The Woman in White
to travel by the train to London also. He most kindly assisted them,
and put them into the carriage himself, begging Mrs. Clements not to
forget to send her address to Lady Glyde. The elderly lady did not
travel in the same compartment, and they did not notice what became of
her on reaching the London terminus. Mrs. Clements secured respectable
lodgings in a quiet neighbourhood, and then wrote, as she had engaged
to do, to inform Lady Glyde of the address.
A little more than a fortnight passed, and no answer came.
At the end of that time a lady (the same elderly lady whom they had
seen at the station) called in a cab, and said that she came from
Lady Glyde, who was then at an hotel in London, and who wished to see
Mrs. Clements, for the purpose of arranging a future interview with
Anne. Mrs. Clements expressed her willingness (Anne being present at
the time, and entreating her to do so) to forward the object in view,
especially as she was not required to be away from the house for more
than half an hour at the most. She and the elderly lady (clearly Madame
Fosco) then left in the cab. The lady stopped the cab, after it had
driven some distance, at a shop before they got to the hotel, and
begged Mrs. Clements to wait for her for a few minutes while she made a
purchase that had been forgotten. She never appeared again.
After waiting some time Mrs. Clements became alarmed, and ordered the
cabman to drive back to her lodgings. When she got there, after an
absence of rather more than half an hour, Anne was gone.
The only information to be obtained from the people of the house was
derived from the servant who waited on the lodgers. She had opened the
door to a boy from the street, who had left a letter for “the young
woman who lived on the second floor” (the part of the house which Mrs.
Clements occupied). The servant had delivered the letter, had then
gone downstairs, and five minutes afterwards had observed Anne open
the front door and go out, dressed in her bonnet and shawl. She had
probably taken the letter with her, for it was not to be found, and it
was therefore impossible to tell what inducement had been offered to
make her leave the house. It must have been a strong one, for she would
never stir out alone in London of her own accord. If Mrs. Clements had
not known this by experience nothing would have induced her to go away
in the cab, even for so short a time as half an hour only.
As soon as she could collect her thoughts, the first idea that
naturally occurred to Mrs. Clements was to go and make inquiries at the
Asylum, to which she dreaded that Anne had been taken back.
She went there the next day, having been informed of the locality in
which the house was situated by Anne herself. The answer she received
(her application having in all probability been made a day or two
before the false Anne Catherick had really been consigned to safe
keeping in the Asylum) was, that no such person had been brought back
there. She had then written to Mrs. Catherick at Welmingham to know if
she had seen or heard anything of her daughter, and had received an
answer in the negative. After that reply had reached her, she was at
the end of her resources, and perfectly ignorant where else to inquire
or what else to do. From that time to this she had remained in total
ignorance of the cause of Anne’s disappearance and of the end of Anne’s
story.
VII
Thus far the information which I had received from Mrs. Clements—though
it established facts of which I had not previously been aware—was of a
preliminary character only.
It was clear that the series of deceptions which had removed Anne
Catherick to London, and separated her from Mrs. Clements, had been
accomplished solely by Count Fosco and the Countess, and the question
whether any part of the conduct of husband or wife had been of a kind
to place either of them within reach of the law might be well worthy
of future consideration. But the purpose I had now in view led me in
another direction than this. The immediate object of my visit to Mrs.
Clements was to make some approach at least to the discovery of Sir
Percival’s secret, and she had said nothing as yet which advanced me on
my way to that important end. I felt the necessity of trying to awaken
her recollections of other times, persons, and events than those on
which her memory had hitherto been employed, and when I next spoke I
spoke with that object indirectly in view.
“I wish I could be of any help to you in this sad calamity,” I said.
“All I can do is to feel heartily for your distress. If Anne had been
your own child, Mrs. Clements, you could have shown her no truer
kindness—you could have made no readier sacrifices for her sake.”
“There’s no great merit in that, sir,” said Mrs. Clements simply. “The
poor thing was as good as my own child to me. I nursed her from a baby,
sir, bringing her up by hand—and a hard job it was to rear her. It
wouldn’t go to my heart so to lose her if I hadn’t made her first short
clothes and taught her to walk. I always said she was sent to console
me for never having chick or child of my own. And now she’s lost the
old times keep coming back to my mind, and even at my age I can’t help
crying about her—I can’t indeed, sir!”
I waited a little to give Mrs. Clements time to compose herself. Was
the light that I had been looking for so long glimmering on me—far off,
as yet—in the good woman’s recollections of Anne’s early life?
“Did you know Mrs. Catherick before Anne was born?” I asked.
“Not very long, sir—not above four months. We saw a great deal of each
other in that time, but we were never very friendly together.”
Her voice was steadier as she made that reply. Painful as many of her
recollections might be, I observed that it was unconsciously a relief
to her mind to revert to the dimly-seen troubles of the past, after
dwelling so long on the vivid sorrows of the present.
“Were you and Mrs. Catherick neighbours?” I inquired, leading her
memory on as encouragingly as I could.
“Yes, sir—neighbours at Old Welmingham.”
“OLD Welmingham? There are two places of that name, then, in Hampshire?”
“Well, sir, there used to be in those days—better than three-and-twenty
years ago. They built a new town about two miles off, convenient to the
river—and Old Welmingham, which was never much more than a village, got
in time to be deserted. The new town is the place they call Welmingham
now—but the old parish church is the parish church still. It stands by
itself, with the houses pulled down or gone to ruin all round it. I’ve
lived to see sad changes. It was a pleasant, pretty place in my time.”
“Did you live there before your marriage, Mrs. Clements?”
“No, sir—I’m a Norfolk woman. It wasn’t the place my husband belonged
to either. He was from Grimsby, as I told you, and he served his
apprenticeship there. But having friends down south, and hearing of
an opening, he got into business at Southampton. It was in a small
way, but he made enough for a plain man to retire on, and settled at
Old Welmingham. I went there with him when he married me. We were
neither of us young, but we lived very happy together—happier than our
neighbour, Mr. Catherick, lived along with his wife when they came to
Old Welmingham a year or two afterwards.”
“Was your husband acquainted with them before that?”
“With Catherick, sir—not with his wife. She was a stranger to both of
us. Some gentlemen had made interest for Catherick, and he got the
situation of clerk at Welmingham church, which was the reason of his
coming to settle in our neighbourhood. He brought his newly-married
wife along with him, and we heard in course of time she had been
lady’s-maid in a family that lived at Varneck Hall, near Southampton.
Catherick had found it a hard matter to get her to marry him, in
consequence of her holding herself uncommonly high. He had asked and
asked, and given the thing up at last, seeing she was so contrary about
it. When he HAD given it up she turned contrary just the other way, and
came to him of her own accord, without rhyme or reason seemingly. My
poor husband always said that was the time to have given her a lesson.
But Catherick was too fond of her to do anything of the sort—he never
checked her either before they were married or after. He was a quick
man in his feelings, letting them carry him a deal too far, now in one
way and now in another, and he would have spoilt a better wife than
Mrs. Catherick if a better had married him. I don’t like to speak ill
of any one, sir, but she was a heartless woman, with a terrible will
of her own—fond of foolish admiration and fine clothes, and not caring
to show so much as decent outward respect to Catherick, kindly as he
always treated her. My husband said he thought things would turn out
badly when they first came to live near us, and his words proved true.
Before they had been quite four months in our neighbourhood there was a
dreadful scandal and a miserable break-up in their household. Both of
them were in fault—I am afraid both of them were equally in fault.”
“You mean both husband and wife?”
“Oh, no, sir! I don’t mean Catherick—he was only to be pitied. I meant
his wife and the person—”
“And the person who caused the scandal?”
“Yes, sir. A gentleman born and brought up, who ought to have set a
better example. You know him, sir—and my poor dear Anne knew him only
too well.”
“Sir Percival Glyde?”
“Yes, Sir Percival Glyde.”
My heart beat fast—I thought I had my hand on the clue. How little I
knew then of the windings of the labyrinths which were still to mislead
me!
“Did Sir Percival live in your neighbourhood at that time?” I asked.
“No, sir. He came among us as a stranger. His father had died not long
before in foreign parts. I remember he was in mourning. He put up at
the little inn on the river (they have pulled it down since that time),
where gentlemen used to go to fish. He wasn’t much noticed when he
first came—it was a common thing enough for gentlemen to travel from
all parts of England to fish in our river.”
“Did he make his appearance in the village before Anne was born?”
“Yes, sir. Anne was born in the June month of eighteen hundred and
twenty-seven—and I think he came at the end of April or the beginning
of May.”
“Came as a stranger to all of you? A stranger to Mrs. Catherick as well
as to the rest of the neighbours?”
“So we thought at first, sir. But when the scandal broke out, nobody
believed they were strangers. I remember how it happened as well as if
it was yesterday. Catherick came into our garden one night, and woke us
by throwing up a handful of gravel from the walk at our window. I heard
him beg my husband, for the Lord’s sake, to come down and speak to him.
They were a long time together talking in the porch. When my husband
came back upstairs he was all of a tremble. He sat down on the side of
the bed and he says to me, ‘Lizzie! I always told you that woman was
a bad one—I always said she would end ill, and I’m afraid in my own
mind that the end has come already. Catherick has found a lot of lace
handkerchiefs, and two fine rings, and a new gold watch and chain, hid
away in his wife’s drawer—things that nobody but a born lady ought ever
to have—and his wife won’t say how she came by them.’ ‘Does he think
she stole them?’ says I. ‘No,’ says he, ‘stealing would be bad enough.
But it’s worse than that, she’s had no chance of stealing such things
as those, and she’s not a woman to take them if she had. They’re gifts,
Lizzie—there’s her own initials engraved inside the watch—and Catherick
has seen her talking privately, and carrying on as no married woman
should, with that gentleman in mourning, Sir Percival Glyde. Don’t you