The Woman in White
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 to-morrow to better
purpose than you. One last question before we go to bed.”
“What is it?”
“It is this. When I went to the boat-house to tell Lady Glyde that the
little difficulty of her signature was put off, accident took me there
in time to see a strange woman parting in a very suspicious manner from
your wife. But accident did not bring me near enough to see this same
woman’s face plainly. I must know how to 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 to-night. Make your mind easy, Percival.
Sleep, my son, the sleep of the just, and see what I will do for
you when daylight comes to help us both. I have my projects and my
plans here in my big head. You shall pay those bills and find Anne
Catherick—my sacred word of honour on it, but you shall! Am I a friend
to be treasured in the best corner of your heart, or am I not? Am I
worth those loans of money which you so delicately reminded me of a
little while since? Whatever you do, never wound me in my sentiments
any more. Recognise them, Percival! imitate them, Percival! I forgive
you again—I shake hands again. Good-night!”
Not another word was spoken. I heard the Count close the library door.
I heard Sir Percival barring up the window-shutters. It had been
raining, raining all the time. I was cramped by my position and chilled
to the bones. When I first tried to move, the effort was so painful to
me that I was obliged to desist. I tried a second time, and succeeded
in rising to my knees on the wet roof.
As I crept to the wall, and raised myself against it, I looked back,
and saw the window of the Count’s dressing-room gleam into light. My
sinking courage flickered up in me again, and kept my eyes fixed on
his window, as I stole my way back, step by step, past the wall of the
house.
The clock struck the quarter after one, when I laid my hands on the
window-sill of my own room. I had seen nothing and heard nothing which
could lead me to suppose that my retreat had been discovered.
X
June 20th.—Eight o’clock. The sun is shining in a clear sky. I have not
been near my bed—I have not once closed my weary wakeful eyes. From the
same window at which I looked out into the darkness of last night, I
look out now at the bright stillness of the morning.
I count the hours that have passed since I escaped to the shelter of
this room by my own sensations—and those hours seem like weeks.
How short a time, and yet how long to ME—since I sank down in the
darkness, here, on the floor—drenched to the 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 settling itself in my mind that the words
those two men had said to each other would furnish us, not only with
our justification for leaving the house, but with our weapons of
defence against them as well. I recall the impulse that awakened in
me to preserve those words in writing, exactly as they were spoken,
while the time was my own, and while my memory vividly retained them.
All this I remember plainly: there is no confusion in my head yet. The
coming in here from the bedroom, with my pen and ink and paper, before
sunrise—the sitting down at the widely-opened window to get all the air
I could to cool me—the ceaseless writing, faster and faster, hotter and
hotter, driving on more and more wakefully, all through the dreadful
interval before the house was astir again—how clearly I recall it, from
the beginning by 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 [At this place the entry in the Diary ceases to be legible. The
two or three lines which follow contain fragments of words only,
mingled with blots and scratches of the pen. The last marks on the
paper bear some resemblance to the first two letters (L and A) of the
name of Lady Glyde.
On the next page of the Diary, another entry appears. It is in a man’s
handwriting, large, bold, and firmly regular, and the date is “June the
21st.” It contains these lines—]
POSTSCRIPT BY A SINCERE FRIEND
The illness of our excellent Miss Halcombe has afforded me the
opportunity of enjoying an unexpected intellectual pleasure.
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 book. My strict
sense of propriety restores it (by the hands of my wife) to its place
on the writer’s table. Events are hurrying me away. Circumstances are
guiding me to serious issues. Vast perspectives of success unroll
themselves before my eyes. I accomplish my destiny with a calmness
which is terrible to myself. Nothing but the homage of my admiration
is 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 FAIRLIE, ESQ., OF LIMMERIDGE HOUSE[2]
[2] 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