The Woman in White
this impression—I could only encourage Mrs. Clements to speak next of
Anne’s early days, and watch for any chance-suggestion which might in
this way offer itself to me.
“I have not heard yet,” I said, “how the poor child, born in all this
sin and misery, came to be trusted, Mrs. Clements, to your care.”
“There was nobody else, sir, to take the little helpless creature in
hand,” replied Mrs. Clements. “The wicked mother seemed to hate it—as
if the poor baby was in fault!—from the day it was born. My heart was
heavy for the child, and I made the offer to bring it up as tenderly as
if it was my own.”
“Did Anne remain entirely under your care from that time?”
“Not quite entirely, sir. Mrs. Catherick had her whims and fancies
about it at times, and used now and then to lay claim to the child, as
if she wanted to spite me for bringing it up. But these fits of hers
never lasted for long. Poor little Anne was always returned to me,
and was always glad to get back—though she led but a gloomy life in
my house, having no playmates, like other children, to brighten her
up. Our longest separation was when her mother took her to Limmeridge.
Just at that time I lost my husband, and I felt it was as well, in
that miserable affliction, that Anne should not be in the house. She
was between ten and eleven years old then, slow at her lessons, poor
soul, and not so cheerful as other children—but as pretty a little
girl to look at as you would wish to see. I waited at home till her
mother brought her back, and then I made the offer to take her with me
to London—the truth being, sir, that I could not find it in my heart
to stop at Old Welmingham after my husband’s death, the place was so
changed and so dismal to me.”
“And did Mrs. Catherick consent to your proposal?”
“No, sir. She came back from the north harder and bitterer than ever.
Folks did say that she had been obliged to ask Sir Percival’s leave to
go, to begin with; and that she only went to nurse her dying sister at
Limmeridge because the poor woman was reported to have saved money—the
truth being that she hardly left enough to bury her. These things may
have soured Mrs. Catherick likely enough, but however that may be,
she wouldn’t hear of my taking the child away. She seemed to like
distressing us both by parting us. All I could do was to give Anne my
direction, and to tell her privately, if she was ever in trouble, to
come to me. But years passed before she was free to come. I never saw
her again, poor soul, till the night she escaped from the mad-house.”
“You know, Mrs. Clements, why Sir Percival Glyde shut her up?”
“I only know what Anne herself told me, sir. The poor thing used to
ramble and wander about it sadly. She said her mother had got some
secret of Sir Percival’s to keep, and had let it out to her long after
I left Hampshire—and when Sir Percival found she knew it, he shut her
up. But she never could say what it was when I asked her. All she could
tell me was, that her mother might be the ruin and destruction of Sir
Percival if she chose. Mrs. Catherick may have let out just as much as
that, and no more. I’m next to certain I should have heard the whole
truth from Anne, if she had really known it as she pretended to do, and
as she very likely fancied she did, poor soul.”
This idea had more than once occurred to my own mind. I had already
told Marian that I doubted whether Laura was really on the point
of making any important discovery when she and Anne Catherick were
disturbed by Count Fosco at the boat-house. It was perfectly in
character with Anne’s mental affliction that she should assume an
absolute knowledge of the secret on no better grounds than vague
suspicion, derived from hints which her mother had incautiously let
drop in her presence. Sir Percival’s guilty distrust would, in that
case, infallibly inspire him with the false idea that Anne knew all
from her mother, just as it had afterwards fixed in his mind the
equally false suspicion that his wife knew all from Anne.
The time was passing, the morning was wearing away. It was doubtful, if
I stayed longer, whether I should hear anything more from Mrs. Clements
that would be at all useful to my purpose. I had already discovered
those local and family particulars, in relation to Mrs. Catherick, of
which I had been in search, and I had arrived at certain conclusions,
entirely new to me, which might immensely assist in directing the
course of my future proceedings. I rose to take my leave, and to thank
Mrs. Clements for the friendly readiness she had shown in affording me
information.
“I am afraid you must have thought me very inquisitive,” I said. “I
have troubled you with more questions than many people would have cared
to answer.”
“You are heartily welcome, sir, to anything I can tell you,” answered
Mrs. Clements. She stopped and looked at me wistfully. “But I do wish,”
said the poor woman, “you could have told me a little more about Anne,
sir. I thought I saw something in your face when you came in which
looked as if you could. You can’t think how hard it is not even to know
whether she is living or dead. I could bear it better if I was only
certain. You said you never expected we should see her alive again. Do
you know, sir—do you know for truth—that it has pleased God to take
her?”
I was not proof against this appeal; it would have been unspeakably
mean and cruel of me if I had resisted it.
“I am afraid there is no doubt of the truth,” I answered gently; “I
have the certainty in my own mind that her troubles in this world are
over.”
The poor woman dropped into her chair and hid her face from me. “Oh,
sir,” she said, “how do you know it? Who can have told you?”
“No one has told me, Mrs. Clements. But I have reasons for feeling sure
of it—reasons which I promise you shall know as soon as I can safely
explain them. I am certain she was not neglected in her last moments—I
am certain the heart complaint from which she suffered so sadly was
the true cause of her death. You shall feel as sure of this as I do,
soon—you shall know, before long, that she is buried in a quiet country
churchyard—in a pretty, peaceful place, which you might have chosen for
her yourself.”
“Dead!” said Mrs. Clements, “dead so young, and I am left to hear it! I
made her first short frocks. I taught her to walk. The first time she
ever said Mother she said it to me—and now I am left and Anne is taken!
Did you say, sir,” said the poor woman, removing the handkerchief from
her face, and looking up at me for the first time, “did you say that
she had been nicely buried? Was it the sort of funeral she might have
had if she had really been my own child?”
I assured her that it was. She seemed to take an inexplicable pride
in my answer—to find a comfort in it which no other and higher
considerations could afford. “It would have broken my heart,” she said
simply, “if Anne had not been nicely buried—but how do you know it,
sir? who told you?” I once more entreated her to wait until I could
speak to her unreservedly. “You are sure to see me again,” I said, “for
I have a favour to ask when you are a little more composed—perhaps in a
day or two.”
“Don’t keep it waiting, sir, on my account,” said Mrs. Clements. “Never
mind my crying if I can be of use. If you have anything on your mind to
say to me, sir, please to say it now.”
“I only wish to ask you one last question,” I said. “I only want to
know Mrs. Catherick’s address at Welmingham.”
My request so startled Mrs. Clements, that, for the moment, even the
tidings of Anne’s death seemed to be driven from her mind. Her tears
suddenly ceased to flow, and she sat looking at me in blank amazement.
“For the Lord’s sake, sir!” she said, “what do you want with Mrs.
Catherick!”
“I want this, Mrs. Clements,” I replied, “I want to know the secret
of those private meetings of hers with Sir Percival Glyde. There is
something more in what you have told me of that woman’s past conduct,
and of that man’s past relations with her, than you or any of your
neighbours ever suspected. There is a secret we none of us know between
those two, and I am going to Mrs. Catherick with the resolution to find
it out.”
“Think twice about it, sir!” said Mrs. Clements, rising in her
earnestness and laying her hand on my arm. “She’s an awful woman—you
don’t know her as I do. Think twice about it.”
“I am sure your warning is kindly meant, Mrs. Clements. But I am
determined to see the woman, whatever comes of it.”
Mrs. Clements looked me anxiously in the face.
“I see your mind is made up, sir,” she said. “I will give you the
address.”
I wrote it down in my pocket-book and then took her hand to say
farewell.
“You shall hear from me soon,” I said; “you shall know all that I have
promised to tell you.”
Mrs. Clements sighed and shook her head doubtfully.
“An old woman’s advice is sometimes worth taking, sir,” she said.
“Think twice before you go to Welmingham.”
VIII
When I reached home again after my interview with Mrs. Clements, I was
struck by the appearance of a change in Laura.
The unvarying gentleness and patience which long misfortune had tried
so cruelly and had never conquered yet, seemed now to have suddenly
failed her. Insensible to all Marian’s attempts to soothe and amuse
her, she sat, with her neglected drawing pushed away on the table, her
eyes resolutely cast down, her fingers twining and untwining themselves
restlessly in her lap. Marian rose when I came in, with a silent
distress in her face, waited for a moment to see if Laura would look up
at my approach, whispered to me, “Try if you can rouse her,” and left
the room.
I sat down in the vacant chair—gently unclasped the poor, worn,
restless fingers, and took both her hands in mine.
“What are you thinking of, Laura? Tell me, my darling—try and tell me
what it is.”
She struggled with herself, and raised her eyes to mine. “I can’t feel
happy,” she said, “I can’t help thinking——” She stopped, bent forward
a little, and laid her head on my shoulder, with a terrible mute
helplessness that struck me to the heart.
“Try to tell me,” I repeated gently; “try to tell me why you are not
happy.”
“I am so useless—I am such a burden on both of you,” she answered, with
a weary, hopeless sigh. “You work and get money, Walter, and Marian
helps you. Why is there nothing I can do? You will end in liking Marian
better than you like me—you will, because I am so helpless! Oh, don’t,
don’t, don’t treat me like a child!”
I raised her head, and smoothed away the tangled hair that fell over
her face, and kissed her—my poor, faded flower! my lost, afflicted
sister! “You shall help us, Laura,” I said, “you shall begin, my
darling, to-day.”
She looked at me with a feverish eagerness, with a breathless interest,
that made me tremble for the new life of hope which I had called into
being by those few words.
I rose, and set her drawing materials in order, and placed them near
her again.
“You know that I work and get money by drawing,” I said. “Now you have
taken such pains, now you are so much improved, you shall begin to
work and get money too. Try to finish this little sketch as nicely and
prettily as you can. When it is done I will take it away with me, and
the same person will buy it who buys all that I do. You shall keep your
own earnings in your own purse, and Marian shall come to you to help
us, as often as she comes to me. Think how useful you are going to make
yourself to both of us, and you will soon be as happy, Laura, as the
day is long.”
Her face grew eager, and brightened into a smile. In the moment while
it lasted, in the moment when she again took up the pencils that had
been laid aside, she almost looked like the Laura of past days.