson would approve of her, and
she sat calmly looking out of window, with every appearance of enjoying
the country air. Some people might have thought such conduct suggestive
of brazen assurance. I beg to say that I more liberally set it down to
extraordinary strength of mind.

Instead of the doctor coming up to us, I was sent for to see the doctor.
I thought this change of affairs rather odd, but Mrs Rubelle did not
appeal 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 breakfastroom.

`About this new nurse, Mrs Michelson,' said the doctor.

`Yes, sir ?'

`l find that she has been brought here from London by the wife of that
fat old foreigner, who is always trying to interfere with me. Mrs
Michelson, the fat old foreigner is a quack.'

This was very rude. I was naturally shocked at it.

`Are you aware, sir,' I said, `that you are talking of a nobleman?'

`Pooh! He isn't the first quack with a handle to his name. They're all
Counts –; hang 'em!'

`He would not be a friend of Sir Percival Glyde'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. You understand? Very
well, then, we may go upstairs. Is the nurse there? I'll say a word to
her before she goes into the sick-room.'

We found Miss Rubelle still enjoying herself at the window. When I
introduced her to Mr Dawson, neither the doctor's doubtful looks nor the
doctors 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 biazen assurance, by any means.

We all went into the bedroom.

Mrs Rubelle looked very attentively at the patient, curtseyed to Lady
Glyde, set one or two little things right in the room, and sat down
quietly in a corner to wait until she was wanted. Her ladyship seemed
startled and annoyed by the appearance of the strange nurse. No one said
anything, for fear of rousing Miss Halcombe, who was still slumbering,
except the doctor, who whispered a question about the night. I softly
answered, `Much as usual,' and then Mr Dawson went out. Lady Glyde
followed him, I suppose to speak about Mrs Rubelle. For my own part, I
had made up my mind already that this quiet foreign person would keep
her situation. She had all her wits about her, and she certainly
understood her business. So far, I could hardly have done much better by
the bedside myself.

Remembering Mr Dawson's caution to me, I subjected Mrs Rubelle to a
severe scrutiny at certain intervals for the next three or four days- I
over and over again entered the room softly and suddenly, 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 tampered with, I never saw Mrs Rubelle say
a word to the Count, or the Count to her. She managed Miss Halcombe with
unquestionable care and discretion- The poor lady wavered backwards and
forwards between a sort of sleepy exhaustion, which was half faintness
and half slumbering, and attacks of fever which brought with them more
or less of wandering in her mind. Mrs Rubelle never disturbed her in the
first case, and never startled her in the second, by appearing too
suddenly at the bedside in the character of a stranger. Honour to whom
honour is due (whether foreign or English) –; and I give her privilege
impartially to Mrs Rubelle. She was remarkably uncommunicative about
herself, and slie was too quietly independent of all advice from
experienced persons who understood the duties of a sickroom –; 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 complaining of her.

The next circumstance of importance that occurred in the house was the
temporary absence of the Count, occasioned by business which took him to
London. He went away (I think) on the morning of the fourth day after
the arrival of Mrs Rubelle, and at parting he spoke to Lady Glyde very
seriously, in my presence, on the subject of Miss Halcombe.

`Trust Mr Dawson,' he said, `for a few 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 honour 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 ladyship's place I
should remember the Count's advice.'

Lady Glyde turned away from me suddenly, with an appearance of despair,
for which I was quite unable to account.

`His advice !' she said to herself. `God help us –; his advice !'

The Count was away from Blackwater Park, as nearly as I remember, a
week.

Sir Percival seemed to feel the loss of his lordship im 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 fiiend –; 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
downstairs, rather neglected him, as I considered –; or, perhaps, it
might have been that he neglected her. A stranger might almost have
supposed that they were bent, now they were left together alone, on
actually avoiding one another. This, of course, could not be. But it did
so happen, nevertheless, that the Countess made her dinner at
luncheon-time, and that she always came upstairs towards evening,
although Mrs Rubelle had taken the nursing duties entirely off her
hands. Sir Percival dined by himself, and William (the man out of
livery), made the remark, in my hearing, that his master had put himself
on half rations of food and on a double allowance of drink. I attach no
importance to such an insolent observation as this on the part of a
servant. I reprobated it at the time, and I wish to be understood as
reprobating it once more on this occasion.

In the course of the next few days Miss Halcombe did certainly seem to
all of us to be mending a little. Our faith in Mr Dawson revived. He
appeared to be very confident about the case, and he assured Lady 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 authority, 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 Halcombe,
which caused me serious apprehension. Mrs Rubelle noticed it too. We
said nothing on the subject to Lady Glyde, who was then lying asleep,
completely 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 preparations were used in
the room, and a bed was made up for him in the house by his own
directions. `Has the fever turned to infection?' I whispered to him. `I
am afraid it has,' he answered, `we shall know better tomorrow morning.'

By Mr Dawson's own directions Lady Glyde was kept in ignorance of this
change for the worse. He himself absolutely forbade her, on account of
her health, to join us in the 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 man-servants was sent to London at eleven
o'clock, with a letter to a physician in town, and with orders to bring
the new doctor back with him by the earliest possible train. Half an
hour after the messenger had gone the Count returned to Blackwater Park.

The Countess, on her own responsibility, immediately brought him in to
see the patient. There was no impropriety that I could discover in her
taking this course. His lordship was a married man, he was old enough to
be Miss Halcombe's father, and he saw her in the presence of a female
relative, Lady Glyde's aunt. 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 approached her bedside
her eyes, which had been wandering incessantly round and round the
root,: 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 rooin 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 infectious. He
stopped me before I could add anything 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 say I have done my duty,' he reiterated. `A physician has been sent
for from London. I will consult on the nature of the fever with him, and
with no one else. I insist on your leaving the room.'

`I entered this room, sir, in the sacred interests of humanity,' said
the Count. `And in the same interests, if the coming of the physician is
delayed, I will enter it again. I warn you once more that the fever has
turned to typhus, and that your treatment is responsible for this
lamentable change. If that unhappy ladv 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 Glvde on the
threshold.

`I must and will come in,' she said, with extraordinary firmness.

instead of stopping her, the Count moved into the sittingroom, 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 Glvde 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 towards the bedside. `I am
sincerely sorry, I am sincerely grieved,' he said. `The fever may, I
fear, be infectious. until I am certain that it is not, I entreat you to
keep out of the room.'

She struggled for a moment, then suddenly dropped her 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 preceded us, and waited in
the passage till I came out and told him that we had recovered her from
the swoon.

I went back to the doctor to tell him, by Lady Glyde's desire, that she
insisted on speaking to him immediately He withdrew at once to quiet her
ladyship's agitation, and to assure her of the physician's arrival in
the course of a few hours. Those hours passed very slowly. Sir Percival
and the Count were together downstairs, 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 cannot say, but it struck me as
curious that he put many more questions to myself and to Mrs Rubelle
than he put to the doctor, and that he did not appear to listen with
much interest to what Mr Dawson said, while he was 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, and I was
naturally confirmed in that idea when Mr Dawson, after some little
delay, asked the one important question which the London doctor had been
sent for to set at rest.

`What is your opinion of the fever?' he inquired.

`Typhus,' replied the physician.  `Typhus fever beyond all doubt.'

That quiet foreign person, Mrs Rubelle, crossed her thin brown hands in
front of her, and looked at me with a wery significant smile. The Count
himself could hardly have appeared more gratified if he had been present
in the room and had heard the confirmation of his own opinion.

After giving us some useful directions about the management of the
patient, and mentioning that he would come again in five days' time, the
physician withdrew to consult in private with Mr Dawson. He would offer
no opinion on Miss Halcombe's chances of recovery –; he said it was
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 Rubelle, 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 extraordinary 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 selfdenyingly kept her promise. I felt it
personally so distressing (as reminding me of my own affliction during
my husband's last illness) to see how she suffered under these
circumstances, that I must beg not to dwell on this part of the subject
any longer. It is more agreeable to me to mention that no fresh disputes
took place between Mr Dawson and the Count. His lordship made all his
inquiries by deputy, and remained continually in company with Sir
Percival downstairs.

On the fifth day the physician came again and gave us a little hope. He
said the tenth day from the first appearance of the typhus would
probably decide the result of the illness, and he arranged for his third
visit to take place on that date. The interval passed as before –;
except that the Count went to London again one morning and returned at
night.

On the tenth day it pleased a merciful Providence to relieve our
household from all further anxiety and alarm. The physician positively
assured us that Miss Halcombe was out of danger. `She wants no doctor
now –; all she requires is careful watching and nursing for some time to
come, and that I see she has.' Those were his own words. That evening I
read my husband's touching sermon on Recovery from Sickness, with more
happiness and advantage (in a spiritual point of view) than I ever
remember to have derived from it before.

The effect of the good news on poor Lady Glyde was, I grieve to say,
quite overpowering. She was too weak to bear the violent reaction, and
in another day or two she sank into a state of debility and depression
which obliged her to keep her room. Rest and quiet, and change of air
afterwards, were the best remedies which Mr Dawson could suggest for her
benefit. It was fortunate that matters were no worse, for, on the very
day after she took to her room, the Count and the doctor had another
disagreement –; and 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 cannot imagine
why) lost all the self-control which he had so judiciously preserved on
former occasions, and taunted the doctor, over and over again, with his
mistake about the fever when it changed to typhus. The unfortunate
affair ended in Mr Dawson's appealing to Sir Percival, and threatening
(now that he could leave without absolute danger to Miss Halcombe) to
withdraw from his attendance at Blackwater Park if the Count's
interference was not peremptorily suppressed from that moment. Sir
Percival's reply (though not designedly uncivil) had only resulted in
making matters worse, and Mr Dawson had thereupon withdrawn from the
house in a state of extreme indignation at Count Fosco's usage of him,
and had sent in his hill 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 meanwhile we had the Count to consult in
any minor difficulty, and we need not unnecessarily disturb our patient
in her present weak and nervous condition by the presence of a stranger
at her bedside. There was much that was reasonable, no doubt, in these
considerations, but they left me a little anxious nevertheless. Nor was
I quite satisfied in my own mind of the propriety of our concealing the
doctor's absence as we did from Lady 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 before, but for the
sickness and trouble in the house- In plain words, I have reasons for
wishing to break up my establishment immediately at this place –;
leaving 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 neighbourhood of London, and I have reasons for not opening the
house to any more company, with a view to economising as carefully as I
can. I don't blame you, but my expenses here are a great deal too heavy.
In short, I shall sell the horses, and get rid of all the servants at
once. I never do things by halves, as you know, and I mean to have the
house clear of a pack of useless people by this time tomorrow.'

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?' l asked.

`Certainly I do. We may all be out of the house before another month,
and I am not going to leave the servants here in idleness, with no
master to wait on.'

`Who is to do the cooking, Sir Percival, while you are still staying
here?'

`Margaret Porcher can roast and boil –; keep her. What do I want with a
cook if I don't mean to give any dinner-parties?'

`The servant you have mentioned is the most unintelligent servant in the
house, Sir Percival –;'

`Keep her, I tell you, and have a woman in from the village to do the
cleaning and go away again. My weekly expenses must and shall be lowered
immediately. I don't send for you to make objections, Mrs Michelson –; I
send for you to carry out my plans of economy. Dismiss the whole lazy
pack of indoor servants tomorrow, except Porcher. She is as strong as a
horse –; and we'll make her work like a horse.'

`You will excuse me for reminding you, Sir Percival, that if the
servants go tomorrow they must have a month's wages in lieu of a month's
warning.'

`Let them! A month's wages saves a month's waste and gluttony in the
servants' hall.'

This last remark conveyed an aspersion of the most offensive kind on my
management. I had too much self-respect to defend myself under so gross
an imputation. Christian consideration for the helpless 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 estimation to have permitted the interview to continue a
moment longer.

`After that last remark, Sir Percival, I have nothing more to say. Your
directions shall be attended to.' Pronouncing those words, I bowed my
head with the most distant respect, and went out of the room.

The next day the servants left in a body. Sir Percival himself dismissed
the grooms and stablemen, sending them, 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 helpless
as a child –; and with the doctor's attendance withdrawn from us in
enmity –; it was surely not unnatural that my spirits should sink, and
my customary composure be very hard to maintain. My mind was ill at
ease. I wished the poor ladies both well again, and I wished myself away
from Blackwater Park.




The next event that occurred was of so singular a nature that it might
have caused me a feeling of superstitious surprise, if my mind had not
been fortified by principle against any pagan weakness of that sort. The
uneasy sense of something wrong in the family which had made me wish
myself away from Blackwater Park, was actually followed, strange to say,
by my departure from the house. It is true that my 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 management 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, before I could suppress my feelings. Being
accustomed to self-discipline, I accomplished the sacrifice. I found Sir
Percival and Count Fosco sitting together again. On this occasion his
lordship remained present at the interview, and assisted in the
development of Sir Percival's views. The subject to which they now
requested my attention related to the healthy change of air by which we
all hoped that Miss Halcombe and Lady Glyde might soon be enabled to
profit. Sir Percival mentioned that both the ladies would probably pass
the autumn (by invitation of Frederick Fairlie, Esquire) at Limmeridge
House, Cumberland. But before they went there, it was his oPinion,
confirmed by Count Fosco (who here took up the conversation and
continued it to the end). that they would benefit by a short residence
first in the genial climate of Torquay. The great object, therefore, was
to engage lodgines at that place, affording all the comforts and
advantages of which they stood in need, and the great difficulty was to
find an experienced person capable of choosing the sort of residence
which they wanted. In this emergency the Count begged to inquire, on Sir
Percival's behalf, whether I would object to give the ladies the benefit
of my assistance, by proceeding myself to Torquay in their interests. It
was impossible for a person in my situation to meet any proposal, made
in these terms, with a positive objection. I could only venture to
represent the serious inconvenience of my leaving Blackwater Park in the
extraordinary absence of all the indoor servants, with the one exception
of Margaret Porcher. But Sir Percival and his lordship declared that
they were both willing to put up with inconvenience for the sake of the
invalids. I next respectfully suggested writing to an agent at Torquay,
but I was met here by being reminded of the imprudence of taking
lodgings without first seeing them. I was also informed that the
Countess (who would otherwise have gone to Devonshire herself) could
not, in Lady Glyde's present condition, leave her niece, and that Sir
Percival and the Count had business to transact together which would
oblige them to reinain at Blackwater Park. In short, it was clearly
shown me that if I did not undertake the errand, no one else could be
trusted with it. Under these circumstances, I could only inform Sir
Percival that my services were at the disposal of Miss Halcombe and Lady
Glyde.

It was thereupon arranged that I should leave the next morning, that I
should occupy one or two days in examining all the most convenient
houses in Torquay, and that I should return with my report as soon as I
conveniently could. A memorandum was written for me by his lordship,
stating the requisites which the place I was sent to take must be found
to possess, and a note of the pecuniary limit assigned to me was added
by Sir Percival.

My own idea on reading over these instructions was, that no such
residence as I saw described could be found at any wateringplace in
England, and that, even if it could by chance be discovered, it would
certainly not be parted with for any period on such terms as I was
permitted to offer. I hinted at these difficulties to both the
gentlemen, but Sir Percival (who undertook to answer me) did not appear
to feel them. It was not for me to dispute the question. I said no more,
but I felt a very strong conviction that the business on which I was
sent away was so beset by difficulties that my errand was almost
hopeless at starting.

Before I left I took care to satisfy myself that Miss Halcombe was going
on favourably.

There was a painful expression of anxiety in her face which made me fear
that her mind, on first recovering itself, was not at ease. But she was
certainly strengthening more rapidly than I could have ventured to
anticipate, and she was able to send kind messages to Lady 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 Rubelle, 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 depressed, my informant being the Countess,
who was then keeping her company in her room. Sir Percival and the Count
were walking on the road to the lodge as I was driven by in the chaise.
I bowed to them and quitted the house, with not a living soul left in
the servants' offices but Margaret Porcher.

Every. one must feel what I havc felt myself since that time, almost
suspicious. Let me, however, say again that it was impossible for me, in
my dependent position, to act otherwise than I did.

The result of my errand at Torquay was exactly what I had fore-seen. No
such lodgings as I was instructed to 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 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 subject to care about the failure of
my errand, and his first words informed me that even in the short time
of my absence another remarkable change had taken place in the house.

The Count and Countess Fosco had left Blackwater Park for their new
residence in St John's Wood.

I was not made aware of the motive for this sudden departure –; I was
only told that the Count had been very 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
downstairs.

The answer really shocked me –; there was such a glaring impropriety in
permitting an under-housemaid to fill the place of confidential
attendant on Lady Glyde. I went upstairs at once, and met Margaret on
the bedroom landing. Her services had not been required (naturally
enough), her mistress having sufficiently recovered that morning to be
able to leave her bed. I asked next after Miss Halcombe, but I was
answered in a slouching, sulky way, which left me no wiser than I was
before. I did not choose to repeat the question, 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.'

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 setting it to rights.
There was no one in the spare rooms or the dressing-rooms when we looked
into them afterwards. Sir Percival still waited for us in the passage.
As we were leaving the last rooin that we had examined Lady Glyde
whispered, `Don't go, Mrs Michelson! don't leave me, for God's sake!'
Before I could say anything in return she was out again in the 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?'

`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 said,
`and try to be reasonable about a perfectly plain matter. If she had not
been well enough to be moved do you think we should any of us have rised
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. Today, Fosco and Mrs Rubelle
go on with her themselves to Cumberland –;'

`Why does Marian go to Limmeridge and leave me here by myself ?' said
her ladyship, interrupting Sir Percival.

`Because your uncle won't receive you till he has seen your sister
first,' he replied. `Have you forgotten the letter he wrote to her at
the beginning of her illness? It was shown to you, you read it yourself,
and you ought to remember it.'

`I do remember it.'

`If you do, why should you be surPrised at her leaving you? You want to
be back at Limmeridge, and she has 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,' retiirned Sir Percival, `if
she had not been afraid of herself and of you. She knew you would try to
stop her, she knew you would distress her by crying. Do you want to make
any more objections? If you do, you must come downstairs and ask
questions in the diningroom. 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 composure so easy to upset.

I tried to prevail on Lady Glyde to go back to her room, but it was
useless. She stopped in the passage, with the look of a woman whose mind
was panic-stricken.

`Something has happened to my sister !' she said.

`Remember, my lady, what surprising energy there is in Miss Halcombe,' I
suggested. `She might well make an effort which other ladies in her
situation would be unfit for. I hope and believe there is nothing wrong
–; I do indeed.'

`I must follow Marian,' said her ladyship, with the same panicstricken
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.'

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 downstairs with her, and
she still clung to me with all the little strength she had at the moment
when I opened the diming-room door.

Sir Percival was sitting at the table with a decanter of wine before
him. He raised the glass to his lips as we went in and drained it at a
draught. Seeing that lie 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 under hand,
nothing 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 St to travel I am fit to travel,' said her ladyship,
with more firmness than she had yet shown. `I come to beg you will make
allowances for my anxiety about Marian, and let me follow her at once by
the afternoon train.'

`You must wait till tomorrow,' 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 tonight'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 singular want of good
breeding in a gentleman of his rank impressed me, I own, very painfully.

`Why should you write to Count Fosco?' she asked, in extreme surprise.

`To tell him to expect you by the midday train,' said Sir Percival. `He
will meet you at the station when you get to London, and take you on to
sleep at your aun;'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 an hotel. Fosco made the offer to your uncle to give you
house-room on the way down, and your uncle has accepted. Here!  here is
a letter from him addressed to yourself. I ought to have sent it up this
morning, but I forgot. Read it and see what Mr Fairlie himself says to
you.'

Lady Glyde looked at the letter for a moment and then placed it in my
hands.

`Read it,' she said faintly. `I don't know what is the matter with me. I
can't read it myself.'

It was a note of only four lines –; so short and so careless that it
quite struck me. If I remember correctly it contained no more than these
words –;

`Dearest Laura, Please come whenever you like. Break the journey by
sleeping at your aunt's house. Grieved to hear of dear Marian's illness.
Affectionately yours, Frederick Fairlie.'

`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 spilt all the wine over the table. `My sight seems to be
failing me,' he muttered to himself, in an odd, muffled voice. He slowly
set the glass up again, refilled it, and drained it once more at a
draught. I began to fear, from his look and manner, that the wine was
getting into his head.

`Pray don't write to Count Fosco,' persisted Lady Glyde, more earnestly
than ever.

`Why not, I should like to know?' cried Sir Percival, with a sudden
burst of anger that startled us both. `Where can you stay more properly
in London than at the place your uncle himself chooses for you –; at
your aunt's house? Ask Mrs Michelson. The arrangement proposed was so
unquestionably the right and the proper one, that I could make no
possible objection to it. Much as I sympathised with Lady Glyde in other
respects, I could not sympathise 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; `Marian
sieeping 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 tomorrow night, as your sister did, to
break the journey. Don't throw too many obstacles in my way! don't make
me repent of letting you go at all!'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

`Oh, my lady! my lady !' I remonstrated.

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

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

`I am afraid to believe it !' answered her ladyship. `I am afraid she is
still in that man's house. If I am wrong, if she has really gone to
Limmeridge I am resolved I will not sleep tomorrow 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 tonight, as certainly as Sir Percival's
letter goes to Count Fosco. I have reasons for not trusting the post-bag
downstairs. Will you keep my secret, and help me in this? it is the last
favour, perhaps, that I shall ever ask of you.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I had never liked Sir Percival, but the manner in which he left Lady
Glyde inade me feel ashamed of having eaten his bread and lived in his
service. I thought of saying a few comforting and Christian words to the
poor lady, but there was something in her face, as she looked after her
husband when the door closed on him, that made me alter my mind and keep
silence At the time named the chaise drew up at the gates. Her ladyship
was right –; Sir Percival never came back. I waited for him till the
last moment, and waited in vain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

`Yes,' she said, I was terribly disturbed by dreams.'

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

`You posted the letter to Mrs Vesey with your own hands?'

`Yes, my Lady.'

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

`He did, my lady.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

On turning the corner of the house, and gaining a view of the garden, I
was startled by seeing a stranger walking in it. The stranger was a
woman –; she was lounging along the path with her hack 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 more nor speak. She came up to me, as composedly as
ever, with her flowers in her hand.

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

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

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

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

I summoned breath enougg and courage enough for another question.

`Where is Miss Halcombe?'

Mrs Rubelle fairly laughed at me this time, and replied in these words
–;

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

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

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

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

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

`Well. Mrs Michelson,' he said, `you have found it out at last, have
you?'

I made no reply. He turned to Mrs Rubelle.

`When did you show yourself in the garden?'

`I showed myself about half an hour ago, sir. You said I might take my
liberty again as soon as Lady Glyde had gone away to London.'

`Quite right. I don't blame you I only asked the 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 for
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. You know the old
Elizabethan bedrooms ? Miss Halcombe is snug and safe in one of the best
of them at this moment. Take her in, Mrs Rubelle (you have got your
key?); take Mrs Michelson in, and let her own eyes satisfy her that
there is no deception this time.'

The tone in which he spoke to me. and the minute or two 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 cannot say. As it was, possessing the feelings, the
principles, and the bringing up of a lady, I could not hesitate about
the right course to pursue. My duty to myself, and my duty to Lady
Glyde, alike forbade me to remain in the employment of a man who had
shamefully deceived us both by a series of atrocious falsehoods.

`I must beg permission, Sir Percival, to speak a few words to you in
private,' I said. `Having done so, I shall be ready to proceed with this
person to Miss Halcombe's room.'

Mrs Rubelle, whom I had indicated by a slight turn of my head,
insolently sniffed at her nosegay and walked away, with great
deliberation, towards the house door.

`Well,' said Sir Percival sharply, `what is it now?'

`I wish to mention, sir, that I am desirous of resigning the situation I
now hold at Blackwater Park.' That was literally how l put it. I was
resolved that the first words spoken in his presence should be words
which expressed my intention to leave his service.

He eyed me with one of his blackest looks, and thrust his hands savagely
into the pockets of his riding-coat.

`Why?' he said, `why, I should like to know?'

`It is not for me, Sir Percival, to express an opinion on what has taken
place in this house. I desire to give no offence. I merely with to say
that I do not feel it consistent with my duty to Lady Glyde and to
myself to remain any longer in your service.'

`Is it consistent with your duty to me to stand there, casting suspicion
on me to my face?' he broke out in his most violent manner. `I see what
you're driving at. You have taken your own mean, underhand view of an
innocent deception practised on Lady Glyde for her own good. It was
essential to her health that she should have a. change of air
immediately, and you know as 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 nothing but the truth, or it will be the worse for you ! See
Miss Halcombe 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 anything
against me and my proceedings if you dare!'

He poured out these words fiercely, all in a breath, walking backwards
and forwards, 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 naturally kept these thoughts to
myself, and said nothing more to irritate him; but I was not the less
resolved to persist in my purpose. A soft answer turneth away wrath, and
I suppressed my own feelings accordingly when it was my turn to reply.

`While I am in vour service, Sir Percival,' I said. `I hope I know my
duty well enough not to inquire into your motives. When I am out of your
service, I hope I know my own place well enough not to speak of matters
which don't concern me –;'

`When do you want to go?' he asked, interrupting me without ceremony.
`Don't suppose I am anxious to keep you –; don't suppose I care about
your leaving the house. I am perfectly fair and open in this matter,
from first to last. When do you want to go?'

`I should wish to leave at your earliest convenience, Sir Percival-'

`My convenience has nothing to do with it. I shall be out of the house
for good and all tomorrow morning, and I can settle your account
tonight.  If you want to study anybody's convenience, it had better be
Miss Halcombe's. Mrs Rubelle's time is up today, and she has reasons for
wishing to be in London tonight. lf you go at once, Miss Halcombe won't
have a soul left here to look after her.'

I hope it is unnecessary for me to say that I was quite incapable of
deserting Miss Halcombe in such an emergency as had now befallen Lady
Glyde and herself. After first 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 doorstep all this time, waiting till I could follow
her to Miss Halcombe's room.

I had hardly walked half-way towards the house when Sir Percival, who
had withdrawn in the opposite direction, suddenly stopped and called me
back.

`Why are you leaving my service?' he asked.

The question was so extraordinaty, after what had just passed between
us, that I hardly knew what to say in answer to it.

`Mind ! I don't know why you are going,' he went on. `You must give a
reason for leaving me, I suppose, when you get another situation. What
reason ? The breaking up of the family? Is that it?'

`There can be no positive objection, Sir Percival, to that reason –;'

`Very well! That's all I want to know. If people apply for your
character, that's your reason, stated by yourself. You go in consequence
of the breaking up of the family.'

He turned away again before I could say another word, and walked out
rapidly into the grounds. His manner was as strange as his language. I
acknowledge he alarmed me.

Even the patience of Mrs Rubelle was getting exhausted, when I joined
her at the house door.

`At last !' she said, with a shrug of her lean foreign shoulders. She
led the way into the inhabited side of the house, ascended the stairs,
and opened with her key the door at the end of the passage, which
communicated with the old Elizabethan roons –; a door never previously
used, im my time, at Blackwater Park. The rooms themselves I knew well,
having entered them myself on various occasions from the other side of
the house. Mrs Rubelle stopped at the third door along the old gallery,
handed me the key of it, with the key of the door of commumication, and
told me I should find Miss Halcombe in that room. Before I went in I
thought it desirable to make her understand that her attendance had
ceased. Accordingly, I told her in plain words that the charge of the
sick lady henceforth devolved entirely on myself.

`I am glad to hear it, nia'am,' said Mrs Rubelle. `I want to go very
miich.'

`Do you leave today?' 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 gardiner, 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 anticipation already. I wish you
good-day ma'am.'

she dropped a brisk curtsey, and walked hack 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, oldfashioned 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 admit, 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, as far as I could see,
in the first offence 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 was poorly in health himself,
but that he would call, if possible, the next morning.

Having delivered his message the gardener was about to withdraw, but I
stopped him to request that he would come back before 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
backwards and forwards 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 supposed, but through a kind of panic
or frenzy of mind, for which it was impossible to account. He had found
Sir Percival walking backwards and forwards by himself in the hall,
swearing, with every appearance of the most violent passion, that he
would not stop another 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
lodgekeeper 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 ostler at the
old inn. Sir Percival had stopped there, and had afterwards 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 and I have not met since he
drove away like an escaped criminal from 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 answered by the present
narrative. It will be sufficient for me to say in this place, that she
was not herself conscious of the means adopted to remove her from the
inhabited to the uninhabited part of the house. She was in a deep sleep
at the time, whether naturally or 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 Halcombe naturally
put, but had not, in other respects, treated her with unkindness or
neglect. The disgrace of lending herself to a vile deception is the only
disgrace with which I can conscientiously charge Mrs Rubelle.

I need write no particulars (and I am relieved to know it) of the effect
produced on Miss Halcombe by the news of Lady Glyde's departure, or by
the far more melancholy tidings which reached us only too soon
afterwards at Blackwater Park. In both cases I prepared her mind
beforehand as gently and as carefully as possible, having the doctor's
advice to guide me, in the last case only, through Mr Dawson's being too
unwell to come to the house for some days after I had sent for him. It
was a sad time, a time which it afflicts me to think of or to write of
now. The precious blessings of religious consolation which I endeavoured
to convey were long in reaching Miss Halcombe's heart, but I hope and
believe they came home to her at last. I never left her till her
strength was restored. The traiii which took me away from that miserable
house was the train which took her away also. We parted very mournfully
in London. I remained with a relative at Islington, and she went on to
Mr Fairlie's house in Cumberland.

I have only a few lines more to write before I close this painful
statement. They are dictated by a sense of duty.

In the first place, I wish to record my own personal conviction that no
blame whatever, in connection with the events which I have now related,
attaches to Count Fosco. I am informed that a dreadful suspicion has
been raised, and that some very serious constructions are placed upon
his lordship's conduct. My persuasion of the Count's innocence remains,
however, quite unshaken. If he assisted Sir Percival in sending me to
Torquay, he assisted under a delusion, for which, as a foreigner and a
stranger, he was not to blame. If he was concermed 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. l protest, in the interests
of morality, against blame being gratuitously and wantonly attached to
the proceedings of the Count.

In the second place, I desire to express my regret at my own inability
to remember the precise day on which Lady Glyde left Blackwater Park for
London. I am told that it is of the last importance to ascertain the
exact date of that lamentable journey, and I have anxiously taxed my
memory to recall it. The effort has been in vain. I can only remember
now that it was towards the latter part of July. We all know the
difficulty, after a lapse of time, of fixing precisely on a past date
unless it has been previously written down. That difficulty is greatly
increased in my case by the alarming and confusing events which took
place about the period of Lady Glyde's departure. I heartily wish I had
made a memorandum at the time. I heartily wish my memory of the date was
as vivid as my memory of that poor lady's face, when it looked at me
sorrowfully for the last time from the carriage window.