The Woman in White
“Control your unfortunate temper, Percival,” he said, “Lady Glyde is
right.”
“Right!” cried Sir Percival. “A wife right in distrusting her husband!”
“It is unjust and cruel to accuse me of distrusting you,” said Laura.
“Ask Marian if I am not justified in wanting to know what this writing
requires of me before I sign it.”
“I won’t have any appeals made to Miss Halcombe,” retorted Sir
Percival. “Miss Halcombe has nothing to do with the matter.”
I had not spoken hitherto, and I would much rather not have spoken
now. But the expression of distress in Laura’s face when she turned it
towards me, and the insolent injustice of her husband’s conduct, left
me no other alternative than to give my opinion, for her sake, as soon
as I was asked for it.
“Excuse me, Sir Percival,” I said—“but as one of the witnesses to
the signature, I venture to think that I HAVE something to do with
the matter. Laura’s objection seems to me a perfectly fair one, and
speaking for myself only, I cannot assume the responsibility of
witnessing her signature, unless she first understands what the writing
is which you wish her to sign.”
“A cool declaration, upon my soul!” cried Sir Percival. “The next time
you invite yourself to a man’s house, Miss Halcombe, I recommend you
not to repay his hospitality by taking his wife’s side against him in a
matter that doesn’t concern you.”
I started to my feet as suddenly as if he had struck me. If I had been
a man, I would have knocked him down on the threshold of his own door,
and have left his house, never on any earthly consideration to enter it
again. But I was only a woman—and I loved his wife so dearly!
Thank God, that faithful love helped me, and I sat down again without
saying a word. SHE knew what I had suffered and what I had suppressed.
She ran round to me, with the tears streaming from her eyes. “Oh,
Marian!” she whispered softly. “If my mother had been alive, she could
have done no more for me!”
“Come back and sign!” cried Sir Percival from the other side of the
table.
“Shall I?” she asked in my ear; “I will, if you tell me.”
“No,” I answered. “The right and the truth are with you—sign nothing,
unless you have read it first.”
“Come back and sign!” he reiterated, in his loudest and angriest tones.
The Count, who had watched Laura and me with a close and silent
attention, interposed for the second time.
“Percival!” he said. “I remember that I am in the presence of ladies.
Be good enough, if you please, to remember it too.”
Sir Percival turned on him speechless with passion. The Count’s firm
hand slowly tightened its grasp on his shoulder, and the Count’s steady
voice quietly repeated, “Be good enough, if you please, to remember it
too.”
They both looked at each other. Sir Percival slowly drew his shoulder
from under the Count’s hand, slowly turned his face away from the
Count’s eyes, doggedly looked down for a little while at the parchment
on the table, and then spoke, with the sullen submission of a tamed
animal, rather than the becoming resignation of a convinced man.
“I don’t want to offend anybody,” he said, “but my wife’s obstinacy
is enough to try the patience of a saint. I have told her this is
merely a formal document—and what more can she want? You may say what
you please, but it is no part of a woman’s duty to set her husband at
defiance. Once more, Lady Glyde, and for the last time, will you sign
or will you not?”
Laura returned to his side of the table, and took up the pen again.
“I will sign with pleasure,” she said, “if you will only treat me as a
responsible being. I care little what sacrifice is required of me, if
it will affect no one else, and lead to no ill results—”
“Who talked of a sacrifice being required of you?” he broke in, with a
half-suppressed return of his former violence.
“I only meant,” she resumed, “that I would refuse no concession which
I could honourably make. If I have a scruple about signing my name to
an engagement of which I know nothing, why should you visit it on me so
severely? It is rather hard, I think, to treat Count Fosco’s scruples
so much more indulgently than you have treated mine.”
This unfortunate, yet most natural, reference to the Count’s
extraordinary power over her husband, indirect as it was, set Sir
Percival’s smouldering temper on fire again in an instant.
“Scruples!” he repeated. “YOUR scruples! It is rather late in the day
for you to be scrupulous. I should have thought you had got over all
weakness of that sort, when you made a virtue of necessity by marrying
me.”
The instant he spoke those words, Laura threw down the pen—looked at
him with an expression in her eyes which, throughout all my experience
of her, I had never seen in them before, and turned her back on him in
dead silence.
This strong expression of the most open and the most bitter contempt
was so entirely unlike herself, so utterly out of her character, that
it silenced us all. There was something hidden, beyond a doubt, under
the mere surface-brutality of the words which her husband had just
addressed to her. There was some lurking insult beneath them, of which
I was wholly ignorant, but which had left the mark of its profanation
so plainly on her face that even a stranger might have seen it.
The Count, who was no stranger, saw it as distinctly as I did. When I
left my chair to join Laura, I heard him whisper under his breath to
Sir Percival, “You idiot!”
Laura walked before me to the door as I advanced, and at the same time
her husband spoke to her once more.
“You positively refuse, then, to give me your signature?” he said, in
the altered tone of a man who was conscious that he had let his own
licence of language seriously injure him.
“After what you have just said to me,” she replied firmly, “I refuse my
signature until I have read every line in that parchment from the first
word to the last. Come away, Marian, we have remained here long enough.”
“One moment!” interposed the Count before Sir Percival could speak
again—“one moment, Lady Glyde, I implore you!”
Laura would have left the room without noticing him, but I stopped her.
“Don’t make an enemy of the Count!” I whispered. “Whatever you do,
don’t make an enemy of the Count!”
She yielded to me. I closed the door again, and we stood near it
waiting. Sir Percival sat down at the table, with his elbow on the
folded parchment, and his head resting on his clenched fist. The Count
stood between us—master of the dreadful position in which we were
placed, as he was master of everything else.
“Lady Glyde,” he said, with a gentleness which seemed to address itself
to our forlorn situation instead of to ourselves, “pray pardon me if
I venture to offer one suggestion, and pray believe that I speak out
of my profound respect and my friendly regard for the mistress of this
house.” He turned sharply towards Sir Percival. “Is it absolutely
necessary,” he asked, “that this thing here, under your elbow, should
be signed to-day?”
“It is necessary to my plans and wishes,” returned the other sulkily.
“But that consideration, as you may have noticed, has no influence with
Lady Glyde.”
“Answer my plain question plainly. Can the business of the signature be
put off till to-morrow—Yes or No?”
“Yes, if you will have it so.”
“Then what are you wasting your time for here? Let the signature wait
till to-morrow—let it wait till you come back.”
Sir Percival looked up with a frown and an oath.
“You are taking a tone with me that I don’t like,” he said. “A tone I
won’t bear from any man.”
“I am advising you for your good,” returned the Count, with a smile
of quiet contempt. “Give yourself time—give Lady Glyde time. Have you
forgotten that your dog-cart is waiting at the door? My tone surprises
you—ha? I dare say it does—it is the tone of a man who can keep his
temper. How many doses of good advice have I given you in my time? More
than you can count. Have I ever been wrong? I defy you to quote me an
instance of it. Go! take your drive. The matter of the signature can
wait till to-morrow. Let it wait—and renew it when you come back.”
Sir Percival hesitated and looked at his watch. His anxiety about the
secret journey which he was to take that day, revived by the Count’s
words, was now evidently disputing possession of his mind with his
anxiety to obtain Laura’s signature. e considered for a little while,
and then got up from his chair.
“It is easy to argue me down,” he said, “when I have no time to answer
you. I will take your advice, Fosco—not because I want it, or believe
in it, but because I can’t stop here any longer.” He paused, and looked
round darkly at his wife. “If you don’t give me your signature when I
come back to-morrow—!” The rest was lost in the noise of his opening
the book-case cupboard again, and locking up the parchment once more.
He took his hat and gloves off the table, and made for the door. Laura
and I drew back to let him pass. “Remember to-morrow!” he said to his
wife, and went out.
We waited to give him time to cross the hall and drive away. The Count
approached us while we were standing near the door.
“You have just seen Percival at his worst, Miss Halcombe,” he said.
“As his old friend, I am sorry for him and ashamed of him. As his old
friend, I promise you that he shall not break out to-morrow in the same
disgraceful manner in which he has broken out to-day.”
Laura had taken my arm while he was speaking and she pressed it
significantly when he had done. It would have been a hard trial to any
woman to stand by and see the office of apologist for her husband’s
misconduct quietly assumed by his male friend in her own house—and
it was a trial to HER. I thanked the Count civilly, and let her out.
Yes! I thanked him: for I felt already, with a sense of inexpressible
helplessness and humiliation, that it was either his interest or his
caprice to make sure of my continuing to reside at Blackwater Park, and
I knew after Sir Percival’s conduct to me, that without the support of
the Count’s influence, I could not hope to remain there. His influence,
the influence of all others that I dreaded most, was actually the one
tie which now held me to Laura in the hour of her utmost need!
We heard the wheels of the dog-cart crashing on the gravel of the drive
as we came into the hall. Sir Percival had started on his journey.
“Where is he going to, Marian?” Laura whispered. “Every fresh thing he
does seems to terrify me about the future. Have you any suspicions?”
After what she had undergone that morning, I was unwilling to tell her
my suspicions.
“How should I know his secrets?” I said evasively.
“I wonder if the housekeeper knows?” she persisted.
“Certainly not,” I replied. “She must be quite as ignorant as we are.”
Laura shook her head doubtfully.
“Did you not hear from the housekeeper that there was a report of Anne
Catherick having been seen in this neighbourhood? Don’t you think he
may have gone away to look for her?”
“I would rather compose myself, Laura, by not thinking about it at all,
and after what has happened, you had better follow my example. Come
into my room, and rest and quiet yourself a little.”
We sat down together close to the window, and let the fragrant summer
air breathe over our faces.
“I am ashamed to look at you, Marian,” she said, “after what you
submitted to downstairs, for my sake. Oh, my own love, I am almost
heartbroken when I think of it! But I will try to make it up to you—I
will indeed!”
“Hush! hush!” I replied; “don’t talk so. What is the trifling
mortification of my pride compared to the dreadful sacrifice of your
happiness?”
“You heard what he said to me?” she went on quickly and vehemently.
“You heard the words—but you don’t know what they meant—you don’t know