The Woman in White
an expression of maniacally intense hatred and fear, which communicated
a wild, unnatural force to every feature. Her eyes dilated in the dim
evening light, like the eyes of a wild animal. She caught up the cloth
that had fallen at her side, as if it had been a living creature that
she could kill, and crushed it in both her hands with such convulsive
strength, that the few drops of moisture left in it trickled down on
the stone beneath her.
“Talk of something else,” she said, whispering through her teeth. “I
shall lose myself if you talk of that.”
Every vestige of the gentler thoughts which had filled her mind hardly
a minute since seemed to be swept from it now. It was evident that the
impression left by Mrs. Fairlie’s kindness was not, as I had supposed,
the only strong impression on her memory. With the grateful remembrance
of her school-days at Limmeridge, there existed the vindictive
remembrance of the wrong inflicted on her by her confinement in the
Asylum. Who had done that wrong? Could it really be her mother?
It was hard to give up pursuing the inquiry to that final point, but
I forced myself to abandon all idea of continuing it. Seeing her as
I saw her now, it would have been cruel to think of anything but the
necessity and the humanity of restoring her composure.
“I will talk of nothing to distress you,” I said soothingly.
“You want something,” she answered sharply and suspiciously. “Don’t
look at me like that. Speak to me—tell me what you want.”
“I only want you to quiet yourself, and when you are calmer, to think
over what I have said.”
“Said?” She paused—twisted the cloth in her hands, backwards and
forwards, and whispered to herself, “What is it he said?” She turned
again towards me, and shook her head impatiently. “Why don’t you help
me?” she asked, with angry suddenness.
“Yes, yes,” I said, “I will help you, and you will soon remember. I ask
you to see Miss Fairlie to-morrow and to tell her the truth about the
letter.”
“Ah! Miss Fairlie—Fairlie—Fairlie——”
The mere utterance of the loved familiar name seemed to quiet her. Her
face softened and grew like itself again.
“You need have no fear of Miss Fairlie,” I continued, “and no fear of
getting into trouble through the letter. She knows so much about it
already, that you will have no difficulty in telling her all. There can
be little necessity for concealment where there is hardly anything left
to conceal. You mention no names in the letter; but Miss Fairlie knows
that the person you write of is Sir Percival Glyde——”
The instant I pronounced that name she started to her feet, and a
scream burst from her that rang through the churchyard, and made my
heart leap in me with the terror of it. The dark deformity of the
expression which had just left her face lowered on it once more, with
doubled and trebled intensity. The shriek at the name, the reiterated
look of hatred and fear that instantly followed, told all. Not even a
last doubt now remained. Her mother was guiltless of imprisoning her in
the Asylum. A man had shut her up—and that man was Sir Percival Glyde.
The scream had reached other ears than mine. On one side I heard the
door of the sexton’s cottage open; on the other I heard the voice of
her companion, the woman in the shawl, the woman whom she had spoken of
as Mrs. Clements.
“I’m coming! I’m coming!” cried the voice from behind the clump of
dwarf trees.
In a moment more Mrs. Clements hurried into view.
“Who are you?” she cried, facing me resolutely as she set her foot on
the stile. “How dare you frighten a poor helpless woman like that?”
She was at Anne Catherick’s side, and had put one arm around her,
before I could answer. “What is it, my dear?” she said. “What has he
done to you?”
“Nothing,” the poor creature answered. “Nothing. I’m only frightened.”
Mrs. Clements turned on me with a fearless indignation, for which I
respected her.
“I should be heartily ashamed of myself if I deserved that angry look,”
I said. “But I do not deserve it. I have unfortunately startled her
without intending it. This is not the first time she has seen me. Ask
her yourself, and she will tell you that I am incapable of willingly
harming her or any woman.”
I spoke distinctly, so that Anne Catherick might hear and understand
me, and I saw that the words and their meaning had reached her.
“Yes, yes,” she said—“he was good to me once—he helped me——” She
whispered the rest into her friend’s ear.
“Strange, indeed!” said Mrs. Clements, with a look of perplexity. “It
makes all the difference, though. I’m sorry I spoke so rough to you,
sir; but you must own that appearances looked suspicious to a stranger.
It’s more my fault than yours, for humouring her whims, and letting her
be alone in such a place as this. Come, my dear—come home now.”
I thought the good woman looked a little uneasy at the prospect of the
walk back, and I offered to go with them until they were both within
sight of home. Mrs. Clements thanked me civilly, and declined. She said
they were sure to meet some of the farm-labourers as soon as they got
to the moor.
“Try to forgive me,” I said, when Anne Catherick took her friend’s
arm to go away. Innocent as I had been of any intention to terrify
and agitate her, my heart smote me as I looked at the poor, pale,
frightened face.
“I will try,” she answered. “But you know too much—I’m afraid you’ll
always frighten me now.”
Mrs. Clements glanced at me, and shook her head pityingly.
“Good-night, sir,” she said. “You couldn’t help it, I know; but I wish
it was me you had frightened, and not her.”
They moved away a few steps. I thought they had left me, but Anne
suddenly stopped, and separated herself from her friend.
“Wait a little,” she said. “I must say good-bye.”
She returned to the grave, rested both hands tenderly on the marble
cross, and kissed it.
“I’m better now,” she sighed, looking up at me quietly. “I forgive you.”
She joined her companion again, and they left the burial-ground. I saw
them stop near the church and speak to the sexton’s wife, who had come
from the cottage, and had waited, watching us from a distance. Then
they went on again up the path that led to the moor. I looked after
Anne Catherick as she disappeared, till all trace of her had faded in
the twilight—looked as anxiously and sorrowfully as if that was the
last I was to see in this weary world of the woman in white.
XIV
Half an hour later I was back at the house, and was informing Miss
Halcombe of all that had happened.
She listened to me from beginning to end with a steady, silent
attention, which, in a woman of her temperament and disposition, was
the strongest proof that could be offered of the serious manner in
which my narrative affected her.
“My mind misgives me,” was all she said when I had done. “My mind
misgives me sadly about the future.”
“The future may depend,” I suggested, “on the use we make of the
present. It is not improbable that Anne Catherick may speak more
readily and unreservedly to a woman than she has spoken to me. If Miss
Fairlie——”
“Not to be thought of for a moment,” interposed Miss Halcombe, in her
most decided manner.
“Let me suggest, then,” I continued, “that you should see Anne
Catherick yourself, and do all you can to win her confidence. For my
own part, I shrink from the idea of alarming the poor creature a second
time, as I have most unhappily alarmed her already. Do you see any
objection to accompanying me to the farmhouse to-morrow?”
“None whatever. I will go anywhere and do anything to serve Laura’s
interests. What did you say the place was called?”
“You must know it well. It is called Todd’s Corner.”
“Certainly. Todd’s Corner is one of Mr. Fairlie’s farms. Our dairymaid
here is the farmer’s second daughter. She goes backwards and forwards
constantly between this house and her father’s farm, and she may have
heard or seen something which it may be useful to us to know. Shall I
ascertain, at once, if the girl is downstairs?”
She rang the bell, and sent the servant with his message. He returned,
and announced that the dairymaid was then at the farm. She had not been
there for the last three days, and the housekeeper had given her leave
to go home for an hour or two that evening.
“I can speak to her to-morrow,” said Miss Halcombe, when the servant
had left the room again. “In the meantime, let me thoroughly understand
the object to be gained by my interview with Anne Catherick. Is there
no doubt in your mind that the person who confined her in the Asylum
was Sir Percival Glyde?”
“There is not the shadow of a doubt. The only mystery that remains is
the mystery of his MOTIVE. Looking to the great difference between his
station in life and hers, which seems to preclude all idea of the most
distant relationship between them, it is of the last importance—even
assuming that she really required to be placed under restraint—to know
why HE should have been the person to assume the serious responsibility
of shutting her up——”
“In a private Asylum, I think you said?”
“Yes, in a private Asylum, where a sum of money, which no poor person
could afford to give, must have been paid for her maintenance as a
patient.”
“I see where the doubt lies, Mr. Hartright, and I promise you that
it shall be set at rest, whether Anne Catherick assists us to-morrow
or not. Sir Percival Glyde shall not be long in this house without
satisfying Mr. Gilmore, and satisfying me. My sister’s future is my
dearest care in life, and I have influence enough over her to give me
some power, where her marriage is concerned, in the disposal of it.”
We parted for the night.
After breakfast the next morning, an obstacle, which the events of the
evening before had put out of my memory, interposed to prevent our
proceeding immediately to the farm. This was my last day at Limmeridge
House, and it was necessary, as soon as the post came in, to follow
Miss Halcombe’s advice, and to ask Mr. Fairlie’s permission to shorten
my engagement by a month, in consideration of an unforeseen necessity
for my return to London.
Fortunately for the probability of this excuse, so far as appearances
were concerned, the post brought me two letters from London friends
that morning. I took them away at once to my own room, and sent the
servant with a message to Mr. Fairlie, requesting to know when I could
see him on a matter of business.
I awaited the man’s return, free from the slightest feeling of anxiety
about the manner in which his master might receive my application.
With Mr. Fairlie’s leave or without it, I must go. The consciousness
of having now taken the first step on the dreary journey which was
henceforth to separate my life from Miss Fairlie’s seemed to have
blunted my sensibility to every consideration connected with myself. I
had done with my poor man’s touchy pride—I had done with all my little
artist vanities. No insolence of Mr. Fairlie’s, if he chose to be
insolent, could wound me now.
The servant returned with a message for which I was not unprepared.
Mr. Fairlie regretted that the state of his health, on that particular
morning, was such as to preclude all hope of his having the pleasure of
receiving me. He begged, therefore, that I would accept his apologies,
and kindly communicate what I had to say in the form of a letter.
Similar messages to this had reached me, at various intervals, during
my three months’ residence in the house. Throughout the whole of that
period Mr. Fairlie had been rejoiced to “possess” me, but had never
been well enough to see me for a second time. The servant took every
fresh batch of drawings that I mounted and restored back to his master
with my “respects,” and returned empty-handed with Mr. Fairlie’s “kind