‘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 madhouse.’
‘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 of 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 r
aised 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.
I had rightly interpreted the first signs of a new growth and strength in her mind, unconsciously expressing themselves in the notice she had taken of the occupations which filled her sister’s life and mine. Marian (when I told her what had passed) saw, as I saw, that she was longing to assume her own little position of importance, to raise herself in her own estimation and in ours—and, from that day, we tenderly helped the new ambition which gave promise of the hopeful, happier future, that might now not be far off. Her drawings, as she finished them, or tried to finish them, were placed in my hands; Marian took them from me and hid them carefully; and I set aside a little weekly tribute from my earnings, to be offered to her as the price paid by strangers for the poor, faint, valueless sketches, of which I was the only purchaser. It was hard sometimes to maintain our innocent deception, when she proudly brought out her purse to contribute her share towards the expenses, and wondered, with serious interest, whether I or she had earned the most that week. I have all those hidden drawings in my possession still: they are my treasures beyond price—the dear remembrances that I love to keep alive—the friends, in past adversity, that my heart will never part from, my tenderness never forget.
Am I trifling, here, with the necessities of my task? Am I looking forward to the happier time which my narrative has not yet reached? Yes. Back again—back to the days of doubt and dread, when the spirit within me struggled hard for its life, in the icy stillness of perpetual suspense. I have paused and rested for a while on my forward course. It is not, perhaps, time wasted, if the friends who read these pages have paused and rested too.
I took the first opportunity I could find of speaking to Marian in private, and of communicating to her the result of the inquiries which I had made that morning. She seemed to share the opinion on the subject of my proposed journey to Welmingham, which Mrs. Clements had already expressed to me.
‘Surely, Walter,’ she said, ‘you hardly know enough yet to give you any hope of claiming Mrs. Catherick’s confidence? Is it wise to proceed to these extremities, before you have really exhausted all safer and simpler means of attaining your object? When you told me that Sir Percival and the Count were the only two people in existence who knew the exact date of Laura’s journey, you forgot, and I forgot, that there was a third person who must surely know it—I mean Mrs. Rubelle. Would it not be far easier, and far less dangerous, to insist on a confession from her, than to force it from Sir Percival?’
‘It might be easier,’ I replied; ‘but we are not aware of the full extent of Mrs. Rubelle’s connivance and interest in the conspiracy; and we are therefore not certain that the date has been impressed on her mind, as it has been assuredly impressed on the minds of Sir Percival and the Count. It is too late, now, to waste the time on Mrs. Rubelle, which may be all-important to the discovery of the one assailable point in Sir Percival’s life. Are you thinking a little too seriously, Marian, of the risk I may run in returning to Hampshire? Are you beginning to doubt whether Sir Percival Glyde may not, in the end, be more than a match for me?’
‘He will not be more than your match,’ she replied, decidedly, ‘because he will not be helped in resisting you by the impenetrable wickedness of the Count.’
‘What has led you to that conclusion?’ I asked, in some surprise.
‘My own knowledge of Sir Percival’s obstinacy and impatience of the Count’s control,’ she answered. ‘I believe he will insist on meeting you single-handed-just as he insisted, at first, on acting for himself at Blackwater Park. The time for suspecting the Count’s interference, will be the time when you have Sir Percival at your mercy. His own interests will then be directly threatened—and he will act, Walter, to terrible purpose, in his own defence.’
‘We may deprive him of his weapons, beforehand,’ I said. ‘Some of the particulars I have heard from Mrs. Clements may yet be turned to account against him; and other means of strengthening the case may be at our disposal. There are passages in Mrs. Michelson’s narrative which show that the Count found it necessary to place himself in communication with Mr. Fairlie; and there may be circumstances which compromise him in that proceeding. While I am away, Marian, write to Mr. Fairlie, and say that you want an answer describing exactly what passed between the Count and himself, and informing you also of any particulars that may have come to his knowledge at the same time, in connexion with his niece. Tell him that the statement you request will, sooner or later, be insisted on, if he shows any reluctance to furnish you with it of his own accord.’
‘The letter shall be written, Walter. But are you really determined to go to Welmingham?’
‘Absolutely determined. I will devote the next two days to earning what we want for the week to come; and, on the third day, I go to Hampshire.’
When the third day came, I was ready for my journey.
As it was possible that I might be absent for some little time, I arranged with Marian that we were to correspond every day; of course addressing each other by assumed names, for caution’s sake. As long as I heard from her regularly, I should assume that nothing was wrong. But if the morning came and brought me no letter, my return to London would take place, as a matter of course, by the first train. I contrived to reconcile Laura to my departure by telling her that I was going to the country to find new purchasers for her drawings and for mine; and I left her occupied and happy. Marian followed me down stairs to the street door.
‘Remember what anxious hearts you leave here,’ she whispered, as we stood together in the passage; ‘remember all the hopes that hang on your safe return. If strange things happen to you on this journey; if you and Sir Percival meet—’
‘What makes you think we shall meet?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know—I have fears and fancies that I can’t account for. Laugh at them, Walter, if you like—but, for God’s sake, keep your temper, if you come in contact with that man!’
‘Never fear, Marian! I answer for my self-control.’
With those words we parted.
I walked briskly to the station. There was a glow of hope in me; there was a growing conviction in my mind that my journey, this time, would not be taken in vain. It was a f
ine, clear, cold morning; my nerves were firmly strung, and I felt all the strength of my resolution stirring in me vigorously from head to foot.
As I crossed the railway platform, and looked right and left among the people congregated on it, to search for any faces among them that I knew, the doubt occurred to me whether it might not have been to my advantage, if I had adopted a disguise, before setting out for Hampshire. But there was something so repellent to me in the idea—something so meanly like the common herd of spies and informers in the mere act of adopting a disguise—that I dismissed the question from consideration, almost as soon as it had risen in my mind. Even as a mere matter of expediency the proceeding was doubtful in the extreme. If I tried the experiment at home, the landlord of the house would, sooner or later, discover me, and would have his suspicions aroused immediately. If I tried it away from home, the same persons might see me, by the commonest accident, with the disguise and without it; and I should, in that way, be inviting the notice and distrust which it was my most pressing interest to avoid. In my own character I had acted thus far—and in my own character I was resolved to continue to the end.
The train left me at Welmingham, early in the afternoon.
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