The Woman in White
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 sick-room, I saw the
Count (who had gone out again early, for the third time) 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
to-morrow 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, I 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. Just 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 to-day?”
“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-morning, 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 trimming 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 appear 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 breakfast-room.
“About this new nurse, Mrs. Michelson,” said the doctor.
“Yes, sir?”
“I 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