The Woman in White
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
own duty—duty of hospitality, sympathy, protection, to an unhappy lady
in need of all three—smoothed and made easy, from the beginning to the
end. I cordially invite you, sir, to 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 to-day.”
He waved his horrid hand at me—he struck his infectious breast—he
addressed me oratorically, as if I was laid up in the House of Commons.
It was high time to take a desperate course of some sort. It was also
high time to send for Louis, and adopt the 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 I 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
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 light-headed, 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 boat-house 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
Miss Halcombe’s illness) appeared much confused and unsettled in his
mind. His lordship testified, on the contrary, a becoming composure
and interest. He had his straw hat in one hand, and his book in the
other, and he mentioned to Sir Percival in my 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 forward in justice to his lordship,
whose character, I have reason to know, is viewed rather harshly in
certain quarters. A nobleman who can respect a lady in distressed
circumstances, and can take a fatherly interest in the fortunes of an
humble servant girl, shows principles and feelings of too high an order
to be lightly called in question. I advance no opinions—I offer facts
only. My 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