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THE
WOMAN IN WHITE.
BY
WILKIE COLLINS, '
AUTHOR OF “THE DEAD SECRET,” “AFTER DARK," ETC.
COPYRIGHT EDITION
IN TWO VOLUMES
VOL.L
LEII’ZIG
BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ
'186Q ¢
The Right of Translation is reserved.


6 #7355"
3/5/é2.
TO
BRYAN WALLER PROCTER;
FROM ONE OF HIS YOUNGER BRETHREN 1N LITERATURE,
WHO SINCERELY VALUES HIS FRIENDSHIP,
AND WHO GRATEFULLY REMEMBERS
MANY HAPPY HOURS SPENT IN HIS HOUSE.


PREFACE.
AN experiment is attempted in this novel, which
has not (so far as I know) been hitherto tried in
ﬁction. The story of the book is told throughout by
the characters of the book. They are all placed in
different positions along the chain of events; and they
all take the chain up in turn, and carry it on to
the end.
If the execution of this idea had led to nothing
more than the attainment of mere novelty of form,
I should not have claimed a moment’s attention for
it in this place. But the substance of the book, as
well as the form, has proﬁted by it. It has forced
me to keep the story constantly moving forward; and
it has aﬁ'orded my characters a. new opportunity of
expressing themselves, through the medium of the
written contributions which they are supposed to make
to the progress of the narrative.
In writing these prefatory lines, I cannot prevail
on myself to pass over in silence the warm welcome
which my story has met with, in its periodical form,
among English and American readers. In the ﬁrst


VIII PREFACE.
place, that welcome has, I hope, justiﬁed me for
having accepted the serious literary responsibility of
appearing in the columns of “All The Year Round,"
immediately after Mr. Charles Dickens had occupied
them with the most perfect work of constructive art
that has ever proceeded from his pen. In the second
place, by frankly acknowledging the recognition that
I have obtained thus far, I provide for myself an
opportunity of thanking many con-espondents (to whom
I am personally unknown) for the hearty encourage-
ment I received from them while my work was in
progress. Now, while the visionary men and women,
among whom I have been living so long, are all
' leaving me, I remember very gratefully that “Marian”
and “Laura.” made such warm friends in many quarters,
that I was peremptorin cautioned at a serious crisis in .
the story, to be careful how I treated them -— that
Mr. Fairlie found sympathetic fellow-sufferers, who
rcmonstrated with me for not making Christian allow-
ance for the state of his nerves -— that Sir Percival’s
“secret” became sufﬁciently cxasperating, in course of
time, to be made the subject of bets (all of which I
hereby declare to be “oﬁ'”) —— and that Count Fosco
suggested metaphysical considerations to the learned
in such matters (which I don’t quite understand to
this day), besides provoking numerous inquiries as to
the living model, from which he had been really taken.
I can only answer these last by confessing that many


PREFACE. IX
models, some living, and some dead, have “sat” ~er
him; and by hinting that the Count would not have
been as true to nature as I have tried to make him,
if the range of my search for materials had not ex-
tended, in his case as well as in others, beyond the
narrow human limit which is represented by one man.
In presenting my book to a new class of readers,
in its complete form, I have only to say that it has
been carefully revised; and that the divisions of the
chapters, 'and other minor matters of the same sort,
have been altered here and there, with a view to
smoothing and consolidating the story in its course
through these volumes. If the readers who have
waited until it was done, only prove to be as kind an
audience as the readers who followed it through its
weekly progress, “The Woman in White” will be the
most precious impersonal Woman on the list of my
acquaintance.
Before I conclude, I am desirous of addressing one
or two questions, of the most harmless and innocent
kind, to the Critics.
In the event of this book being reviewed, I venture
to ask whether it is possible to praise the writer, or
to blame him, without opening the proceedings by
telling his story at second-hand? As that story is
written by me -— with the inevitable suppressions
which the periodical system of publication forces on


X PREFACE.
the novelist ~— the telling it ﬁlls more than a thousand
closely printed pages. No small portion of this space
is occupied by hundreds of little “connecting links,”
of triﬂing value in themselves, but of the utmost im-
portance in maintaining the smoothness, the reality,
and the probability of the entire narrative. If the
critic tells the story with these, can he do it in his
allotted page, 'or column, as the case may be? If he
tells it without these, is he doing a fellow-labourer in
another form of Art, the justice which writers owe to
one another? And lastly, if he tells it at 511, in any
way whatever, is he doing a service to the reader,
by destroying, beforehand, two main elements in the
attraction of all stories ——- the interest of curiosity,
and the excitement of surprise?
IIarlL'!!Slr¢el, London,
August 8 , 1860.


THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
THE STORY BEGUN
BY
WALTER HARTRIGHT,
or CLEMENT‘S INN, TEACHER or DRAWING.
I.
THIS is the story of what a Woinan‘s patience can endure,
and of what a Man’s resolution can achieve.
If the machinery of the Law could be depended on to
fathom every case of suspicion, and to conduct every process
' of inquiry with moderate assistance only from the lubricating
inﬂuences of oil of gold, the events which ﬁll these pages
might have claimed their share of the public attention in a.
Court of Justice.
But the Law is still, in certain inevitable cases, the pre-
engaged servant of the long purse; and the story is left to be
told, for the ﬁrst time, in this place. As the Judge might
once have heard it, so the Reader shall hear it now. No
circumstance of importance, from the beginning to the end of
the disclosure, shall be related on hearsay evidence. When
the writer of these introductory lines (W alter Hartright, by
name) happens to be more closely connected than others with
the incidents to be recorded, he will describe them in his own
person. When his experience fails, he will retire from the po—
sition of narrator; and his task will be continued, from the
point at which he has left it off, by other persons who can
speak to the circumstances under notice from their own know-v
m Woman in'WhiIe. I. 1


2 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
v/
ledge, just as clearly and positively as he has spoken before
them.
Thus, the story here presented will be told by more than
one pen, as the story of an offence against the laws is told in
Court by more than one witness -— with the same object, in
both cases, to present the truth always in its most direct and
most intelligible aspect; and to trace the course of one com-
plete series of events, by making the persons who have been
most closely connected with them, at each successive stage,
relate their own experience, word for word.
Let Walter Hartright, teacher of drawing, aged twenty—
eight years, he heard ﬁrst.
11.
I r was the last day of July. The long hot summer was
drawing to a clOse; and we; the weary pilgrims of the London
pavement, were beginning to think of the cloud-shadows on
the corn-ﬁelds, and the autumn breezes on the sea~shore.
For my own poor part, the fading summer left me out of
health, out of spirits, and, if the truth must be told, out of
money as well. During the past year, I had not managed my
professional resources as carefully as usual; and my extra~
vagance now limited me to the prospect of spending the
autumn economically between my mother's cottage at Hamp-
stead, and my own chambers in town.
The evening, I remember, was still and cloudy; the Lon-
don air was at its heaviest; the distant hum of the street-trafﬁc
was at its faintest; the small pulse of the life within me and
the great heart of the city around me seemed to be sinking in
unison, languidly and more languidly, with the sinking sun.
Iroused myself from the book which I was dreaming over
rather than reading, and left my chambers to meet the cool
night air in the suburbs. It was one of the two evenings in
every week which I was accustomed to spend with my mother
and my sister. So I turned my steps northward, in the di-
rection of Hampstead.


THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 3
Events which I have yet to relate, make it necessary to
mention in this place that my father had been dead some years
at the period of which I am now writing; and that my sister
Sarah, and I, were thesole survivors of a family of ﬁve children.
My father was a drawing-masterbefore me. His exertions had
made him highly successful in his profession; and his alfec-
tionate anxiety to provide for the future of those who were
dependent on his labours, had impelled him, from the time of
his marriage, to devote to the insuring of his life a much larger
portion of his income than most men consider it necessary to
set aside for that purpose. Thanks to his admirable prudence
and self-denial, my mother and sister were left, after his death,
as independent of the world as they had been during his life~
time. I succeeded to his connexion, and had every reason to
feel grateful for the prospect that awaited me at my starting
in life.
The quiettwilightwas stilltrembling on the topmost ridges
of the heath; and the view of London below me had sunk into
a black gulf in the shadow of the cloudy night, when I stood
before the gate of my mother’s cottage. I had hardly rung
the bell, before the house-door was opened violently; my
worthy Italian friend, Professor Pesca, appeared in the ser-
vant’s place; and darted out joyoust to receive me, with a
shrill foreign parody on an English cheer.
On his own account, and, I must be allowed to add, on
mine also, the Professor merits the honour of a formal intro-
duction. Accident has made him the starting-point of the
strange family story which it is the purpose of these pages to
unfold.
I had ﬁrst become acquainted with my Italian friend by
meeting him at certain great houses, where he taught his own
language and I taught drawing. All I then knew of the history
of his life was, that he had once held a situation in the Univer-
sity of Padua; that he had left Italy for political reasons (the
nature of which he uniformly declined to mention to any one);
and that he had been for many years respectably established
in London as a teacher of languages.
1 a


4 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
Without being actually a dwarf — for he was perfectly
well-proportioned from head to foot —~ Pesca was, I think,
the smallest human being I ever saw, out of a show-room.
Remarkable anywhere, by his personal appearance, he was
still further distinguished ameng the rank and ﬁleof mankind,
by the harmless eccentricity of his character. The ruling idea
of his life appeared to be, that he was bound to show his grati-
tude to the country which had afforded him an asylum and a
means of subsistence, by doing his utmost to turn himself into
an Englishman. Not content withpaying the nation in general
the compliment of invariably carrying an umbrella, and in-
variably wearing gaiters and awhite hat, the Professorfurther
aspired to become an Englishman in his habits and amuse~
ments, as well as in his personal appearance. Finding us
distinguished, as a nation, by our love of athletic exercises,
the little man, in the innocence of his heart, devoted himself
impromptu to all our English sports and pastimes, whenever
he had the opportunity of joining them; ﬁrmly persuaded that
he could adopt our national amusements of the ﬁeld, by an
eﬁ'ort of will, precisely as he had adopted our national gaiters
and our national white hat.
I had seen him risk his limbs blindly at a fox-hunt and in a
cricket-ﬁeld; and, soon afterwards, I saw him risk his life,
just as blindly, in the sea at Brighton.
We had met there accidentally, and were bathing together.
If we had been engaged in any exercise peculiar to my Own
nation, I should, of course, have looked afterPesca carefully;
but, as foreigners are generally quite as well able to take care
of themselves in the water as Englishmen, it never occurred
to me that the art of swimming might merely add one more to
the list of manly exercises which the Professor believed that he
could learn impromptu. Soon after we had both struck out
from shore, I stopped, ﬁnding my friend did not gain on me,
and turned round to look for him. To my horror and amaze-
ment, I saw nothing between me and the beach but two little
white arms which struggled for an instant above the surface of
the water, and then disappeared from view. When I dived


THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 5
for him, the poor little man was lying quietly coiled up at the
bottom, in a hollow of shingle, looking by many degrees
smaller than I had ever seen him look before. During the few
minutes that elapsed while I was takinghim in, the air revived
him, and he ascended the steps of the machine with my as~
sistanee. With the partial recovery of his animation came the
return of his wonderful delusion on the subject of swimming.
As soon as his chattering teeth would let him speak, he smiled
vacantly, and said he thought it must have been the Cramp.
When he had thoroughly recovered himself and had joined
me on the beach, his warm Southern nature broke through all
artiﬁcial English restraints, in a moment. He overwhelmed
me with the wildest expressions of affection — exclaimed pas-
sionately, in his exaggerated Italian way, that he would hold
his life, henceforth, at my disposal — and declared that he
should never be happy again, until he had found an opportu-
nity of proving his gratitude by rendering me some service
which I might remember, on my side, to the end of my days.
I did my best to stop the torrent of his tears and protesta-
tions, by persisting in treating the whole adventure as a good
subject for a joke; and succeeded at last, as I imagined, in
lessening Pesca’s overwhelming sense of obligation to me.
Little did I think then —- little did I think afterwards when
our pleasant holiday had drawn to an end - that the op-
portunity of serving me for which my grateful companion so
ardently longed, was soon to come; that he was eagerly to
seize it on the instant; and that by so doing, he was to turn
the whole current of my existence into a new channel, and
to alter me myself almost past recognition.
Yet, so it was. If I had not dived for Professor Pesca,
when he lay under water on his shingle bed, I should, in all
human probability, never have been connected with the story
which these pages will relate —- I should never, perhaps, have
heard even the name of the woman, who has lived in all my
thoughts, who has possessed herself of all my energies, who
has become the one guiding inﬂuence that now directs the
purpose of my life.


6 run WOMAN IN WHITE.
HI.
Pasca’s face and manner, on the evening when we con-
fronted each other at my mother's gate, were more than
sufﬁcient to inform me that something extraordinary had
happened. It was quite useless, however, to ask him for an
immediate explanation. I could only conjecture, while he
was dragging me in by both hands , that (knowing my habits)
he had come to the cottage to make sure of meeting me that
night, and that he had some news to tell of an unusually
agreeable kind.
We both bounced into the parlour in a highly abrupt and
undigniﬁed manner. My mother sat by the open window,
laughing and fanning herself. Pesca was one of her especial
favourites; and his wildest eccentricities were always pardon-
able in her eyes. Poor dear soul! from the ﬁrst moment when
she found out that the little Professor was deeply and grate-
fully attached to her son, she opened her heart to him un-
reservedly , and took all his puzzling foreign peculiarities for
granted, without so much as attempting to understand any
one of them.
My sister Sarah, with all the advantages of youth, was,
strangely enough, less pliable. She did full justice to Pesca’s
excellent qualities of heart; but she could not accept him
implicitly, as my mother accepted him, for my sake. Her
insular notions of pr0priety rose in perpetual revolt against
Pesca’s constitutional contempt for appearances; and she
was always more or less undisguisedly astonished at her
mother’s familiarity with the eccentric little foreigner. I have
observed, not only in my sister’s case , but in the instances of
others, that we of the young generation are nothing like so
hearty and so impulsive as some of our elders. I constantly
see old people ﬂushed and excited by the prospect of some
anticipated pleasure which altogether fails to rufﬂe the
tranquillity of their serene grandchildren. Are we, I wonder,
quite such genuine boys and girls now as our seniors were, in


THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 7
their time? Has the great advance in education taken rather
too long a stride; and are we , in these modern days , just the
least triﬂe in the world too well brought up?
Without attempting to answer those questions decisively,
I may at least record that I never saw my mother and my
sister together in Pesca's society, without ﬁnding my mother
much the younger woman of the two. On this occasion, for
example , while the old lady was laughing heartily over the
boyish manner in which we tumbled into the parlour, Sarah
was perturbedly picking up the broken pieces of a teacup,
which the Professor had knocked off the table in his pre-
cipitate advance to meet me at the door.
“ I don't know what would have happened, Walter ," said
my mother, “if you had delayed much longer. Pesca has
been half-mad with impatience; and I have been half-mad
with curiosity. The Professor has brought some wonderful
news with him, in which he says you are concerned; and he
has cruelly refused to give us the smallest hint of it till his
friend Walter appeared.”
, “Very provoking: it spoils the Set,” murmured Sarah
to herself, mournfully absorbed over the ruins of the
broken cup.
While these words were being spoken, Pesca, happily
and fussin unconscious of the irreparable wrong which the
crockery had suffered at his hands, was dragging a large
arm-chair to the opposite end of the room, so as to command
us all three, in the character of a public speaker addressing
an audience. Having turned the chair with its back to-
wards us, he jumped into it on his knees, and excitably
addressed his small congregation of three from an im-
promptu pulpit.
“Now, my good dears," began Pesea (who always said
“good dears,” when he meant “worthy friends"), “listen
to me. The time has come - I recite my good news - I
speak at last."
“Hear, hear!" said my mother, humouring the joke.


8 rm: woman In Wm'rn.
“ The next thing he will break, mamma," whispered Sarah,
“will be the back of the best arm-chair.”
“I go back into my life, and I address myself to the
noblest of created beings ,” continued Pesca, vehemently
apostrophizing my unworthy self, over the top rail of the
chair. “ Who found me dead at the bottom of the sea (through
Cramp); and who pulled me up to the top; and what
did I say when I got into my own life and my own clothes
again?”
“Much more than was at all necessary,” I answered, as
doggedly as possible; for the least encouragement in con-
nexion with this subject invariably let loose the Professor’s
emotions in a ﬂood of tears.
“I said," persisted Pesca, “that my life belonged to my
dear friend, Walter, for the rest of my days — and so it does.
I said that I should never be happy again till I had found the
opportunity of doing a good Something for Walter -— and I
have never been contented with myself till this most blessed
day. Now," cried the enthusiastic little man at the top of his
voice, “the overﬂowing happiness bursts out of me at every
pore of my skin, like a perspiration; for on my faith, and
soul, and honour, the something is done at last, and the only
word to say now, is —-— Rightall-rightl "
It may be necessary to explain, here, that Pesca prided
himself on being a perfect Englishman in his language, as
well as in his dress, manners, and amusements. Having
picked up a few of our most familiar colloquial expressions,
he scattered them about over his conversation whenever they
happened to occur to him, turning them, in his high relish
for their sound and his general ignorance of their sense, into
compound words and repetitions of his own, and always
running them into each other, as if they consisted of one long
syllable.
“Among the ﬁne London houses where I teach the
language of my native country,” said the Professor, rushing
into his long-deferred explanation without another word of
preface, “there is one, mighty ﬁne, in the big place called


THE WOMAN m WHITE. 9
Portland. You all know where that is? Yes, yes — course-of-
course. The ﬁne house, my good dears, has got inside it a
ﬁne family. A Mamma, fair and fat; three young Misses,
fair and fat; two young Misters, fair and fat; and a Papa,
the fairest and the fattest of all, who is a mighty merchant,
up to his eyes in gold —— a ﬁne man once, but seeing that he
has got a naked head and two chins, ﬁne no longer at the
present time. Now mind! I teach the sublime Dante to the
young Misses, and ah! ~my-soul-bless-my-soul! — it is not
in human language to say how the sublime Dante puzzles the
pretty heads of all three! No matter -- all in good time—and
the more lessons the better for me. Now mind! Imagine to
yourselves that I am teaching the young Misses to-day, as
usual. We are. all four of us down together in the Hell of
Dante. At the Seventh Circle — but no matter for that: all
the Circles are alike to the three young Misses, fair and fat, —-
at the Seventh Circle, nevertheless, my pupils are sticking
fast; and I, to set them going again, recite, explain, and
blow myself up red-hot with useless enthusiasm, when -— a
creak of boots in the passage outside, and in comes the golden
Papa, the mighty merchant with the naked head and the two
chins. -— Ha! my good dears, I am closer than you think for
to the business, now. Have you been patient so far? or have
you said to yourselves, ‘Deuce-what-the-deuce! Pesca is
long-winded to-night ? ’ "
We declared that we were deeply interested. The Pro-
fessor went on:
“In his hand, the golden Papa has a letter; and after he
has made his excuse for disturbing us in our Infernal Region
with the common mortal Business of the house, he addresses
himself to the three young Misses, and begins, as you
English begin everthing in this blessed world that you have to
say, with a great 0. ‘0, my dears,’ says the mighty
merchant, *1 have got here a letter from my friend, Mr. —--,’
(the name has slipped out of my mind; but no matter; we
shall come back to that: yes, yes — right-all-right). So the
Papa says, ‘I have got a letter from my friend, the Mister;


10
.rnIgJ
THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
and he wants a recommend from me, of a drawing-master, to
go down to his house in the country.’ My-sonl-bless-my-
soul! when I heard the golden Papa say those words, if I had
been big enough to reach up to him, I should have put my
arms round his neck, and pressed him to my bosom in a long
and grateful hug! As it was, 1 only bounced upon my chair.
My seat was on thorns , and my soul was on ﬁre to speak; but
I held my tongue, and let Papa go on. ‘Perhaps you know,’
says this good man of money, twiddling his friend‘s letter this
way and that, in his golden ﬁngers and thumbs, ‘ perhaps you
know, my dears, of a drawing-master that I can recommend ? ’
The three young Misses all look at each other, and then say
(with the indispensable great 0 to begin) ‘ O, dear no, Papa!
But here is Mr. Pesca—-—’ At the mention of myself I can
hold no longer — the thought of you, my good dears, mounts
like blood to my head —I start from my seat, as if a spike
had grown up from the ground through the bottom of my
chair—- I address myself to the mighty merchant, andI say
(English phrase), ‘Dear sir, I have the man! The ﬁrst and
"foremost drawing-master of the world! Recommend him by
the post to-night, and send him off, bag and baggage (English
phrase again — ha?), send him off, bag and baggage, by the
train to-morrow! ’ ‘Stop, stop,’ says Papa, ‘is he a foreigner,
or an Englishman?’ ‘English to the bone of his back,’ I
answer. ‘Respectable?’ says Papa. ‘Sir,’ I say, (for this
last question. of his outrages me, and I have done being-
familiar with him), ‘Sir! the immortal ﬁre of genius burns in
this Englishman’s bosom, and, what is more, his father had it
before him!’ ‘Never mind,’ says the golden barbarian of a
Papa, ‘never mind about his genius, Mr. Pesca. We don’t
want genius in this country, unless it is accompanied by
respectability —— and then we are very glad to have it, very
glad indeed. Can your friend produce testimonials —letters
that speak to his character?’ I wave my hand negligently.
‘Letters?’ I say. ‘Ha! myesoul-bless-my-soul! I should
i think so, indeed! Volumes of letters and portfolios of
testimonials, if you like?’ ‘ One or two will do,’ says this man


THE WOMAN IN wnrrn. 11
of phlegm and money. ‘Let him send them to me, with his
name and address. And -- stop, stop, Mr. Pesca — before
you go to your friend, you had better take a note.’ ‘Bank-
note!’ I say, indignantly. ‘No bank-note, if you please, till
my brave Englishman has earned it ﬁrst.’ ‘Bank-note ! ’ says
Papa, in a great surprise, ‘who talked of bank-note? I mean
a note of the terms— a memorandum of what he is expected
to do. Go on with your lesson, Mr. Pesca, and I will give
you the necessary extract from my friend’s letter.’ Down sits
the man of merchandise and money to his pen, ink, and paper;
and down I go once again into the Hell of Dante, with my
three young Misses after me. In ten minutes’ time the note is
written, and the boots of Papa are creaking themselves away
in the passage outside. From that moment, on my faith, and
soul, and honour, I know nothing more! The glorious thought
that I have caught my opportunity at last, and that my grate-
ful service for my dearest friend in the world is as good as
done already, ﬂies up into my head and makes me drunk.
How I pull my young Misses and myself out of our Infernal
Region again, how my other business is done afterwards, how
my little bit of dinner slides itself down my throat, I know no
more than a man in the moon. Enough for me, that here I
am, with the mighty merchant’s note in my hand , as large as
life, as hot as ﬁre, and as happy as a king! Ha! ha! ha!
right-right-right-all-right!" Here the Professor waved the
memorandum of terms over his head, and ended his long
and voluble narrative with his shrill Italian parody on an
English cheer.
My mother rose the moment he had done, with ﬂushed
cheeks and brightened eyes. She caught the little man
warmly by both hands.
“My dear, good Pesca,” she said, “I never doubted your
true affection forWalter—~but I am more than ever persuaded
of it now! "
“I am sure we are very much obliged to Professor Pesca,
for Walter’s sake," added Sarah. She half rose, while she
spoke, as if to approach the arm - chair, in her turn; but, oh-


1 ‘3 run WOMAN IN WHITE.
serving that Pesca was rapturoust kissing my mother‘s ‘
hands, looked serious, and resumed her seat. “If the familiar
little man treats my mother that way , how will he treat me?”
Faces sometimes tell truth; and that was unquestionably the
thought in Sarah’s mind, as she sat down again.
Although I myself was gratefully sensible of the kindness
of Pesca’s motives, my spirits were hardly so much elevated
as they ought to have been by the prospect of future employ-
ment now placed before me. When the Professor had quite
done with my mother’s hand, and when I had warmly thanked
him for his interference on my behalf, I asked to be allowed to
look at the note of terms which his respectable patron had
drawn up for my inspection.
Pesca handed me the paper, with a triumphant ﬂourish of
the hand.
“ Read! ” said the little man, majestically. “I promise
you, my friend, the writing of the golden Papa speaks with
a tongue of trumpets for itself.”
The note of terms was plain, straightforward, and com-
prehensive, at any rate. It informed me,
First, That Frederick Fairlie, Esquire, of Limmeridge
House , Cumberland, wanted to engage the services of a thor-
oughly competent drawing-master, for a period of four
months certain. \ ,
Secondly, That the duties which the master was expected to
perform would be of a twofold kind. He was to superintend the
instruction of two young ladies in the art of painting in water-
colours; and he was to devote his leisure time, afterwards, to
the business of repairing and mounting a valuable collection
of drawings, which had been suffered to fall into a condition of
total neglect.
Thirdly, That the terms offered to the person who should
undertake and properly perform these duties, were four guineas
a week; that he was to reside at Limmeridge House; and that
he was to be treated there on the footing of a gentleman.
Fourthly, and lastly, That no person need think of apply-
ing for this situation, unless he could furnish the most unex-


'rrm worms m wmrs. 13
ceptionable references to character and abilities. The refer-
ences were to be sent to Mr. Fairlie’s friend in London, who
was empowered to conclude all necessary arrangements.
These instructions were followed by the name and address of
Pesca’s employer in Portland -place —— and there the note , or
memorandum, ended.
The prospect which this offer of an engagement held out
was certainly an attractive one. The employment was likely
to be both easy and agreeable; it was proposed to me at the
autumn time of the year whenI was least occupied; and the
terms, judging by my personal experience in my profession,
were surprisingly liberal. I knew this; I knew that I ought to
consider myself very fortunate if I succeeded in securing the
offered employment ~ and yet, no sooner had I read the me
morandum than I felt an inexplicable unwillingness within me
to stir in the matter. I had never in the whole of my previous
experience found my duty and my inclination so painfully and
so unaccountably at variance as I found them now.
“'0 , Walter, your father never had such a chance as
this!” said my mother, when she had read the note of terms
and had handed it back to me.
“ Such distinguished people to know," remarked Sarah,
straightening herself in her chair; “and on such gratifying
terms of equality, too!”
“ Yes , yes; the terms, in every sense , are tempting
enough,” I replied, impatiently. “But before I send in my
testimonials , I should like a little time to consider ——”
“Consider!” exclaimed my mother. “Why, Walter, what
is the matter with you?”
“Consider!” echoed my sister. “What a very extraordi-
nary thing to say, under the circumstances!"
“ Consider!” chimed in the Professor. “What is there
to consider about? Answer me this! Have you not been com-
plaining of your health, and have younot been longing for what
you call a smack of the country breeze ‘8 Well! there in your
hand is the paper that offers you perpetual choking mouth-
‘ fuls of country breeze, for four months’ time. Is it not so?


14 run WOMAN IN WHITE.
Ha? Again— you want money. Well! Is four golden gui-
neas a week nothing? My-soul-bless-m soul! only give it
to me - and my boots shall creak like the golden Papa's , with
a sense of the overpowering richness of the man who walks in
them! Four guineas a week, and , more than that, the charm-
ing society of two young Misses; and, more than that, your
bed, your breakfast, your dinner, your gorging English teas
and lunches and drinks of foaming beer, all for nothing —-
why, \Valter, my dear good friend—deuce- what-the- deuce!
— for the ﬁrst time in my life I have not eyes enough in my
head to look , and wonder at you! "
Neither my mother’s evident astonishment at my beha-
viour, nor Pesca’s fervid enumeration of the advantages
offered to me by the new employment, had any effect in sha-
king my unreasonable disinclination to go to Limmeridge
House. After starting all the petty objections that I could
think of to going to Cumberland; and after hearing them
answered, one after another, to my own complete discomﬁ-
ture, I tried to set up a last obstacle by asking what was to
become of my pupils in London, while I was teaching Mr.
Fairlie‘s young ladies to sketch from nature. The obvious
answer to this was, that the greater part of them would be
away on their autumn travels , and that the few who remained
at home might be conﬁded to the care of one of my brother
drawing-masters , whose pupils I had once taken off his hands
under similar circumstances. My sister reminded me that
this gentleman had expressly placed his services at my dis-
posal, during the present season, in case I wished to leave
town; my mother seriously appealed to me not to let an idle
caprice stand in the way of my own interests and my own
health; and Pesca piteously entreated that I would not
wound him to the heart, by rejecting the ﬁrst grateful offer
of service that he had been able to make to the friend who had
saved his life.
The evident sincerity and affection which inspired these
remonstrances would have inﬂuenced any man with an atom
of good feeling in his composition. Though I could not


THE WOMAN m wrn'rs. 15
conquer my own unaccountable perversity, I had at least
virtue enough to be heartily ashamed of it, and to end the
discussion pleasantly by giving way, and promising to do all
that was wanted of me.
The rest of the evening passed merrily enough in humorous
anticipations of my coming life with the two young ladies in
Cumberland. Pesea, inspired by our national grog, which
appeared to get into his head, in the most marvellous manner,
ﬁve minutes after it had gone down his throat, asserted his
claims to be considered a complete Englishman by making a
series of speeches in rapid succession; proposing my mother’s
health, my sister’s health, my health , and the healths, in
mass, of Mr. Fairlie and the two young Misses; pathetically
returning thanks himself, immediately afterwards, for the
whole party. “A secret, Walter,” said my little friend con-
ﬁdentially, as we walked home together. “I am ﬂushed by
the recollection of my own eloquence. My soul bursts itself
with ambition. One of these days , I go into your noble Par-
liament. It is the dream of my whole life to be Honourable
Pesca, M. P.!”
The next morning I sent my testimonials to the Professor’s
employer in Portland-place. Three days passed; and I con-
cluded, with secret satisfaction, that my papers had not
been found sufﬁciently explicit. ()n the fourth day, how-
ever, an answer came. It announced that Mr. Fairlie ac-
cepted my services, and requested me to start for Cumber-
land immediately. All the necessary instructions for my
journey were carefully and clearly added in a postscript.
I made my arrangements, unwillingly enough, for leaving
London early the next day. Towards evening Pesca looked
in, on his way to a dinner-party , to bid me good-by.
“I shall dry my tears in your absence," said the Pro-
fessor, gaily, “with this glorious thought. It is my auspi-
cious hand that has given the ﬁrst push to your fortune in the
world. Go, my friend! When your sun shines in Cumber-
land (English proverb), in the name of heaven, make your
hay. Marry one of the two young Misses; become Honour—


16 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
able Hartright, M. P.-, and when you are on the top of the
ladder, remember that Pesca, at the bottom, has done it
all!”
I tried to laugh with my little friend over his parting jest,
but my spirits were not to be commanded. Something jarred
in me almost painfully, while he was speaking his light fare-
well words.
When I was left alone again, nothing remained to be done
but to walk to the Hampstead Cottage and bid my mother and
Sarah good-by.
IV.
' Tun heat had been painfully oppressive all day; and it
was now a close and sultry night.
My mother and sister had spoken so many last words,
and had begged me to wait another ﬁve minutes so many
times, that it was nearly midnight when the servant locked
the garden-gate behind me. I walked forward a few paces
on the shortest way back to London; then stopped and hesi-
tated.
The moon was full and broad in the dark blue starlcss
sky; and the broken ground of the heath looked wild enough
in the mysterious light, to be hundreds of miles away from
the great city that lay beneath it. The idea of descending
any sooner than I could help into the heat and gloom of Lon-
don repelled me. The prospect of going to bed in my airless
chambers, and the prospect of gradual suffocation, seemed,
in my present restless frame of mind and body, to be one and
the same thing. I determined to stroll home in the purer air,
by the most round-about way I could take; to follow the white
winding paths across the lonely heath; and to approach Lon-
don through its most open suburb by striking into the Finch- ,
ley-road, and so getting back, in the cool of the new mom- I
ing, by the western side of the Regent’s Park.
I wound my way down slowly over the Heath, enjoying


THE WOMAN IN wrn'rn. - 17
the divine stillness of the scene, and admiring the soft alter-
nations of light and shade as they followed each other over
the broken ground on every side of me. So long as I was pro-
ceeding through this ﬁrst and prettiest part of my night-walk,
my mind remained passively open to the impressions pro-
duced by the view; and I thought but little on any subject —-
indeed, so far as my own sensations were concerned, I can
hardly say that I thought at all.
But when I had left the Heath, and had turned into the
by-road, where there was less to see, the ideas naturally
engendered by the approaching change in my habits and
occupations, gradually drew more and more of my attention
exclusively to themselves. By the time I had arrived at the
end of the road, I had become completely absorbed in my
own fanciful visions of Limmeridge House, of Mr. Fairlie,
and of the two Ladies whose practice in the art of water-colour
painting I was so soon to superintend. '
I had now arrived at that particular point of my walk
where four roads met — the road to Hampstead, along which
I had returned; the road to Finchley; the road to west End;
and the road back to London. I had mechanically turned in
this latter direction , and was strolling along the lonely high-
road — idly wondering, I remember, what the Cumberland
young ladies would look like — when , in one moment, every
drop of blood in my body was brought to a stop by the touch
of a hand laid lightly and suddenly on my shoulder from be-
hind me.
I turned on the instant, with my ﬁngers tightening round
the handle of my stick.
There, in the middle of the broad, bright high-road—
there, as if it had that moment sprung out of the earth or
dropped from the heaven — stood the ﬁgure of a solitary Wo-
man, dressed from head to foot in white garments; her face
bent in grave inquiry on mine , her hand pointing to the dark
cloud over London, as I faced her.
I was far too seriously startled by the suddenness with
which this extraordinary apparition stood before me, in the
The Woman in White. I. 2
i


18 THE WOMAN m meE.
dead of night and in that lonely place, to ask what she wanted.
The strange woman spoke ﬁrst.
“Is that the road to London?” she said.
I looked attentively at her, as she put that singular ques-
tion to me. It was then nearly one o’clock. All I could
discern distinctly by the moonlight, was a colourless, youthful
face, meagre and sharp to look at, about the cheeks and chin;
large, grave, wistfully-attentive eyes; nervous, uncertain
lips; and. light hair of a pale, brownish-yellow hue. There
was nothing wild, nothing immodest in her manner: it was
quiet and self-controlled, a little melancholy and a little
touched by suspicion; not exactly the manner of a lady, and,
at the same time, not the manner of a woman in the humblest
rank of life. The voice, little as I had yet heard of it, had
something curiously still and mechanical in its tones , and the
utterance was remarkably rapid. She held a small bag in her
hand: and her dress —- bonnet, shawl, and gown all of white
~—was, so far as I could guess, certainly not composed of
very delicate or very expensive materials. Her ﬁgure was
slight, and rather above the average height—her gait and
actions free from the slightest approach to extravagance.
This was all that I could observe of her, in the dim light and
under the perplexingly-strange circumstances of our meeting.
What sort of a woman she was, and how!" she came to be out
alone in the high-road, an hour after midnight, I altogether
failed to guess. The one thing of which I felt certain was,
that the grossest of mankind could not have misconstrued her
motive in speaking, even at that suspiciously late hour and
in that suspiciously lonely place.
“Did you hear me?" she said, still quietly and rapidly,
and without the least fretfulness or impatience. “I asked if
that was the way to London.”
“Yes,” I replied, “that is the way: it leads to St. John’s
Wood and the Regent’s Park. You must excuse my not an-
swering you before. I was rather startled by your sudden
appearance in the road; and I am , even now, quite unable to
account for it.”


THE WOMAN m WHITE. 19
I
“You don’t suspect me of doing anything wrong, do you?
1 have done nothing wrong. I have met with an accident -— I
am very unfortunate in being here alone so late. Why do you
suspect me of doing wrong? ”
She spoke with unnecessary earnestness and agitation,
and shrank back from me several paces. I did my best to
reassure her.
“Pray don’t suppose that I have any idea of suspecting
you,” I said, “or any other wish than to be of assistance to
you, if I can. I only wondered at your appearance in the
road, because it seemed to me to be empty the instant before
I saw you."
She turned, and pointed back to a place at the junction of
the road to London and the road to Hampstead, where there
was a. gap in the hedge.
“I heard you coming,” she said, “and hid there to see
what sort of man you were, before I risked speaking. I
doubted and feared about it till you passed; and thenI was
obliged to steal after you, and touch you.”
Steal after me, and touch me? Why not call to me?
Strange, to say the least of it.
“May I trust you?" she asked. “You don’t think the
worse of me because I have met with an accident?” She
stopped in confusion; shifted her bag ‘from one hand to the
other; and sighed bitterly.
The loneliness and helplessness of the woman touched me.
The natural impulse to assist her and to spare her, got the
better of the judgment, the caution, the worldly tact , which
an older, wiser, and colder man might have summoned to
help him in this strange emergency.
“You may trust me for any harmless purpose,” I said.
“If it troubles you to explain your strange situation to me,
don’t think of returning to the subject again. I have no right
to ask you for any explanations. Tell me how I can help you;
and if I can, I will.”
“ You are very kind, and I am very, very thankful to have
met you.” The ﬁrst touch of womanly tenderness that I had
o
2*


20 ran WOMAN m wnr'rs.
heard from her, trembled in her voice as she said the words ;
but no tears glistened in those large , wistfully-attentive eyes
of hers, which were still ﬁxed on me. “I have only been in
London once before," she went on; more and more rapidly;
“ and I know nothing about that side of it, yonder. Can I get
a ﬂy, or a carriage of any kind? Is it too late? I don’t know.
If you could show me where to get a ﬂy — and if you will only
promise not to interfere with me, and to let me leave you,
when and how I please — I have a friend in London who will
be glad to receive me -- I want nothing else — will you
promise?"
She looked anxiously up and down the road; shifted
her bag again from one hand to the other; repeated the
words, “-Will you promise?" and looked hard in my face,
with a pleading fear and confusion that it troubled me to
see.
What could I do? Here was a stranger utterly and help-
leshly at my mercy -- and that stranger a forlorn woman. N0
house was near; no one was passing whom I could consult;
and no earthly right existed on my part to give me a power of
control over her, even if I had known how to exercise it. I
trace these lines, self-distrustfully, with the shadows of after-
events darkening the very paper I write on; and still I say,
what could I do?
What I did do, was to try and gain time by questioning
her.
“Are you sure that your friend in London will receive you
at such a late hour as this?” I said.
“Quite sure. Only say you will let me leave you when and
how I please — only say you won’t interfere with me. Will
you promise?” ,
As she repeated the words for the third time, she came
close to me , and laid her hand, with a sudden gentle stealthi—
ness, on my bosom — a thin hand; a cold hand (when I
removed it with mine) even on that sultry night. Remember
that I was young; remember that the hand with touched me
was a woman’s.


THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 21
“Will you promise?”
“Yes.”
One word! The little familiar word that is on everybody’s
lips, every hour in the day. Oh me! and I tremble, now,
when I write it. /
We set our faces towards London, and walked on together
in the ﬁrst still hour of the new day —- I, and this woman,
whose name, whose character, whose story, whose objects
in life, whose very presence by my side, at that moment,
were fathomless mysteries to me. It was like a dream. Was
I Walter Hartright? Was this the well-known, uneventful
road, where holiday people strolled on Sundays? Had I
really left, little more than an hour since, the quiet, decent,
conventionally-domestic atmosphere of my mother’s cottage?
I was too bewildered — too conscious also of a vague sense of
Something like self-reproach - to speak to my strange com-
panion for some minutes. It was her voice again that ﬁrst
broke the silence between us.
“I want to ask you something," she said, suddenly. “ Do
you know many people in London? "
“ Yes, a great many.”
“Many men of rank and title?" There was an unmista-
kable tone of suspicion in the strange questiOn. I hesitated
about answering it.
“ Some ," I said , after a moment’s silence.
“Many” —- she came to a full stop , and looked me search-
ingly in the face - “many men of the rank of Baronet?"
Too much astonished to reply, I questioned her in my
turn.
“Why do you ask?”
I “BecauseI hope, for my own sake, there is one Baronet
that you don’t know."
“ Will you tell me his name ?”
“I can’t — I daren’t — I forget myself, when I mention it.”
She spoke loudly and almost ﬁercely, raised her clenched
hand in the air, and shook it passionately; then, on a sudden,


22 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
controlled herself again, and added , in tones lowered to a
whisper: “Tell me which of them you know."
I could hardly refuse to humour her in such a triﬂe, and I
mentioned three names. Two, the names of fathers of families
whose daughters I taught; one, the name of a bachelor who
had once taken me a cruise in his yacht, to make sketches for
him.
“Ah! you don’t know him ,” she said , with a sigh of relief.
“Are you a man of rank and title yourself? ”
“Far from it. I am only a drawing-master.”
As the reply passed my lips — a little bitterly, perhaps -—
she took my arm with the abruptness which characterised all
her actions.
“Not a man of rank and title ,” she repeated to herself.
“Thank God! I may trust him.”
I had hitherto contrived to master- my curiosity out of
consideration for my companion; but it got the better of me,
now.
“ I am afraid you have serious reason to complain of some
man of rank and title?” I said. “I am afraid the baronet,
whose name you are unwilling to mention to me, has done you
some grievous wrong? Is he the cause of your being out here
at this strange time of night ? " .
“Don’t ask me; don’t make me talk of it,” she answered.
“ I’m not ﬁt, now. I have been cruelly used and cruelly
wronged. You will be kinder than ever, if you will walk on
fast, and not speak to me. I sadly want to be silent — I sadly
want to quiet myself, if I can.”
We moved forward again at a quick pace; and for half an
hour, at least, not a word passed on either side. From time
to time, being forbidden to make any more inquiries, I stole a
look at her face. It was always the same; the lips close shut,
the brow frowning, the eyes looking straight forward , eagerly
and yet absently. We had reached the ﬁrst houses , and were
close on the new Wesleyan College, before her set features
relaxed, and she spoke once more.
“ Do you live in London?” she said.


THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 23
“Yes.” As I answered, it struck me that she might have
formed some intention of appealing to me for assistance or
advice, and thatI ought to spare her a possible disappoint-
ment by warning her of my approaching absence from home.
So I added: “But to-morrow I shall be away from London for
some time. I am going into the country.” '
“Where?” she asked. “North, or south?”
“North — to Cumberland."
“Cumberland!” she repeated the word ttenderly. “Ah! I
wish I was going there, too. I was once happy in Cumber-
land.”
I tried again to lift the veil that hung between this woman
and me.
“Perhaps you were born,” I said, “in the beautiful Lake
country." .
“No,” she answered. “I was born in Hampshire; but I
once went to school for a little while in Cumberland. Lakes?
I don’t remember any lakes. It’s Limmeridge village, and
Limmeridge House , I should like to see again.”
It was my turn, now, to stop suddenly. In the excited
state of my curiosity, at that moment, the chance reference to
Mr. Fairlie’s place of residence, on the lips of my strange
companion, staggered me with astonishment.
“Did you hear anybody calling after us?" she asked,
looking up and down the road aﬁ'rightedly, the instant I
stopped.
“No, no. I was only struck by the name of Limmeridge
House -- I heard it mentioned by some Cumberland people a
few days since.”
“Ah! not my people. Mrs. Fairlie is dead; and her hus-
band is dead; and their little girl may be married and gone
away by this time. I can’t say who lives at Limmeridge now.
If any more are left there of that name, I only know I love
them for Mrs. Fairlie’s sake."
She seemed about to say more; but while she was speak-
ing, we came within view of the turnpike, at the top of the


24 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
Avenue-road. Her hand tightened round my arm, and she
looked anxiously at the gate before us.
“ Is the turnpike man looking out? ” she asked.
He was not looking out; no one else was near the place
when we passed through the gate. The sight of the gas-lamps
and houses seemed to agitate her, and to make her impatient.
“ This is London," she said. “Do you see any carriage I
can get? I am tired and frightened. I want to shut myself in,
and be driven away."
I explained to her that we must walk a little further to get
to a cab~stand , unless we were fortunate enough to meet with
an empty vehicle; and then tried to resume the subject of
Cumberland. It was useless. That idea of shutting herself in,
and being driven away, had now got full possession of her
mind. She could think and talk of nothing else.
We had hardly proceeded a third of the way down the
Avenue-road, when I saw a cab draw up at a house a few
doors below us, on the opposite side of the way. A gentleman
got out and let himself in at the garden door. I hailed the cab,
as the driver mounted the box again. When we crossed the
road, my companion’s impatience increased to such an extent
that she almost forced me to run.
“It’s so late," she said. “I am only in a hurry because
it’s so late."
“I can’t take you, sir, if you’re not going towards Totten-
ham-court-road," said the driver, civilly, when I opened the
cab door. “My horse is dead beat, and I can’t get him no
further than the stable.”
“Yes, yes. That will do for me. I’m going that way—-
I’m going that way.” She spoke with breathless eagerness,
and pressed by me into the cab.
I had assured myself that the man was sober as well as
civil, before Ilet her enter the vehicle. And now, when she
was seated inside, I entreated her to let me see her set down
safely at her destination.
“No , no , no," she said, vehemently. “I’m quite safe
and quite happy now. If you are a gentleman, remember


THE WOMAN m wmrn. 25
your promise. Let him drive on, till I stop him. Thank you
—- Oh! thank you, thank you! ”
My hand was on the cab door. She caught it in hers, kissed
it, and pushed it away. The cab drove oil“ at the same moment
— I started into the road, with some vague idea of stopping it
again, I hardly knew why— hesitated from dread of frighten-
ing and distressing her -— called, at last, but not loudly
enough to attract the driver’s attention. The sound of the
wheels grew fainter in the distance — the cab melted into the
black shadows on the road — the woman in white was gone.
Ten minutes, or more, had passed. I was still on the
same side of the way; now mechanically walking forward a
few paces; now stopping again absently. At one moment,
I found myself doubting the reality of my own adventure; at
another, I was perplexed and distressed by an uneasy sense of
having done wrong, which yet left me confusedly ignorant of
how I could have done right. I hardly knew where I was
going, or what I meant to do next; I was conscious of nothing
but the confusion of my own thoughts, when I was abruptly
recalled to myself— awakened I might almost say — by the
sound of rapidly approaching wheels close behind me.
I was on the dark side of the road, in the thick shadow of
some garden trees, when I stopped to look round. On the
opposite, and lighter side of the way, a short distance below
me, a policeman was strolling along in the direction of the
Regent’s Park.
The carriage passed me — an open chaise driven by two
men. -
“ St0p!" cried one. “There’s a policeman. Let’s ask
him."
The horse was instantly pulled up, a few yards beyond
the dark place where I stood.
“Policeman!” cried the ﬁrst speaker. “Have you seen
a woman pass this way? ”
“What sort of woman , sir?"
“A woman in a lavender-coloured gown —",


26 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
“No, no ," interposed the second man. “The clothes we
gave her were found on her bed. She must have gone away in
the clothes she wore when she came to us. In white, police-
man. A woman in white."
“I haven't seen her, sir."
“If you, or any of your men meet with the woman, stop
her, and send her in careful keeping to that address. I’ll pay
all expenses, and a fair reward into the bargain.”
The policemamlooked at the card that was handed down
to him.
“Why are we to stop her, sir? What has she done?-H
“Done! She has escaped from my Asylum. Don’t forget:
a woman in white. Drive on.”
V.
“ Sun has escaped from my Asylum."
I cannot say with truth that the terrible inference which
those words suggested ﬂashed upon me like a new revelation.
Some of the strange questions put to me by the woman in
white, after my ill-considered promise to leave her free to act
as she pleased, had suggested the conclusion either that she
was naturally ﬂighty and unsettled , or that some recent shock
of terror had disturbed the balance of her faculties. But the
idea of absolute insanity which we all associate with the very
name of an Asylum, had, I can honestly declare, never oc~
curred to me, in connexion with her. I had seen nothing, in
her language or her actions, to justify it at the time; and,
even with the new light thrown on her by the words which the
.strangcr had addressed to the policeman, I could see nothing
to justify it now.
What had I done? Assisted the victim of the most horrible
of all false imprisonments to escape; or cast loose on the wide
world of London an unfortunate creature, whose actions it
was my duty, and every man’s duty, mercifully to control? I
turned sick at heart when the question occurred to me, and
when I felt self-reproachfully that it was asked too late.


THE woman In WHITE. 27
In the disturbed state of my mind, it was useless to think
of going to bed, when I at last got back to my chambers in
Clement’s Inn. Before many hours elapsed it would be neces-
sary to start on my journey to Cumberland. I sat down and
tried, ﬁrst to sketch, then to read — but the woman in white
gotbetween me and my pencii, between me and my book.
Had the forlorn creature come to any harm? That was my
ﬁrst thought, though I shrank selﬁshly from confronting it.
Other thoughts followed, on which it was less harrowing to
dwell. Where had she stopped the cab? What had become
of her now? Had she been traced and captured by the men in
the chaise? Or was she still capable of controlling her own
actions; and were we two following our widely-parted roads
towards one point in the mysterious future, at which we were
to meet once more?
It was a relief when the hour came to lock my door, to “bid
farewell to London pursuits, London pupils, and London
friends, and to be in movement again.towards new interests
and a new life. Even the bustle and confusion at the railway
terminus, so wearisome and bewildering at other times,
roused me and did me good.
My travelling instructions directed me to go to Carlisle,
and then to diverge by a branch railway which ran in the
direction of the coast. As a misfortune to begin with, our
engine broke down between Lancaster and Carlisle. The
delay occasioned by this accident caused me to be too late for
the branch train, by which I was to have gone on immediately.
I had to wait some hours; and when a later train ﬁnally de-
posited me at the nearest station to Limmeridge House, it was
past ten, and the night was so dark that I could hardly see
my way to the pony-chaise which Mr. Fairlie had ordered to
be in waiting for me.
The driver was evidently discomposed by the lateness of
my arrival. He was in that state of highly-respectful sulkiness
which is peculiar to English servants. We drove away slowly
through the darkness in perfect silence. The roads were bad,
* 


28
THE WOMAN LN \VHITE-
I
\
and the dense obscurity of the night increased the difﬁculty of
getting over the ground quickly. It was, by my watch, nearly
an hour and a half from the time of our leaving the station
before I heard the sound of the sea. in the distance, and the
crunch of our wheels on a smooth gravel drive. We had
passed one gate before entering the drive, and we passed
another before we drew up at the house. I was received by
a solemn man-servant out of livery, was informed that the
family had retired for the night, and was then led into a large
and lofty room where my supper was awaiting me, in a for-
lorn manner, at one extremity of a lonesome mahogany wil-
derness of dining-table.
I was too tired and out of spirits to eat or drink much,
especially with the solemn servant waiting on me as ela-
borately as if a small dinner-party had arrived at the house
instead of a solitary man. In a quarter of an hour I was ready
to be taken up to my bed-chamber. The solemn servant con-
ducted me into a prettin furnished room — said, “Breakfast
at nine o’clock, sir” — looked all round him to see that every-
thing was in its proper place — and noiselessly withdrew.
“What shall I see in my dreams to-night?” I thought to
myself, as I put out the candle; “the woman in white? or the
unknown inhabitants of this Cumberland mansion?” It was a
strange sensation to be sleeping in the house, like a friend of
the family, and yet not to know one of the inmates, even by
sight!
VI.
Wnsn I rose the next morning and drew up my blind, the
sea opened before me joyously under the broad August sun-
light, and the distant coast of Scotland fringed the horizon
with its lines of melting blue.
The view was such a surprise, and such a change to me,
after my weary London experience of brick and mortar land-
scape, that I seemed to burst into a new life and a new set of


THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 29
thoughts the moment I looked at it. A confused sensation of
having suddenly lost my familiarity with the past, without
acquiring any additional clearncss of idea in reference to the
present or the future, took possession of my mind. Circum-
stances that were but a few days old, faded back in my
memory, as if they had happened months and months since.
Pesca’s quaint announcement of the means by which he had
procured me my present employment; the farewell evening I
had passed with my mother and sister; even my mysterious
adventure on the way home from Hampstead, had all become
like events which might have occurred at some former epoch
of my existence. Although the woman in white was still in
my mind, the image of her seemed to have grown dull and
faint already.
A little before nine o’clock, I descended to the ground-
ﬂoor of the house. The solemn man-servant of the night be-
fore met me wandering among the passages, and c0mpassion~
ately showed me the way to the breakfast-room.
My ﬁrst glance round me, as the man opened the door,
disclosed a well-furnished breakfast-table, standing in the
middle of a long room, with many windows in it. I looked
from the table to the window farthest from me, and saw a lady
standing at it, with her back turned towards me. The instant
my eyes rested on her, I was struck by the rare beauty of her
form, and by the unaffected grace of her attitude. Her ﬁgure
was tall, yet not too tall; comely and well~developed, yet not
fat; her head set on her shoulders with an easy, pliant ﬁrm-
ness; her waist, perfection in the eyes of a man, for it 0c-
cupied its natural place, it ﬁlled out is natural circle, it was
visibly and delightfully undeformed by stays. She had not
heard my entrance into the room; and I allowed myself the
luxury of admiring her for a few moments, before I moved one
of the chairs near me , as the least embarrassing means of
attracting her attention. She turned towards me immediately.
The easy elegance of every movement of her limbs and body
as soon as she began to advance from the far end of the room,
set me in a ﬂutter of expectation to see her face clearly. She


30 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
left the window— and I said to myself, The lady is dark.
She moved forward a few steps — and I said to myself, The
lady is young. She approached nearer —- and I said to myself
(with a sense of surprise which words fail me to express), The
lady is ugly! /
Never was the old conventional maxim, that Nature can-
not err, more ﬂatly contradicted -- never was the fair promise
of a lovely ﬁgure more strangely and startineg belied by the
face and head that crowned it. The lady’s complexion was
almost swarthy, and the dark down on her upper lip was
almost a moustache. She had a large, ﬁrm, masculine mouth
and jaw; prominent, piercing, resolute brown eyes; and
thick, coal-black hair, growing unusually low down on her
forehead. Her expression— bright, frank, and intelligent
-— appeared, while she was silent, to be altogether wanting
in those feminine attractions of gentleness and pliability,
without which the beauty of the handsomest woman alive is
beauty incomplete. To see such a face as this set on shoulders
that a sculptor would have longed to model — to be charmed
by the modest graces of action through which the symmetrical
limbs betrayed their beauty when they moved, and then to be
almost repelled by the masculine form and masculine look of
the features in which the perfectly shaped ﬁgure ended — was
to feel a sensation oddly akin to the helpless discomfort fa-
miliar to us all in sleep, when we recognise yet cannot recon-
cile the anomalies and contradictions of a dream.
“Mr. Hartright?” said the lady, interrogatively; her dark
face lighting up with a smile, and softening and growing
womanly the moment she began to speak. “We resigned all
hope of you last night, and went to bed as usual. Accept my
apologies for our apparent want of attention; and allow me to
introduce myself as one of your pupils. Shall we shake hands?
I suppose we must come to it sooner or later— and why not
sooner?”
These odd words of welcome were spoken in a clear, ring-
ing, pleasant voice. The oﬁ‘ered hand — rather large, but
beautifully formed—was given to me with the easy, unaf'


THE WOMAN in WHITE. 31
fected self-reliance of a highly-bred woman. We sat down
together at the breakfast-table in as cordial and customary a
manner as if we had known each other for years, and had met
at Limmeridge House to talk over old times by previous ap-
pointment.
“I hope you come here good-humouredly determined to
make the best of your position,” continued the lady. “You
will have to begin this morning by putting up with no other
company at breakfast than mine. My sister is in her own
room, nursing that essentially feminine malady, a slight
headache; and her old governess, Mrs. Vesey, is charitany
attending on her with restorative tea. My uncle, Mr. Fairlie,
never joins us at any of our meals: he is an invalid and keeps
bachelor state in his own apartments. There is nobody else
in the house but me. Two young ladies have been staying
here, but they went away yesterday, in despair; and no won-
der. All through their visit (in consequence of Mr. Fairlie’s
invalid condition) we produced no such convenience in the
house as a ﬂirtable, danceable, small-talkable creature of the
male sex; and the consequence was, we did nothing but
quarrel, especially at dinner-time. How can you expect four
women to dine together alone every day, and not quarrel?
We are such fools, we can’t entertain each other at table.
You see I don’t think much of my own sex, Mr. Hartright -
which will you have, tea or coffee? -—- no woman does think
much of her own sex, although few of them confess it as freely
asI do. Dear me, you look puzzled. Why? Are you won-
dering what you will have for breakfast? or are you surprised
at my careless way of talking? In the ﬁrst case, I advise you,
as a friend, to have nothing to do with. that cold ham at your
elbow, and to wait till the omelette comes in. In the second
case, I will give you some tea to compose your spirits, and do
all awoman can (which is very little, by-the-by) to hold my
tongue.”
She handed me my cup of tea, laughing gaily. Her light
ﬂow of talk, and her lively familiarity of manner with a total
stranger, were accompanied by an unaffected naturalness and


32 THE W'OMAN 1): WHITE.
an easy inborn conﬁdence in herself and her position, which
would have secured her the respect of the most audacious man
breathing. While it was impossible to be formal and reserved
in her company, it was more than impossible to take the
faintest vestige of a liberty with her, even in thought. I felt
this instinctively, even while I caught the infection of her own
bright gaiety of spirits — even while I did my best to answer
her in her own frank, lively way.
“Yes, yes," she said, when I had suggested the only ex-
planation I could offer, to account for my perplexed looks, “ I
understand. You are such a perfect stranger in the house,
that you are puzzled by my familiar references to the worthy
inhabitants. Natural enough: I ought to have thought of it
before. At any rate, I can set it right now. Suppose I begin
with myself, so as to get done with that part of the subject as
soon as possible? My name is Marian Halcombe; and I am
as inaccurate, as women usually are, in calling Mr. Fairlie
my uncle, and Miss Fairlie my sister. My mother was twice
married: the ﬁrst time to Mr. Halcombe, my father; the
second time to Mr. Fairlie, my half-sister‘s father. vExcept
that we are both orphans, we are in every respect as unlike
each other as possible. My father was a poor man, and Miss
Fairlie’s father was a rich man. I have got nothing and she
has a fortune. I am dark and ugly, and she is fair and pretty.
Everybody thinks me crabbed and odd (with perfect justice) ;
and everybody thinks her sweet-tempered and charming (with
more justice still). In short, she is an angel; and I am -—
Try some of that marmalade, Mr. Hartright, and ﬁnish the
sentence, in the name of female propriety, for yourself. What
am I to tell you about Mr. Fairlie? Upon my honour, I
hardly know. He is sure to send for you after breakfast, and
you can study him for yourself. In the mean time, I may
inform you, ﬁrst, that he is the late Mr. Fairlie’s younger
brother; secondly, that he is a single man; and, thirdly, that
he is Miss Fairlie’s guardian. I won’t live without her, and
she can’t live without me; and that is howIcome to be at
Limmeridge House. My sister and I are honestly fond of


THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 33
each other; which, you will say, is perfectly unaccountable,
under the circumstances, and I quite agree with you — but so
it is. You must please both of us, Mr. Hartright, or please
neither of us: and, what is still more trying, you will be
thrown entirely upon our society. Mrs. Vesey is an excellent
person, who possesses all the cardinal virtues, and counts for
nothing; and Mr. Fairlie is too great an invalid to be acorn-
panion for anybody. I don’t know what is the matter with
him, and the doctors don‘t know what is the matter with him,
and he doesn’t know himself what is the matter with him. We
all say it’s on the nerves, and we none of us know what we
mean when we say it. However, I advise you to humour his
' little peculiarities, when you see him to-day. Admire his
collection of coins, prints, and water-colour drawings, and
you will win his heart. Upon my word, if you can be con-
tented with a quiet country life, I don’t see why you should
not get on very well here. From breakfast to lunch, Mr.
Fairlie’s drawings will occupy you. After lunch, Miss Fairlie
and I shoulder our sketch-books, and go out to misrepresent
nature, under your directions. Drawing is her favourite
whim, mind, not mine. Women can’t draw—their minds
are too ﬂighty, and their eyes are too inattentive. No matter
- my sister likes it; so I waste paint and spoil paper, for her
sake, as composedly as any woman in England. As for the
evenings, I think we can help you through them. Miss Fairlie
plays delightfully. For my own poor part, I don’t know one
note of music from the other; but I can match you at chess,
back-gammon, écarté, and (with the inevitable female draw-
backs) even at billiards as well. What do you think of the
programme? Can you reconcile yourself to our quiet, regular
life? or do you mean to be restless, and secretly thirst for
change and adventure, in the humdrum atmosphere of Lim~
meridge House?”
She had run on thus far, in her gracefully bantering way,
with no other interruptions on my part than the unimportant
replies which politeness required of me. The turn of the ex-
pression, however, in her last question, or rather the one
The Woman in White. I. 3


34 run WOMAN m wnrrn.
chance word, “adventure,” lightly as it fell from her lips,
recalled my thoughts to my meeting with the woman in white,
and urged me to discover the connexion which the stranger‘s
own reference to Mrs. Fairlie informed me must once have
existed between the nameless fugitive from the Asylum, and
the former mistress of Limmeridge House.
“Even if I were the most restless of mankind,” I said,
“I sh0uld -be in no danger of thirsting after adventures for
some time to come. The very night before I arrived at this
house, I met with an adventure; and the wonder and excite-
ment of it , I can assure you, Miss Halcombe, will last me for
the whole term of my stay in Cumberland, if not for a much
longer period.”
“You don’t say so , Mr. Hartright! May I hear it? ”
“You have a claim to hear it. The chief person in the
adventure was a total stranger to me, and may perhaps be a
total stranger to you; but she certainly mentioned the name
of the late Mrs. Fairlie in terms of the sincerest gratitude and
regard.”
“Mentioned my mother’s name! You interest me inde-
scribably. Pray go on.”
I at once related the circumstances under which I had met
the woman in white, exactly as they had occurred; and I re-
peated what she had said to me about Mrs. Fairlie and Lid]-
meridge House , word for word.
Miss Halcombe’s bright resolute eyes looked eagerly into
mine, from the beginning of the narrative to the end. Her
face expressed vivid interest and astonishment, but nothing
more. She was evidently as far from knowing of any clue to
the mystery as I was myself.
“Are you quite sure of those words referring to my mo-
ther?” she asked.
“Quite sure,” I replied. “Whoever she may be, the
woman was once at schoolin the village of Limmeridge, was
treated with especial kindness by Mrs. Fairlie, and, in grateful
remembrance of that kindness, feels an affectionate interest
in all surviving members of the family. She knew that Mrs.


THE WOMAN IN wrnrn. 35
Fairlie and her husband were both dead; and she spoke of
Miss Fairlie as if they had known each other when they were
children.” '
“You said, Ithink, that she denied belonging to this
place?”
“Yes, she told me she came from Hampshire."
“And you entirely failed to ﬁnd out her name ‘2'"
“Entirely.” ~
“Very strange. I think you were quite justiﬁed, Mr.
Hartright, in giving the poor creature her liberty, for she
seems to have done nothing in your presence to show herself
unﬁt to enjoy it. But I wish you had been a little more
resolute about ﬁnding out her name. We must really clear
up this mystery, in some way. You had better not speak of it
yet to Mr. Fairlie , or to my sister. They are both of them , I
am certain, quite as ignorant of who the woman is, and of
what her past history in connexion with us can be, as I am
myself. But they are also, in widely different ways, rather
nervous and sensitive; and you would only ﬁdget one and
alarm the other to no purpose. As for myself, I am all aﬂame
with curiosity, and I devote my whole energies to the business
of discovery from this moment. When my mother came here,
after her second marriage, she certainly established the
village school just as it exists at the present time. But the old
teachers are all dead, or gone elsewhere; and no enlighten—
ment is to be hoped for from that quarter. The only other
alternative I can think of —”
At this point we were interrupted by the entrance of
the servant, with a message from Mr. Fairlie, intimating
that he would be glad to see me, as soon as I had done
breakfast. ~
“Wait in the hall ," said Miss Halcombe, answering the
servant for me, in her quick, ready way. “Mr. Hartright
will come out directly. I was about to say," she went on,
addressing me again, “that my sister and I have a large
collection of my mother’s letters , addressed to my father and
to hers. In the absence of any other means of getting
3*


36 THE woman IN WHITE.
information, I will pass the morning in looking over my
mother’s correspondence with Mr. Fairlie. He was fond of
London, and was constantly away from his country home;
and she was accustomed, at such times, to write and report
to him how things went on at Limmeridge. Her letters are
full of references to the school in which she took so strong an
interest; and I think it more than likely that I may have dis-
covered something when we meet again. The luncheon hour
is two, Mr. Hartright. I shall have the pleasure of introducing
you to my sister by that time, and we will occupy the after-
noon in driving round the neighbourhood and showing you
all our pet points of view. Till two o’clock, then, fare
well."
She nodded to me with the lively grace, the delightful
reﬁnement of familiarity, which characterised all that she did
and all that she said; and disappeared by a door at the lower
end of the room. As soon as she had left me, I turned my
steps towards the hall, and followed the servant on my way,
for the ﬁrst time , to the presence of Mr. Fairlie.
VII.
Mr conductor led me up-stairs into a passage which took
us back to the bedchamber in which I had slept during the
past night; and opening the door next to it, begged me to
look in.
“ I have my master’s orders to show you your own sitting-
room, sir,”said the man, “and to inquire if you approve of the
situation and the ligh ."
I must have been hard to please , indeed, if I had not ap-
proved of the room, and of everything about it. The bow-
window looked out on the same lovely view which I had ad~
mired, in the morning, from my bedroom. The furniture was
the perfection of luxury and beauty; the table in the centre
was bright with gaily bound books, elegant conveniences for
writing, and beautiful ﬂowers; the second table near the


THE WOMAN m WHITE. 37
window, was covered with all the necessary materials for
mounting water-colour drawings, and had a little easel at-
tached to it, which I could expand or fold up at will; the walls
were hung with gaily tinted chintz; and the ﬂoor was spread
with Indian matting in maize-colour and red. It was the
prettiest and most luxurious little sitting-room I had ever
seen; and I admired it with the warmest enthusiasm.
The solemn servant was far too highly trained to betray
the slightest satisfaction. He bowed with icy deference when
my terms of eulogy were all exhausted, and silently opened
the door for me to go out into the passage again.
We turned a corner, and entered a long second passage,
ascended a short ﬂight of stairs at the end, crossed a small
circular upper hall, and stopped in front of a door covered
with dark baize. The servant Opened this door, and led me
on a few yards to a second; opened that also, and disclosed
two curtains of pale sea-green silk hanging before us; raised
one of them noiselessly; softly uttered the words, “ Mr. Hart-
right ,” and left me. '
I found myself in a large , lofty room, with a magniﬁcent
carved ceiling, and with a carpet over the ﬂoor, so thick and
soft that it felt like piles of velvet under my feet. One side of
the room was occupied by a long bookcase of some rare inlaid
wood that was quite new to me. It was not more than six feet
high, and the t0p was adorned with statuettes in marble,
ranged at regular distances one from the other. On the op-
posite side stood two antique cabinets; and between them,
and above them, hung a picture of the Virgin and Child, pro-
tected by glass, and bearing Raphael’s name on the gilt tablet
at the bottom of the frame. On my right hand and on my
left, as I stood inside the door, were chiifoniers and little
stands in buhl and marquetterie , loaded with ﬁgures in
Dresden china, with rare vases, ivory ornaments, and toys
and curiosities that sparkled at all points with gold, silver,
and precious stones. At the lower end of the room, opposite
to me, the windows were concealed and the sunlight was
tempered by large blinds of the same pale sea-green colour as


38 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
the curtains over the door. The light thus produced was de-
liciously soft, mysterious, and subdued; it fell equally upon
all the objects in the room; it helped to intensify the deep
silence, and the air of profound seclusion that possessed the
place; and it surrounded, with an appropriate halo of repose,
the solitary ﬁgure of the master of the house, leaning back,
listlesst composed, in a large easy-chair, with a reading-
easel fastened on one of its arms, and a little table on the
other.
If a man’s personal appearance, when he is out of his
dressing-room, and when he has passed forty, can be accepted
as a safe guide to his time of life — which is more than doubt-
ful -— Mr. Fairlie’s age, when I saw him, might have been
reasonably computed at over ﬁfty and under sixty years. His
beardless face was thin, worn, and transparently pale, but
not wrinkled; his nose was high and hooked; his eyes were
of a dim grayish blue, large, prominent, and rather red
round the rims of the eyelids; his hair was scanty, soft to
look at, and of that light sandy colour which is the last to
disclose its own changes towards gray. He was dressed in a.
dark frock-coat, of some substance much thinner than cloth,
and in waistcoat and trousers of spotless white. His feet
were eﬁ'eminately small, and were clad in buff-coloured silk
stockings, and little womanish bronze-leather slippers. Two
rings adorned his\ white delicate hands, the value of which
even my inexperienced observation detected to be all but
priceless. Upon the whole , he had a frail, languidly-fretful,
over-reﬁned look —s0mething singularly and unpleasantly
delicate in its association with a man, and, at the same time,
something which could by no possibility have looked natural
and appropriate if it had been transferred to the personal ap-
pearance of a woman. My morning's experience of Miss Hal-
combe had predisposed me to be pleased with everybody 1n
the house; but my sympathies shut themselves up resolutely
at the ﬁrst sight of Mr. Fairlie.
On approaching nearer to him, I discovered that he was
not so entirely without occupation as I had at ﬁrst supposed.


THE WOMAN IN wnrrn. 39
Placed amid the other rare and beautiful objects on a large
round table near him, was a dwarf cabinet in ebony and
silver, containing coins of all shapes and sizes, set out in little
drawers lined with dark purple velvet. One of these drawers
lay on the small table attached to his chair; and near it were
some tiny jewellers’ brushes, awashleather “stump,” and a
little bottle of'liquid, all waiting to be used in various ways for
the removal of any accidental impurities which might be dis-
covered on the coins. His frail white ﬁngers were listlessly
toying with something which looked, to my uninstructed eyes,
like a dirty pewter medal with ragged edges, whenI advanced
within a respectful distance of his chair, and stopped to make
my bow.
“So glad to possess you at Limmeridge, Mr. Hartright,”
he said, in a querulous, creaking voice, which combined, in
anything but an agreeable manner, a discordantly high tone
with a drowsily languid utterance. “Pray sit down. And
don’t trouble yourself to move the chair, please. In the
wretched state of my nerves, movement of any kind is exqui-
sitely painful to me. Have you seen your studio? Will it do ‘i’ "
“I have just come from seeing the room , Mr. Fairlie; and
1 assure you -—”
He stopped me in the middle of the sentence, by closing his
eyes, and holding up one of his white hands imploringly. I
paused in astonishment; and the croaking voice honoured me
with this explanation:
“Pray excuse me. But could you contrive to speak in a
lower key? In the wretched state of my nerves , loud sound of
any kind is indescribable torture to me. You will pardon an
invalid? I only say to you what the lamentable state of my
health obliges me to say to everybody. Yes. And you really
like the room?”
“I could wish for nothing prettier and nothing more com-
fortable," I answered, dropping my voice , and beginning to
discover already that Mr. Fairlie’s selﬁsh aﬁ'ectation and Mr.
Fairlie’s wretched nerves meant one and the same thing.
“ So glad. You will ﬁnd your position here, Mr. Hartright,


40 run WOMAN m WHITE.
properly recognized. There is none of the horrid English
barbarity of feeling about the social position of an artist, in
this house. So much of my early life has been passed abroad,
that I have quite cast my insular skin in that respect. I wish
I could say the same of the gentry —~ detestable word, but I
suppose I must use it — of the gentry in the neighbourhood.
They are sad Goths in Art, Mr. Hartright. People, I do
assure you, who would have opened their eyes in astonish-
ment, if they had seen Charles the Fifth pick up Titian's
brush for him. Do you mind putting this tray of coins back
in the cabinet, and giving me the next one to it? In the
wretched state of my nerves , exertion of any kind is unspeak-
ably disagreeable to me. Yes. Thank you.”
As a practical commentary on the liberal social theory
which he had just favoured me by illustrating, Mr. Fairlie‘s
cool request rather amused me. I put back one drawer and
gave him the other, with all possible politeness. He began
triﬂing with the new set of coins and the little brushes imme-
diately; languidly looking at them and admiring them all the
time he was speaking to me.
“ A thousand thanks and a thousand excuses. Do you like
coins? Yes. So glad we have another taste in common besides
our taste for Art. Now, about the pecuniary arrangements
between us — do tell me -— are they satisfactory?"
“Most satisfactory, Mr. Fairlie.”
“So glad. And —-what next? Ah! I remember. Yes. In
reference to the consideration which you are good enough to
accept for giving me the beneﬁt of your accomplishments in
art, my steward will wait on you at the end of the ﬁrst week,
to ascertain your wishes. And — what next? Curious, is it
not? I had a great deal' more to say; and I appear to have
quite forgotten it. Do you mind touching the bell? In that
corner. Yes. Thank you.”
I rang; and a new servant noiselesst made his appearance
- a foreigner, with a set smile and perfectly brushed hair -— a
valet every inch of him.
“Louis,” said Mr. Fairlie, dreamin dusting the tips of his


rnn WOMAN IN WHITE. 41
ﬁngers with one of the tiny brushes for the coins, “I made
some entries in my tablettes this morning. Find my tablettes.
A thousand pardons, Mr. Hartright, I’m afraid I bore you.”
As he wearin closed his eyes again, before I could answer,
and as he did most assuredly bore me, I sat silent, and looked
up at the Madonna and Child by Raphael. In the mean time,
the valet left the room, and returned shortly with a little ivory
book. Mr. Fairlie , after ﬁrst relieving himself by a gentle
sigh, let the book drop open with one hand, and held up the
tiny brush with the other , as a sign to the servant to wait for
further orders.
“Yes. Just so ! " said Mr. Fairlie, consulting the tablettes.
“Louis, take down that portfolio." He pointed , as he spoke,
to several portfolios placed near the window, on mahogany
stands. “ N 0. Not the one with the green back -- that con-
tains my Rembrandt etchings, Mr. Hartright. Do you like
etchings? Yes? So glad we have another taste in common.
The portfolio with the red back, Louis. Don’t drop it! You
have no idea of the tortures I should suﬁ'er, Mr. Hartright, if
Louis dropped that portfolio. Is it safe on the chair? Do you
think it safe, Mr. Hartright? Yes? So glad. Will you oblige
me by looking at the drawings, if you really think they are
quite safe. Louis, go away. What an ass you are. Don’t
you see me holding the tablettes? Do you suppose I want to
hold them? Then why not relieve me of the tablettes without
being told? A thousand pardons, Mr. Hartright; servants are
such asses , are they not? Do tell me — what do you think of
the drawings? They have come from a sale in a shocking state
- I thought they smelt of horrid dealers’ and brokers’ ﬁngers
when I looked at them last. Can you undertake them? "
Although my nerves were not delicate enough to detect the
odour of plebeian ﬁngers which had offended Mr. Fairlie’s
nostrils, my taste was suﬂiciently educated to enable me to
appreciate the value of the drawings, while I turned them
over. They were, for the most part, really ﬁne specimens of
English water-colour Art; and they had deserved much better


42 THE WOMAN IN ern.
treatment at the hands of their former possessor than they
appeared to have received.
“The drawings,” I answered, “require careful straining
and mounting; and, in my opinion, they are well worth —"
“I beg your pardon," interposed Mr. Fairlie. “Do you
mind my closing my eyes while you speak? Even this light is
too much for them. Yes?”
“I was about to say that the drawings are well worth all
the time and trouble --”
Mr. Fairlie suddenly opened his eyes again, and rolled
them with an expression of helpless alarm in the direction of
the window. '
“I entreat you to excuse me, Mr. Hartright," he said , in a.
feeble ﬂutter. “But surely I hear some horrid children in the
garden — my private garden - below?”
“I can’t say, Mr. Fairlie. I heard nothing myself.”
“ Oblige me — you have been so very good in humouring
my poor nerves --oblige me by lifting up a corner of the blind.
Don’t let the sun in on me, Mr. Hartright! Have you got the
blind up? Yes? Then will you be so very kind as to look into
the garden and make quite sure? " '
I complied with this new request. The garden was care-
fully walled in, all round. Not a human creature, large or
small, appeared in any part of the sacred seclusion. I re-
ported that gratifying fact to Mr. Fairlie.
“A thousand thanks. My fancy, I. suppose. There are no
children, thank Heaven, in the house; but the servants (per-
sons born without nerves) will encourage the children from the
village. Such brats —— oh, dear me , such brats! Shall I con-
fess it, Mr. Hartright? _ I sadly want a reform in the con-
struction of children. Nature’s only idea. seems to be to make
them machines for the production of incessant noise. Surely
our delightful Raﬁ'aello’s conception is inﬁnitely preferable ? "
He pointed to the picture of the Madonna, the upper part
of which represented the conventional cherubs of Italian Art,
celestially provided with sitting accommodation for their
chins, on balloons of buﬁ'coloured cloud.


was woman IN wnrrs. 43
“Quite a model family!" said Mr. Fairlie, leering at the
eherubs. “Such nice round faces, and such nice soft wings,
and —- nothing else. No dirty little legs to run about on, and
no noisy little lungs to scream with. How immeasurably
superior to the existing construction! I will close my eyes
again, if you will allow me. And you really can manage the
drawings? So glad. Is there anything else to settle? if there
is, I think I have forgotten it. Shall we ring for Louis again?"
Being, by this time, quite as anxious, on my side, as Mr.
Fairlie evidently was on his, to bring the interview to a speedy
conclusion , I thought I would try to render the summoning of
the servant unnecessary, by offering the requisite suggestion
on my own responsibility.
“ The only point, Mr. Fairlie , that remains to be dis-
cussed,” I said, “refers, I think, to the instruction in sketching
which I am engaged to communicate to the two young ladies.”
“Ah! just so," said Mr. Fairlie. “I wish I felt strong
enough to go into that part of the arrangement — but I don’t.
The ladies, who proﬁt by your kind services, Mr. Hartright,
must settle, and decide , and so on, for themselves. My niece
is fond of your charming art. She knows just enough about it
to be conscious of her own sad defects. Please take pains with
her. Yes. Is there anything else? No. We quite understand
each other — don’t we? I have no right to detain you any
longer from your delightful pursuit — have I? So pleasant to
have settled everything —- such a sensible relief to have done
business. Do you mind ringing forLouis to carry the portfolio
to your own room?"
“ I will carry it there, myself, Mr. Fairlie, if you will allow
me.”
“Will you really? Are you strong enough? How nice to
be so strong! Are you sure you won’t drop it? So glad to
possess you at Limmeridge , Mr. Hartright. I am such a
sufferer that I hardly dare hope to enjoy much of your society.
Would you mind taking great pains not to let the doors bang,
and not to drop the portfolio? Thank you. Gently with the


44 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
curtains, please —— the slightest noise from them goes through
me like a knife. Yes. Good morning! ”
When the sea-green curtains were closed, and when the
two baize doors were shut behind me, I stopped for a moment
in the little circular hall beyond, and drew a long, luxurious
breath of relief. It was like coming to the surface of the water,
after deep diving, to ﬁnd myself once more on the outside of
Mr. Fairlie's room.
As soon as I was comfortably established for the morning
in my pretty little studio, the ﬁrst resolution at whichI arrived
was to turn my steps no more in the direction of the apart-
ments occupied by the master of the house , except in the very
improbable event of his honouring me with a special invitation
to pay him another visit. Having settled this satisfactory plan
of future conduct, in reference to Mr. Fairlie, I soon recovered
the serenity of temper of which my employer’s haughty fami-
liarity and impudent politeness had, for the moment, deprived
me. The remaining hours of the morning passed away plea-
santly enough , in looking over the drawings , arranging them
in sets, trimming their ragged edges , and accomplishing the
other necessary preparations in anticipation of the business of
mounting them. I ought, perhaps, to have made more pro~
gress than this; but, as the luncheon-time drew near, I grew
restless and unsettled, and felt unable to ﬁx my attention on
work, even though that work was only of the humble manual
kind.
At two o’clock, I descended again to the breakfast-room,
a little anxiously. Expectations of some interest were connected
with my approaching reappearance in that part of the house.
My introduction to Miss Fairlie was now close at hand; and,
if Miss Halcombe’s search through her mother’s letters had pro-
duced the result which she anticipated, the time had come for
clearing up the mystery of the woman in white.


THE WOMAN m WHITE. 45
VIII.
WHEN I entered the room, I found Miss Halcombe and an
elderly lady seated at the luncheon-table.
The elderly lady, when I was presented to her,' proved to
be Miss Fairlie’s former governess, Mrs. Vesey, who had been
brieﬂy described to me by my lively companion at the break-
fast-table, as possessed of“ all the cardinal virtues, and count-
ing for nothing." I can do little more than offer my humble
testimony to the truthfulness of Miss Halcombe’s sketch of
the old lady's character. Mrs. Vesey looked the personiﬁca-
tion of human composure, and female amiability. A calm en~
joyment of a calm existence beamed in drowsy smiles on her
plump, placid face. Some of us rush through life; and some
of us saunter through life. Mrs. Vesey sat through life. Sat
in the house, early and late; sat in the garden; sat in unex-
pected window-seats in passages; sat (on a camp-stool) when
her friends tried to take her out walking; sat before she looked
at anything, before she talked of anything, before she an-
swered, Yes, or No, to the commonest question — always
with the same serene smile on her lips, the same vacantly at—
tentive turn of her head, the same snugly-comfortableposition
of her hands andarms, under everypossible change of domestic
circumstances. A mild, a compliant, an unutterably tranquil
and harmless old lady, who never by any chance suggested
the idea that she had been actually alive since the hour of her
birth. Nature has so much to do in this world, and is engaged
in generating such a vast variety of co-existent productions,
that she must surely be now and then too ﬂurried and confused
to distinguish between the different processes that she is carry-
ing on at the same time. Starting from this point of view, it
will always remain my private persuasion that Nature was ab-
sorbed in making cabbagcs when Mrs. Vesey was born, and
that the good lady suffered the consequences of a vegetable
preoccupation in the mind of the Mother of us all.


46 THE WOMAN m wnrrn.
“Now, Mrs. Vesey," saidMiss Halcombe, looking brighter,
sharper, and readier than ever, by contrast with the unde-
monstrative old lady at her side, “what will you have? A
outlet?" '
Mrs. Vesey crossed her dimpled hands on the edge of the
table; smiled placidly; and said, “Yes, dear."
“What is that opposite Mr. Hartright? Boiled chicken,
is it not? I thought youliked boiled chickenbetter than cutlet,
Mrs. Vesey? "
Mrs.Vesey took her dimpled hands oﬁ‘ the edge of thetable
and crossed them on her lap instead; nodded contemplatively
at the boiled chicken, and said, “Yes, dear."
“Well, but which will you have, to-day? Shall Mr. Hart-
right give you some chicken? or shallI give you some outlet?"
Mrs. Vesey put one of her dimpled hands back again on
the edge of the table; hesitated drowsily; and said, “Which
you please, dear."
“Mercy on me! it’s a question for your taste, my good
lady, not for mine. Suppose you have a little of both? and
suppose you begin with the chicken, because Mr. Hartright
looks devoured by anxiety to carve for you."
Mrs. Vesey put the other dimpled hand back on the edge
of the table; brightened dimly, one moment; went out again
the next; bowed obediently; and said, “If you please, sir.”
Surely a mild, a compliant, an unutterably tranquil and
harmless old lady? But enough, perhaps, for the present,
of Mrs. Vesey.
All this time, there were no signs of Miss Fairlie. We ﬁn-
ished our luncheon; and still she never appeared. Miss Hal-
combe, whose quick eye nothing escaped, noticed the looks
that I cast, from time to time, in the direction of the door.
“I understand you, Mr. Hartright," she said; “you are
wondering what has become of your other pupil. She has been
down stairs, and has got over her headache; but has not suf-
ﬁciently recovered her appetite to join us at lunch. If you will
put yourself under my charge, I think I can undertake to ﬁnd
her somewhere in the garden." -


run WOMAN in warm. 47
Shetook up a parasol, lying on a chair near her, and led
the way out, by a long window at the bottom oftheroom, which
opened on to the lawn. It is almost unnecessary to say that
we left Mrs. Vesey still seated at the table, with her dimpled
hands still crossed on the edge of it; apparently settled in that
position for the rest of the afternoon.
- As we crossed the lawn, Miss Halcombe looked at me sig-
niﬁcantly, and shook her head.
“ That mysterious adventure of yours,” she said, “ still re-
mains involved in its own appropriate midnight darkness. I
have been all the morning looking over my mother’s letters,
and I have made no discoveries yet. However, don’t despair,
Mr. Hartright. This is a matter of curiosity; and you have
got a woman for your ally. Under such conditions success is
certain, sooner or later. The letters are not exhausted. I
have three packets still left, and you may conﬁdently rely on
my spending the whole evening over them.”
Here, then, was one of my anticipations of the morning
still unfulﬁlled. I began to wonder, next, whether my intro-
duction to Miss Fairlie would disappoint the expectations that
I had been forming of her since breakfast-time.
“And how did you get on with Mr. Fairlie ?" inquired Miss
Halcombe, as we left the lawn and turned into a shrubbery.
“ Was be particularly nervous this morning? Never mind
considering about your answer, Mr. Hartright. The mere fact
of your being obliged to consider is enough for me. I see in
your face that he was particularly nervous; and, as I am ami-
ably unwilling to throw you into the same condition, 'I ask no
more.”
We turned off into a winding path while she was speaking,
and approached a pretty summer-house, built of wood, in the
form of a miniature Swiss chalet. The one room of the sum-
mer-house, as we ascended the steps at the door, was occupied
by a young lady. She was standing near a rustic table, look-
ing out at the inland view of moor and hill presented by a gap
in the trees, and absently turning over the leaves of a little
sketch-book that lay at her side. This was Miss Fairlie.


48 run WOMAN IN WHITE.
How can I describe her? How can I separate her from my
own sensations, and from all that has happened in the later
time? How canI see her again as she looked when my eyes
ﬁrst rested on her — as she should look, now, to the eyes that
are about to see her in these pages?
The water-colour drawing that I made of Laura Fairlie, at
an after period, in the place and attitude in which I ﬁrst saw
her, lies on my desk whileIwrite. I look at it, and there dawns
upon me brightly, from the dark greenish-brown background
of the summer-house, a light, youthful ﬁgure, clothed in a
simple muslin dress, the pattern of it formed by broad alter-
nate strips of delicate blue and white. A‘scarf of the same
material sits crisply and closely round her shoulders, and a
little straw hat of the natural colour, plainly and sparingly
trimmed with ribbon to match the gown, covers her head, and
throws its soft pearly shadow over the upper part of her face.
Her hair is of so faint and pale a brown — not ﬂaxen, and yet
almost as light; not golden, and yet almost as glossy—that
it nearly melts, here and there, into the shadow of the hat. It
is plainlyparted and drawn back over her ears, and the line of
it ripples naturally as it crosses her forehead. The eyebrows
are rather darker than the hair, and the eyes are of that soft,
limmd, turquoise blue, so often sung by the poets, so seldom
seen in real life. Lovely eyes in colour, lovely eyes in form-
large and tender and quietly thoughtful —~ but beautiful above
all things in the clear truthfulness of look that dwells in their
inmost depths, and shines through all their changes of expres-
sion with the light of a purer and a better world. The charm
- most gently and yet most distinctly expressed—which they
shed over the whole face, so covers and transforms its little
natural human blemishes elsewhere, that it is difﬁcult to esti-
mate the relative merits and defects of the other features. It
is hard to see that the lower part of the face is too delicately
reﬁned away towards the chin to be in full and fair proportion
with the upper part; that the nose, in escaping the aquiline
bend (always hard and cruel in a woman, no matter how ab-
, stractedly perfect it may be ), has erred a little in the other ex~


THE WOMAN m meE. 49
treme, and has missed the ideal straightness of line; and that
the sweet, sensitive lips are subject to a slight nervous con-
traction, when she smiles, which draws them upward a little
at one corner, towards the cheek. It might be possible to note
these blemishes in another woman’s face, but it is not easy to
dwell on them in hers, so subtly are they connected with all
that is individual and characteristic in her expression, and so
closely does the expression depend for its full play and life, in
every other feature, on the moving impulse of the eyes.
Does my poor portrait of her, my fond, patient labour of
long and happy days , show me these things? Ah, how few of
them are in the dim mechanical drawing, and how many in the
mind with which I regard it! A fair, delicate girl, in a pretty
light dress, triﬂing with the leaves of a sketch-book, while she
looks up from it with truthful, innocent blue eyes — that is all
the drawing can say; all, perhaps, that even the deeper reach
of thought and pen can say in their language, either. The wo-
man who ﬁrst gives 'life, light, and form to our shadowy con-
ceptions of beauty, ﬁlls a void in our spiritual nature that has
remained unknown to us till she appeared. Sympathies that
lie too deep for words, too deep almost for thoughts, are
touched, at such times, by other charms than those which the
senses feel and which the resources of expression can realise.
The mystery which underlies the beauty of women is never
raised above the reach of all expression until it has claimed
kindred with the deeper mystery in our own souls. Then, and
then only, has it passed beyond the narrow region on which
light falls, in this world, from the pencil and the pen.
Think of her as you thought of the ﬁrst woman who quick-
ened the pulses within you that the rest of her sex had no art
to stir. Let the kind, candid blue eyes meet yours, as they
met mine,with the one matchless look which we both remem-
ber so well. Let her voice speak the music thatyou once loved
best, attuned as sweetly to your car as to mine. Let her foot-
step , as she comes and goes, in these pages, be like that other
footstep to whose airy fall your own heart once beat time.
Take her as the visionary nursling of your own fancy; and
The Woman in White. I.


50 THE WOMAN m Win'rn.
she will grow upon you, all the more clearly, as the living
woman who dwells in mine.
Among the sensations that crowded on me, when my eyes
ﬁrst looked upon her - familiar sensations which we all know,
which spring to life in m0st of our hearts, die again in so many,
and renew their bright existence in so few — there was one
that troubled and perplexed me; one that seemed strangely
inconsistent and unaccountany out of place in Miss Fairlie’s
presence.
Mingling with the vivid impression produced by the charm
of her fair face and head , her sweet expression , and her win-
ning simplicity of manner, was another impression, which, in a
shadowy way, suggested to me the idea of something wanting.
At one time it seemed like something wanting in her ; at
another, like something wanting in myself, which hindered me
from understanding her as I ought. The impression was
always strongest, in the most contradictory manner, when she
looked at me; or, in other words, when I was most conscious
of the harmony and charm of her face, and yet, at the same
time, most troubled by the sense of an incompleteness which it
was impossibe to discover. Something wanting, something
wanting — and where it was, and what it was, I could not say.
The effect of this curious caprice of fancy (as I thought it
then) was not of a nature to set me at my case, during a ﬁrst
interview with Miss Fairlie. The few kind words of welcome
which she spoke found me hardly self-possessed enough to
thank her in the customary phrases of reply. Observing my
hesitation, and no doubt attributing it, naturally enough, to
some momentary shyness on my part, Miss Halcombe took the
business of talking, as easily and readily as usual, into her own
hands.
“Look there, Mr. Hartright,” she said, pointing to the
sketch-book on the table , and to the little delicate wandering
hand that was still triﬂing with it. “ Surely you will acknow-
ledge that your model pupil is found at last? The moment she
hears that you are in the house, she seizes her inestimable


THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 51
sketch-book, looks universal Nature straight in the face , and
longs to begin!"
Miss Fairlie laughed with a ready good-humour, which
broke out as brightly as if it had been part of the sunshine
above us, over her lovely face.
“I must not take credit to myself where no credit is due,”
she said, her clear, truthful blue eyes looking alternately at
Miss Halcombe and at me. “Fond as I am of drawing, I am
so conscious of my own ignorance that I am more afraid than
anxious to begin. Now I know you are here , Mr. Hartright, I
ﬁnd myself looking over my sketches, as Iused to look over
my lessons when I was 2? little girl, and when Iwas sadly afraid
that I should turn out not ﬁt to be heard."
She made the confession very prettily and simply, and,
with quaint, childish earnestness, drew the sketch-book away
close to her own side of the table. Miss Halcombe cut the
knot of the little embarrassment forthwith, in her resolute,
downright way.
“ Good,bad, or indifferent," she said, “the pupil’s sketches
must pass through the ﬁery ordeal of the master’s judgment
— and there's an end of it. Suppose we take them with us in
the carriage , Laura, and let Mr. Hartright see them , for the
ﬁrst time, under circumstances of perpetual jolting and inter-
ruption? If we can only confuse him all through the drive,
between Nature as it is, when he looks up at the view, and
Nature as it is not, when he looks down again at our sketch-
books, we shall drive him into the last desperate refuge of
paying us compliments, and shall slip through his professional
ﬁngers with our pet feathers of vanity all unruﬂied.”
“I hope Mr. Hartright will pay me no compliments ," said
Miss Fairlie, as we all left the summer-house.
“May I venture to inquire why you express that hope?" I
asked.
“Because I shall believe all that you say to me,” she
answered, simply.
In those few words she unconsciously gave me the key to
her whole character; to that generous trust in others which,
4*


52 ran worms m warm.
in her nature, grew innocently out of the sense of her own
truth. I only knew it intuitively then. I know it by experience
now.
We merely waited to rouse good Mrs. Vesey from the place
which she still occupied at the deserted luncheon-table,before
we entered the open carriage for our promised drive. The old
lady and Miss Halcombe occupied the back seat; and Miss
Fairlie and I sat together in front, with the sketch-book
open between us, fairly exhibited at last to my professional
eyes. All serious criticism on the drawings, even if I had
been disposed to volunteer it, was rendered impossible
by Miss Halcombe’s lively resolution to see nothing but
the ridiculous side of the Fine Arts, as practised by herself,
her sister, and ladies in general. I can remember the conver-
sation that passed far more easily than the sketches that I
mechanically looked over. That part of the talk, especially,
in which Miss Fairlie took any share is still as vividly impress-
ed on my memory as if I had heard it only a few hours ago.
Yes! let me acknowledge that, on this ﬁrst day, I let the
charm of her presence lure me from the recollection of myself
and my position. The most triﬂing of the questions that she
put to me, on the subject of using her pencil and mixing her
colours; the slightest alterations of expression in the lovely
eyes that looked into mine, with such an earnest desire to learn
all that I could teach, and to discover all that I could show,
attracted more of my attention than-the ﬁnest view we passed
through , or the grandest changes of light and shade , as they
ﬂowed into each other over the waving moorland, and the
level beach. At any time, and under any circumstances of
human interest, is it not strange to see how little real hold the
objects of the natural world amid which we live can gain on
our hearts and minds? We go to Nature for comfort in trouble,
and sympathy in joy, only in books. Admiration of those
beauties of the inanimate world, which modern poetry so
largely and so eloquently describes, is not, even in the best of
us, one of the original instincts of our nature. As children, we
none of uspossess it. No uninstructedman or woman possesses


THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 53
it. Those whose lives are most exclusively passed amid the
ever-changing wonders of sea and land are also those who are
most universally insensible to every aspect of Nature not
directly associated with the human interest of their calling.
Our capacity of appreciating the beauties of the earth we live
on is, in truth , one of the civilised accomplishments which we
all learn, as an Art; and, more, that very capacity is rarely
practised by any of us exceptwhen our minds are mostindolent
and most unoccupied. How much share have the attractions
ofNatnre ever had in the pleasurable or painful interests and
emotions of ourselves or our friends? What space do they
ever occupy in the thousand little narratives of personal ex-
perience which pass every day by word of mouth from one of
us to the other? All that our minds can compass, all that
our hearts can learn, can be accomplishedwith equalcertainty,
equal proﬁt, and equal satisfaction to ourselves, in the poorest
as in the richest prospect that the face of the earth can show.
There is surely a reason for this want of inborn sympathy
between the creature and the creation around it, a reason
which may perhaps be found in the widely differing destinies
of man and his earthly sphere. The grandest mountain pro-
spect that the eye can range over is appointed to annihilation.
The smallest human interest that the pure heart can feel is
appointed to immortality.
We had been out nearly three hours, when the carriage
again passed through the gates of Limmeridge House.
On our way back, I had let the ladies settle for themselves
the ﬁrst point of view which they were to sketch, under my
instructions, on the afternoon of the next day. When they
withdrew to dress for dinner, and when I was alone again in
my little sitting-room, my spirits seemed to leave me on a
sudden. I felt ill at ease and dissatisﬁed with myself, I hardly
knew why. Perhaps I was now conscious, for the ﬁrst time, of
having enjoyed our drive too much in the character of a guest,
and too little in the character of a drawing-master. Perhaps
that strange sense of something wanting, either in Miss Fairlie
or in myself, which had perplexed me when I was ﬁrst intro-


54 run women m wnrrn.
duced to her, haunted me still. Anyhow, it was a relief to
my spirits when the dinner-hour called me out of my solitude,
and took me back to the society of the ladies of the house.
I was struck, on entering the drawing-room, by the curious
contrast, rather in material than in colour, of the dresses which
they now wore. While Mrs. Vesey and Miss Halcombe were
richly clad (each in the manner most becoming to her age), the
ﬁrst in silver-gray, and the second in that delicate primrose-
yellow colour which matches so well with a dark complexion
and black hair, Miss Fairlie was unpretendingly and almost
poorly dressed in plain white muslin. It was spotlessly pure;
it was beautifully put on; but still it was the sort of dress
which the wife or daughter of a poor man might have worn;
and it made her, so far as externals went, look less afﬂuent in
circumstances than her own governess. At a later period,
when I learnt to know more of Miss Fairlie’s character , I dis-
covered that this curious contrast, on the wrong side, was due
to her natural delicacy of feeling and natural intensity of
aversion to the slightest personal display of her own wealth.
Neither Mrs. Vesey nor Miss Haleombe could ever induce her
to let the advantage in dress desert the two ladies who were
poor, to lean to the side of the one lady who was rich.
When the dinner was over, we returned together to the
drawing-room. Although Mr. Fairlie (emulating the magni-
ﬁcent condescension of the monarch who had picked up
Titian’s brush for him) had instructed his butler to consult my
wishes in relation to the wine that I might prefer after dinner,
I was resolute enough to resist the temptation of sitting in
solitary grandeur among bottles of my own choosing, and
sensible enough to ask the ladies‘ permission to leave the table
with them habitually, on the civilised foreign plan, during
the period of my residence at Limmeridge House.
The drawing—room, to which we had now withdrawn for
the rest of the evening, was on the ground-ﬂoor, and was of
the same shape and size as the breakfast-room. Large glass
doors at the lower end opened on to a terrace, beautifully
ornamented along its whole length with a profusion of ﬂowers.


run worm: IN WHITE. 55
The soft, hazy twilight was just shading leaf and blossom
alike into harmony with its own sober hues , as we entered the
room; and the sweet evening scent of the ﬂowers met us with
its fragrant welcome through the open glass doors. Good
Mrs. Vesey (always the ﬁrst of the party to sit down) took
possession of an arm-chair in a corner, and dozed oﬂ' com-
fortably to sleep. At my request, Miss Fairlie placed herself
at the piano. As I followed her to a seat near the instrument,
I saw Miss Halcombe retire into a recess of one of the side
windows, to proceed with the search through her mother’s
letters by the last quiet rays of the evening light.
How vividly that peaceful home-picture of the drawing-
room comes back to me while I write! From the place where I
satI could see Miss Halcombe’s graceful ﬁgure, half of it in
oft light, half in mysterious shadow, bending intently over
the letters in her lap; while, nearer to me, the fair proﬁle of
the player at the piano was just delicately deﬁned against the
faintly deepening background of the inner wall of the room.
Outside, on the terrace, the clustering ﬂowers and long
grasses and creepers waved so gently in the light evening air,
that the sound of their rustling never reached us. The sky was
without a cloud; and the dawningmystery of moonlight began
to tremble already in the region of the eastern heaven. The
sense of peace and seclusion soothed all thought and feeling
into a rapt, unearthly repose; and the balmy quiet that deep-
ened ever with the deepening light, seemed to hover over us
with a gentler inﬂuence still, when there stole upon it from the
piano the heavenly tenderness of the music of Mozart. It was
an evening of sights and sounds never to forget.
We all sat silent in the places we had chosen— Mrs. Vesey
still sleeping, Miss Fairlie still playing, Miss Halcombe still
reading -— till the light failed us. By this time the moon had
stolen round to the terrace, and soft, mysterious rays of light
were slanting already across the lower end of the room. The
change from the twilight obscurity was so beautiful, that we
banished the lamps, by common consent, when the servant


56 ran woman IN WHITE.
brought them in; and kept the large room unlighted, except
by the glimmer of the two candles at the piano.
For half an hour more, the music still went on. After that,
the beauty of the moonlight view on the terrace tempted Miss
Fairlie out to look at it; and I followed her. When the candles
at the piano had been lighted, Miss Halcombe had changed
her place, so as to continue her examination of the letters by
their assistance. We left her, on a low chair, at one side of
the instrument, so absorbed over her reading that she did not
seem to notice when we moved.
We had been out on the terrace together, justin front ofthe
glass doors, hardly so long as ﬁve minutes, I should think;
and Miss Fairlie was , by my advice , just tying her white
handkerchief over her head as a precaution against the night
air —- when I heard Miss Halcombe‘s voice — low, eager, and
altered from its natural lively tone — pronounce my name.
“ Mr. Hartright,” she said, “will you come here for a min-
ute? I want to speak to you.”
I entered the room again immediately. The piano stood
about half way down along the inner wall. On the side of the
instrument farthest from the terrace, Miss Halcombe was sit-
ting with the letters scattered on her lap , and with one in her
hand selected from them, and held close to the candle. On
the side nearest to the terrace there stood a low ottoman, on
which Itook my place. In this position, I was not far from
the glass doors; and. I could see Miss Fairlie plainly, as she
passed and repassed the opening on to the terrace; walking
slowly from end to end of it in the full radiance of the moon.
“I want you to listen while I read the concluding passages
in this letter," said Miss Halcombe. “Tell me if you think
they throw any light upon your strange adventure on the road
to London. The letter is addressed by my mother to her se-
cond husband, Mr. Fairlie; and the date refers to a period of
between eleven and twelve years since. At that time, Mr. and
Mrs. Fairlie, and my half-sister Laura, had been living for
years in this house; and I was away from them, completing
my education at a school in Paris."


THE WOMAN in WHITE. 57
She looked and spoke earnestly, and, as I thought, a little
uneasily, as well. At the moment when she raised the letter
to the candle before beginning to read it, Miss Fairlie passed
as on the terrace, looked in for a moment, and, seeing that
we were engaged, slowly walked on.
Miss Halcombe began to read, as follows:
“‘You will be tired, my dear Philip, of hearing per-
petually about my schools and my scholars. Lay the blame,
pray, on the dull uniformity of life at Limmeridge, and not on
me. Besides, this time, I have something really interesting
to tell you about a new scholar.
“ ‘ You know old Mrs. Kempe, at the village shop. Well,
after years of ailing, the doctor has at last given her up , and
she is dying slowly, day by day. Her only living relation, a
sister, arrived last week to take care of her. This sister comes
all the way from Hampshire — her name is Mrs. Catherick.
Four days ago Mrs. Catherick came here to see me, and
brought her only child with her, a sweet little girl about a
year older than our darling Laura —’ ”
As the last sentence fell from the reader’s lips, Miss Fairlie
passed us on the terrace once more. She was softly singing to
herself one of the melodies which she had been playing earlier
in the evening. Miss Halcombe waited till she had passed out
of sight again; and then went on with the letter:
“‘Mrs. Catherick is a decent, well-behaved, respectable
woman; middle aged, and with the remains of having been
moderately, only moderately, nice-looking. There is some-
thing in her manner and her appearance, however, which I
can’t make out. She is reserved about herself to the point of
downright secrecy; and there is a. look in her face —- I can’t
describe it — which suggests to me that she has something on
her mind. She is altogether what you would call a walking
mystery. Her errand at Limmeridge House, however, was
simple enough. When she left Hampshire to nurse her sister,


58 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
Mrs. Kempe, through her last illness, she had been obliged to
bring her daughter with her, through having no one at home
to take care of the little girl. Mrs. Kempe may die in a week’s
time, or may linger on for months; and Mrs. Catherick’s ob-
ject was to ask me to let her daughter, Anne, have the beneﬁt
of attending my school; subject to the condition of her'being
removed from it to go home again with her mother, after Mrs.
Kempe’s death. I consented at once; and when Laura and 1
went out for ourwalk, we took the little girl (who is just eleven
years old) to the school, that very day.’ "
Once more, Miss Fairlie's ﬁgure, bright and soft in its
snowy muslin dress -— her face prettin framed by the white
folds of the handkerchief which she had tied under her chin——
passed by us in the moonlight. Once more, Miss Halcombe
waited till she was out of sight; and then went on:
“ ‘ I have taken a violent fancy, Philip, to my new scholar,
for a reason which I mean to keep till the last for the sake of
surprising you. Her mother having told me as little about the
child as she told me of herself, I was left to discover (which I
did on the ﬁrst day when we tried her at lessons) that the poor
little thing’s intellect is not developed as it ought to be at her
age. Seeing this, I had her up to the house the next day, and
privately arranged with the doctor to come and watch her and
question her, and tell me what,he thought. His opinion is
that she will grow out of it. But he says her careful bringing-
up at school is a matter of great importance just now, because
her unusual slowness in acquiring ideas implies an unusual te-
nacity in keeping them, when they are once received into her
mind. Now, my love, you must not imagine, in your off-hand
way, that I have been attaching myself to an idiot. This poor
little Anne Catherick is a sweet, affectionate , grateful girl;
and says the quaintest, prettiest things (as you shall judge by
an instance), in the most oddly sudden, surprised, half~
frightened way. Although she is dressed very neatly , her
clothes show a sad want of taste in colour and pattern. Sol


'rna woman In wnrrn. 59
arranged, yesterday, that some of our darling Laura’s old
white frocks and white hats should be altered for Anne Ca-
therick; explaining to her that little girls of her complexion
looked neater and better all in white than in anything else.
She hesitated and seemed puzzled for a minute; then ﬂushed
up, and appeared to understand. Her little hand clasped
mine suddenly. She kissed it, Philip; and said (oh, so earn-
estlyl), “ “I will always wear white as long as I live. It will
help me to remember you, ma’am, and to think that I am
pleasing you still, when I go away and see you no more." ”
This is only one specimen of the quaint things she says sopret-
tily. Poor little soul! She shall have a stock of white frocks,
made with good deep tucks, to let out forher as she grows—”’
Miss Halcombe paused, and looked at me across the piano.
“Did the forlorn woman whom you met in the high road
seem young?” she asked. “ Young enough to be two or three-
and-twenty?"
“Yes, Miss Halcombe, as young as that." .
“And she was strangely dressed, from head to foot , all in
white ?"
“All in white.”
While the answer was passing my lips, Miss Fairlie glided
into view on the terrace, for the third time. Instead of pro-
ceeding on her walk , she stopped, with her back turned
towards us; and, leaning on the balustrade of the terrace,
looked down into the garden beyond. My eyes ﬁxed upon the
~white gleam of her muslin gown and head-dress in the moon-
light, and a sensation, for which I can ﬁnd no name — a sen~
sation that quickened my pulse, and raised a ﬂuttering at my
heart — began to steal over me.
“All in white?” Miss Halcombe repeated. “The most
important sentences in the letter, Mr. Hartright, are those at ~
the end, which I will read to you immediately. But I can’t help
dwelling a little upon the coincidence of the white costume
of the woman you met, and the white frocks which produced ‘
that strange answer from my mother’s little scholar. The


60 ran woman IN WHITE.
doctor may have been wrong when he discovered the child’s
defects of intellect, and predicted that she would ‘grow out
of them.’ She may never have grown out of them; and the
old grateful fancy about dressing in white, which was a serious
feeling to the girl, may be a serious feeling to the woman
still.”
I said a few words in answer — I hardly know what. All
my attention was concentrated on the white gleam of Miss
Fairlic’s muslin dress.
“Listen to the last sentences of the letter," said Miss Hal~
combc. “I think they will surprise you."
As she raised the letter to the light of the candle, Miss
Fairlie turned from the balustrade , looked doubtfully up and
down the terrace, advanced a step towards the glass doors,
and then stopped, facing us.
Meanwhile, Miss Halcornbe read me the last sentences to
which she had referred:
“‘And now, my love, seeing that I am at the end of my
paper, now for the real reason, the surprising reason, for my
fondness for little Anne Catherick. My dear Philip, although
she is not half so pretty, she is nevertheless, by one of those
extraordinary caprices of accidental resemblance which one
sometimes sees, the living likeness, in her hair, her com-
plexion, the colour of her eyes, and the shape of her face —’"
I started up from the ottoman, before Miss Halcombe
could pronounce the next words. A thrill of the same feeling
which ran through me when the touch was laid upon my
shoulder on the lonely high-road, chilled me again.
There stood Miss Fairlie, a white ﬁgure, alone in the
moonlight; in her attitude, in the turn of her head, in her
complexion, in the shape of her face, the living image, at
that distance and under those circumstances, of the woman in
white! The doubt which had troubled my mind for hours and
hours past, ﬂashed into conviction in an instant. That
“something wanting” was my own recognition of the ominous


THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 61
likeness between the fugitive from the asylum and my pupil at
Limmeridge House.
“You see it!” said Miss Halcombe. She dropped the
useless letter, and her eyes ﬂashed as they met mine. “ You
see it now, as my mother saw it eleven years since!”
“I see it —- more unwillingly than I can say. To associate
that forlorn, friendless, lost woman, even by an accidental
likeness only, with Miss Fairlie , seems like casting a shadow
on the future of the bright creature who stands looking at us
now. Let me lose the impression again, as soon as pos-
sible. Call her in, out of the dreary moonlight— pray call
her in! ”
“Mr. Hartright, you surprise me. Whatever women may
0e, I thought that men, in the nineteenth century, were above
superstition."
“ Pray call her in l ”
“Hush‘, hush! She is coming of her own accord. Say
nothing in her presence. Let this discovery of the likeness be
kept a secret between you and me. Come in, Laura; come
in, and wake Mrs. Vesey with the piano. Mr. Hartright is
petitioning for some more music, and he wants it, this time,
of the lightest and liveliest kind.”
IX.
So ended my eventful ﬁrst day at Limmeridge House.
Miss Halcombe and I kept our secret. After the discovery
of the likeness no fresh light seemed destined to break over
the mystery of the woman in white. At the ﬁrst safe op-
portunity Miss Halcombe cautiously led her half- sister to
speak of their mother, of old times, and of Anne Gatherick.
Miss Fairlie’s recollections of the little scholar at Limmeridge
were, however, only of the most vague and general kind.
She remembered the likeness between herself and her mother’s
favourite pupil, as something which had been supposed to
exist in past times; but she did not refer to the gift of the


62 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
white dresses, or to the singular form of words in which the
child had artlessly expressed her gratitude. for them. She
remembered that Anne had remained at Limmeridge for a
few months only , and had then left it to go back to her home
in Hampshire; but she could not say whether the mother and
daughter had ever returned, or had ever been heard of after-
wards. No further search, on Miss Halcombe’s part, through
the few letters of Mrs. Fairlie‘s writing which she had left
unread, assisted in clearing up the uncertainties still left to
perplex us. We had identiﬁed the unhappy woman whom I
had met in the night-time, with Anne Catherick — we had
made some advance, at least, towards connecting the pro-
bably defective condition of the poor creature‘s intellect with
the peculiarity of her being dressed all in white, and with the
continuance, in her maturer years, of her childish gratitude
towards Mrs. Fairlie— and there, so far as we knew at that
time, our discoveries had ended. .
The days passed on , the weeks passed on; and the track
of the golden autumn wound its bright way visibly through
the green summer of the trees. Peaceful, fast-ﬂowing, happy
time! my story glides by you now, as swiftly as you once
glided by me. Of all the treasures of enjoyment that you
poured so freely into my heart, how much is left me that has
purpose and value enough to be written on this page?
Nothing but the saddest of all confessions that a man can
make — the confession of his own folly.
The secret which that confession discloses should be told
with little effort, for it has indirectly escaped me already.
The poor weak words which have failed to describe Miss
Fairlie, have succeeded in betraying the sensations she
awakened in me. It is so with us all. Our words are giants
when they do us an injury, and dwarfs when they do us a
service.
I loved her.
\ Ah! how well I know all the sadness and all the mockery
that is contained in those three words. I can sigh over my


'rnr. WOMAN IN warms. 63
mournful confession with the tenderest woman who reads it
and pities me. I can laugh at it as bitterly as the hardest man
who tosses it from him in contempt. I loved her! Feel for me,
or despise me, I confess it with the same immovable resolution
to own the truth. a
Was there no excuse for me? There was some excuse to be
found, surely, in the conditions under which my term of hired
service was passed at Limmeridge House.
My morning hours succeeded each other calmly in the
quiet and seclusion of my own room. I had just work enough
to do, in mounting my employer’s drawings, to keep my
hands and eyes pleasurably employed, while my mind was left
free to enjoy the dangerous luxury of its own unbridled
thoughts. A perilous solitude, for it lasted long enough to
enervate, not long enough to fortify me. A perilous solitude,
for it was followed by afternoons and evenings spent, day
after day and week after week, alone in the society of two
women, one of whom possessed all the accomplishments of
grace, wit, and high-breeding, the other all the charms of
beauty, gentleness, and simple truth, that can purify and
subdue the heart of man. Not a day passed, in that danger-
ous intimacy of teacher and pupil, in which my hand was not
close to Miss Fairlie’s; my cheek, as we bent together over
her sketch-book, almost touching hers. The more attentively
she watched every movement of my brush, the more closely
I was breathing the perfume of her hair, and the warm
fragrance of her breath. It was part of my service, to live in
the very light of her eyes — at one time to be bending over
her, so close to her bosom as to tremble at the thought of
touching it; at another, to feel her bending over me, bending
so close to see what I was about, that her voice sank low when
she spoke to me, and her ribbons brushed my check in the
wind before she could draw them back.
The evenings which followed the sketching excursions of
the afternoon, varied, rather than checked, these innocent,
these inevitable familiarities. My natural fondness for the
music which she played with such tender feeling, such delicate


64 ‘ run WOMAN m wnrrn.
a
womanly taste, and her natural enjoyment of giving me back,
by the practice of her art, the pleasure which I had offered to
her by the practice of mine, only wove another tie which drew
us closer and closer to one another. The accidents of con-
versation; the simple habits which regulated even such a little
thing as the position of our places at table; the play of Miss
Halcombe’s ever-ready raillery, always directed against my
anxiety, as teacher, while it sparkled over her enthusiasm as
pupil; the harmless expression of poor Mrs. Vesey’s drowsy
approval which connected Miss Fairlie and me as two model
young people who never disturbed her— every one of these
triﬂes, and many more, combined to fold us together in the
same domestic atmosphere, and to lead us both insensiny to
the same hopeless end.
I should have remembered my position, and have put
myself secretly on my guard. I did so; but not till it was too
late. All the discretion, all the experience, which had
availed me with other women, and secured me against other
temptations , failed me with her. It had been my profession,
for years past, to be in this close contact with young girls of
all ages, and of all orders of beauty. I had accepted the
poeition as part of my calling in life; I had trained myself to
leave all the sympathies natural to my age in my employer’s
outer hall , as coolly as I left my umbrella there before I went
up-stairs. I had long since learnt to understand, composedly
and as a matter of course, that my situation in life was con-
sidered a guarantee against any of my female pupils feeling
more than the most ordinary interest in me, and that I was
admitted among beautiful and captivating women, much as a
harmless domestic animal is admitted among them. This
guardian experience I had gained early; this guardian ex—
perience had sternly and strictly guided me straight along my
own poor narrow path, without once letting me stray aside, to
the right hand or to the left. And now, I and my trusty
talisman were parted for the ﬁrst time. Yes, my hardly~
earned self-control was as completely lost to me as if I had
never possessed it; lost to me , as it is lost every day to other


rim WOMAN m WHITE. 65
men, in other critical situations, where women are concerned,
I know, now, that I should have questioned myself from the
ﬁrst. I should have asked why any room in the house was
better than home to me when she entered it, and barren as a
desert when she went out again — why I always noticed and
remembered the little changes in her dress that I had noticed
andremembered in no other woman’s before — why I saw her,
heard her, and touched her (when we shook hands at night
and morning) as I had never seen, heard, and touched any
other woman in my life? I should have looked into my own
heart, and found this new growth springing up there, and
plucked it out while it was young. Why was this easiest,
simplest work of self—culture always too much for me? The
explanation has been written already in the three words that
were many enough, and plain enough, for my confession. I
loved her.
The days passed, the weeks passed; it was approaching
the third month of my stay in Cumberland. The delicious
monotony of life in our calm seclusion, ﬂowed on with me like
a smooth stream with a swimmer who glides down the current.
All memory of the past, all thought of the future, all sense of
the falseness and hopelessness of my own position, lay hushed
within me into deceitful rest. Lulled by the Syren-song that
my own heart sung to me, with eyes shut to all sight, and ears
closed to all sound of danger, I drifted nearer and nearer to
the fatal rocks. The warning that aroused me at last, and
startled me into sudden, self-accusing consciousness of my
own weakness, was the plainest, the truest, the kindest of all
warnings, for it came silently from her.
We had parted one night, as usual. No word had fallen
from my lips, at that time or at any time before it, that could
betray me, or startle her into sudden knowledge of the truth.
But , when we met again in the morning, a change had come
over her — a change that told me all.
I shrank then — I shrink still — from invading the inner-
most sanctuary “of her heart, and laying it open to others, as
I have laid open my own. Let it be enough to say that the
The Woman in White. I. 5


66 run wom m wrnrn.
time when she ﬁrst surprised my secret, was, I ﬁrmly believe,
the time when she ﬁrst surprised her own, and the time , also,
when she changed towards me in the interval of one night.
Her nature, too truthful to deceive others, was too noble to
deceive itself. When the doubt that I had hushed asleep,
ﬁrst laid its weary weight on her heart, the true face owned
all, and said , in its own frank simple language -- I am sorry
for him; I am sorry for myself.
It said this, and more , which I could not then interpret. I
understood but too well the change in her manner, to greater
kindness and quicker readiness in interpreting all my wishes,
before others — t0 constraint and sadness, and nervous
anxiety to absorb herself inthe ﬁrst occupation she could
seize on, whenever we happened to be left together alone. I
understood why the sweet sensitive lips smiled so rarely and
so restrainedly now; and why the clear blue eyes looked at
me, sometimes with the pity of an angel, sometimes with the
innocent perplexity of a child. But the change meant more
than this. There was a coldness in her hand, there was an
unnatural immobility in her face, there was in all her move-
ments the mute expression of constant fear and clinging self-
reproach. The sensations that I could trace to herself and to
me, the unacknowledged sensations that we were feeling
in common, were not these. There were certain elements
of the change in her that were still secretly drawing us to~
gether , and others that were , as secretly, beginning to drive
us apart.
In my doubt and perplexity, in my vague suspicion of
something hidden which I was left to ﬁnd by my own unaided
efforts, I examined Miss Halcombe’s looks and manner for
enlightenment. Living in such intimacy as ours, no serious
alteration could take place in any one of us which did not
sympathetically affect the others. The change in Miss Fairlie
was reﬂected in her half-sister. Although not a word escaped
Miss Halcombe which hinted at an altered state of feeling
towards myself, her penetrating eyes had cdntracted a new
habit of always watching me. Sometimes, the look was like


rm: WOMAN m WHITE. 67
suppressed anger; sometimes, like suppressed dread; some~
tiriies, like neither -- like nothing, in short, which I could
understand. A week elapsed, leaving us all three still in this
position of secret constraint towards one another. My situa-
tion , aggravated by the sense of my own miserable weakness
and forgetfulness of myself, now too late awakened in me,
was becoming intolerable. I felt thatI must cast off the op-
pression under which I was living, at once and for ever — yet
how to act for the best, or what to say ﬁrst, was more than I
could tell.
From this position of helplessness and humiliation, I was
rescued by Miss Halcombe. Her lips told me the bitter, the
necessary, the unexpected truth; her hearty kindness sus-
tained me under the shock of hearing it; her sense and
courage turned to its right use an event which threatened the
worst that could happen, to me and t0 others,-in Limmeridge
House.
X.
h was on a'I‘hursday in the week, and nearly at the end
of the third month of my sojourn in Cumberland.
In the morning, when I went down into the breakfast-
room, at the usual hour, Miss Halcombe, for the ﬁrst time
since I had known her, was absent from her customary place
at the table.
Miss Fairlie was out on the lawn. She bowed to me, but
did not come in. Not a word had dropped from my lips, or
from hers that could unsettle either of us —- and yet the same
unacknowledged sense of embarrassment made us shrink
alike from meeting one another alone. She waited on the
lawn; and I waited in the breakfast-room, till Mrs. Vesey or
Miss Halcombe came in. How quickly I should have joined
her: how readily we should have shaken hands, and glided
into our customary talk, only a fortnight ago!
In a few minutes. Miss Halcombe entered. She had a
5 it


68 run WOMAN m wmrn.
preoccupied look, and she made her apologies for being late,
rather absently.
“I have been detained," she said, “by a consultation
with Mr. Fairlie on a domestic matter which he wished to
speak to me about."
Miss Fairlie came in from the garden; and the usual
morning greeting passed between us. Her hand struck colder
to mine than ever. She did not look at me; and she was very
pale. Even Mrs. Vesey noticed it, when she entered the room
a moment after.
“I suppose it is the change in the wind ,” said the old lady.
“The winter is coming -— ah, my love, the winter is coming
soon!”
In her heart and in mine it had come already!
Our morning meal — once so full of pleasant good-
humoured discussions of the plans for the day -- was short
and silent. Miss Fairlie seemed to feel the oppression of the
long pauses in the conversation; and looked appealingly to
her sister to ﬁll them up. Miss Halcombe , after once or twice
hesitating and checking herself, in a most uncharacteristic
manner, spoke at last.
“I have seen your uncle this morning, Laura,” she said.
“He thinks the purple room is the one that ought to be got
ready; and he conﬁrms what I told you. Monday is the day
— not Tuesday.”
While these words were being spoken, Miss Fairlie looked
down at the table beneath her. Her ﬁngers moved nervously
among the crumbs that were scattered on the cloth. The
paleness on her cheeks spread to her lips, and the lips them-
selves trembled visibly. I was not the only person present
who noticed this. Miss Halcombe saw it, too; and at once
set us the example of rising from table.
Mrs. Vesey and Miss Fairlie left the room together. The
kind sorrowful blue eyes looked at me, for a moment, with
the prescient sadness of a coming and a long farewell. I felt
the answering pang in my own heart -- the pang that told me


THE WOMAN in WHITE. 69
I must lose her soon, and love her the more unchangeably for
the loss.
I turned towards the garden, when the door had closed on
her. Miss Halcombe was standing with her hat in her hand,
and her shawl over her arm, by the large window that led out
to the lawn, and was looking at me attentively.
“Have you any leisure time to spare ,” she asked, “before
you begin to work in your own room?"
“Certainly, Miss Halcombe. I have always time at your
service.”
“I want to say a word to you in private, Mr. Hartright.
Get your hat, and come out into the garden. We are not
likely to be disturbed there at this hour in the morning."
As we stepped out on to the lawn, one of the under-
gardeners - a mere lad— passed us on his way to the house,
with a letter in his hand. Miss Halcombe stopped him.
“Is that letter for me? ” she asked. ,
“ Nay, miss; it’s just said to be for Miss Fairlie," answered
the lad, holding out the letter as he spoke.
Miss Halcombe took it from him, and looked at the ad-
dress.
“A strange handwriting,” she said to herself. “Who can
Laura’s correspondent be? Where did you get this?" she
continued, addressing the gardener.
“Well, miss,” said the lad, “I just got it from a wo-
man.”
“What woman?"
“A woman well stricken in age."
“ Oh, an old woman. Any one you knew?“
“I canna’ tak’ it on mysel’ to say that she was other than a
stranger to me.”
“Which way did she go?”
“ That gate ,” said the under-gardener, turning with great
deliberation towards the south, and embracing the whole of
that part of England with one comprehensive sweep of his
arm.
“Curious.” said Miss Halcombe; “I suppose it must be


7O 'rnE woman in wnrrn.
a begging-letter. There ," she added, handing the letter
back to the lad, “take it to the house, and give it to one of
the servants. And now, Mr. Hartright, if you have no ob-
j ection, let us walk this way."
She led me across the lawn , along the same path by which
I had followed her on the day after my arrival at Limmeridge.
At the little summer-house in which Laura Fairlie and I had
ﬁrst seen each other, she stopped, and broke the silence which
she had steadily maintained while we were walking together.
“ What I have to say to you , I can say here.”
With those words, she entered the summer-house, took
one of the chairs at the little round table inside , and signed to
me to take the other. I suspected what was coming when
she spoke to me in the breakfast-room; I felt certain of it
now.
“Mr. Hartright," she said, “I am going to begin by
making a frank avowal to you. I am going to say — without
phrase-making, which I detest; or paying compliments, which
I heartily despise —— that I have come , in the course of your
residence with us, to feel a strong friendly regard for you. I
was predisposed in your favour when you ﬁrst told me of your
conduct towards that unhappy woman whom you met under
such remarkable circumstances. Your management of the
affair might not have been prudent; but it showed the self-
control, the delicacy, and the compassion of a man who
was naturally a gentleman. It made me expect good things
from you; and you have not disappointed my expectations.”
She paused — but held up her hand at the same time , as a
sign that she awaited no answer from me before she pro-
ceeded. When I entered the summer-house, no thought was
in me of the woman in white. But, now, Miss Halcombe’s
own words had put the memory of my adventure back in my
mind. It remained there throughout the interview -- re~
mained, and not without a result.
“As your friend," she proceeded, “I am going to tell you,
at once, in my own plain , blunt, downright language , that I
have discovered your secret -- without help, or hint, mind,


THE WOMAN 1N ern. 71
from any one else. Mr. Hartright, you have thoughtlesst
allowed yourself to form an attachment — a serious and de-
voted attachment, I am afraid —- to my sister, Laura. I don’t
put you to the pain of confessing it, in so many words, because
I see and_know that you are too honest to deny it. I don’t
even blame you -- I pity you for opening your heart to a
hopeless affection. You have not attempted to take any
underhand advantage -— you have not spoken to my sister in
secret. You are guilty of weakness and want of attention to
your own best interests, but of nothing worse. If you had
acted, in any single respect, less delicately and less modestly,
I should have told you to leave the house, without an instant’s
notice, or an instant’s consultation of anybody. As it is, I
blame the misfortune of your years and your position — I
don’t blame you. Shake hands — I have given you pain; I
am going to give you more; but there is no help for it — shake
hands with your friend, Marian Halcombe , ﬁrst."
The sudden kindness -- the warm, high-minded, fearless
sympathy which met me on such mercifully-equal terms,
which appealed with such delicate and generous abruptness
straight to my heart, my honour, and my courage , overcame
me in an instant. I tried to look at her, when she took my
hand, but my eyes were dim. I tried to thank her, but my
voice failed me.
“Listen to me,” she said, considerater avoiding all notice
of my loss of self-control. “Listen to me, and let us get it
over at once. It is a real true relief to me that I am not
obliged, in what I have now to say, to enter into the question
—- the hard and cruel question as I think it — of social inequa-
lities. Circumstances which will try you to the quick, spare
me the ungraeious necessity of paining a man who has lived in
friendly intimacy under the same roof with myself by any
humiliating reference to matters of rank and station. You
must leave Limmeridge House, Mr. Hartright, before more
harm is done. It is my duty to say that to you; and it would
be equally my duty to say it, under precisely the same serious
necessity, if you were the representative of the oldest and


72 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. ~
wealthiest family in England. You must leave us, not be-
cause you are a teacher of drawing -———”
She waited a moment; turned her face full on me; and,
reaching across the table , laid her hand ﬁrmly on my arm.
“Not because you are a teacher of drawing," she re-
peated, “but because Laura Fairlie is engaged to be mar-
ried.”
The last word went like a bullet to my heart. My arm lost
all sensation of the hand that grasped it. Inever moved and
never spoke. The sharp autumn breeze that scattered the
dead leaves at our feet, came as cold to me , on a sudden, as
if my own mad hopes were dead leaves , too, whirled away by
the wind like the rest. Hopes! Betrothed, or not betrothed,
she was equally far from me. Would other men have remem-
bered that in my place? Not if they had loved her as I did.
The pang passed; and nothing but the dull numbing pain
of it remained. ‘ I felt Miss Halcombe’s hand again, tightening
its hold on my arm —- I raised my head, and looked at her.
Her large black eyes were rooted on me, watching the white
change on my face, which I felt, and which she saw.
“Crush it!” she said. “Here, where you ﬁrst saw her,
crush it! Don’t shrink under it like a woman. Tear it out;
trample it under foot like a man! ”
The suppressed vehemence with which she spoke; the
strength which her will —— concentrated in the look she ﬁxed
on me, and in the hold on my arm that she had not yet re-
linquished — communicated to mine, steadied me. We both
waited for a minute, in silence. At the end of that time, I
had justiﬁed her generous faith in my manhood; I had, cut-
wardly at least, recovered my self-control.
“Are you yourself again? ”
“Enough myself, Miss Halcombe, to ask your pardon and
hers. Enough myself, to be guided by your advice, and to
prove my gratitude in that way, if I can prove it in no other."
“You have proved it already," she answered, “by those
words. Mr. Hartright, concealment is at an end between us.
I cannot affect to hide from you, what my sister has uncon-


THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 73
sciously shown to me. You must leave us for her sake, as well
as for your own. Your presence here, your necessary intimacy
with us, harmless as it has been, God knows , in all other re-
spects, has unsteadied her and made her wretched. I, who
love her better than my own life —— I, who have learnt to be-
lieve in that pure, noble, innocent nature as I believe in my
religion— know but too well the secret misery of self—reproach
that she has been suffering , since the ﬁrst shadow of a feeling
disloyal to her marriage engagement entered her heart in
spite of her. I don't say—it would be useless to attempt
to say it, after what has happened— that her engagement
has ever had a strong hold on her affections. It is an engage-
ment of honour, not of love -- her father sanctioned it on his
death-bed, two years since -- she herself neither welcomed it,
nor shrank from it~ she was content to make it. Till you
came here, she was in the position of hundreds of other
women, who marry men without being greatly attracted to
them or greatly repelled by them, and who learn to love them
(when they don’t learn to hate I) after marriage, instead of
before. I hope more earnestly than words can say -- and you
should have the self-sacriﬁcing courage to hope too— that the
new thoughts and feelings which have disturbed the old calm-
ness and the old content, have not taken root too deeply to
be ever removed. Your absence (if I had less belief in your
honour, and your courage, and your sense , I should not trust
to them as I am trusting now) ——your absence will help my
eﬁ'orts; and time will help us all three. It is something to
know that my ﬁrst conﬁdence in you was not all misplaced.
It is something to know that yen will not be less honest, less
manly, less considerate towards the pupil whose relation to
yourself you have had the misfortune to forget, than towards
the stranger and the outcast whose appeal to you was not
made in vain.”
Again the chance reference to the woman in white! Was
there no possibility of speaking of Miss Fairlie and of me
without raising the memory of Anne Catherick, and setting
her between us like a fatality that it was hopeless to avoid?


74 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
“Tell me what apology I can make to Mr. Fairlie for
breaking my engagement,” I said. “Tell me when to go
after that apology is accepted. I promise implicit obedience
to you and to your advice.”
“Time is, every way, of importance,” she answered.
“You heard me refer this morning to Monday next, and to
the necessity of setting the purple room in order. The visitor
whom we expect on Monday -——”
I could not wait for her to be more explicit. Knowing what
I knew now, the memory of Miss Fairlie’s look and manner at
the breakfast-table told me that the expected visitor at Lim-
meridge House was her future husband. I tried to force it
back; but something rose within me at that moment stronger
than my own will; and I interrupted Miss Halcombe.
“Let me go to-day,” I said, bitterly. “The sooner the i
better.”
“No; not to-day," she replied. “The only reason you
can assign to Mr. Fairlie for your departure, before the end
of your engagement, must be that an unforeseen necessity
compels you to ask his permission to return at once to London.
You must wait till to-morrow to tell him that, at the time
when the post comes in, because he will then understand the
sudden change in your plans, by associating it with the arrival
of a letter from London. It is miserable and sickening to
descend to deceit, even of the most harmless kind — but I
know Mr. Fairlie, and if you once ,excite his suspicions that
you are triﬂing with him , he will refuse to release you. Speak
to him on Friday morning; occupy yourself afterwards (for
the sake of your own interests with your employer), in leaving
your unﬁnished work in as little confusion as possible, and
quit this place on Saturday. It will be time enough, then,
Mr. Hartright, for you , and for all of us.”
Before I could assure her that she might depend on my
acting in the strictest accordance with her wishes, we were
both startled by advancing footsteps in the shrubbery. Some
one was coming from the house to seek for us! I felt the blood
rush into my cheeks, and then leave them again. Could the


'rnn WOMAN IN WHITE. 75
third person who was fast approaching us, at such a time and
under such circumstances, be Miss Fairlie?
It was a relief —-so sadly, so hopelessly was my position
towards her changed already — it was absolutely a relief to
me, when the person who had disturbed us appeared at the
entrance of the summer-house, and proved to be only Miss
Fairlie’s maid.
“ Could I speak to you for a moment, miss? ” said the girl,
in rather a ﬁurried, unsettled manner.
Miss Halcombe descended the steps into the shrubbery,
and walked aside a few paces with the maid.
Left by myself, my mind reverted, with a sense of forlorn
wretchedness which it is not in any words that I can ﬁnd to
describe, to my approaching return to the solitude and the
despair of my lonely London home. Thoughts of my kind
old mother, and of my sister, who had rejoiced with her so
innocently over my prospects in Cumberland — thoughts
whose long banishment from my heart it was now my shame
and my reproach to realise for the ﬁrst time — came back to
me with the loving mournfulness of old, neglected friends.
My mother and my sister, what would they feel when I re-
turned to them from my broken engagement, with the con-
fession of my miserable secret — they who had parted from
me so hopefully on. that last happy night in the Hampstead
cottage!
Anne Catherick again! Even the memory of the farewell
evening with my mother and my sister could not return to me
now, unconnected with that other memory of the moonlight
walk back to London. What did it mean? Were that woman
and I to meet once more? It was possible, at the least. Did
she know that I lived in London? Yes; I had told her so,
either before or after that strange question of hers, when she
had asked me so distrustfully if I knew many men of the rank
of Baronet. Either before or after -- my mind was not calm
enough, then, to remember which.
A few minutes elapsed before Miss Halcombe dismissed


76 run WOMAN IN warm.
the maid and came back to me. She, too, looked ﬂurried
and unsettled, now.
“We have arranged all that is necessary, Mr. Hartright,"
she said. “We have understood each other, as friends should;
and we may go back at once to the house. To tell you the
truth, I am uneasy about Laura. She has sent to say she
wants to see me directly; and the maid reports that her mis~
tress is apparently very much agitated by a letter that she has
received this morning—the same letter, no doubt, which I
sent on to the house before we came here."
We retraced our steps together hastily along the shrub-
bery path. Although Miss Halcombe had ended all that she
thought it necessary to say, on her side, I had not ended all
thatI wanted to say on mine. From the moment whenI had
discovered that the expected visitor at Limmeridge was Miss
Fairlie‘s future husband, I had felt a bitter curiosity, a burn-
ing envious eagerness, to know who he was. It was possible
that a future opportunity of putting the question might not
easily offer; so I risked asking it on our way back to the
house.
“Now that you are kind enough to tell me we have under-
stood each other, Miss Halcombe," I said; “now that you are
sure of my gratitude for your forbearance and my obedience
to your wishes, may I venture to ask who” —- (I hesitated; I
had forced myself to think of him, but it was harder still to
speak of him, as her promised husband) “who the gentlemen
engaged to Miss Fairlie, is? "
Her mind was evidently occupied with the message she had
received from her sister. She answered, in a hasty, absent
way:
“A gentleman of large property, in Hampshire.”
Hampshire! Anne Catherick’s native place. Again, and
yet again, the woman in white. There was a fatality in it.
“And his name?" I said, as quietly and indifferently as I
could.
“ Sir Percival Glyde."
Sir — Sir Percival! Anne Catherick’s question — that


'rrm WOMAN IN wnrrn. 77
suspicious question about the men of the rank of Baronet
whomI might happen to know—had hardly been dismissed
from my mind by Miss Halcombe’s return to me in the summer—
house,‘ before it was recalled again by her own answer. I
stopped suddenly, and looked at her.
“ Sir Percival Glyde ,” she repeated, imagining that I had
not heard her former reply.
“Knight, or Baronet?” I asked, with an agitation that I
could hide no longer.
She paused for a moment, and then answered, rather
coldly:
“Baronet, of course.”
XI.
Nor a word more was said, on either side, as we. walked
back to the house. Miss Halcombe hastened immediately to
her sister’s room; and I withdrew to my studio to set in order
all of Mr. Fairlie‘s drawings that I had not yet mounted and
restored before I resigned them to the care of other hands.
Thoughts that I had hitherto restrained , thoughts that made
my position harder than ever to endure, crowded on me now
that I was alone.
She was engaged to be married; and her future husband
was Sir Percival Glyde. A man of the rank of baronet, and
the owner of property in Hampshire.
There were hundreds of baronets in England, and dozens
of landowners in Hampshire. Judging by the ordinary rules
of evidence, I had not the shadow of a. reason, thus far, for
connecting SirPercival Glyde with the suspicious words of in-
quiry that had been spoken to me by the woman in white. And ‘
yet, I did connect him with them. Was it because he had now
become associated in my mind with Miss Fairlie; Miss Fairlie
being in her turn, associated with Anne Catherick, since the
night when I had discovered the ominous likeness between
them? Had the events of the morning so unnerved me already


78 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
thathas at the mercy of any delusion which common chances
and common coincidences might suggest to my imagination?
Impossible to say. I could only feel that what had passed be-
tween Miss Halcombe and myself, on our way from the sum-
m er-house, had affected me very strangely. The foreboding
of some undiscoverable danger lying hid from us all in the
darkness of the future, was strong on me. The doubt whether
I was not linked already to a chain of events which even my
approaching departure from Cumberland would be powerless
to snap asunder— the doubt whether we any of us saw the end
as the end would really be —- gathered more and more darkly
over my mind. Poignant as it was , the sense of suffering
caused by the miserable end of my brief, presumptuous love,
seemed to be blunted and deadened by the still stronger sense
of something obscurer impending , something invisibly
threatening, that Time was holding over our heads.
I had been engaged with the drawings little more than half
an hour, when there was a knock at the door. It opened, on
my answering; and, to my surprise, Miss Halcombe entered
the room.
Her manner was angry and agitated. She caught up a
chair for herself, before I could give her one; and sat down in
it, close at my side.
“Mr. Hartright,” she said, “I had hoped that all painful
subjects of conversation were exhausted between us, for to-
day at least. But it is not to be so. There is some underhand
villany at work to frighten my sister about her approaching
marriage. You saw me send the gardener on to the house,
with a. letter addressed, in a strange handwriting, to Miss
Fairlie?"
“ Certainly."
“That letter is an anonymous letter — a vile attempt to
injure Sir Percival Glyde in my sister‘s estimation. It has so
agitated and alarmed her that I have had the greatest possible
difﬁculty in composing her spirits sufﬁciently to allow me to
leave her room and come here. I know this is a family matter


THE WOMAN IN wnirs. 79
on which I ought not to consult you, and in which you can feel
no concern or interest —"
“ I beg your pardon, Miss Halcombe. I feel the strongest
possible concern and interest in anything that affects Miss
Fairlie’s happiness or yours.”
“I am glad to hear you say so. You are the only person in
the house, or out of it, who can advise me. Mr. Fairlie, in his
state of health and with his horror of difﬁculties and mysteries
of all kinds, is not to be thought of. The clergyman is a good,
weak man, who knows nothing out of the routine of his duties;
and our neighbours are just the sort of comfortable, jogtrot
acquaintances whom one cannot disturb in times of trouble
and danger. \ What I want to know is this: ought I, at once,
to take such steps as I can to discover the writer of the letter?
or ought I to wait, and apply to Mr. Fairlie’s legal adviser to-
morrow? It is a question ~perhaps a very important one—-
of gaining or losing a day. Tell me what you think, Mr. Hart-
right. If necessity had not already obliged me to take you
into my conﬁdence under very delicate circumstances, even
my helpless situation would, perhaps, be no excuse for me.
But, as things are, I cannot surely be wrong, after all that has
passed between us, in forgetting that you are a friend of only
three months’ standing.”
She gave me the letter. It began abruptly, without any
preliminary form of address, as follows:
“Do you believe in dreams? I hope, for your own sake,
that you do. See what Scripture says about dreams and their
fulﬁlment (Genesis x1. 8. , xli. 25; Daniel iv. 18-25); and take
the warning 1 send you before it is too late.
“Last night, I dreamed about you,Miss Fairlie. I dreamed
that I was standing inside the communion rails of a church: I
on one side of the altar-table , and the clergyman , with his
surplice and his prayer-book, on the other.
“After a time, there walked towards us, down the aisle of
the church, a man and a woman , coming to be married. You
were the woman. You looked so pretty and innocent in your


80 ms WOMAN m wrnrn.
beautiful white silk dress, and your long white lace veil, that
my heart felt for you and the tears came into my eyes.
“ They were tears of pity, young lady, that heaven blesses;
and, instead of falling from my eyes like the every-day tears
that we all Of us shed, they turned into two rays of light which
slanted nearer and nearer to the man standing at the altar
with you, till they touched his breast. The two rays sprang
in arches like two rainbows, between me and him. I looked
along them; and I saw down into his inmost heart.
“ The outside of the man you were marrying was fair
enough to see. He was neither tall, nor short -- he was a little
below the middle size. Alight, active, high-spirited man -—
about ﬁve-and-forty years old, to look at. He had a pale face,
and was bald over the forehead, but had dark hair on the rest
of his head. His heard was shaven on his chin , but was let to
grow, of a ﬁne rich brown, on his cheeks and his uPper lip.
His eyes were brown too, and very bright; his nose straight
and handsome and delicate enough to have done for a wo-
man’s. His hands the same. He was troubled from time to
time with a dry hacking cough; and when he put up his white
right hand to his mouth, he showed the red scar of an Old
wound across the back of it. Have I dreamt of the right man?
You know best, Miss Fairlie; and you can say if I was
deceived or not. Read, next, what I saw beneath the outside
— I entreat you, read, and proﬁt.
“I looked along the two rays of light; and I saw down into
his inmost heart. It was black as night; and on it were writ-
ten, in the red ﬂaming letters which are the handwriting of the
fallen angel: ‘Without pity and without remorse. He has
strewn with misery the paths of others, and he will live to
strew with misery the path of this woman by his side.’ I read
that; and then the rays of light shifted and pointed over his
shoulder; and there, behind him, stood a ﬁend, laughing.
And the rays of light shifted once more, and pointed over your
shoulder; and there, behind you, stood an angel weeping.
And the rays of light shifted for the third time, and pointed
straight between you and that man. They widened and


'rnn WOMAN IN WHITE. 81
widened, thrusting you both asunder, one from the other.
And the clergyman looked for the marriage-service in vain:
it was gone out of the book, and he shut up the leaves, and put
it from him in despair. And I woke with my eyes full of tears
and my heart beating — for I believe in dreams.
“Believe, too , Miss Fairlie — I beg of you , for your own
sake , believe as I do. Joseph and Daniel, and others in
Scripture, believed in dreams. Inquire into the past life of that
man with the scar on his hand, before you say the words that
make you his miserable wife. I don’t give you this warning on
my account, but on yours. I have an interest in your well-
being that will live as long as I draw breath. Your mother’s
daughter has a tender place in my heart — for your mother
was my ﬁrst, my best, my only friend."
There, the extraordinary letter ended, without signature
of any sort.
The handwriting afforded no prospect of a clue. It was
traced on ruled lines, in the cramped, conventional, copybook
character, technically termed “ small hand." It was feeble
and faint , and defaced by blots , but had otherwise nothing to
distinguish it.
“ That is not an illiterate letter," said Miss Halcombe,
“and, at the same time, it is surely too incoherent to be the
letter of an educated person in the higher ranks of life. The
~ reference to the bridal dress and veil, and other little expres-
sions, seem to point to it as the production of some woman.
What do you think, Mr. Hartright?”
“I think so too. It seems to me to be not only the letter of
a woman, but of a woman whose mind must be —”
“Deranged?” suggested Miss Halcombe. “It struck me
in that light, too.”
I did not answer. While I was speaking, my eyes rested
on the last sentence of the letter: “Your mother’s daughter
has a tender place in my heart- for your mother was my ﬁrst,
my best, my only friend.” Those words and the doubt which
had just escaped me as to the sanity of the writer of the letter,
acting together on my mind , suggested an idea, which I was
The Woman in White. I. 6


82 ran worms m ers.
literally afraid to express openly, or even to encourage se-
cretly. I began to doubt whether my own faculties were not
in danger of losing their balance. It seemed almost like a.
monomania to be tracing back everything strange that hap-
pened, everything unexpected that was said, always to the
same hidden source and the same sinister inﬂuence. I re-
solved, this time, in defence of my own courage and my own
sense, to come to no decision that plain fact did not warrant,
and to turn my back resolutely on everything that tempted me
in the shape of surmise.
“If we have any chance of tracing the person who has
written this ," I said, returning the letter to Miss Halcombe,
“there can be no harm in seizing our opportunity the moment
it offers. I think we ought to speak to the gardener again
about the elderly woman who gave him the letter, and then to
continue our inquiries in the village. But ﬁrst let me ask a.
question. You mentioned just now the alternative of con-
sulting Mr. Fairlie's legal adviser to-morrow. Is there no pos-
sibility of communicating with him earlier? Why not to-
da ?"
y“ I can only explain,” replied MissHalcombe, “by entering
into certain particulars, connected with my sister’s marriage
engagement, which I did not think it necessary or desirable to
mention to you this morning. One of Sir Percival Glyde’s
objects in coming here, on Monday, is to ﬁx the period of his
marriage, which has hitherto been left quite unsettled. He is
anxious that the event should take place before the end of the
ear."
y “Does Miss Fairlie know of that wish?” I asked, eagerly.
“ She has no suspicion of it; and, after what has happened,
I shall not take the responsibility upon myself of enlightening
her. Sir Percival has only mentioned his views to Mr. Fairlie,
who has told me himself that he is ready and anxious, as
Laura's guardian, to forward them. He has written to
London, to the family solicitor, Mr. Gilmore. Mr. Gilmore
happens to be' away in Glasgow on business; and he has re-
plied by proposing to stop at Limmeridge House, on his way


THE WOMAN m WHITE. 83
back to town. He will arrive to-morrow, and will stay with
us a few days, so as to allow Sir Percival time to plead his
own cause. If he succeeds, Mr. Gilmore will then return to
London, taking with him his instructions for my sister‘s
marriage-settlement. You understand now, Mr. Hartright,
why I speak of waiting to take legal advice until to-mon'ow?
Mr, Gilmore is the old and tried friend of two generations of \
Fairlies; and we can trust him, as we could trust no one
else."
The marriage-settlement! The mere hearing of those two
words stung me with a jealous despair that was poison to my
higher and better instincts. I began to think — it is hard to
confess this, but I must suppress nothing from beginning to
end of the terrible story that I now stand committed to reveal
-— I began to think, with a hateful eagerness of hope, of the
vague charges against Sir Percival Glyde which the anony-
mous letter contained. What if those wild accusations rested
on a foundation of truth? What if their truth could be proved
before the fatal words of consent were spoken, and the mar-
riage-settlement was drawn? I have tried to think, since,
that the feeling which then animated me began and ended in
pure devotion to Miss Fairlie’s interests. But I have never
succeeded in deceiving myself into believing it; and I must
not now attempt to deceive others. The feeling began and
ended in reckless, vindictive, hopeless hatred of the man who
was to marry her.
_ “If we are to ﬁnd out anything,” I said, speaking under
the new inﬂuence which was now directing me, “we had
better not let another minute slip by us unemployed. Ican
only suggest, once more, the propriety of questioning the
gardener a second time, and of inquiring in the village im-
mediately afterwards.”
“I think I may be of help to you in both cases," said Miss
Halcombe, rising. “Let us go, Mr. Hartright, at once, and
do the best we can together.”
I had the door in my hand to open it for her -— but I
6*


84 run worms m WHITE.
stopped, on a sudden, to ask an important question before we
set forth.
“ One of the paragraphs of the anonymous letter," I said,
“contains some sentences of minute personal description. Sir
Percival Glyde’s name is not mentioned, I know — but does
that description at all resemble him? ”
“Accurately; even in stating his age to be forty-ﬁve —"
Forty-ﬁve; and she was not yet twenty-one! Men of his
age married wives of her age every day: and experience
had shown those marriages to he often the happiest ones. I
knew that—and yet even the mention of his age, when I
contrasted it with hers, added to my blind hatred and distrust
of him.
“Accurately,” Miss Halcombe continued, “even to the
scar on his right hand, which is the scar of a wound that he
received years since when he was travelling in Italy. There
can be no doubt that every peculiarity of his personal appear-
ance is thoroughly well known to the writer of the letter.”
“Even a cough that he is troubled with is mentioned if I
remember right?”
“Yes, and mentioned correctly. He treats it lightly
himself, though it sometimes makes his friends anxious about
him.”
“I suppose no whispers have ever been heard against his
character?”
“Mr. Hartright! I hope you are not unjust enough to let
that infamous letter inﬂuence you? ”
I felt the blood rush into my cheeks, for I knew that it had
inﬂuenced me.
“I hope not,” I answered, confusedly. “Perhaps I had no
right to ask the question.”
“I am not sorry you asked it,” she said, “for it enables
me to do justice to Sir Percival’s reputation. Not a whisper,
Mr. Hartright, has ever reached me, or my family, against
him. He has fought successfully two contested elections;
and has come out of the ordeal unscathed. A man who can do
that, in England, is a man whose character is established.”


THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 85
I opened the door for her in silence, and followed her out.
She had not convinced me. If the recording angel had come
down from heaven to conﬁrm her, and had opened his book to
my mortal eyes, the recording angel would not have con~
vinced me.
We found the gardener at work as usual. No amount of
questioning could extract a single answer of any importance
from the lads impenetrable stupidity. The woman who had
given him the letter was an elderly woman; she had not
spoken a word to him; and she had gone away towards the
south in a great hurry. That was all the gardener could
tell us.
The village lay southward of the house. So to the village
we went next.
XII.
One inquiries at Limmeridge were patiently pursued in all
directions, and among all sorts and conditions Of people. But
nothing came of them. Three of the villagers did certainly
assure us that they had seen the woman; but as they were
quite unable to describe her, and quite incapable of agreeing
about the exact direction in which she was proceeding when
they last saw her, these three bright exceptions to the general
rule of total ignorance afforded no more real assistance to
us than the mass of their unhelpful and unobservant neigh-
hours.
The course of our useless investigations brought us, in
time, to the end of the village, at which the schools established
by Mrs. Fairlie were situated. As we passed the side of the
building appropriated to the use of the boys, I suggested the
propriety of making a last inquiry of the schoolmaster, whom
we might presume to be, in virtue of his ofﬁce, the most in-
telligent man in the place.
“I am afraid the schoolmaster must have been occupied
with his scholars," said Miss Halcombe, “just at the time


86 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
when the woman passed through the village, and returned
again. However we can but try."
We entered the playground enclosure, and walked by the
school room window, to get round to the door, which was
situated at the back of the building. I stopped for a moment
at the window and looked in.
The schoolmaster was sitting at his high desk, with his
back to me, apparently haranguing the pupils, who were all
gathered together in front of him, with one exception. The
one exception was a sturdy white-headed boy, standing apart
from all the rest on a stool in a corner—a forlorn little Crusoe,
isolated in his own desert island of solitary penal disgrace.
The door, when we got round td it, was ajar; and the
schoolmaster’s voice reached us plainly, as we both stopped
for a minute under the porch. .
“Now, boys,” said the voice, “mind whatI tell you. If
I hear another word spoken about ghosts in this school, it will
be the worst for all of you. There are no such things as ghosts ;
and, therefore, any boy who believes in ghosts believes in
what can’t possibly be; and a boy who belongs to Limmeridge
School, and believes in what can’t possibly be, sets up his
back against reason and discipline, and must be punished
accordingly. You all see Jacob Postlethwaite standing up on
the stool there in disgrace. He has been punished, not be-
cause he said he saw a ghost last night, but because he is too
impudent and too obstinate to listen to reason; and because
he persists in saying he saw the ghost after I have told him
that no such thing can possibly be. If nothing else will do, I
mean to cane the ghost out of Jacob Postlethwaite; and if the
thing spreads among any of the rest of you, I mean to go a
step farther, and cane the ghost out of the whole school.”
“We seem to have chosen an awkward moment for our
visit," said Miss Halcombe, pushing open the door at the end
of the schoqlmaster’s address, and leading the way in.
Our appearance produced a strong sensation among the
boys. They appeared to think that we had arrived for the ex~
press purpose of seeing J acobPostlethwaite caned.


'rnn womym WHITE. 87
“Go home all of you to dinner,” said the schoolmaster,
“except Jacob. Jacob must stop where he is; and the ghost
may bring him his dinner, if the ghost pleases."
J acob’s fortitude deserted him at the double disappearance
of his schoolfellows and his prospect of dinner. He took his
hands out of his pockets, looked hard at his knuckles, raised
them with great deliberation to his eyes, and, when they got
there, ground them round and round slowly, accompanying
the action by short spasms of sniﬂing, which followed each
other at regular intervals —- the nasal minute guns of juvenile
distress.
“We came here to ask you a question,-Mr. Dempster,"
said Miss Halcombe, addressing the schoolmaster; “ and we
little expected to ﬁnd you occupied in exorcising a ghost.
What does it all mean? What has really happened?" '
“That wicked boy has been frightening the whole school,
Miss Halcombe, by declaring that he saw a ghost yesterday
evening,” answered the master. “And he still persists in his
absurd story, in spite of all that I can say to him."
“Most extraordinary," said Miss Halcombe. “I should
not have thought it possible that any of the boys had imagina—
tion enough to see a ghost. This is a new accession indeed to
the hard labour of forming the youthful mind at Limmeridge
-— and I heartily wish you well through it, Mr. Dempster. ln
the mean time, let me explain why yomsee me here, and what
it is I want."
She then put the same question to the schoolmaster, which
we had asked already of almost every one else in the
' village. It was met by the same discouraging answer. Mr.
Dcmpster had not set eyes on thestranger of whom we were in
search.
“We may as well return to the house, Mr. Hartright,"
said Miss Halcombe; “the information we want is evidently
not to be found."
She had bowed to Mr. Dempster, and was about to leave
the schoolroom, when the forlorn position of Jacob Postle-
thwaite, piteously sniﬂing on the stool of penitence, attracted


88 run woman is wm'rn.
her attention as she passed him, and made her stop good-
humouredly to speak a word to the little prisoner before she
opened the door.
“You foolish boy,” she said, “why don’t you beg Mr.
Dempster’s pardon, and hold your tongue about the ghost?”
“Eh! —'- but Isaw t‘ ghaist," persistedJacobPostlethwaite,
with a stare of terror and a burst of tears.
“ Stuff and nonsense! You saw nothing of the kind. Ghost
indeed! What ghost —”
“I beg you pardon, Miss Halcombe," interposed the
schoolmaster, a little uneasily —— “but I think you had better
not question the boy. The obstinate folly of his storyis beyond
all belief; and you might lead him into ignorantly — " .
“ Ignorantly, what?” inquired Miss Halcombe, sharply.
“Ignorantly shocking your feelings," said Mr. Dempster,
looking very much discomposed.
“Upon my word, Mr. Dempster, you pay my feelings a
great compliment in thinking them weak enough to be shocked
by such an urchin as that!” She turned with an air of sa-
tirical deﬁance to little Jacob, and began to question him
directly. “ Come!” she said; “I mean to know all about this.
You naughty boy, when did you see the ghost!"
“ Yester e'en, at the gloaming," replied Jacob.
“ Oh! you saw it yesterday evening, in the twilight? And
what was it like?”
“Arl in white — as a ghaist should be," answered the
ghost-seer, with a conﬁdence beyond his years.
“And where was it?”
“Away yander, in t’ kirkyard -— where a ghaist ought
to be.”
“As a ‘ghaist ’ should be — where a ‘ ghaist' ought to be
— why, you little fool, you talk as if the manners and customs
of ghosts had been familiar to you from your infancy! You
have got your story at your ﬁngers' end, at any rate. I sup-
pose I shall hear next that you can actually tell me whose
ghost it was ? ”


THE WOMAN m ers. 89
“Eh! but I just can," replied Jacob, nodding his head
with an air of gloomy triumph. '
Mr. Dempster had already tried several times to speak,
while Miss Halcombe was examining his pupil; and he now
interposed resolutely enough to make himself heard.
“Excuse me, Miss Halcombe," he said, “if I venture to
say that you are only-encouraging the boy by asking him
these questions." -
“I will merely ask one more, Mr. Dempster, and then I
shall be quite satisﬁed. Well,” she continued, turning to the
boy, “and wh0se ghost was it?"
“T’ ghaist of Mistress Fairlie,” answered Jacob in a
whisper.
The effect which this extraordinary reply produced on
Miss Halcombe fully justiﬁed the anxiety which the school-
master had shown to prevent her from hearing it. Her face
crimsoned with indignation— she turned upon little Jacob
with an angry suddenness which terriﬁed him into a fresh
burst of tears — opened her lips to speak to him — then
controlled herself — and addressed the master instead of
the boy.
“It is useless ,” she said, “to hold such a child as that
responsible for what he says. I have little doubt that the
idea has been put into his head by others. If there are people
in this village, Mr. Dempster, who have forgotten the respect
and gratitude due from every soul in it to my mother's me-
mory, I will ﬁnd them out; and , if I have any inﬂuence with
Mr. Fairlie, they shall suﬁ'er for it."
“I hope — indeed, I am sure, Miss Halcombe — that you
are mistaken,” said the schoolmaster. “The matter begins
and ends with the boy’s own perversity and folly. He saw, or
thought he saw, a woman in white, yesterday evening, as he
was passing the churchyard; and the ﬁgure , real or fancied,
was standing by the marble cross, which he and every one else
in Limmeridge knows to be the monument over Mrs. Fairlie's
grave. These two circumstances are surely sufﬁcient to


90 rss WOMAN m wnrrn.
have suggested to the boy himself the answer which has so
naturally shocked you? ” I
Although Miss Halcombe did not seem to be convinced,
she evidently felt that the schoolmaster‘s statement of the
case was too sensible to be openly combated. She merely
replied by thanking him for his attention, and by promising
to see him again when her doubts were satisﬁed. This said,
she bowed, and led the way out of the schoolroom.
Throughout the whole of this strange scene, Ihad stood
apart, listening attentively, and drawing my own conclusions.
As soon as we were alone again, Miss Halcombe asked me if I
had formed any opinion on what I had heard.
“A very strong opinion," I answered; “ the boy’s story, as
I believe, has a foundation in fact. I confess I am anxious to
see the monument over Mrs. Fairlie’s grave, and to examine
v the ground about it."
“You shall see the grave.”
She paused after making that reply , and reﬂected a little
as we walked on. “What has happened in the schoolroom,"
she resumed, “has so completely distrach my attention
from the subject of the letter, that I feel a little bewildered
when I try to return to it. Must we give up all idea of making
any further inquiries, and wait to place the thing in Mr. Gil-
more’s hands, to-morrow?”
“By no means, Miss Halcombe. What has happened in
the schoolroom encourages me to persevere in the investiga-
tion."
“ \Vhy does it encourage you?"
“Because it strengthens a suspicion I felt, when you gave
me the letter to read."
“I suppose you had your reasons, Mr. Hartright, for con-
cealing that suspicion from me till this moment?”
“1 was afraid to encourage it in myself. I thought it was
utterly preposterous — I distrusted it as the result of some
perversity in my own imagination. But I can do so no longer.
Not only the boy’s own answers to your questions, but even a
chance expression that dropped from the schoolmaster’s lips~


THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 91
in explaining his story, have forced the idea back into my
mind. Events may yet prove that idea to be a delusion , Miss
Halcombe; but the belief is strong in me , at this moment, that
the fancied ghost in the churchyard, and the writer of the
anonymous letter, are one and the same person."
She stopped, turned pale, and looked me eagerlyin the
face.
“What person?"
“The schoolmaster unconsciously told you. When he
spoke of the ﬁgure that the boy saw in the churchyard, he
called it ‘a woman in white.’ ”
“ Not Anne Catherick! ”
“Yes, Anne Catherick.”
She put her hand through my arm, and leaned on it
“heavily.
“ I don’t know why ,” she said, in low tones , “but there is
something in this suspicion of yours that seems to startle and
unnerve me. I feel ” She stopped, and tried to laugh it
05'. “Mr. Hartright,” she went on, “I will show you the
grave, and then go back at once to the house. I had better
not leave Laura too long alone. I had better go back, and
sit with her.”
We were close to the churchyard when she spoke. The
church, a dreary building of gray stone, was situated in a
little valley, so as to be sheltered from the bleak winds
blowing over the moorland all round it. The burial-ground
advanced, from the side of the church, a little way up the
slope of the hill. It was surrounded by a, rough, low stone
wall, and was bare and open to the sky, except at one ex-
tremity, where a brook trickled down the stony hill side, and
a. clump of dwarf trees threw their narrow shadows over the
short, meagre grass. Just beyond the brook and the trees,
and not far from one of the three stone stiles which aﬁ'orded
entrance, at various points , to the churchyard, rose the white
marble cross that distinguished Mrs. Fairlie‘s grave from the
humbler monuments scattered about it.
“I need go no farther with you,’

saidrMiss Halcombe,


92 run woman In wnr'rs.
pointing to the grave. “You will let me know if you ﬁnd
anything to conﬁrm the idea you have just mentioned to me.
Let us meet again at the house."
She left me. I descended at once to the churchyard, and
crossed the stile which led directly to Mrs. Fairlie’s grave.
The grass about it was too short, and the ground too hard,
to show any marks of footsteps. Disappointed thus far, I
next looked attentively at the cross, and at the square block of
marble below it, on which the inscription was cut.
The natural whiteness of the cross was a little clouded,
here and there, by weather-stains; and rather more than one
half of the square block beneath it, on the side which bore the
inscription, was in the same condition. The other half, how-
ever, attracted my attention at once by its singular freedom
from stain or impurity of any kind. I looked closer, and saw
that it had been cleaned - recently cleaned, in a downward
direction from top to bottom. The boundary line between
the part that had been cleaned and the part that had not,
was traceable wherever the inscription left a blank space of
marble —- sharply traceable as a line that had been produced
by artiﬁcial means. Who had begun the cleansing of the
marble, and who had left it unﬁnished?
I looked about me, wondering how the question was to be
solved. No sign of a habitation could be discerned from the '
point at which I was standing: the burial-ground was left in
the lonely possession of the dead. Ireturned to the church,
and walked round it till I came to the back of the building;
then crossed the boundary wall beyond, by another of the
stone miles; and found myself at the head of a path leading
down into a deserted stone quarry. Against one side of the
quarry a little two room cottage was built; and just outside
the door an old woman was engaged in washing.
I walked up to her, and entered into conversation about
the church and burial-ground. She was ready enough to
talk; and almost the ﬁrst words she said informed me that
her husband ﬁlled the two oﬁices of clerk and sexton. I said
a few words next in praise of Mrs. Fairlie’s monument. The


THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
old woman shook her head, and told me I had not seen it at
its best. It was her husband’s business to look after it; but he
had been so ailing and weak, for months and months past,
that he had hardly been able to crawl into church on Sundays
to do his duty; and the monument had been neglected in con-
sequence. He was getting a little better now; and, in a
week or ten days’ time, he hoped to be strong enough to set to
work and clean it.
This information -- extracted from a long rambling an-
swer, in the broadest Cumberland dialect —— told me all that I
most wanted to know. I gave the poor woman atriﬂe, and
returned at once to Limmeridge House.
The partial cleansing of the monument had evidently been
accomplished by a strange hand. Connecting what I had
discovered, thus far, with what I had suspected after hearing
the story of the ghost seen at twilight, I wanted nothing more
to conﬁrm my resolution to watch Mrs. Fairlie’s grave, in
secret, that evening; returning to it at sunset, and waiting
within sight of it till the night fell. The work of cleansing
the monument had been left unﬁnished; and the person by
whom it had been begun might return to complete it.
On getting back to the house, I informed Miss Halcombe
of what I intended to do. She looked surprised and uneasy,
while I was explaining my purpose; but she made no positive
objection to the execution of it. She only said, “I hope it
may end well.” Just as she was leaving me again, I stopped
her to inquire, as calmly as I could, after Miss Fairlie’s
health. She was in better spirits; and Miss Halcombe hoped
she might be induced to take a little walking exercise while
the afternoon sun lasted.
I returned to my own room, to resume setting the drawings
in order. It was necessary to do this, and doubly necessary
to keep my mind employed on anything that would help to
distract my attention from myself, and from the hopeless fu-
ture that lay before me. From time to time, I paused in my
work to look out of window and watch the sky as the sun sank
nearer and nearer to the horizon. On one of those occasions


94 THE WOMAN IN warm.
I saw a ﬁgure on the broad gravel walk under my window. It
was Miss Fairlie. ,
I had not seen her since the morning; and I had hardly
spoken to her then. Another day at Limmeridge was all that
remained to me; and after that day my eyes might never look
on her again. This thought was enough to hold me at the
window. I had sufﬁcient consideration for her, to arrange the
blind so that she might not see me if she looked up; but I had
no strength to resist the temptation of letting my eyes, at least,
follow her as far as they could on her walk.
She was dressed in a brown cloak, with a plain black silk
gown under it. On her head was the same simple straw hat
which she had worn on the morning when we ﬁrst met. A veil
was attached to it now, which hid her face from me. By her
side, trotted a little Italian greyhound , the pet companion of
all her walks, smartly dressed in a scarlet cloth wrapper, to
keep the sharp air from his delicate skin. She did not seem to
notice the dog. She walked straight forward , with her head
drooping a little, and her arms folded in her cloak. The dead
leaves which had whirled in the wind before me, when I had
heard of her marriage engagement in the morning, whirled in
the wind before her, and rose and fell and scatteredthemselves
at her feet, as she walked on in the pale waning sunlight. .The
dog shivered and trembled, and pressed against her dress im-
patiently for notice and encouragement. But she never heeded
him. She walked on, farther and farther away from me , with
the dead leaves whirling about her on the path — walked on,
till my aching eyes could see her no more, and I was left alone
again with my own heavy heart.
In another hour’s time , I had done my work, and the
sunset was at hand. I got my hat and coat in the hall, and
slipped out of the house without meeting any one.
The clouds were wild in the western heaven , and the wind
blew chill from the sea. Far as the shore was, the sound of
the surf swept over the intervening moorland, and beat
drearin in my ears, when I entered the churchyard. Not a
living creature was in sight. The place looked lonelier than


THE WOMAN m warm. 95
ever, as I chose my position, and waited and watched, with
my eyes on the white cross that rose over Mrs. Fairlie’s grave.
XIII.
THE exposed situation of the churchyard had obliged me to
be cautious in choosing the position that I was to occupy.
The main entrance to the church was on the side next to '
the burial- ground; and the door was screened by a. porch
walled in on either side. After some little hesitation, caused
by natural reluctance to conceal myself, indispensable as that
concealment was to the object in view, I had resolved on en-
tering the porch. A loophole window was pierced in each of
its side walls. Through one of these windows I could see Mrs.
Fairlie's grave. The other looked towards the stone quarry
in which the sexton’s cottage was built. Before me, fronting
the porch entrance, was a patch of bare burial-ground, a line
of low stone wall, and a strip of lonely brown hill, with the
sunset clouds sailing heavily over it before the strong, steady
wind. N 0 living creature was visible or audible — no bird ﬂew
by me; no dog barked from the sexton’s cottage. The pauses
in the dull beating of the surf, were ﬁlled up by the dreary
rustling of the dwarf trees near the grave, and the cold faint
bubble of the brook over its stony bed. A dreary scene and a
dreary hour. My spirits sank fast as I counted out the minutes
of the evening in my hiding-place under the church porch.
It was not twilight yet -— the light of the setting sun still
lingered in the heavens, and little more than the ﬁrst half-hour
of my solitary watch had elapsed ~— when I heard footsteps,
and a voice. The footsteps were approaching from the other
side of the church; and the voice was a woman’s.
“Don’t you fret, my dear, about the letter,” said the voice.
“I gave it to the lad quite safe, and the lad he took it from me
ivithout a word. He went his way and I went mine; and not
a living soul followed me, afterwards — that I’ll warrant.”
These words strung up my attention to a pitch of expectation
Q


96 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
that was almost painful. There was a pause of silence, but
the footsteps still advanced. In another moment, two per-
sons, both women, passed within my range of view from the
porch window. They were walking straight towards the
grave; and therefore they had their backs turned towards me.
One of the women was dressed in a bonnet and shawl. The
other were a long travelling-cloak of a dark blue colour, with
the hood drawn over her head. A few inches of her gown were
visible below the cloak. My heart beat fast as I noted the col-
our -- it was white.
After advancing about halfway between the church and
the grave, they stopped; and the woman in the cloak turned
her head towards her companion. But her side face , which a
bonnet might now have allowed me to see, was hidden by the
heavy, projecting edge of the hood. .
“Mind you keep that comfortable warm cloak on,” said
the same voice whichI had already heard — the voice of the
woman in the shawl. “Mrs. Todd is right about your looking
too particular, yesterday, all in white. I’ll walk about a
little, while you’re here; churchyards being not at all in my
way, whatever they may be in yours. Finish what you want
to do, beforeI come back; and let us be sure and get home
again before night."
With those words, she turned about, and retracing her
steps, advanced with her face towards me. It was the face of
an elderly woman, brown, rugged, and healthy, with nothing
dishonest or suspicious in the look of it. Close to the church,
she stopped to pull her shawl closer round her.
“Queer,” she said to herself, “ always queer, with her
whims and her ways , ever since I can remember her. Harm-
less, though -— as harmless, poor soul, as a little child."
She sighed; looked about the burial-ground nervously;
shook her head as if the dreary prospect by no means pleased
her; and disappeared round the corner of the church.
I doubted for a moment whether I ought to follow and
speak to her, or not. My intense anxiety to ﬁnd myself face to
face with her companion helped me to decide in the negative.


THE WOMAN m1 WHITE. 97
I could ensure seeing the woman in the shawl by waiting near
the churchyard until she came back — although it seemed
more than doubtful whether she could give me the information
of which I was in search. The person who had delivered the
letter was of little consequence. The person who had written
it was the one centre of interest, and the one source of infor-
mation; and that person I now felt convinced was before me
in the churchyard.
While these ideas were passing through my mind, I saw
the woman in the cloak approach close to the grave, and stand
looking at it for a little while. She then glanced all round
her, and , taking a white linen cloth or handkerchief from
under her cloak, turned aside towards the brook. The little
stream ran into the churchyard under a tiny archway in the
bottom of the wall, and ran out again, after a winding course
of afew dozen yards, under a similar opening. She dipped
the cloth in the water, and returned to the grave. I saw her
kiss the white cross; then kneel down before the inscription,
and apply her wet cloth to the cleansing of it.
After considering how I could show myself with the least
possible chance of frightening her, I resolved to cross the wall
before me, to skirt round it outside, and to enter the church-
yard again by the stile near the grave, in order that she might
see me as I approached. She was so absorbed over her em-
ployment that she did not hear me coming until I had stepped
over the stile. Then, she looked up, started to her feet with
a faint cry, and stood facing me in speechless and motionless
terror.
“Don’t be frightened,” I said. “Surely, you remember
me ? ”
I stopped while I spoke—then advanced a few steps gently
—- then stopped again— and so approached by little and little,
till 1 was close to her. If there had been any doubt still left in
my mind, it must have been now set at rest. There, speaking
aﬂ'rightedly for itself —- there was the same face confronting
me over Mrs. Fairlie’s grave, which had ﬁrst looked into mine
on the high-road by night.
The Woman in White. I. 7


v198 rm: won.“ m ers.
“Yam remember me?" I said. “We met vinery‘l'a'te‘,‘arid
2I helped you to ﬁnd the way to London. ‘ Surely you have not
‘ forgotten that?” - ' ' "
Her features relaxed, and she drew a heavy breath 'ofre-
lief. I saw the new life of recognition stirring slowly under
the deathlike stillness which fear had set on her face. ' '
“Don’t attempt to speak to me, just yet," I went on.
,“ Take time to recover yourself — take time to feel quite cer-
tain that I am a friend." _ I
“You are very kind to me,” she murmured. “As kind
now, as you were then.” i . ‘
She stopped, and I kept silence on my side. I was not
granting time for composure to her only, I was gaining time
also for myself. Under the wan, wild evening light, that
woman and I were met together again; a grave between us,
I the dead about us, the lonesome hillsclosing usr'ound on every
side. The time, the place, the circumstances under which we
now stood face to face in the evening stillness of that dreary
valley; the life-long interests which might hang suspended on
the next chance words that passed between us; the sense that,
for aught I knew to the contrary, the whole future of Laura
Fairlie’s life might be determined, for good or for evil, by my
winning or losing the conﬁdence of the forlorn creature who
stood trembling by her mother’s grave -~ all threatened to
shake the steadiness and the self~control on which every inch
. of the progress I might yet make new depended. I tried hard,
as Ifelt this, to possess myself of all my resources; I did my
,utmost to turn the few moments for reﬂection to the best
account. ' ~ ..1
“Are you calmer, now?” I said, as soon as I thought it
time to speak again. “Can you talk to me, without feeling
frightened, and without forgetting that I am a friend? ” -
“How did you come here?" she asked, without noticing
what I had just said to her.
“Don’t you remember my telling you, when'vve la's‘tmet,
that I was going to Cumberland? I have Been in Cumberland
,~


THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 1(“:99
ever- since'; 'I have been staying all the time-at Limmeridge _
House." ' > . ' . . ‘ ,
‘1'" “AtLimmeridge House!” Her pale face brightened as
she repeated the words; her wandering eyes ﬁxed on me with
'a sudden'interest.- =“Ah, how happy you must have been!"
she said, looking at inc-eagerly, without a shadow of its
former distrust'left in her expression. ~ |-. .= I *
l“ I took advantage of her newly-aroused conﬁdence in me,
to observe her face, with an attention and a curiosity which
I had‘hitherto irestrained myself from showing, for caution’s
sake. I looked at her , with my mind full of that other lovely
face'which had- so:omiuously recalledher to my memory on
the terrace by moonlight. I had seen Anne Gatherick’slike-
ness in’Miss'Fairlie. IynowsawMiss' Fairlie’s likeness in
Anne Catherick - saw it all they more clearly because the
points of dissimilarity between the two were presented to me
use well as the points of resemblance. In the general outline
of the countenance and general proportion of the features; in
{the colour of the hair and in the little nervous uncertainty
about the lips; in the height and size of the ﬁgure, and the
carriage of the head and body, the likeness appeared even
‘ more . startling than I had ever felt it to be yet. But there the
iresemblance ended, and the dissimilarity in details began.
The delicate beauty of Miss Fairlie’s complexion, the trans-
parent clearncss of. her eyes,- the smooth purity of her skin,
the tender bloom of colour. on her lips, were all missing from
.‘the worn, weary‘face that was now turned towards mine.
' Although Ihated myself even for thinking such a thing , still,
'1 whileI looked atthe woman before me, the idea would force
1 itself into my mind that one sad change, in the future, was all
'1 that was wanting to ‘make the likeness complete , which I now
1¢saw to be so imperfect in detail. If everrsorrow and suffering
I. set their, profaning' marks on the youth and beauty of Miss
iFairlie’s face, then, andthen Only , Anne Catherick and she
1 would. be the twim-sister's of chance resemblance , the. living
I reﬁexions of one another. ‘ , ‘ , - m ‘ "a
1-. - I shuddeer at the thought; There: wassomething horrible
‘ til .
7-s-


100 THE WOMAN IN warm.
in the blind, unreasoning distrust of the future which the mere
passage of it through my mind seemed to imply. It was a we]-
come interruption to be reused by feeling Anne Catherick’s
hand laid on my shoulder. The touch was as stealthy and as
sudden as that other touch , which had petriﬁed me from head
to foot on the night when we ﬁrst met.
“You are looking at me; and you are thinking of some-
thing ,” she said , with her strange , breathless rapidity of
utterance. “ What is it? "
“ Nothing extraordinary,” I answered. “I was only won-
dering how you came here."
“I came with a friend who is very good to me. I have only
been here two days.”
“And you found your way to this place yesterday?”
“How do you know that?”
“I only guessed it.”
She turned from me, and knelt down before the inscription
once more.
“ Where should I go, if not here?" she said. “ The friend
who was better than a mother to me, is the only friend I have
to visit at Limmeridge. Oh, it makes my heart ache to see a
stain 011 her tomb! It ought to be kept white as snow, for her
sake. I was tempted to begin cleaning it yesterday; and I
can’t help coming back to go on with it to-day. Is there any-
thing wrong in that? I hope not. Surely nothing can be
wrong that I do for Mrs. Fairlie’s sake?“
The old grateful sense of her benefactress's kindness was
evidently the ruling idea still in the poor creature‘s mind -~
the narrow mind which had but too plainly opened to no other
lasting impression since that ﬁrst impression of her younger
and happier days. I saw that‘ my best chance of winning her
conﬁdence lay in encouraging her to proceed with the artless
employment which she had come into the burial-ground to
pursue. She resumed it at once, on my telling her she might
do so; touching the hard marble as tenderly as if it had been a
sentient thing, and whispering the words of the inscription to
herself, over and over again, as if the lost days of her girlhood


THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 101
had returned and she was patiently learning her lesson once
more at Mrs. Fairlie’s knees.
“Should you wonder very much ," I said, preparing the
way as cautiously as I could for the questions that were to
come, “if I owned that it is a satisfaction to me, as well as a
surprise , to see you here? I felt very uneasy about you after
you left me in the cab.”
She looked up quickly and suspiciously.
“ Uneasy," she repeated. “Why?”
“A strange thing happened, after we parted, that night.
Two men overtook me in a chaise. They did not see where I
was standing; but they stopped near me, and spoke to a po-
liceman, on the other side of the way.”
She instantly suspended her employment. The hand
holding the damp cloth with which she had been cleaning the
inscription, dropped to her side. The other hand grasped the
marble cross at the head of the grave. Her face turned to~
wards me slowly, with the blank look of terror set rigidly on
it once more. I went on at all hazards; it was too late now to
draw back.
“The two men spoke to the policeman," I said, “and
asked him it he had seen you. He had not seen you; and then
one of the men spoke again, and said you had escaped from
his Asylum.”
She sprang to her feet, as if my last words had set the pur-
suers on her track.
“ Stop! and hear the end ," I cried. “Stop! and you
shall know how I befriended you. A word from me would
have told the men which way you had gone — and I never
spoke that word. I helped your escape -— I made it safe and
certain. Think, try to think. Try to understand what I tell
you."
My manner seemed to inﬂuence her more than my words.
She made an effort to grasp the new idea. Her hands shifted
the damp cloth hesitatingly from one to the other, exactly as
they had shifted the little travelling-bag on the night when I
ﬁrst saw her. Slowly the purpose of my words seemed to force


102'; THE WOMAN in warm.
its way through the'conﬁlsion' and agitation-of- her mind.‘
Slowly , her features relaxed , and her eyes looked at me with,
their expression gaining in curiosity what it was fast losing in
fear. - Y ‘ ~ "I!
“ You don’t think I ought to be back in the Asylum, do.
you?v"'she said. i > I -
“ Certame not. I am glad you escaped from it; I am glad.
I helped you." . I '
“Yes, yes; you did help me indeed; you helped me at the
hard part,” she went 'on, a little vacantly. “It was easy to
escape; or I should not have got away. They never suspectedv
me as they suspected the others. I was so quiet, and so
obedient, and so easily frightened. The ﬁnding London was-
the hard part; and there you helped me. Did 1 thank you at
the time? I thank you now, very kindly."
“Was the Asylum far from where you met me? Come!
show that you believe me to be your friend, and tell me where
it was.” ‘ -
as She mentioned the place —- a private Asylum , as its situa-
tion informed me; a private Asylum not very far from
spot where I had seen her —- and then, with evident suspicion
of the use to which I‘might put her answer, anxiously repeated.
her former inquiry: “ You don‘t think I ought to be taken
back, doyou?" ' - ‘ p 1
' “Ori‘ce again, I am glad'you. escaped; I am glad you
prospered well, after you left me ,” I answered. “Yousaid
you had: a' friend in‘ London to go to. Bid you‘ﬁnd the
friend?" ivy,“ I" . , , .
1‘ “Yes;v It was very late'; but there was a‘girl up at
needkwork in'the house, and she helped me to reuse Mrs.
Clements. ‘Mrs. Clements is my friend. ._ A ,good, kind wo-
man , but not like Mrs. Fairlie. Ah , no , nobody is like Mrs;
Fairlie!" (2' “I - H ‘ ~ - I '
“Is Mrs. Clements an old-friend of yours? Have you
known her a long time?” I ~ , '
“Yes; she was a neighbour of-ours onoe,‘at home, in
Hanrpshiro, and liked me, and tookc'are ofme when I wasa


THE WOMAN, m wmrn. 103
little girl. Years ago, when she went away from us, she wrote
down in my prayer-book for me , where she was going to live
in London, and she said, ‘If you are ever introuble, Anne,
come to me. 1 have no husband alive to say me nay, and no
children to look after, and I will take care of you.’ Kind
words, were they not? I supposcl remember them because
they were kind. It's little enough I remember besides — little
enough, little enough l"" '
‘\‘ Had you no father or mother to take care of you? ”
{ “Father? I never saw him; I never heard mother speak of
him. Father? Ah, dearl he is dead I suppose."
‘,‘ And your mother? ”
- “I don’t get on well with her. We are a trouble and a fear
toeach other."
A trouble and a fear to each other! At those words,
the suspicion crossed my mind for the ﬁrst time, that her
mother might .be the person who had placed her under"
restraint.
“Don’t ask me about mother,’ she went on. “I’d rather.
talk of Mrs. Clements. Mrs. Clements is like you, she doesn’t
think that I ought to be back in the Asylum; and she is as
glad as you are that I escaped from it. She cried over my'
misfortune, and said it must be kept secret from every-
body.”
Her “ misfortune." In what sense was she using that word?
In a sense which might explain her motive in writing. the ano~
nymous letter? In a sense which might show it to be the too
common and too customary motive that has led many a wo-
man to interpose anonymous hindrances to the marriage of
the man who has ruined her? I resolved to attempt the clear-
ing up of this doubt, before more words passed between us on
either side. ' ‘
“ What misfortune? ”. .> I asked. \
“The misfortune of my being shut up,” she answered,
withevery appearance of feeling surprised at my question.
“What other misfortune could there be?”
1 determined to persist, as delicatelyand for-beariugly as;
i


104 THE WOMAN m wm'rs.
possible. It was of very great importance that I should be
absolutely sure of every step in the investigation that I now
gained in advance. '
“ There is another misfortune,” I said, “to which a woman
may be liable, and by which she may suﬁ'er life~long sorrow
and shame.”
“ What is it?" she asked , eagerly.
“The misfortune of believing too innocently in her own
virtue, and in the faith and honour of the man she loyes ," I
answered. ‘
She looked up at me, with the artless bewilderment of a.
child. Not the slightest confusion or change of colour; not
the faintest trace of any secret consciousness of shame
struggling to the surface, appeared in her face — that face
which betrayed every other emotion with such transparent
clearncss. No words that ever were spoken could have as-
sured me, as her look and manner now assured me, that the
motive which I had assigned for her writing the letter and
sending it to Miss Fairlie was plainly and distinctly the wrong
one. That doubt, at any rate, was now set at rest; but the
very removal of it opened a new prospect of uncertainty.
The letter, as I knew from positive testimony, pointed at Sir
Percival Glyde , though it did not name him. She must have
had some strong motive , originating in some deep sense
of injury, for secretly denouncing him to Miss Fairlie, in
such terms as she had employed - and that motive was un-
questionably not to be traced to the loss of her innocence
and her character. Whatever wrong he might have in-
ﬂicted on her was not of that nature. Of what nature could
it be?
“I don’t understand you," she said, after evidently try-
ing hard, and trying in vain to discover the meaning of the
words I had last said to her.
“Never mind,” I answered. “Let us go on with what we
were talking about. Tell me how long you stayed with Mrs.
Clements in London, and how you came here."


run WOMAN in warm. 105
“How long?” she repeated. “I stayed with Mrs. Clements
till we both came to this place , two days ago.”
“You are living in the village, then?” I said. “It is
strange I should not have heard of you, though you have only
been there two days."
“No, no; not in the village. Three miles away at a
farm. Do you know the farm? They call it Todd’s
Corner.”
I remembered the place perfectly; we had often passed
by it in our drives. It was one of the oldest farms in the
neighbourhood, situated in a solitary, sheltered spot, inland
at the junction of two bills.
“They are relations of Mrs. Clements at Todd's Corner,”
she went on, “and they had often asked her to go and sec
them. She said she would go , and take me with her, for the
quiet and the fresh air. It was very kind, was it not? I
would have gone anywhere to be quiet, and safe, and out of
the way. But when I heard that Todd's Corner was near
Limmeridge — oh! I was so happy I would have walked all
the way barefoot to get there, and see the schools and the
village and Limmeridge House again. They are very good
people at Todd’s Comer. I hope I shall stay there a long
time. There is only one thing I don’t like about them, and
don’t like about Mrs. Clements -- "
“What is it?"
“They will tease me about dressing all in white — they
say it looks so particular. How do they know? Mrs. Fairlie
knew best. Mrs. Fairlie would never have made me wear this
ugly blue cloak. Ah! she was fond of white in her lifetime;
and here is white stone about her grave -— and I am making it
whiter for her sake. She often wore white herself; and she
always dressed her little daughter in white. Is Miss Fairlie
well and happy? Does she wear white now , as she used when
she was a girl? ”
Her voice sank when she put the questions about Miss
Fairlie; and she turned her head farther and farther away
from me. I thought I detected, in the alteration of her


106 THE WOMAN m warm.-
manner, an uneasy consciousness of the risk she- had run in
sending the anonymous letter; and I instantly determined so
to ﬂame my answer as to surprise her into owning it.
“ MissFairlie is not very well orvery happy this morning,"
I said. - > ‘
She murmured a 'few words; but they were spoken so con-
fusedly, and in such a low tone, that 1 could not even guess
at what they meant.
“Did you ask me why Miss Fairlie wasneither well nor
happy this morning?” I continued.
“No,” she said, quickly and eagerly— “oh, no, Inever
asked that." 1 ' u;
“I will tell you without your asking,” Iwent on. ‘J‘Miss
Fairlie has received your letter." . -
She had been down on her knees for some little time past,
carefully removing the last weather-stains left about the in-
scription while we were speaking together. The ﬁrst sentence
of the words I had just addressed to her made her pause in her
occupation, and turn slowly without rising from her knees,
so as to face me. The second sentence literally petriﬁed her.
The cloth she had been holding dropped from her hands; her
lips fell apart; all the little colour that there was naturally in
her face left it in an instant.
“How do you know?" she said, faintly. “Who showed
it to you?" The blood rushed back into her face — rushed
overwhelmingly, as the sense rushed upon her mind that her
own words had betrayed her. She struck her hands together
in despair, “I never wrote it,” she gasped, aﬁ'rightedly;
“ I know nothing about it! ”
“ Yes," I said, “you wrote it, and you know about it. It
was wrong to send such a letter; it was wrong to frighten Miss
Fairlie. If you had anything to say that it was right and
necessary for her to hear, you should have gone yourself to
Limmeridge House; you should have spoken to the young
lady with your own lips.“ ‘ 11.: . v 1 \
She crouched down over the ﬂat stone of the grave, till her
face washidden on it; and made no reply. Us .1. i


ms 1 wormsru wun's 107.
Ma“ Miﬁﬁllairlie will be asigood and kind to you as her mother;
was,,-if=youmeanwell ,’.'v I went on. “Miss Fairlie willkeep.
ypmhsqcret, sand‘ nonlet, you come to any harm. Will you
see her to-morrow at the farm? Will you meet her in the.
swaaaebl'imlnsridgalimwe?” - ‘ ~ '1v ,l 51 ‘—
“ Oh,‘ ifI could die, andbe hiddenand attest with you 1 ”,
Her lipsmunpursd thewords close on the grave-stone; mur-
mpred' them: in tones ofv'passionate endearment , tattle deadI
remains beneath. ‘ ,‘5 You know howl love your child, for your;
sake!‘.10h,_Mrs. Fairlie! Mrs. Fairlieltell me how to‘save'I
her, iBe niiy darlingand ,my mother once more, and tell me,
Whattpdo vorthebestﬁ. ' _ H ll 9;“ ._ , _
,}. .I heard her lips-kissinsth'ﬂ stow Isaw herihemlﬂ basting.
on it passionately. ; The sound and‘thelsight deeply aﬂ'eete
me. stooped den, and took the poor helpless hands (ten- ,-
(My ismins, and tried to. soothe hers . . _ . I , .I . V. v;
was useless. She snatched her [hands froriijne, and
never moved her face from the stone. 7 Seeingfthe urgent;
necessity of guieting her at any hazard and by anymeans, I,
appealed to the 'only‘ anxiety that she appeared to ‘feel‘, in
connexion with me and with my opinioii‘ofhe'r H—‘the anxiety
to‘icb'ﬁvixicé' nie of her "ﬁtness "to: be "r'nist'res's'of ’li'er‘ own,
actions. I, _ fl":
* “Come, / come ," I said; gently; > “ Ti-y to compose your-
self, cr you will make‘me alter my opinion of you. 'Don't let
me think that the person who put you in the Asylum; might“
havefhadsomeexcuse—” ' ' i‘ i‘ ' '
The next words died away on my lips. ' The instant I'
risked thatéchance reference to the person who had put her in
theAsylur'n, she sprang upon her-knees; A? most extraordi-‘
nary and startling change passed over hen." Her face, atalh
ordinary times so touching to look at, in its nervous sensitive-;
ness, weakness, and uncertainty, became=suddeu1y.da_rkened.
by,an expression of maniacally intensehatred andfear, which
communicated awild, unnatural force to every feature; , .- Her.
eyes dilated in the dim evening light, likev'theeyes'pfawild;
animal. She caught up the cloth that had fallenat horaside,


108 Tim woman m warm.
as if it had been a living creature that she could kill, and
crushed it in both her hands with such convulsive strength
that the few drops of moisture left in it trickled down on the
stone beneath her.
“Talk of something else,” she said, whispering through
her teeth. “ I shall lose myself if you talk of that.”
Every vestige of the gentler thoughts which had ﬁlled her
mind hardly a minute since seemed to be swept from it now.
It was evident that the impression left by Mrs. Fairlie’s kind—
ness was not, as I had supposed, the only strong impression
on her memory. With the grateful remembrance of her
school-days at Limmeridge, there existed the vindictive re-
membrance of the wrong inﬂicted on her by her conﬁnement
in the Asylum. Who had done that wrong? Could it really
be her mother ?
It was hard to give up pursuing the inquiry to that ﬁnal
point; but I forced myself to abandon all idea of continuing
it. Seeing her as I saw her now, it would have been cruel to
think of anything but the necessity and the humanity of
restoring her composure.
“I will talk of nothing to distress you," I said, sooth~
ingly.
“You wantsomcthing," she answered, sharply and suspi-
ciously. “ Don't look at me like that. Speak to me; tell me
what you want.”
“I only want you to quiet yourself, and, when you are
calmer, to think over what I have said.”
“Said?” She paused; twisted the cloth in her hands,
backwards and forwards; and whispered to herself, “What
is it he. said?” She turned again towards me, and shook her
head impatiently. “Why don’t you help me?” she asked,
with angry suddenness.
\ “Yes, yes," I said; “I will help you; and you will soon
remember. I asked you to see Miss Fairlie to-morrow, and
to tell her the truth about the letter."
“Ah! Miss Fairlie - Fairlie ——- Fairlie —"


THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 109
The mere utterance of the loved, familiar name seemed
to quiet her. Her face softened and grew like itself again.
“You need have no fear of Miss Fairlie," I continued;
“ and no fear of getting into trouble through the letter. She
knows so much about it already, that you will have no diﬂi-
culty in telling her all. There can be little necessity for con-
cealment where there is hardly anything left to conceal. You
mention no names in the letter; but Miss Fairlie knows that
the person you write of is Sir Percival Glyde -—-”
The instant I pronounced that name she started to her
feet; and a scream burst from her that rang through the
churchyard and made my heart leap in me with the terror of
it. The dark deformity of the expression which had just left
her face, lowered on it once more, with doubled and trebled in-
tensity. The shriek at the name, the reiterated look of
hatred and fear that instantly followed , told all. Not even a
last doubt now remained. Her mother was guiltless of impri-
soning her in the Asylum. A man had shut her up — and that
man was Sir Percival Glyde.
The scream had reached other cars than mine. On one
side, I heard the door of the sexton's cottage open; on the
other, I heard the voice of her companion, the woman in the
shawl, the woman whom she had spoken of as Mrs. Cle-
ments.
“I’m coming! I’m coming! ” cried the voice, from behind
the clump of dwarf trees.
In a moment more , Mrs. Clements hurried into view.
“Who are you?” she cried, facing me resolutely, as she
set her foot on the stile. “How dare you frighten a poor help-
less woman like that? ”
She was at Anne Catherick’s side, and had put one arm
around her, before I could answer. “ What is it, my dear?"
she said. “What has he done to you?”
“Nothing,” the poor creature answered. “Nothing.
I’m only frightened."
Mrs. Clements turned on me with a fearless indignation,
for which I respected her.


v110 ‘ 'Tfm‘ WOMMI lN‘
‘ “ I should be healltil'y ashamed of myselfif I’deserVed that
angry look,” I said. “‘ButiI do not deserve it; "T have nn-
fortunately startled her ,* ﬁthoi'lt intending it: "This isnot the
ﬁrst time she has seen me. 'Ask'her‘yourself,‘ and"slie will
tell you that I am incapable of willingly he: or'iiﬂy
woman-n. ., \ I 2.1“; w; :l.»'.-.l' ~T'..‘1
I spoke distinctly, ' so that Anne Gethei'iék’ might‘h'eai" niid
understand me: and saw Ithiit the‘wOrds and'their‘ihea‘niiig
hadreachedher. ' ' " " " 1 " "” “‘1
' “ Yes, yes," she said; “‘he' 'Wﬂs'gdod tom‘s" diieé); he
helped me -" She whispered"the rest jimd- heﬁ'fliend’s
,ear‘ . .- \ - , . 1. ,. . H. l ': :_~-’;.i <1?
~ “‘Sttangé,"indéed!” mums. Clements; with: meek-its
perplexity. “‘ft‘m'akes all the diﬂ'erence,"thong’h.‘ -I spoke so rough to you','"s'lr'*, but you must o'wn'that appear?
arwes'lo’oked'v suspicious to a. stranger. It’s more'y‘m‘y ’fmflt
than yours, ‘fbr humouring hér whims, and letting ‘herrhe
alone in ‘sdch'h'plaee as this. 001118, nay-dear eo‘me‘hoine
now." . 1 'I > '_ "V '1 *' 1:411
' I‘thought 'the good woman looked e'littl‘e n‘neas'yf' :it the
prospect of the walk back; 21:81 dﬂ'ere'd to' is With them until
' they were both within sight "o‘fh'omet " Mrs. lements thhnkéd
me civiily; and declined. She seid‘they'were sure tb'hze'ét
some of the farm-labourers); as soon eslthey got‘tp“ the
. I ,» I " .1 II) ."‘:a (‘1‘!) l-ri ll?.1l.'.\ I
“Try to forgive me ,” I said, when‘ Anne Ca'théi'iéli £68k
her friend‘s arm to‘go away. Innocent’as'l‘heldheenl'oif any
' intention to terrify and agitate her, my heart smote'ine _as I
"looked atthe'poor, pale, frightenedface. " ' ' > ’ " “I will try," she answered. “But you knowg'wo’rsjieh;
' I'm afraid you’ll always frighten me now.” " "‘ '
' ' Mrs. Clements glanced at me, and shook‘her‘hea'd'pity-
in l . H g‘lG'OOd night, sir."'she said. “You couldtl’ﬁhelpuitjl
know; but I "sh it was me you had frightened ,1‘and“nbc
_he.rlnl- ‘ Fr,“ :7! -‘_1 2. r . 'l. . ‘ I
'They moved away a. few steps. ‘ Iﬁt’honlght they hid 'lé‘l‘t
1'11:


ran wonAn m warm. 111
me; but Anne suddenly stopped, and separated herself from
‘ her friend. '
“ Wait a little,” she said. “I must say good-by.” »
She returned to the grave, rested both hands tenderly on
> the marble cross ,- and kissed it.
“I’m better now ,” she sighed, looking up at me quietly.
“I forgive you.” > “-' She joined her companion again , and they left the burial-
ground. I saw them stop near the church, and speak to the
1 sexton’s wife, who had come from the cottage, and had waited,
watching us from a distance. Then they went on again up
' the path that led to the moor. I looked after Anne Catherick
as she disappeared, till all trace of her had faded in the
twilight —- looked as anxiously and sorrowfully as if that
J was the last I was to see inthis weary! world of the woman in
white. > ' ‘ 'i
ll 2.; '# "I‘;I‘|\-' ‘-.' HALF an hour later, I was back at the house, and was
informing Miss Halcombe of all that had happened. '
c She listened to me from beginning to end, with a steady,
silent attention, which , in a woman of her temperament and
\ disp'oeition, was the strongest'proof that could be offered of
' the serious manner in which my narrative affected her.
“My mind misgives me,” was all she said when I had done.
“My mind misgives me sadly about the future."
:41 “ The future may depend," I suggested, “on the use we
- make of the present. It is‘not improbable thatAnne Catherick
~may speak more readily and unreservedly to a woman than
she has spoken to me. If Miss Fairlie -—" ' ' '
“ Not to be thought of for a moment," interposed Miss
Halcombe, in her most decided manner:
1h ‘ “ Let me suggest, then,” I continued, “ that you should see
Anne Gatherick yourself, and do all'you‘ can to win her con-
'ﬁdence: - For my .own part,‘l shrink from the‘idea of alarming


112 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
the poor creature a second time, as I have most unhappily
alarmed her already. Do you see any objection to accom-
panying me to the farm-house to-morrow?”
“None whatever. I will go anywhere and do anything to
serve Laura‘s interests. What did you say the place was
called?"
“ You must know it well. It is called Todd's Corner.’
“Certainly. Todd’s Corner is one of Mr. Fairlie’s farms.
Ourdairy-maid here is the farmer's second daughter. She goes
backwards and forwards constantly, between this house and
her father’s farm; and she may have heard or seen something
which it may be useful to us to know. Shall I ascertain, at
once, if the girl is down stairs?"
She rang the bell, and sent the servant with his message.
He returned, and announced that the dairy~maid was then at
the farm. She had not been there for the last three days; and
the housekeeper had given her leave to go home, for an hour
or two, that evening.
“I can speak to her to-morrow," said Miss Halcombe, when
the servant had left the room again. “In the mean time , let
me thoroughly understand the object to be gained by my
interview with Anne Catherick. Is there no doubt in your
own mind that the person who conﬁned her in the Asylum was
Sir Percival Glyde?”
“ There is not the shadow of a doubt. The only mystery
that remains, is the mystery of his motive. Looking to the
great difference between his station in life and hers, which
seems to preclude all idea of the most distant relationship
between them, it is of the last importance — even assuming
that she really required to be placed under restraint—to know
why he should have been the person to assume the serious
responsibility of shutting her up —"
“In a private Asylum, I think you said? "
“Yes , in a private Asylum, where a sum of money which
no poor person could afford to give, must have been paid for
her maintenance as a patient.”
“I see where the doubt lies , Mr. Hartright; andT promise


THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 113
y0u that it shall be set at rest, whether Anne Catherick assists
us to-morrow or not. Sir Percival Glyde shall not be long in
this house without satisfying Mr. Gilmore, and satisfying me.
My sister’s future is my dearest care in life; and I have in-
ﬂuence enough over her to give me some power, where her
marriage is concerned, in the disposal of it.”
We parted for the night.
After breakfast, the next morning , an obstacle , which the
events of the evening before had put out of my memory, inter-
posed to prevent our proceeding immediately to the farm.
This was my last day at Limmeridge House; and it was
necessary, as soon as the post came in, to follow Miss Hal-
combe’s advice , and to ask Mr. Fairlie’s permission to shorten
my engagement by a. month, in consideration of an unforeseen
necessity for my return to London.
Fortunately for the probability of this excuse, so far as
appearances were concerned, the post brought me two letters
from London friends, that morning. I took them away at
once to my own room; and sent the servant with a. message to
Mr. Fairlie, requesting to know when I could see him on a
matter of business.
I awaited the man’s return , free from the slightest feeling
of anxiety about the manner in which his master might receive
my application. With Mr. Fairlie’s leave or without it, I must
go. The consciousness of having now taken the ﬁrst step on
the dreary journey which was henceforth to separate my life
from Miss Fairlie’s seemed to have blunted my sensibility to
every consideration connected with myself. I had done with
my poor man’s touchy pride; I had done with all my little artist
vanities. No insoleuce of Mr. Fairlie’s, if he chose to be in-
solent, could wound me now.
The servant returned with a message for which I was not
unprepared. Mr. Fairlie regretted that the state of his health,
on that particular morning, was such as to preclude all hope
of his having the pleasure of receiving me. He begged, there-
fore, that I would accept his apologies, and kindly communi-
The Woman in White. I. 8


114 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
cate what Ihad to say, in the form of a letter. Similar mes-
sages to this, had reached me, at various intervals, during
my three months’ residence in the house. Throughout the
whole of that period, Mr. Fairlie had been rejoiced to “pos-
sess” me, but had never been well enough to see me for a
second time. The servant took every fresh batch of drawings,
that I mounted and restored, back to his master, with my
“respects;” and returned empty-handed with Mr. Fairlic's
“kind compliments," “best thanks,” and “sincere regrets”
that the state of his health still obliged him to remain a. soli-
tary prisoner in his own room. A more satisfactory arrange-
ment to both sides could not possibly have been adopted. It
would be hard to say which of us, under the circumstances, felt
the most grateful sense of obligation to Mr. Fairlie’s accom-
modating nerves.
I sat down at once to write the letter, expressing myself in
it as civilly, as clearly , and as brieﬂy as possible. Mr. Fairlie
did not hurry his reply. Nearly an hour elapsed before the
answer was placed in my hands. It was written with beautiful
regularity and neatness of character, in violet-coloured ink,
on note-paper as smooth as ivory and almost as thick as card-
board; and it addressed me in these terms: —
“Mr. Fairlie’s compliments to Mr. Hartright. Mr. Fairlie
is more surprised and disappointed than he can say (in the
present state of his health) by Mr. Hartright’s application.
Mr. Fairlie is not a man of business, but he has consulted his
steward, who is, and that person conﬁrms Mr. Fairlie’s opinion
thatMr. Hartright’s request to be allowed to break his engage-
ment cannot be justiﬁed by any necessity whatever, excepting
perhaps a case of life and death. If the highly-appreciative
feeling towards Art and its professors, which it is the con-
solation and happiness of Mr. Fairlie’s suffering existence to
cultivate, could be easily shaken, Mr. Hartright’s present
proceeding would have shaken it. It has not done so —-except
in the instance of Mr. Hartright himself. '
“Having stated his opinion— so far, that is to say, as acute


run woman LN wnrrn. 115
nervous suiferingwill allowhim to state anything—Mr.Fairlie
has nothing to add but the expression of his decision, in
reference to the highly irregular application that has been
made to him. Perfect repose of body and mind being to the
last degree important in his case, Mr. Fairlie will not suﬁ'er
Mr. Hartright to disturb that repose by remaining in the house
under circumstances of an essentially irritating nature to both
sides. Accordingly, Mr. Fairlie waives his right of refusal,
purely with a view to the preservation of his own tranquillity
— and informs Mr. Hartright that he may go.”
I folded the letter up, and put it away with my other
papers. The time had been when I should have resented it as
an insult: I accepted it, now, as a written release from my
engagement. It was off my mind, it was almost out of my
memory , when I went down stairs to the breakfast-room, and
informed Miss Halcombe that I was ready to walk with her to
the farm.
“Has Mr. Fairlie given you a satisfactory answer?" she
asked, as we left the house.
“He has allowed me to go, Miss Halcombe."
She looked up at me quickly; and then, for the ﬁrst time
since I had known her, took my arm of her own accord. No
words could have expressed so delicately that she understood
how the permission to leave my employment had been granted,
and that she gave me her sympathy, not as my superior, but as
my friend. I had not felt the man’s insolent letter; but I felt
deeply the woman’s atoning kindness.
On our way to the farm we arranged that Miss Halcombe
was to enter the house alone, and that I was to wait outside,
within call. We adopted this mode of proceeding from an
apprehension that my presence, after what had happened in
the churchyard the evening before, might have the effect of
renewing Anne Catherick’s nervous dread, and of rendering
her additionally distrustful of the advances of a lady who was
a stranger to her. Miss Halcombe left me, with the intention
of speaking, in the ﬁrst instance, to the farmer's wife (of whose
8 ae


116 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
friendly readiness to help her in any way she was well as-
sured), while I waited for her in the near neighbourhood of
the house.
I had fully expected to be left alone, for some time. To my
surprise, however, little more than ﬁve minutes had elapsed,
before Miss Halcombe returned. ,
“Does Anne Catherick refuse to see you?” I asked, in
astonishment.
“Anne Catherick is gone,” replied Miss Halcombe.
“Gone!”
“ Gone, with Mrs. Clements. They both left the farm at
eight o'clock this morning.”
I could say nothing —I could only feel that our last chance
of discovery had gone with them.
“All that Mrs. Todd knows about her guests, I know," Miss
Halcombe went on; “ and it leaves me, as it leaves her, in the
dark. They both came back safe , last night, after they left
you, and they passed the ﬁrst part of the evening with Mr.
Todd’s family, as usual. Just before supper-time, however,
Anne Catherick startled them all by being suddenly seized
with faintness. She had had a similar attack , of a less alarm-
ing kind, on the day she arrived at the farm; and Mrs. Todd
had connected it, on that occasion, with something she was
reading at the time in our local newspaper, which lay on the
farm table, and which she had taken up only a minute or two
before.”
“Does Mrs. Todd know what particular passage in the
newspaper affected her in that way?” I inquired.
“ No ,” replied Miss Halcombe. “She had looked it over,
and had seen nothing in it to agitate any one. I asked leave,
however, to look it over in my turn; and at the very ﬁrst page
I opened, I found that the editor had enriched his small stock
of news by drawing upon our family aﬁ'airs, and had published
my sister’s marriage engagement , among his other announce-
ments, copied from the London papers, of Marriages in High
Life. I concluded at once that this was the paragraph which
had so strangely affected Anne Catherick; and I thought I


THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 117
saw in it, also, the origin of the letter which she sent to our
house the next day.”
“There can be no doubt in either case. But what did you
hear about her second attack of faintness yesterday evening?”
“Nothing. The cause of it is a complete mystery. There
was no stranger in the room. The only visitor was our dairy-
maid, who, as I told you, is one of Mr. Todd’s daughters; and
the only conversation was the usual gossip about local affairs.
They heard her cry out, and saw her turn deadly pale, with-
out the slightest apparent reason. Mrs. Todd and Mrs. Cle-
ments took her up-stairs; and Mrs. Clements remained with
her. They were heard talking together until long after the
usual bedtime; and, early this morning, Mrs. Clements took
Mrs. Todd aside, and amazed her beyond all power of expres-
sion, by saying that they must go. The only explanation Mrs.
Todd could extract from her guest was, that something had
happened, which was not the fault of any one at thefarm-house.v
but which was serious enough to make Anne Catherick resolve
to leave Limmeridge immediately. It was quite useless to
press Mrs. Clements to be more explicit. She only shook her
head, and said that, for Anne's sake, she must beg and pray
that no one would question her. All she could repeat, with
every appearance of being seriously agitated herself, was that
Anne must go, that she must go with her, and that the des-
tination to which they might both betake themselves must be
kept a secret from everybody. I spare you the recital of Mrs.
Todd’s hospitable remonstrances and refusals. It ended in
her driving them both to the nearest station, more than three
hours since. She tried hard, on the way, to get them to speak
more plainly; but without success. And she set them down
outside the station—door, so hurt and offended by the uncere-
monious abruptness of their departure and their unfriendly re-
luctance to place the least conﬁdence in her, that she drove
away in anger, without so much as stopping to bid them good-
by. That is exactly what has taken place. Search your own
memory, Mr. Hartright, and tell me if anything happened in
the burial-ground yesterday evening which can at all account


118 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
a
for the extraordinary departure of those two women this
morning.”
“I should like to account ﬁrst, Miss Halcombe, for the
sudden change in Anne Catherick which alarmed them at the
farm-house, hours after she and I had parted, and when time
enough had elapsed to quiet any violent agitation thatI might
have been unfortunate enough to cause. Did you inquire par-
ticularly about the gossip which was going onin the room when
she turned faint? ”
“Yes. But Mrs. Todd’s household aﬂ'airs seem to have
divided her attention, that evening, with the talk in the farm-
house parlour. She could only tell me that it was ‘just the
news’ — meaning, I suppose, that they all talked as usual
about each other.”
“The dairymaid’s memory may be better than her
mother’s ,” I said. “It may be as well for you to speak to the
girl, Miss Halcombe, as soon as we get back.”
My suggestion was acted on the moment we returned to
the house. Miss Halcombe led me round to the servants’ of-
ﬁces, and we found the girl in the dairy, with her sleeves
tucked up to her shoulders, cleaning a large milk-pan, and
singing blithely over her work.
“ I have brought this gentleman to see your dairy, Hannah,”
said Miss Halcombe. “It is one of the sights of the house, and
it always does you credit."
The girl blushed and curtseyed, and said, shyly, that she
hoped she always did her best to keep things neat and clean.
“We have just come from your father’s," Miss Halcombe
continued. “ You were there yesterday evening, I hear; and
you found visitors at the house ?"
“Yes, miss.”
“One of them was taken faint and ill, I am told? I sup-
pose nothing was said or done to frighten her? You were not
talking of anything very terrible were you? "
“ Oh, no, miss!” said the girl, laughing. “ We were
only talking of the news.”


THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 119
“Your sisters told you the news at Todd’s Corner, I
suppose ? "
“ Yes, miss."
“And you told them the news at Limmeridge House?"
“Yes , miss. And I’m quite sure nothing was said to
frighten the poor thing, for I was talking when she was taken
ill. It gave me quite a turn, miss, to see it, never having been
taken faint myself.”
Before any more questions could be put to her, she was
called away to receive a basket of eggs at the dairy door. As
she left us, I whispered to Miss Halcombe:
“Ask her if she happened to mention, last night, that vi-
sitors were expected at Limmeridge House.”
Miss Halcombe showed me, by a look, that she understood,
and put the question as soon as the dairymaid returned to us.
“Oh, yes, miss; I mentioned that,” said the girl, simply.
“The company coming, and the accident to the brindled cow,
was all the news I had to take to the farm.”
“Did you mention names? Did you tell them that Sir
Percival Glyde was expected on Monday?”
“Yes, miss — I told them Sir Percival Glyde was coming.
I hope there was no harm in it; I hope I didn’t do wrong."
“Oh no, no harm. Come , Mr. Hartright; Hannah will
begin to think us in the way, if we interrupt her any longer
over her work.”
We stopped and looked at one another, the moment we
were alone again.
“Is there any doubt in your mind, now, Miss Halcombe? "
“Sir Percival Glyde shall remove that doubt, Mr. Hart—
right — or, Laura Fairlie shall never be _his wife."


120 THE WOMAN IN wm'rn.
XV.
As we walked round to the front of the house, a ﬂy from
the railway approached us along the drive. Miss Halcombe
waited on the door steps until the ﬂy drew up; and then ad~
vanced to shake hands with an old gentleman, who got out
briskly the moment the steps were let down. Mr. Gilmore had
arrived.
I looked at him, when we were introduced to each other,
with an interest and a curiosity which I could hardly conceal.
This old man was to remain at Limmeridge House after I had
left it; he was to hear Sir Percival Glyde’s explanation, and
was to give Miss Halcombe the assistance of his experience in
forming her judgment; he was to wait until the question of the
marriage was set at rest; and his hand, if that question were
decided in the afﬁrmative, was to draw the settlement which
bound Miss Fairlie irrevocably to her engagement. Even
then, when I knew nothing by comparison with what I know
now, I looked at the family lawyer with an interest whichI had
never felt before in the presence of any man breathing who was
a total stranger to me.
In external appearance, Mr. Gilmore was the exact opposite
of the conventional idea of an old lawyer. His complexion was
ﬂorid; his white hair was worn rather long and kept carefully
brushed; his black coat, waistcoat, and trousers, ﬁtted him
with perfect neatness; his white cravat was carefully tied; and
his lavender-coloured kid gloves mighthave adorned the hands
of a fashionable clergyman, without fear and without reproach.
His manners were pleasantly marked by the formal grace and
reﬁnement of the old school of politeness, quiekened by the in-
vigorating sharpness andreadiness of a man whose business in
life obliges him always to keep his faculties in good working
order. A sanguine constitution and fair prospects to begin
with; along subsequent career of creditable and comfortable
prosperity; a cheerful, diligent , widely-respected old age —
such were the general impressions I derived from my introduc-
tion to Mr. Gilmore; and it is but fair to him to add, that the


'rna WOMAN IN want. 121
knowledge I gained by later and better experience only tend-
ed to conﬁrm them. -
I left the old gentleman and Miss Halcombe to enter the
house together, and to talk of family matters undisturbed by
the restraint of a stranger’s presence. They crossed the hall
on their way to the drawing-room; and I descended the steps
again, to wander about the garden alone.
My hours were numbered at Limmeridge House; my de-
parture the next morning was irrevocably settled; my share
in the investigation which the anonymous letter had rendered
necessary, was at an end. No harm could be done to any one
but myself, ifI let my heart loose again, for the little time that
was left me, from the cold cruelty of restraint which necessity
had forced me to inﬂict upon it, and took my farewell of the
scenes which were associated with the brief dream-time of my
happiness and my love.
I turned instinctively to the walk beneathmy study-window,
where I had seen her the eveniugbefore with herlittlc dog; and
followed the path which her dear feet had trodden so often, till
I came to the wicket gate that led into her rose garden. The
winter bareness spread drearily over it, now. The ﬂowers
that she had taught me to distinguish by their names, the
ﬂowers that I had taught her to paint from, were gone; and
the tiny white paths that led between the beds, were damp and
green already. I went on to the avenue of trees, where we
had breathed together the warm fragrance of August evenings ;
where we had admired together the myriad combinations of
shade and sunlight that dappled the ground at our feet. The
leaves fell about me from the groaning branches , and the
earthy decay in the atmosphere chilled me to the bones. A
little farther on, and I was out of the grounds, and following
the lane that wound gently upward to the nearest hills. The
old felled tree by the wayside, on which we had sat to rest, was
sodden with rain; and the tuft of ferns and grasses which I had
drawn for her, nestling under the rough stone wall in front of
us, had turned to a pool of water, stagnating round an island
of draggled weeds. I gained the summit of the hill; and


122 rue worms m wrnrn.
looked at the view which we had so often admired in thehappier
time. It was cold and barren —-it was no longer the view that
I remembered. The sunshine of her presence was far from
me; the charm of her voice no longer murmured in my ear.
She had talked to me, on the spot from which I now looked
down, of her father, who was her last surviving parent; had
told me how fond of each other they had been, and how sadly
she missed him still, when she entered certain rooms in the
house, and when she took up forgotten occupations and amuse-
ments with which he had been associated. Was the view
that I had seen, while listening to those words, the view that
I saw now, standing on the hill-top by myself? I turned, and
left it; I wound my way back again, over the moor, and
round the sandhills, down to the beach. There was the white
rage of the surf, and the multitudinous glory of the leaping
waves—but where was the place on which she had once drawn
idle ﬁgures with her parasol in the sand; the place where we
had sat together, while she talked to me about myself and my
home, while she asked me a woman’s minutely observant ques-
tions about my mother andmy sister, andinnocently wondered
whether I should ever leave my lonely chambers and have a
wife and a house of my own? Wind and wave had long since
smoothed out the trace of her which she had leftin those marks
on the sand. I looked over the wide monotony of the sea-side
prospect, and the place in which we two had idled away the
sunny hours, was as lost to me as if I had never known it, as
strange to me as if I stood already on a foreign shore.
The empty silence of the beach struck cold to my heart.
I returned to the house and the garden, where traces were left
to speak of her at every turn.
On the west terrace walk, I met Mr. Gilmore. He was
evidently in search of me , for he quickened his pace when we
caught sight of each other. The state of my spirits little
ﬁtted me for the society of a stranger. But the meeting was
inevitable; and I resigned myself to make the best of it.
“You are the very person I wanted to see," said the old
gentleman. “I had two words to say to you, my dear sir;


THE woman IN WHITE. 123
and, if you have no objection, I will avail myself of the
present opportunity. To put it plainly, Miss Halcombe and
I have been talking over family affairs — affairs which are the
cause of my being here — and, in the course of our conversa-
tion, she was naturally led to tell me of this unpleasant matter
connected with the anonymous letter, and of the share which
you have most creditably and properly taken in the pro-
ceedings so far. That share, I quite understand, gives you
an interest which you might not otherwise have felt, in
knowing that the future management of the investigation,
which you have begun, will be placed in safe hands. My dear
sir, make yourself quite easy on that point — it will be placed
in my hands."
“You are, in every way, Mr. Gilmore, much ﬁtter to ad-
vise and to act in the matter than I am. Is it an indiscretion,
on my part, to ask if you have decided yet on a course of pro-
ceeding? ”
“ So far as it is possible to decide, Mr. Hartright, I have
decided. I mean to send a copy of the letter, accompanied by
a statement of the circumstances, to Sir Percival Glyde’s
solicitor in London, with whom I have some acquaintance.
The letter itself, I shall keep here, to show to Sir Percival
as soon as he arrives. The tracing of the two women , I have
already provided for, by sending one of Mr. Fairlie's servants
- a conﬁdential person — to the station to make inquiries:
the man has his money and his directions, and he will follow
the women in the event of his ﬁnding any clue. This is all
that can be done until Sir Percival comes on Monday. I have
no doubt myself that every explanation which can be ex-
pected from a gentleman and a man of honour, he will readily
give. Sir Percival stands very high, sir— an eminent posi-
tion, a reputation above suspicion— I feel quite easy about
results; quite easy, I am rejoiced to assure you. Things of
this sort happen constantly in my experience. Anonymous
letters — unfortunate woman -—- sad state of society. I don’t
deny that there are peculiar complications in this case; but
the case itself is, most unhappily, common — common."


124 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
“I am afraid, Mr. Gilmore, I have the misfortune to differ
from you in the view I take of the case."
“Just so, my dear sir —jnst so. I am an old man; and I
take the practical view. You are a young man; and you take
the romantic view. Let us not dispute about our views. I
live , professionally, in an atmosphere of disputation, Mr.
Hartright; and I am only too glad to escape from it, as I am
escaping here. We will wait for events -- yes , yes, yes; we
will wait for events. Charming place, this. Good shooting ?
Probably not —- none of Mr. Fairlie’s land is preserved , I
think. Charming place, though; and delightful people. You
draw and paint, I hear, Mr. Hartright? Enviable accomplish-
ment. What style ? "
We dropped into general conversation — or, rather, Mr.
Gilmore talked, and I listened. My attention was far from
him, and from the topics on which he discoursed so ﬂuently.
The solitary walk of the last two hours had wrought its eﬁ'eet
on me —— it had set the idea in my mind of hastening my de-
parture from Limmeridge House. Why should I prolong the
hard trial of saying farewell by one unnecessary minute?
What further service was required of me by any one? There
was no useful purpose to be served by my stay in Cumberland;
there was no restriction of time in the permission to leave
which my employer had granted to me. Why not end it,
there and then?
I determined to end it. There were some hours of daylight
still left -— there was no reason why my journey back to
London should not begin on that afternoon. I made the ﬁrst
civil excuse that occurred to me for leaving Mr. Gilmore; and
returned at once to the house.
On my way up to my own room, I met Miss Halcombe on
the stairs. She saw, by the hurry of my movements and the
change in my manner, that I had some new purpose in view;
and asked what had happened.
I told her the reasons which induced me to think of hasten-
ing my departure, exactly as I have told them here.
“ No, no ," she said, earnestly and kindly, “leave us like


THE WOMAN IN wrnrn. 125
a friend; break bread with us once more. Stay here and
dine; stay here and help us to spend our last evening with
you as happily, as like our ﬁrst evenings, as we can. It
is my invitation; Mrs. Vesey’s invitation -—" she hesitated a
little, and then added, “Laura’s invitation as well.”
I promised to remain. God knows I had no wish to leave
even the shadow of a sorrowful impression with any one
of them.
My own room was the best place for me till the dinner bell
rang. I waited there till it was time to go down stairs.
I had not spoken to Miss Fairlie — I had not even seen her
-- all that day. The ﬁrst meeting with her , when I entered
the drawing-room , was’a hard trial to her self-control and to
mine. She , too , had done her best to make our last evening
renew the golden bygone time — the time that could never
come again. She had put on the dress which I used to admire
more than any other that she possessed — a dark blue silk,
trimmed quaintly and prettily with old-fashioned lace; she
came forward to meet me with her former readiness; she gave
me her hand with the frank, innocent good will of happier
days. The cold ﬁngers that trembled round mine; the pale
cheeks with a bright red spot burning in the midst of them;
the faint smile that struggled to live on her lips and died away
from them while I looked at it, told me at what sacriﬁce of
herself her outward composure was maintained. My heart
could take her no closer to me, or I should have loved her then
as I had never loved her yet. _
Mr. Gilmore was a great assistance to us. He was in high
good humour, and he led the conversation with unﬂagging
spirit. Miss Halcombe seconded him resolutely; and I did all
I could to follow her example. The kind blue eyes whose
slightest changes of expression I had learnt to interpret so
well,'looked at me appealingly when we ﬁrst sat down to
table. Help my sister — the sweet anxious face seemed to say
-— help my sister, and you will help me.
We got through the dinner, to all outward appearance at
least, happily enough. When the ladies had risen from table,


126 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
and when Mr. Gilmore and I were left alone in the dining-
room , a new interest presented itself to occupy our attention,
and to give me an opportunity of quieting myself by a few
minutes of needful and welcome silence. The servant who had
been despatehed to trace Anne Catherick and Mrs. Clements,
returned with his report, and was shown into the dining—
room immediately.
“Well,” said Mr. Gilmore, “what have you found out?”
“I have found out, sir ," answered the man, “that both
the women took tickets, at our station here, for Carlisle.”
“You went to Carlisle, of course , when you heard that?"
“I did, sir; but I am sorry to say I could ﬁnd no further
trace of them."
“ You inquired at the railway?”
“Yes, sir.”
“ And at the different inns?"
“Yes, sir.”
“And you left the statement I wrote for you, at the police
station?”
“I did, sir.”
“Well, my friend, you have done all you could, and I
have done all I could; and there the matter must rest till
further notice. We have played our trump cards , Mr. Hart~
right," continued the old gentleman, when the servant had
withdrawn. “For the present, at least, the women have out-
manmuvred us; and our only resource, now, is to wait till
Sir Percival Glyde comes here on Monday next. Won’t you
ﬁll your glass again? Good bottle of port, that — sound,
substantial, old wine. I have got better in my own cellar,
though.”
We returned to the drawing-room -—- the room in which the
happiest evenings of my life had been passed; the room
which, after this last night, I was never to see again. Its
aspect was altered since the days had shortened and the
weather had grown cold. The glass doors on the terrace side
were cloaed, and hidden by thick curtains. Instead of the
soft twilight obscurity, in which we used to sit, the bright


'rnn women IN WHITE. 127
radiant glow of lamplight now dazzled my eyes. All was
changed — in-doors and out, all was changed.
Miss Halcombe and Mr. Gilmore sat down together at the
card~table; Mrs. Vesey took her customary chair. There was
no restraint on the disposal of their evening; and I felt the
restraint on the disposal of mine all the more painfully from
observing it. I saw Miss Fairlie lingering near the music
stand. The time had been when I might have joined her
there. I waited irresolutely ~— I knew neither where to go nor
what to do next. She cast one quick glance at me, took a
piece of music suddenly from the stand, and came towards me
of her own accord.
“Shall I play some of those little melodies of Mozart’s,
which you used to like so much?" she asked, opening the
music nervously, and looking down at it while she spoke.
Before I could thank her, she hastened to the piano. The
chair near it , which I had always been accustomed to occupy,
stood empty. She struck a few chords — then glanced round
at me — then looked back again at her music.
“Won’t you take your old place?” she said, speaking
very abruptly, and in very low tones.
“I may take it on the last night,” I answered.
She did not reply: she kept her attention riveted on the
music-music which she knew by memory, which she had
played over and over again, in former times, without-the
book. I only knew that she had heard me, I only knew that
she was aware of my being close to her, by seeing the red spot
on the check that Was nearest to me, fade out, and the face
grow pale all over.
“I am very sorry you\ are going," she said, her voice
almost sinking to a whisper; her eyes looking more and more
intently at the music; her ﬁngers ﬂying over the keys of the
piano with a strange feverish energy which I had never
noticed in her before.
“I shall remember those kind words, Miss Fairlie, long
after to-morrow has come and gone." »


128 rss woman in warm.
The paleness grew whiter on her face, and she turned it
farther away from me.
“Don’t speak of to-morrow,’ she said. “Let the music
speak to us of to-night, in a happier language than ours."
Her lips trembled — a faint sigh ﬂuttered from them,
which she tried vainly to suppress. Her ﬁngers wavered on
the piano; she struck a false note; confused herself in trying
to set it right; and dropped her hands angrily on her lap.
Miss Halcombe and Mr. Gilmore looked up in astonishment
from the card-table at which they were playing. Even Mrs.
Vesey, dozing in her chair, woke at the sudden cessation of
the music , and inquired what had happened.
“You play at whist, Mr. Hartright?" asked Miss Hal-
combe, with her eyes directed signiﬁcantly at the place I
occupied.
I knew what she meant; I knew she was right; and I rose
at once to go to the card-table. As I left the piano, Miss
Fairlie turned a page of the music, and touched the keys
again with a surer hand.
“I will play it,” she said, striking the notes almost pas-
sionately. “I will play it on the last night.”
“Come, Mrs. Vesey,” said Miss Halcombe; “Mr. Gilmore
and I are tired of écarté -— come and be Mr. Hartright's
partner at whist.”
The old lawyer smiled satirically. His had been the
winning hand; and he had just turned up a king. He evi-
dently attributed Miss Halcombe's abrupt change in the
, card-table arrangements to a lady’s inability to play the
losing game.
The rest of the evening passed without a word or a look
from her. She kept her place at the piano; and I kept mine
at the card-table. She played unintermittingly - played as
if the music was her only refuge from herself. Sometimes, her
ﬁngers touched the notes with a lingering fondness, a soft,
plaintive, dying tenderness, unutterably beautiful and
mournful to hear - sometimes, they faltered and failed her,
or hurried over the instrument mechanically as if their task


'rnr: WOMAN IN WHITE. 129
was a burden to them. But still, change and waver as they
might in the expression they imparted to the music, their
resolution to play never faltered. She only rose from the
piano when we all rose to say good night.
Mrs. Vesey was the nearest to the door, and the ﬁrst to
shake hands with me.
. “I shall not see you again, Mr. Hartright," said the old
lady. “I am truly sorry you are going away. You have
been very kind and attentive; and an old woman, like me,
feels kindness and attention. I wish you happy, sir — I wish
you a kind good-by."
Mr. Gilmore came next.
“I hope we shall have a future opportunity of bettering
our acquaintance , Mr. Hartright. You quite understand
about that little matter of business being safe in my hands?
Yes, yes , of course. Bless me , how cold it is! Don’t let me
keep you at the door. Bon voyage, my dear sir— bon voyage,
as the French say.”
Miss Halcombe followed.
“Half-past seven to-morrow morning ," she said; then
added, in a whisper, “I have heard and seen more than you
think. Your conduct to-night has made me yourfriend forlife.”
Miss Fairlie came last. I could not trust myself to look at
her, when I took her hand, and when I thought of the next
morning.
“My departure must be a very early one ,” I said. “ I shall
be gone, Miss Fairlie, before you —-”
“No, no ," she interposed, hastily; “not before I am
out of my room. I shall be down to breakfast with Marian.
I am not so ungrateful, not so forgetful of the past three
months —”
Her voice failed her; her hand closed gently round mine -—-
then dropped it suddenly. Before I could say, “ Good night,"
she was gone.
The end comes fast to meet me - comes inevitably, as the
light of the last morning came at Limmeridge House.
The Woman in Whits- I. 9


130 THE WOMAN m wnrrn.
It was barely half~past seven when I went down stairs —-
but I found them both at the breakfast-table waiting for me.
In the chill air, in the dim light, in the gloomy morning
silence of the house, we three sat down together, and tried
to eat, tried to talk. The struggle to preserve appearances
wasxhopeless and useless; and I rose to end it.
As I held out my hand , as Miss Halcombe , who was near-
est to me, took it, Miss Fairlie turned away suddenly, and
hurried from the room.
“Better so ,” said Miss Halcombe, when the door had
closed — “better so , for you and for her.”
I waited a moment before I could speak -— it was hard to
lose her, without a parting word, or a parting look. I con-
trolled myself; I tried to take leave of Miss Halcombe in
ﬁtting terms; but all the farewell words I would fain have
spoken, dwindled to one sentence.
“Have I deserved that you should write to me?” was all I
could say.
“You have nobly deserved everything that I can do for
you, as long as we both live. Whatever the end is, you
shall know it.”
“And if I can ever be of help again, at any future time,
long after the memory of my presumption and my folly is for-
gotten -— ”
I could add no more. My voice faltered, my eyes moistened,
in spite of me.
She caught me by both hands —- she pressed them with
the strong, steady grasp of a man - her dark eyes glittered
-- her brown complexion ﬂushed deep — the force and energy
of her face glowed and grew beautiful with the pure inner
light of her generosity and her pity.
“I will trust you -— if ever the time comes, I will trust you
as my friend and her friend; as my brother and her brother."
She stopped; drew me nearer to her -— the fearless, noble
creature —— touched my forehead, sisterlike, with her lips;
and called me by my Christian name. “God bless you,
Walter!” she said. “Wait here alone, and compose yourself


THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 131
-—I had better not stay for both our sakes; I had better see
you go from the balcony upstairs.”
She left the room. I turned away towards the window,
where nothing faced me but the lonely autumn landscape — I
turned away to master myself, before I, too, left the room in
my turn, and left it for ever.
A minute passed — it could hardly have been more --
when I heard the door open again softly; and the rustling of a
woman’s dress on the carpet, moved towards me. My heart
beat violently as I turned round. Miss Fairlie was approach
ing me from the farther end of the room.
She stopped and hesitated , when our eyes met, and when
she saw that we were alone. Then, with that courage which
women lose so often in the small emergency, and so seldom in
the great, she came on nearer to me, strangely pale and
strangely quiet, drawing one hand after her along the table
by which she walked, and holding something at her side, in
the other, which was hidden by the folds of her dress.
“I only went into the drawing-room,” she said, “to look
for this. It may remind you of your visit here, and of- the
friends you leave behind you. You told me I had im-
proved very much when I did it -- and I thought you might
like _7’
She turned her head away, and offered me a little sketch
drawn throughout by her own pencil, of the summer-house
in which we had ﬁrst met. The paper trembled in her hand
as she held it out to me — trembled in mine, as I took it from
her.
I was afraid to say what I felt — I only answered: “It
shall never leave me; all my life long it shall be the treasure
that 1 prize most. I am very grateful for it -— very grateful
to you, for not letting me go away without bidding you
good'by."
“Oh!” she said, innocently, “how could I let you go,
after we have passed so many happy days together! "
“Those days may never return, Miss Fairlie —- my way of
life and yours are very far apart. But if a time should come,
9 ae


132 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
when the devotion of my whole heart and soul and strength
will give you a moment’s happiness, or spare you a moment’s
sorrow, will you try to remember the poor drawing-master
who has taught you? Miss Halcombe has promised to trust
me -- will you promise , too?"
The farewell sadness in the kind-blue eyes shone dimly
through her gathering tears.
“I promise it ," she said, in broken tones. “ Oh don’t look
at me like that! I promise it with all my hea ."
I ventured a little nearer to her , and held out my hand.
“You have many friends who love you, Miss Fairlie.
Your happy future is the dear object of many hopes. May
I say, at parting, that it is the dear object of my hopes
too?"
The tears ﬂowed fast down her cheeks. She rested one
trembling hand on the table to steady herself, while she gave
me the other. I took it in mine — I held it fast. My head
drooped over it, my tears fell on it, my lips pressed it —— not
in love; oh, not in love, at that last moment, but in the agony
and the self-abandonment of despair.
“ For God’s sake, leave me!" she said faintly.
The confession of her heart’s secret burst from her in those
pleading words. I had no right to hear them, no right to
answer them: they were the words that banished me, in the
name of her sacred weakness , from the room. It was all over.
I dropped her hand; I said no more. The blinding tears shut
her out from my eyes, and I dashed them away to look at her
for the last time. One look as she sank into a chair, asher
arms fell on the table, as her fair head dropped on them
wearily. One farewell look; and the door had closed upon
her - the great gulf of separation had opened between
us—the image of Laura Fairlie was a memory of the past
already.


'rnn WOMAN is warm. 133
THE STORY CONTINUED
BY
VINCENT GILMORE ,
OF CHANCERY LANE, SOLICITOR.
I.
I warn: these lines at the request of my friend , Mr. Walter
Hartright. They are intended to convey a description of cer-
tain events which seriously affected Miss Fairlie’s interests,
and which took place after the period of Mr. Hartright’s de-
parture from Limmeridge House.
There is no need for me to say whether my own opinion
does or does not sanction the disclosure of the remarkable
family story, of which my narrative forms an important com-
ponent part. Mr. Hartright has taken that responsibility on
himself; and circumstances yet to be related will show that he
has amply earned the right to do so , if he chooses to exercise
it. The plan he has adopted for presenting the story to others,
in the most truthful and most vivid manner, requires that it
should be told, at each successive stage in the march of events,
by the persons who were directly concerned in those events at
the time of their occurrence. My appearance here, as narra-
tor, is the necessary consequence of this arrangement. I was
present during the sojourn of Sir Percival Glyde in Cumber-
land, and was personally concerned in one important result of
his short residence under Mr. Fairlie’s roof. It is my duty,
therefore, to add these new links to the chain of events, and to
take up the chain itself at the point where, for the present
only, Mr. Hartright has dropped it.


134 THE WOMAN in warm.
I arrived at Limmeridge House, on Friday the second of
November.
My object was to remain at Mr. Fairlie’s until the arrival
of Sir Percival Glyde. If that event led to the appointment
of any given day for Sir Percival’s union with Miss Fairlie, I
was to take the necessary instructions back with me to Lon-
don, and to occupy myself in drawing the lady’s marriage—
settlement.
On the Friday I was not favoured by Mr. Fairlie with an
interview. He had been, or had fancied himself to be, an
invalid for years past; and he was not well enough to receive
me. Miss Halcombe was the ﬁrst member of the family whom
I saw. She met me at the house door; and introduced me to
Mr. Hartright, who had been staying at Limmeridge for some
time past.
I did not see Miss Fairlie until later in the day, at dinner
time. She was not looking well, and I was sorry to observe it.
She is a sweet lovable girl, as amiable and attentive to every
one about her as her excellent mother used to be — though,
personally speaking, she takes after her father. Mrs. Fairlie
had dark eyes and hair; and her elder daughter, Miss Hal-
combe, strongly reminds me of her. Miss Fairlie played to us
in the evening — not so well as usual, I thought. We had a
rubber at whist; a mere profanation, so far as play was con-
cerned, of that noble game. I had been favourably impressed
by Mr. Hartright, on our ﬁrst introduction to one another;
but I soon discovered that he was not free from the social
failings incidental to his age. There are three things that
none of the young men of the present generation can do. They
can’t sit over their wine; they can’t play at whist; and they
can't pay a lady a compliment. Mr. Hartright was no ex-
ception to the general rule. Otherwise, even in those early
days and on that short acquaintance , he struck me as being a
modest and gentlemanlike young man.
So the Friday passed. I say nothing about the more
serious matters which engaged my attention on that day — the


THE WOMAN m meE. 135
anonymous letter to Miss Fairlie; the measures I thought it
right to adopt when the matter was mentioned to me; and the
conviction I entertained that every possible explanation of the
circumstances would be readily afforded by Sir Percival
Glyde , having all been fully noticed, as I understand, in the
narrative which precedes this.
On the Saturday, Mr. Hartright had left before I got down
to breakfast. Miss Fairlie kept her room all day; and Miss
Halcombe appeared to me to be out of spirits. The house was
not what it used to be in the time of Mr. and Mrs. Philip Fair-
lie. I took a walk by myself in the forenoon: and looked
about at some of the places which I ﬁrst saw when I was
staying at Limmeridge to transact family business, more than
thirty years since. They were not what they used to be either.
At two o’clock Mr. Fairlie sent to say he was well enough
to see me. He had not altered , at any rate, since I ﬁrst knew
him. His talk was to the same purpose as usual — all about
himself and his ailments, his wonderful coins , and his match-
less Rembrandt etchings. The moment I tried to speak of the
business that had brought me to his house, he shut his eyes
and said I “upset” him. I persisted in upsetting him by re-
turning again and again to the subject. All I could ascertain
was that he looked on his niece’s marriage as a settled thing,
that her father had sanctioned it, that he sanctioned it himself,
that it was a desirable marriage, and that he should be per-
sonally rejoiced when the worry of it was over. As to the
settlement, if I would consult his niece, and afterwards dive as
deeply as I pleased into my own knowledge of the family
aﬁ'airs, and get everything ready, and limit his share in the
business, as guardian, to saying, Yes, at the right moment —
why of course he would meet my views, and everybody else’s
views , with inﬁnite pleasure. In the mean time, there I saw
him, a helpless sufferer, conﬁned to his room. Did I think he
looked as if he wanted teasing? No. Then why tease him?
I might, perhaps, have been a little astonished at this ex-
traordinary absence of all self-assertion on Mr. Fairlie's part,
in the character of guardian, if my knowledge of the family


136 rm: WOMAN IN WHITE.
aﬁ'airs had not been suilicient to remind me that he was a
single man, and that he had nothing more than a life-interest
in the Limmeridge property. As matters stood, therefore , I
was neither surprised nor disappointed at the result of the
interview. Mr. Fairlie had simply justiﬁed my expectations
-— and there was an end of it.
Sunday was a dull day, out of doors and in. A letter
arrived for me from SirPercival Glydc’s solicitor, acknowledg~
ing the receipt of my copy of the anonymous letter, and my
accompanying statement of the case. Miss Fairlie joined us
in the afternoon, looking pale and depressed, and altogether
unlike herself. I had some talk with her, and ventured on a
delicate allusion to Sir Percival. She listened, and said no-
thing. All other subjects she pursued willingly; but this sub;
ject she allowed to drop. I began to doubt whether she might
not be repenting of her engagement —- just as young ladies
often do, when repentance comes too late.
On Monday Sir Percival Glyde arrived.
I found him to be a most prepossessing man, so far as man-
ners and appearance were concerned. He looked rather older
than I had expected; his head being bald over the forehead,
and his face somewhat marked and worn. But his movements
were as active and his spirits as high as a young man’s. His
meeting with Miss Halcombe was delightfully hearty and un-
affected; and his reception of me, upon my being presented to
him, was so easy and pleasant that we got on together like old
friends. Miss Fairlie was not with us when he arrived, but she
entered the room about ten minutes afterwards. Sir Percival
rose and paid his compliments with perfect grace. His evident
concern on seeing the change for the worse in the young lady’s
looks was expressed with a mixture of tenderness and respect,
with an unassuming delicacy of tone, voice, and manner, which
did equal credit to his good breeding and his good sense. I
was rather surprised, under these circumstances, to see that
Miss Fairlie continued to be constrained and uneasy in his
presence, and that she took the ﬁrst opportunity of leaving
the room again. Sir Percival neither noticed the restraint in.


run women m wurrn. 137
her reception of him, nor her sudden withdrawal from our
society. He had not obtruded his attentions on her while she
was present, and he did not embarrass Miss Halcombe by any
allusion to her departure when she was gone. His tact and
taste were never at fault on this or on any other occasion while
I was in his company at Limmeridge House.
As soon as Miss Fairlie .had left the room, he spared us all
embarrassment on the subject of the anonymous letter, by
adverting to it of his own accord. He had stopped in London
on his way from Hampshire; had seen his solicitor; had read
the documents forwarded by me; and had travelled on to
Cumberland, anxious to satisfy our minds by the speediest
and the fullest explanation that words could convey. On
hearing him express himself to this effect, I offered him the
original letter which I had kept for his inspection. He thanked
me, and declined to look at it; saying that he had seen the
copy, and that he was quite willing to leave the original in our
hands.
The statement itself, on which he immediately entered,
was as simple and satisfactory as I had all along anticipated it
would be.
Mrs. Catherick, he informed us, had, in past years, laid
him under some obligations for faithful services rendered to
his family connexions and to himself. She had been doubly
unfortunate in being married to a husband who had deserted
her, and in having an only child whose mental faculties had
been in a disturbed condition from a very early age. Although
her marriage had removed her to a part of Hampshire far
distant from the neighbourhood in which Sir Percival’s pro-
perty was situated, he had taken care not to lose sight of her;
his friendly feeling towards the poor woman, in consideration
of her past services , having been greatly strengthened by his
admiration of the patience and courage with which she sup-
ported her calamities. In course of time, the symptoms of
mental afﬂiction in her unhappy daughter increased to such a
serious extent, as to make it a matter of necessity to place her
under proper medical care. Mrs. Catherick herself recognised


138 rue worms IN WHITE.
this necessity; but she also felt the prejudice common to per-
sons occupying her respectable station, against allowing her
child to be admitted, as a pauper, into a public Asylum. Sir
Percival had respected this prejudice , as he respected honest
independence of feeling in any rank of life; and had resolved
to mark his grateful sense of Mrs. Catherick’s early attach~
ment to the interests of himself and his family, by defraying
the expense of her daughter’s maintenance in a trustworthy
private Asylum. To her mother’s regret, and to his own
regret, the unfortunate creature had discovered the share
which circumstances had induced him to take in placing her
under restraint, and had conceived the most intense hatred
and distrust of him in consequence. To that hatred and dis-
trust -— which had expressed itself in various ways in the
Asylum -- the anonymous letter, written after her escape, was
plainly attributable. If Miss Halcombe’s or Mr. Gilmore’s
recollection of the document did not conﬁrm that view, or if
they wished for any additional particulars about the Asylum
(the address of which he mentioned , as well as the names and
addresses of the two doctors on whose certiﬁcates the patient
was admitted), he was ready to answer any question and to
clear up any uncertainty. He had done his duty to the un-
happy young woman, by instructing his solicitor to spare no
expense in tracing her, and in restoring her once more to me-
dical care; and he was now only anxious to do his duty to-
wards Miss Fairlie and towards her family, in the same plain,
straightforward way.
I was the ﬁrst to speak in answer to this appeal. My own
course was plain to me. It is the great beauty of the Law that
it can dispute any human statement, made under any circum-
stances, and reduced to any form. If I had felt professionally
called upon to set up a case against Sir Percival Glyde, on the
strength of his own explanation, I could have done so beyond
all doubt. But my duty did not lie in this direction: my func-
tion was of the purely judicial kind. I was to weigh the ex_
planation we had just heard; to allow all due force to the high
reputation of the gentleman who offered it; and to decide


THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 139
honestly whether the probabilities, on Sir Percival’s own
showing, were plainly with him, or plainly against him. My
own conviction was that they were plainly with him; and 'I
accordingly declared that his explanation was, to my mind,
unquestionably a satisfactory one.
Miss Halcombe, after looking at me very earnestly, said a
few words, on her side, to the same effect — with a certain
hesitation of manner, however, which the circumstances did
not seem to me to warrant. I am unable to say, positively,
whether Sir Percival noticed this or not. My opinion is that
he did; seeing that he pointedly resumed the subject, al-
though he might, now, with all propriety, have allowed it to
drop.
“If my plain statement of facts had only been addressed to
Mr. Gilmore,” he said, “I should consider any further re-
ference to this unhappy matter as unnecessary. I may fairly
expect Mr. Gilmore, as a gentleman, to believe me on my
word; and when he has done me that justice, all discussion
of the subject between us has come to an end. But my posi-
tion with a lady is not the same. I owe to her, what Iwould
concede to no man alive— a proof of the truth of my assertion.
You cannot ask for that proof, Miss Halcombe; and it is
therefore my duty to you, and still more to Miss Fairlie, to
oﬂ'er it. May I beg that you will write at once to the mother
of this unfortunate woman -— to Mrs. Catherick -— to ask for
her testimony in support of the explanation which I have just
offered to you.”
I saw Miss Halcombe change colour, and look a little un-
easy. Sir Percival’s suggestion, politely as it was expressed,
appeared to her, as it appeared to me, to point, very deli—
cately, at the hesitation which her manner had betrayed a.
moment or two since.
“I hope, Sir Percival, you don't do me the injustice to
suppose that I distrust you," she said , quickly.
“Certainly not, Miss Halcombe. I make my proposal
purely as an act of attention to you. Will you excuse my 0b-
stinacy if I still venture to press it?”


110 THE WOMAN in warm.
He walked to the writing-table, as he spoke; drew a chair
to it; and opened the paper case.
“Let me beg you to write the note,” he said, “as a favour
to me. It need not occupy you more than a few minutes. You
have only to ask Mrs. Catherick two questions. First, if her
daughter was placed in the Asylum with her knowledge and
approval. Secondly, if the share I took in the matter was
such as to merit the expression of her gratitude towards my-
self? Mr. Gilmore’s mind is at case on this unpleasant subject;
and your mind is at ease -— pray set my mind at ease also, by
writing the note.”
“You oblige me to grant your request, Sir Percival, when
I would much rather refuse it.” With those words Miss Hal-
combe rose from her place, and went to the writing-table.
Sir Percival thanked her, handed her a pen, and then walked
away towards the ﬁreplace. Miss Fairlie’s little Italian grey-
hound was lying on the rug. He held out his hand, and called
to the dog good-humouredly.
“Come, Nina,” he said; “we remember each other,
don’t we?"
The little beast, cowardly, and cross-grained as pet-dogs
usually are, looked up at him sharply, shrank away from his
outstretched hand, whined, shivered , and hid itself under a
sofa. It was scarcely possible that he could have been put out
by such a tn'ﬂe as a dog’s reception of him — but I observed,
nevertheless, that he walked away towards the window very
suddenly. Perhaps his temper is irritable at times? If so,
I can sympathise with him. My temper is irritable at times,
too. \
Miss Halcombe was not long in writing the note. When
it was done, she rose from the writin -table, and handed the
open sheet of paper to Sir Percival. e bowed; took it from
her; folded it up immediately, without looking at the con-
tents; sealed it; wrote the address; and handed it back to
her in silence. I never saw anything more gracefully and
more becomineg done, in my life.


THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 141
“ You insist on my posting this letter, Sir Percival?” said
Miss Halcombe.
“I beg you will post it," he answered. “And now that it
is written and scaled up, allow me to ask one or two last ques-
tions about the unhappy woman to whom it refers. I have
read the communication which Mr. Gilmore kindly addressed
to my solicitor, describing the circumstances under which the
writer of the anonymous letter was identiﬁed. But there are
certain points to which that statement does not refer. Did
Anne Catherick see Miss Fairlie ? ”
“Certainly not ,” replied Miss Halcombe.
“Did she see you?”
“No.”
“ She saw nobody from the house, then, except a certain
Mr. Hartright, who accidentally met with her in the church-
yard here ? ”
“Nobody else."
“Mr. Hartright was employed at Limmeridge as a draw-
ing-master, I believe? Is he a member of one of the Water-
Colour Societies? ”
“I believe he is ,” answered Miss Halcombe.
He paused for a moment, as if he was thinking over the
last answer, and then added:
“Did you ﬁnd out where Anne Catherick was living, when
she was in this neighbourhood? ”
“ Yes. At a farm on the moor, called Todd’s Corner.”
“It is a duty we all owe to the poor creature herself to
trace her," .continued Sir Percival. “ She may have said
something at Todd’s Corner which may help us to ﬁnd her.
I will go there, and make inquiries on the chance. In the
mean time , as I cannot prevail on myself to discuss this pain-
ful subject with Miss Fairlie, may I beg, Miss Halcombe,
that you will kindly undertake to give her the necessary ex-
planation, deferring it of course until you have received the
reply to that note.”
Miss Halcombe promised to comply with his request. He
thanked her —- nodded pleasantly — and left us, to go and


142 run WOMAN m wnrrn.
establish himself in his own room. As he opened the door, the
cross-grained greyhound poked out her sharp muzzle from
under the sofa , and barked and snapped at him.
“A good morning’s work, Miss Halcombe," I said, as
soon as we were alone. “Here is an anxious day well ended
already.”
“Yes,” she answered; “no doubt. I am very glad your
mind is satisﬁed."
“My mind! Surely, with that note in your hand, your
mind is at ease too?"
“Oh, yes — how can it be otherwise? I know the thing
could not be,” she went on, speaking more to herself than
to me; “but I almost wish Walter Hartright had stayed here
long enough to be present at the explanation, and to hear the
proposal to me to write this note."
I was a little surprised -— perhaps a little piqued, also , by
these last words.
“Events, it is true, connected Mr. Hartright very re-
markably with the affair of the letter,” I said; “ and I readily
admit that he conducted himself, all things considered, with
great delicacy and discretion. But I am quite at a loss to
understand what useful inﬂuence his presence could have
exercised in relation to the effect of Sir Percival’s statement
on your mind or mine.”
“It was only a fancy," she said, absently. “There is no
need to discuss it, Mr. Gilmore. Your experience ought to
be , and is, the best guide I can desire.” ‘
I did not altogether like her thrusting the whole responsi-
bility, in this marked manner, on my shoulders. If Mr. Fairlie
had done it, I should not have been surprised. But resolute,
clear-minded Miss Halcombe , was the very last person in the
world whom I should have expected to ﬁnd shrinking from the
expression of an opinion of her one.
“Ifany doubts still trouble you ," I said, “why not men-
tion them to me at once? Tell me plainly, have you any rea~
son to distrust Sir Percival Glyde? "
“None whatever.”


rm: WOMAN m WHITE. 143
“Do you see anything improbable, or contradictory, in
his explanation 'P” 7
“How can I say I do , after the proof he has offered me of
the truth of it? Can there be better testimony in his favour,
Mr. Gilmore , than the testimony of the woman’s mother?”
“ None better. If the answer to your note of inquiry proves
to be satisfactory, I, for one, cannot- see what more any
friend of Sir Percival’s can possibly expect from him."
“Then we will post the note,” she said, rising to leave
the room, “and dismiss all further reference to the subject,
until the answer arrives. Don’t attach any weight to my hesi-
tation. I can give no better reason for it than that I have
been over-anxious about Laura lately; and anxiety, Mr. Gil-
more, unsettles the strongest of us.”
She left me abruptly; her naturally ﬁrm voice faltering as
she spoke those last words. A sensitive, vehement, passionate
nature — a woman of ten thousand in these trivial, superﬁcial
times. I had known her from her earliest years; I had seen
her tested, as she grew up, in more than one trying family
crisis , and my long experience made me attach an importance
to her hesitation under the circumstances here detailed, which
I should certainly not have felt in the case of another woman.
I could see no cause for any uneasiness or any doubt; but she
had made me a little uneasy, and a little doubtful, never-
theless. In my youth, I should have chafed and fretted under
the irritation of my own unreasonable state of mind. In my
, age, I knew better; and went out philosophically to walk
it off.
II.
We all met again at dinner-time.
SitPercival was in suchboisterous high spirits that I hardly
recognized him as the same man whose quiet tact, reﬁnement,
and good sense had impressed me so strongly at the interview
of the morning. The only trace of his former self that I could


144 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
detect, reappeared, every now and then, in his manner towards
Miss Fairlie. A look or aword from her, suspended his loudest
laugh, checked his gayest ﬂow of talk, and rendered him all
attention to her, and to no one else at table, in an instant.
Although he never openly tried to draw her into the conversa-
tion, he never lest the slightest chance she gave him of letting
her drift into it by accident, and of saying the words to her,
under those favourable circumstances, which a man with less
tact and delicacy would have pointedly addressed to her the
moment they occurred to him. Rather to my surprise, Miss
Fairlie appeared to be sensible of his attentions, without being
moved by them. She was a little confused from time to time,
when he looked at her, or spoke to her; but she never warmed
towards him. Rank, fortune, good breeding, good looks, the
respect of a gentleman, and the devotion of a lover, were all
humbly placed at her feet, and, so far as appearances went,
were all offered in vain.
On the next day, the Tuesday, Sir Percival went in the
morning (taking one of the servants with him as a guide) to
Todd’s Corner. His inquiries, as I afterwards heard, led to no
results. On his return , he had an interview with Mr. Fairlie;
and in the afternoon he and Miss Halcombe rode out together.
Nothing else happened worthy of record. The evening passed
as usual. There was no change in Sir Percival, and no change
in Miss Fairlie.
The Wednesday‘s post broughtwith it an event — the reply
from Mrs. Catherick. I took a copy of the document , which I
have preserved, and which I may as well present in this place.
It ran as follows: --
“Msnsn, — Ibeg to acknowledge the receipt of your letter,
inquiring whether my daughter, Anne, was placed under medi-
cal superintendence with my knowledge and approval, and
whether the share taken in the matter by Sir Percival Glyde
was such as to merit the expression of my gratitude towards
that gentleman. Be pleased to accept my answer in the aﬁir-


'rnn woman IN WHITE. 145
mative to both those questions, and believe me to remain, your
obedient servant,
“JANE ANNE Carnsiucx.”
Short, sharp, and to the point: in form, rather a business-
like letter for a woman to write; in substance, as plain a con-
ﬁrmation as could be desired of SirPercival Glyde’s statement.
This was my opinion, and with certain minor reservations,
Miss Halcombe’s opinion also. Sir Percival, when the letter
was shown to him, did not appear to be struck by the sharp,
short tone of it. He told us that Mrs. Catherick was a woman
of few words, a clear-headed , straightforward, unimaginative
person, who wrote brieﬂy and plainly , just as she spoke.
The next duty to be accomplished, now that the answer
had been received, was to acquaint Miss Fairlie with Sir
Percival's explanation. Miss Halcombe had undertaken to do
this, and had left the room to go to her sister, when she sud-
denly returned again, and sat down by the easy-chair in which
I was reading the newspaper. Sir Percival had gone out a
minute before, to look at the stables, and no one was in the
room but ourselves. '
“I suppose we have really and truly done all we can?
she said, turning and twisting Mrs. Catherick’s letter in her
hand.
“If we are friends of Sir Percival’s, who know him and
trust him, we have done all, and more than all, that is neces-
sary,” I answered, a little annoyed by this return of her hesita-
tion. “But if we are enemies who suspect him --"
“That alternative is not even to be thought of ,” she inter-
posed. “We are Sir Percival’s friends; and, if generosity and
forbearance can add to our regard for him , we ought to be Sir
Percival’s admirers as well. You know that he saw Mr.
Fairlie yesterday, and that he afterwards went out with
me?”
“Yes. I saw you riding away together."
“We began the ride by talking about Anne Catherick, and
about the singular manner in which Mr. Hartright met with-
Ths Woman in White. I. i 10


146 rue WOMAN m wrurn.
her. But we soon dropped that subject; and Sir Percival
spoke next , in the most unselﬁsh terms , of his engagement
with Laura. He said he had observed that she was out of
spirits, and he was willing, if not informed to the contrary , to
attribute to that cause the‘alteration in her manner towards
him during his present visit. If, however, there was any other
more serious reason for the change, he would entreat that no
constraint might be placed on her inclinations either by Mr.
Fairlie or by me. All he asked, in that case , was that she
would recall to mind. for the last time, what the circumstances
were under which the engagement between them was made.
and what his conduct had been from the beginning of the
courtship to the present time. If, after due reﬂection on those
two subjects, she seriously desired that he should withdraw his
pretensions to the honour of becoming her husband -— and if
she would tell him so plainly, with her own lips ~— he would
sacriﬁce himself byleaving her perfectly free to withdraw from
the engagement.”
“No man could say more than that, Miss Halcombe. As
to my experience, few men in his situation would have said as
much.”
She paused after I had spoken those words, and looked at
me with a singular expression of perplexity and distress.
“I accuse nobody and I suspect nothing,” she broke out,
abruptly. “But I cannot and will not accept the responsibility
of persuading Laura to this marriage."
“That is exactly the course which Sir Percival Glyde has
himself requested you to take ," I replied, in astonishment.
“He has begged you not to force her inclinations."
“And he indirectly obliges me to force them, if I give her
his message.”
“How can that possibly be?”
“Consult your own knowledge of Laura, Mr. Gilmore. If
I tell her to reﬂect on the circumstances of her engagement, I
at once appeal to two of the strongest feelings in her nature -—
to her love for her father‘s memory, and to her strict regard for
truth. You know that she never broke a promise in her life;


THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 147
you know that she enteredon this engagement at the beginning
of her father’s fatal illness, and that he spoke hopefully and
happily of her marriage to Sir Percival Glyde on his death-
bed. ”
I own that I was a little shocked at this view of the
case.
“Surely,” I said, “you don’t mean to infer that when Sir
Percival spoke to you yesterday, he speculated on such a result
as you have just mentioned ?"
Her frank , fearless face answered for her before she
spoke.
“Do you think Iwould remain an instant in the company of
any man whom I suspected of such baseness as that ?” she
asked, angrily.
I liked to feel her hearty indignation ﬂash out on me in that
way. We see so much malice and so little indignation in my
profession.
“In that case ," I said, “excuse me if I tell you, in our legal
phrase, that you are travelling out of the record. Whatever
the consequences may be, Sir Percival has a right to expect
that your sister should carefully consider her engagement from
every reasonable point of view before she claims her release
from it. If that unlucky letter has prejudiced her against him,
go at once, and tell her that he has cleared himself in your eyes
and in mine. What objection can she urge against him after
that? What excuse can she possibly have for changing her
mind about aman whom she had virtually accepted for her
husband more than two years ago ?”
“In the eyes of law and reason, Mr. Gilmore, no excuse, I
dare say. If she still hesitates, and if I still hesitate, you must
attribute our strange conduct, if you like, to caprice in
both cases, and we must bear the imputation as well as
we can.” ‘
With those words , she suddenly rose, and left me. When
a sensible woman has a serious question put to her, and evades
it by a ﬂippant answer, it is a sure sign, in ninety-nine cases
out of a hundred, that shehas something to conceal. I returned
10*


148 THE woman IN warm.
to the perusal of the newspaper, strongly suspecting that Miss
Halcombe and Miss Fairlie had a secret between them which
they were keeping from Sir Percival and keeping from me. I
thought this hard on both of us — especially on Sir Percival.
My doubts —- or, to speak more correctly, my convictions
— were conﬁrmed by Miss Halcombe’s language and manner,
when I saw her again, later in the day. She was suspiciously
brief and reserved in telling me the result of her interview
with her sister. Miss Fairlie, it appeared, had listened quietly
while the affair of the letter was placed before her in the right
point of view; but when Miss Halcombe next proceeded to
say that the object of Sir Percival’s visit at Limmeridge was
to prevail on her to let a day be ﬁxed for the marriage, she
checked all further reference to the subject by begging for
time. If Sir Percival would consent to spare her for the
present, she would undertake to give him his ﬁnal answer,
before ’the end of the year. She pleaded for this delay with
such anxiety and agitation, that Miss Halcombe had promised
to use her inﬂuence, if necessary, to obtain it; and there, at
Miss Fairlie’s earnest entreaty, all further discussion of the
marriage question had ended.
The purely temporary arrangement thus proposed might
have been convenient enough to the young lady ; but it proved
somewhat embarrassing to the writer of these lines. That
morning's post had brought a letter from my partner, which
obliged me to return to town the next day, by the afternoon
train. It was extremely probable that I should ﬁnd no se-
cond opportunity of presenting myself at Limmeridge House
during the remainder of the year. In that case, supposing
Miss Fairlie ultimately decided on holding to her engagement,
my necessary personal communication with her, before I
drew her settlement, would become something like a down-
right impossibility; and we should be obliged to commit to
writing questions which ought always to be discussed on both
sides by word of mouth. I said nothing about this diﬂiculty,
until Sir Percival had been consulted on the subject of the
desired delay. He was too gallant a gentleman not to grant


'rns WOMAN IN WHITE. 149
the request immediately. When Miss Halcombe informed
me of this, I told her that I must absolutely speak to her
sister, before I left Limmeridge; and it was, therefore, ar-
ranged that I should see Miss Fairlie in her own sitting-room,
the next morning. She did not come down to dinner, or join
us in the evening. Indisposition was the excuse; and I
thought Sir Percival looked, as well he might, a little annoyed
when he heard of it.
The next morning as soon as breakfast was over, I went
up to Miss Fairlie’s sitting-room. The poor girl looked so
pale and sad, and came forward to welcome me so readily and
prettily, that the resolution to lecture her on her caprice and
indecision, which I had been forming all the way up~stairs,
failed me on the spot. I led her back to the chair from which
she had risen, and placed myself opposite to her. Her cross-
grained pet greyhound was in the room, and I fully expected
a barking and snapping reception. Strange to say, the
whimsical little brute falsiﬁed my expectations by jumping
into my lap, and poking its sharp muzzle familiarly into my
hand the moment I sat down.
“You used often to sit on my knee when you were a child,
my dear,” I said, “and now your little dog seems determined
to succeed you in the vacant throne. Is that pretty drawing
your doing?” ' '
I pointed to a little album, which lay on the table by her
side, and which she had evidently been looking over when I
came in. The page that lay open had a small water-colour
landscape very neatly mounted on it. This was the drawing
which had suggested my question: an idle question enough
-- but how could I begin to talk of business to her the moment
I opened my lips? '
“No,” she said, looking away from the drawing rather
confusedly; “it is not my doing."
Her ﬁngers had a restless habit, which I remembered in
her, as a child, of always playing with the ﬁrst thing that
came to hand, whenever any one was talking to her. On this
occasion they wandered to the album, and toyed absently


150 was WOMAN IN WHITE.
about the margin of the little water-colour drawing. The ex-
pression of melancholy deepened on her face. She did not
look at the drawing, or look at me. Her eyes moved un-
easily from object to object in the room; betraying plainly
that she suspected what my purpose was in coming to speak
to her. Seeing that, I thought it best'to get to the purpose
with as little delay as possible.
“ One of the errands, my dear, which brings me here is to
bid you good-by,” I began. “I must get back to London to-
day; and, before I leave, I want to have a word with you on
the subject of your own affairs."
“1 am very sorry you are going, Mr. Gilmore," she said,
looking at me kindly. “It is like the happy old times to have
you here." '
“I hope I may be able to come back, and recall those
pleasant memories once more,” I continued; “but as there is
some uncertainty about the future, I must take my oppor-
tunity when I can get it, and speak to you now. I am your
old lawyer and your old friend; and I may remind you, I am
sure, without offence, of the possibility of your marrying Sir
Percival Glyde.”
She took her hand off the little album as suddenly as if it
had turned hot and burnt her. Her ﬁngers twined together
nervously in her lap; her eyes looked down again at the ﬂoor;
and an expression of constraint settled on her face which
looked almost like an expression of pain.
“Is it absolutely necessary to speak of my marriage en-
gagement?" she asked, in low tones.
“It is necessary to refer to it,” I answered; “but not to
dwell on it. Let us merely say that you may marry, or that
you may not marry. In the ﬁrst case, I must be prepared,
beforehand, to draw your settlement; and I ought not to do
that without, as a matter of politeness, ﬁrst consulting you.
This may be my only chance of hearing what your wishes are.
Let us, therefore, suppose the case of your marrying, and let
me inform you, in as few words as possible, what your position


THE WOMAN IN wnrrs. 151
is now, and what you may make it, if you please, in the
future."
I explained to her the object of a marriage-settlement; and
then told her exactly what her prospects were -—in the ﬁrst -
place, on her coming of age, and, in the second place, on the
decease of her uncle — marking the distinction between the
property in which she had a life interest only, and the pro-
perty which was left at her own control. She listened atten-
tively, with the constrained expression still on her face, and
her hands still nervously clasped together in her lap.
“And, now,” I said, in conclusion, “tell me if you can
think of any condition which, in the case we have supposed,
you would wish me to make for you — subject, of course, to
your guardian’s approval, as you are not yet of age."
She moved uneasily in her chair -- then looked in my face,
on a sudden, very earnestly.
“If it does happen,” she began, faintly; “if I am —”
“If you are married,” I added, helping her out.
“Don’t let him part me from Marian," she cried, with a
sudden outbreak of energy. “ Oh, Mr. Gilmore, pray make it
law that Marian is to live with me ! "
Under other circumstances, I might perhaps have been
amused at this essentially feminine interpretation of my ques-
tion, and of the long explanation which had preceded it.
But her looks and tones, when she spoke, were of a kind to
make me more than serious —- they distressed me. Her words.
few as they were, betrayed a desperate clinging to the past
which boded ill for the future.
“Your having Marian Halcombe to live with you, can
easily be settled by private arrangement,” I said. “You
hardly understood my question, I think. It referred to your
own property — t0 the disposal of your money. Supposing
you were to make a will, when you come of age, who would
you like the money to go to? ”
“Marian has been mother and sister both to me,” said the
good, affectionate girl, her pretty blue eyes glistening while
she spoke. “ May I leave it to Marian, Mr. Gilmore?”


152 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
“Certainly, my love ," I answered. “But remember
what a large sum it is. Would you like it all to go to Miss
Halcombe?"
She hesitated; her colour came and went; and her hand
stole back again to the little album.
“Not all of it ," she said. “There is some one else, be-
sides Marian — "
She stopped; her colour heightened; and the ﬁngers of the
hand that rested upon the album beat gently on the margin
of the drawing, as if her memory had set them going mechani-
cally with the remembrance of a favourite tune.
“ You mean some other member of the family besides Miss
Halcombe?” I suggested, seeing her at a loss to proceed.
The heightening colour spread to her forehead and her
neck, and the nervous ﬁngers suddenly clasped themselves
fast round the edge of the book. ,
“There is some one else," she said, not noticing my last
words, though she had evidently heard them; “there is some
one else who might like a little keep-sake, if —if I might
leave it. There would be no harm, if I should die ﬁrst —"
She paused again. The colour that had spread over her
cheeks suddenly, as suddenly left them. The hand on the
album resigned its hold, trembled a little, and moved the
book away from her. She looked at me for an instant — then
turned her head aside in the chair. Her handkerchief fell to
the ﬂoor as she changed her position, and she hurriedly hid
her face from me in her hands.
Sad! To remember her, as I did, the liveliest, happiest
child that ever laughed the day through; and to see her now,
in the ﬂower of her age and her beauty, so broken and so
brought down as this!
In the distress that she caused me, I forgot the years that
had passed, and the change they had made in our position
towards one another. I moved my chair close to her, and
picked up her handkerchief from the carpet, and drew her
hands from her face gently. “Don't cry, my love," I said,
and dried the tears that were gathering in her eyes, with my


THE WOMAN IN wnrrs. 153
Own hand, as if she had been the little Laura Fairlie of ten
long years ago. ‘
It was the best way I could have taken to compose her.
She laid her head on my shoulder, and smiled faintly through
her tears.
“I am very sorry for forgetting myself," she said, artlessly.
“I have not been well — I have felt sadly weak and nervous
lately; and I often cry without reason when I am alone. I am
better now; I can answer you as I ought, Mr. Gilmore, I can
. indeed.”
“No, no, my dear,” I replied; “we will consider the sub-
ject as done with, for the present. You have said enough to
sanction my taking the best possible care of your interests;
and we can settle details at another opportunity. Let us have
done with business, now, and talk of something else."
I led her at once into speaking on other topics. In ten
minutes’ time, she was in better spirits; and I rose to take my
leave.
“Come here again,” she said earnestly. “I will try to be
worthier of your kind feeling for me and for my interests if you
will only come again. ”
Still clinging to the’ past -— that past which I represented
to her, in my way, as Miss Halcombe did in hers! It troubled
me sorely to see her looking back, at the beginning of her
career, just as I look back at the end of mine.
“If I do come again, I hope I shall ﬁnd you better,” I
said —- “better and happier. God bless you, my dear!”
She only answered by putting up her cheek to me to be
kissed. Even lawyers have hearts; and mine ached a little as
I took leave Of her.
The whole interview between us had hardly lasted more
than half an hour —- she had not breathed a word, in my pre-
sence, to explain the mystery of her evident distress and dis-
may at the prospect of her marriage —- and yet she had
contrived to win me over to her side of the question, I neither
knew how no:- why. I had entered the room, feeling that Sir
Percival Glyde had fair reason to complain of the manner in


154 ms WOMAN IN WHITE.
which she was treating him. I left it, secretly hoping that
matters might end in her taking him at his word and claiming
her release. A man of my age and experience ought to have
known better than to vacillate in this unreasonable manner.
I can make no excuse for myself, I can only tell the truth, and
say —- so it was.
The hour for my departure was now drawing near. I sent
to Mr. Fairlie to say that I would wait on him to take leave if
he liked, but that he must excuse my being rather in a hurry.
He sent a message back, written in pencil on a slip of paper:
“Kind love and best wishes, dear Gilmore. Hurry of any kind
is inexpressibly injurious to me. Pray take care of yourself.
Good-by.”
Just before I left, I saw Miss Halcombe, for a moment,
alone.
“Have you said all you wanted to Laura?” she asked.
“Yes,” I replied. “ She is very weak and nervous — I am
glad she has you to take care of her.”
Miss Halcombe’s sharp eyes studied my face attentively.
“You are altering your opinion about Laura,” she said.
“ You are readier to make allowances for her than you were
yesterday.”
No sensible man ever engages, unprepared, in a fencing
match of words with a woman. I only answered:
“Let me know what happens. I will do nothing till I hear
from you.”
She still looked hard in my face. “I wish it was all over,
and well over, Mr. Gilmore — and so do you.” With those
words she left me.
Sir Percival most politely insisted on seeing me to the car-
riage door.
“If you are ever in my neighbourhood,” he said, “pray
don’t forget that I am sincerely anxious to improve our ac-
quaintance. The tried and trusted old friend of this family
will be always a welcome visitor in any house of mine."
A really irresistible man— courteous, considerate, delight-
fully free from pride —-— a gentleman, every inch of him. As


run woman m meE. 155
I drove away to the station, I felt as if I could cheerfully do
anything to promote the interests of Sir Percival Glyde —
anything in the world, except drawing the marriage-settle-
ment of his wife.
HI.
A was]: passed, after my return to London, without the
receipt of any counnunication from Miss Halcombe.
On the eighth day, a letter in her handwriting was placed
among the other letters on my table.
It announced that Sir Percival Glyde had been deﬁnitely
accepted, and that the marriage was to take place , as he had
originally desired, before the end of the year. In all pro-
bability the ceremony would be performed during the last
fortnight in December. Miss Fairlie’s twenty-ﬁrst birthday
was late in March. She would, therefore, by this arrangement,
become Sir Percival's wife about three months before she was
of age.
I ought not to have been surprised, I ought not to have
been sorry; but I was surprised and sorry, nevertheless. Some
little disappointment, caused by the unsatisfactory shortness
of Miss Halcombe’s letter, mingled itself with these feelings,
and contributed its share towards upsetting my serenity for
the day. In six lines my correspondent announced the pro~
posed marriage; in three more, she told me that Sir Percival
had left Cumberland to return to his house in Hampshire; and
in two concluding sentences she informedme, ﬁrst, that Laura
was sadly in want of change and cheerful society; secondly,
that she had resolved to try the cﬁ'ect of some such change
forthwith, by taking her sister away with heron a visit to cer-
tain old friends in Yorkshire. There the letter ended, without
a word to explain what the circumstances were which had de-
cided Miss Fairlie to accept Sir Percival Glyde in one short
week from the time when I had last seen her.
At a later period, the cause of this sudden determination


156 Trm woman In wmrs.
was fully explained to me. It is not my business to relate it
imperfectly, on hearsay evidence. The circumstances came
within the personal experience of Miss Halcombe; and , when
her narrative succeeds mine, she will describe them in every
particular, exactly as they happened. In the mean time , the
plain duty for me to perform— before I, in my turn, lay down
my pen and withdraw from the story — is to relate the one re-
maining event connected with Miss Fairlie’s proposed marriage
in which I was concerned, namely , the drawing of the settle-
ment.
It is impossible to refer intelliginy to this document, with-
out ﬁrst entering into certain particulars, in relation to the
bride’s pecuniary aﬂ'airs. I will try to make my explanation
brieﬂy and plainly, and to keep it free from professional ob-
scurities and technicalities. The matter is of the utmost im-
portance. I warn all readers of these lines that Miss Fairlie’s
inheritance is a very serious part of Miss Fairlie’s story, and
that Mr. Gilmore’s experience, in this particular, must be
their experience also, if they wish to understand the narratives
which are yet to come.
Miss Fairlie's expectations, then, were of a twofold kind;
comprising her possible inheritance of real property , or land,
when her uncle died, and her absolute inheritance of personal
property, or money, when she came of age.
Let us take the land ﬁrst.
Inthe time of Miss Fairlie’s paternal grandfather (whom
we will call Mr. Fairlie, the elder) the entailed succession to
the Limmeridge estate stood thus:
Mr. Fairlie, the elder, died and left three sons, Philip,
Frederick, and Arthur. As eldest son, Philip succeeded to
the estate. If he died without leaving a son, the property
went to the second brother, Frederick. And if Frederick died
also without leaving a son, the property went to the third
brother, Arthur.
As events turned out, Mr. Philip Fairlie died leaving an
only daughter, the Laura of this story; and the estate, in
consequence, went, in course of law ,, to the second brother,


THE WOMAN is warm. 157
Frederick, a single man. The third brother, Arthur, had
died many years before the decease of Philip, leaving a son
and a daughter. The son, at the age of eighteen, was drowned
at Oxford. His death left Laura , the daughter of Mr. Philip
Fairlie, presumptive heiress to the estate; with every chance
of succeeding to it, in the ordinary course of nature, on her
uncle Frederick’s death, if the said Frederick died without
leaving male issue.
Except in the event, then , of Mr. Frederick Fairlie’s mar-
rying and leaving an heir (the two very last things in the world
that he was likely to do), his niece, Laura, would have the
property on his death; possessing, it must be remembered,
nothing more than a life-interest in it. If she died single, or
died childless, the estate would revert to her cousinMagdalen,
the daughter of Mr. Arthur Fairlie. If she married, with a
proper settlement —- or, in other Words, with the settlement I
meant to make for her — the income from the estate (a good
three thousand a year) would, during her lifetime, be at her
own disposal. If she died before her husband, he would na-
turally expect to be left in the enjoyment of the income, for
his lifetime. If she had a son, that son would be the heir, to
the exclusion of her cousin Magdalen. Thus, Sir Percival’s
prospects in marrying Miss Fairlie (so far as his wife’s ex~
pectations from real property were concerned) promised him
these two advantages, on Mr. Frederick Fairlie’s death: First,
the use of three thousand a year (by his wife’s permission,
while she lived, and, in his own right, on her death, if he
survived her); and, secondly, the inheritance of Limmeridge
for his son, if he had one.
So much for the landed property, and for the disposal of
the income from it, on the occasion of Miss Fairlie’s marriage.
Thus far, no difﬁculty or difference of opinion on the lady’s
settlement was at all likely to arise between Sir Percival's
lawyer and myself.
The personal estate, or, in other words, the money to
which Miss Fairlie would become entitled on reaching the age
of twenty-one years, is the next point to consider.


158 rm: WOMAN IN wnrrn.
This part Of her inheritance was, in itself, acomfortablc
little fortune. It was derived under her father’s will, and it
amounted to the sum of twenty thousand pounds. Besides
this, she had a life-interest in ten thousand pounds more;
which latter amount was to go on her decease, to her aunt
Eleanor, her father’s only sister. It will greatly assist in set-
ting the family affairs before the reader in the clearest possible
light, if I stop here for a moment, to explain why the aunt
had been kept waiting for her legacy until the death of the
niece.
Mr. Philip Fairlie had lived on excellent terms with his
sister Eleanor, as long as she remained a single woman. But
when her marriage took place, somewhat late in life, and
when that marriage united her to an Italian gentleman, named
Fosco — or, rather, to an Italian nobleman, seeing that he
rejoiced in the title of Count — Mr. Fairlie disapproved of her
conduct so strongly that he ceased to hold any communication
with her, and even went the length of striking her name out Of
his will. The other members of the family all thought his se_
rious manifestation of resentment at his sister’smarriage more
or less unreasonable. Count Fosco, though not a rich man,
was not a penniless adventurer either. He had a small, but
suﬂicient income of his own; he had lived many years'in
England; and he held an excellent position in society. These
recommendations, however, availed nothing with Mr. Fairlie.
In many of his opinions he was an Englishman of the old
school; and he hated a foreigner, simply and solely because
he was a foreigner. The utmost that he could be prevailed on
to do, in after years, mainly at Miss Fairlie’s intercession,
was to restore his sister’s name to its former place in his will,
but to keep her waiting for her legacy by giving the income of
the money to his daughter for life, and the money itself, if her
aunt died before her, to her cousin Magdalen. Considering
the relative ages of the two ladies, the aunt’s chance, in the
ordinary course of nature, of receiving the ten thousand
pounds, was thus rendered doubtful in the extreme; and Ma-
dame Fosco resented her brother’s treatment of heras unjustly


THE WOMAN m wrn'rn. 159
as usual in such cases , by refusing to see her niece, and de-
clining to believe that Miss Fairlie’s intercession had ever been
exerted to restore her name to Mr. Fairlie’s will.
Such was the history of the ten thousand pounds. Here
again no difﬁculty could arise with SirPercival’s legal adviser.
The income would be at the wife’s disposal, and the principal
would go to her aunt, or her cousin, on her death.
All preliminary explanations being now cleared out of the
way, 1 came, at last, to the real knot of the case — to the
twenty thousand pounds.
This sum was absolutely Miss Fairlie’s own, on her com-
pleting her twenty-ﬁrst year; and the whole future disposition
of it depended, in the ﬁrst instance, on the conditions I could
obtain for her in her marriage- settlement. The other clauses
contained in that document were of a formal kind, and need
not be recited here. But the clause relating to the money is
too important to be passed over. A few lines will be sufﬁcient
to give the necessary abstract of it.
My stipulation in regard to the twenty thousand pounds,
was shply this: The whole amount was to be settled so as to
give the income to the lady for her life; afterwards to SirPer-
cival for his life; and the principal to the children of the mar-
riage. In default of issue, the principal was to be disposed of
as the lady might by her will direct, for which purpose I re-
served to her the right of making a will. The effect of these
conditions may be thus summed up. If Lady Glyde died
without leaving children, her half-sister, Miss Halcombe, and
any other relatives or friends whom she might be anxious to
beneﬁt, would, on her husband’s death, divide among them
such shares of her money as she desired them to have. If, on
the other hand, she died, leaving children, then their interest,
naturally and necessarily, superseded all other interests
whatsoever. This was the clause; and no one who reads it,
can fail, I think, to agree with me that it meted out equal
justice to all parties.
We shall see how my proposals were met on the husband's
side.


160 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
At the time when Miss Halcombe’s letter reached me, I
was even more busily occupied than usual. But I contrived
to make leisure for the settlement. I had drawn it, and had
sent it for approval to Sir Percival’s solicitor, in less than a
week from the time when Miss Halcombe had informed me of
the proposed marriage.
After a lapse of two days, the document was returned to
me, with notes and remarks of the baronet’s lawyer. His
objections, in general, proved to be of the most triﬂing and
technical kind, until he came to the clause relating to the
twenty thousand pounds. Against this, there were double
lines drawn in red ink, and the following note was appended
to them:
“Not admissible. The principal to go to Sir Percival
Glyde, in the event of his surviving Lady Glyde, and there
being no issue.”
That is to say, not one farthing of the twenty thousand
pounds was to go to Miss Halcombe, or to any other relative
or friend of Lady Glyde’s. The whole sum, if she left no
children, was to slip into the pockets of her husband.
The answer I wrote to this audacious proposal was as short
and sharp as I could make it. “My dear sir. Miss Fairlie’s
settlement. I maintain the clause to which you object, exactly
as it stands. Yours truly.” The rejoinder came back in a
quarter of an hour. “My dear sir. Miss Fairlie’s settlement.
I maintain the red ink to which you object, exactly as it
stands. Yours truly.” In the detestable slang of the day,
we were now both “ at a dead-lock,” and nothing was left for
it but to refer to our clients on either side.
As matters stood , my client — Miss Fairlie not having yet
completed her twenty-ﬁrst year — was her guardian, Mr.
Frederick Fairlie. I wrote by that day’s post and put the
case before him exactly as it stood; not only urging every
argument I could think of to induce him to maintain the
clause as I had drawn it, but stating to him plainly the
mercenary motive which was at the bottom of the opposition
to my settlement of the twenty thousand pounds. The know-


THE WOMAN m wnrrn. 161
ledge of Sir Percival’s aﬁ'airs which I had necessarily gained
when the provisions of the deed on his side were submitted in
due course to my examination, had but too plainly informed
me that the debts on his estate were enormous, and that his
income , though nominally a large one, was, virtually , for a
man in his position, next to nothing. The want of ready
money was the practical necessity of Sir Percival's existence;
and his lawyer's note on the clause in the settlement was
nothing but the frankly selﬁsh expression of it.
Mr. Fairlie‘s answer reached me by return of post, and
proved to be wandering and irrelevant in the extreme. Turned
into plain English, it practically expressed itself to this effect:
“ Would dear Gilmore be so very obliging as not to worry his
friend and client about such a triﬂe as a remote contingency?
Was it likely that a young woman of twenty-one would die
before a man of forty-ﬁve, and die without children? On the
other hand, in such a miserable world as this , was it p0ssible
to over-estimate the value of peace and quietness? If those
two heavenly blessings were offered in exchange for such an
earthly triﬂe as a remote chance of twenty thousand pounds,
was it not a fair bargain? Surely, yes. Then why not
make it?"
I threw the letter away in disgust. Just as it had ﬂuttered
to the ground, there was a knock at my door; and Sir
Percival's solicitor, Mr. Merriman, was shown in. There are
many varieties of sharp practitioners in this world, but, I
think, the hardest of all to deal with are the men who over-
reach you under the disguise of inveterate good humour. A
fat, well-fed, smiling friendly man of business is of all parties
to a bargain the most hopeless to deal with. Mr. Merriman
was one of this class.
“And how is good Mr. Gilmore?” he began, all in a glow
with the warmth of his own amiabih'ty. “Glad to see you, sir,
in such excellent health. I was passing your door; and I
thought I would look in , in case you might have something to
say to me. Do — now pray do let us settle this little difference
The Woman in White. I. 11


162 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
of ours by word of month, if we can! Have you heard from
your client yet? "
“Yes. Have you heard from yours?”
“My dear, good sir! I wish I had heard from him to any
purpose — I wish, with all my heart, the responsibility was
off my shoulders; but he is obstinate, — or, let me rather say,
resolute — and he won’t take it off. ‘Merriman, I leave
details to you. Do what you think right for my interests; and
consider me as having personally withdrawn from the business
until it is all over.’ Those were Sir Percival’s words a fort-
night ago; and all I can get him to do now is to repeat them.
I am not a hard man, Mr. Gilmore, as you know. Personally
or privately, I do assure you, I should like to sponge out that
note of mine at this very moment. But if Sir Percival won’t
go into the matter, if Sir Percival will blindly leave all his
interests in my sole care, what course can I possibly take ex—
cept the course of asserting them? My hands are bound —
don’t you see, my dear sir? — my hands are bound.”
“You maintain your note on the clause, then, to the
letter?” I said.
“Yes -— deuce take it! I have no other alternative.” He
walked to the ﬁreplace, and warmed himself, humming the
fag end of a tune in a rich convivial bass voice. “What does
your side say?” he went on; “now pray tell me — what doe
your side say?” ~
I was ashamed to tell him. I attempted to gain time --
nay, I did worse. My legal instincts got the better of me;
and I even tried to bargain. ‘
“Twenty thousand pounds is rather a. large sum to be
given up by the lady’s friends at two days’ notice,” I said.
“ Very true ,” replied Mr. Merriman , looking down
thoughtfully at his boots. “Properly put, sir -— most pro-
perly put!” ' .
“A compromise, recognizing the interests of the lady’s
family as well as the interests of the husband might not,
perhaps, have frightened my client quite so much.” Iwent
on. “Come! come! this contingency resolves itself intoa


THE WOMAN is warm. 163
matter of bargaining after all. What is the least you will
take?”
“ The least we will take, "said Mr. Merriman, “is nineteen-
thousand - nine - hundred - and - ninety- nine - pounds-nineteen-
shillings-and-eleven-pence-three-farthings. Ha! ha! ha! Ex-
cuse me, Mr. Gilmore. I must have my little joke.”
“Little enough!” I remarked. “The joke is just worth
the odd farthing it was made for.”
Mr. Merriman was delighted. He laughed over my
retort till the room rang again. I was not half so good-
humoured, on my side; I came back to business, and closed
' the interview.
“ This is Friday,” I said. “Give us till Tuesday next for
our ﬁnal answer."
“By all means,’ replied Mr. Merriman. “Longer, my
dear sir, if you like.” He took up his hat to go; and then
addressed me again. “By the way," he said, “your clients
in Cumberland have not heard anything more of the woman
who wrote the anonymous letter, have they?”
“ Nothing more,” I answered. “Have you found no trace
of her?"
“Not yet,” said my legal friend. “But we don’t de-
spair. Sir Percival has his suspicions that Somebody is
keeping her in hiding; and we are having that Somebody
watched."
“You mean the old woman who was with her in Cumber-
land," I said.
“ Quite another party, sir,” answered Mr. Merriman. “ We
don’t happen to have laid hands on the Old woman yet. Our
Somebody is a man. We have got him close under our eye
here in London; and we strongly suspect he had something
to do with helping her in the ﬁrst instance to escape from the
Asylum. Sir Percival wanted to question him, at once; but
1 said, ‘ No. Questioning him will only put him on his guard:
watch him, and wait.’ We shall see what happens. A danger-
ous woman to be at large, Mr. Gilmore; nobody kn0ws what
she may do next. I wish you good morning, sir. On Tuesday
11*


164 THE WOMAN IN wnrrn.
next I shall hope for the pleasure of hearing from you." He
smiled amiably and went out. _
My mind had been rather absent during the latter part of
the conversation with my legal friend. I was so anxious
about the matter of the settlement , that I had little attention
to give to any other subject; and, the moment I was left
alone again, I began to think over what my next proceeding
ought to be.
In the case of any other client, I should have acted on my
instructions, however personally distasteful to me, and have
given up the point about the twenty thousand pounds on the
spot. But I could not act with this business-like indifference
towards Miss Fairlie. I had an honest feeling of affection and
admiration for her; I remembered gratefully that her father
had been the kindest patron and friend to me that ever man
had; I had felt towards her, while I was drawing the settle-
ment, as I might have felt , if I had not been an old bachelor,
towards a daughter of my own; and I was determined to
spare no personal sacriﬁce in her service and where her inter--
ests were concerned. Writing a second time to Mr. Fairlie
was not to be thought of ; it would only be giving him a second
opportunity of slipping through my ﬁngers. Seeing him and
personally remonstrating with him, might possibly be of more
use. The next day was Saturday. I determined to take a
return ticket, and jolt my old bones down to Cumberland, on
the chance of persuading him to adopt the just, the in-
dependent, and the honourable course. It was a poor chance
enough, no doubt; but, when I had tried it, my conscience
would be at ease. I should then have done all that a man in
my position- could do to serve the interests of my old friend’s
only child.
The weather on Saturday was beautiful, a west wind and
a bright sun. Having felt latterly a return of that fulness
and oppression of the head , against which my doctor warned
me so seriously more than two years since, I resolved to take
the opportunity of getting a little extra exercise, by sending
my bag on before me, and walking to the terminus in Euston-
I


THE WOMAN IN wane. 165
square. As I came out into Holborn, a gentleman walking
by rapidly, stopped and spoke to me. It was Mr. Walter
Hartright.
If he had not been the ﬁrst to greet me , I should certainly
have passed him. He was so changed that I hardly knew him
again. His face looked pale and haggard — his manner was
hurried and uncertain — and his dress, which I remembered
as neat and gentlemanlike when I saw him at Limmeridge,
was so slovenly now, that I should really have been ashamed
of the appearance of it on one of my own clerks.
“Have you been long back from Cumberland?” he asked.
“I heard from Miss Halcombe lately. I am aware that Sir
Percival Glyde’s explanation has been considered satis-
factory. Will the marriage take place soon? Do you happen
to know, Mr. Gilmore? "
He spoke so fast, and crowded his questions together so
strangely and confuscdly that I could hardly follow him.
However accidentally intimate he might have been with the
family at Limmeridge, I could not see that he had any right
to expect information on their private affairs; and I de-
termined to drop him, as easily as might be, on the subject of
Miss Fairlie’s marriage.
“Time will show, Mr. Hartright,” I said — “time will
show. I dare sa if we look out for the marriage in the papers
we shall not be ar wrong. Excuse my noticing it —- but 1 am
sorry to see you not looking so well as you were when we last
met." “
A momentary nervous contraction quivered about his lips
and eyes, and made me half reproach myself for having an-
swered him in such a signiﬁcantly guarded manner.
“I had no right to ask about her marriage,” he said, bit-
terly. “I must wait to see it in the newspapers like other
people. Yes,” he went on, before I could make any apo—
logies, “I have not been well lately. I want a change of
scene and occupation. You have a large circle of acquaint-
ance, Mr. Gilmore. If you should hear of any expedition
abroad which may be in want of a draughtsman, and if you


166 Tim wonmx IN wurrn.
have no friend of your own who can take advantage of the
opportunity, I should feel greatly obliged by your letting me
know of it. I can answer for my testimonials being satis-
factory; and I don’t care where I go , what the climate is , or
how long I am away.” He looked about him, while he said
this, at the throng of strangers passing us by on either side,
in a strange , suspicious manner, as if he thought that some of
them might be watching us.
“If I hear of anything of the kind I will not fail to mention
it," I said; and then added, so as not to keep him altogether
at arm’s length on the subject of the Fairlies, “I am going
down to Limmeridge to-day on business. Miss Halcombe and
Miss Fairlie are away just now, on a visit to some friends in
Yorkshire.”
His eyes brightened, and he seemed about to say some-
thing in answer; but the same momentary nervous spasm
crossed his face again. He took my hand, pressed it hard,
and disappeared among the crowd, without saying another
word. Though he was little more than a stranger to me,
I waited for a moment, looking after him almost with a
feeling of regret. I had gained, in my profession, suﬁ’icient
experience of young men, to know what the outward signs
and tokens were of their beginning to go wrong; and, when I
resumed my walk to the railway, I am sorry to say I felt more
than doubtful about Mr. Hartright’s future.
IV.
Lnsvmo by an early train, I got to Limmeridge in time
for dinner. The house was oppressiver empty and dull. I
had expected that good Mrs. Vesey would have been company
for me in the absence of the young ladies; but she was con-
ﬁned to her room by a cold. The servants were so surprised at
seeing me that they hurried and bustled absurdly , and made
all sorts of annoying mistakes. Even the butler, who was
old enough to have known better, brought me a bottle of port


'rnn WOMAN n: WHITE. 1 167
\
that was chilled. The reports of Mr. Fairlie’s health were
just as usual, and when I sent up a message to announce my
arrival, I was told that he would be delighted to see me the
next morning, but that the sudden news of my appearance
had prostrated him with palpitations for the rest of the even-
ing. The wind howled dismally all night, and strange crack—
ing and groaning noises sounded here, there, and everywhere
in the empty house. I slept as wretchedly as possible; and
got up, in a mighty bad humour, to breakfast by myself the
next morning.
At ten o’cloek I was conducted to Mr.Fairlie’s apartments.
He was in his usual room, his usual chair, and his usual ag-
gravating state of mind and body. When I went in, his valet
was standing before him, holding up for inspection a heavy
volume of etchings, as long and as broad as my oﬁice writing-
desk. The miserable foreigner grinned in the most abject
manner, and looked ready to drop with fatigue, while his
master composedly turned over the etchings, and brought
their hidden beauties to light with the help of a magnifying
glass.
“You very best of good old friends ," said Mr. Fairlie,
leaning back lazily before he could look at me, “are you
quite well? How nice of you to come here and see me in my
solitude. Dear Gilmore! "
I had expected that the valet would be dismissed when I
appeared; but nothing of the sort happened. There he stood,
in front of his master’s chair, trembling under the weight
of the etchings; and there Mr. Fairly sat, serenely twirl-
ing the magnifying glass between his white ﬁngers and
thumbs.
“ I have come to speak to you on a very important matter,”
I said; “and you will therefore excuse me, if I suggest that
we had better be alone."
The unfortunate valet looked at me gratefully. Mr.
Fairlie faintly repeated my last three words, “better be
alone," with every appearance of the utmost possible aston-
ishment.


THE WOMAN IN WHITE-
1 was in no humour for triﬂing; and I resolved to make him
understand what I meant.
“Oblige me by giving that man permission to withdraw,”
I said, pointing to the valet.
Mr. Fairlie arched his eyebrows, and pursed up his lips,
in sarcastic surprise.
“Man?” he repeated. “ You provoking old Gilmore,
what can you possibly mean by calling him a man? He's
nothing of the sort. He might have been a man half an hour
ago , before I wanted my etchings; and he may be a man half
an hour hence, when I don’t want them any longer. At
present he is simply a portfolio stand. Why object, Gilmore,
to a portfolio stand ? ”
“I do object. For the third time, Mr. Fairlie, I beg that
we may be alone."
My tone and manner left him no alternative but to comply
with my request. He looked at the servant, and pointed pee-
vishly to a chair at his side.
“Put down the etchings and go away,” he said. “Don't
upset me by losing my place? Have you, or have you not,
lost my place? Are you sure you have not? And have you put
my hand~bcll quite within my reach? Yes? Then, why the
devil don‘t you go?"
The valet went out. Mr. Fairlie twisted himself round in
his chair, polished the magnifying glass with his delicate
cambric handkerchief, and indulged himself with a sidelong
inspection of the open volume of etchings. It was not easy
to keep my temper under these circumstances; but I did
keep it. ~
“I have come here at great personal inconvenience,” I
said, “to serve the interests of your niece and your family;
and I thinkIhave established some slight claim to be favoured
with your attention in return.”
“Don’t bully me!” exclaimed Mr. Fairlie, falling back
helplessly in the chair, and closing his eyes. “Please don‘t
bully me. I’m not strong enough.”


'rna WOMAN IN WHITE. 169
I was determined not to let him provoke me, for Laura
Fairlie’s sake.
“ My object ," I went on, “is to entreat you to reconsider
your letter, and not to force me to abandon the just rights of
your niece, and of all who belong to her. Let me state the
case to you once more, and for the last time."
Mr. Fairlie shook his head and sighed piteously.
“ This is heartless of you, Gilmore — very heartless,” he
said. “Never mind; go on."
I put all the points to him carefully; I set the matter
before him in every conceivable light. He lay back in the
chair the whole time I was speaking, with his eyes closed.
When I had done, he opened them indolently, took his silver
smelling-bottle from the table, and sniffed at it with an air of
gentle relish.
“Good Gilmore!” he said, between the sniﬂ's, “how
very nice this is of you! How you reconcile one to human
nature! "
“Give me a plain answer to a plain question, Mr. Fairlie.
I tell you again, Sir Percival Glyde has no shadow of a claim
to expect more than the income of the money. The money
itself, if your niece has no children, ought to be under her
control, and to return to her family. If you stand ﬁrm, Sir
Percival must give way -— he must give way, I tell you , or he
exposes himself to the base imputation of marrying Miss Fair-
lie entirely from mercenary motives."
Mr. Fairlie shook the silver smelling-bottle at me play-
fully.
“You dear old Gilmore; how you do hate rank and family,
don’t you? How you detest Glyde, because he happens to be
a baronet. What a Radical you are — oh, dear me , what a
Radical you are l ” .
A Radical!!! I could put up with a good deal of provoca-
tion, but, after holding the soundest Conservative principles
all my life, I could not put up with being called a Radical.
My blood boiled at it — I started out of my chair -— I was
speechless with indignation.


170 Tim WOMAN m wni'rn.
“Don’t shake the room! " cried Mr. Fairlie — “for
l-Ieaven’s sake, don’t shake the room ! Worthiest of all
poasible Gilmores , I meant no offence. My own views are so
extremely liberal that I think I am a Radical myself. Yes.
We are a pair of Radicals. Please don’t be angry. I can‘t
quarrel — I haven’t stamina enough. Shall we drop the sub-
ject? Yes. Come and look at these sweet etchings. Do let
me teach you to understand the heavenly pearliness of these
lines. Do, now, there’s a good Gilmore!"
While he was maundering on in this wayI was, fortunately
for my own self-respect, returning to my senses. When I
spoke again I was composed enough to treat his impertinence
with the silent contempt that it deserved.
“You are entirely wrong, sir," I said, “in supp0sing that
I speak from any prejudice against Sir Percival Glyde. I may
regret that he has so unreservedly resigned himself in this
matter to his lawyer‘s direction as to make any appeal to him-
self impossible; but I am not prejudiced against him. What
1 have said would equally apply to any other man in his situa-
tion, high or low. The principle I maintain is a recognised
principle. If you-were to apply at the nearest town here, to
the ﬁrst respectable solicitor you could ﬁnd, he would tell you,
as a stranger, what I tell you, as a friend. He would inform
you that it is against all rule to abandon the lady’s money en-
tirely to the man she marries. He would decline, on grounds
of common legal caution , to give the husband, under any cir-
cumstances whatever , an interest of twenty thousand pounds
in his wife‘s death.”
“Would he really, Gilmore?" said ML. Fairlie. “If he
said anything half so horrid I do assure you I should tinkle
my bell for Louis, and have him sent out of the house im-
mediately."
“You shall not irritate me, Mr. Fairlie -— for your niece’s
sake and for her father’s sake, you shall not irritate me. You
shall take the whole responsibility of this discreditable settle-
ment on your own shoulders before I leave the room."
“Don’t! —- now please don’t! ” said Mr. Fairlie. “Think


- 'rnn WOMAN m wnrrn. 171
how precious your time is, Gilmore; and don’t throw it away.
I would dispute with you if I could, but I can’t— I haven‘t
stamina enough. You want to upset me, to upset yourself,
to upset Glyde , and to upset Laura; and —- oh , dear me! —
for the sake of the very last thing in the world that is likely to
happen. N0, dear friend — for the sake of peace and quiet-
ness, positively No! " v
“I am to understand, then, that you hold by the deter-
mination expressed in your letter? ”
“Yes, please. So glad we understand each other at last.
Sit down again —— do! "
I walked at once to the door; and Mr. Fairlie resignedly
“ tinkled " his hand-bell. Before I left the room I turned round
and addressed him for the last time.
“Whatever happens in the future, sir," I said, “remember
that my plain duty of warningyou has been performed. As
the faithful friend and servant of your family, I tell you, at
parting, that no daughter of mine should be married to any
man alive under such a settlement as you are forcing me to
make for Miss Fairlie.”
The door opened behind me, and the valet stood waiting
on the threshold. “
“Louis,” said Mr. Fairlie, “show Mr. Gilmore out, and
then come back and hold up my etchings for me again. Make
them give you a good lunch down stairs — do , Gilmore, make
my idle beasts of servants give you a good lunch.”
I was too much disgusted to reply; Iturned on my heel,
and left him in silence. There was an up train at two o’clock
in the afternoon; and by that train I returned to London.
On the Tuesday I sent in the altered settlement, which
practically disinherited the very persons whom Miss Fairlie’s
own lips had informed me she was most anxious to beneﬁt.
I had no choice. Another lawyer would have drawn up the
deed if I had refused to undertake it.
My task is done. My personal share in the events of the
family story extends no farther than the point which I have


172 rm; WOMAN in warm.
just reached. Other pens than mine will describe the strange
circumstances which are now shortly to follow. Seriously and
sorrowfully, I close this brief record. Seriously and son'row-
fully, I repeat here the parting words that I spoke at Lim~
meridge House: —No daughter of mine should have been
married to any man alive under such a settlement as I was
compelled to make for Laura Fairlie.


THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 173
THE STORY CONTINUED
BY
MARIAN HALCOMBE ,
IN EX'I‘RACTS FROM HER DIARY.
I.
a a a a a a1.
Limmeridge House, Nov. 8th.
ans morning Mr. Gilmore left us.
His interview with Laura had evidently grieved and sur-
prised him more than he liked to confess. I felt afraid, from
his look and manner when we‘parted, that she might have
inadvertently betrayed to him the real secret of her depression
and of my anxiety. This doubt grew on me so, after he had
gone, that I declined riding out with SirPercival, and went up
to Laura’s room instead.
I have been sadly distrustful of myself, in this difﬁcult
and lamentable matter , ever since I found out my own
ignorance of the strength of Laura’s unhappy attachment.
I ought to have known that the delicacy and forbearance
and sense of honour which drew me to poor Hartright,
and made me so sincerely admire and respect him, were
just the qualities to appeal most irresistibly to Laura’s
natural sensitiveness and natural generosity of nature. And
yet, until she opened her heart to me of her own accord , 1 had
no suspicion that this new feeling had taken root so deeply. I
1- The passages omitted, here and elsewhere, in Miss Halcombe‘s
Diary, are only those which bear no reference to Miss Fairlie or to any of
the persons with whom she is associated in those pages.


174 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
once thought time and care might remove it. I now fear that
it will remain with her and alter her for life. The discovery
that I have committed such an error in judgment as this,
makes me hesitate about everything else. I hesitate about
Sir Percival, in the face of the plainest proofs. I hesitate even
in speaking to Laura. On this very morning, I doubted, with
my hand on the door, whether I should ask her the questions I
had come to put, or not.
When I went into her room , I found her walking up and
down in great impatience. She looked ﬂushed and excited;
and she came forward at once, and spoke to me before I could
open my lips.
“I wanted you,” she said. “Come and sit down on the
sofa with me. Marian! I can bear this no longer — I must and
will end it.”
There was too much colour in her cheeks, too much energy
in her manner, too much ﬁrmness in her voice. The little book
of Hartright’s drawings -- the fatal book that she will dream
over whenever she is alone — was in one of her hands. I began
by gently and ﬁrmly taking it from her, and putting it out of
sight on a side-table. ‘
“ Tell me quietly, my darling, what you wish to do,” Isaid.
“Has Mr. Gilmore been advising you? "
She shook her head. “No, not in whatI am thinking of
now. He was very kind and good to me , Marian , — and I am
ashamed to say I distressed him by crying. I am miserably
helpless; I can’t control myself. F or my own sake and for all
our sakes, I must have courage enough to end it.”
“Do you mean courage enough to claim your release ?"
I asked.
“ No," she said, simply. “ Courage, dear, to tell the
truth.”
She put her arms round my neck , and rested lier head
quietly on my bosom. On the opposite wall hung the miniature
portrait of her father. 1 bent over her,“ and saw that she was
- looking at it while her head lay on my breast.
“I can never claim my release from my engagement,” she


THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 175
went on. “Whatever way it ends, it must end wretchedly for
me. All I can do, Marian, is not to add the remembrance that
I have broken my promise and forgotten my father’s dying
words, to make that wretchedness worse."
“ What is it you propose, then ?” I asked.
“ To tell Sir Percival Glyde the truth, with my own lips,”
she answered, “and to let him release me, if he will, not
because I ask him, but because he knows a .”
“What do you mean, Laura, by ‘ all?’ Sir Percival will
know enough (he has told me so himself) if he knows that the
engagement is opposed to your own wishes.”
“ (Jan I tell him that, when the engagement was made for
me by my father, with my own consent? I should have
kept my promise; not happily, I am afraid , but still con-
tentedly -—” she stopped, turned her face to me , and laid her
cheek close against mine — “I should have kept my engage-
ment, Marian, if another love had not grown up in my heart, '
which was not there when I ﬁrst promised to be Sir Percival’s
wife."
“Laura! you will never lower yourself by making a con-
fession to him ? "
‘ “I shall lower myself, indeed, if I gain my release by
hiding from him what he has a right to know.”
“ He has not the shadow of a right to know it! ”
“Wrong, Marian,wron g! I ought to deceive no one —lcast
of all the man to whom my father gave me, and to whomIgave
myself." She put- her lips to mine, and kissed me. “My own
love,” she said, softly, “you are so much too fond of me- and so
much too proud of me , that you forget, in my case , what you
would remember in your own. Better that Sir Percival should
doubt my motives and misjudge my conduct if he will, than
that I should be ﬁrst false to him in thought, and then mean
enough to serve my own interests by hiding the falsehood.”
I held her away from me in astonishment. For the ﬁrst
time in our lives, we had changed places; the resolution was
all on .her side, the hesitation all on mine. I looked into the
pale, quiet, resigned young face; I saw the pure, innocent


176 was WOMAN IN WHITE.
heart, in the loving eyes that looked back at me — and the
poor, worldly cautions and objections that rose to my lips,
dwindled and died away in their own emp'tiness. I hung my
head in silence. In her place, the despicably small pride
which makes so many women deceitful, would 'have been my
pride, and would have made me deceitful, too.
“Don’t be angry with me, Marian,” she said, mistaking my
silence.
I only answered by drawing her close to me again. I was
afraid of crying if I spoke. My tears do not ﬂow so easily as
they ought — they come, almost like men’s tears, with sobs
that seem to tear me in pieces, and that frighten every one
about me. '
“ I have thought of this, love, for many days,” she went on,
twining and twisting my hair with that childish restlessness in
her ﬁngers, which poor Mrs. Vesey still tries so patiently and
so vainly to cure her of —— “ I have thought of it very seriously,
andlcan be sure of my courage, when my own conscience tells
me I am right. Let me speak to him to-morrow -— in your
presence, Marian. I will say nothing that is wrong, nothing
that you or I need be ashamed of -— but, oh, it will ease my
heart so to end this miserable concealment! Only let me
know and feel that I have no deception to answer for on my
side; and then , when he has heard what I have to say, let him
act towards me as he wil .”
She sighed, and put her head back in its old position on my
bosom. Sad misgivings about what the end would be, weighed
upon my mind; but , still distrusting myself , I told her that I
would do as she wished. She thanked me, and we passed
gradually into talking of other things.
At dinner she joined us again, and was more easy and more
herself with Sir Percival, than I have seen her yet. In the
evening she went to the piano , choosing new music of the
dexterous, tuneless , ﬂorid kind. The lovely old melodies of
Mozart, which poor Hartright was so fond of, she has never
played since he left. Thebook is no longer in the music-stand.


THE WOMAN IN wnrrn. 177
She took the volume away herself, so that nobody might ﬁnd
it out and ask her to play from it.
I had no opportunity of discovering whether her purpose
of the morning had changed or not, until she wished Sir
Percival good night — and then her own words informed me
that it was unaltered. She said, very quietly, that she wished
to speak to him, after breakfast, and that he would ﬁnd her in
her sitting-room with me. He changed colour at those words,
and I felt his hand trembling a little when it came to my turn
to take it. The event of the next morning would decide his
future life; and he evidently knew it.
I went in, as usual, through the door between our two bed-
rooms, to bid Laura. good-night before she went to sleep. In
stooping over her to kiss her, Isawthe little book ofHartright’s
drawings half hidden under her pillow , just in the place where
she used to hide her favourite toys when she was a child. I
could not ﬁnd it in my heart to say anything; but I pointed to
the book and shook my head. She reached both hands up to
my cheeks, and drew my face down to hers till our lips met.
“ Leave it there to-night,” she whispered; “ to-morrow
may be cruel, and may make me say good-by to it for ever.”
9th. — The ﬁrst event of the morning was not of a kind to
raise my spirits; a letter arrived for me, from poor Walter
Hartright. It is the answer 'to mine, describing the manner
in which Sir Percival cleared himself of the suspicions raised
by Anne Catherick’s letter. He writes shortly and bitterly
about Sir Percival’s eifplanations; only saying that he has no
right to offer an opinion on the conduct of those who are above
him. This is sad; but his occasional references to himself
grieve me still more. He says that the effort to return to his
old habits and pursuits, grows harder instead of easier to him,
every day; and he implores me, if I have any interest, to exert
it to get him employment that will necessitate his absence
from England, and take him among new scenes and new
people. I have been made all the readier to comply with this
The Woman in White. I. 12


178 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
request, by a passage at the end of his letter, which has almost
alarmed me.
After mentioning that he has neither seen nor heard any-
thing of Anne Catherick, he suddenly breaks off, and hints in
the most abrupt, mysterious manner, that he has been perpe-
tually watched and followed by strange men ever since he
returned to London. He acknowledges that he cannot prove
this extraordinary suspicion by ﬁxing on any particular per-
sons; but he declares that the suspicion itself is present to
him night and day. This has frightened me, because it looks
as if his one ﬁxed idea about Laura was becoming too much
for his mind. I will write immediately to some of my mother’s
inﬂuential old friends in London, and press his claims on their
notice. Change of scene and change of occupation may really
be the salvation of him at this crisis in his life.
Greatly to my relief, Sir Percival sent an apology for not
joining us at breakfast. He had taken an early cup of coffee
in his own room, and he was still engaged there in writing
letters. At eleven o’clock, if that hour was convenient, he
would do himself the honour of waiting on Miss Fairlie and
Miss Halcombe.
My eyes were on Laura's face while the message was being
delivered. I had found her unaccountany quiet and composed
on going into her room in the morning; and so she remained
- all through breakfast. Even when we were sitting together on
the sofa in her room, waiting for Sir Percival, she still pre-
served her self-control.
“Don’t be afraid of me, Marian,” was all she said: “I may
forget myself with an old friend like Mr. Gilmore, or with a
dear sister like'you; but I will not forget myself with Sir Per-
cival Glyde."
I looked at her, and listened to her in silent surprise.
Through all the years of our close intimacy, this passive force
in her character had been hidden from me — hidden even from
herself, till 10Ve found it, and suffering called it forth.
As the clock on the mantelpiece struck eleven, SirPercival
knocked at the door, and came in. There was suppressed


* THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 179
anxiety and agitation in every line of his face. The dry, sharp
cough, which teases him at most times, seemed to be troubling
him more incessantly than ever. He sat down opposite to us
at the table; and Laura remained by me. I looked attentively
at them both, and he was the palest of the two.
He said a few unimportant words, with avisible effort to
preserve his customary ease of manner. But his voice was not
to be steadied, and the restless uneasiness in his eyes was
not to be concealed. He must have felt this himself; for he
stopped in the middle of a sentence, and gave up even the
attempt to hide his embarrassment any longer.
There was just one moment of dead silence before Laura
addressed him.
“I wish to speak to you, Sir Percival ,” she said, “on a
subject that is very important to us both. My sister is here,
because her presence helps me, and gives me conﬁdence. She
has not suggested one word of what I am going to say: I
speak from my own thoughts, not from hers. I am sure you
will be kind enough to understand that, before I go any
farther ? " '
Sir Percival bowed. She had proceeded thus far, with per;
feet outward tranquillity, and perfect propriety of manner.
She looked at him, and he looked at her. They seemed, at the
outset at least, resolved to understand one another plainly.
“I have heard from Marian,” she went on, “that I have
only to claim my release from our engagement, to obtain that
release from you. It was forbearing and generous on your
part, Sir Percival, to send me such a message. It is only doing
you justice to say that I am grateful for the oﬁ'er', and I hope
and believe that it is only doing myself justice to tell you that
I decline to accept it.”
His attentive face relaxed a little. But I saw one of his
feet, softly, quietly, incessantly beating on the carpet under
the table; and I felt that he was secretly as anxious as ever.
“I have not forgotten,” she said, “that you asked my
father‘s permission before you honoured me with a proposal of
marriage. Perhaps, you have not forgotten, either, whatI
12*


180 THE WOMAN m wnrrn.
said when I consented to our engagement? I ventured to tell
you that my father's inﬂuence and advice had mainly decided
me to give you my promise. I was guided by my father, be-
cause I had always found him the truest of all advisers , the
best and fondest of all protectors and friends. I have lost him
now; I have only his memory to love; but my faith in that
dear dead friend has never been shaken. I believe, at this
moment, as truly as I ever believed, that he knew what was
best, and that his hopes and wishes ought to be my hopes and
wishes too." '
Her voice trembled, for the ﬁrst time. Her restless ﬁngers
stole their way into my lap, and held fast by one of my hands.
There was another moment of silence; and then Sir Percival
spoke.
“May I ask,” he said , “if I have ever proved myself un-
worthy of the trust, which it has been hitherto my greatest
honour and greatest happiness to possess?"
“I have found nothing in your conduct to blame," she
answered. “You have always treated me with the same deli-
cacy and the same forbearance. You have deserved my trust;
and, what is of far more importance in my estimation, you
have deserved my father’s trust, out of which mine grew. You
have given me no excuse, even if I had wanted to ﬁnd one , for
asking to be released from my pledge. WhatI have said so
far, has been spoken with the wish to acknowledge my whole
obligation to you. My regard for that obligation , my regard
for my father’s memory, and my regard for my own promise,
all forbid me to set the example, on my side, of withdrawing
from our present position. The breaking of our engagement
must be entirely your wish and your act, Sir Percival — not
mine.”
The uneasy beating of his foot suddenly stopped; and he
leaned forward eagerly acrgss the table.
“My act?” he said. “What reason can there be, on my
side, for withdrawing?”
I heard her breath quickening; I felt her hand growing


THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 181
cold. In spite of what she had said to me, when we were alone,
I began to be afraid of her. I was wrong.
“A reason that it is very hard to tell you ," she answered.
“ There is a change in me, Sir Percival— a change which is
serious enough to justify you, to yourself and to me, in
breaking off our engagement."
His face turned so pale again, that even his lips lost their
colour. He raised the arm which lay on the table; turned a
little away in his chair; and supported his head on his hand,
so that his proﬁle only was presented to us.
“ What change?” he asked. The tone in which he put the
question jarred on me -— there was something painfully sup-
pressed in it.
She sighed heavily, and leaned towards me a little, so as
to rest her shoulder against mine. I felt her trembling, and
tried to spare her by speaking myself. She stopped me by a
warning pressure of her hand, and then addressed SirPercival
once more; but, this time, without looking at him.
“I have heard," she said, “ andI believe it, that the fondest
and truest of all affections is the affection which a woman
ought to bear to her husband. When our engagement began,
that aﬁ'ection was mine to give, if I could, and yours to win, if
you could. Will you pardon me , and spare me, Sir Percival,
if I acknowledge that it is not so any longer?"
A few tears gathered in her eyes, and dropped over her
cheeks slowly, as she paused and waited for his answer. He
did not utter a word. At the beginning of her reply, he had
moved the hand on which his head rested, so that it hid his
face. I saw nothing but the upper part of his ﬁgure at the
table. Not a muscle of him moved. The ﬁngers of the hand
which supported his head were dented deep in his hair. They
might have expressed hidden anger, or hidden grief —- it was
hard to say which — there was no signiﬁcant trembling in
them. There was nothing, absolutely nothing to tell the secret
of his thoughts at that moment — the moment which was the
crisis of his life and the crisis of hers.


182 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
I was determined to make him declare himself, for Laura's
sake.
“ SirPercival ! " I interposed, sharply; “ have younothing to
say, when my sister has said so much? More, in my opinion,"
I added , my unlucky temper getting the better of me, “ than
any man alive, in your position, has a right to hear from her.”
That last rash sentence opened a way for him by which to
escape me if he chose; and he instantly took advantage of it.
“Pardon me, Miss Halcombe,” he said, still keeping his
hand over his face — “pardon me , if I remind you that I have
claimed no such righ .”
The few plain words which would have brought him back
to the point from which he had wandered, were just on my
lips, when Laura checked me by speaking again.
“I hopeI have not made my painful acknowledgment in
vain," she. continued. “I hope it has secured me your entire
conﬁdence in what I have still to say? "
“ Pray be assured of it.” He made that brief reply,
warmly; dropping his hand on the table, while he spoke, and
turning towards us again. Whatever outward change had
passed over him , was gone now. His face was eager and ex-
pectant -— it expressed nothing but the most intense anxiety
to hear her next words.
“I wish you to understand thatI have not spoken from any
selﬁsh motive,” she said. “If you leave me, Sir Percival, after
what you have just heard , you do not leave me to marry
another man -— you only allow me to remain a single woman
for the rest of my life. My fault towards you has begun and
ended in my own thoughts. It can never go any farther. N 0
word has passed —" She hesitated, in doubt about the ex-
pression she should use next; hesitated, in a momentary con-
fusion which it was very sad and very painful to see. “N 0
word has passed,” she patiently and resolutely resumed , “ be-
tween myself and the person to whom I am now referring for
the ﬁrst and last time in your presence, of my feelings towards
him, or of his feeling towards me -— no word ever can pass --
neither he nor I are likely, in this world, to meet again. I


THE WOMAN 1N WHITE. 183
earnestly beg you to spare me from saying any more, and to
believe me, on my word, in what I have just told you. It is the
truth, Sir Percival ~ the truth which I think my promised hus-
band has a claim to hear, at any sacriﬁce of my own feelings.
I trust to his generosity to pardon me, and to his honour to
keep my secret.”
“Both those trusts are sacred to me,” he said, “and both
shall be sacredly kept.”
After answering in those terms, he paused , and looked at
her, as if he was waiting to hear more. '
“I have said all I wish to say,” she added, quietly—' “I
have said more than enough to justify you in withdrawing
from your engagement.”
“You have said more than enough,” he answered, “to make
it the dearest object of my life to keep the engagement." With
those words he rose from his chair, and advanced a few steps
towards the place where she was sitting. \
She started violently, and a faint cry of surprise escaped
her. Every word she had spoken had innocently betrayed her
purity and truth to aman who thoroughly understood the price-
less value of a pure and true woman. Her own noble conduct
had been the hidden enemy, throughout, of all the hopes she
had trusted to it. I had dreaded this from the ﬁrst. I would
have prevented it, if she had allowed me the smallest chance of
doing so. I even waited and watched, now, when the harm
was done , for a word from Sir Percival that would give me the
opportunity of putting him in the wrong.
“You have left it to me, Miss Fairlie, to resign you,” he
continued. “I am not heartless enough to resign a woman who
has just shown herself to be the noblest of her sex. ”
He spoke with such warmth and feeling, with such pas-
sionate enthusiasm and yet with such perfect delicacy, that
she raised her head , ﬂushed up a little, and looked at him with
sudden animation and spirit.
“No!” she said, ﬁrmly. “The most wretched of her sex,
if she must give herself in marriage when she cannot give
her love."


184 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
“May she not give it in the future," he asked, “if the one
object of her husband’s life is to deserve it? "
“Never!” she answered. “If you still persist in main-
taining our engagement, I may be your true and faithful
wife, Sir Percival — your loving wife, if I know my own heart,
never!"
She looked so irresistibly beautiful as she said those brave
words that no man alive could have steeled his heart against
her. I tried hard to feel that Sir Percival was to blame,
and to say so; but my womanhood would pity him, in spite of
myself.
“I gratefully accept your faith and truth ,” he said. “The
least that you can offer is more to me than the utmost thatI
could hope for from any other woman in the world."
Her left hand still held mine; but her right hand hung list-
lessly at her side. He raised it gently to his lips —— touched it
with them, rather than kissed it — bowed to me — and then,
with perfect delicacy and discretion, silently quitted the
room.
She neither moved , nor said a word , when he was gone —
she sat by me, cold and still, with her eyes ﬁxed on the ground.
I saw it was hopeless and useless to speak; and I only put my
arm round her, and held her to me in silence. We remained
together so, for what seemed a long and weary time — so long
and so weary, that I grew uneasy and spoke to her softly, in
the hope of producing a change.
The sound of my voice seemed to startle her into conscious-
ness. She suddenly drew herself away from me, and rose to
her feet.
“I must submit, Marian, as well as I can ,’ she said.
“My new life has its hard duties; and one of them begins
to-da ."
AZ she spoke, she went to a side-table near the window, on
which her sketching materials were placed; gathered them to-
gether carefully; and put them in a drawer of her cabinet. She
looked the drawer, and brought the key to me.
“1 must part from everything that reminds me of him ," she
r


THE WOMAN in warm. 185
said. “Keep the key wherever you please — I shall never want
it again."
Before I could saya word, she had turned away to her book-
case, and had taken from it the album that contained Walter
Hartright's drawings. She hesitated for a moment, holding
the little volume fondly in her hands - then lifted it to her lips .
and kissed it.
“Oh, Laura! Laura!” I said, not angrily, not reprovingly
- with nothingbut sorrow in my voice, and nothing but sorrow
in my heart.
“It is the last time, Marian," she pleaded. “I am bidding
it good-by for ever."
She laid the book on the table, and drew out the comb that
fastened her hair. It fell, in its matchless beauty, over her
back and shoulders, and dropped round her, far below her
waist. She separated one long, thin look from the rest, cut it
011‘ , and pinned it carefully, in the form of a circle, on the ﬁrst
blank page of the album. The moment it was fastened, she
closed the volume hurriedly, and placed it in my hands.
“You write to him, and he writes to you,”she said. “While
I am alive, if he asks after me , always tell him I am well, and
never say I am unhappy. Don’t distress him, Marian - for
my sake , don’t distress him. If I die ﬁrst, promise you will
give him this little book of his drawings, with my hair in it.
There can be no harm, when I am gone, in telling him that I
put it there with my own hands. And say — 0h, Marian,
say for me, then, what I can never say for myself — say I
loved him!"
She ﬂung her arms round my neck, and whispered the last
words in my ear with a passionate delight in uttering them
which it almost broke my heart to hear. All the long restraint
she had imposed on herself, gave way in that ﬁrst last outburst
of tenderness. She broke from me with hysterical vehemence,
and threw herself on the sofa, in a paroxysm of subs and tears
that shook her from head to foot.
I tried vainly to soothe her and reason with her; she was
past being soothed, and past being reasoned with. It was the


186 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
sad, sudden end for us two, of this memorable day. When the
ﬁt had worn itself out, she was too exhausted to speak. She
slumbered towards the aftemoon; and I put away the book of
drawings so that she might not see it when she woke. My face
was calm, whatever my heart might be , when she opened her
eyes again and looked at me. We said no more to each other
about the distressing interview of the morning. Sir Percival’s
name was not mentioned, Walter Hartright was not alluded to
again by either of us for the remainder of the day.
10th. — Finding that she was composed and like herself,
this morning, I returned to the painful subject of yesterday,
for the sole purpose of imploring her to let me speak to Sir Per-
cival and M. Fairlie, more plainly and strongly than she could
speak to either of them herself, about this lamentable marriage.
She interposed , gently but ﬁrmly , in the middle of my remon_
strances.
“I left yesterday to decide," she said; “and yesterday has
decided. It is too late to go back."
Sir Percival spoke to me this afternoon, about what had
passed in Laura’s room. He assured me that the unparalleled
trust she had placed in him had awakened such an answering
conviction of her innocence and integrity in his mind, that he
was guiltless of having felt even a moment’s unworthy jealousy,
either at the time when he was in her presence , or afterwards
when he had withdrawn from it. Deeply as he lamented the
unfortunate attachment which had hindered the progress he
might otherwise have made in her esteem and regard, he ﬁrmly
believed that it had remained unacknowledged in the past,
and that it would remain, under all changes of circumstance
which it was possible to contemplate, unacknowledged in the
future. This was his absolute conviction; and the strongest
proof he could give of it was the assurance, which he now
offered , that he felt no curiosity to know whether the attach-
ment was of recent date or not , or who had been the object of
it. His implicit conﬁdence in Miss Fairlie made him satisﬁed
with what she had thought ﬁt to say to him, and he was


'rnn woman m wnrrn. 187
honestly innocent of the slightest feeling of anxiety to hear
more.
He waited , after saying those words, and looked at me. I
was so conscious of my unreasonable prejudice against him ——
so conscious of an unworthy suspicion, that he might be spe—
culating on my impulsively answering the very questions which
he had just described himself as resolved not to ask — thatI
evaded all reference to this part of the subject with something
like a feeling of confusion on my own part. At the same time,
I was resolved not to lose even the smallest opportunity of
trying to plead Laura’s cause; and I told him boldly that I
regretted his generosity had not carried him one step farther,
and induced him to withdraw from the engagement alto-
gether.
Here, again, he disarmed me by not attempting to defend
himself. He would merely beg me to remember the difference
there was between his allowing Miss Fairlie to give him up,
which was a matter of submission only, and his forcing himself
to give up Miss Fairlie, which was , in other words , asking him
to be the suicide of his own hopes. Her conduct of the day
before had so strengthened the unchangeable love and ad-
miration of two long years, that all active contention against
those feelings, on his part, was henceforth entirely out of his
power. 1 must think him weak, selﬁsh, unfeeling towards the
very woman whom he idolised, and he must bow to my opinion
as resignedly as he could; only putting it to me, at the same
time, whether her future as a single woman, pining under an
unhappin placed attachment which she could never acknow-
ledge , could be said to promise her a much brighter prospect
than her future as the wife of a man who worshipped the very
ground she walked on? In the last case there was hope from
time, however slight it might be -— in the ﬁrst case, on her own
showing, there was no hope at all.
I answered him —- more because my tongue is a woman’s,
and must answer, than because I had anything convincing to
say. It was only too plain that the course Laura had adopted
the day before, had offered him the advantage if he chose to


188 THE WOMAN m warms.
take it —- and that he had chosen to take it. I felt this at the
time, and I feel it just as strongly now, while I write these
lines , in my own room. The one hope left, is that his motives
really spring, as he says they do , from the irresistible strength
of his attachment to Laura.
Before I close my diary for to-night, I must record that I
wrote to-day, in poor Hartright’s interests , to two of my
mother’s old friends in London —- both men of inﬂuence and
position. If they can do anything for him , I am quite sure they
will. Except Laura, I never was more anxious about any one
than I am now about Walter. All that had happened since he
left us has only increased my strong regard and sympathy for
him. I h0pe I am doing right in trying to help him to em-
ployment abroad — I hope, most earnestly and anxiously, that
it will end well.
11th. —- SirPercival had an interview with Mr. Fairlie; and
I was sent for to join them.
I found Mr. Fairlie greatly relieved at the prospect of the
“family worry" (as he was pleased to describe his niece’s mar-
riage) being settled at last. So far, I did not feel called on to
say anything to him about my own opinion; but when he pro-
ceeded, in his most aggravatingly languid manner, to suggest
that the time for the marriage had better be settled next, in
accordance with Sir Percival’s wishes , I enjoyed the satis-
faction of assailing Mr. Fairlie’s nerves with as strong a protest
against hurrying Laura's decision as I could put into words.
Sir Percival immediately assured me that he felt the force of
my objection, and begged me to believe that the proposal had
not been made in consequence of any interference on his part.
Mr. Fairlie leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes , said we
both of us did honour to human nature, and then repeated his
suggestion, as coolly as if neither Sir Percival nor I had said
a word in opposition to it. It ended in my ﬂatly declining to
mention the subject to Laura, unless she ﬁrst approached it of
her own accord. I left the room at once after making that
declaration. Sir Percival looked seriously embarrassed and


THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 189
distressed. Mr. Fairlie stretched out his lazy legs on his velvet
footstool; and said: “Dear Marian! how I envy you your
robust nervous system! Don’t bang the door I"
On going to Laura’s room , I found that she had asked for
me, and that Mrs. Vesey had informed her that I was with Mr.
Fairlie. She inquired at once what I had been wanted for;
and I told her all that had passed , without attempting to con-
ceal the vexation and annoyance that I really felt. Her an-
swer surprised and distressed me inexpressibly; it was the
very last reply that I should have expected her to make.
“My uncle is right,” she said. “I have caused trouble
and anxiety enough to you, and to all about me. Let me
cause no more, Marian -- let Sir Percival decide.”
I remonstrated warmly; but nothing that I could say
moved her.
“I am held to my engagement," she replied; “I have
broken with my old life. The evil day will not come the less
surely because I put it off. ' No, Marian! once again, my
uncle is right. I have caused trouble enough and anxiety
enough; and I will cause no more.” _
She used to be pliability itself ; but she was now inﬂexiny
passive in her resignation -— I might almost say in her despair.
Dearly as I love her, I should have been less pained if she had
been violently agitated; it was so shockingly unlike her
natural character to see her as cold and insensible as I saw her
now.
12th. —- Sir Percival put some questions to me, at break-
fast, about Laura, which left me no choice but to tell him
what she had said.
While we were talking, she herself came down and joined
us. She was just as unnaturally composed in Sir Percival’s
presence as she had been in mine. When breakfast was over,
he had an opportunity of saying a few words to her privately,
in a recess of one of the windows. They were not more than
two or three minutes together; and, on their separating, she
left the room with Mrs. Vesey, while Sir Percival came to me.


190 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
He said he had entreated her to favour him by maintaining
her privilege of ﬁxing the time for the marriage at her own
will and pleasure. In reply, she had merely expressed her
acknowledgements , and had desired him to mention what his
wishes were to Miss Halcombe.
I have no patience to write more. In this instance, as in
every other, Sir Percival has carried his point, with the
utmost possible credit to himself, in spite of everything that I
can say or do. His wishes are now, what they were, of course,
when he ﬁrst came here; and Laura having resigned herself
to the one inevitable sacriﬁce of the marriage, remains as
coldly hopeless and enduring as ever. In parting with the
little occupations and relies that reminded her of Hartright,
she seems to have parted with all her tenderness and all her
impressibility. It is only three o’clock in the afternoon while
1 write these lines, and Sir Percival has left us already, in
the happy hurry of a bridegroom, to prepare for the bride’s
reception at his house in Hampshire. Unless some extraordi-
nary event happens to prevent it, they will be married exactly
at .the time when he wished to be married — before the end of
the year. My very ﬁngers burn as I write it!
13th. — A sleepless night, through uneasiness aboutLaura.
Towards the morning, I came to a resolution to try what
change of scene would do to rouse her. She cannot surely
remain in her present torpor of insensibility , if I take her
away from Limmeridge and surround her with the pleasant
faces of old friends? After some consideration , I decided on
writing to the Amolds, in Yorkshire. They are simple, kind-
hearted hospitable people; and she has known them from her
childhood. When I had put the letter in the p0st~bag, I told
her what I had done. It would have been a relief to me if she
had shown the spirit to resist and object. But no — she only
said, “I will go anywhere with you , Marian. I dare say you
are right — I dare say the change will do me good.”
14th. — I wrote to Mr. Gilmore, informing him that there


THE WOMAN m wnrrn. 191
was really a prospect of this miserable marriage taking place,
and also mentioning my idea of trying what change of scene
would do for Laura. I had no heart to go into particulars.
Time enough for them, when we get nearer to the end of the
year.
15th. -— Three letters for me. The ﬁrst, from the Arnolds,
full of delight at the prospect of seeing Laura and me. The
second , from one of the gentlemen to whom I wrote on WValter
Hartright’s behalf, informing me that he has been fortunate
enough to ﬁnd an opportunity of complying with my request.
The third, from Walter himself; thanking me, poor fellow,
in the warmest terms, for giving him an opportunity of leav-
ing his home, his country, and his friends. A private expe-
dition to make excavations among the ruined cities of Central
America is, it seems , about to sail from Liverpool. The
draughtsman who had been already appointed to accompany
it, has lost heart, and withdrawn at the eleventh hour; and
Walter is to ﬁll his place. He is to be engaged for six months
certain, from the time of the landing in Honduras, and for a
year afterwards , if the excavations are successful, and if the
funds hold out. His letter ends with a promise to write me a
farewell line, when they are all on board ship, and when the
pilot leaves them. I can only hope and pray earnestly that
he and I are both acting in this matter for the best. It seems
such a serious step for him to take , that the mere contempla-
tion of it startles me. And yet, in his unhappy position,
how can I expect him, or wish him, to remain at home?
16th. -- The carriage is at the door. Laura and I set out
on our visit to the [Arnolds to-day.
* * u- n- ~1-
Polesdean Lodge, Yorkshire.
23rd.—- A week in these new scenes and among these kind-
hearted people has done her some good, though not so much
as I had hoped. I have resolved to prolong our stay for an-


192 ram woman IN WHITE.
other week at least. It is useless to go back to Limmeridge,
till there is an absolute necessity for our return.
24th. — Sad news by this morning’s post. The expedition
to Central America sailed on the twenty-ﬁrst. We have
parted with a true man; whe have lost a faithful friend.
Walter Hartright has left England.
25th. — Sad news yesterday; ominous news to-day. Sir
Percival Glyde has written to Mr. Fairlie; and Mr. Fairlie has
written to Laura and me, to recall us to Limmeridge imme-
diately.
What can this mean? Has the day for the marriage been
ﬁxed in our absence ?
II.
Limmeridge House.
Novamssn 27th. — My forebodings are realized. The mar~
riage is ﬁxed for the twenty-second of December.
The day after we left for Polesdean Lodge, Sir Percival
wrote, it seems, to Mr. Fairlie, to say that the necessary re-
pairs and alterations in his house in Hampshire would occupy
a much longer time in completion than he had originally anti~
cipated. The proper estimates were to be submitted to him
as soon as possible; and it would greatly facilitate his entering
into deﬁnite arrangements with the workpeople, if he could
be informed of the exact period at which the weddingceremony
might be expected to take place. He could then make all his
calculations in reference to time, besides writing the necessary
apologies to friends who had been engaged to visit him that
winter, and who could not, of course, be received when the
house was in the hands of the workmen.
To this letter Mr. Fairlie had replied by requesting Sir
Percival himself to suggest a day for the marriage, subject to
Miss Fairlie’s approval, which her guardian willingly under-


THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 193
took to do his best to obtain. Sir Percival wrote back by the
next post, and proposed (in accordance with his own views and
wishes, from the ﬁrst) the latter part of December — perhaps
the twenty-second, or twenty-fourth, or any other day that
the lady and her guardian might prefer. The lady not being
at hand to speak for herself, her guardian had decided in her
absence, on the earliest day mentioned —- the twenty-second
of December —~ and had written to recall us to Limmeridge in
consequence.
After explaining these particulars to me at a private inter-
view yesterday, Mr. Fairlie suggested, in his most amiable
manner, thatI should open the necessary negociations to-day.
Feeling that resistance was useless, unless I could ﬁrst obtain
Laura’s authority to make it, I consented to speak to her, but
declared, at the same time, that I would on no consideration
undertake to gain her consent to Sir Percival’s wishes. Mr.
Fairlie complimented me on my “ excellent conscience," much
as he would have complimented me, if we had been out walk-
ing, on my “excellent constitution,” and seemed perfectly
satisﬁed, so far, with having simply shifted one more family
responsibility from his own shoulders to mine.
This morning, I spoke to Laura as I had promised. The
composure — I may almost say, the insensibility — which she
has so strangely and so resolutely maintained ever since Sir
Percival left us, was not proof against the shock of the news
I had to tell her. She turned pale, and trembled violently.
“Not so soon!" she pleaded. “ Oh, Marian, not so soon!"
The slightest hint she could give was enough for me. I
rose to leave the room, and ﬁght her battle for her at once with
Mr. Fairlie.
Just as my hand was on the door, she caught fast hold of
my dress, and stopped me.
“Let me go!” I said. “My tongue burns to tell youruncle
that he and Sir Percival are not to have it all their own way."
She sighed bitterly, and still held my dress.
“No ! ” she said, faintly. “ Too late, Marian -— too late! ”
“Not a minute too late ," I retorted. “The question of
The Woman in White. I. 13


194 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
time is our question — and trust me, Laura, to take a woman’s
full advantage of it."
I unclasped her hand from my gown while I spoke; but
she slipped both her arms round my waist at the same moment,
and held me more effectually than ever. '
“It will only involve us in more trouble and more confu-
sion," she said. “It will set you and my uncle at variance,
and bring Sir Percival here again with fresh causes of com-
laint ——"
p “ So much the better ! " I cried out, passionately. “Who
cares for his causes of complaint? Are you to break your
heart to set his mind at ease? N 0 man under heaven deserves
these sacriﬁces from as women. Men! They are the enemies
of our innocence and our peace -— they drag us away from our
parents” love and our sisters’ friendship -- they take us body
and soul to themselves, and fasten our helpless lives to theirs
as they chain up a dog to his kennel. And what does the best
of 'them give us in return? Let me go, Laura —- I’m mad
when I think of it ! ”
The tears— miserable, weak, women’s tears of vexation
and rage —- started to my eyes. She smiled sadly; and put
her handkerchief over my face, to hide for me the betrayal of
my own weakness—the weakness of all others which she knew
that I most despised.
“ Oh, Marian!" she said. “ You crying! Think what
you would say to me; if the places were changed, and if those
tears were mine. All your love and courage and devotion will
not alter what must happen, sooner or later. 'Let my uncle
have his way. Let us have no more troubles and heart-burn-
ings that any sacriﬁce of mine can prevent. Say you will live
with me, Marian, when I am married — and say no more.”
But I did say more. I forced back the contemptiblc tears
that were no relief to me, and that only distressed her; and
reasoned and pleaded as calmly as I could. It was of no avail.
She made me twice repeat the promise to live with her when
she was married, and then suddenly asked a question which
turned my sorrow and my sympathy for her into anew direction.


THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 195
“While we were at Polesdean," she said, “you had a
letter, Marian ———"
Her altered tone; the abrupt manner in which she looked
away from me, and hid her face on my shoulder, the hesita-
tion which silenced her before she had completed her question
all told me, but too plainly, to whom the half-expressed in-
quiry pointed.
“I thought, Laura, that you and I were never to refer to
him again,” I said, gently.
“You had a letter from him?” she persisted.
“ Yes,” I replied, “if you must know it.”
“ Do you mean to write to him again?”
I hesitated. I had been afraid to tell her of his absence
from England, or of the manner in which my exertions to serve
his new hopes and projects had connected me with his depar-
ture. What answer could I make? He was gone where no
letters could reach him for months, perhaps for years, to come.
“Suppose I do mean to write to him again," I said, at last.
“What then, Laura?”
Her cheek grew burning hot against my neck; and her
arms trembled and tightened round me.
“Don’t tell him about the twenty-second," she whispered.
“ Promise, Marian -- pray promise you will not even mention
my name to him when you write next.” ‘
I gave the promise. No words can say how sorrowfully I
gave it. She instantly took her arm from my waist, walked
away to the window, and stood looking out, with her back to
me. After a moment she spoke once more, but without turn-
ing round, without allowing me to catch the smallest glimpse
of her face.
“Are you going to my uncle’s room?" she asked. “Will
you say that I consent to whatever arrangement he may think
best? Never mind leaving me, Marian. I shall be better
alone for a little while.”
I went out. If, as soon as I got into the passage, I could
have transported Mr. Fairlie and Sir Percival Glyde to the ut-
termost ends of the earth, by lifting one of my ﬁngers, that
13*


196 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
ﬁnger would have been raised without an instant’s hesitation.
For once my unhappy temper now stood my friend. I should
have broken down altogether and burst into a violent ﬁt of
crying, if my tears had not been all burnt up in the heat of
my anger. As it was, I dashed into Mr. Fairlie’s room—
called to him as harshly as possible, “Laura consents to the
twenty-second” -- and dashed out again without waiting for
a word of answer. I banged the door after me; and I hope I
shattered Mr. Fairlie’s nervous system for the rest of the day.
28th. —— This morning, I read poor Hartright’s farewell
letter over again; a doubt having crossed my mind since
yesterday, whether I am acting wisely in concealing the fact
of his departure from Laura.
On reﬂection, I still think I am right. The allusions in his
letter to the preparations made for the expedition to Central
America, all show that the leaders of it know it to be danger-
ous. If the discovery of this makes me uneasy, what would it
make her? It is bad enough to feel that his departure has de-
prived us of the friend of all others to whose devotion we could
trust, in the hour of need, if ever that hour comes and ﬁnds us
helpless. But it is far worse to know that he has gone from us
to face the perils of a bad climate, a wild country, and a dis-
turbed population. Surely it would be a cruel candour to tell
Laura this, without a pressing and a positive necessity for it?
I almost doubt whether I ought not to go a step farther,
and burn the letter at once, for fear of its one day falling into
wrong hands. It not only refers to Laura in terms which ought
to remain a secret for ever between the writer and me: but it
reiterates his suspicion —,so obstinate, so unaccountable, and
so alarming —-'that he has been secretly watched since he left
Limmeridge. He declares that he saw the faces of the two
strange men, who followed him about the streets of London,
watchinghim among the crowd which gathered at Liverpool
to see the expedition embark; and he pesitively asserts that
he heard the name of Anne Catherick pronounced behind him,
as he got into the boat. His own words are, “These events


run wOMAN IN WHITE. 197
have a meaning, these events must lead to a result. The
mystery of Anne Catherick is not cleared up yet. She may
never cross my path again; but if ever she crosses yours, make
better use of the opportunity, Miss Halcombe, than I made of
it. I speak on strong conviction; I entreat you to remember
what I say.” These are his own expressions. There is no
danger of my forgetting them — my memory is only too ready
to dwell on any words ofHartright’s that refer to Anne Ca-
therick. But there is danger in my keeping the letter. The
merest accident might place it at the mercy of strangers. I
may fall ill; I may die -- better to burn it at once, and have
one anxiety the less.
It is burnt! The ashes of his farewell letter — the last he
may ever write to me — lie in a few black fragments on the
hearth. Is this the sad end to all that sad story? Oh, not the
end — surely, surely not the end already!
29th. -— The preparations for the marriage have begun.
The dressmaker has come to receive her orders. Laura is per-
fectly impassive, perfectly careless about the question of all
others in which a woman’s personal interests are most closely
bound up. She has left it all to the dressmaker and to me. If
poor Hartright had been the baronet, and the husband of her
father’s choice, how differently she would have behaved!
How anxious and capricious she would have been; and what
a hard task the best of dressmakers would have found it to
please her!
30th. —— We hear every day from Sir Percival. The last
news is, that the alterations in his house will occupy from four
to six months, before they can be properly completed. If
painters, paper-hangers, and upholsterers could make hap-
piness as well as splendour, I should be interested about their
proceedings in Laura’s future home. As it is, the only part
of Sir Percival's last letter which does not leave me as it found
me, perfectly indifferent to all his plans and projects, is the
part which refers to the wedding tour. He proposes, as Laura


198 'rnn WOMAN IN WHITE.
is delicate, and as the winter threatens to be unusually severe,
to take her to Rome, and to remain in Italy until the early part
of next summer. If this plan should not be approved, he is
equally ready, although he has no establishment of his own in
town, to spend the season in London, in the most suitable fur-
nished house that can be obtained for the purpose.
Putting myself and my own feelings entirely out of the
question (which it is my duty to do, and which I have done),
I, for one, have no doubt of the propriety of adopting the
ﬁrst of these proposals. In either case, a separation between
Laura and me is inevitable. It will be a longer separation, in
the event of 'their going abroad, than it would be in the event
of their remaining in London — but we must set against this
disadvantage, the beneﬁt to Laura on the other side, of
passing the winter in a mild climate; and, more than that,
the immense assistance in raising her spirits, and reconciling
her to her new existence, which the mere wonder and excite-
ment of travelling for the ﬁrst time in her life in the most
interesting country in the world, must surely aﬂ'ord. She is
not of a disposition to ﬁnd resources in the conventional
gaieties and excitements of London. They would only make
the ﬁrst oppression of this lamentable marriage fall the
heavier on her. I dread the beginning of her new life more
than words can tell; but I see some hope for her if she travels
-— none if she remains at home.
It is strange to look back at this latest entry in my journal,
and to ﬁnd that I am writing of the marriage and the parting
with Laura, as people write of a settled thing. It seems so
cold and so unfeeling to be looking at the future already in
this cruelly composed way. But what other way is possible,
now that the time is drawing so near? Before another month
is over our heads , she will be his Laura instead of mine! Hi:
Laura! I am as little able to realize the idea which those two
words convey —- my mind feels almost as dulled and stunned
by it, as if writing of her marriage were like writing of her
death.


'rnu WOMAN IN WHITE. 199
December 1st. —- A sad, sad day; a day that I have no
heart to describe at any length. After weakly putting it oﬁ',
last night, Iwas obliged to speak to her this morning of Sir
Percival’s proposal about the wedding tour.
In the full conviction that I should be with her, wherever
she went, the poor child —'- for a child she is still in many
things — was almost happy at the prospect of seeing the won-
ders of Florence and Rome and Naples. It nearly broke my
heart to dispel her delusion , and to bring her face to face with
the hard truth. I was obliged to tell her that no man tolerates
a rival — not even a woman rival —— in his wife’s affections,
when he ﬁrst marries, whatever he may do afterwards. I was
obliged to warn her, that my chance of living with her per-
manently under her own roof, depended entirely on my not
arousing Sir Percival’s jealousy and distrust by standing be-
tween them at the beginning of their marriage, in the position
of the chosen depository of his wife’s closest secrets. Drop by
drop , I poured the profaning bitterness of this world’s wisdom
into that pure heart and that innocent mind, while every
higher and better feeling within me recoiled from my miser-
able task. It is over now. She has learnt her hard, her
inevitable lesson. The simple illusions of her girlhood are
gone; and my hand has stripped them oﬂ’. Better mine than
his —- that is all my consolation -—~ better mine than his.
So the ﬁrst proposal is the proposal accepted. They are
to go to Italy; and I am to arrange, with Sir Percival’s per-
mission, for meeting them and staying with them, when they
return to England. In other words, I am to ask a personal
favour, for the ﬁrst time in my life, and to ask it of the man
of all others to whom I least desire to owe a serious obligation
of any kind. Well! I think I could do even more than that,
for Laura’s sake.
2nd. -— On looking back, I ﬁnd myself always referring to
Sir Percival in disparaging terms. In the turn aﬁ'airs have
now taken, I must and will root out my prejudice against him.


200 I run WOMAN IN WHITE.
1 cannot think how it ﬁrst got into my mind. It certainly
never existed in former times.
Is it Laura’s reluctance to become hi wife that has set me
against him? Have Hartright’s perfectly intelligible pre-
judices infected me without my suspecting their inﬂuence?
Does that letter of Anne Catherick’s still leave a lurking dis-
trust in my mind, in spite of Sir Percival’s explanation, and
of the proof in my possession of the truth of it? I cannot ac-
count for the state of my own feelings: the one thing I am
certain of is, that it is my duty — doubly my duty, now -—
not to wrong Sir Percival by unjustly distrusting him. If it
has got to be a habit with me always to write of him in the
same unfavourable manner, I must and will break myself of
this unworthy tendency, even though the effort should force
me to close the pages of my journal till the marriage is over!
I am seriously dissatisﬁed with myself— I will write no more
to-day.
* *- * a *-
December 16th. — A whole fortnight has passed; and
I have not once opened these pages. I have been long enough
away from my journal, to come back to it, with a healthier
and better mind , I hope, so far as Sir Percival is concerned.
There is not much to record of the past two weeks. The
dresses are almost all ﬁnished; and the new travelling trunks
have been sent here from London. Poor dear Laura hardly
- leaves me for a moment, all day; and, last night, when
neither of us could sleep, she came and crept into my bed to
talk to me there. “I shall lose you so soon, Marian," she said;
“ I must make the most of you while I can.”
They are to be married at Limmeridge Church; and,
thank Heaven, not one of the neighbours is to be invited to
the ceremony. The only visitor will be our old friend, Mr.
Arnold, who is to come from Polesdean , to give Laura away;
her uncle being far too delicate to trust himself outside the
door in such inclement weather as we now have. If I were
not determined, from this day forth, to see nothing but the
bright side of our prospects, the melancholy absence of any


THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 201
male relative of Laura’s, at the most important moment of
her life, would make me very gloomy and very distrustful of
the future. But I have done with gloom and distrust -—that
is to say, I have done with writing about either the one or the
other in this journal.
Sir Percival is to arrive to-morrow. He offered, in case
we wished to treat him on terms of rigid etiquette, to write
and ask our clergyman to grant him the hospitality of the
rectory, during the short period of his sojourn at Limmeridge,
before the marriage. Under the circumstances, neither Mr.
Fairlie nor I thought it at all necessary for us to trouble our-
selves about attending to triﬂing forms and ceremonies. In
our wild moorland country, and in this great lonely house,
we may well claim to be beyond the reach of the trivial con-
ventionalities which hamper people in other places. I wrote
to Sir Percival to thank him for his polite offer, and to beg
that he would occupy his old rooms, just as usual, at Lim- ' '
meridge House.
17th. — He arrived to-day, looking, as I thought, a little
worn and anxious, but still talking and laughing like a man
in the best possible spirits. He brought with him some really
beautiful presents, in jewelry, which Laura received with her
best grace, and, outwardly at least, with perfect self-pos-
session. The only sign I can detect of the struggle it must
cost her to preserve appearances at this trying time, expresses
itself in a sudden unwillingness, on her part, ever to be left
alone. Instead of retreating to her own room, as usual, she
seems to dread going there. When I went up-stairs to-day,
after lunch, to put on my bonnet for a walk, she volunteered
to join me; and, again, before dinner, she threw the door
open between our two rooms, so that we might talk to each
other while we were dressing. “Keep me always doing some-
thing,” she said; “keep me always in company with some-
body. Don’t let me think - that is allI ask now, Marian —
don’t let me think."
This sad change in her, only increases her attractions for


202 THE WOMAN IN wrnrn.
Sir Percival. He interprets it, I can see, to his own advan-
tage. There is a feverish ﬂush in her cheeks, a feverish
brightness in her eyes, which he welcomes as the return
of‘her beauty and the recovery of her spirits. She talked
to-day at dinner with a gaiety and carelessness so false,
so shockingly out of her character, that I secretly longed
to silence her and take her away. Sir Percival’s delight
and surprise appeared to be beyond all exPression. The
anxiety which I had noticed on his face when he arrived,
totally disappeared from it; and he looked even to my eyes,
a good ten years younger than he really is.
There can be no doubt - though some strange perversity
prevents me from seeing it myself — there can be no doubt
that Laura’s future husband is a very handsome man. Regular-
features form a personal advantage to begin with -— and he
has them. Bright brown eyes, either in man or woman , are a
great attraction - and he has them. Even baldness, when it
is only baldness over the forehead (as in his case), is rather
becoming, than not, in a man , for it heightens the head and
adds to the intelligence of the face. Grace and ease of move-
ment; untiring animation of manner; ready, pliant, conver-
sational powers -—.all these are unquestionable merits, and all
these he certainly possesses. Surely, Mr. Gilmore, ignorant
as he is of Laura’s secret, was not to blame for feeling sur-
prised that she should repent of her marriage engagement?
Any one else in his place, would have shared our good old
friend’s opinion. If I were asked, at this moment, to say
plainly what defects I have discovered in Sir Percival, I could
only point out two. One, his incessant restlessness and ex-
citability - which may be caused, naturally enough, by un-
usual energy of character. The other, his short, sharp, ill-
tempered manner of speaking to the servants -- which may
be only a bad habit, after all. No: I cannot dispute it, and
I will not dispute it — Sir Percival is a very handsome and a
very agreeable man. There! I have written it down, at last,
and I am glad it’s over.


THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 203
18th. -— Feeling weary and depressed, this morning, I left
Laura with Mrs. Vesey, and went out alone for one of my
brisk mid-day walks, which I have discontinued too much of
late._ I took the dry airy road, over the moor, that leads to
Todd’s Corner. After having been out half an hour, I was
excessively surprised to see Sir Percival approaching me from
the direction of the farm. He was walking rapidly, swinging
his stick; his head erect as usual, and his shooting jacket
ﬂying open in the wind. When we met, he did not wait for
me to ask any questions — he told me, at once, that he had
been to the farm to inquire if Mr. or Mrs. Todd had received
any tidings since his last visit to Limmeridge, of Anne
Catherick.
“You found, of course, that they had heard nothing?”
I said.
“ Nothing whatever,” he replied. “ I begin to be seriously
afraid that we have lost her. Do you happen to know," he
continued, looking me in the face very attentively, “if the
artist — Mr. Hartright — is in a position to give us any further
information? ”
“He has neither heard of her, nor seen her, since he left
Cumberland,” I answered.
“Very sad,” said Sir Percival, speaking like a man who
was disappointed, and yet, oddly enough, looking, at the
same time, like a man who was relieved. “It is impossible to
say what misfortunes may not have happened to the miserable
creature. I am inexpressibly annoyed at the failure of all my
efforts to restore her to the care and protection which she
so urgently needs.”
This time he really looked annoyed. I said a few sym-
pathising words; and we then talked of other subjects, on our
way back to the house. Surely, my chance meeting with
him on the moor has disclosed another favourable trait in his
character? Surely, it was singularly considerate and un- -
selﬁsh of him to think of Anne Catherick on the eve of ’his
marriage, and to go all the way to Todd‘s Corner to make in-


204 THE woman In wrnrn.
quiries about her, when he might have passed the time so
much more agreeably in Laura’s society? Considering that
he can only have acted from motives of pure charity, his con-
duct, under the circumstances, shows unusual good feeling,
and deserves extraordinary praise. Well! I give him extra-
ordinary praise -— and there’s an end of it.
19th. — More discoveries in the inexhaustible mine of Sir
Percival‘s virtues. .
To-day, I approached the subject of my proposed sojourn
under his wife’s roof, when he brings her back to England. I
had hardly dropped my ﬁrst hint in this direction, before he
caught me warmly by the hand, and said I had made the very
offer to him, which he had been, on his side, most anxious to
make to me. I was the companion of all others whom he
most sincerely longed to secure for his wife; and he begged
me to believe that I had conferred a lasting favour on him by
making the proposal to live with Laura after her marriage,
exactly as I had always lived with her before it.
WhenI thanked him, in her name and in mine, for his
considerate kindness to both of us, we passed next to the sub-
ject of his wedding tour, and began to talk of the English
society in Rome to which Laura was to be introduced. He
ran over the names of several friends whom he expected to
meet abroad this winter. They were all English, as well as I
can remember, with one exception. The one exception was
Count Fosco.
The mention of the Count’s name, and the discovery that
he and his wife are likely to meet the bride and bridegroom on
the continent, puts Laura’s marriage, for the ﬁrst time, in a
distinctly favourable light. It is likely to be the means of
healing a family feud. Hitherto Madame Fosco has chosen to
forget her obligations as Laura’s aunt, out of sheer spite
against the late Mr. Fairlie for his conduct in the affair of the
legacy. Now, however, she can persist in this course of con-
duct no longer. Sir Percival and Count Fosco are old and


THE WOMAN m wnrrn. 205
fast friends, and their wives will have no choice but to meet
on civil terms. Madame Fosco, in her maiden days, was one
of the most impertinent women I ever met with ~— capricious,
exacting, and vain to the last degree of absurdity. If her
husband has succeeded in bringing her to her senses, he de-
serves the gratitude of every member of the family — and he
may have mine to begin with.
I am becoming anxious to know the Count. He is the
most intimate friend of Laura’s husband; and, in that capa-
city, he excites my strongest interest. Neither Laura nor]
have ever seen him. All I know of him is that his accidental
presence, years ago, on the steps of the Trinita del Monte at
Rome, assisted Sir Percival’s escape from robbery and assas-
sination, at the critical moment when he was wounded in the
hand, and might, the next instant, have been wounded in
the heart. I remember also that, at the time of the late Mr.
Fairlie’s absurd objections to his sister’s marriage, the Count
wrote him a very temperate and sensible letter on the subject,
which, I am ashamed to say, remained unanswered. This is
allI know of Sir Percival’s friend. I wonder if he will ever
come to England? I wonder if I shall like him?
My pen is running away into mere speculation. Let me
return to sober matter of fact. It is certain that Sir Percival’s
reception of my venturesome proposal to live with his wife,
was more than kind, it was almost affectionate. I am sure
Laura's husband will have no reason to complain of me, if I
can only go on as I have begun. I have already declared him
to be handsome, agreeable, full of good feeling towards the
unfortunate, and full of affectionate kindness towards me.
Really, I hardly know myself again, in my new character of
Sir Percival’s warmest friend.
20th. —- I hate Sir Percival! I ﬂatly deny his good looks.
I consider him to be eminently ill-tempered and disagreeable,
and totally wanting in kindness and good feeling. Last night,
the cards for the married couple were sent home. Laura


206 THE worms IN WHITE.
opened the packet, and saw her future name in print, for the
ﬁrst time. Sir Percival looked over her sh0ulder familiarly
at the new card which had already transformed Miss Fairlie
into Lady Glyde — smiled with the most odious self-com-
placency -— and whispered something in her ear. I don't
know what it was — Laura has refused to tell me — but I saw
her face turn to such a deadly whiteness that I thought she
would have fainted. He took no notice of the change: he
seemed to be barbaroust unconscious that he had said any-
thing to pain her. All my old feelings of hostility towards
him revived on the instant; and all the hours that have passed,
since, have done nothing to dissipate them. I am more un-
reasonable and more unjust than ever. In three words
— how glibly my pen writes them! -— in three words ,, I
hate him.
21st. — Have the anxieties of this anxious time shaken me
a little, at last? I have been writing, for the last few days,
in a tone of levity which, Heaven knows, is far enough from
my heart, and which it has rather shocked me to discover on
looking back at the entries in my journal.
Perhaps I may have caught the feverish excitement of
Laura’s spirits, for the last week. If so the ﬁt has already
passed away from me, and has left me in a very strange state
of mind. A persistent idea has been forcing itself on my
attention, ever since last night, that something will yet
happen to prevent the marriage. What has produced this
singular fancy? Is it the indirect result of my apprehensions
for Laura's future? Or has it been unconsciously suggested
to me by the increasing restlessness and irritability which I
have certainly observed in Sir Percival’s manner, as the
wedding-day draws nearer and nearer? Impossible to say.
I know that I have the idea — surely the wildest idea, under
the circumstances, that ever entered a woman’s head? — but
try as I may, I cannot trace it back to its source.
This last day has been all confusion and wretchedness.


'rrm WOMAN in warm. 207
How can I write about it? -— and yet, I must write. Anything
is better than brooding over my own gloomy thoughts.
Kind Mrs. Vesey, whom we have all too much overlooked
and forgotten of late, innocently caused us a sad morning to
begin with. She has been, for months past, secretly making
a warm Shetland shawl for her dear pupil — a most beautiful
and surprising piece of work to be done by a woman at her
age and with her habits. The gift was presented this morn-
ing; and poor warm-hearted Laura completely broke down
when the shawl was put proudly on her shoulders bythe loving
old friend and guardian of her motherless childhood. I was
hardly allowed time to quiet them both, or even to dry my
QWn eyes, when I was sent for by Mr. Fairlie, to be favoured
by a long recital of his arrangements for the preservation of
his own tranquillity on the wedding-day.
“Dear Laura” was to receive his present — a shabby
ring, with her affectionate uncle’s hair for an ornament, in-
stead of a precious stone, and with a heartless French in-
scription, inside, about congenial sentiments and eternal
friendship - “dear Laura” was to receive this tender tribute
from my hands immediately, so that she might have plenty of
time to recover from the agitation produced by the gift, before
she appeared in Mr. Fairlie’s presence. “Dear Laura" was
to pay him a little visit that evening, and to be kind enough
not to make a scene. “Dear Laura" was to pay him another
little visit in her wedding dress, the next morning, and to be
kind enough, again, not to make a scene. “Dear Laura”
was too look in once more, for the third time, before going
away, but without harrowing his feelings by saying when she
was going away, and without tears -- “in the name of pity,
in the name of everything, dear Marian, that is most affec-
tionate and most domestic and most delightfully and charm~
ingly self-composed, without tears!" I was so exasperated by
this miserable selﬁsh triﬂing, at such a time, that I should
certainly have shocked Mr. Fairlie by some of the hardest and
rudest truths he has ever heard in his life, if the arrival of Mr.


208 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
Arnold from Polesdean had not called me away to new duties
down stairs.
The rest of the day is indescribable. I believe no one in
the house really knew how it passed. The confusion of small
events, all huddled together one on the other, bewildered
every one. There were dresses sent home, that had been
forgotten; there were trunks to be packed and unpacked and
packed again; there were presents from friends far and near,
friends high and low. We were all needlessly hurried; all ner-
vously expectant of the morrow. Sir Percival, especially, was
too restless, now, to remain ﬁve minutes together in the same
place. That short, sharp cough of his troubled him more
than ever. He was in and out of the house all day long: and
he seemed to grow so inquisitive, on a sudden, that he ques-
tioned the very strangers who came on small errands to the
~ house. Add to all this, the one perpetual thought, in Laura's
mind and mine, that we were to part the next day, and the
haunting dread, unexpressed by either of us, and yet ever
present to both, that this deplorable marriage might prove to
be one fatal error of her life and the one hopeless sorrow of
mine. For the ﬁrst time in all the years of our close and
happy intercourse we almost avoided looking each other in
the face; and we refrained, by common consent, from speak-
ing together in private, through the whole evening. I can
dwell on it no longer. Whatever future sorrows may be in
store for me, I shall always look back on this twenty-ﬁrst of
December as the most comfortless and most miserable day of
my life.
I am writing these lines in the solitude of my own room,
long after midnight; having just come back from a stolen
look at Laura in her pretty little white bed -— the bed she has
occupied since the days of her girlhood.
There she lay, unconscious that I was looking at her —-
quiet, more quiet than I had dared to hope, but not sleeping.
The glimmer of the night-light showed me that her eyes were
only partially closed: the traces of tears glistened between


THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 209
her eyelids. My little keepsake — only a brooch — lay on
the table at her bedside, with her prayer-book, and the
miniature portrait of her father which she takes with her
wherever she goes. I waited a moment, looking at her from
behind her pillow, as she lay beneath me, with one arm and
hand resting white on the white coverlid, so still, so quietly
breathing, that the frill on her night-dress never moved —— I
waited, looking at her, as I have seen her thousands of times,
as I shall never see her again— and then stole back to my
room. My own love! with all your wealth, and all your
beauty, how friendless you are! The one man who would
give his heart’s life to serve you, is far away, tossing, this
stormy night, on the awful sea. Who else is left to you?
No father, no brother —- no living creature but the helpless,
useless woman who writes these sad lines, and watches by you
for the morning, in sorrow that she cannot compose, in doubt
that she cannot conquer. Oh, what a trust is to be placed in
that man’s hands to-morrow! If ever he forgets it; if ever he
injures a hair of her head! -
Tns TWENTY-SECOND or Dncsmzns. Seven o’clock. A wild
unsettled morning. She has just risen --better and calmer,
now that the time has come, than she was yesterday.
Ten o’clock. She is dressed. We have kissed each other;
we have promised each other not to lose courage. I am away
for a moment in my own room. In the whirl and confusion
of my thoughts, I can detect that strange fancy of some
hindrance happening to stop the marriage, still hanging
about my mind. Is it hanging about his mind, too? 1 see
him from the window, moving hither and thither uneasily
among the carriages at the door. — How canI write such
folly! The marriage is a certainty. In less than half an hour
we start for the church.

Eleven o’clock. It is all over. They are married.

The Woman in While. I. 1‘1


210 THE WOMAN m wnrrn.
Three o’clock. They are gone! I am blind with crying -
I can write no more —
'll' * i' 41' 'X'
i it it it *
Blackwater Park , Hampshire.
Jim: 27, 1850. -— Six months to look back on— six long,
lonely months, since Laura and I last saw each other!
How many days have I still to wait? Only one! To—mor-
row, the twenty-eighth, the travellers return to England. I can
hardly realize my own happiness; I can hardly believe that
the next four-and-twenty hours will complete the last day of
separation between Laura and me.
She and her husband have been in Italy all the winter, and
afterwards in the Tyrol. They come back, accompanied by
Count Fosco and his wife, who propose to settle somewhere in
the neighbourhood of London, and who have engaged to stay
at Blackwatcr Park for the summer months before deciding
on a place of residence. So long as Laura returns , no matter
who returns with her. Sir Percival may ﬁll the house from
ﬂoor to ceiling, if he likes, on condition that his wife and I in-
habit it together.
Meanwhile, here I am, established at Blackwater Park;
“ the ancient and interesting seat” (as the county history
obligingly informs me) “of Sir Percival Glyde, Bart.” — and
the future abiding-place (as I may now venture to add, on my
account) of plain Marian Halcombe, spinster, now settled in a
snug little sitting-room , with a cup of tea by her side, and all
her earthly possessions ranged round her in three boxes and :1
ba .
8I left Limmeridge yesterday; having received Laura’s
delightful letter from Paris, the day before. 1 had been pre-
viously uncertain whether I was to meet them in London, or in
Hampshire; but this last letter informed me, that Sir Percival


run woman m wnrrn. 211
proposed to land at Southampton, and to travel straight on to
his country-house. He has spent so much money abroad, that
he has none left to defray the expenses of living in London, for
the remainder of the season; and he is economically resolved
to pass the summer and autumn quietly at Blackwater. Laura
has had more than enough of excitement and change of scene;
and is pleased at the prospect of country tranquillity and retire-
ment which her husband’s prudence provides for her. As for
me, I am ready to be happy anywhere in her society. We
are all, therefore, well contented in our vs u'ous ways, to begin
with.
Last night, 1 slept in London, and was delayed there so
long, to-day, by various calls and commissions that I did not
reach Blackwater, this evening, till after dusk. '
Judging by my vague impressions of the place, thus far, it
is the exact opposite of Limmeridge.
The house is situated on a dead ﬂat, and seems to be shut
in - almost suﬁ'ocated, to my north-country notions, by trees.
I have seen nobody, but the man-servant who opened the door
to me, and the housekeeper, a very civil person who showed
me the way to my own room, and got me my tea. I have a nice
little boudoir and bedroom, at the end of a long passage on the
ﬁrst ﬂoor. The servants and some of the spare rooms are on
the second ﬂoor; and all the living rooms are on the ground
ﬂoor. I have not seen one of them yet, and I know nothing
about the house, except that one wing of it is said to be ﬁve
hundred years old, that it had a moat round it once , and that
it gets its name of Blackwater from a lake in the park.
Eleven o’clock has just struck, in a ghostly and solemn
manner, from a turret over the centre of the house, which I
saw when I came in. A large dog has been woke , apparently
by the sound of the bell, and is howling and yawning drearily,
somewhere round a corner. I hear echoing footsteps in the
passages below, and the iron thumping of bolts and bars at the
house door. The servants are evidently going to bed. Shall
I follow their example?
14*


212 THE WOMAN 11: WHITE.
No: I am not half sleepy enough. Sleepy, did I say? I
feel as if I should never close my eyes again. The bare antici-
pation of seeing that dear face and hearing that well-known
voice to-morrow , keeps me in a perpetual fever of excitement.
If I only had the privileges of a man, I would order out Sir
Percival’s best horse instantly, and tear away on a night-
gallop, eastward, to meet the rising sun—a long, hard, heavy,
ceaseless gallop of hours and hours, like the famous highway-
man’s ride to York. Being, however, nothing but a woman,
condemned to patience, propriety, and petticoats, for life, I
must respect the housekeeper’s opinions, and try to compose
myself in some feeble and feminine way.
Reading is out of the question — I can’t ﬁx my attention
on books. Let me try if I can write myself into sleepiness and
fatigue My journal has been very much neglected of late.
What can I recall — standing, as I now do , on the threshold
of a new life —- of persons and events, of chances and changes,
during the past six months -— the long, weary, empty interval
since Laura’s wedding-day?
Walter Hartright is uppermost in my memory; and he
passes ﬁrst in the shadowy procession of my absent friends.
I received a few lines from him, after the landing of the expe-
dition in Honduras , written more cheerfully and hopefully
than he has written yet, A month or six weeks later, I saw an
extract from an American newspaper, describing the departure
of the adventurers on their inland journey. They were last
seen entering a wild primeval forest, each man with his riﬂe
on his shoulder and his baggage at his back. Since that time,
civilization has lost all trace of them. Not a line more have I
received from Walter; not a fragment of news from the expe-
dition has appeared in any of the public journals.
The same dense, disheartening obscurity hangs over the
fate and fortunes of Anne Catherick, and her companion, Mrs.
Clements. Nothing whatever has been heard of either of them.
Whether they are in the country or out of it, whether they are
living or dead, no one knows. Even Sir Percival's solicitor


run WOMAN IN WHITE. 213
has lost all hope, and has ordered the useless search after the
fugitives to be ﬁnally given up.
Our good old friend Mr. Gilmore has met with a sad check
in his active professional career. Early in the spring, we were
alarmed by hearing that he had been found insensible at his
desk, and that the seizure was pronounced to be an apoplectic
ﬁt. He had been long complaining of fulness and oppression
in the head; and his dector had warned him of the consequen-
ces that would follow his persistency in continuing to work,
early and late, as if he was still a young man. The result now
is that he has been positively ordered to keep out of his oﬂice
for ayear to come, at least, and to seek repose of body and
relief of mind by altogether changing his usual mode of life.
The business is left, accordingly , to be carried on by his part-
ner; and he isI himself, at this moment, away in Germany,
visiting some relations who are settled there in mercantile
pursuits. Thus, another true friend, and trustworthy adviser,
is lost to us — lost, I earnestly hope and trust, for a time
only.
Poor Mrs. Vesey travelled with me, as far as London. It
was impossible to abandon her to solitude at Limmeridge,
after Laura and I had both left the house; and we have ar-
ranged that she is to live with an unmarried younger sister of
hers, who keeps a school at Clapham. She is to come here this
autumn to visit her pupil — I might almost say her adopted
child. 1 saw the good old lady safe to her destination; and
left her in the care of her relative, quietly happy at the pro-
spect of seeing Laura again, in a few months’ time.
As for Mr. Fairlie , I believe I am guilty of no injustice if I
describe him as being unutterably relieved by having the
house clear of us women. The idea of his missing his niece is
simply preposterous -— he used to let months pass in the old
times, without attempting to see her — and, in my case and
Mrs. Vesey’s, I take leave to consider his telling us both that
he was half heartbroken at our departure, to be equivalent to
a confession that he was secretly rejoiced to get rid of us. His
last caprice has led him to keep two photographers incessantly


214 rss worms IN WHITE.
employed on producing sun-pictures of all the treasures and
curiosities in his possession. One complete copy of the col-
lection of the photographs is to be presented to the Mechanics’
Institution of Carlisle, mounted on the ﬁnest cardboard , with
ostentatious red-letter inscriptions underneath. “ Madonna
and Child by Raphael. In the possession of Frederick Fairlie,
Esquire.” “Copper coin of the period of Tiglath Pileser. In
the possession of Frederick Fairlie, Esquire.” “ Unique Rem-
brandt etching. Known all over Europe, as The Smudge,
from a printer‘s blot in the corner which exists in no other
copy. Valued at three hundred guineas. In the possession
of Frederic Fairlie, Esq.” Dozens of photographs of this sort,
and all inscribed in this manner , were completed before I left
Cumberland; and hundreds more remain to be done. With
this new interest to occupy him, Mr. Fairlie will be a happy
man for months and months to come; and the two unfortunate
photographers will share the social martyrdom which he has
hitherto inﬂicted on his valet alone.
So much for the persons and events which hold theforemost
place in my memory. What, next, of the one person who holds
the foremost place in my heart? Laura has been present tomy
thoughts all the while I have been writing these lines. What
can I recall of her, during the past six months, before I close
my journal for the night?
I have only her letters to guide me; and, on the most im-
portant of all the questions which our correspondence can dis-
cuss, every one of those letters leaves me in the dark.
Does he treat her kindly? Is she happier now than she was
when I parted with her on the wedding-day? All my letters
have contained these two inquiries, put more or less directly,
now in one form, and now in another; and all, on that point
only , have remained without reply , or have been answered as
if my questions merely related to the state of her health. She
informs me, over and over again, that she is perfectly well;
that travelling agrees with her; that she is getting through
the winter, for the ﬁrst time in her life, without catching cold
—- but not a word can I ﬁnd anywhere which tells me plainly


rnn WOMAN IN WHITE. 215
that she is reconciled to her marriage, and that she can now
look back to the twenty-second of December without any
bitter feelings of repentance and regret. The name of her
husband is only mentioned in her letters, as she might mention
the name of afriend who was travelling with them, and who
had undertaken to make all the arrangements for the journey.
“ Sir Percival " has settled that we leave on such a day; “ Sir
Percival” has decided that we travel by such aroad. Some-
times she writes , “Percival” only , but very seldom — in nine
cases out of ten, she gives him his title.
I cannot ﬁnd that his habits and opinions have changed
and coloured hers in any single particular. The usual moral
transformation which is insensibly wrought in a young, fresh,
sensitive woman by her marriage, seems never to have taken
place in Laura. She writes of her own thoughts and impres-
sions, amid all the wonders she has seen, exactly as she might
have written to some one else, if I had been travelling with her
instead of her husband. I see no betrayal anywhere, of sym-
pathy of any kind existing between them. Even when she
wanders from the subject of her travels, and occupies herself
with the prospects that await her in England, her speculations
are busied with her future as my sister, and persistently
neglect to notice her future as Sir Percival’s wife. In all this,
there is no under-tone of complaint, to warn me that she is
absolutely unhappy in her married life. The impression I
have derived from our correspondence does not, thank God,
lead me to any such distressing conclusion as that. I only see
a sad torpor, an unchangeable indifference, when I turn my
mind from her in the old character of a sister , and look at her,
through the medium of her letters, in the new character of a
wife. In other words, it is always Laura Fairlie who has been
writing to me for the last six months, and never Lady Glyde.
The strange silence which she maintains on the subject of
her husband’s character and conduct, she preserves with al-
most equal resolution in the few references which her later
letters contain to the name of her husband’s bosom friend,
Count Fosco.


216 THE WOMAN n: WHITE.
I
For some unexplained reason, the Count and his wife ap-
pear to have changed their plans abruptly, at the end,of last
autumn, and to have gone to Vienna, instead of going to
Rome , at which latter place Sir Percival had expected to ﬁnd
them when he left England. They only quitted Vienna in the
spring, and travelled as far as the Tyrol to meet the bride and
bridegroom on their homeward journey. Laura writes readin
enough about the meeting with Madame Fosco, and assures
me' that she has found her aunt so much changed for the better
—- so much quieter and so much more sensible as a wife than
she was as a single woman -- that I shall hardly know her
again when I see her here. But, on the subject of Count Fosco
(who interests me inﬁnitely more than his wife), Laura is
provokingly circumspect and silent. She only says that he
puzzles her, and that she will not tell me what her impression
of him is, until I have seen him, and formed my own opinion
ﬁrst.
This, to my mind, looks ill for the Count. Laura has
preserved, far more perfectly than most people do in later life,
the child’s subtle faculty of knowing a friend by instinct; and,
if I am right in assuming that her ﬁrst impression of Count
Fosco has not been favourable, I, for one, am in some danger
of doubting and distrusting that illustrious foreigner before I
have so much as set eyes on him. But, patience, patience;
this uncertainty, and many uncertainties more, cannot last
much longer. To-morrow will see all my doubts in a fair way
of being cleared up, sooner or later.
Twelve o’clock has struck; and I have just come back to
close these pages, after looking out at my open window.
It is a still, sultry, moonless night. The stars are dull and
few. The trees that shut out the view on all sides, look dimly
black and solid in the distance, like a great wall of rock. I
hear the croaking of frogs, faint and far oﬁ‘; and the echoes of
the great clock hum in the airless calm , long after the strokes
have ceased. I wonder how Blackwater Park will look in the
daytime ? I don’t altogether like it bynight.


THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 217
28th. — A day of investigations and discoveries -- a more
interesting day, for many reasons, than I had ventured to
anticipate
I began my sight-seeing, of course, with the house.
The main body of the building is of the time of that highly
overrated woman, Queen Elizabeth. On the ground ﬂoor,
there are two hugely long galleries, with low ceilings, lying
parallel with each other, and rendered additionally dark
and ,dismal by hideous family portraits — every one of
which I should like to burn. The rooms on the ﬂoor above
the two galleries, are kept in tolerable repair, but are
very seldom used. The civil houekeeper, who acted as my
guide, offered to show me over them; but considerately added
that she feared I should ﬁnd them rather out of order. My
respect for the integrity of my own petticoats and stockings,
inﬁnitely exceeds my respect for all the Elizabethan bedrooms
in thekingdom; so I positively declined exploring the upper
regions of dust and dirt at the risk of soiling my nice clean
clothes. The housekeeper said , “ I am quite of your opinion,
miss ; " and appeared to think me the most sensible woman she
had met with for along time past.
So much, then, for the main building. Two wings are
added, at either end of it. The half-ruined wing on the left (as
you approach the house) was once a place of residence stand-
ing by itself, and was built in the fourteenth century. One of
Sir Percival’s maternal ancestors —- I don’t remember, and
don’t care, which —- tacked on the main building, at right
angles to it, in the aforesaid Queen Elizabeth’s time. The
housekeeper told me that the architecture of “the old win g,"
both outside and inside, was considered remarkably ﬁne by
good judges. On further investigation, I discovered that good
judges could only exercise their abilities on Sir Percival’s
piece of antiquity by previously dismissing from their minds
all fear of damp, darkness, and rats. Under these circum-
stances, I unhesitatingly acknowledged myself to be no judge
at all; and suggested that we should treat “the old wing"
precisely as we had previously treated the Elizabethan bed-


218 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
rooms. Once more, the housekeeper said, “I am quite of your
opinion, miss; " and once more she looked at me, with undis-
guised admiration of my extraordinary common sense.
We went, next, to the wing on the right, which was built,
by way of completing the wonderful architectural jumble at
Blackwater Park, in the time of George the Second.
This is the habitable part of the house, which has been
repaired and redecorated, inside, on Laura’s account. My
taro rooms, and all the good bedrooms besides, are on the ﬁrst
ﬂoorg; and. the basement contains a drawing~room, a dining-
room ,, amounting-room, a library, and a pretty little boudoir
for. Lima —n' all very nicely ornamented in the bright modern
way, and all very elegantly furnished with the delightful
modern luxuries. None of the rooms are anything like so ‘
large and airy as our rooms at Limmeridge; but they all look
pleasant to live. in. I was terribly afraid, from what I had
heardmf Blackwater Park, of fatiguing antique chairs, and
dismalstained glass, and musty, frouzy hangings, and all the
barbarous lumber which people born without a sense of com-
fort accumulate about them, in deﬁance of the consideration
due to the convenience of their friends. It is an inoxpressible
relief to ﬁnd that the nineteenth century has invaded this
strange future home of mine, and has swept the dirty “good
old times” out of the way of our daily life.
I dawdled away the morning— part of the timein the rooms
down stairs; and part, out of doors, in the great square which
is formed by the three sides of the house, and by the lofty iron
railings and gates which protect it in front. A large circular
ﬁshpond , with stone sides, and an allegorical leaden monster
in the middle, occupies the centre of the square. The pond
itself is full of gold and silver ﬁsh , and is encircled by a broad
belt of the softest turf I ever walked on. I loitered here, on
the shady side, pleasantly enough, till luncheon time; and,
after that, took my broad straw hat, and wandered out alone,
in the warm lovely sunlight, to explore the grounds.
Daylight conﬁrmed the impression which I had felt the
night before, of there being too many trees at Blackwater,


res WOMAN m wnrrn. 219
The house is stiﬂed by them. They are, for the most part,
young, and planted far too thickly. I suspect there must have
been a ruinous cutting down of timber, all over the estate,
before Sir Percival’s time , and an angry anxiety , on the part
of the next possessor, to ﬁll up all the gaps as thickly and
rapidly as possible. After looking about me, in front of the
house, I observed a ﬂower-garden on my left hand, and walked
towards 'it, to see what I could discover in that direction.
On a nearer view, the garden proved to be small and poor
and ill-kept. I left it behind me, opened a little gate in a ring
fence, and found myself in a plantation of fir-trees.
A pretty, winding path, artiﬁcially made, led me on among
the trees; and my north-country experience soon informed
me that I was approaching sandy heathy ground. After a
walk of more than half a mile , I should think, among the ﬁrs,
the path took a sharp turn', the trees abruptly ceased to ap-
pear on either side of me; and I found myself standing
suddenly on the margin of a vast open space, and looking
down at the Blackwater lake from which the house takes its
name.
The ground, shelving away below me, was all sand, with a
few little heathy hillocks to break the monotony of itin certain
places. The lake itself had evidently once ﬂowed to the spot
on which I stood, and had been gradually wasted and dried up
to less than a third of its former size. I saw its still, stagnant
waters, a quarter of a mile away from me in the hollow, se-
parated into pools and ponds, by twining reeds and rushes,
and little knolls of earth. On the farther bank from me, the
trees rose thickly again, and shut out the view, and cast their
black shadows on the sluggish, shallow water. Astalked
down to the lake , I saw that the ground on its farther side was
damp and marshy, overgrown with rank grass and dismal
willows. The water, which was clear enough on the open
sandy side , where the sun shone , looked black and poisonous
opposite to me, where it lay deeper under the shade of the
spongy banks, and the rank overhanging thickets and tangled
trees. The frogs were creaking, and the rats were slipping


220 rue WOMAN IN WHITE.
in and out of the shadowy water, like live shadows themselves,
as I got nearer to the marshy side of the lake. I saw here,
lying half in and half out of the water, the rotten wreck of an
old overturned boat, with a sickly spot of sunlight glimmering
through a gap in the trees on its dry surface, and a snake
basking in the midst of the spot, fantastically coiled, and
treacheroust still. Far and near, the view suggested the
same dreary impressions of solitude and decay; and the
glorious brightness of the summer sky overhead, seemed only
to deepen and harden the gloom and barrenness of the wilder-
ness on which it shone. I turned and retraced my steps to the
high, heathy ground; directing them a little aside from my
former path towards a shabby old wooden shed, which stood
on the outer skirt of the ﬁr plantation, and which had hitherto
been too unimportant to share my notice with the wide , wild
prospect of the lake.
On approaching the shed, I found that it had once been a
boat-house, and that an attempt had apparently been made to
convert it afterwards into a sort of rude arbour, by placing in-
side it a ﬁrwood seat, a few stools, and a table. I entered the
place, and sat down for a little while, to rest and get my breath
a all].
g I had not been in the boat-house more than a minute, when
it struck me that the sound of my own quick breathing was
very strangely echoed by something beneath me. I listened
intently for a moment, and heard a low, thick, sobbing breath
that seemed to come from the ground under the seat whichI
was occupying. My nerves are not easily shaken by triﬂes;
but, on this occasion, I started to my feet in a fright — called
out — received no answer — summoned back my recreant
courage — and looked under the seat.
There, crouched up in the farthest corner, lay the forlorn
cause of my terror, in the shape ofa poor little dog - a black
and white spaniel. The creature moaned feebly when I looked
at it and called to it, but never stirred. I moved away the
seat and looked closer. The poor little dog‘s eyes were gla-
zing fast, and there were spots of blood on its glossy white side.


run WOMAN m wnrrr. 221
The misery of a weak, helpless, dumb creature is surely one of
the saddest of all the mournful sights which this world can
show. I lifted the poor dog in my arms as gently as I could,
and contrived a sort of make-shift hammock for him to lie in,
by gathering up the front of my dress all round him. In this
way, I took the creature, as painlessly as possible, and as fast
as possible, back to the house.
Finding no one in the hall, I went up at once to my own
sitting-room, made a bed for the dog with one of my old
shawls, and rang the bell. The largest and fattest of all pos-
sible housemaids answered it, in a state of cheerful stupidity
which would have provoked the patience of a saint. The girl’s
fat, shapeless face actually stretched into a broad grin, at the
sight of the wounded creature on the ﬂoor.
“What do you see there to laugh at?” I asked, as angrily
as if she had been a servant of my own. “ Do you know wh0se
dog it is? ”
“No, miss, that I certainly don't." She stopped, and
looked down at the spaniel’s injured side — brightened sud-
denly with the irradiation of a new idea - and, pointing to
the wound with a chuckle of satisfaction, said, “That’s
Baxter’s doings, that is."
I was so exasperated that I could have boxed her
ears. “Baxter?” 1 said. “Who is the brute you call
Baxter?”
The girl grinned again, more cheerftu than ever. “Bless
you, miss! Baxter’s the keeper; and when he ﬁnds strange
dogs hunting about, he takes and shoots ’em. It’s keeper’s
dooty, miss. I think that dog will die. Here’s where he’s
been shot, aint it? That’s Baxter’s doings, that is. Baxter’s
doings, miss, and Baxter’s dooty."
I was almost wicked enough to wish that Baxter had shot
the housemaid instead of the dog. Seeing that it was quite
useless to expect this densely impenetrable personage to give
me any help in relieving the suffering creature at our feet, I
told her to request the housekeeper’s attendance, with my
compliments. She went out exactly as she had come in,


222 ‘ THE WOMAN m wnrrn.
grinning from ear to ear. As the door closed on her, she said
to herself, softly, “It's Baxter’s doings and Baxter’s dooty ——
that’s what it is.”
The housekeeper, a person of some education and intel—
ligence, thoughtfully brought up-stairs with her some milk
and some warm water. The instant she saw the dog on the
ﬂoor, she started and changed colour.
“Why, Lord bless me,” cried the_housekeeper,“that must
be Mrs. Catherick’s dog!"
“Whose?” I asked, in the utmost astonishment.
“Mrs. Catherick’s. You seem to know Mrs. Catherick,
Miss Halcombe?"
“Not personally. But I have heard of her. Does she live
here? Has she had any news of her daughter?"
“ N 0, Miss Halcombe. She came here to ask for
news."
“When?”
-" Only yesterday. She said some one had reported that a
stranger answering to the description of her daughter had
been seen in our neighbourhood. No such report has reached
us here; andwno such report was known in the village , when I
sent to make inquiries there on Mrs. Catherick’s account. She
certainlyi’brought this poor little dog with her when she came ,
and 1mm ittrot out after 'her when she went away. I suppose
the creature strayed into the plantations, and got shot. Where
did you ﬁnd it, Miss Halcombe?"
“In the old shed that looks out on the lake."
“Ah , yes , that is the plantation side, and the poor thing
dragged itself, I suppose, to the nearest shelter, as dogs will,
to die. If you can moisten its lips with the milk, Miss Hal-
combe, I will wash the clotted hair from the wound. 1 am very
much afraid it is too late to do any good. However, we can
but try.”
Mrs. Catherick! The name still rang in my ears, as if the
housekeeper had only that moment surprised me by uttering
it. While we were attending to the dog, the words of Walter
Hartright’s caution to me returned to my memory. “If ever


THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 223
Anne Catherick crosses your path, make better use of the op-
portunity, Miss Halcombe, than I made of it." The ﬁnding of
the wounded spaniel had led me already to the discovery of
Mrs. Catherick’s visit to Blackwater Park; and that event
might lead, in its turn, to something more. I determined to
make the most of the chance which was now offered to me, and
to gain as much information as I could.
“Did you say that Mrs. Catherick lived anywhere in this
neighbourhood? ” I asked.
“ Oh, dear, no ,” said the housekeeper. “She lives at
Welmingham; quite at the other end of the county —ﬁve-and-
twenty miles oﬁ' at least."
“I suppose you have known Mrs. Catherick for some
years?"
“ On the contrary, Miss Halcombe; I never saw her before
she came here, yesterday. I had heard of her, of course, be-
cause I had heard of Sir Percival's kindness in putting her
daughter under medical care. Mrs. Catherick is rather a
strange person in her manners, but extremely respectable-
looking. She seemed sorely put out, when she found that
there was no foundation — none, at least, that any of us could
discover — for the report of her daughter having been seen in
this neighbourhood.”
“I am rather interested about Mrs. Catherick ,” I went on,
continuing the conversation as long as possible. “I wish I
had arrived here soon enough to see her yesterday. Did she
stay for any length of time?"
“Yes,” said the housekeeper, “she stayed for some time.
And I think she would have remained longer, if I had not been
called away to speak to a strange gentleman — a gentleman
who came to ask when Sir Percival was expected back. Mrs.
Catherick got up and left at once, when she heard the maid
tell me what the visitor’s errand was. She said to me, at part-
ing, that there was no need to tell Sir Percival of her coming
here. I thought that rather an odd remark to make, especially
to a person in my responsible situation.”
I thought it an odd remark, too. Sir Percival had cer-


224 run WOMAN IN wm'rn.
tainly led me to believe, at Limmeridge, that the most perfect
conﬁdence existed between himself and Mrs. Catherick. If
that was the case, why should she be anxious to have her visit
at Blackwater Park kept a secret from him?
“Probably,” I said, seeing that the housekeeper expected
me to give my opinion on Mrs. Catherick’s parting words;
“probably, she thought the announcement of her visit might
vex Sir Percival to no purpose, by reminding him that her lost
daughter was not found yet. Did she talk much on that
subject?”
“ Very little,” replied the housekeeper. “She talked prin-
cipally of Sir Percival, and asked a great many questions
about where he had been travelling, and what sort of lady his
new wife was. She seemed to be more soured and put out
than distressed, by failing to ﬁnd any traces of her daughter
in these parts. ‘I give her up,’ were the last words she said
that'I can remember; ‘I give her up, ma’am, for lost.’ And
from that, she passed at once to her questions about Lady
Glyde; wanting to know if she was a handsome, amiable lady,
comely and healthy and young — Ah, dear! I thought how it
would end. Look, Miss Halcombe! the poor thing is out of
its misery at last ! ” ‘ '
The dog was dead. It had given a faint, sobbing cry, it
had suifcred an instant’s convulsion of the limbs, just as those
last words, “comely and healthy and young,” dropped from
the housekeeper's lips. The change had happened with
startling suddenness~in one moment the creature lay lifeless
under our hands.
Eight o’clock. I have just returned from dining down
stairs, in solitary state. The sunset is burning redly 0n the
wilderness of trees that I see from my window; and I am
poring over my journal again, to calm my impatience for the
return of the travellers. They ought to have arrived , by my
calculations, before this. How still and lonely the house is in
the drowsy evening quiet! Oh, me! how many minutes more


'rnn WOMAN IN WHITE. 225
before I hear the carriage wheels and run down stairs to ﬁnd
myself in Laura’s arms?
The poor little dog! I wish my ﬁrst day at Blackwater
Park had not been associated with death -— though it is only
the death of a stray animal.
Welmingham -— I see, on looking back through these
private pages of mine, that Welmingham is the name of the
place where Mrs. Catherick lives. Her note is still in my pos-
session, the note in answer to that letter about her unhappy
daughter which Sir Percival obliged me to write. One of these
days, when I can ﬁnd a safe opportunity, I will take the note
with me by way of introduction, and try what I can make of
Mrs. Catherick at a personal interview. I don't understand
her wishing to conceal her visit to this place from Sir Per-
cival’s knowledge; and I don’t feel half so sure, as the house-
keeper seems to do, that her daughter Anne is not in the
neighbourhood, after all. What would Walter Hartright
have said in this emergency? Poor, dear Hartright! I am
beginning to feel the want of his honest advice and his willing
help, already.
Surely, I heard something. Was it a bustle of footsteps
below stairs? Yes! I hear the horses’ feet; I hear the rolling
wheels —
IV.
Jun 1st. — The confusion of their arrival has had time to
subside. Two days have elapsed since the return of the trav-
ellers; and that interval has suﬂiced to put the new machinery
of our lives at Blackwater Park in fair working order. I may
now return to my journal, with some little chance of being able
to continue the entries in it as collectedly as usual.
I think I must begin by putting down an odd remark, which
has suggested itself to me since Laura came back.
When two members of a family, or two intimate friends, are
separated, and one goes abroad and one remains at home , the
return of the relative or friend who has been travelling, always
The Woman in White. I.


226 Tim WOMAN IN WHITE.
seems to place the relative or friend who has been staying at
home at a painful disadvantage, when the two ﬁrst meet. The
sudden encounter of the new thoughts and new habits eagerly
gained in the one case, with the old thoughts and old habits
passively preserved in the other, seems, at ﬁrst, to part the
sympathies of the mest loving relatives andthe fondest friends,
and to set a sudden strangeness , unexpected by both and un- ‘
controllable by both, between them on either side. After
the ﬁrst happiness of my meeting with Laura was over,
after we had sat down together, hand in hand, to recover
breath enough and calmness enough to talk, I felt this
strangeness instantly, and I could see that she felt it too. It
has partially worn away, now that we have fallen back into
most of our old habits; and it will probably disappear before
long. But it has certainly had an inﬂuence over the ﬁrst im~
pressions that I have formed of her, now that we are living
together again -- for which reason only I have thought ﬁt to
mention it here.
She has found me unaltered; but I have found her
changed.
Changed in person, and, in one respect, changed in charac-
ter. I cannot absolutely say that she is less beautiful than she
used to be: I can only say that she is less beautiful to me.
Others , who do not look at her with my eyes and my recol-
lections , would probably think her improved. There is more
colour, and more decision and roundness of outline in her face
than there used to be; and her ﬁgure seems more ﬁrmly set,
and more sure and easy in all its movements than it was in her
maiden days. But I miss something when I look at her-—
something that once belonged to the happy, innocent life of
Laura Fairlie, and that I cannot ﬁnd in Lady Glyde. There
was, in the old times, a freshness, a softness, an ever-varying
and yet ever-remaining tenderness of beauty in her face, the
charm of which is not possible to express in words — or, as
poor Hartright used often to say, in painting , either. This is
gone. I thought I saw the faint reﬂexion of it, for a moment,
when she turned pale under the agitation of our sudden meet-


run wom IN wmrn. 227
ing, on the evening of her return; but it has never reappeared
since. None of her letters had prepared me for a personal
change in her. On the contrary, they had led me to expect
that her marriage had left her, in appearance-at least, quite
unaltered. Perhaps , I read her letters wrongly , in the past,
and am now reading her face wrongly, in the present? N 0
matter! Whether her beauty has gained, or whether it has
lost, in the last six months, the separation, either way, has
made her own dear self more precious to me than ever —- and
that is one good result of her marriage, at any rate!
The second change, the change that I have observed in her
character, has not surprised me, because I was prepared for it,
in this case, by the tone of bar letters. Now that she is at home
again , I ﬁnd her just as unwilling to enter into any details on
the subject of her married life, as I had previously found her,
all through the time of our separation, when we could only
communicate with each other by writing. At theﬁrst approach
I made to the forbidden topic, she put her hand on my lips,
with a look and gesture which touchingly, almost painfully,
recalled to my memory the days of her girlhood and the happy
bygone time when there were no secrets between us.
“Whenever you and I are together, Marian,” she said,
“we shall both be happier and easier with one another, if we
accept my married life for what it is, and say and think as little
about it as possible. I would tell you everything, darling,
about myself ," she went on , nervously buckling and unbuck-
ling the ribbon round my waist, “if my conﬁdences
could only end there. But they could not — they would
lead me into conﬁdences about my husband, too; and, now I
am married , I think I had better avoid them, for his sake, and
for your sake, and for mine. I don’t say that they would
distress you , or distress me — I wouldn't have you think that
for the world. But —- I want to be so happy , now I have got
you back again; and I want you to be so happy too —" She
broke oﬁ' abruptly, and looked round the room, my own sitting-
room, in which we were talking. “Ah!” she cried, clapping
her hands with a bright smile of recognition, “another old
15*


228 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
friend found already! Your bookcase, Marian —— your dear-
little-shabby-old-satin-wood bookcase — how glad I am you
brought it with you from Limmeridge! And the horrid, heavy,
man’s umbrella , that you always would walk out with when it
rained! And, ﬁrst and foremost of all, your own dear, dark,
clever, gipsy-face, looking at me just as usual! It is so like
home again to be here. How can we make it more like home
still? I will put my father’s portrait in your room instead of in
mine -— and I will keep all my little treasures fromLimmeridge
here —- and we will pass hours and hours evei-y day with these
four friendly walls round us. Oh, Marian!" she said, suddenly
seating herself on a footstool at my knees, and looking up
earnestly in my face, “promise you will never marry, and
leave me. It is selﬁsh to say so, but you are so much better
off as a single woman -— unless - unless you are very fond of
your husband —- but you won’t be very fond of anybody but
me, will you?” She stopped again; crossed my hands on my
lap; and laid her face on them. “Have you been writing
many letters, and receiving many letters, lately?" she asked,
in low, suddenly-altered tones. I understood what the question
meant; but I thought it my duty not to encourage her by
meeting her half way. “Have you heard from him? " she went
on, coaxing me to forgive the more direct appeal on which she
now ventured, by kissing my hands, upon which her face still
rested. “Is be well and happy, and getting on in his pro-
fession? Has he recovered himself — and forgotten me!"
She should not have asked those questions. She should
have remembered her own resolution, on the morning when
Sir Percival held her to her marriage engagement , and when
she resigned the book of Hartright’s drawings into my hands
for ever. But, ah me! where is the faultless human creature
who can persevere in a good resolution, without sometimes
failing and falling back? Where is the woman who has ever
really torn from her heart the image that has been once ﬁxed
in it by a true love? Books tell us that such unearthly crea-
tures have existed —- but what does our own experience say in
answer to books? '


'rnn WOMAN IN WHITE 229
1 made no attempt to remonstrate with her: perhaps, be-
cause I sincerely appreciated the fearless candour which let
me see, what other women in her position might have had
reasons for concealing even from their dearest friends —- per-
haps, because I felt, in my own heart and conscience, that, in
her place I should have asked the same questions and had the
same thoughts. All I could honestly do was to reply thatI
had not written to him or heard from him lately, and then to
turn the conversation to less dangerous topics.
There had been much to sadden me in our interview -— my
ﬁrst conﬁdential interview with her since her return. The
change which her marriage has produced in our relations
towards each other, by placing a forbidden subject between us,
for the ﬁrst time in our lives; the melancholy conviction of the
dearth of all warmth of feeling, of all close sympathy,between
her husband and herself, which her own unwilling words now .
force on my mind; the distressing disco'very that the inﬂuence
of that ill-fated attachment still remains (no matter how in-
nocently, how harmlessly) rooted as deeply as ever in her
heart — all these are disclosures to sadden any woman who
loves her as dearly, and feels for her as acutely, as I do.
There is only one consolation to set against them -—— a con-
solation that ought to comfort me , and that does comfort me.
All the graces and gentlenesses of her character; all the frank
affection of her nature; all the sweet, simple, womanly charms
which used to make her the darling and delight of every one
who approached her, have come back to me with herself. Of
my other impressionsI am sometimes a little inclined to doubt.
Of this last, best, haPpiest of all impressions, I grow more and
more certain, every hour in the day.
Let me turn , now, from her to her travelling companions.
Her husband must engage my attention ﬁrst. What have I
observed in Sir Percival, since his return, to improve my
opinion of him?
I can hardly say. Small vexations and annoyances seem
to have beset him since he came back: and no man, under
those circumstances, is ever presented at his best. He looks,


230 was WOMAN in warm.
as I think, thinner than he was when he left England. His
wearisome cough and his comfortless restlessness have cer-
tainly increased. His manner — at least, his manner to-
wards me -—~ is much more abrupt than it used to be. He
greeted me, on the evening of his return, with little or nothing
of the ceremony and civility of former times - no polite
speeches of welcome—no appearance of extraordinary gratiﬁ-
cation at seeing me — nothing but a short shake of the hand,
and a sharp “How-d’ye-do, Miss Halcombe - glad to see you
again." He seemed to accept me as one of the necessary
ﬁxtures of Blackwater Park; to be satisﬁed at ﬁnding me
established in my proper place; and then to pass me over alto-
ether.
g Most men show something of their dispositions in their own
houses, which they have concealed elsewhere; and Sir Per-
cival has already displayed a mania for order and regularity,
which is quite a new revelation of him, so far as my previous
knowledge of his character is concerned. If I take a book
from the library and leave it on the table, he follows me , and
puts it back again. If Irise from a chair, and let it remain
where I have been sitting, he carefully restores it to its proper
place against the wall. He picks up stray ﬂower-blassoms
from the carpet, and mutters to himself as discontentedly as if
they were hot cinders burning holes in it; and he storms at the
servants, if there is a crease in the tablecloth, oraknife missing
from its place at the dinner-table, as ﬁercely as if they had
personally insulted him.
I have already referred to the small annoyances which
appear to have troubled him since his return. Much of the
alteration for the worse which I have noticed in him , may be
due to these. I try to persuade myself that it is so, because I
am anxious not to be disheartened already about the future.
It is certainly trying to any man’s temper to be met by a vexa~
tion the moment he sets foot in his own house again, after a
long absence; and this annoying circumstance did really
happen to Sir Percival in my presence.
0n the evening of their arrival, the housekeeper followed


Tun WOMAN IN wm'ra 231
me into the hall to receive her master and mistress and their
guests. The instant he saw her, Sir Percival asked if any one
had called lately. The housekeeper mentioned to him, in
reply, what she had previously mentioned to me, the visit of
the strange gentleman to make inquiries about the time of her
master's return. He asked immediately for the gentleman‘s
name. No name had been left. The gentleman's business?
No business had been mentioned. What was the gentleman
like? The housekeeper tried to describe him; but failed to
distinguish the nameless visitor by any personal peculiarity
which her master could recognize. Sir Percival frowned, _
stamped angrily on the ﬂoor, and walked on into the house,
taking no notice of anybody. "Why he should have been so
discomposed by a triﬂe I cannot say —but he was seriously
discomposed, beyond all doubt.
Upon the whole, it will be best , perhaps, if I abstain from
forming a decisive opinion of his manners, language, and con-
duct in his own house , until time has enabled him to shake oﬂ'
the anxieties, whatever they may be, which now evidently
trouble his mind in secret. I will turn over to anew page;
and my pen shall let Laura’s husband alone for the present.
The two guests —- the Count and Countess Foseo — come
next in my catalogue. I will dispose of the Countess ﬁrst, so
as to have done with the woman as soon as possible.
Laura was certainly not chargeable with any exaggeration,
in writing me word that I should hardly recognise her aunt
again, when we met. Never before have I beheld such a
change produced in a woman by her marriage as has been pro-
duced in Madame Fosco.
As EleanorFairlie (aged seven-and-thirty), she was always
talking pretentious nonsense, and always worrying the un-
fortunate men with every small exaction which a vain and
foolish woman can impose on long-suffering male humanity.
As Madame Fosco (aged three-and-forty), she sits for hours
together without saying a word, frozen up in the strangest
manner in herself. The hideously ridiculous lovelocks which
used to hang on either side of her face, are now replaced by


232 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
stiff little rows of very short curls, of the sort that one sees in
old-fashioned wigs. A plain, matronly cap covers her head,
and makes her look, for the ﬁrst time in her life, since I re-
member her, like a decent woman. Nobody (putting her hus-
band out of the question, of course) now sees in her, what
everybody once saw—I mean the structure of the female
skeleton, in the upper regions of the collar-bones and the
shoulder-blades. Clad in quiet black or gray gowns, made
high round the throat — dresses that she would have laughed
at, or screamed at, as the whim of the moment inclined her, in
her maiden days —- she sits speechless in corners; ’her dry
white hands (so dry that the pores of her skin look chalky) in-
cessantly engaged, either in monotonous embroidery work, or
in rolling up endless little cigarettes for the Count’s own par-
ticular smoking. On the few occasions when her cold blue
eyes are oﬁ‘ her work, they are generally turned on her hus~
band, with the look of mute submissive inquiry which we are
all familiar with in the eyes of a faithful dog. The only
approach to an inward thaw which I have yet detected under
her outer covering of icy constraint, has betrayed itself, once
or twice, in the form of a suppressed tigerish jealousy of any
woman in the house (the maids included) to whom the Count
speaks, or on whom he looks, with anything approaching to
special interest or attention. Except in this one particular,
she is always, morning, noon, and night, in-doors and out, fair
weather or foul, as cold as a statue, and as impenetrable as the
stone out of which it is out. For the common purposes of
society the extraordinary change thus produced in her, is,
beyond all doubt, a change for the better, seeing that it has
transformed her into a civil, unobtrusive woman, who is never
in the way. How far she is really reformed or deteriorated in
her secret self, is another question. I have once or twice seen
sudden changes of expression on her pinched lips, and heard
sudden inﬂexions of tone in her calm voice, which have led me
to suspect that her present state of suppression may have
scaled up something dangerous in her nature, which used to
evaporatehannlessly in the freedom of her former life. It is


THE WOMAN IN wurrn. 233
quite possible that I may be altogether wrong in this idea.
My own impression, however, is, that I am right. Time will
show.
And the magician who has wrought this wonderful trans-
formation—the foreign husband who has tamed this once
wayward Englishwoman till her own relations hardly know
her again — the Count himself? What of the Count?
This, in two words: He looks like a man who could tame
anything. If he had married a tigress, instead of a woman,
he would have tamed the tigress. If he had married me, I
should have made his cigarettes as his wife does—I should
have held my tongue when he looked at me, as she holds
hers.
I am almost afraid to confess it, even to these secret pages.
The man has interested me , has attracted me , has forced me
to like him. In two short days, he has made his way straight
into my favourable estimation -- and how he has worked the
miracle, is more than I can tell.
It absolutely startles me, now he is in my mind, to ﬁnd how
plainly I see him! -— how much more plainly than I see Sir
Percival, or Mr. Fairlie, or Walter Hartright, or any other
absent person of whom I think, with the one exception of
Laura herself! I can hear his voice, as if he was speaking at
this moment. I know what his conversation was yesterday, -as
well as if I was hearing it now. How am I to describe him?
There are peculiarities in his personal appearance, his habits,
and his amusements whichI should blame in the boldest terms,
or ridicule in the most merciless manner, if I had seen them in
another man. What is it that makes me unable to blame
them, or to ridicule them in him? ,
For example, he is immensely fat. Before this time, I have
always especially disliked corpulent humanity. I have al-
ways maintained that the popular notion of connecting exces-
sive grossness of size and excessive good-humour as insepa~
rable allies, was equivalent to declaring, either that no
people but amiable people ever get fat, or that the accidental
addition of so many pounds of ﬂesh has a directly favourable


234 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
\
inﬂuence over the disposition of the person on whose body
they accumulate. I have invariably combated both these
absurd assertions by quoting examples of fat people who were
as mean, vicious, and cruel, as the Ieanest and the worst of
their neighbours. I have asked whether Henry the Eighth
was an amiable character? whether Rope Alexander the Sixth
was a good man? Whether Mr. Murderer and Mrs. Murderess
Manning were not both unusually stout people? Whether
hired nurses, proverbially as cruel a set of women as are to be
found in all England, were not, for the most part, also as fat a
set of women as are to be found in all England? -— and so on,
through dozens of other examples, modern and ancient, native
and foreign, high and low. Holding these strong opinions on
the subject with might and main, as I do at this moment, here,
nevertheless, is Count Fosco, as fat as Henry the Eighth him-
self, established in my favour, at one day’s notice, without let
or hindrance from his own odious corpulence. Marvellous
indeed! '
Is it his face that has recommended him?
It may be his face. He is a. most remarkable likeness, on a
large scale, of the Great Napoleon. His features have N apo-
leon’s magniﬁcent regularity: his expression recalls the
grandly calm, immovable power of the Great Soldier‘s face.
This striking resemblance certainly impressed me, to begin
with; but there is something in him besides the resemblance,
which has impressed me more. I think the inﬂuence I am now
trying to ﬁnd, is in his eyes. They are the most unfathomable
gray eyes I ever saw: and they have at times a cold, clear,
beautiful, irresistible glitter in them, which forces me to look
at him, and yet causes me sensations, when I do look, which I
would rather not feel. Other parts of his face and head have
their strange peculiarities. His complexion, for instance,
has a singular sallow-fairness, so much at variance with the
dark-brown colour of his hair, that I suspect the hair of being
a wig; and his face, closely shaven all over, is smoother and
freer from all marks and wrinkles than mine, though (accord-
ing to Sir Percival’s account of him) he is close on sixty years


run WOMAN m wnrrs. 235
of age. But these are not the prominent personal charac~
teristics which distinguish him, to my mind, from all the other
men I have ever seen. The marked peculiarity which singles
him out from the rank and ﬁle of humanity, lies entirely, so far
as I can tell at present, in the extraordinary expression and
extraordinary power of his eyes.
His manner, and his command of our language, may also
have assisted him, in some degree, to establish himself in my
good opinion. He has that quiet deference , that look of
pleased, attentive interest, in listening to a woman, and that
secret gentleness in his voice, in speaking to a woman, which,
say what we may, we can none of us resist. Here, too, his un-
usual command of the English language necessarily helps him.
I had often heard of the extraordinary aptitude which many
Italians show in mastering our strong, hard Northern speech;
but, until I saw Count Fosco, I had never supposed it possible
that any foreigner could have spoken English as he speaks it.
There are times when it is almost impossible to detect, by his
accent, that he is not a countryman of our own; and, as for
ﬂuency, there are very few born Englishmen who can talk with
as few stoppages and repetitions as the Count. He may con-
struct his sentences, more or less, in the foreign way; but I
have never yet heard him use a wrong expression, or hesitate I
for a moment in his choice of a word.
All the smallest characteristics of this strange man have
something strikingly original and perplexingly contradictory
in them. Fat as he is, and old as he is, his movements are
astonishingly light and easy. He is as noiseless in a room as
any of us women; and, more than that, with all his look of un-
mistakable mental ﬁrmness and power, he is as nervously sen-
sitive as the weakest of us. He starts at chance noises as in-
veterater as Laura herself. He winced and shuddered yester-
day, when Sir Percival beat one of the spaniels, so that I felt
ashamed of my own want of tenderness and sensibility, by
comparison with the Count.
The relation of this last incident reminds me of one of his


236 Tim WOMAN IN WHITE.
most curious peculiarities, which I have not yet mentioned —
his extraordinary fondness for pet animals.
Some of these he has left on the Continent, but he has
brought with him to this house a cockatoo, two canary-birds,
and a whole family of white mice. He attends to all the
necessities of these strange favourites himself, and he has
taught the creatures to be surprisingly fond of him, and fa-
miliar with him. The cockatoo, a most vicious and treacherous
bird towards every one else, absolutely seems to love him.
When he lets it out of its cage, it hops on to his knee, and
claws its way up his great big body, and rubs‘its top-knot
against his sallow double chin in the most caressing manner
imaginable. He has only to set the doors of the canaries'
cages open, and to call them; and the pretty little cleverly
trained creatures perch fearlessly on his hand, mount his fat
outstretched ﬁngers one by one, when he tells them to “go up-
stairs," and sing together as if they would burst their throats
with delight, when they get to the top ﬁnger. His white mice
live in a little pagoda of gaily—painted wirework, designed and
made by himself. They are almost as tame as the canaries,
and they are perpetually let out, like the canaries. They
crawl all over him, popping in and out of his waistcoat, and
sitting in couples, white as snow , on his capaeious shoulders.
He seems to be even fonder of _his mice than of his other pets,
smiles at them, and kisses them, and calls them by all sorts of
endearing names. If it be possible to suppose an Englishman
with any taste for such childish interests and amusements as
these, that Englishman would certainly feel rather ashamed of
them, and would be anxious to apologise for them, in the com-
pany of grown-up people. But the Count, apparently, sees
nothing ridiculous in the amazing contrast between his colos-
sal self and his frail little pets. He would blandly kiss his
white mice, and twitter to his canary-birds amid an as-
sembly of English fox-hunters, and would only pity them
as barbarians when they were all laughing their loudest at
him.
It seems hardly credible, while I am writing it down, but it


Tnn WOMAN IN WHITE. 237
is certainly true, that this same man, who has all the fondness
of an old maid for his coekatoo, and all the small dexterities of
an organ-boy in managing his white mice, can talk, when any-
thing happens to rouse him, with a daring independence of
thought, a knowledge of books in every language, and an ex-
perience of society in half the capitals of Europe, which would
make him the prominent personage of any assembly in the
civilized world. This trainer of canary-birds, this architect of
a pagoda for white mice, is (as Sir Percival himself has told
me) one of the ﬁrst experimental chemists living, and has
discovered, among other wonderful inventions, a means of
petrifying the body after death, so as to preserve it, as hard as
marble, to the end of time. This fat, indolent, elderly man,
whose nerves are so ﬁnely strung that he starts at chance
noises, and winces when he sees a house-spaniel get a
whipping, went into the stableyard on the morning after his
arrival, and put his hand on the head of a chained bloodhound
-- a beast so savage that the very groom who feeds him keeps
out of his reach. His wife and I were present, and I shall not
soon forget the scene that followed, short as it was.
“Mind that dog, sir,” said the groom; “he ﬂies at every-
body!" “He does that, my friend ," replied the Count,
quietly, “because everybody is afraid of him. Let us see if he
ﬂies at me." And he laid his plump, yellow-white ﬁngers, on
which the canary-birds had been perching ten minutes before,
upon the formidable brute’s head; and looked him straight in
the eyes. “You big dogs are all cowards,” he said, addressing
the animal contemptuously, with his face and the dog’s within
an inch of each other. “You would kill a poor eat, you in-
fernal coward. You would ﬂy at a starving beggar, you in—
fernal coward. An thing that you can surprise unawares —
anything that is aid of your big body, and your wicked
white teeth, and your slobbering, bloodthirsty mouth, is the
thing you like to ﬂy at. You could throttle me at this mo-
ment, you mean, miserable bully; and you daren’t so much as
look me in the face, because I’m not afraid of you. Will you
think better of it, and try your teeth in my fat neck? Bahl


238 THE worms IN WHITE.
not you!” He turned away, laughing at the astonishment of
the men in the yard; and the dog crept back meekly to his
kennel. “Ah! my nice waistcoat!" he said, pathetically.
“I am sorry I came here. Some of that brute’s slohber has
got on my pretty clean waistcoat.” Those words express an-
other ot his incomprehensible oddities. He is as fond of ﬁne
clothes as the veriest fool in existence; and has appeared in
four magniﬁcent waistcoats, already — all of light garish
colours, and all immensely large even for him -- in the two
days of his residence at Blackwater Park.
His tact and cleverness in small things are quite as
noticeable as the singular inconsistencies in his character,
and the childish triviality of his ordinary tastes and pur-
suits. '
I can see already that he means to live on excellent terms
with all of us, during the period of his sojourn in this place.
He has evidently discovered that Laura secretly dislikes him
(she confessed as much to me, when I pressed her on the sub-
ject) - but he has also found out that she is extravagantly
fond of ﬂowers. Whenever she wants a nosegay, he has got
one to give her, gathered and arranged by himself; and,
greatly to my amusement, he is always cunningly provided
with a duplicate,‘ composed of exactly the same ﬂowers,
grouped in exactly the same way, to appease his icily jealous
wife, before she can so much as think herself aggrieved. His
management of the Countess (in public) is a sight to see. He
bows to her; he habitually addresses her as “my angel," he
carries his canaries to pay her little visits on his ﬁngers , and
to sing to her; he kisses her hand, when she gives him his
cigarettes; he presents her with sugar-plums, in return, which
he puts into her mouth playfully, from a box in his pocket.
The rod of iron with which he rules her never appears
in company—it is a private rod, and is always kept up-
stairs.
His method of recommending himself to me, is entirely dif-
ferent. He ﬂatters my vanity, by talking to me as seriously
and sensibly as if I was a man. Yes! I can ﬁnd him out when


'THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 239
I am away from him; I know he ﬂatters my vanity, when I
think of him up here, in my own room — and yet, when I go
down stairs, and get into his company again, he will blind me
again, and I shall be ﬂattered again, just as if I had never
found him out at all! He can manage me, as he manages his
wife and Laura, as he managed the bloodhound in the stable-
yard, as he manages Sir Percival himself, every hour in the
day. “My good Percival! how I like your rough English
humour! ” -—- “My goodPercival! how I enjoy your solid Eng-
lish sense!" He puts the rudest remarks Sir Percival can
make on his eﬁ'eminate tastes and amusements , quietly away
from him in that manner —- always calling the baronet by his
Christian name; smiling at him with the calmest superiority;
patting him on the shoulder; and bearing with him be-
nignantly, as a good-humoured father bears with a wayward
son.
The interest which I really cannot help feeling in this
strangely original man, has led me to question Sir Percival
about his past life. ' '
Sir Percival either knows little, or will tell me little, about
it. He and the Count ﬁrst met many years ago, at Rome, un-
der the dangerous circumstances to which I have alluded else-
where. Since that time, they have been perpetually together
in London, inParis, and in Vienna—but never in Italy again;
the Count having, oddly enough, not crossed the frontiers of
his native country for years past. Perhaps, he has been made
the victim of some political persecution? At all events, he
seems to be patriotieally anxious not to lose sight of any of his
own countrymen who may happen to be in England. Oh the
evening at his arrival, he asked how far we were from the
nearest tom), and whether we knew of any Italian gentlemen
who might happen to be settled there. He is certainly in cor-
respondence with people on the Continent, for his letters have
all sorts of odd stamps on them; and I saw one for him, this
merning, waiting in his place at the breakfast-table, with a
huge ofﬁcial-looking seal on it. Perhaps he is in corre~
spondence with his government? And yet, that is hardly to


240 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
be reconciled, either, with my other idea that he may be a
political exile.
How much I seem to have written about Count Fosco! And
what does it all amount to? —- as poor, dear Mr. Gilmore
would ask, in his impenetrable business-like way. I can only
repeat that I do assuredly feel, even on this short acquaint-
ance, a strange, half-willing, half-unwilling liking for the
Count. He seems to have established over me the same sort
of ascendency which he has evidently gained over SirPercival.
Free, and even rude, as he may occasionally be in his manner
towards his fat friend, Sir Percival is nevertheless afraid, as
I can plainly see, of giving any serious offence to the Count.
Iwonder whether I am afraid, too? I certame never saw a
man, in all my experience, whom I should be so sorry to have
for an enemy. Is this because I like him, or because I am
afraid of him? Chi sa? —- as Count Fosco might say in his own
- language. Who knows?
Jun 21m. — Something to chronicle, to-day, besides my
own idea and impressions. A visitor has arrived -- quite un-
known to Laura and to me; and, apparently, quite unex-
pected by Sir Percival. '
We were all at lunch, in the room with the new French
windows that open into the verandah; and the Count (who
devours pastry as I have never yet seen it devoured by any
human beings but girls at boarding-schools) had just amused
us by asking gravely for his fourth tart — when the servant
entered, to announce the visitor.
“Mr. Mcrriman has just come, Sir Percival, and wishes to
see you immediately."
Sir Percival started, and looked at the man, with an ex-
pression of angry alarm.
“Mr. Merriman?” he repeated as if he thought his own
cars must have deceived him.
“Yes, Sir Percival: Mr. Merriman, from London.”
“Where is he?”
“In the library, Sir Percival."
4’“


’ 'rmi'wousn in warm. 241
He left the table the instant the last answer was given;
and hurried out of the room without saying a word to any
of us.
“Who is Mr. Merriman?" asked Laura, appealing
to me. \ .,
“I have not the least idea,” was all I could say in
reply.
The Count had ﬁnished his fourth tart, and had gone to a
side-table to look after his vicious cockatoo. He turned round
to us, with the bird perched on his shoulder.
“Mr. Merriman is Sir Percival’s solicitor ," he said
quietly.
Sir Percival’s solicitor. It was a perfectly straight-forward
answer to Laura’s question; and yet, under the circumstances,
it was not satisfactory. If Mr. Merriman had been specially
sent for by his client, there would have been nothing very
wonderful in his leaving town to obey the summons. But
when a lawyer travels from London to Hampshire, without
being sent for, and when his arrival at a gentleman's house
seriously startles the gentleman himself, it may be safely
taken for granted that the legal visitor is the bearer of some
very important and very unexpected news -- news which may
be either very good or very bad, but which cannot, in either
case, be of the common every-day kind.
Laura and I sat silent at the table, for a quarter of an
hour or more, wondering uneasily what had happened, and
waiting for the chance of Sir Percival’s speedy return.
There were no signs of his return; and we rose to leave the
room.
The Count, attentive as usual, advanced from the corner
in which he had been feeding his cockatoo, with the bird still
perched on his shoulder, and opened the door for us. Laura
and Madame Fosco went out ﬁrst. Just as I was on the point
of following them , he made a sign with his hand, and spoke to
me , before I passed him, in the oddest manner.
“Yes,” he said; quietly answering the unexpressed idea
at that moment in my mind, as if I had plainly conﬁded it to
_ The Womanin While. I. 16


THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 243
I listened; and, under similar circumstances, I would listen
' again —— yes! with my ear at the keyhole, if I could not pos-
sibly manage it in any other way. '
“You quite understand, Sir Percival?" the lawyer went
on. “Lady Glyde is to sign her name in the presence of a
witness — or of two witnesses, if you wish to be particularly
careful — and is then to put her ﬁnger on the seal, and say, ‘I
deliver this as my act and deed.’ If that is done in a week’s
time, the arrangement will be perfectly successful, and the
anxiety will be all over. If not --— ”
“What do you mean by ‘if not?"’ asked Sir Percival,
angrily. “If the thing must be done, it shall be done. I
promise you that, Merriman."
“Just so, Sir Percival - just so; but there are two alter-
natives in all transactions; and we lawyers like to look both of
them in the face boldly. If through any extraordinary cir~
cumstance the arrangement should not be made, I think I
may be able to get the parties to accept bills at three
months. But how the money is to be raised when the bills
fall due -—”
“Damn the bills! The money is only to be got in one way;
and in that way, I tell you again, it shall be got. Take a. glass
of wine, Merriman, before you go.”
“Much obliged, Sir Percival; I have not a moment to less
if I am to catch the up-train. You will let me know as soon as
the arrangement is complete? and you will not forget the
caution I recommended ~-— "
“Of course I won’t. There’s the dog—cart at the door for
you. My groom will get you to the station in no time. Ben.-
jamin, drive like mad! Jump in. If Mr. Merriman misses the
train, you lose your place. Hold fast, Merriman, and if you
are upset, trust to the devil to save his own.” With that
parting benediction, the baronet turned about, and walked
back to the library.
I had not heard much; but the little that had reached my
ears was enough to make me feel uneasy. The “something”
that “had happened," was but too plainly a serious money-
16 *


244 The woman is warm.
embarrassment; and Sir Percival’s relief from it depended
upon Laura. The prospect of seeing her involved in her hus~
band’s secret diﬂiculties ﬁlled me with dismay, exaggerated,
no doubt, by my ignorance of business and my settled distrust
of Sir Percival. Instead of going out, as I preposed, I went
back immediately to Laura’s room to tell her what I had
heard.
She received my bad news so composedly as to surprise
me. She evidently knows more of her husband’s character
and her husband’s embarrassments than I have suspected up
to this time.
“I feared as much,” she said, “when I heard of that
strange gentleman who called, and declined to leave his
name."
“Who do you think the gentleman was, then?” I
asked.
“ Some person who has heavy claims on Sir Percival ," she
answered; “and who has been the cause of Mr. Merriman’s
visit here to-day.” \ I
“Do you know anything about those claims?"
“No; I know no particulars.”
“You will sign nothing, Laura, without ﬁrst looking
at it? "
“ Certainly not, Marian. Whatever I can harmlesst and
honestly do to help him I will do — for the sake of m'aking
your life and mine, love, as easy and as happy as possible.
But I will do nothing, ignorantly, which we might, one day,
have reason to feel ashamed of. Let us say no more about it,
now. You have got your hat on — suppose we go and dream
away the afternoon in the grounds ‘2 ’
On leaving the house we directed our steps to the nearest
shade.
As we passed an open space among the trees in front of
the house, there was Count Fosco , slowly walking backwards
and forwards on the grass, sunning himself in the full blaze of
the hot July afternoon. He had a broad straw hat on, with a
violet coloured ribbon round it. A blue blouse, with profuse


'rnn woman In WHITE. 245
white fancy-work over the bosom, covered his prodigious
body, and was girt about the place where his waist might once
have been, with a broad scarlet leather belt. Nankeen
trousers, displaying more white fancy-work over the ankles,
and purple morocco slippers, adorned his lower extremities.
He was singing Figaro’s famous song in the Barber of Seville,
with that crisply ﬂuent vocalization which is never heard from
any other than an Italian throat; accompanying himself on
the concertina, which he played with ecstatic throwings-up of
his arms, and graceful twistings and turnings of his head,
like a fat St. Cecilia masquerading in male attire. “Figaro
qua! Figaro a! Figaro sir! Figaro gin!" sang the Count,
jauntily tossing up the concertina at arm's length, and
bowing to us, on one side of the instrument, with the
airy grace and elegance of Figaro himself at twenty years
of age.
“Take my word for it, Laura, that man knows something
of*Sir Percival’s embarrassments," I said, as we returned the
Count’s salutation from a safe distance.
“ What makes you think that?” she asked.
“How should he have known, otherwise, that Mr. Merri-
man was Sir Percival’s solicitor?" I rejoined. “Besides,
when I followed you out of the luncheon-room, he told
me, without a single word of inquiry on my part, that some-
thing had happened. Depend upon it, he knows more than
we do."
“Don’t ask him any questions, if he does. Don't take
him into our conﬁdence!"
“You seem to dislike him, Laura, in a very determined
manner. What has he said or done to justify you?"
“Nothing, Marian. On the contrary, he was all kindness
and attention on our journey home, and he several times
checked Sir Percival’s outbreaks of temper, in the most
considerate manner towards me. Perhaps, I dislike him
because he has so much more power over my husband than
I have. Perhaps it hurts my pride to be under any obliga-
tions to his interference. All I know is ,‘ that I do dislike him.”


246 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
The rest of the day and evening passed quietly enough.
The Count and I played at chess. For the ﬁrst two games he
politely allowed me to conquer him; and then, when he saw
that I had found him out, begged my pardon, and, at the
third game, checkinated me in ten minutes. Sir Percival
never once referred, all through the evening, to the lawyer's
visit. But either that event, or something else, had pro-
duced a singular alteration for the better in him. He was as
polite and agreeable to all of us , as he used to be in the days
of his probation at Limmeridge; and he was so amazingly
attentive and kind to his wife, that even icy Madame Fosco
was roused into looking at him with a grave surprise. What
does this mean? Ithink I can guess; I am afraid Laura can
guess; and I am sure Count Fosco knows. I caught Sir Per-
cival looking at him for approval more than once in the course
of the evening.
JULY 31m. — A day of events. I most fervently hope I
may not have to add, a day of disasters as well.
Sir Percival was as silent at breakfast as he had been the
evening before, on the subject of the mysterious “arrange-
ment” (as the lawyer called it), which is hanging over our
heads. An hour afterwards, however, he suddenly entered
the morning-room, where his wife and I were waiting, with
our hats on, for Madame Fosco to join us; and inquired for
the Count.
“We expect to see him here directly,” I said.
“The fact is," Sir Percival went on, walking nervously
about the room, “I want Fosco and his wife in the library,
for a mere business formality; and I want you there , Laura,
for a minute, too.” He stopped, and appeared to notice, for
the ﬁrst time, that we were in our walking costume. “Have
you just come in? ” he asked , “or were you just going out?"
“We were all thinking of going to the lake this morning,"
said Laura. “But if you have any other arrangement to pro-
pose —"


ran worms IN WHITE. 247
“No, no ," he answered ,. hastily. “My arrangement can
wait. After lunch will do as well for it, as after breakfast.
All going to the lake, eh? A good idea. Let's have an idle
morning; I’ll be one of the party.”
There was no mistaking his manner, even if it had been
possible to mistake the uncharacteristic readiness which his
words expressed, to submit his own plans and projects to the
convenience of others. He was evidently relieved at ﬁnding
any excuse for delaying the business formality in the library,
to which his ovvn words had referred. My heart sank within
me, as I drew the inevitable inference.
The Count and his wife joined us, at that moment. The
lady had her husband’s embroidered tobacco-pouch, and her
store of paper in her hand , for the manufacture of the eternal
cigarettes. The gentleman, dressed, as usual, in his blouse
and straw hat, carried the gay little pagoda-cage, with his
darling white mice in it, and smiled on them , and on us, with
a bland amiability which it was impossible to resist.
“With your kind permission,” said the Count, “I will
take my small family, here — my poor-little-harmless-pretty-
Mouseys, out for an airing along with us. There are dogs
about the house, and shall I leave my forlorn white children
at the mercies of the dogs? Ah, never!”
He chirruped paternally at his small white children
through the bars of the pagoda; and we all left the house for
the lake.
In the plantation, Sir Percival strayed away from us. It
seems to be part of his restless disposition always to separate
himself from his companions on these occasions, and always
to occupy himself, when he is alone, in cutting' new walking-
sticks for his own use. The mere act of cutting and lopping,
at hazard, appears to please him. He has ﬁlled the house
with walking-sticks of his own making, not one of which he
ever takes up for a second time. When they have been once
used, his interest in them is all exhausted, and he thinks of
nothing but going on , and making more.
At the old boat-house, he joined us again. I will put down


248 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
the conversation that ensued, when we were all settled in our
places, exactly as it passed. It is an important conversation, '
so far asI am concerned, for it has seriously disposed me to
distrust the inﬂuence which Count Fosco has exercised over
my thoughts and feelings, and to resist it, for the future, as
resolutely as I can.
The boat-house was large enough to hold us all; but Sir
Percival remained outside, trimming the last new stick with
his pocket-axe. We three women found plenty of room on
the large seat. Laura took her work, and Madame Fosco
began her cigarettes. I, as usual, had nothing to do. My
hands always were, and always will be, as awkward as a
man’s. The Count good-humouredly took a stool, many sizes
too small for him, and balanced himself on it with his back
against the side of the shed, which creaked and groaned
under his.weight. He put the pagoda-cage on his lap, and
let out the mice to crawl over him as usual. They are pretty,
innocent-looking little creatures; but the sight of them creep-
ing about a man’s body is , for some reason, not pleasant to
me. It excites a strange, responsive creeping in my own
nerves; and suggests hideous ideas of men dying in prison,
with the crawling creatures of the dungeon preying on them
undisturbed.
The morning was windy and cloudy; and the rapid alter-
nations of shadow and sunlight over the waste of the lake,
made the view look doubly wild, weird, and gloomy.
“Some people call that picturesque," said Sir Percival,
pointing over the wide prospect with his half-ﬁnished walking-
stick. “I call it a blot on a gentleman’s property. In my
great-grandfather's time, the lake ﬂowed to this place. Look
at it now! It is not four feet deep anywhere, and it is all
puddles and pools. I wish I could aﬁ'ord to drain it, and plant
it all over. My bailiff (a superstitious idiot) says he is quite
sure the lake has a curse on it, like the Dead Sea. What do
you think, Fosco? It looks just the place for a murder,
doesn’t it?"
“My good Percival!” remonstrated the Count. “What


THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 249
is your solid English sense thinking of? The water is too
shallow to hide the body; and there is sand everywhere to
print oﬂ' the murderer’s footsteps. It is , upon the whole , the
very worst place for a murder that I ever set my eyes on.”
“Humbug!” said Sir Percival, cutting away ﬁercely at
his stick. “ You know what I mean. The dreary scenery —
the lonely situation. If you choose to understand me, you
can— if you don’t choose, I am not going to trouble myself
to explain my meanin ."
“And why not ," asked the Count, “when your meaning
can be explained by anybody in two words? If a fool was
going to commit a murder, your lake is the ﬁrst place he
would choose for it. If a wise man was going to commit a
murder, your lake is the last place he would choose for it. Is
that your meaning? If it is, there is your explanation for
you, ready made. Take it, Percival, with your good Fosco’s
blessing."
Laura looked at the Count, with her dislike for him ap-
pearing a little too plainly in her face. He was so busy with
his mice that he did not notice her.
“1 am sorry to hear the lake-view connected with any-
thing so horrible as the idea of murder," she said. “And if
Count Fosco must divide murderers into classes, I think he
has been very unfortunatein his choice of expressions. To
describe them as fools only, seems like treating them with an
indulgence to which they have no claim. And to describe
them as wise men, sounds to me like a downright contradic-
tion in terms. I have always heard that truly wise men are
truly good men, and have a horror of crime."
“My dear lady,” said the Count, “those are admirable
sentiments; and I have seen them stated at the tops of copy~
books.” He lifted one of the white mice in the palm of his
hand, and spoke to it in his whimsical way. “My pretty little
smooth white rasca ,” he said, “here is a moral lesson for you.
A truly wise Mouse is a truly good Mouse. Mention that, if
you please , to your companions, and never gnaw at the 'bars
of your cage again as long as you live.”


250 THE WOMAN m wm'rn.
“It is easy to turn everything into ridicule," said Laura,
resolutely; “ but you will not ﬁnd it quite so easy, Count
Fosco, to give me an instance of a wise man who has been a
great criminal."
The Count shrugged his huge shoulders, and smiled on
Laura in the friendliest manner.
“Most true!” he said. “The fool’s crime is the crime
that is found out; and the wise man’s crime is the crime that
is not found out. If I could give you an instance, it would not
be the instance of a wise man. Dear Lady Glyde, your sound
English common sense has been too much for me. It is check-
mate for me this time, Miss Halcombe -— ha?”
“Stand to your guns, Laura ,” sneered Sir Percival , who
had been listening in his place at the door. “ Tell him, next,
that crimes cause their own detection. There’s another bit
of copy-book morality for you, Fosco. Crimes cause their
own detection. What infernal humbug!"
“I believe it to be true," said Laura, quietly.
Sir Percival burst out laughing; so violently, so out-
rageously, that he quite startled us all — the Count more than
any of us.
“I believe it, too,” I said, coming to Laura’s rescue.
Sir Percival, who had been unaccountably amused at his
wife’s remark, was, just as unaccountably, irritated by mine.
He struck the new stick savagely on the sand, and walked
away from us.
“Poor dear Percival!” cried Count Fosco, looking after
him gaily; “ he is the victim of English spleen. But, my dear
Miss Halcombe, my dear Lady Glyde, do you really believe
that crimes cause their own detection? And you, my angel,”
he continued, turning to his wife, who had not uttered a word
yet, “do you think so too ?"
“I wait to be instructed,” replied the Countess, in tones
of freezing reproof, intended for Laura and me, “before I
venture on giving my opinion in the presence of well-informed
men.”
“Do you, indeed?” I said. “I remember the time,


THE WOMAN IN wmrn. 251
Countess, when you advocated the Rights of Women— and
freedom of female opinion was one of them."
“What is your view of the subject, Count?” asked Ma~
dame Fosco, calmly proceeding with her cigarettes , and not
taking the least notice of me.
The Count stroked one of his white mice reﬂectively with
his chubby little ﬁnger before he answered.
“It is truly wonderful,” he said, “how easily Society can
console itself for the worst of its short-comings with a little
bit of clap-trap. The machinery it has set up for the detec-
tion of crime is miserably ineffective — and yet only invent a
moral epigram, saying that 'it works well, and you blind
everybody to its blunders, from that moment. Crimes cause
their own detection , do they? And murder will out (another
moral epigram), will it? Ask Coroners who sit at inquests in
large towns if that is true, Lady Glyde. Ask secretaries of
life-assurance companies, if that is true, Miss Halcombe.
Read your own public journals. In the few cases that get
into the newspapers, are there not instances of slain bodies
found, and no murderers ever discovered ‘2 Multiply the cases
that are reported by the cases that are not reported, and the
bodies that are found by the bodies that are not found; and
what conclusion do you come to? This. That there are
foolish criminals who are discovered, and wise criminals who
escape. The hiding of a crime, or the detection of acrime,
what is it? A trial of skill between the police on one side, and
the individual on the other. When the criminal is a brutal,
ignorant fool, the police, in nine cases out of ten, win. When
the criminal is aresolute, educated, highly-intelligent man,
the police, in nine cases out of ten, lose. If the police win,
you generally hear all about it. If the police lose, you
generally hear nothing. And on this tottering foundation you
build up your comfortable moral maxim that Crime causes its
own detection! Yes — all the crime you know of. And, what
of the rest? ”
“Devilish true, and very well put," cried a voice at the
entrance of the boat-house. Sir Percival had recovered his


252 run WOMAN m wm'rn.
equanimity, and had come back while we were listening to
the Count.
“Some of it may be true,” I said; “and all of it may be
very well put. But I don’t see why Count Fosco should cele-
brate the victory of the criminal over society with so much
exultation, or why you, Sir Percival, should applaud him so
loudly for doing it.”
“ Do you hear that, Fosco?” asked Sir Percival. “Take '
my advice, and make your peace with your audience. Tell
them Virtue’s a ﬁne thing—they like that, I can promise you."
The Count laughed inwardly and silently; and two of the
white mice in his waistcoat, alarmed by the internal convulsion
going on beneath them, darted out in a violent hurry, and
scrambled into their cage again.
“ The ladies, my goodPercival, shall tell me about virtue,”
he said. “They are better authorities than I am; for they
know what virtue is, and I don’t.”
“You hear him?” said Sir Percival. “Isn’t it awful?"
“It is true,” said the Count, quietly. “I am a citizen of
the world, and I have met, in my time, with so many different
sorts of virtue, that I am puzzled, in my old age, to say which
is the right sort and which is the wrong. Here, in England,
there is one virtue. And there, in China, there is another
virtue. And John Englishman says my virtue is the genuine
virtue. And John Chinaman says my virtue is the genuine
virtue. And I say Yes to one, or No to the other, and am just
as much bewildered about it in the case of John with the top-
boots as I am in the case of John with the pigtail. Ah, nice
little Mousey! come, kiss me. What is your own private
notion of a virtuous man, my pret-pret-pretty? A man who
keeps you warm, and gives you plenty to eat. And a good
notion, too, for it is intelligible, at the least."
“Stay aminute, Count,” I interposed. “Accepting your
illustration, surely we have one unquestionable virtue in Eng-
land, which is wanting in China. The Chinese authorities kill
thousands of innocent people, on the most frivolous pretexts.
We, in England, are free from all guilt of that kind - we


THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 253
commit no such dreadful crime -— we abhor reckless bloodshed,
with all our hearts."
“Quite right, Marian," said Laura. “Well thought of,
and well expressed.”
“Pray allow the Count to proceed," said Madame Fosco,
with stern civility. “ You will ﬁnd, young ladies, that he never
speaks without having excellent reasons for all that he says.”
“ Thank you, my angel," replied the Count. “ Have a
bonbon?" He took out of his pocket a pretty little inlaid box,
and placed it open on the table. “Chocolat a la Vanille,”
cried the impenetrable man, cheerfully rattling the sweet-
meats in the box, and bowing all round. “ Oﬁ'ered by Fosco
as an act of homage to the charming society.”
“Be good enough to go on, Count," said his wife, with a
spiteful reference to myself. “Oblige me by answering Miss
Halcombe.”
“Miss Halcombe is unanswerable," replied the polite Ita-
lian —- “that is to say, so far as she goes. Yes! I agree with
her. John Bull does abhor the crimes of John Chinaman. He
is the quickest old gentleman at ﬁnding out the faults that are
his neighbours’, and the slowest old gentleman at ﬁnding out
the faults that are his own, who exists on the face of creation.
Is he so very much better in his way, than the people whom he
condoms in their way? English society, Miss Halcombe , is
as often the accomplice, as it is the enemy of crime. Yes!
yes! Crime is in this country what crime is in other countries
-- a good friend to a man and to those about him as often as it
is an enemy. A great rascal provides for his wife and family.
The worse he is, the more he makes them the objects for your
sympathy. He often provides, also, for himself. A proﬂigate
spendthrift who is always borrowing money, will get more
from his friends than the rigidly honest man who only borrows
of them once, under pressure of the direst want. In the one
case, the friends will not be at all surprised , and they will
give. In the other case, they will be very much surprised, and
they will hesitate. Is the prison that Mr. Scoundrel lives in,
at the end of his career, a more uncomfortable place than the


254 Tea WOMAN m wnrrn.
workhouse that Mr. Honesty lives in, at the end of his career?
When John-Howard-Philanthropist wants to relieve misery,
he goes to ﬁnd it in prisons, where crime is wretched -- not
in huts and hovels, where virtue is wretched too. Who is the
English poet who has won the most universal sympathy— who
makes the easiest of all subjects for pathetic writing and pa-
thetic painting? That nice young person who began life with
a forgery, and ended it by a suicide —~ your dear, romantic,
interesting Chatterton. Which gets on best, do you think, of
two poor starving dressmakers—the woman who resists temp-
tation, and is honest, or the woman who falls under temp-
tation, and steals? You all know that the stealing is the ma-
king of that second woman’s fortune — it advertises her from
length to breadth of goodhumoured, charitable England -—-
and she is relieved, as the breaker of a commandment, when
she would have been left to starve, as the keeper of it. Come
here, my jolly little Mouse! Hey! presto! pass! I transform
you, for the time being, into a respectable lady. Stop there,
in the palm of my great big hand, my dear, and listen. You
marry the poor man whom you love, Mouse; and one half
your friends pity, and the other half blame you. And, now,
on the contrary, you sell yourself for gold to a man you don't
care for; and all your friends rejoice over you; and a minister
of public worship sanctions the base horror of the vilest of all
human bargains; and smiles and smirks afterwards at your
table, if you are polite enough to ask him to breakfast. Hey!
presto! pass! Be a mouse again, and squeak. If you con-
tinue to be a lady much longer, I shall have you telling me
that Society abhors crime -- and then, Mouse, I shall doubt
if your own eyes and ears are really of any use to you. Ah!
I am a bad man, Lady Glyde, am I not? I say what other
people only think; and when all the rest of the world is in a
conspiracy to accept the mask for the true face, mine is the
rash hand that tears oﬁ' the plump pasteboard, and shows the
bare bones beneath. I will get up on my big elephant‘s legs,
before I do myself any more harm in your amiable estimations
-- I will get up, and take a little airy walk of my own. Dear


THE WOMAN m wrurs. 255
ladies, as your excellent Sheridan said, I go — and leave my
character behind me.”
He got up; put the cage on the table; and paused, for a
moment, to count the mice in it. “ One, two, three, four——
Ha !" he cried, with a look of horror, “where, in the name of
Heaven, is the ﬁfth — the youngest, the whitest, the most
amiable of all - my Benjamin of mice 2 ”
Neither Laura nor I were in any favourable disposition to
be amused. The Count’s glib cynicism had revealed a new
aspect of his nature from which we both recoiled. But it was
impossible to resist the comical distress of so very large a man
at the loss of so very small a mouse. We laughed, in spite of
ourselves; and when Madame Fosco rose to set the example of
leaving the boat-house empty, so that her husband might
search it to its remotest corners, .we rose also to follow her out.
Before we had taken three steps, the Count‘s quick eye
discovered the lost mouse under the seat that we had been oc-
cupying. He pulled aside the bench; took the little animal
up in his hand: and then suddenly stopped, on his knees, look-
ing intently at a particular place on the ground just beneath
him. ' '
When he rose to his feet again, his hand shook, sothat he
could hardly put the mouse back in the cage, and his face was
of a faint livid yellow hue all over.
“Percival!” he said, in a whisper. “Perciilall come here."
Sir Percival had paid no attention to any. off-us, for'the last
ten minutes. He had been entirely absorbedin writinglﬁgures
on the sand, and then rubbing them 0118; again, with the, point
of his stick.
“ What’s the matter, now? ” he asked, lounging carelessly
into the boat-house.
“Do you see nothing, there?” said the Count, catching
him nervously by the collar with one hand, and pointing with
the other to the place near which he had found the mouse.
“1 see plenty of dry sand,” answered Sir Percival; “and
a spot of dirt in the middle of it."


256 ' 'rrm woman in wnrrs.
“Not dirt," whispered the Count, fastening the other hand
suddenly on Sir Percival’s collar, and shaking it in his agita-
tion. “Blood.”
Laura was near enough to hear the last word, softly as he
whispered it. She turned to me with a look of terror.
“Nonsense, my dear," I said. “There is no need to be
alarmed. It is only the blood of a poor little stray dog."
Everybody was astonished, and everybody’s eyes were
ﬁxed on me inquiringly.
“How do you know that?" asked Sir Percival, speak-
ing ﬁrst.
“I found the dog here, dying, on the day when you all re-
turned from abroad," I replied. “The poor creature had
strayed into the plantation, and had been shot by your
keeper.”
“Whose dog was it?” inquired Sir Percival. “Not one of
mine."
“Did you try to save the poor thing? ” asked Laura, earn-
estly. “ Surely you tried to save it, Marian? ”
“Yes,” I said; “the housekeeper and I both did our best
-— but the dog was mortally wounded, and he died under our
hands."
“Whose dog was it?" persisted Sir Percival, repeating
his question a little irritably. “ One of mine?”
“No; not one ofyours.”
“Whose then? Did the housekeeper know ? "
The housekeeper’s report of Mrs. Catherick’s desire to con-
ceal her visit to Blackwater Park from Sir Percival’s know-
ledge, recurred to my memory the moment he put that last
question; and I half doubted the discretion of answering it.
But, in my anxiety to quiet the general alarm, I had thought-
lessly advanced too far to draw back, except at the risk of ex-
citing suspicions, which might only make matters worse.
There was nothing for it but to answer at once, without refe-
rence to results.
“Yes,” I said. “The housekeeper knew. She told me it
was Mrs. Catherick’s dog.”


THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 257
Sir Percival had hitherto remained at the inner end of the
boat-house with Count Fosco, while I spoke to him from the
door. But the instant Mrs. Catherick's name passed my lips,
he pushed by the Count roughly, and placed himself face to
face with me, under the open daylight.
“How came the housekeeper to know it was Mrs. Cathe-
rick’s dog?" he asked, ﬁxing his eyes on mine with a frowning
interest and attention, which half angered, half startled me.
“She knew it,” I said, quietly, “because Mrs. Catherick
brought the dog with her. ”
“Brought it with her? Where did she bring it with her?”
“ To this house.”
“What the devil did Mrs. Catherick want at this house? "
The manner in which he put the question was even more
offensive than the languageinwhich he expressed it. I marked
my sense ofhis want of common politeness, by silently turn-
ing away from him. \
Just as 1 moved, the Count’s persuasive hand was laid on
his shoulder, and the Count's melliﬂuous voice interposed to
quiet him.
“My dear Percival! —- gently - gently."
Sir Percival looked round in his angriest manner. The
Count only smiled, and repeated the soothing application.
“Gently, my good friend -— gently! "
Sir Percival hesitated — followed me a few steps - and,
to my great surprise, offered mean apology. Y
“Ibeg your pardon, Miss Halcombe,” he said. “I have
been out of order lately; and I am afraidIam a little irritable.
But I should like to know what Mrs. Catherick could possibly
want here. When did she come? Was the housekeeper the
only person who saw her? ”
“ The only person ,“ I answered, “so far as I know."
The Count interposed again.
“In that case, why not question the housekeeper?" he
said. “ Why not go, Percival, to the fountain-head of in-
formation at once P "
“Quite right i" said Sir Percival. “ Of course the house-
The Woman in White. I. 17


258 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
keeper is the ﬁrst person to question. Excessively stupid of
me not to see it myself." With those words, he instantly left
us to return to the house.
The motive of the Count‘s interference, which had puzzled
me at ﬁrst, betrayed itself when SirPercival'sback was turned.
He had a host of questions to put to me about Mrs. Catherick,
and the cause of her visit to Blackwater Park, which he could
scarcely have asked in his friends presence. I made my
answers as short as I civilly could—for I had already de-
termined to check the least approach to any exchanging of
conﬁdences between Count Fosco and myself. Laura, how-
ever, unconsciously helped him to extract all my information,
by making inquiries herself, which left me no alternative but
to reply to her, or to appear in the very unenviable and very
false character of a depositary of Sir Percival’s secrets. The
end of it was, that, in about ten minutes’ time, the Count
knew as much as I know of Mrs. Catherick, and of the events
which have so strangely connected us with her daughter,
Anne, from the time when Hartright met with her, to this
day.
The eﬂ'ect of my information on him was, in one respect,
curious enough.
Intimately as he knows Sir Percival, and closely as he
appears to be associated with Sir Percival's private affairs in
general, he is certainly as far as I am from knowing anything
of the true story of Anne Catherick. The unsolved mystery in
connexion with this unhappy woman is now rendered doubly
suspicious, in my eyes, by the absolute conviction which I
feel, that the clue to it has been hidden by Sir Percival from
the most intimate friend he has in the world. It was im-
possible to mistake the eager curiosity of the Count’s look
and manner while he drank in greedily every word that
fell from my lips. There are many kinds of curiosity, I know
— but there is no misinterpreting the curiosity of blank
surprise: if I ever saw it in my life, I saw it in the Count’s
face.
While the questions and answers were going on, we had all


THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 259
been strolling quietly back, through the plantation. As soon
as we reached the house , the ﬁrst object that we saw in front
of it was Sir Percival’s dog-cart, with the horse put to and
the groom waiting by it in his stable-jacket. If these un-
expected appearances were to be trusted, the examination
of the housekeeper had produced important results al-
ready.
“A ﬁne horse, my friend,” said the Count, addressing
the groom with the most engaging familiarity of manner
“ You are going to drive out? ”
“I am not going, sir,” replied the man, looking at his
stable-jacket, and evidently wondering whether the foreign
gentleman took it for his livery. “My master drives him-
self.”
“Aha!” said the Count, “does he indeed? I wonder he
gives himself the trouble when he has got you to drive for him.
Is he going to fatigue that nice, shining, pretty horse by
taking him very far, to-day?"
“I don’t know, sir,” answered the man. “The horse is a
mare, if you please, sir. She’s the highest-couraged thing
we've got in the stables. Her name’s Brown Molly, sir; and
she’ll go till she drops. Sir Percival usually takes Isaac of
York for the short distances.”
“And your shining courageous Brown Molly for the
long?"
“Yes, sir."
“Logical inference, Miss Halcombe,” continued the Count,
wheeling round briskly , and addressing me : “ Sir Percival is
going a. long distance to-day."
I made no reply. I had my own inferences to draw , from
what I knew through the housekeeper and from what I saw
before me', and I did not choose to share them with Count
Fosco.
When Sir Percival was in Cumberland (I thought to my-
self), he walked away a long distance, on Anne’s account,
to question the family at Todd’s Corner. Now he is in
Hampshire, is he going to drive away along distance, on
\
17*


260 was WOMAN IN wnrrn.
Anne’s account again, to question Mrs. Catherick at Welming-
ham?
We all entered the house. As we crossed the hall, Sir
Percival came out from the library to meet us. He looked
hurried and pale and anxious — but, for all that, he was in
his most polite mood, when he spoke to us.
“I am sorry to say , I am obliged to leaveyou," he began
— “ a long drive ~— a matter — that I can’t very well put off.
I shall be back in good time to-morrow - but, before I go,
I should like that little business-formality, which I spoke of
this morning, to be settled. Laura, will you come into the
library ? It won’t take a minute—a mere formality. Countess,
may I trouble you also? I want you and the Countess, Fosco,
to be witnesses to a signature — nothing more. Come in at
once , and get it over."
He held the library door open until they had passed in,
followed them , and shut it softly.
I remained, for a moment afterwards, standing alone in
the hall, with my heart beating fast, and my mind misgiving
me sadly. Then, I went on to the staircase, and ascended
slowly to my own room.
VI.
JULY 3111). ~— Just as my hand was on the door of my
room, I heard Sir Percival's voice calling to me from
below.
“I must beg you to come down stairs again,” he said.
“It is Fosco’s fault, Miss Halcombe, not mine. He has
started some nonsensical objection to his wife being one of
the witnesses, and has obliged me to ask you to join us in the
library."
I entered the room immediately with Sir Percival. Laura
was waiting by the writing-table, twisting and turning her
garden hat uneasily in her hands. Madame Fosco sat near
her, in an arm-chair, imperturbably admiring her husband,


THE WOMAN IN wni'rn. 261
who stood by himself at the other end of the library, picking
off the dead leaves from the ﬂowers in the window.
The moment I appeared, the Count advanced to meet me,
and to offer his explanations.
“A thousand pardons, Miss Halcombe,” he said. “You
know the character which is given to my countrymen by the
English? We Italians are all wily and suspicious by nature,
in the estimation of the good John Bull. Set me down, if
you please, as being no better than the rest of my race. I
am a wily Italian and a suspicious Italian. You have thought
so yourself, dear lady, have you not? Well! it is part of my
wiliness and part of my suspicionto object to Madame Fosco
being a witness to Lady Glyde’s signature, when I am also a
witness myself.”
“There is not the shadow of a reason for his objection,"
interposed Sir Percival. “I have explained to him that the
law of England allows Madame Fosco to witness a signature
as well as her husband."
“I admit it," resumed the Count. “The law of England
says, Yes -- but the conscience of Fosco says, No." He
spread out his fat ﬁngers on the bosom of his blouse, and
bowed solemnly, as if he wished to introduce his conscience
to us all, in the character of an illustrious addition to the
society. “ What this document which Lady Glyde is about to
sign, may be ,_" he continued, “I neither know nor desire to
know. I only say this: circumstances may happen in the future
which may oblige Percival, or his representatives, to appeal to
the two witnesses; in which case it is certainly desirable that
thoae witnesses should represent two opinions which are per-
fectly independent the one ofthe other. This cannot be if my
wife signs as well as myself, because we have but one opinion
between us, and that opinion is mine. I will not have it cast
in my teeth, at some future day, that Madame Fosco acted
under my coercion , and was, in plain fact, no witness at all.
I speak in Pereival’s interest when I propose that my name
shall appear (as the nearest friend of the husband), and your
name, Miss Halcombe (as the nearest friend of the wife). I


262 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
am a Jesuit, if you please to think so — a splitter cf straws —
a man of triﬂes and crotchets and scruples—but you will
humour me, I hope, in merciful consideration for my suspi-
cious Italian character, and my uneasy Italian conscience.”
He bowed again, stepped back a few paces, and withdrew
his conscience from our society as politely as he had in-
troduced it.
The Count’s scruples might have been honourable and
reasonable enough , but there was something in his manner of
expressing them which increased my unwillingness to be con-
cerned in the business of the signature. No consideration of
less importance than my consideration for Laura, would have
induced me to consent to be a witness at all. One look,
however, at her anxious face, decided me to risk anything
rather than desert her.
“ I will readily remain in the room,” I said. '“And if I ﬁnd
no reason for starting any small scruples, on my side, you may
rely on me as a witness."
Sir Percival looked at me sharply, as if he was about to
say something. But, at the same moment, Madame Fosco
attracted his attention by rising from her chair. She had
caught her husband's eye, and had evidently received her
orders to leave the room.
“ You needn’t go ," said Sir Percival.
Madame Fosco looked for her orders again, got them
again, said she would prefer leaving us to our business, and
resolutely walked out. The Count lit a cigarette , went back
to the ﬂowers in the window, and puffed little jets of smoke at
the leave s, in a state of the deepest anxiety about killing the
insects.
Meanwhile , Sir Percival unlocked a cupboard beneath one
of the bookcases, and produced from it a piece of parchment
folded, longwise, many times over. He placed it on the
table, opened the last fold only, and kept his hand on the
rest. The last fold displayed a strip of blank parchment with
little wafers stuck on it at certain places. Every line of the
writing was hidden in the part which he still held folded up


THE WOMAN n: WHITE. 263
under his hand. Laura and I looked at each other. Her face
was pale —- but it showed no indecision and no fear.
Sir Percival dipped a pen in ink, and handed it to his
wife.
“ Sign your name, there ,” he said, pointing to the place.
“You and Fosco are to sign afterwards, Miss Halcombe,
opposite those two wafers. Come here, Fosco! witnessing a
signature is not to be done by mooning out of window and
smoking into the ﬂowers."
The Count threw away his cigarette, and joined us at the
table , with his hands carelessly thrust into the scarlet belt of
his blouse, and his eyes steadily ﬁxed on Sir Percival’s face.
Laura, who was on the other side of her husband, with the
pen in her hand, looked at him, too. He stood between
them, holding the folded parchment down ﬁrmly on the table,
and glancing across at me, as I sat opposite to him, with such
a sinister mixture of suspicion and embarrassment in his face,
that he looked more like a prisoner at the bar than a gentle-
man in his own house.
“Sign there ," be repeated, turning suddenly on Laura,
'and pointing once more to the place on the parchment.
“ What is it I am to sign?” she asked, quietly.
“I have no time to explain," he answered. “The dog-
'cart is at the door; and I must go directly. Besides, if I had
time, you wouldn’t understand. It is a purely formal docu-
ment —- full of legal technicalities , and all that sort of thing.
Come! come! sign your name, and let us have done as soon
as possible.”
“I ought surely to know what I am signing, Sir Percival,
before I write my name?”
“Nonsense! What have women to do with business? I tell
you again, you can’t understand it."
“ At any rate, let me try to understand it. Whenever Mr.
Gilmore had any business for me to do, he always explained
it, ﬁrst; and I always understood him.”
“I dare say he did. He was your servant, and was
obliged to explain. I am you husband, and am not obliged.


264 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
How much longer do you mean to keep me here? I tell you
again, there is no time for reading anything: the dog-cart
is waiting at the door. Once for all, will you sign, or will you
not?"
She still had the pen in her hand; but she made no ap-
proach to signing her name with it.
“If my signature pledges me to anything,” she said,
“surely, I have some claim to know what that pledge
is?"
He lifted up the parchment, and struck it angrily on
the table.
“Speak out!” he said. “You were always famous for
telling the truth. Never mind Miss Halcombe; never mind
Fosco —— say, in plain terms , you distrust me."
The Count took one of his hands out of his belt, and laid
it on Sir Percival's shoulder. Sir Percival shook it 011'
irritably. The Count put it on again with unruﬂled com-
posure.
“Control your unfortunate temper, Percival,” he said.
“Lady Glyde is right.”
“Right!” cried Sir Percival. “A wife right in distrusting
her husband 1”
“It is unjust and cruel to accuse me of distrusting you,”
said Laura. “Ask Marian if I am not justiﬁed in wanting
to know what this writing requires of me, before I sign
it '2 ”
“I won't have' any appeals made to Miss Halcombe,"
retorted Sir Percival. “Miss Halcombe has nothing to do
with the matter."
I had not spoken hitherto, and I would much rather not
have spoken now. But the expression of distress in Laura’s
face when she turned it towards me , and the insolent injustice
of her husband’s conduct, left me no other alternative than
to give my opinion, for her sake, as soon as I was asked
for it.
“Excuse me, Sir Percival," I said — “ but, as one of the
witnesses to the signature, I venture to think that I have


THE WOMAN m WHITE. 265
something to do with the matter. Laura's objection seems to
me to be a perfectly fair one; and , speaking for myself only,
I cannot assume the responsibility of witnessing her signa-
ture, unless she ﬁrst understands what the writing is which
you wish her to sign.”
“A cool declaration, upon my soul!" cried Sir Percival.
“The next time you invite yourself to a man’s house, Miss
Halcombe, I recommend you not to repay his hospitality by
taking his wife's side against him in a matter that doesn’t con-
cernyou.”
I started to my feet as suddenly as if he had struck me. If
I had been a man, I would have knocked him down on the
threshold of his own door, and have left his house , never, on
any earthly consideration, to enter it again. But I was only
a woman —- and I loved his wife so dearly!
Thank God, that faithful love helped me , and I sat down
again , without saying a word. She knew what I had suffered
and what I had suppressed. She ran round to me, with the
tears streaming from her eyes. “ Oh, Marian!" she whispered
softly. “If my mother had been alive, she could have done
no more for me! "
“ Come back and sign ! ” cried Sir Percival, from the other
side of the table. _
“Shall I?” she asked in my ear; “I will, if you tell
me."
“No,” I answered. “The right and the truth are with
you -— sign nothing, unless you have read it ﬁrst.”
“Come back and sign!” he reiterated, in his loudest and
angriest tones.
The Count, who had watched Laura and me with a close
and silent attention, interposed for the second time.
“Percival!” he said. “I remember that I amin the pre-
sence of ladies. Be good enough , if you please, to remember
it, too.” _
Sir Percival turned on him, speechless with passion. The
Count’s ﬁrm hand slowly tightened its grasp on his shoulder,


266 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
and the Count‘s steady voice, quietly repeated, “Be good
enough, if you please, to remember it, too.”
They both looked at each other: Sir Percival slowly drew
his shoulder from under the Count’s hand; slowly turned his
face away from the Count’s eyes; doggedly looked down for
a little while at the parchment on the table; and then spoke,
with the sullen submission of a tamed animal, rather than the
becoming resignation of a convinced man.
“I don’t want to offend anybody,” he said, “but my
wife’s obstinacy is enough to try the patience of a saint. I
have told her this is merely a formal document — and what
more can she want? You may say what you please; but it is
no part of a woman’s duty to set her husband at deﬁance.
Once more , Lady Glyde, and for the last time , will you sign
or will you not?”
Laura returned to his side of the table, and took up the
pen again. _
“I will sign with pleasure,” she said, “if you will only
treat me as a responsible being. I care little what sacriﬁce is
required of me, if it will affect no one else, and lead to no ill
results —-”
“Who talked of a sacriﬁce being required of you?” he
broke in, with a half- suppressed return of his former
violence.
“I only meant,” she resumed, “that 1 would refuse no
concession which I could honourably make. If I have a
scruple about signing my name to an engagement of which I
know nothing, why should you visit it on me so severely? It
is rather hard, Ithink, to treat Count Fosco’s scruples so
much more indulgently than you have treated mine."
This unfortunate, yet most natural, reference to the
Count’s extraordinary power over her husband, indirect as it
was , set Sir Percival’s smouldering temper on ﬁre again in an
instant.
“Scruples!” he repeated. “Your scruples! It is rather
late in the day for you to be scrupulous. I should have


THE WOMAN 1N wnrrs. 267
thought you had got over all weakness of that sort, when you
made a virtue of necessity by marrying me.”
The instant he spoke those words , Laura threw down the
pen — looked at him with an expression in her eyes, which
throughout all my experience of her, I had never seen in them
before -- and turned her back on him in dead silence.
This strong expression of the most open and the most bitter
contempt, was so entirely unlike herself, so utterly out of
her character, that it silenced us all. There was something
hidden, beyond a doubt, under the mere surface-brutality of
the words which her husband had just addressed to her.
There was some lurking insult beneath them, of which I was
wholly ignorant, but which had left the mark of its pro-
fanation so plainly on her face that even a stranger might
have seen it.
The Count, ‘who was no stranger, saw it as distinctly as I
did. When I left my chair to join Laura, I heard him whisper
under his breath to Sir Percival: “ You idiot ! "
Laura walked before me to the door as I advanced; and,
at the same time, her husband spoke to her once more.
“You positively refuse, then, to give me your signa-
ture?” he said, in the altered tone of a man who was con-
scious that he had let his own licence of language seriously in-
jure him.
“After what you have just said to me," she replied, ﬁrmly,
“I refuse my signature until I have read every line in that
parchment from the ﬁrst word to the last. Come away, Marian,
we have remained here long enough.”
“ One moment! " interpoeed the Count , before Sir Per-
cival could speak again — “one moment, Lady Glyde, I im-
plore you I ”
Laura would have left the room without noticing him; but
I stopped her.
“Don’t make an enemy of the Count!" I whispered.
“ Whatever you do, don’t make an enemy of the Count!"
She yielded to me. I closed the door again; and we stood
near it, waiting. Sir Percival sat down at the table, with


268 i ran WOMAN m WHITE.
his elbow on the folded parchment, and his head resting on
his clenched ﬁst. The Count stood between‘ us -- master of
the dreadful position in which we were placed, as he was
master of everything else.
“Lady Glyde,” he said, with a gentleness which seemed
to address itself to our forlorn situation instead of to our-
selves, “pray pardon me, if I venture to oﬁ'er one suggestion;
and pray believe that I speak out of my profound respect and
my friendly regard for the mistress of this house." He turned
sharply towards Sir Percival. “Is it absolutely necessary,"
he asked , “that this thing here, under your elbow, should be
signed to-day ? ”
“It is necessary to my plans and wishes," returned the
other,-sulkily. “But that consideration, as you may have
noticed, has no inﬂuence with Lady Glyde."
“Answer my plain question, plainly. Can the business
of the signature be put off till tomorrow— Yes or No?”
“Yes —- if you will have it so.”
“Then, what are you wasting your time for, here? Let
the signature wait till to-morrow - let it wait till you come
back.”
Sir Percival looked up with a frown and an oath.
“ You are taking a tone with me that I don’t like," he said.
“A tone I won’t hear from any man."
“I am advising you for your good ,” returned the Count,
with a smile of quiet contempt. “Give yourself time; give
Lady Glyde time. Have you forgotten that your dog-cart is
waiting at the door? My tone surprises you — ha? I dare
say it does -— it is the tone of a man who can keep his temper.
How many doses of good advice have I given you in my time?
More than you can count. Have I ever been wrong? I defy
you to quote me an instance of it. Go! take your drive. The
matter of the signature can wait till to-morrow. Let it wait —-
and renew it when you come back.”
Sir Percival hesitated, and looked at his watch. His
anxiety about the secret journey which he was to take that
day, revived by the Count’s words, was now evidently dis-


'rnn WOMAN is warm. 269
puting possession of his mind with his anxiety to obtain
Laura’s signature. He considered for a little while; and
then got up from his chair.
“It is easy to argue me down," he said, “when I have
no time to answer you. I will take your advice, Fosco -- not
because I want it, or believe in it, but because I can’t stop
here any longer." He paused, and. looked round darkly at his
wife. “If you don‘t give me your signature when I come back
to-morrow —-l ” The rest was lost in the noise of his opening
the book-case cupboard again, and locking up the parchment
once more. He took his hat and gloves off the table, and
made for the door. Laura and I drew back to let him pass.
“ Remember to-morrow ! " he said to his wife; and went out.
We waited to give him time to cr0ss the hall, and drive
away. The Count approached us while we were standing
near the door.
“You have just seen Percival at his worst, Miss Hal-
combe," he said. “As his old friend, I am sorry for him
and ashamed of him. As his old friend, I promise you that
he shall not break out to-morrow in the same disgraceful
manner in which he has broken out to-day.”
Laura had taken my arm while he was speaking, and she
pressed it signiﬁcantly when he had done. It would have been
a hard trial to any woman to stand by and see the ofﬁce of
apologist for her husband’s misconduct quietly assumed by
his male friend in her own house - and it was a trial to her.
I thanked the Count civilly, and led her out. Yes! I thanked
him: for I felt already, with a sense of inexpressible helpless~
ness and humiliation, that it was either his interest or his
capriee to make sure of my continuing to reside at Blackwater
Park; and I knew, after Sir Percival‘s conduct to me, that
without the support of the Count’s inﬂuence, I could not hope
to remain there. His inﬂuence, the inﬂuence of all others that
I dreaded most, was actually the one tie which now held me
to Laura in the hour of her utmost need!
We heard the wheels of'the dog-cart crashing on the


270 ms WOMAN IN WHITE.
gravel of the drive, as we came into the hall. Sir Percival
had started on his journey.
“Where is he going to, Marian '2” Laura whispered.
“Every fresh thing he does, seems to terrify me about the
future. Have you any suspicions ‘2"
After what she had undergone that morning, I was un-
willing to tell her my suspicions.
“How should I know his secrets ,” I said, evasively.
“I wonder if the housekeeper knows?” she persisted.
“Certainly not," I replied. “She must be quite as igno-
rant as we are.”
Laura shook her head doubtfully.
“Did you not hear from the housekeeper that there was a
report of Anne Catherick having been seen in this neighbour-
hood? Don’t you think he may have gone away to look for
her?"
“I would rather compose myself, Laura, by not thinking
about it, at all; and, after what has happened, you had
better follow my example. Come into my room , and rest and
quiet yourself a little.”
We sat down together close to the window, and let the
fragrant summer air breathe over our faces.
“I am ashamed to look at you, Marian,” she said , “after
what you submitted to down stairs, for my sake. Oh, my
own love, I am almost heart-broken, when I think of it! But
I will try to make it up to you — I will indeed!”
“Hush! hush!” I replied; “don’t talk so. What is the
triﬂing mortiﬁcation of my pride compared to the dreadful
' sacriﬁce of your happiness?"
“You heard what he said to me?" she went on, quickly
and vehemently. “You heard the words — but you don‘t
know what they meant —— you don’t know why I threw down
the pen and turned my back on him.” She rose in sudden
agitation, and walked about the room. “I have kept many
things from your knowledge, Marian, for fear of distressing
you, and making you unhappy at the outset of our new lives.
You don’t know how he has used 'me. And yet, you ought to


THE WOMAN m WHITE. 271
know, for you saw how he used me to-day. You heard him
sneer at my presuming to be scrupulous; you heard him say
I had made a virtue of necessity in marrying him.” She sat
down again; her face ﬂushed deeply, and her hands twisted
and twined together in her lap. “I can’t tell you about it
now," she said; “I shall burst out crying if I tell you now—-
later, Marian, when I am more sure of myself. My poor head
aches, darling —- aches, aches , aches. Where is your smell-
ing-bottle? Let me talk to you about yourself. I wish I had
given him my signature, for your sake. Shall I give it to him,
to-morrow? I would rather compromise myself than compro-
mise you. After your taking my part against him , he will lay
all the blame on you, if I refuse again. What shall we do?
Oh, for a friend to help us and advise us! —- a friend we could
really trust! ”
She sighed bitterly. I saw in her face that she was think-
ing of Hartright— saw it the more plainly because her last
words set me thinking of him, too. In six months only from
her marriage, we wanted the faithful service he had oﬁ'ered
to us in his farewell words. How little I once thought that we
should ever want it at all!
“ We must do what we can to help ourselves,” I said. “Let
us try to talk it over calmly, Laura—let us do all in our power
to decide for the best.”
Putting what she knew of her husband’s embarrassments,
and what I had heard of his conversation with the lawyer,
together, we arrived necessarily at the conclusion that the
parchment in the library had been drawn up for the purpose
of borrowing money, and that Laura’s signature was abso-
lutely necessary to ﬁt it for the attainment of Sir Percival's
object.
The second question, concerning the nature of the legal
contract by which the money was to be obtained, and the
degree of personal responsibility to which Laura might sub-
ject herself if she signed it in the dark, involved considerations
which lay far beyond any knowledge and experience that
either of us possessed. My own convictions led me to believe
. O


272 run WOMAN 1N wm'rn.
that the hidden contents of the parchment concealed a trans-
action of the meanest and the most fraudulent kind.
I had not formed this conclusion in consequence of Sir Per-
cival's refusalto show the writing, or to explain it; for that
refusal might well have proceeded from his obstinate disposi-
tion and his domineering temper alone. My sole motive for
distrusting his honesty, sprang from the change which I had
observed in his language and his manners at BlackwaterPark,
a change which convinced me that he had been acting a part
throughout the whole period of his probation at Limmeridge
House. His elaborate delicacy; his ceremonious politeness,
which harmonized so agreeably with Mr. Gilmorc’s old-
fashioned notions; his modesty with Laura, his candour with
me, his moderation with Mr. Fairlie —— all these were the
artiﬁces of a mean, cunning, and brutal man, who had
dropped his disguise when his practised duplicity had gained
its end, and had openly shown himself in the library, on that
very day. I say nothing of the grief which this discovery
caused me on Laura’s account, for it is not to be expressed
by any words of mine. I only refer to it at all, because it
decided me to oppose her signing the parchment, whatever
the consequences might be, unless she was ﬁrst made ac-
quainted with the contents.
Under these circumstances, the one chance for us when
to-morrow came, was to be provided with an objection to
giving the signature, which might rest on sufﬁciently ﬁrm
commercial or legal grounds to shake SirPercival’s resolution,
and to make him suspect that we two women understood the
laws and obligations of business as well as himself.
After some pondering, I determined to write to the only
honest man within reach whom we could trust to help us dis—
creetly, in our forlorn situation. That man was Mr. Gilmore’s
partner — Mr. Kyrle ~ who conducted the business , now that
our old friend had been obliged to withdraw from it, and to
leave London on account of his health. I explained to Laura
that I had Mr. Gilmore’s own authority for placing implicit
conﬁdence in his partner‘s integrity, discretion , and accurate
' e


THE WOMAN in warm. 273
knowledge of all her aifairs; and, with her full approval, I
sat down at once to write the letter.
I began by stating our position to Mr. Kyrle exactly as it
was; and then asked for his advice in return, expressed in
plain, downright terms which we could comprehend without
any danger of misinterpretations and mistakes. My letter was
as short as I could possibly make it, and was, I hope, un-
encumbered by needless apologies and needless details.
Just as I was about to put the address on the envelope, an
obstacle was discovered by Laura, which in the effort and
pro-occupation of writing, had escaped my mind altogether.
“How are we to get the answer in time?” she asked.
“ Your letter will not be delivered in London before to-morrow
mowing; and the post will not bring the reply here till the
morning after."
The only way of overcoming this difﬁculty was to have the
answer brought to us from the lawyer’s ofﬁce by a special mes-
senger. I wrote a postscript to that effect, begging that the
messenger might be despatched with the reply by the eleven
o’clock morning train, which would bring him to our station
at twenty minutes past one, and so enable him to reach Black~
water Park by two o’clock at the latest. He was to be directed
to ask for me , to answer no questions addressed to him by any
one else, and to deliver his letter into no hands but mine.
“In case Sir Percival should come back tomorrow before
two o’clock," I said to Laura, “the wisest plan for you to
adopt is to be out in the grounds , all the morning, with your
book or your work, and not to appear at the house till the
messenger has had time to arrive with the letter. I will wait
here for him, all the morning, to guard against any misad-
ventures or mistakes. By following this arrangement I hope
and believe we shall avoid being taken by surprise. Let us go
down to the drawing-room now. Welmay excite suspicion if
we remain shut up together too long."
“ Suspicion?” she repeated. “Whose suspicion can we
excite, now that Sir Percival has left the house? Do you mean
Count Fosco ‘9 “
The Woman in White. L 18


274 THE WOMAN 1N wmrn.
“ Perhaps I do, Laura.” '
“You are beginning to dislike him as much as I do,
Marian."
“ N 0; not to dislike him. Dislike is always, more or less,
associated with contempt — I can see nothing in the Count to
despise."
“ You are not afraid of him, are you? "
“Perhaps I am ~— a little.”
“Afraid of him, after his interference in our favour to-
da !”
y“Yes. I am more afraid of his interference than I am of
Sir Percival's violence. Remember what I said to you, in the
library. Whatever you do, Laura, don’t make an enemy of
the Count! "
We went down stairs. Laura entered the drawing-room;
while I proceeded across the hall, with my letter in my hand,
to put it into the post-bag, which hung against the wall op-
posite to me.
The house door was open; and, as I crossed past it, I saw
Count Fosco and his wife standing talking together on the
steps outside, with their faces turned towards me.
The Countess came into the hall, rather hastily, and asked
if I had leisure enough for ﬁve minutes’ private conversation.
Feeling a little surprised by such an appeal from such a per-
son , I put my letter into the bag, and replied that I was quite
at her disposal. She took my arm with unaccustomed friend-
liness and familiarity; and instead of leading me. into an
empty room, drew me out with her to the belt of turf which
surrounded the large ﬁsh-pond.
As we passed the Count on the steps, he bowed and smiled,
and then went at once into the house; pushing the. hall-door
to after him, but not actually closing it.
The Countess walked me gently round the ﬁsh-pond. I
expected to be made the depositary of some extraordinary
conﬁdence; and I was astonished to ﬁnd that Madame Fosco’s
communication for my private ear was nothing more than a
polite assurance of her sympathy for me, after what had hap-


THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 275
pened in the library. Her husband had told her of all that had
passed , and of the insolent manner in which Sir Percival had
spoken to me. This information had so shocked and distressed
her, on my account and on Laura’s , that she had made up her
mind, if anything of the sort happened again, to mark her
sense of Sir Pereival’s outrageous conduct by leaving the
house. The Count had approved of her idea, and she now
hoped that I approved of it, too.
I thought this a very strange proceeding on the part of
such a remarkably reserved woman as Madame Fosco— espe-
cially after the interchange of sharp speeches which had
passed between us during the conversation in the boat-house,
on that very morning. However, it was my plain duty to meet
a polite and friendly advance , on the part of one of my elders,
with a polite and friendly reply. I answered the Countess,
accordingly, in her own tone; and then, thinking we had said
all that was necessary on either side , made an attempt to get
back to the house.
But Madame Fosco seemed resolved not to part with me,
and, to my unspeakable amazement, resolved also to talk.
Hitherto, the most silent of women, she now persecuted me
with ﬂuent conventionalities on the subject of married life , on
the subject of Sir Percival and Laura, on the subject of her
own happiness, on the subject of the late Mr. Fairlie’s conduct
to her in the matter of her legacy, and on half a dozen other
subjects besides, until she had detained me, walking round
and round the ﬁsh-pond for more than half an hour, and had
quite wearied me out. Whether she discoveredthis, or not, I
cannot say, but she stopped as abruptly as she had begun —
looked towards the house door - resumed her icy manner in a
moment — and dropped my arm of her own accord, before I
could think of an excuse for accomplishing my own release
from her.
As I pushed open the door, and entered the hall, I found
myself suddenly face to face with the Count again. He was
just putting a letter into the post-bag.
After he had dropped it in, and had closed the bag, he
18*


276 run WOMAN IN WHITE.
asked me where I had left Madame Fosco. I told him; and
he went out at the hall door, immediately, to join his wife.
His manner, when he spoke to me, was so unusually quiet and
subdued that I turned and looked after him , wondering if he
were ill or out of spirits.
Why my next proceeding was to go straight up to the
post-bag, and take out my own letter, and look at it again,
with a vague distrust on me; and why the looking at it for
the second time instantly suggested the idea to my mind of
sealing the envelope for its greater security -— are mysteries
which are either too deep or too shallow for me to fathom.
Women, as everybody knows, constantly act on impulses
which they cannot explain even to themselves; and I can only
suppose that one of those impulses was the hidden cause of my
unaccountable conduct on this occasion.
Whatever inﬂuence animated me, I found cause to congra-
tulate myself on having obeyed it, as soon as I prepared to
seal the letter in my own room. I had originally cIOsed the
envelope , in the usual way, by moistening the adhesive point
and pressing it on the paper beneath; and, when I now tried
it with my ﬁnger, after a lapse of full three~quarters of an
hour, the envelope opened on the instant, without sticking or
tearing. Perhaps I had fastened it insufﬁciently? Perhaps
there might have been some defect in the adhesive gum?
Or, perhaps — NO! it is quite revolting enough to feel that
third conjecture stirring in my mind. I would rather not see
it confronting me, in plain black and white.
I almost dread to-morrow ~ so much depends on my dis-
cretion and self-control. There are two precautions at all
events, which I am sure not to forget. I must be careful to
keep up friendly appearances with the Count; and must be
well on my guard, when the messenger from the ofﬁce comes
here with the answer to my letter.


Tun WOMAN m WHITE. '27?
VII.
JULY 31m. — When the dinner hour brought us together
again, Count Fosco was in his usual excellent spirits. He
exerted himself to interest and amuse us, as if he was deter~
mined to eﬁ'ace from our memories all recollection of what had
passed in the library that afternoon. Lively descriptions of
his adventures in travelling; amusing anecdotes of remark-
able people whom he had met with abroad; quaint com-
parisons between the social customs of various nations, illus-
trated by examples drawn from men and women indiscrimi-
nately all over Europe; humorous confessions of the innocent
follies of his own early life, when he ruled the fashions of a
second-rate Italian town, and wrote preposterous romances,
on the French model, for a second-rate Italian newspaper —-
all ﬂowed in succession so easily and so gaily from his lips,
and all addressed our various curiosities and various interests
so directly and so delicately, that Laura and I listened to him
with as much attention, and, inconsistent as it may seem, with
as much admiration also, as Madame Fosco herself. YVomen
can resist a man's love, a man‘s fame, a man’s personal ap-
pearance, and a man’s money; but they cannot resist a man’s
tongue, when he knows how to talk to them.
After dinner, while the favourable impression which he
had produced on us was still vivid in our minds, the Count
modestly withdrew to read in the library.
Laura. proposed a stroll in the grounds to enjoy the close of
the long evening. It was necessary, in common politeness, to
ask Madame Fosco to join us; but, this time, she had ap~
parently received her orders beforehand, and she begged we
would kindly excuse her. “The Count will probably want a
fresh supply of cigarettes," she remarked, by way of apology;
“and nobody can make them to his satisfaction, but myself."
Her cold blue eyes almost warmed as she spoke the words -‘-
she looked actually proud of being the oﬂiciating medium
through which her lord and master composed himself with
tobacco-smoke !


run WOMAN IN WHITE. 279
“I promised, Marian, to tell you the truth about my mar-
ried life, instead of leaving you any longer to guess it for
yourself," she began. “That secret is the ﬁrst I have ever
had from you, love, and I am determined it shall be the last.
I was silent, as you know, for your sake— and perhaps a
little for my own sake as well. It is very hard for a woman to
confess that the man to whom she has given her whole life, is
the man of all others who cares least for‘the gift. If you were
married yourself, Marian— and especially if you were happily
married — you would feel for me as no single woman can feel,
however kind and true she may be.”
What answer could I make? I could only take her hand,
and look at her with my whole heart, as well as my eyes would
let me.
“How often ," she went on, “I have heard you laughing
over what you used to call your ‘poverty l ’ how often you
have made me mock-speeches of congratulation on my wealth!
Oh, Marian, never laugh again. Thank God for your poverty
—- it has made you your own mistress, and has saved you from
the lot that has fallen on me.”
A sad beginning on the lips of a young wife! —- sad in its
quiet, plain-spoken truth. The few days we had all passed
together at Blackwater Park, had been many enough to show
me - to show any one — what her husband had married
her for.
“ You shall not be distressed,” she said , “by hearing how
soon my disappointments and vmy trials began —- or, even by
knowing what they were. It is bad enough to have them on
my memory. If I tell you how he received the ﬁrst, and last,
attempt at remonstrance that I ever made , you will know how
he has always treated me , as well as if I had described it in so
many words. It was one day at Rome, when we had ridden
out together to the tomb of Cecilia Metella. The sky was
calm and lovely — and the grand old ruin looked beautiful -
and the remembrance that a husband's love had raised it in
the old time to a wife's memory, made me feel more tenderly
and more anxiously towards my husband than I had ever felt


280 run WOMAN m wnrrn.
yet. ‘Would you build such a tomb for me, Percival?’ I asked
him. ‘You said you loved me dearly, before we were married;
and yet, since that time—~’ I could get no farther. Marian!
he was not even looking at me! I pulled down my veil, think-
ing it best not to let him see that the tears were in my eyes.
I fancied he had not paid any attention to me; but he had.
He said, ‘ Come away,’ and laughed to himself, as he helped
me on to my horse. He mounted his own horse; and laughed
again as we rode away. ‘If I do build you a tomb,’ he said,
‘it will be done with your own money. I wonder whethe-
Cecilia Metella had a fortune, and paid for hers.’ I made no
reply — how could I, when I was crying behind my veil? ‘Ah,
you light-complexioned women are all sulky,’ he said. ‘What
do you want? compliments and soft speeches? Well! I’m
in a good humour this morning. Consider the compliments
paid, and the speeches said.’ Men little know, when they say
hard things to us, how well we remember them, and how much
harm they do us. It would have been better for me if I had
gone on crying; but his contempt dried up my tears, and
hardened my heart. From that time, Marian, I never checked
myself again in thinking of Walter Hartright. I let the
memory of those happy days, when we were so fond of each
other in secret, come back, and comfort me. What else had
I to look to for consolation? If we had been together, you
would have helped me to better things. I know it was wrong,
darling — but tell me if I was wrong, without any excuse.”
I was obliged to turn my face from her. “Don’t ask me!"
I said. “Have I suffered as you have suﬂ'ered? What right
have I to decide?”
“ I used to think of him," she pursued, dropping her voice,
and moving closer to me — “I used to think of him, when
Percival left me alone at night, to go among the Opera people.
I used to fancy what I might have been, if it had pleased God
to bless me with poverty, and if I had been his wife. I used to
see myself in my neat cheap gown, sitting at home andwaiting
for him, while he was earning our bread -— sitting at home and
working for him, and loving him all the better because I had


run WOMAN IN wnrrn. 281
to work for him — seeing him come in tired ,* and taking off his
hat and coat for him -— and, Marian, pleasing him with little
dishes at dinner that I had learnt to make for his sake. - Oh!
I hope he is never lonely enough and sad enough to think of
me, and see me, as I have thought of him and seen him!"
As she said those melancholy words, all the lost tenderness
returned to her voice, and all the lost beauty trembled back
into her face. Her eyes rested as lovingly on the blighted,
solitary, ill-omened view before us , as if they saw the friendly
hills of Cumberland in the dim and threatening sky.
“Don’t speak of Walter any more," I said, as soon as
I could control myself. “Oh, Laura, spare us both the
wretchedness of talking of him , now ! "
She roused herself, and looked at me tenderly.
“ Iwould rather be silent about him for ever,” she answered,
“ than cause you a moment's pain."
“It is in your interests,” I pleaded; “it is for your sake
that I speak. If your husband heard you — "
“It would not surprise him, if he did hear me.”
She made that strange reply with a weary calmness and
coldness. The change in her manner, when she gave the
answer, startled me almost as much as the answer itself.
“Not surprise him!” I repeated. “Laura! remember
what you are saying -- you frighten me i ”
“ It is true ,” she said -- “it is what I wanted to tell you to-
day, when we were talking in your room. My only secret
whenI opened my heart to him atLimmeridge, was a harmless
secret, Marian — you said so yourself. The name was all I
kept from him —- and he has discovered it."
I heard her; but I could say nothing. Her last words had
killed the little hope that still lived in me.
“It happened at Rome ," she went on, as wearily calm and
cold as ever. “ We were at a little party, given to the English
by some friends of Sir Percival’s — Mr. and Mrs. Markland.
Mrs. Markland had the reputation of sketching very beauti-
fully; and some Of the guests prevailed on her to show us her
drawings. We all admired them, — but something I said


282 THE woman IN WHITE.
attracted her attention particularly to me. ‘Surely you draw
yourself?’ she asked. ‘Iused to draws. little once,’IansWered,
‘but I have given it up.’ ‘If you have once drawn ,’ she said,
‘you may take to it again one of these days; and , if you do, I
wish you would let me recommend you a master} I said
nothing -— you know why, Marian — and tried 'to change the
conversation. But Mrs. Markland persisted. ‘I have had all
sorts of teachers ,’ she went on; ‘but the best of all, the most
intelligent and the most attentive was a Mr. Hartright. If you
ever take up your drawing again, do try him as a master. He
is a young man — modest and gentlemanlike —— I am sure you
will like him.’ Think of those words being spoken to me
publicly, in the presence of strangers —- strangers who had
been invited to meet the bride and bridegroom! I did all I
could to control myself — I said nothing, and looked down
'close at the drawings. When I ventured to raise my head
again, my eyes and my husband’s eyes met; and I knew, by
his look, that my face had betrayed me. ‘We will see about
Mr. Hartright,’ he said, looking at me all the time, ‘when we get
back to England. I agree with you, Mrs. Markland —- I think
Lady Glyde is sure to like him.’ He laid an emphasis on the
last words which made my cheeks burn, and set my heart
beating as if it would stiﬂe me. Nothing more was said - we
came away early. He was silent in the carriage, driving back
to the hotel. He helped me out, and followed me up-stairs as
usual. But the moment we were in the drawing-room, be
locked the door, pushed me down into a chair, and stood over
me with his hands on my shoulders. ‘ Ever since that morning
when you made your audacious confession to me at Lim-
meridge,’ he said , ‘I have wanted to ﬁnd out the man; and I
found him in your face, to-night. Your drawing-master was
the man; and his name is Hartright. You shall repent it, and
he shall repent it, to the last hour of your lives. Now go to
bed, and dream of him, if you like —with the marks of my
horsewhip on his shoulder.’ Whenever he is angry with me
now, he refers towhatIacknowledged to him in your presence,
with a sneer or a threat. I have no power to prevent him from


rim WOMAN IN WHITE. 283
puttinghis ownhorrible construction on the conﬁdencelplaced
in him. I have no inﬂuence to make him believe me, or to
keep him silent. You lookedsurprised, to-day, when youheard
him tell me that I had made a virtue of necessity in marrying
him. You will not be surprised again, when you hear him
repeat it, the next time he is out of temper —- Oh, Marian!
don’t! don't! you hurt me!”
I had caught her in my arms; and the sting and torment
of my remorse had closed them round her like a vice. Yes! my
remorse. The white despair of Walter’s face, when my cruel
words struck him to the heart in the summer-house at Lim-
meridge, rose before me in mute, unendurablc reproach. My
hand had pointed the way which led the man my sister loved,
step by step, far from his country and his friends. Between
those two young hearts I had stood, to sunder them for ever,
the one from the other —- and his life and her life lay wasted
before me, alike, in witness of the deed. I had done this; and
done it for Sir Percival Glyde.
For Sir Percival Glyde.
I heard her speaking, and I knew by the tone of her voice
that she was comforting me— I, who deserved nothing but the
reproach of her silence! How long it was before I mastered
the absorbing misery of my own thoughts, I cannot tell. I was
ﬁrst conscious that she was kissing me; and then my eyes
seemed to wake on a sudden to their sense of outward things,
and I knew that I was looking mechanically straight before
me at the prospect of the lake.
“It is late," I heard her whisper. “It will be dark in the
plantation.” She shook my arm, and repeated, “Marian! it
will be dark in the plantation.”
“Give me a minute longer,” I said— “a minute, to get
better in."
I was afraid to trust myself to look at her yet; and I kept
my eyes ﬁxed on the view.
It was late. The dense brown line of trees in the sky had
faded in the gathering darkness, to the faint resemblance of a


284 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
long wreath of smoke. The mist over the lake below had
stealthin enlarged , and advanced on us. The silence was as
breathless as ever - but the horror of it had gone, and the
solemn mystery of its stillness was all that remained.
“We are far from the house ,” she whispered. “Let us go
back.”
She stopped suddenly, and turned her face from me
towards the entrance of the boat-house.
“Marian!” she said, trembling violently. “Do you see
nothing? Look!”
“Where?”
“Down there, below us."
She pointed. My eyes followed her hand; and I saw
it, too.
A living ﬁgure was moving over the waste of heath in the
distance. It crossed our range of view from the boat-house,
and passed darkly along the outer edge of the mist. It stopped
far off, in front of us -—- waited — and passed on; moving
slowly, with the white cloud of mist behind it and above it—
slowly, slowly, till it glided by the edge of the boat-house,
and we saw it no more.
We were both unnerved by what had passed between us
that evening. Some minutes elapsed before Laura would
venture into the plantation, and before I could make up my
mind to lead her back to the house.
“Was it a man, or a woman?" she asked, in awhisper,
as we moved, at last, into the dark dampness of the outer air.
“I am not certain.”
“Which do you think?"
“It looked like a woman.”
“ I was afraid it was a man in a long cloak.”
“It may be a man. In this dim light it is not possible to be
certain." ‘
“Wait, Marian! I’m frightened — I don’t see the path.
Suppose the ﬁgure should follow us? "’
“Not at all likely, Laura. There is really nothing to be
alarmed about. The "shores of the lake are not far from the


THE WOMAN m wnrrs. 285
village, and they are free to any one to walk on, by day or
night. It is only wonderful we have seen no living creature
there before."
We were now in the plantation. It was very dark -— so
dark, that we found some difﬁculty in keeping the path. I
gave Laura my arm, and we walked as fast as we could on our
way back.
Before we were half way through , she stopped , and forced
me to stop with her. She was listening.
“Hush,” she whispered. “I hear something behind us."
“Dead leaves,” I said to cheer her, “or a twig blown off
the trees."
“It is summer time, Marian; and there is not a breath
of wind. Listen! "
I heard the sound, too — a sound like a light footstep
following us.
“No matter who it is, or what it is," I said; “let us
walk on. In another minute, if there is anything to alarm
us, we shall be near enough to the house to be heard."
We went on quickly - so quickly, that Laura was breath-
less by the time we were nearly through the plantation, and
within sight of the lighted windows.
I waited a moment, to give her breathing-time. Just as
we were about to proceed, she stopped me again, and signed
to me with her hand to listen once more. We both heard
distinctly along, heavy sigh, behind us, in the black depths
of the trees.
“Who’s there?” I called out.
There was no answer.
“ Who’s there?" I repeated.
An instant of silence followed; and then we heard the
light fall of the footsteps again , fainter and fainter -- sinking
away into the darkness —- sinking, sinking, sinking -- till
they were lost in the silence.
We hurried out from the trees to the open lawn beyond;
crossed it rapidly; and without another word passing between
us, reached the house.


286 THE WOMAN IN WHITE-
In the light of the hall-lamp, Laura looked at me, with
white cheeks and startled eyes.
“I am half dead with fear,” she said. “Who could it
have been?"
“We will try to guess to-morrow," I replied. “In the
mean time, say nothing to any one of what we have heard
and seen."
“Why not?”
“Because silence is safe —~ and we have need of safety in
this house."
I sent Laura up stairs immediately — waited a minute to
take off my hat, and put my hair smooth —— and then went at
once to make my ﬁrst investigations in the library, on pre-
tence of searching for a book.
There sat the Count, ﬁlling out the largest easy-chair in
the house; smoking and reading calmly, with his feet on an
ottoman, his cravat across his knees , and his shirt collar wide
open. And there sat Madame Fosco , like a quiet child, on a
stool by his side, making cigarettes. Neither husband nor wife
could, by any possibility, have been out late that evening,
and have just got back to the house in a hurry. I felt that
my object in visiting the library was answered the moment I
set eyes on them.
Count Fesco rose in polite confusion, and tied his cravat
on when I entered the room.
“Pray don’t let me disturb you,” I said. “I have only
come here to get a book.”
“All unfortunate men of my size suffer from the heat,"
said the Count, refreshing himself gravely with a large green
fan. “I wish I could change places with my excellent wife.
She is as cool, at this moment, as a ﬁsh in the pond out-
side."
The Countess allowed herself to thaw under the inﬂuence
of her husband’s quaint comparison. “I am never warm,
Miss Halcombe," she remarked, with the modest air of a
woman who was confessing to one of her own merits.
“Have you and Lady Glyde been out this evening '3"


THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 287
asked the Count, while I was taking a book from the shelves,
to preserve appearances.
“Yes; we went out to get a little air."
“May I ask in what direction? "
“ In the direction of the lake - as far as the boat-house.”
“ Aha? As far as the boat-house?”
'Under other circumstances, I might have resented his
curiosity. But, to-night I hailed it as another proof that
neither he nor his wife were connected with the mysterious
appearance at the lake.
“No more adventures , I suppose, this evening?" he went
on. “ No more discoveries, like your discovery of the wounded
dog? "
He ﬁxed his unfathomable gray eyes on me, with that cold,
clear, irresistible glitter in them, which always forces me to
look at him, and always makes me uneasy, while I do look.
An unutterable suspicion that his mind is prying into mine,
overcomes me at these times; and it overcame me now.
“No,” I said, shortly; “no adventures—no discoveries.”
I tried to look away from him, and leave the room.
Strange as it seems, I hardly think I should have succeeded in
the attempt, if Madame Fosco had not helped me by causing
him to move and look away ﬁrst.
“Count, you are keeping Miss Halcombe standing,’
said.
The moment he turned round to get me achair, I seized
my opportunity —- thanked him —— made my excuses — and
slipped out. _
An hour later, when Laura’s maid happened to be in her
mistress‘s. room, I took. occasion to refer to the closeness
of the night, with a view to ascertaining next how the ser-
vants had been passing their time.
“Have you been suffering much from. the heat, down
stairs?” I asked.
“No, miss,” said the girl; “we have not felt it to
speak of.”
“ You have been out in the woods, then, I suppose? "
she


288 rue worms IN WHITE.
“Some of us thought of going, miss. But cook said she
should take her chair into the cool court-yard, outside the
kitchen door; and, on second thoughts, all the rest of us
took our chairs out there, too."
The housekeeper was now the only person who remained
to be accounted for.
“Is Mrs. Michelson gone to bed yet? " I inquired.
“I should think not, miss ," said the girl, smiling. “Mrs.
Michelson is more likely to be getting up, just now, than
going to bed.” ‘
“Why? What do you mean? Has Mrs. Michelson been
taking to her bed in the daytime?"
“No, miss; not exactly, but the next thing to it. She’s
been asleep all the evening, on the sofa in her own room."
Putting together what I observed for myself in the library
and what I have just heard from Laura’s maid, one conclusion
seems inevitable. The ﬁgure we saw at the lake , was not the
ﬁgure of Madame Fosco, of her husband, or of any of the
servants. The footsteps we heard behind were not the foot
steps of any one belonging to the house.
Who could it have been?
It seems useless to inquire. I cannot even decide whether
the ﬁgure was a man’s or a woman’s. I can only say that
I think it was a woman’s.
VIII.
J on 4m. -- The misery of self-reproach which I suffered
yesterday evening, on hearing what Laura told me in the
boat-house , returned in the loneliness of the night, and kept
me waking and wretched for hours. -
I lighted my candle at last, and searched through my 01
journals to see what my share in the fatal error of her marriage
had really been, and what I might have once done to save her
from it. The result soothed me a little - for it showed that,
however blindly and i gnorantly I acted, I acted for the best.


run woman IN WHITE. 289
Crying generally does me harm; but it was not so last night—-
Ithink it relieved me. I rose this morning with a settled re-
solution and a quiet mind. Nothing Sir Percival can say or do
shall ever irritate me again, or make me forget, for one mo-
ment, that I am staying here, in deﬁance of mortiﬁcations, in-
sults, and threats, for Laura’s service and for Laura’s sake.
The speculations in which we might have indulged, this
morning, on the subject of the ﬁgure at the lake and the foot-
steps in the plantation, have been all suspended by a triﬂing
accident which has caused Laura great regret. She has lost
the little brooch I gave her for a keepsake , on the day before
her marriage. As she wore it when we went out yesterday
evening, we can only suppose that it must have dropped from
her dress, either in the boat-house , or on our way back. The
servants have been sent to search, and have returned un-
successful. And now Laura herself has gone to look for it.
\Vhether she ﬁnds it, or not, the loss will help to excuse her
absence from the house, if Sir Percival returns before the
letter from Mr. Gilmore’s partner is placed in my hands.
One o’clock has just struck. I am considering whether I
had better wait here for the arrival of the messenger from
London , or slip away quietly, and watch for him outside the
lodge gate.
My suspicion of everybody and everything in this house
inclines me to think that the second plan may be the best.
The Count is safe in the breakfast-room. I heard him, through
the door, as I ran up-stairs, ten minutes since, exercising
his canary-birds at their tricks: — “Come out on my little
ﬁnger, my pret-pret-pretties! Come out, and hop up-stairs!
One, two , three —- and up! Three , two , one -—- and down!
One, two, three — twit-twit-twit-tweet!” The birds burst
into their usual ecstasy of singing, and the Count chirruped
and whistled at them in return, as if he was a bird himself.
My room door is open, and I can hear the shrill singing and
whistling at this very moment. If I am really to slip out,
without being observed -— now is my time.
The Woman in White. I. 19


290 THE WOMAN 11: WHITE.
Four o’clock. The three hours that have passed since I
made my last entry, have turned the whole march of events at
Blackwater Park in a new direction. Whether for good or for
evil, I cannot and dare not decide.
Let me get back ﬁrst to the place at which I left of — or I
shall lese myself in the confusion of my own thoughts.
I went out, as I had proposed, to meet the messenger with
my letter from London, at the lodge gate. On the stairs I saw
no one. In the hall I heard the Count still exercising his birds.
But on crossing the quadrangle outside , I passed Madame
Fosco, walking by herself in her favourite circle, round and
round the great ﬁsh~pond. I at once slackened my pace, so as
to avoid all appearance of being in a hurry; and even went the
length, for caution’s sake , ofinquiring if she thought of going
out before lunch. She smiled at me in the friendliest manner
—- said she preferred remaining near the house -- nodded
pleasantly — and re-entered the hall. I looked back, and saw
that she had closed the door before 1 had opened the wicket by
the side of the carriage gates.
In less than a quarter of an hour, I reached the lodge.
The lane outside took a sudden turn to the left, ran on
straight for a hundred yards or so , and then took another
sharp turn to the right to join the high road. Between these
two turns, hidden from the lodge on one side and from the way
to the station on the other, I waited, walking backwards and
forwards. High hedges were on either side of me; and for
twenty minutes by my watch, I neither saw nor heard any-
thing. At the end of that time, the sound of a carriage caught
my ear; and I was met, as I advanced towards the second
turning, by a ﬂy from the railway. I made a sign to the driver
to stop. As he obeyed me, a respectable-looking man put his
head out of the window to see what was the matter.
“I beg your pardon," I said; “ but am I right in supposing
that you are going to Blackwater Park?"
“ Yes, ma’am."
“With a letter for any one ‘1’"
“With a letter for Miss Halcombe, ma’am.“


THE WOMAN IN wnrrn. 291
“You may give me the letter. I am Miss Halcombe."
The man touched his hat, got out of the ﬂy immediately,
and gave me the letter.
I Opened it at once, and read these lines. I copy them
here, thinking it best to destroy the original for caution’s
sake.
“Dana MADAM. —- Your letter received this morning, has
caused me very great anxiety. I will reply to it as brieﬂy and
plainly as possible.
“My careful consideration of the statement made by your-
self, and my knowledge of Lady Glyde’s position, as deﬁned
in the settlement, lead me, I regret to say, to the conclusion
that a loan of the trust money to Sir Percival (or, in other
words , a loan of some portion of the twenty thousand pounds
of Lady Glyde’s fortune), is in contemplation, and that she is
made a party to the deed, in order to secure her approval of a
ﬂagrant breach of trust, and to have her signature produced
against her, if she should complain hereafter. It is impossible,
on any other supposition, to account, situated as she is, for her
execution to a deed of any kind being wanted at all.
“In the event of Lady Glyde’s signing such a document as
I am compelled to suppose the deed in question to be, her
trustees would be at liberty to advance money to Sir Percival
out of her twenty thousand pounds. If the amount so lent
should not be paid back, and if Lady Glyde should have
children, their fortune will then be diminished by the sum,
large or small, so advanced. In plainer terms still, the trans~
action, for anything that Lady Glyde knows to the contrary,
may be a fraud upon her unborn children.
“Under these serious circumstances, I would recommend
Lady Glyde to assign as a reason for withholding her signa-
ture , that she wishes the deed to be ﬁrst submitted to myself,
as her family solicitor (in the absence of my partner, Mr. Gil-
more). No reasonable Objection can be made to taking this
course -- for if the transaction is an honourable one, there will
necessarily be no difﬁculty in my giving my approval.
19 *


292 THE woqu IN WHITE.
“ Sincerely assuring you of my readiness to aﬂ'ord any
additional help or advice that may be wanted,I beg to remain,
Madam, your faithful servant,
“ ‘lVILLlAM KYner.”
I read this kind and sensible letter very thankfully. It
supplied Laura with a reason for objecting to the signature
which was unanswerable, and which we could both of us under-
stand. The messenger waited near me while I was reading,
to receive his directions when I had done.
“Will you be good enough to say that I understand the
letter, and that I am very much obliged?” I said. “ There is
no other reply necessary at present.”
Exactly at the moment when I was speaking those words,
holding the letter open in my hand , Count Fosco turned the
corner of the lane from the high road , and stood before me as
if he had sprung up out of the earth.
The suddenness of his appearance, in the very last place
under heaven in which I should have expected to see him, took
me completely by surprise. The messenger wished me good
morning, and got into the ﬂy again. I could not say a word
to him — I was not even able to return his how. The convic-
tion that I was discovered — and by that man, of all others -—
absolutely petriﬁed me.
“Are you going back to the house, Miss Halcombe?” he
inquired, without showing the least surprise on his side, and
without even looking after the ﬂy, which drove off while he
was speaking to me.
I collected myself sufﬁciently to make a sign in the af-
ﬁrmative.
“I am going back, too ," he said. “Pray allow me the
pleasure of accompanying you. Will you take my arm? You
look surprised at seeing me ! "
.I took his arm. The ﬁrst of my scattered senses that came
back, was the sense that warned me to sacriﬁce anything
rather than make an enemy of him.


'rnr. WOMAN IN WHITE. 293
“ You look surprised at seeing me!” he repeated, in his
quietly pertinacious way.
“I thought, Count , I heard you with your birds in the
breakfast-room,” I answered, as quietly and ﬁrmly as I could.
“ Surely. But my little feathered children, dear lady, are
only too like other children. They have their days of perversity ;,
and this morning was one of them. My wife came in, as I
was putting them back in their cage, and said she had left
you going out alone for a walk. You told her so, did you
not?”
“ Certainly."
“Well, Miss Halcombe, the pleasure of accompanying you
was too great a temptation for me to resist. At my age there
is no harm in confessing so much as that, is there? I seized my
hat, and set off to offer myself as your escort. Even so fat an
old man as Fosco is surely better than no escort at all? I took
the wrong path — I came back, in despair— and here I am
arrived (may I say it?) at the height of my wishes.”
He talked on , in this complimentary strain, with a ﬂuency
which left me no exertion to make beyond the eEort of main-
taining my composure. He never referred in the most distant
manner to what he had seen in the lane, or to the letter which
I still had in my hand. This ominous discretion helped to
convince me that he must have surprised , by the most dis-
honourable means, the secret of my application in Laura’s
interests, to the lawyer; and that, having now assured himself
of the private manner in which I had received the answer, he
had discovered enough to suit his purposes , and was only bent
on trying to quiet the suspicions which he knew he must have
aroused in my mind. I was wise enough, under these circum-
stances, not to attempt to deceive him by plausible explana-
tions—and woman enough, notwithstanding my dread of him,
to feel as if my hand was tainted by resting on his arm.
On the drive in front of the house we met the dog-cartbeing
taken round to the stables. Sir Percival had just returned.
He came out to meet us at the house-dOor. Whatever other


294 rm: WOMAN IN WHITE.
results his journey might have had, it had not ended in soften-
ing his savage temper.
“ Oh! here are two of you come back ," he said , with a
lowering face. “ What is the meaning of the house being
deserted in this way? Where is Lady Glyde?”
I told him of the loss of the brooch, and said that Laura
had gone into the plantation to look for it.
“Brooch or no brooch,” he growled, sulkily, “I recommend
her not to forget her appointment in the library, this after-
noon. I shall expect to see her in half an hour.”
I took my hand from the Count’s arm, and slowly ascended
the steps. He honoured me with one of his magniﬁcent bows;
and then addressed himself gaily to the scowling master of the
house.
“Tell me, Percival,” he said, “have you had a pleasant
drive ? And has your pretty shining Brow-n Molly come back
at all tired? "
“Brown Molly be hanged —- and the drive, too! I want my
lunch.”
“And I want ﬁve minutes’ talk with you , Percival, ﬁrst,"
returned the Count. “Five minutes‘ talk, my friend, here on
the grass."
“What about?”
“About business that very much concerns you.”
I lingered long enough, in passing through the hall-door,
to hear this question and answer, and to see Sir-Percival thrust
his hands into his pockets, in sullen hesitation.
“If you want to badger me with any more of your infernal
scruples,” he said , “I, for one, won’t hear them. I want my
. lunch!"
“Come out here, and speak to me,” repeated the Count,
still perfectly uninﬂuenced by the rudest speech that his friend
could make to him.
Sir Percival descended the steps. The Count took him by
the arm, and walked him away gently. The “business,” I was
sure , referred to the question of the signature. They were
speaking of Laura and of me, beyond a doubt. I felt heart»-


THE WOMAN m WHITE. 295
sick and faint with anxiety. It might be of the last importance
to both of us to know what they were saying to each other at
that moment—and not one word of it could, by anypossibility,
reach my ears. \
I walked about the house, from room to room, with the
lawyer’s letter in my bosom (I was afraid, by this time, even to
trust it under lock and key), till the oppression of my suspense
half maddened me. There were no signs of Laura's return;
and I thought of going out to look for her. But my strength
was so exhausted by the trials and anxieties of the morning,
that the heat of the day quite overpowered me; and, after an
attempt to get to the door, I was obliged to return to the draw-
ing-room, and lie down on the nearest sofa to recover.
I was just composing myself, when the door opened softly,
and the Count looked in.
“A thousand pardons , Miss Halcombe ," he said; “I only
venture to disturb you because I am the bearer of good news.
Percival—who is capricious in everything, as you know ~—
has seen ﬁt to alter his mind, at the last moment; and the
business of the signature is put off for the present. A great
relief to all of us, Miss Halcombe, as I see with pleasure in your
face. Pray present my best respects and felicitations, when
you mention this pleasant change of circumstances to Lady
Glyde.”
He left me beforeI had recovered my astonishment. There
could be no doubt that this extraordinary alteration of pur-
pose in the matter of the signature, was due to his inﬂuence;
and that his discovery of my application to London yesterday,
and of my having received an answer to it to-day, had offered
him the means of interfering with certain success.
I felt these impressions; but my mind seemed to share the
exhaustion of my body, and I was in no condition to dwell on
them, with any useful reference to the doubtful present, or the
threatening future. I tried a second time to run out, and ﬁnd
Laura; but my head was giddy, and my knees trembled under
me. There was no choice but to give it up again, and return
to the sofa, sorely against my will.


296 THE WOMAN IN warm.
The quiet in the house, and the low murmuring hum of
summer insects outside the open window, soothed me. My
eyes closed of themselves; and I passed gradually into a
strange condition, which was not waking — for I knew nothing
of what was going on about me; and not sleeping —- for I was
conscious of my own repose. Inthis state, my fevered mind
broke loose from me, while my weary body was at rest; and,
in a trance, or day-dream of my fancy — I know not what to
call it — I saw Walter Hartright. I had not thought of him,
since I rose that morning; Laura had not said one word to me
either directly or indirectly referring to him - and yet, I saw
him now, as plainly as if the past time had returned, and we
were both together again at Limmeridge House.
He appeared to me as one among many other men, none of
whose faces I could plainly discern. They were all lying on
the steps of an immense ruined temple. Colossal tropical
trees —- with rank creepers twining endlessly about their
trunks, and hideous stone idols glimmering and grinning at
intervals behind leaves and stalks and branches — surrounded
the temple , and shut out the sky, and threw a dismal shadow
over the forlorn band of men on the steps. White exhalations
twisted and curled up stealthily from the ground ; approached
the men in wreaths, like smoke; touched them; and stretched
them out dead, one by one, in the places where they lay. An
agony of pity and fear for Walter loosened my tongue , and I
implored him to escape. “Comeback! come back! " I said.
“Remember your promise to her and to me. Come back to us,
before the Pestilence reaches you , and lays you dead like the
rest! "
He looked at me , with an unearthly quiet in his face-
“Wait,” he said. “I shall come back. The night, when I
met the lost Woman on the highway, was the night which set
my life apart to be the instrument of a Design that is yet un-
seen. Here, lost in the wilderness, or there, welcomed back in
the land of my birth, I am still walking on the dark road which
leads me, and you, and the sister of your love and mine, to
the unknown Retribution and the inevitable End. Wait


THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 297
and look. The Pestilence which touches the rest, will pass
me.”
I saw him again. He was still in the forest; and the num-
bers of his lost companions had dwindled to very few. The
temple was gone, and the idols were gone— and, in their
place, the ﬁgures of dark, dwarﬁsh men lurked murderoust
among the trees, with bows in their hands, and arrows ﬁtted to
the string. Once more, I feared for Walter, and cried out to
warn him. Once more, he turned to me , with the immovable
quiet in his face.’ “Another step ," he said, “on the dark
road. Wait and look. The arrows that strike the rest, will
spare me.” ‘
1 saw him for the third time, in a wrecked ship, stranded on
a wild, sandy shore. The overloaded boats were making
away from him for the land, and he alone was left, to sink with
the ship. I cried to him to hail the hindmost boat, and to
make a last effort for his life. The quiet face looked at me in
return, and the unmoved voice gave me back the changeless
reply. “Another step on the journey. Wait and look. The
Sea which drowns the rest, will spare me.”
I saw him for the last time. He was kneeling by a tomb of
white marble; and the shadow of a veiled woman rose out of
the grave beneath, and waited by his side. The unearthly
quiet of his face had changed to an unearthly sorrow. But the
terrible certainty of his words remained the same. “Darker
and darker,” he said; “farther and farther yet. Death takes
the good, the beautiful, and the young — and spares me. The
Pestilence that wastes, the Arrow that strikes, the Sea that
drowns, the Grave that closes over Love and Hope, are
steps of my journey, and take me nearer and nearer to the
End.”
My heart sank under a dread beyond words, under a grief
beyond tears. The darkness closed round the pilgrim at the
marble tomb; closed round the veiled woman from the grave;
closed round the dreamer who looked on them. I saw and
heard no more.


298 'r worms in warm.
I was aroused by a hand laid on my shoulder. It was
Laura’s. -
She had dropped on her knees by the side of the sofa. Her
face was ﬂushed and agitated; and her eyes met mine in a
wild bewildered manner. I started the instant I saw her.
“What has happened? ” I asked. “What has frightened
you?”
She looked round at he half-open door - put her lips time
to my ear — and answered in a whisper:
“Marian! — the ﬁgure at the lake—the footsteps last
night — I’ve just seen her! I’ve just spoken to her! "
“Who, for Heaven’s sake?”
“Anne Catherick."
I was so startled by the disturbance in Laura's face and
manner, and so dismayed by the ﬁrst waking impressions of
my dream, that I was not ﬁt to hear the revelation which
burst upon me, when that name passed her lips. I could
only stand rooted to the ﬂoor, looking at her in breath-
less silence.
She was too much absorbed by what had happened to
notice the effect which her reply had produced on me. “I
have seen Anne Catherick! I have spoken to Anne Catherick ! ”
she repeated, as if I had not heard her. “Oh, Marian, I have
such things to tell you! Come away — we may be intenupted
here — come at once into my room."
With those eager words, she caught me by the hand, and
led me through the library, to the end room on the ground
ﬂoor, which had been ﬁtted up for her own especial use. No
third person, except her maid, could have any excuse for sur-
prising us here. She pushed me in before her, locked the
door, and drew the chintz curtains that hung over the in-
side.
The strange, stunned feeling which had taken possession
of me still remained. But a growing conviction that the com-
plications which had long threatened to gather about her, and
to gather about me, had suddenly closed fast round us both,
was now beginning to penetrate my mind. I could not ex~


300 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
house; and, as soon as I was inside it, I went on my knees to
hunt over the ﬂoor. I was still searching, with my back to the
doorway, when I heard a soft, strange voice, behind me, say,
‘ Miss Fairlic.’ ”
“Miss Fairlie!”
“ Yes — my old name -- the dear, familiar name that I
thought I had parted from for ever. I started up -- not
frightened, the voice was too kind and gentle to frighten any-
body - but very much surprised. There, looking at me from
the doorway, stood a woman, whose face I never remembered
to have seen before —"
“How was she dressed? ”
“She had a neat, pretty white gown on, and over it a poor
worn thin dark shawl. Her bonnet was of br0wn straw, as
poor and worn as the shawl. I was struck by the difference
between her gown and the rest of her dress, and she saw that I
noticed it. ‘Don’t look at my bonnet and shawl,’ she said,
speaking in a quick, breathless, sudden way; ‘if I mustn’t
wear white, I don’t care what I wear. Look at my gown , as
much as you please; I’m not ashamed of that.’ Very strange,
was it not? Before I could say anything to soothe her, she
held out one of her hands, and I saw my brooch in it. I was so
pleased and so grateful, that I went quite close to her to say
what I really felt. ‘Are you thankful enough to do me one
little kindness?’ she asked. ‘ Yes, indeed,’ I answered; ‘ any
kindness in my power I shall be glad to show you.’ ‘ Then let
me pin your brooch on for you, now I have found it.’ Her re-
quest was so unexpected, Marian, and she made it with such
extraordinary eagerness, that I drew back a step or two, not
well knowing what to do. ‘Ah ! ’ she said, ‘your mother would
have let me pin on the brooch.’ There was something in her
voice and her look, as well as in her mentioning my mother in
that reproachful manner, which made me ashamed of my dis-
trust. I took her hand with the brooch in it, and put it up
gently on the bosom of my dress. ‘ You knew my mother?’ I
said. ‘Was it very long ago? have I ever seen you before?’
Her hands were busy fastening the brooch: she stopped and


302 Tue WOMAN IN WHITE-
the grave.’ She drew farther and farther away from me, till
she was out of the boat-house — and , then, she watched and
listened for a little while. When she turned round to speak
again, instead of coming back, she stopped where she was,
looking in at me, with a hand on each side of the entrance.
‘Did you see me at the lake last night?’ she said. ‘Did you
hear me following you in the wood? I have been waiting for
days together to speak to you alone - I have left the only
friend I have in the world, anxious and frightened about me
-— I have risked being shut up again in the madhouse -— and
all for your sake, Miss Fairlie , all for your sake.’ Her words
alarmed me, Marian; and yet, there was something in the
way she spoke, that made me pity her with all my heart. I am
sure my pity must have been sincere, for it made me bold
enough to ask the poor creature to come in, and sit downin
the boat-house, by my side.”
“Did she do so?”
“No. She shook her head, and told me she must stop
where she was, to watch and listen, and see that no third
person surprised us. And from ﬁrst to last, there she waited
at the entrance, with a hand on each side of it; sometimes
bending in suddenly to speak to me; sometimes drawing back
suddenly to look about her. ‘I’ was here yesterday,’ she said,
‘before it came dark; and I heard you, and the lady with you,
talking together. I heard you tell her about your husband.
I heard you say you had no influence to make him believe
you, and no inﬂuence to keep him silent. Ah! Iknew what
those words meant; my conscience told me while I was listen-
ing. Why did I ever let you marry him! Oh , my fear — my
mad, miserable, wicked fear! —” She covered up her face
in her poor worn shawl, and moaned and murmured to herself
behind it. I began to be afraid she might break out into some
terrible despair which neither she nor 1 could master. ‘Try
to quiet yourself,’ I said: ‘try to tell me how you might have
prevented my marriage.’ She took the shawl from her face,
and looked at me vacantly. ‘I ought to have had heart
enough to stop at Limmeridge,’ she answered. ‘ I ought never


THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 303
to have let the news of his coming there frighten me away.
I ought to have warned you and saved you before it was too
late. Why did I only have courage enough to write you that
letter? Why did I only do harm, when I wanted and meant
to do good? Oh, my fear -— my mad, miserable, wicked
fear!” She repeated those words again, and hid her face
again in the end of her poor worn shawl. It was dreadful to
see her, and dreadful to hear her."
“Surely, Laura, you asked what the fear was which she
dwelt on so earnestly?”
“ Yes; I asked that.”
“And what did she say?"
“She asked me, in return, if I should not be afraid of a
man who had shut me up in a madhouse, and who would shut
me up again, if he could? I said, ‘Are you afraid still?
Surely you would not be here, if you were afraid now?’
‘No ,’ she said, ‘I am not afraid now.’ I asked why not. She
suddenly bent forward into the boat-house, and said, ‘Can’t
you guess why?’ I shook my head. ‘Look at me,’ she went
on. I told her I was grieved to see that she looked very
sorrowful and very ill. She smiled, for the ﬁrst time. ‘ Ill?’
she repeated; ‘I’m dying. You know why I’m not afraid of
him now. Do you think I shall meet your mother in heaven?
Will she forgive me, if I do?’ I was so shocked and so
startled, that Icould make no reply. ‘I have been thinking
of it,’ she went on, ‘all the timeI have been in hiding from
your husband, all the time I lay ill. My thoughts have driven
me here —- I want to make atonement —- I want to undo all I
can of the harm I once did.’ I begged her as earnestly as I
could to tell me what she meant. She still looked at me with
ﬁxed, vacant eyes. ‘Shall I undo the harm?’ she said to
herself, doubtfully. ‘You have friends to take your part. If
you know his Secret, he will be afraid of you; he won’t dare
use you as he used me. He must treat you mercifully for his
own sake, if he is afraid of you and your friends. And
if he treats you mercifully, and if I can say it was my


304 THE woman 1N wru'ra. ‘
doing -- I listened eagerly for more; but she stopped at
those words.”
“ You tried to make her go on? "
“I tried; but she only drew herself away from me again,
and leaned her face and arms against the side of the boat-
house. ‘Oh!’ I heard her say, with a dreadful, distracted
tenderness in her voice, ‘oh! if I could only be buried with
your mother! If I could only wake at her side, when the
angel’s trumpet sounds, and the graves give up their dead at
the resurrection!’ -- Marian! I trembled from head to foot —-
it was horrible to hear her. ‘But there is no hope of that,’
she said, moving a little, so as to look at me again; ‘no hope
for a poor stranger like me. I shall not rest under the marble
cross thatI washed with my own hands, and made so white
and pure for her sake. Oh no! oh no! God’s mercy, not
man’s, will take me to her, where the wicked cease from
troubling and the weary are at rest.’ She spoke those words
quietly and sorrowfully, with a heavy, hopeless sigh; and then
waited a little. Her face was confused and troubled; she
seemed to be thinking, or trying to think. ‘What was it I
said just now?’ she asked, after a while. ‘When your
mother is in my mind, everything else goes out of it. What
was I saying? what was I saying?’ I reminded the poor
creature , as kindly and delicately as I could. ‘ Ah, yes, yes, ’
she said, still in a vacant, perplexed manner. ‘You are help-
less with your wicked husband. Yes. And I must do what I
have come to do here — I must make it up to you for having
been afraid to speak out at a better time.’ ‘What is it you
have to tell me?’ I asked. ‘The Secret that your cruel hus-
band is afraid of,’ she answered. ‘I once threatened him with
the Secret , and frightened him. You shall threaten him with
the Secret, and frighten him, too. Her face darkened; and a
hard, angry stare ﬁxed itself in her eyes. She began waving
her hand at me in a vacant, unmeaning manner. ‘ My mother
knows the Secret,’ she said. ‘My mother has wasted under
the Secret half her lifetime. One day, when I was grown up,


THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 305
she said something to me. And, the next day, your hus-
band —’ "
“Yes! yes! Go on. \Vhat did she tell you about your
husband?”
' “She stopped again , Marian, at that point — "
“And said no more? "
“And listened eagerly. ‘Hush!’ she whispered, still
waving her hand at me. ‘Hushl ’ She moved aside out of the
doorway, moved slowly and stealthily, step by step, till I lost
her past the edge of the boat-house.”
“ Surely, you followed her?"
“ Yes; my anxiety made me bold enough to rise and follow
her. Just as I reached the entrance, she appeared again,
suddenly, round the side of the boat-house. ‘The secret,’ I
whispered to her — ‘wait and tell me the secret! ” She caught
hold of my arm, and looked at me, with wild, frightened eyes.
‘Not now,’ she said; ‘we are not alone —- we are watched.
Come here tomorrow, at this time — by yourself— mind ——
by yourself.’ She pushed me roughly into the boat-house
again; and I saw her no more.”
“ Oh, Laura, Laura, another chance lost! If I had only
been near you, she should not have escaped us. On which
side did you lose sight of her? ” .
“ On the left side, where the ground sinks and the wood is
thickest." '
“Did you run out again? did you call after her?”
“How could I? I was too terriﬁed to move or speak."
“ But when you did move — when you came out —?"
“I ran back here , to tell you what had happened."
“Did you see any one , or hear any one in the plan-
tation?"
“No -- it seemed to be all still and quiet, when I passed
through it."
I waited for a moment to consider. Was this third person,
supposed to have been secretly present at the interview, a
reality, or the creature of Anne Catherick’s excited fancy?
It was impossible to determine. The one thing certain was,
The Woman in While. I. 20


306 Tim WOMAN m wrn'rn.
that we had failed again on the very brink of discovery —-
failed utterly and irretrievably, unless Anne Catherick kept
her appointment at the boat-house , for the next day.
“Are you quite sure you have told me everything that ,
passed. Every word that was said? " I inquired
“I think so,” she answered. “My powers of memory,
Marian, are not like yours. But I was so strongly impressed,
so deeply interested, that nothing of any importance can pos-
sibly have escaped me."
“My dear Laura, the merest triﬂes are of importance
where Anne Catherick is concerned. Think again. Did no
chance reference escape her as to the place in which she is
living at the present time? ”
“None that I can remember.”
“Did she not mention a companion and friend —— a woman
named Mrs. Clements?"
“ Oh, yes! yes! I forgot that. She told me Mrs. Clements
wanted sadly to go with her: to the lake , and take care of her,
and begged and prayed that she would not venture into this
neighbourhood alone.”
“ Was that all she said about Mrs. Clements?”
“Yes , that was all.”
“ She told you nothing about the place in which she took
refuge after leaving Todd's Corner?”
“Nothing —- I am quite sure."
“Nor where she has lived since? Nor what her illness had
been?”
“No, Marian; notaword. Tell me, pray tell me, what
you think about it. I don’t know'what to think, or what to do
next.”
“You must do this, my love: You must carefully keep
the appointment at the boat-house , to-morrow. It is impos-
sible to say what interests may not depend on your seeing that
woman again. You shall not be left to yourself a second
time. I will follow you, at a safe distance. Nobody shall
see me; but I will keep within hearing of your voice, if any-
thing happens. Anne Catherick has escaped Walter Hart-


THE WOMAN m Winrn. 307
right, and has escaped you. Whatever happens, she shall
not escape me.”
Laura’s eyes read mine attentively.
“ You believe,” she said, “in this secret that my husband
is afraid of? Suppose, Marian, it should only exist, after all,
in Anne Catherick’s fancy? Suppose she only wanted to see
me and to speak to me, for the sake of old remembrances?
Her manner was so strange, I almost doubted her. Would
you trust her in other things ? ”
“ I trust nothing, Laura, but my own observation of your
husband’s conduct. I judge Anne Catherick’s words by his
actions — and I believe there is a secret.”
I said no more, and got up to leave the room. Thoughts
were troubling me, which I might have told her if we had
spoken together longer, and which it might have been
dangerous for her to know. The inﬂuence of the terrible
dream from which she had awakened me, hung darkly and
heavily over every fresh impression which the progress of her
narrative produced on my mind. I felt the ominous Future,
coming close; chilling me, with an unutterable awe: forcing
on me the conviction of an unseen Design in the long series of
complications which had now fastened round us. I thought
of Hartright —— as I saw him, in the body, when he said fare~
well; as I saw him, in the spirit, in my dream — and I, too,
began to doubt now whether we were not advancing, blind-
fold, to an appointed and an inevitable End.
Leaving Laura to go up-stairs alone, I went out to look
about me in the walks near the house. The circumstances
under which Anne Catherick had parted from her, had made
me secretly anxious to know how Count Fosco was passing
the afternoon; and had rendered me secretly distrustful of
the results of that solitary journey from which Sir Percival
had returned but a few hours since.
After looking for them in every direction, and discovering
nothing, I returned to the house, and entered the different
rooms on the ground ﬂoor, one after another. They were all
20*


308 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
empty. I came out again into the hall, and went up-stairs to
return to Laura. Madame Fosco opened her door, as I passed
it in my way along the passage; and I stopped to see if she
could inform me of the whereabouts of her husband and Sir
Percival. Yes; she had seen them both from her window
more than an hour since. The Count had looked up, with his
customary kindness, and had mentioned, with his habitual
attention to her in the smallest triﬂes, that he and his friend
were going out together for a long walk.
For a long walk! They had never yet been in each other's
company with that object in my experience of them. Sir
Percival cared for no exercise but riding: and the Count
(except when he was polite enough to be my escort) cared for
no exercise at all.
When I joined Laura again , I found that she had called to
mind, in my absence, the impending question of the signature
to the deed, which, in the interest of discussing her interview
with Anne Catherick , we had hitherto overlooked. Her ﬁrst
words when I saw her, expressed her surprise at the absence
of the expected summons to attend Sir Percival in the library.
“ You may make your mind easy on that subject,” I said.
“For the present, at least, neither your resolution nor mine
will be exposed to any further trial. Sir Percival has altered
his plans: the business of the signature is put off.”
“Put off?" Laura repeated , amazedly. “Who told
you so ? "
“My authority is Count Fosco. I believe it is to his inter-
ference that we are indebted for your husband’s sudden
change of purpose."
“It seems impossible, Marian. If the object of my signing
was , as we suppose , to obtain money for Sir Percival that he
urgently wanted, how can the matter be put 03'? ”
“I think, Laura, we have the means at hand of setting
that doubt at rest. Have you forgotten the conversation that
I heard between Sir Percival and the lawyer, as they were
crossing the hall? ”
“ N0 3 >_ but I don’t remember —"


'rnr. woman IN wmrn.‘ 309
“I do. There were two alternatives proposed. One, was
to obtain your signature to the parchment. The other, was
to gain time by giving bills at three months. The last re-
source is evidently the resource now adopted ~and we may
fairly hope to be relieved from our share in Sir Percival’s em-
barrassments for some time to come.”
“Oh, Marian, it sounds too good to be true!”
“Does it, my love? You complimented me on my ready
memory not long since — but you seem to doubt it now. I'
will get my journal, and you shall see if I am right or wrong.”
I went away and got the book at once.
On looking back to the entry referring to the lawyer’s
visit, we found that my recollection of the two alternatives
presented was accurately correct. It was almost as great a
relief to my mind as to Laura’s, to ﬁnd that my memory had
served me, on this occasion, as faithfully as usual. In the
perilous uncertainty of ' our present situation, it is hard to say
what future interests may not depend upon the regularity of
the entries in my journal, and upon the reliability of my re-
collection at the time when I make them.
Laura’s face and manner suggested to me that this last
consideration had occurred to her as well as to myself. Any
way, it is only a triﬂing matter; and I am almost ashamed to
put it down here in writing —-it seems to set the forlormiess‘
of our situation in such a miserably vivid light. We must have
little indeed to depend on, when the discovery that my me-
mory can still be trusted to serve us, is hailed as if it was the
discovery of a new friend!
The ﬁrst bell for dinner separated us. Just as it had done ’
ringing, Sir Percival and the Count returned from their walk.
We heard the master of the house storming at the servants
for being ﬁve minutes late; and the master’s guest inter-
posing, as usual, in the interests of propriety, patience , and
peace. '
as a:- ae as
The evening has come and gone. No extraordinary event
has happened. But I have noticed certain peculiarities in the ’


310 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
conduct of Sir Percival and the Count, which have sent me to
,my bed, feeling very anxious and uneasy about Anne Ca-
therick, and about the results which to-morrow may produce.
I know enough by this time, to be sure that the aspect of
Sir Percival which is the most false, and which, therefore,
means the worst, is his polite aspect. That long walk with
his friend had ended in improving his manners, especially
towards his wife. To Laura’s secret surprise and to my secret
alarm , he called her by her Christian name , asked if she had
heard lately from her uncle , inquired when Mrs. Vesey was to
receive her invitation to Blackwater, and showed her so many
other little attentions, that he almost recalled the days of his
hateful courtship of Limmeridge House. This was a bad
sign , to begun with; and I thought it more ominous still, that
he should pretend, after dinner, to fall asleep in the drawing-
room, and that his eyes should cunnineg follow Laura and
me, when he thought we neither of us suspected him. I have
never had any doubt that his sudden journey by himself took
him to Welmingham to question Mrs. Catherick -- but the
experience of to-night has made me fear that the expedition
was not undertaken in vain , and that he has got the informa-
tion which he unquestionably left us to collect. If I knew
where Anne Catherick was to be found, I would be up to-
morrow with sunrise, and warn her.
While the aspect under which Sir Percival presented him-
self, to-night, was unhappily but too familiar to me, the
aspect under which the Count appeared, was, on the other
hand, entirely new in my experience of him. He permitted
me, this evening, to make his acquaintance, for the ﬁrst time,
in the character of a Man of Sentiment — of sentiment, as I
believe , really felt, not assumed for the occasion.
For instance, he was quiet and subdued; his eyes and his
voice expressed a restrained sensibility. He wore (as if there
was some hidden connexion between his showiest ﬁnery and
his deepest feeling) the most magniﬁcent waistcoat he has yet
appeared in— it was made of pale sea-green silk, and deli-
cately trimmed with ﬁne silver braid. His voice sank into the


312, Tim WOMAN IN WHITE.
trees! Does it penetrate your heart, as it penetrates .
mine?" .
He paused -- looked at me ~— and repeated the famous
lines of Dante on the Evening-time, with a melody and tender-
ness which added a charm of their own to the matchless
beauty of the poetry itself.
“Bah!” he cried suddenly, as the last cadence of those
noble Italian words died away on his lips; “I make an old
fool of myself, and only weary you all! Let us shut up the
window in our bosoms and get back to the matter-of-fact
world. Percival! I sanction the admission of the lamps.
Lady Glyde — Miss Halcombe —— Eleanor, my good wife —
which of you will indulge me with a game at dominoes?”
He addressed us all; but he looked especially at Laura.
She had learnt to feel my dread of offending him , and she
accepted his proposal. It was more than I could have done,
at that moment. I could not have sat down at the same table
with him, for any consideration. His eyes seemed to reach
my inmost soul through the thickening obscurity of the twi-
light. His voice trembled along every nerve in my body, and
turned me hot and cold alternately. The mystery and terror
of my dream, which had haunted me, at intervals, all through
the evening, now oppressed my mind with an unendurable
foreboding and an unutterable awe. I saw the white tomb
again, and the veiled woman rising out of it , by Hartright‘s
side. The thought of Laura welled up like a spring in the
depths of my heart, and ﬁlled it with waters of bitterness,
never, never known to it before. I caught her by the hand,
as she passed me on her way to the table , and kissed her as if
that night was to part us for ever. While they were all gazing
at me in astonishment, I ran _out through ,the low window
which was open before me to the ground — ran out to hide
from them in the darkness; to hide even from myself-,
We separated, that evening, later than usual. Towards
midnight, the summer silence was broken by the shuddering
of a low, melancholy wind among the trees. We all felt the,


'rnn woman IN WHITE. 313
sudden chill in the atmosphere; but the Count was the ﬁrst to
notice the stealthy rising of the wind. He stopped while
he was lighting my candle for me, and held up his hand
warningly: '
“ Listen ! ” he said. “ There will be a change to-morrow.”
IX.
Jun! 5m. — The events of yesterday warned me to be
ready, sooner or later, to meet the worst. To-day is not yet
at an end; and the worst has come.
Judging by the closest calculation of time that Laura and
I could make, we arrived at the conclusion that Anne Cathe-
rick must have appeared at the boat-house at half-past two
o’clock, on the afternoon of yesterday. I accordingly ar-
ranged that Laura should just show herself at the luncheon
table, to-day, and should then slip out at the ﬁrst op-
portunity; leaving me behind to preserve appearances, and
to follow her as soon as I could safely do so. This mode of
proceeding, if no obstacles occurred to thwart us, would
enable her to be at the boat-house before half-past two; and
(when I left the table, in my turn) would take me to a safe
position in the plantation, before three.
The change in the weather, which last night’s wind
warned us to expect, came with the morning. It was raining
heavily, when I got up; and it continued to rain until twelve
o’clock — when the clouds dispersed , the blue sky appeared,
and the sun shone again with the bright promise of a ﬁne
afternoon.
My anxiety to know how Sir Percival and the Count would
occupy the early part of the day, was by no means set at rest,
so far as Sir Percival was concerned, by his leaving us im-
mediately after breakfast, and going out by himself, in spite
of the rain. He neither told us where he was going, nor when
we might expect him back. We saw him pass the breakfast-
room window, hastily, with his high boots and his water-proof
coat on —- and that was an.


314 THE WOMAN IN warm.
The Count passed the morning quietly, indoors; some
part of it, in the library; some part, in the drawing-room,
playing odds and ends of music on the piano, and humming to
himself. Judging by appearances, the sentimental side of
his character was persistently inclined to betray itself still.
He was silent and sensitive, and ready to sigh and languish
ponderously (as only fat men can sigh and languish), on the
smallest provocation.
Luncheon-time came; and Sir Percival did not return.
The Count took his friend’s place at the table -—plaintively
devoured the greater part of a fruit tart, submerged under a
whole jugful of cream — and explained the full merit of the
achievement to us, as soon as he had done. “A taste for
sweets,” he said in his softest tones and his tenderest manner,
“is the innocent taste of women and children. I love to share
it with them - it is another bond, dear ladies, between you
and me.”
Laura left the table in ten minutes’ time. I was sorely
tempted to accompany her. But if we had both gone out
together, we must have excited suspicion; and, worse still,
if we allowed Anne Catherick to see Laura accompanied by a
second person who was a'stranger to her, we should in all
probability forfeit her conﬁdence from that moment , never to
regain it again.
I waited, therefore, as patiently as I could, until the
servant came in to clear the table. When I quitted the room,
there were no signs, in the house or out of it, of Sir Percival’s
return. I left the Count with a piece of sugar between his
lips, and the vicious coekatoo scrambling up his waistcoat to
get at it; while Madame Fosco, sitting opposite to her hus-
band, watched the proceedings of his bird and himself, as
attentively as if she had never seen anything of the sort be-
fore in her life. On my way to the plantation I kept carefully
beyond the range of view from the luncheon-room window.
Nobody saw me and nobody followed me. It was then a
quarter to three o’clock by my watch.
Once among the trees, I walked rapidly, until I had ad-


'rnn worms 1r: warm. 315
vanced more than half way through the plantation. At that
point, I slackened my pace, and proceeded cautiously -— but I
saw no one, and heard no voices. By little and little, I came
within view of the back of the boat-house — stopped and
listened -— then went on, till I was close behind it, and must
have heard any persons who had been talking inside. Still
the silence was unbroken: still, far and near, no sign of a
living creature appeared anywhere.
After skirting round by the back of the building, ﬁrst on
one side, and then on the other, and making no discoveries,
I ventured in front of it, and fairly looked in. The place was
empty.
I called, “Laural” -— at ﬁrst, softly — then louder and
louder. No one answered, and no one appeared. For all
that I could see and hear, the only human creature in the
neighbourhood of the lake and the plantation, was myself.
My heart began to beat violently; but I kept my resolu-
tion, and searched, ﬁrst the boat-house, and then the ground
in front of it, for any signs which might show me whether
Laura had really reached the place or not. No mark of her
presence appeared inside the building; but I found traces of
her outside it, in footsteps on the sand.
I detected the footsteps of two persons — large footsteps,
like a man’s , and small footsteps, which , by putting my own
feet into them and testing their size in that manner, I felt
certain were Laura’s. The ground was confusedly marked in
this way, just before the boat-house. Close against one side
of it, under shelter of the projecting roof, I discovered a little
hole in the sand — a hole artiﬁcially made, beyond a doubt.
I just noticed it, and then turned away immediately to trace
the footsteps as far as I could, and to follow the direction in
which they might lead me.
They led me, starting from the left-hand side of the boat-
house, along the edge of the trees, a distance, I should think,
of between two and three hundred yards -— and then, the
sandy ground showed no further trace of them. Feeling that
the persons whose course I was tracking, must necessarily
,4


316 was WOMAN m wnrrn.
have entered the plantation at this point, I entered it, too.
At ﬁrst, I could ﬁnd no path - but I discovered one, after-
wards, just faintly traced among the trees, and followed it.
It took me , for some distance , in the direction of the village,
until I stopped at a point where another foot-track crossed it.
The brambles grew thickly on either side of this second path.
I stood, looking down it, uncertain which way to take next;
and , while I looked , I saw on one thorny branch, some frag-
ments of fringe from a woman’s shawl. A closer examination
of the fringe satisﬁed me that it had been torn from a shawl
of Laura’s; and I instantly followed the second path. It
brought me out, at last, to my great relief, at the back of the
house. I say to my great relief, because I inferred that Laura
' must, for some unknown reason , have returned before me by
this roundabout way. I went in by the courtyard and the
oﬂices. The ﬁrst person whom I met 'in crossing the servants’
hall, was Mrs. Michelson, the housekeeper.
“Do you know ," I asked, “ whether Lady Glyde has come
in from her walk or not?”
“My lady came in, a little while ago , with Sir Percival,"
answered the housekeeper. “I am afraid, Miss Halcombe,
something very distressing has happened.”
My heart sank within me. “You don’t mean an accident! "
I said, faintly. ,
“ N o, no —- thank God, no accident. But my lady ran up-
stairs to her own room in tears; and Sir Percival has ordered
-me to give Fanny warning to leave in an hour’s time.”
Fanny was Laura’s maid; a good, affectionate girl who
had been with her for years —~ the only person in the house,
whose ﬁdelity and devotion we could both depend upon.
“ Where is Fanny?” I inquired.
“In my room , Miss Halcombe. The young woman is
quite overcome: and I told her to sit down, and try to recover
herself."
I went to Mrs. Michelson’s room, and found Fanny in a
corner, with her box by her side, crying bitterly.
She could give me no explanation whatever of her sudden


THE WOMAN m wrurn. 317
dismissal. Sir Percival had ordered that she should have a
month’s wages, in place of amonth’s warning, and go. No
reason had been assigned; no objection had been made to her
conduct. She had been forbidden to appeal to her mistress,
forbidden even to see her for a moment to say good-by. She
was to go without explanations or farewells —- and to go at
once.
After soothing the poor girl by a few friendly werds, I
asked where she proposed to sleep that night. She replied
that she thought of going to the little inninthe village, the
landlady of which was a respectable woman, known to the
servants at Blackwater Park. The next morning, by leaving
early, she might get back to her friends in Cumberland, with-
out stopping in London , where she was a total stranger.
I felt directly that Fanny’s departure offered us a safe
means of communication with London and with Limmeridge
House , of which it might be very important to avail ourselves.
Accordingly, I told her that she might expect to hear from
her mistress or from me in the course of the evening , and that
she might depend on our both doing all that lay in our power
to help her, under the trial of leaving us for the present.
Those words said, I shook hands with her, and went up-stairs.
The door which led to Laura’s room, was the door of an
ante-chamber, opening on to the passage. When I tried it,
it was bolted on the inside.
I knocked, and the door was opened by the same heavy,
overgrown housemaid, whose lumpish insensibility had tried
my patience so severely, on the day when I found the wounded
dog. I had, since that time , discovered that her name was
Margaret Porcher, and that she was the most awkward,
slatternly, and obstinate servant in the house.
On opening the door, she instantly stepped out to the
threshold, and stood grinning at me in stolid silence.
“Why do you stand there?” I said. “Don’t you see
that I want to come in?”
“Ah , but you mustn’t come in ," was the answer, with-au-
othcr and a broader grin still.


318 rue woman IN wnrrs.
“How dare you talk to me in that way? Stand back in-
stantly!"
She stretched out a great red hand and arm on each side
of her, so as to bar the doorway, and slowly nodded her addle
head at me.
“ Master’s orders,” she said; and nodded again.
I had need of all my self-control to warn me against con-
testing the matter with her, and to remind me that the next
words I had to say must be addressed to her master. I turned
my back on her, and instantly went down stairs to ﬁnd him.
My resolution to keep my temper under all the irritations that
Sir Percival could offer, was, by this time, as completely for-
gotten -— I say so to my shame — as if I had never made it. It
did me good — after all I had suffered and suppressed in that
house — it actually did me good to feel how angry I was.
The drawing-room and the breakfast-room were both
empty. I went on to the library; and there I found Sir Per-
cival, the Count, and Madame Fosco. They were all three
standing up , close together, and Sir Percival had a little slip
of paper in his hand. As I opened the door, I heard the Count
say to him, “ N o — a thousand times over, no."
Iwalked straight up to him, and looked him full in the face.
“Am I to understand , Sir Percival, that your wife's room
is a prison, and that your housemaid is the gaoler who keeps
it?” I asked.
“Yes; that is what you are to understand ," he answered.
“Take care my gaoler hasn‘t got double duty to do — take
care your room is not a prison, too."
“Take you care how you treat your wife, and how you
threaten me,” I broke out, in the heat of my anger. “There
are laws in England to protect women from cruelty and
outrage. If you hurt a hair of Laura’s head, if you dare to
interfere with my freedom, come what come may, to those
~ laws I will appeal."
Instead of answering me, he turned round to the Count.
“What did I tell you?" he asked. “What do you say
now?"


THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 319
“What I said before,” replied the Count — “No.”
Even in the vehemence of my anger, I felt his calm, cold,
gray eyes on my face. They turned away from me, as soon
as he had spoken, and looked signiﬁcantly at his wife. . Ma-
dame Fosco immediately moved close to my side, and , in that
position, addressed Sir Percival before either of us could
speak again. ‘
“Favour me with your attention, for one moment ,” she
said, in her clear icily-suppressed tones. “I have to thank
you, Sir Percival, for your hospitality; and to decline taking
advantage of it any longer. I remain in no house in which
ladies are treated as your wife and Miss Halcombe have been
treated here to-day!"
Sir Percival drew back a step, and stared at her in dead
silence. The declaration he had just heard — a declaration
which he well knew, as I well knew, Madame Fosco would not
have ventured to make without her husband’s permission —
seemed to petrify him with surprise. The Count stood by, and
looked at his wife with the most enthusiastic admiration.
“ She is sublime ! " he said to himself. He approached her,
while he spoke, and drew her hand through his arm. “ I am
at your service, Eleanor,” he went on, with a quiet dignity
that I had never noticed in him before. “And at Miss Hal-
combe’s service, if she will honour me by accepting all the
assistance I can offer her.”
“Damn it! what do you mean?" cried Sir Percival, as the
Count quietly moved away, with his wife, to the door.
“At other times I mean what I say; but, at this time, I
mean what my wife says ,” replied the impenetrable Italian.
“We have changed places, Percival, for once; and Madame
Fosco’s opinion is — mine.”
Sir Percival crumpled up the paper in his hand; and,
pushing past the Count, with another oath, stood between him
and the door.
“Have your own way," he said, with baﬂled rage in his
low, half-whispering tones. “Have your own way — and see
what comes of it." With those words, he left the room.


320 rue WOMAN IN WHITE.
Madame Fosco glanced inquirineg at her husband. “He
has gone away very suddenly ,” she said. “What does it
mean?”
“ It means that you andI together have brought the worst-
tempered man in all England to his senses," answered the
Count. “It means, Miss Halcombe, that Lady Glyde is re-
lieved from a gross indignity, and you from the repetition of
an unpardonable insult. Suffer me to express my admiration
of your conduct and your courage at a very trying moment.”
“ Sincere admiration," suggested Madame Fosco.
“ Sincere admiration,” echoed the Count.
I had no longer the strength of my ﬁrst angry resistance to
outrage and injury to support me. My heart-sick anxiety to
see Laura; my sense of my own helpless ignorance of what
had happened at the boat-house, pressed on me with an in-
tolerable weight. I tried to keep up appearances, by speaking
to the Count and his wife in the tone which they had chosen to
adopt in speaking to me. But the words failed on my lips --
my breath came short and thick — my eyes looked longingly,
in silence, at the door. The Count, understanding my anxiety,
opened it, went out, and pulled it to after him. At the same
time Sir Percival’s heavy step descended the stairs. I heard
them whispering together, outside , while Madame Fosco was
assuring me in her calmest and most conventional manner,
that she rejoiced, for all our sakes, that Sir Percival‘s conduct
had not obliged her husband and herself to leave Blackwater
Park. Before she had done speaking, the whispering ceased,
the door opened, and the Count looked in.
“Miss Halcombe,” he said, “I am happy to inform you
thatLady Glyde is mistress again in her own house. I thought
it might be more agreeable to you to hear of this change for
the better from me, than from Sir Percival -— and I have,
therefore, expressly returned to mention it.”
“Admirable delicacy!" said Madame Fosco, paying back
her husband’s tribute of admiration, with the Count’s own
coin, in the Count’s own manner. He smiled and bowed as if


322 ‘ THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
Her face, naturally pale, had turned to such a ghastly
whiteness, that I started at the sight of it. Her hands, so sure
and steady at all other times, trembled violently; and her
eyes looked wolﬁshly past me through the open door, and
ﬁxed on Laura.
She had been listening before she knocked! I saw it in her
white face; I saw it in her trembling hands; I saw it in her
look at Laura.
After waiting an instant, she turned from me in silence,
and slowly walked away.
I clOsed the door again, “Oh, Laura! Laura! We shall
both rue the day when you called the Count a Spy!"
“You would have called him so yourself, Marian, if you
had known what I know. Anne Catherick was right. There
was a third person watching us in the plantation, yesterday;
and that third person —”
“Are you sure it was the Count? ”
“I am absolutely certain. He was Sir Percival’s spy -—- he
was Sir Percival's informer — he set Sir Percival watching
and waiting, all the morning through, for Anne Catherick and
for me."
“Is Anne found? Did you see her at the lake?"
“No. She has saved herself by keeping away from the
place. When I got to the boat-house, no one was there.”
“Yes? yes?" \
“I went in, and sat waiting for a few minutes. But my
restlessness made me get up again, to walk about a little. As
I passed out, I saw some marks on the sand, close under the
front of the boat-house. I stooped down to examine them,
and discovered a word written in large letters, on the sand.
The word was — rock."
“And you scraped away the sand, and dug a hollow place
in it?"
“ How do you know that, Marian? "
“I saw the hollow place myself, when I followed you to the
boat-house. G0 on —~ go on!”
“Yes; I scraped away the sand on the surface; and in a


'rnn WOMAN m wurrn 323
little while, I came to a strip of paper hidden beneath, which
had writing on it. The writing was signed with Anne Cathe-
rick's initials."
“ Where is it?"
“Sir Percival has taken it from me."
“Can you remember what the writing was ? Do you think
you can repeat it to me?"
“In substance I can, Marian. It was very short. You
would have remembered it, word for word.”
“ Try to tell me what the substance was, before we go any
further."
She complied. I write the lines down here, exactly as she
repeated them to me. They ran thus:
“I was seen with you, yesterday, by a tall stout old man,
and had to run to save myself. He was not quick enough on
his feet to follow me , and he lost me among the trees. I dare
not risk coming back here to-day, at the same time. I write
this, and hide it in the sand, at six in the morning, to tell you
so. When we speak next of your wicked husband’s Secret we
must speak safely or not at all. Try to have patience. I pro—
mise you shall see me again; and that soon. — A. C.”
The reference to the “tall stout old man” (the terms of
which Laura was certain that she had repeated to me cor-
rectly), left no doubt as to who the intruderhad been. I called
to mind that I had told Sir Percival, in the Count's presence,
the day before, that Laura had gone to the boat-house to look
for her brooch. In all probability he had followed her there,
in his oﬂicious way, to relieve her mind about the matter of the
signature, immediately after he had mentioned the change in
Sir Percival’s plans to me in the drawing-room. In this case
he could only have got tothe neighbourhood of the boat~house,
at the very moment when Anne Catherick discovered him.
The suspiciously hurried manner in which she parted from
Laura, had no doubt prompted his useless attempt to follow
her. Of the conversation which had previously taken place
21*


324 THE worms m warm.
between them, he could have heard nothing. The distance
between the house and the lake, and the time at which he left
me in the drawing-room, as compared with the time at which
Laura and Anne Catherick had been speaking together, proved
that fact to us, at any rate, beyond a doubt.
Having arrived at something like a conclusion, so far, my
next great interest was to know what discoveries Sir Percival
had made, after Count Fosco had given him hisinformation.
“How came you to lose possession of the letter?” I asked.
“What did you do with it, when you found it in the sand? "
“After reading it once through," she replied, “I took it
into the boat-house with me, to sit down, and look it over a
second time. While I was reading, a shadow fell across the
paper. I looked up; and saw Sir Percival standing in the
doorway watching me.”
“Did you try to hide the letter?”
“I tried — but he stopped me. ‘You needn’t trouble to
hide that,’ he said. ‘I happen to have read it.’ I could only
look at him, helplessly — I could say nothing. ‘You under-
stand?” he went on; ‘I have read it. I dug it up out of the
sand two hours since, and buried it again, and wrote the word
above it again, and left it ready to your hands. You can’t lie
yourself out of the scrape now. You saw Anne Catherick in
secret yesterday; and you have got her letter in your hand at
this moment. I have not caught her yet; but I have caught
you. Give me the letter.’ He stepped close up to me— I was
alone with him, Marian —- what could I do ? —- I gave him the
letter.”
“What did he say when you gave it to him ?"
“At ﬁrst, he said nothing. He took me by the arm, and
led me out of the boat-house, and looked about him, on all
sides, as if he was afraid of our being seen or heard. Then,
he clasped his hand fast round my arm, and whispered to me,
- ‘What did Anne Catherick say to you yesterday ?--I insist
on hearing every word, from ﬁrst to last.”
“ Did you tell him?”


THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 325
“ I was alone with him, Marian — his cruel hand was brui-
sing my arm —- what could I do?”
“Is the mark on your arm still? Let me see it ?"
“Why do you want to see it?"
“I want to see it, Laura, because our endurance must end,
and our resistance must begin, to-day. That mark is a
weapon to strike him with. Let me see it now — I may have
to swear to it, at some future time.”
“ O, Marian, don’t look so! don’t talk so! It doesn’t hurt
me, now! ”
“Let me see it! "
She showed me the marks. I was past grieving over them,
past crying over them, past shuddering over them. They say
we are either better than men, or worse. If the temptation
that has fallen in some women’s way, and made them worse,
had fallen in mine, at that moment —— Thank God! my face
betrayed nothing that his wife could read. The gentle, inno-
cent, aﬂ'ectionate creature thought I was frightened for her
and sorry for her — and thought no more.
“Don’t think too seriously of it, Marian," she said, simply,
as she pulled her sleeve down again. “It doesn’t hurt me,
now."
“ I will try to think quietly of it, my love, for your sake. —
Well! well! And you told him all that Anne Catherick had
said to you —- all that you told me? ”
“Yes; all. He insisted on it — I was alone with him — I
could conceal nothing."
“Didhe say anything when you had done?”
“He looked at me, and laughed to himself, in a mocking,
bitter way. ‘ I mean to have the rest out of you,’ he said; ‘do
you hear? —- the rest.’ I declared to him solemnly that I had
told him everything I knew. ‘Not you!’ he answered: ‘you
know more than you choose to tell. Won‘t you tell it? You
shall! I’ll wring it out of you at home, if I can’t wring it out
of you, here.’ He led me away by a strange path through the
plantation -— a path where there was no hope of our meeting
you - and he spoke no more, till we came within sight of the


326 was WOMAN IN WHITE.
house. Then he stopped again, and said, ‘Will you takea
second chance, if I give it to you? Will you think better of
it, and tell me the rest?’ I could only repeat the same words
I had spoken before. He cursed my obstinacy, and went on,
and took me with him to the house. ‘You can’t deceive me,’
he said; ‘you know more than you choose to tell. I’ll have
your secret out of you; and I’ll have it out of that sister of
yours, as well. There shall be no more plotting and whisper-
ing between you. Neither you nor she shall see each other
again till you have confessed the truth. I’ll have you watched
morning, noon, and night, till you confess the truth.’ He
was deaf to everything I could say. He took me straight up-
stairs into my own room. Fanny was sitting there, doing
some work for me; and he instantly ordered her out. ‘l’ll
take good care you’re not mixed up in the conspiracy,’ he said.
‘You shall leave this house to-day. If your mistress wants a
maid, she shall have one of my choosing.’ He pushed me into
the room, and locked the door on me —— he set that senseless
woman to watch me outside—Marian! he looked and spoke
like a madman. You may hardly understand it — he did
indeed.”
“I do understand it, Laura. He is mad — mad with the
terrors of a guilty conscience. Every word you have said
makes me positively certain that when Anne Catherick left
you yesterday, you were on the eve of discovering a secret,
which might have been your vile husband’s ruin — and he
thinks you have discovered it. Nothing you can say or do,
will quiet that guilty distrust, and convince his false nature of
your truth. I don’t say this, my love, to alarm you. I say it
to open your eyes to your position, and to convince you of the
urgent necessity of letting me act, as I best can, for your pro-
tection, while the chance is our own. Count Fosco’s inter-
ference has secured me access to you to-day; but he may with-
draw that interference to-morrow. Sir Percival has already
dismissed Fanny, because she is a quick-witted girl, and de-
votedly attached to you; and has chosen a woman to take her
place, who cares nothing for your interests, and whose dull


'rnn woman IN wurrn. 327
intelligence lowers her to the level of the watchdog in the yard.
It is impossible to say what violent measures he maytake next,
unless we make the most of our opportlmities while we have
them."
“ What can we do, Marian? Oh, if we could only leave
this house, never to see it again!”
“Listen to me, my love - and try to think that you are
not quite helpless so long as I am here with you.”
“I will think so -— I do think so. Don’t altogether forget
poor Fanny, in thinking of me. She wants help and com-
fort, too.”
“I will not forget her. I saw her before I came up here;
and I have arranged to communicate with her to-night. Let-
ters are not safe in the post-bag at Blackwater Park — and I
shall Have two to write to-day, in your interests, which must
pass through no hands but Fanny’s.”
“ What letters?” '
“I mean to write ﬁrst, Laura, to Mr. Gilmore’s partner,
who has offered to help us in any fresh emergency. Little as
I know of the law, I am certain that it can protect a woman
from such treatment as that ruﬂian has inﬂicted on you to-day.
I will go into no details about Anne Catherick, because I have
no certain information to give. But the lawyer shall know of
those bruises on your arm, and of the violence oﬂ'ered to you
in this room — he shall, before I rest to-night l”
“But, think of the exposure, Marian!"
“I am calculating on the exposure. Sir Percival has more
to dread from it than you have. The prospect of an exposure
may bring him to terms, when nothing else will."
I rose as I spoke; but Laura entreated me not to leave her.
“You will drive him to desperation," she said, “and in-
crease our dangers tenfold."
I felt the truth — the disheartening truth— of those words.
But I could not bring myself plainly to acknowledge it to her.
In our dreadful position, there was no help and no hope for
us, but in risking the worst. I said so, in guarded terms. She
sighed bitterly — but did not contest the matter. She only


328 THE WOMAN m wnrrn.
asked about the second letter that I had proposed writing. To
whom was it to be addressed?
“ To Mr. Fairlie ," I said. “Your uncle is your nearest
male relative, and the head of the family. He must and shall
interfere.”
Laura shook her head sorrowfully.
‘Yes, yes ,” I went on; “your uncle is a weak, selﬁsh,
worldly man, I know. But he is not Sir Percival Glyde; and
he has no such friend about him as Count Fosco. I expect
nothing from his kindness, or his tenderness of feeling towards
you, or towards me. But he will do anything to pamper his
own indolence, and to secure his own quiet. Let me only per-
suade him that his interference, at this moment, will save him
inevitable trouble, and wretchedness, and responsibility here-
after, and he will bestir himself for his own sake. I kndw how
to deal with him , Laura —- I have had some practice.”
“If you could only prevail on him to let me go back to
Limmeridge for a little while, and stay there quietly with you,
Marian, I could be almost as happy again as I was before I
was married! "
Those words set me thinking in a new direction. Would it
be possible to place Sir Percival between the two alternatives
of either exposing himself to the scandal of legal interference
on his wife’s behalf, or of allowing her to be quietly separated
from him for a time, under pretext of a visit to her uncle’s
house ‘2 And could he, in that case, be reckoned on as likely
to accept the last resource? It was doubtful -- more than
doubtful. And yet, hopeless as the experiment seemed, surely
it was worth trying? I resolved to try it, in sheer despair of
knowing what better to do.
“Your uncle shall know the wish you have just expressed,"
I said; “and I will ask the lawyer’s advice on the subject, as
well. Good may come of it — and will come of it, I hope.”
Saying that, I rose again; and again Laura tried to make
me resume my seat.
“Don’t leave me ," she said, uneasily. “My desk is on
that table. You can write here.”


Tun WOMAN IN WHITE. 329
It tried me to the quick to refuse her, even in her own in-
terests. But we had been too long shut up alone together al-
ready. Our chance of seeing each other again might entirely
depend on our not exciting any fresh suspicions. It was full
time to show myself, quietly and unconcernedly, among the
wretches who were , at that very moment, perhaps, thinking
of us and talking of us down stairs. I explained the miserable
necessity to Laura; and prevailed on her to recognise it, as
I did. .
“I will come back again, love, in an hour or less," I said.
“ The worst is over for to-day. Keep yourself quiet, and fear
nothing."
“Is the key in the door, Marian? Can I lock it on the
inside?”
“Yes; here is the key. Lock the door; and open it to
nobody, until I come up-stairs again."
I kissed her, and left her. It was a relief to me, astalked
away, to hear the key turned in the lock, and to know that
the door was at her own command.
X.
J on 5111. — I had only got as far as the top of the stairs,
when the locking of Laura's door suggested to me the pre-
caution of also locking my own door, and keeping the key
safely about me whilel was out of the room. My journal was
already secured, with other papers, in the table-drawer, but
my writing materials were left out. These included a. seal,
bearing the common device of two doves drinking out of the
same cup; and some sheets of blotting paper, which had the
impression on them of the closing lines of my writing in these
pages , traced during the past night. Distorted by the suspi-
cion which had now become a part of myself, even such triﬂes
as these looked too dangerous to be trusted without a guard
-- even the locked table-drawer seemed to be not suﬂiciently
protected , in my absence, until the means of access to it had
been carefully secured as well.


330 THE WOMAN m warm.
I found no appearance of any one having entered the room
while I had been talking with Laura. My writing materials
(which I had given the servant instructions never to meddle
with) were scattered over the table much as usual. The only
circumstance in connection with them that at all struck me
was, that the seal lay tidily in the tray with the pencils and
the wax. It was not in my careless habits (I am sorry to say)
to put it there; neither did I remember putting it there. But,
as I could not call to mind, on the other hand, where else I
had thrown it down, and as I was also doubtful whether I
might not, for once, have laid it mechanically in the right
place, I abstained from adding to the perplexity with which
the day’s events had ﬁlled my mind, by troubling it afresh
about a triﬂe. I looked the door; put the key in my pocket;
and went down stairs.
Madame Fosco was alone in the hall, looking at the
weather-glass.
“Still falling,” she said. “I am afraid we must expect
more rain."
Her face was composed again to its customary expression
and its customary colour. But the hand with which she
pointed to the dial of the weather-glass still trembled.
Could she have told her husband already, that she had
overheard Laura reviling him, in my company, as a “ Spy?"
My strong suspicion that she must have told him; my irre-
sistible dread (all the more overpowering from its very vague-
ness) of the consequences which might follow; my ﬁxed c0n~
viction, derived from various little self-betrayals which women
notice in each other, that Madame Fosco , in spite of her well-
assumed external civility, had not forgiven her niece for inno-
cently standing between her and the legacy of ten thousand
pounds — all rushed upon my mind together; all impelled me
to speak, in the vain hope of using my own inﬂuence and my
own powers of persuasion for the atonement of Laura’s
offence.
“May I trust to your kindness to excuse me, Madame


'rnn WOMAN m men. 331
Fosco, if I venture to speak to you on an exceedingly painful
subject?”
She crossed her hands in front of her, and bowed her head
solemnly, without uttering a. word, and without taking her
eyes off mine for a. moment.
“When you were so good as to bring me back my hand-
kerchief," I went on, “I am very, very much afraid you
must have accidentally heard Laura say something which
I am unwilling to repeat, and which I will not attempt to
defend. I will only venture to hope that you have not thought
it of sufﬁcient importance to be mentioned to the Count?”
“I think it of no importance whatever,” said Madame
Fosco, sharply and suddenly. “But,” she added, resuming
her icy manner in a moment, “ I have no secrets from my hus-
band, even in triﬂes. When he noticed, just now, that I
looked distressed, it was my painful duty to tell him why I
was distressed; and I frankly acknowledge to you, Miss Hal~
combe, that I have told him."
I was prepared to hear it, and yet she turned me cold all
over when she said those words.
“Let me earnestly entreat you, Madame Fosco -—let me
earnestly entreat the Count —- to make some allowances for
the sad position in which my sister is placed. She spoke while
she was smarting under the insult and injustice inﬂicted on
her by her husband —~ and she was not herself when she said
those rash words. May I hope that they will be considerater
and generously forgiven?”
“Most assuredly,” said the Count’s quiet voice, behind
me. He had stolen on us, with his noiseless tread, and his
book in his hand, from the library.
“When Lady Glyde said those hasty words,” he went on,
“she did me an injustice, which I lament — and forgive. Let
us never return to the subject, Miss Halcombe; let us all com-
fortably combine to forget it, from this moment.”
“You are very kind," I said; “you relieve me inexpres-
sibly -—”
Itried to continue —— but his eyes were on me; his deadly


'rnn worms m meE. 333
my calmness and my courage, there was time for nothing but
action.-
The letters to the lawyer and to Mr. Fairlie, were still to
be written; and I sat down at once, without a moment’s hesi-
tation, to devote myself to them.
There was no multitude of resources to perplex me— there
was absolutely no one to depend on, in the ﬁrst instance, but
myself. Sir Percival had neither friends nor relatives in the
neighbourhood whose intercession I could attempt to employ.
He was on the coldest terms— in some cases, on the worst
terms—with the families of his own rank and station who
lived near him. We two women had neither father, nor
brother, to come to the house, and take our parts. There
was no choice, but to write those two doubtful letters -- or to
put Laura in the wrong and myself in the wrong, and to make
all peaceable negotiation in the future impossible, by secretly
escaping from Blackwater Park. Nothing but the most im-
minent personal peril could justify our taking that second
course. The letters must be tried ﬁrst; and I wrote them.
I said nothing to the lawyer about Anne Catherick; be-
cause (asI had already hinted to Laura) that topic was con-
nected with a mystery which we could not yet explain, and
which it would therefore be useless to write about to a pro-
fessional man. I left my correspondent to attribute Sir Per-
cival’s disgraceful conduct, if he pleased, to fresh disputes
about money matters; and simply consulted him on the possi-
bility of taking legal proceedings for Laura’s protection, in
the event of her husband’s refusal to allow her to leave Black-
water Park for a time and return with me to Limmeridge. I
referred him to Mr. Fairlie for the details of this last arrange-
ment -— I assured him that I wrote with Laura's authority
~— and I ended by entreating him to act in her name, to the
utmost extent of his power, and with the least possible loss of
time.
The letter to Mr. Fairlie occupied me next. I appealed to
him on the terms which I had mentioned to Laura as the most
likely to make him bestir himself; I enclosed a copy of my


336 THE WOMAN IN warm.
I was a little doubtful how she would meet me, after the
outbreak of jealousy, of which Ihad been the cause so short
time since. But her husband had tamed her in the interval;
and she now spoke to me with the same civility as usual. My
only object in addressing myself to her was to ascertain if she
knew what had become of Sir Percival. I contrived to refer to
him indirectly; and, after a little fencing on either side, she
at last mentioned that he had gone out.
“Which of the horses has be taken?” I asked, care-
lessly.
“None of them," she replied. “He went away, two hours
since, on foot. As I understood it, his object was to make
fresh inquiries about the woman named Anne Catherick. He
appears to be unreasonably anxious about tracing her. Do
you happen to know if she is dangerously mad, Miss Hal-
combe?”
“ I do not, Countess.”
“Are you going in? ”
“Yes, I think so. I suppose it will soon be time to dress
for dinner.”
We entered the house together. Madame Fosco strolled
into the library, and closed the door. I went at once to fetch
my hat and shawl. Every moment was of importance, if I
was to get to Fanny at the inn and be back before dinner.
\Vhen I crossed the hall again, no one was there; and the
singing of the birds in the library had ceased. I could not stop
to make any fresh investigations. I could only assure myself
that the way was clear, and then leave the house, with the
two letters safe in my pocket.
On my way to the village, I prepared myself for the possi-
bility of meeting Sir Percival. As long as I had him to deal
with alone, I felt certain of not losing my presence of mind.
Any woman who is sure of her own wits, is a. match, at any
time, for a man who is not sure of his own temper. I had no
such fear of Sir Percival as I had of the Count. Instead of
ﬂuttering, it had composed me, to hear of the errand on which
he had gone out. While the tracing of Anne Catherick was


THE woman in warm. 337
the great anxiety that occupied him, Laura and I might hope
for some cessation of any active persecution at his hands. For
our sakes now, as well as for Anne’s, I hoped and prayed fer-
vently that she might still escape him.
I walked on as briskly as the heat would .let me, till I
reached the cross-road which led to the village; looking back,
from time to time, to make sure that I was not followed by
any one.
Nothing was behind me, all the way, but an empty country
waggon. The noise made by the lumbering wheels annoyed
me; and when I found that the waggon took the road to the
village, as well as myself, I stopped to let it go by, and pass
out of hearing. As I looked towards it, more attentively than
before, I thought I detected, at intervals, the feet of a man
walking close behind it; the carter being in front, by the side
of his horses. The part of the cross-road which I had just
passed over was so narrow, that the waggon coming after me
brushed the trees and thickets on either side; andl had to
wait until it went by, before I could test the correctness of
my impression. Apparently, that impression was wrong, for
when the waggon had passed me, the road behind it was quite
clear.
I reached the inn without meeting SirPercival, and without
noticing anything more; and was glad to ﬁnd that the land-
lady had received Fanny with all possible kindness. The
girl had a little parlour to sit in, away from the noise of the
tap-room, and a clean bed-chamber at the top of the house.
She began crying again, at the sight of me; and said, poor
soul, truly enough, that it was dreadful to feel herself turned
out into the world, as if she had committed some unpardon—
able fault, when no blame could be laid at her door by any-‘
body — not even by her master who had sent her away.
“Try to make the best of it, Fanny,” I said. “Your
mistress and I will stand your friends, and will take care that
your character shall not suffer. Now, listen to me. I have
very little time to spare, and I am going to put a great trust in
your hands. I wish you to take care of these two letters.
The Woman in White. I. 22


338 ran WOMAN m wmrn.
The one with the stamp on it you are to put into the post,
when you reach London, to—morrow. The other, directed to
Mr. Fairlie, you are to deliver to him yourself, as soon as you
get home. Keep both the letters about you, and give them
up to no ones They are of the last importance to your mis-
tress’s interests.”
Fanny put the letters into the bosom of her dress. “There
they shall stop, miss," she said, “till I have done what you
tell me.”
“Mind you are at the station in good time to-morrow
morning,” I continued. “And, when you see the housekeeper
at Limmeridge, give her my compliments, and say that you
are in my service, until Lady Glyde is able to take you back.
We may meet again sooner than you think. So keep a'good
heart, and don’t miss the seven o’clock train.”
“Thank you, miss —- thank you kindly. It gives one
courage to hear your voice again. Please to offer my duty
to my lady; and say I left all the things as tidy as I could in
the time. Oh, dear! dear! who will dress her for dinner to-
day? It really breaks my heart, miss, to think of it."
When I got back to the house , I had only a quarter of an
hour to spare, to put myself in order for dinner, and to say
two words to Laura before I went down stairs.
“The letters are in Fanny’s hands,” I whispered to her, at
the'door. “ Do you mean to join us at dinner?"
“ Oh , no, no -~ not for the world!"
“Has anything happened? Has any one disturbed you? "
“Yes — just now -- Sir Percival —”
“Did he come in?”
“No: he frightened me by a thump on the door, outside.
I said, ‘Who's there?’ ‘ You know,’ he answered. ‘Will
you alter your mind, and tell me the rest? You shall! Sooner
or later, I’ll wring it out of you. You know where Anne
Catherick is, at this momentl’ ‘Indeed, indeed,’ I said,
‘I don't.’ ‘Yeu do!’ he called back. ‘I’ll crush your ob-
stinacy - mind that! -- I’ll wring it out of you!‘ He went


THE. woman IN WHITE. ‘ 339
away, with those words — went away, Marian, hardly ﬁve
minutes ago."
He had not found Anne. We were safe for that night ——
he had not found her yet.
“You are going down stairs, Marian? Come up again in
the evening.”
“Yes, yes. Don’t be uneasy, if I ama little late —
I must be careful not to give offence by leaving them too
soon."
The dinner-bell rang; and I hastened away.
Sir Percival took Madame Fosco into the dining-room;
and the Count gave me his arm. He was hot and ﬂushed, and
was not dressed with his customary care and completeness.
Had he, too, been out before dinner, and been late in getting
back? or was he only suffering from the heat a little more
severely than usual ? I
However this might be, he was unquestionably troubled by
some secret annoyance or anxiety, which, with all his powers
of deception, he was not able entirely to conceal. Through
the whole of dinner, he was almost as silent as Sir Percival
himself ; and he, every now and then, looked at his wife with
an expression of furtive uneasiness, which was quite new in
my experience of him. The one social obligation which he
seemed to be self-possessed enough to perform as carefully as
ever, was the obligation of being persistently civil and at-
tentive to me. What vile object he has in view, I cannot still
discover; but, be the design what it may, invariable politeness
towards myself, invariable humility towards Laura, and in-
variable suppression (at any cost) of Sir Percival’s clumsy
violence, have been the means he has resolutely and im-
penetrably used to get to his end, ever since he set foot in this
house. I suspected it, when he ﬁrst interfered in our favour,
on the day when the deed was prodiiced in the library, and
I feel certain of it, now.
When Madame Fosco and I rose to leave the table, the
Count rose also to accompany us back to the drawing-room.
22*


Tris womm IN WHITE. 341
I
at which the letters were always despatched from Blackwater
Park.
“Have you any letter for the post, Miss Halcombe?”
he asked , approaching me , with the bag.
I saw Madame F0sco, who was making the tea, pause,
' with the sugar-tongs in her hand , to listen for my answer.
“No, Count, thank you. No letters to-day.”
He gave the bag to the servant, who was then in the room;
sat down at the piano; and played the air of the lively Nea-
politan street-song, “La mia Carolina,” twice over. His
wife who was usually the most deliberate of women in all her
movements, made the tea as quickly as I could have made it
myself —ﬁnished her own cup in two minutes — and quietly
glided out of the room.
I rose to follow her example — partly because I suspected
her of attempting some treachery up-stairs with Laura;
partly, because I was resolved not to remain alone in the
same room with her husband.
Before I could get to the door, the Count stopped me,
by a request for a cup of tea. I gave him the cup of tea; and
tried a second time to get away. He stopped me again —- this
time, by going back to the piano , and suddenly appealing to
me on a musical question in which he declared that the honour
of his country was concerned.
I vainly pleaded my own total ignorance of music, and
total want of taste in that direction. He only appealed
to me again with a vehemence which set all further protest
on my part at deﬁance. “ The English and the Germans (he
indignantly declared) were always reviling the Italians for
their inability to cultivate the higher kinds of music. We
were perpetually talking of our Oratorios; and they were
perpetually talking of their Symphonies. Did we forget and
did they forget his immortal friend and countryman, Rossini?
What was ‘Moses in Egypt,’ but a sublime oratorio, which
was acted on the stage, instead of being coldly sung in a
concert-room? What was the overture to Guillaume Tell,
but a symphony under another name? Had I heard Moses in


'rns worms in warm. 343
I went up-stairs to ascertain, butImade no discoveries;
and when I questioned Laura, I found that she had not heard
anything. Nobody had disturbed her— no faint rustling of
the silk dress had been audible , either in the ante-room or in
the passage.
It was then twenty minutes to nine. After going to my
room to get my journal, I returned, and sat with Laura;
sometimes writing , sometimes stopping to talk with her.
Nobody came near us, and nothing happened. We remained
together till ten o’clock. I then rose; said my last cheering
words; and wished her good night. She looked her door
again, after we had arranged that I should come in and see
her the ﬁrst thing in the morning.
I had a few sentences more to add to my diary, before
going to bed myself; and, as I went down again to the
drawing-room, after leaving Laura, for the last time that
weary day, I resolved merely to show myself there, to make
my excuses, and then to retire an hour earlier than usual, for
the night.
Sir Percival, and the Count and his wife, were sitting
together. Sir Percival was yawning in an easy-chair:l the
Count was reading ; Madame Fosco was fanning herself.
Strange to say, her face was ﬂushed, now. She, who never
suffered from the heat was most undoubtedly suffering from
it to-night.
“I am afraid, Countess, you are not quite so well asusual?”
I said.
“The very remark I was about to make to you,” she re-
plied. “You are looking pale, my dear.”
My dear! It was the ﬁrst time she had ever addressed me
with that familiarity! There was an insolent smile, too, on
her face, when she said the words.
“I am suﬂ'ering from one of my bad headaches,” I an-
swered, coldly.
“Ah, indeed? Want of exercise, I suppose? A walk
before dinner would have been just the thing for you.” She
referred to the “walk” with a strange emphasis. Had she seen


344 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
me go out? N o matter if she had. The letters were safe now,
in Fanny’s hands.
“Come, and have a smoke, Fosco ,” said Sir Percival,
rising, with another uneasy look at his friend.
“With pleasure, Percival, when the ladies have gone to
bed," replied the Count.
“Excuse me, Countess, if I set you the example of re-
tiring,” I said. “The only remedy for such a headache as
mine is going to bed.”
I took my leave. There was the same insolent smile on
the woman’s face when I shook hands with her. Sir Percival
paid no attention to me. He was looking impatiently at Ma-
dame Fosco, who showed no signs of leaving the room with
me. The Count smiled to himself behind his book. There
was yet another delay to that quiet talk with Sir Percival ~—
and the Countess was the impediment, this time.
XI.
J on 5m. -— Once safely shut into my own room , I opened
these pages , and prepared to go on with that part of the day‘s
record which was still left to write.
For ten minutes or more, I sat idle, with the pen in my
hand , thinking over the events of the last twelve hours.
When I at last addressed myself to my task, I found a difﬁ-
culty in proceeding with it which I had never experienced be-
fore. In spite of my efforts to ﬁx my thoughts on the matter in
hand, they wandered away, with the strangest persistency,
in the one direction of Sir Percival and the Count; and all the
interest which I tried to concentrate on my journal, centred,
instead , on that private interview between them, which had
been put off all through the day, and which was now to take
place in the silence and solitude of the night.
In this perverse state of my mind , the recollection of what
had passed since the morning would not come back to me;
and there was no resource but to close my journal and to get
away from it for a little while.


346 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
I waited quietly at the window, certain that they could
neither of them see me , in the darkness of the room.
“What’s the matter?” I heard Sir Percival say, in a low
voice. “ Why don’t you come in and sit down?”
“I want to see the light out of that window," replied the
Count, softly. '
“ \Vhat harm does the light do?”
“It shows she is not in bed yet. She is sharp enough to
suspect something, and bold enough to come down stairs
and listen, if she can get the chance. Patience — Percival —
patience.”
“Humbug! You’re always talking of patience.”
“I shall talk of something else presently. My good friend,
you are on the edge of your domesticprecipice; and if I let you
give the women one other chance, on my sacred word of
honour, they will push you over it!”
“What the devil do you mean?”
VVb will come to our explanations, Percival, when the
light is out of that window, and when I have had one little
look at the rooms on each side of the library, and a peep at
the staircase as well.”
They slowly moved away; and the rest of the conversation
between them (which had been conducted, throughout, in
the same low tones) ceased to be audible. It was no matter.
I had heard enough to determine me on justifying the Count's
opinion of my sharpness and my courage. Before the red
sparks were out of sight in the darkness, I had made up my
mind that there should be a listener when those two men sat
down to their talk — and that the listener, in spite of all the
Count’s precautions to the contrary, should be myself. I
wanted but one motive to sanction the act to my own con-
science, and to give me courage enough for performing it;
and that motive I had. Laura’s honour, Laura's happiness
— Laura’s life itself - might depend on my quick ears, and
my faithful memory , t0~night.
I had heard the Count say that he meant to examine the
rooms on each side of the library, and the staircase as well,


348 Tea worms IN warrn.
Strongly as I was fortiﬁed in my resolution by the de-
sperate nature of our situation, I hoped most fervently that I
might escape this last emergency. My courage was only a
woman’s courage, after all; and it was very near to failing
me, when I thought of trusting myself on the ground ﬂoor,
at the dead of night, within reach of Sir Percival and the
Count.
I went softly back to my bedroom , to try the safer experi-
ment of the verandah roof, ﬁrst.
A complete change in my dress was imperatively neces-
sary, for many reasons. I took oﬁ' my silk gown to begin
with, because the slightest noise from it, on that still night,
might have betrayed me. I next removed the white and
cumbersome parts of my underclothing, and replaced them
by a petticoat of dark ﬂannel. Over this, I put my black
travelling cloak , and pulled the hood on to my head. In my
ordinary evening costume, I took up the room of three men
at least. In my present dress,‘ when it was held close about
me, no man could have passed through the narrowest spaces
more easily than I. The little breadth left on the roof of the
verandah, between the ﬂower-pots on one side , and the wall
and the windows of the house on the other, made this a serious
consideration. If I knocked anything down, if I made the
least noise, who could say what the consequences might
be ?
I only waited to put the matches near the candle , before I
extinguished it, and groped my way back into the sitting-
room. I looked that door, as I had locked my bedroom door
— then quietly got out of the window, and cautiously set my
feet on the leaden roof of the verandah.
My two rooms were at the inner extremity'of the new wing
of the house in which we all lived; and I had ﬁve windows to
pass, before I could reach the position it was necessary to
take up immediately over the library. The ﬁrst window be-
longed to a spare room , which was empty. The second and
third windows belonged to Laura’s room. The fourth window
belonged to Sir Percival’s room. The ﬁfth, belonged to


'rnn woman IN WHITE. 349
the Countess’s room. The others, by which it was not ne~
cessary for me to pass, were the windows of the Count’s
dressing-room, of the bath-room, and of the second empty
spare room.
No sound reached my ears — the black blinding darkness
of the night was all round me when I ﬁrst stood on the veran-
dah, except at that part of it which Madame Fosco’s window
overlooked. There, at the very place above the library, to
which my course was directed— there, I saw a gleam of light!
The Countess was not yet in bed.
It was too late to draw back; it was no time to wait. I
determined to go on at all hazards, and trust for security to
my own caution and to the darkness of the night. “For
Laura’s sake!" I thought to myself, as I took the ﬁrst step
forward on the roof, with one hand holding my cloak close
round me, and the other groping against the wall of the house.
It was better to brush close by the wall, than to risk striking
my feet against the ﬂower-pots within a few inches of me, on
the other side.
I passed the dark window of the spare room, trying the
leaden roof, at each step, with my foot, before I risked resting
my weight on it. I passed the dark windows of Laura’s room
(“God bless her and keep her to-nightl”). I passed the dark
window of Sir Percival's room. Then, I waited a moment,
knelt down, with my hands to support me; and so crept to my
position, under the protection of the low wall between the
bottom of the lighted window and the verandah roof.
“Then I ventured to look up at the wmdow itself, I found
that the top of it only was open , and that the blind inside was
drawn down. While I was looking, I saw the shadow of
Madame Fosco pass across the white ﬁeld of the blind — then
pass slowly back again. Thus far, she could not have heard
me —- or the shadow would surely have stopped at the blind,
even if she had wanted courage enough to open the window,
and look out?
I placed myself sideways against the railing of the veran-
dah; ﬁrst ascertaining, by touching them, the pesition of the


350 THE WOMAN m wurra.
ﬂower-pots on either side of me. There was room enough for
me to sit between them, and no more. The sweet-scented
leaves of the ﬂower on my left hand, just brushed my cheek as
I lightly rested my head against the railing.
The ﬁrst sounds that reached me from below were caused
by the opening or closing (most probably the latter) of three
doors in succession— the doors, no doubt, leading into the
hall, and into the rooms on each side of the library, which the
Count had pledged himself to examine. The ﬁrst object that
I saw was the red spark again travelling out into the night,
from under the verandah; moving away towards my window;
waiting a moment; and then returning to the place from which
it had set out.
“ The devil take your restlessness! When do you mean to
sit down?” growled Sir Percival’s voice beneath me.
“ Ouf! how hot it is l " said the Count, sighing and pufﬁng
wearily.
His exclamation was followed by the scraping of the garden
chairs on the tiled pavement under the verandah — the wel-
come sound whieh told me they were going to sit close at the
window as usual. So far, the chance was mine. The clock
in the turret struck the quarter to twelve as they settled them-
selves in their chairs. I heard Madame Fosco through the
open window, yawning; and saw her shadow pass once more
across the white ﬁeld of the blind. ,
Meanwhile, Sir Percival and the Count began talking
together below; now and then dropping their voices a little
lower than usual, but never sinking them to a whisper. The
strangeness and peril of my situation, the dread, which I could
not master, of Madame Fosco’s lighted window, made it difﬁ-
cult, almost impossible for me, at ﬁrst, to keep my presence of
mind, and to ﬁx my attention solely on the conversation
beneath. For some minutes, I could only succeed in gathering
the general substance of it. I understood the Count to say
that the one window alight was his wife's; that the ground
ﬂoor of the house was quite clear; and that they might now
speak to each other, without fear of accidents. SirKPercival


'rne woman IN wni're. 351
merely answered by upbraiding his friend with having un-
justiﬁably slighted his wishes and neglected his interests, all
through the day. The Count, thereupon, defended himself by
declaring that he had been beset by certain troubles and
anxieties which had absorbed all his attention, and that the
only safe time to come to an explanation, was a timewhen they
could feel certain of being neither interrupted nor overheard.
“ We are at a serious crisis in our affairs, Percival,” he said;
“and if we are to decide on the future at all , we must decide
secretly to-night.”
That sentence of the Count’s was the ﬁrst which my atten-
tion was ready enough to master, exactly as it was spoken.
From this point, with certain breaks and interruptions, my
whole interest ﬁxed breathlesst on the conversation; and I
followed it word for word.
“ Crisis?” repeated Sir Percival. “ It’s a worse crisis than
you think for, I can tell you I ”
“ So I should suppose, from your behaviour for the last day
or two,” returned the other, coolly. “But, wait a little. Be-
fore we advance to what I do not know, let us be quite certain
of what I do know. Let us ﬁrst see if I am right about the
time that is past, before I make any proposal to you for the
time that is to come."
“Stop till I get the brandy and water. Have some your-
self.”
“Thank you, Percival. The cold water with pleasure, a
spoon, and the basin of sugar. Eau sucrée, my friend -
nothing more."
'“ Sugar and water, for aman of your age! - There! mix
your sickly mess. You foreigners are all alike.”
“Now listen, Percival. I will put our position plainly
before you, as I understand it; and you shall say if I am right
or wrong. You and I both came back to this house from the
Continent, with our atl'airs very seriously embarrassed —’{
“Cut it short! I wanted some thousands, and you some
hundreds -— and, without the money, we were both in a fair


THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 353
A chair fell on the pavement of the verandah —- with a
crash, as if it had been kicked down.
It was well for me that the Count’s revelation roused Sir
Percival’s anger , as it did. On hearing that I had been once
more discovered , I started so that the railing against which I
leaned , cracked again. Had he followed me to the inn? Did
he infer thatI must have given my letters to Fanny, when I
told him I had none for the post-bag? Even if it was so, how
could he have examined the letters , when they had gone
straight from my hand to the bosom of the girl's dress?
“Thank your lucky star,” I heard the Count say next,
“that you have me in the house, to undo the harm , as fast as
you do it. Thank your lucky star that I said, No, when you
were mad enough to talk of turning the key to-day on Miss
Halcombe, as you turned it, in your mischievous folly, on your
wife. Where are your eyes? .Can you look at Miss Halcombe,
and not see that she has the foresight and the resolution of a
man? With that woman for my friend, I would snap these
ﬁngers of mine at the world. \Vith that woman for my enemy,
I , with all my brains and experience - I, Fosco , cunning as
the devil himself, as you have told me a hundred times — I
walk, in yourEnglish phrase, upon egg-shells! And this grand
creature — I drink her health in my sugar and water — this
grand creature, who stands in the strength of her love and her
courage , ﬁrm as a rock between us two, and that poor ﬂimsy
pretty blonde wife of yours - this magniﬁcent woman, whom
I admire with all my soul, thoughI oppose her in your interests
and in mine, you drive to extremities, as if she was no sharper
and no bolder than the rest of her sex. Percival! Percival!
you deserve to fail, and you have failed.”
There was a pause. I write the villain’s words about my-
self, because I mean to remember them, because I hope yet
for the day when I may speak out, once for all in his presence,
and cast them back, one by one, in his teeth.
Sir Percival was the ﬁrst to break the silence again.
“Yes, yes; bully and blustcr as much as you like," he said,
sulkily; “the difﬁculty about the money is not the only diﬂi-
The Woman in While. I. 23


354 THE WOMAN m wnrrn.
eulty. You would be for taking strong measures with the
women, yourself — if you knew as much as I do.” A
“ We will come to that second diﬂiculty , all in good time,”
rejoined the Count. “You may confuse yourself, Percival, as
much as you please, but you shall not confuse me. Let the
question of the money be settled ﬁrst. Have I convinced your
obstinacy? have I shown you that your temper will not letyou
help yourself? — Or must I go back, and (as you put it in
your dear straightforward English) bully and bluster a little
more?”
“Pooh! It’s easy enough to grumble at me.~ Say what is
to be done -— that’s a little harder."
“Is it? Bah! This is what is to be done: You give up all
direction in the business from to-night; you leave it, for the
future, in my hands only. I am talking to a Practical British
man —- ha? Well, Practical, will that do for you?”
“What do you propose, if I leave it all to you?"
“Answer me ﬁrst. Is it to be in my hands or not?”
“ Say it is in your hands — what then?”
“A few questions, Percival, to begin with. I must wait a
little, yet, to let circumstances guide me; and I must know, in
every possible way, what those circumstances are likely to be.
There is no time to lose. I have told you already that Miss
Halcombe has written to the lawyer to-day, for the second
time.”
“How did you ﬁnd it out? What did she say?”
“If I told you, Percival, we should only come back at the
'end to where we are now. Enough that I have found it out —
and the ﬁnding has caused that trouble and anxiety which
made me so inaccessible to you all through to-day. Now, to
refresh my memory about your affairs -— it is some time since
I talked them over with you. The money has been raised, in
the absence of your wife’s signature, by means of bills at three
months -- raised at a 00st that makes my poverty-stricken
foreign hair stand on end to think of it! When the bills are
due, is there really and truly no earthly way of paying them
but by the help of your wife? ”


THE WOMAN IN mes. 355
“None.”
“What! You have no money at the bankers!"
“A few hundreds, when I want as many thousands.”
“Have you no other security to borrow upon? ”
“ Not a shred.”
“What have you actually got with your wife, at the present
moment?" .
“Nothing, but the interest of her tweny thousand pounds—
barely enough to pay our daily expenses."
“ What do you expect from your wife? ”
“ Three thousand a year, when her uncle dies."
“A ﬁne fortune, Percival. What sort of a man is the
uncle? Old?”
“No — neither old nor young.”
“A good-tempered, freely-living man? Married? No —- I
think my wife told me, not married.”
“ Of course not. If he was married, and had a son, Lady
Glyde would not be next heir to the property. I’ll tell you
what he is. He’s a maudlin, twaddling, selﬁsh fool, and
bores everybody who comes near him about the state of his
health.”
“Men oﬁ that sort, Percival, live long, and marry malevo-
lently when you least expect it. I don't give you much, my
friend, for your chance of the three thousand a year. Is there
nothing more that comes to you from your wife ?"
“Nothing.”
“Absolutely nothing?"
“Absolutely nothing -- except in case of her death."
“Aha! in the case of her deat .”
There was another pause. The Count moved from the
verandah to the gravel walk outside. I knew that he had
moved, by his voice. “ The rain has come at last," I heard
him say. It had come. The state of my cloak showed that it
had been falling thickly for some little time.
The Count went back under the verandah —- I heard the
chair creak beneath his weight as he sat down in it again.
23 *


356 THE WOMAN m wnr'rn.
“Well, Percival,” he said; “ and , in the case of Lady
Glyde’s death, what do you get then? ”
“If she leaves no children —-”
“Which she is likely to do? "
“ Which she is not in the least likely to do —"
“Yes?”
“Why, then I get her twenty thousand pounds.”
“Paid down?” '
“Paid down.”
They were silent once more. As their voices ceased,
Madame Fosco’s shadow darkened the blind again. Instead
of passing this time , it remained, for a moment, quite still. I
saw her ﬁngers steal round the corner of the blind, and draw it
on one side. The dim white outline of her face, looking out
straight over me, appeared behind the window. I kept quite
still, shrouded from head to foot in my black cloak. The rain,
which was fast wetting me, dripped over the glass, blurred it,
and prevented her from seeing anything. “More rain!” I
heard her say to herself. She dropped the blind -— and I
breathed again freely.
The talk went on below me; the Count resuming it, this
time.
“Percival! do you care about your wife?"
“Fosco! that's rather a downright question.”
“I am a downright man; and I repeat it."
“Why the devil do you look at me in that way?"
“ You won’t answer me? Well, then; let us say your wife
dies before the summer is out -—-"
“Drop it, Fosco!”
“Let us say your wife dies ——-
“Drop it, I tell you! 1'
“In that case, you would gain twenty thousand pounds;
and you would lose ~—-"
“I should lose the chance of three thousand a year.”
“ The remote chance , Percival — the remote chance only.
And you want money, at once. In your position , the gain is
certain — the loss doubtful."
H


'rnn worms m Win-rs. 357
“Speak for yourself as well as for me. Some of the money
I want has been borrowed for you. And if you come to gain,
my wife’s death would be ten thousand pounds in your wife’s
pocket. Sharp as you are, you seem to have conveniently
forgotten Madame Fosco’s legacy. Don’t look at me in that
way! I won’t have it! What with your looks and your ques-
tions, upon my soul, you make my ﬂesh creep ! ”
“Your ﬂesh? Does ﬂesh mean conscience in English? I
speak of your wife’s death, as I speak of a possibility. Why
not? The respectable lawyers who scribble-scrabble your
deeds and your wills, look the deaths of living people in the
face. Do lawyers make your ﬂesh creep? Why should I? It
is my business to-night , to clear up your position beyond the
possibility of mistake — and 1 have now done it. Here is
your position. It your wife lives, you pay those bills with
her signature to the parchment. If your wife dies, you pay
them with her death."
As he spoke, the light in Madame Fosco’s room was ex-
tinguished; and the whole second ﬂoor of the house was now
sunk in darkness.
“Talk! talk!" grumbled Sir Percival. “One would
think, to hear you, that my wife’s signature to the deed was
got already.”
“You have left the matter in my hands,” retorted the
Count; “ and I have more than two months before me to turn
round in. Say no more about it, if you please, for the pre-
sent. When the bills are due, you will see for yourself if my
‘talk! talk!’ is worth something, or if it is not. And now,
Percival, having done with the money-matters, for to-night,
I can place my attention at your disposal, if you wish to con-
sult me on that second diﬂiculty which has mixed itself up
with our little embarrassments, and which has so altered you
for the worse, that I hardly know you again. Speak, my
friend —— and pardon me if I shock your ﬁery national tastes
by mixing myself a second glass of sugar—and~water.”
“It’s very well to say speak,” replied Sir Percival, in a


358 THE WOMAN IN wnrrn.
far more quiet and more polite tone than he had yet adopted;
“but it’s not so easy to know how to begin.”
“Shall I help you?” suggested the Count. “ Shall ~I give
this private difﬁculty of yours a name? What, if I call it —
Anne Catherick?” -
“Look here, Fosco, you and I have known each other for
a long time; and, if you have helped me out of one or two
scrapes before this, I have done the bestI could to help you
in return, as far as money would go. We have made as
many friendly sacriﬁces, on both sides, as men could; but
we have had our secrets from each other, of course -—
haven’t we? ”
“You have had a secret from me, Percival. There is a
skeleton in your cupboard here at Blackwater Park, that has
peeped out, in these last few days, at other people besides
yourself.”
“Well, suppose it has. If it doesn't concern you, you
needn’t be curious about it, need you? ”
“Do I look curious about it?”
“Yes, you do.”
“So! so! my face speaks the truth, then? What an im-
mense foundation of good there must be in the nature of a.
man who arrives at my age, and whose face has not yet lost
the habit of speaking the truth! — Come, Glyde! let us be
candid one with the other. This secret of yours has sought
'me: I have not sought it. Let us say I am curious -— do you
ask me, as your old friend, to respect your secret, and to
leave it, once for all, in your own keeping? "
“Yes - that's just what I do ask"
“ Then my curiosity is at an end. It dies in me, from this
moment.“
“ Do you really mean that? "
“What makes you doubt me?"
“I have had some experience, Fosco, of your round about
ways; and I am not so sure that you won't worm it out of me
after all.”
The chair below suddenly creaked again —- I felt the


THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 359
trellis~work pillar under me shake'from top to bottom. The
Count had started to his feet and had struck it with his hand,
in indignation.
“Percival! Percival!” he cried, passionately, “ do you
know me no better than that? Has all your experience shown
you nothing of my character yet? I am a man of the antique
type! I am capable of the most exalted acts of virtue — when
I have the chance of performing them. It has been the mis-
fortune of my life that I have had few chances. My concep~
tion of friendship is sublime! Is it my fault that your skeleton
has peeped out at me? Why do I confess my curiosity? You
poor superﬁcial Englishman, it is to magnify my own self-
control. I could draw your secret out of you, if I liked, as
I draw this ﬁnger out of the palm of my hand —- you know I
could! But you have appealed to my friendship; and the
duties of friendship are sacred to me. See! I trample my
base curiosity under my feet. My exalted sentiments lift me
above it. Recognise them, Percival! imitate them, Per-
cival! Shake hands —- I forgive you.”
His voice faltercd over the last words -— faltercd, as if he
was actually shedding tears!
Sir Percival confusedly attempted to excuse himself. But
the Count was too magnanimous to listen to him.
“No!” he said. “then my friend has wounded me, I
can pardon him without apologies. Tell me, in plain words,
do you want my help?"
“Yes, badly enough."
“And you can ask for it without compromising yourself?"
“I can try, at any rate.”
“Try, then.” '
“Well, this is how it stands: — I told you, to-day, that I
had done my best to ﬁnd Anne Catherick , and failed."
“Yes; you did.”
“Fosco! I'm a lost man , if I don’t ﬁnd her."
“Ha! Is it so serious as that?”
A little stream of light travelled out under the verandah,
and fell over the gravel-walk. The Count had taken the


THE WOMAN m WHITE. 361
if she cared two straws about me. But I happen to be an en-
cumbrance in the way of another. man. She was in love with
him, before she married me -— she‘s in love with him now
— an infernal vagabond of a drawing~master , named
Hartright."
“My dear friend! what is there extraordinary in that?
They are all in love with some other man. Who gets the ﬁrst
of a woman’s heart? In all my experience I have never yet
met with the man who was Number One. Number Two, some-
times. Number Three, Four, Five, often. Number One,
never! He exists, of course — but, I have not met with
him.”
“Wait! I haven’t done yet. Who do you think helped
Anne Catherick to get the start, when the people from the
madhouse were after her? Hartright. \Vho do you think
saw her again in Cumberland? Hartright. Both times, he
spoke to her alone. Stop! don't interrupt me. The scoundrel’s
as sweet on my wife, as she is on him. He knows the secret, and
she knows the secret. Once let them both get together again,
and it's her interest and his interest to turn their information
against me."
“Gently, Percival -— gently! Are you insensible to the
virtue of Lady Glyde ? ”
“That for the virtue of Lady Glyde! I believe in nothing
about her but her money. Don’t you see how the case stands?
She might be harmless enough by herself; but if she and that
vagabond Hartright ——- ". '
“Yes, yes, I see. Where is Mr. Hartright?"
“ Out of the country. If he means to keep a whole skin on
his bones , I recommend him not to come back in a hurry."
“Are you sure he is out of the country?”
“ Certain. I had him watched from the time he left Cum-
berland to the time he sailed. Oh, I’ve been careful, I can
tell you! Anne Catherick lived with some people at a farm-
house near Limmeridge. I went there, myself, after she had
given me the slip, and made sure that they knew nothing. I
gave her mother a form of letter to write to Miss Halcombe,


'rnn WOMAN IN WHITE. 363
plainly. I must know how to recognise our invisible Anne.
What is she like?"
“Like? Come! I’ll tell you in two words. She's a sickly
likeness of my wife."
The chair creaked, and the pillar shook once more. The
Count was on his feet again -- this time in astonishment.
“ What! I l” he exclaimed, eagerly.
“Fancy my wife, after a bad illness, with a touch of some-
thing wrong in her head — and there is Anne Catherick for
you," answered Sir Percival.
“Are they related to each other?”
“Not a bit of it.”
“And yet, so like?" I
“Yes, so like. What are you laughing about? "
There was no answer, and no sound of any kind. The
Count was laughing in his smooth, silent internal way.
“What are you laughing about?" reiterated Sir Per-
cival.
“Perhaps, at my own fancies, my good friend. Allow me
my Italian humour —- do I not come of the illustrious nation
which invented the exhibition of Punch? Well, well, well, I
shall know Anne Catherick when I see her - and so enough
for to-night. Make your mind easy, Percival. Sleep, my son,
the sleep of the just; and see what I will do for you, when
daylight comes to help us both. I have my projects and my
plans, here in my big head. You shall pay those bills and
ﬁnd Anne Catherick —— my sacred word of honour on it, but
you shall! Am I a friend to be treasured in the best corner of
your heart, or am I not? Am I worth those loans of money
which you so delicately reminded me of a little while since?
Whatever you do, never wound me in my sentiments any more.
Recognise them, Percival! imitate them, Percival! I forgive
you again; I shake hands again. Good night! "
Not another word was spoken. I heard the Count close the
library door. I heard Sir Percival barring up the window-


364 Tim WOMAN 1N \VHJTE.
shutters. It had been raining, raining all the time. I was
cramped by my position, and chilled to the bones. When 1
ﬁrst tried to move, the effort was so painful to me, that] was
obliged to desist. I tried a second time, and succeeded in
rising to my knees on the wet roof.
As I crept to the wall, and raised myself against it, I
looked back,and saw the window of the Count’s dressing-room
gleam into light. My sinking courage ﬂickered up in me
again, and kept my eyes ﬁxed on his window, asI stole my
way back, step by step, past the wall of the house.
The clock struck the quarter after one, when I laid my
hands on the window-sill of my own room. I had seen nothing
and heard nothing which could lead me to suppose that my re-
treat had been discovered.


THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 365
XII.
' as u i- * -x-
Jnnr 611-1. — Eight o’clock. The sun is shining in a clear
sky. I have not been near my bed -— I have not once closed
my weary, wakeful eyes. From the same window at which I
looked out into the darkness of last night, I look out, now, at
the bright stillness of the morning.
I count the hours that have passed since I escaped to the
shelter of this room, by my own sensations — and those hours
seem like weeks.
How short a time, and yet how long to me — since I sank
down in the darkness, here, on the ﬂoor, drenched to the skin,
cramped in every limb, cold to the bones, a useless, helpless,
panic- stricken creature.
I hardly know when I roused myself. I hardly know when
I groped my way back to the bedroom, and lighted the candle,
and searched (with a strange ignorance, at ﬁrst, of where to
look for them) for dry clothes to warm me. The doing of
these things is in my mind, but not the time when they were
done.
Can I even remember when the chilled, cramped feeling
left me, and the throbbing heat came in its place?
Surely it was before the sun rose? Yes; I heard the clock
strike three. I remember the time by the sudden brightness
and clearness, the feverish strain and excitement of all my
faculties which came with it. I remember my resolution to
control myself, to wait patiently hour after hour, till the
chance offered of removing Laura from this horrible place,
without the danger of immediate discovery and pursuit. I re-
member the persuasion settiing itself in my mind that the
words those two men had said to each other, would furnish us,
not only with our justiﬁcation for leaving the house, but with


366 Tim WOMAN 1:: WHITE.
our weapons of defence against them as well. I recal the im-
pulse that awakened in me to preserve those words in writing,
exactly as they were spoken, while the time was my own, and
while my memory vividly retained them. All this I remember
plainly: there is no confusion in my head yet. The coming in
here, from the bedroom, with my pen and ink and paper, be-
fore sunrise — the sitting down at the widely opened window
to get all the air I could to cool me — the ceaseless writing,
faster and faster, hotter and hotter, driving on, more and more
wakefully, all through the dreadful interval before the house
was astir again — how clearly I recal it, from the beginning
by candlelight, to the end on the page before this, in the sun-
shine of the new day!
Why do I sit here still? Why do I weary my hot eyes and
my burning head by writing more? Why not lie down and
rest myself, and try to quench the fever that consumes me, in
sleep ?
I dare not attempt it. A fear beyond all other fears has
got possession of me. I am afraid of this heat that parches my
skin. I am afraid of the creeping and throbbing that I feel in
my head. If I lie down now, how do I know that I may have
the sense and the strength to rise again?
Oh, the rain, the rain - the cruel rain that chilled me last
night!
a as as a it
Nine o’clock. Was it nine struck, or eight? Nine, surely?
I am shivering again — shivering, from head to foot, in the
summer air. Have I been sitting here asleep? I don’t know
what I have been doing.
Oh, my God! am I going to be ill?
Ill, at such a time as this!
My head -— I am sadly afraid of my head. I can write, but
the lines all run together. I see the words. Laura—I can
write Laura, and see I write it. Eight or nine ~ which
was it?


rns woman IN wnyrn. 367
So cold, so cold —- oh, that rain last night! —and the
strokes of the clock, the strokes I can’t count, keep striking in
my head —
as s a s a
sore.
[At this place the entry in the Diary ceases to be legible.
The two or three lines which follow, contain fragments of
words only, mingled with blots and scratches of the pen. The
last marks on the paper bear some resemblance to the ﬁrst
two letters (L and A) of the name of Lady Glyde.
On the next page of the Diary, another entry appears. It
is in a man’s handwriting, large, bold, and ﬁrmly re-
gular; and the date is “July the 7th." It contains these
lines:]
[POSTSGBIPT BY A SINGERS FRIEND-l
The illness of our excellent Miss Halcombe has af-
forded me the opportunity of enjoying an unexpected intel-
lectual pleasure.
I refer to the perusal (which I have just completed) of this
interesting Diary.
There are many hundred pages here. I can lay my hand
on my heart, and declare that every page has charmed, re-
freshed, delighted me.
To a man of my sentiments, it is unspeakably gratifying to
be able to say this.
Admirable woman!
I allude to Miss Halcombe.
Stupendous effort!
I refer to the Diary.
Yes! these pages are amazing. The tact which I ﬁnd
here, the discretion, the rare courage, the wonderful power of
memory, the accurate observation of character, the easy grace
of style, the charming outbursts of womanly feeling, have all


368 THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
inexpressibly increased my admiration of this sublime crea.
ture, of this magniﬁcent Marian. The presentation of my
own character is masterly in the extreme. I certify, with my _
whole heart, to the ﬁdelity of the portrait. I feel how vivid an
impression I must have produced to have been paintedin such
strong, such rich, such massive colours as these. I lament
afresh the cruel necessity which sets our interests at variance,
and opposes us to each other. Under happier circumstances
llOW worthy I should have been of Miss Halcombe — how
worthy Miss Halcombe would have been of ms.
The sentiments which animate my heart assure me that the
lines I have just written express a Profound Truth.
Those sentiments exalt me above all merely personal con-
siderations. I bear witness, in the most disinterested manner,
to the excellence of the stratagem by which this unparalleled
woman surprised the private interview between Percival and
myself. Also to the marvellous accuracy of her report of the
whole conversation from its beginning to its end.
Those sentiments have induced me to oﬂ'er to the unim-
pressionable doctor who attends on her, my vast knowledge of
chemistry, and my luminous experience of the more subtle re-
sources which medical and magnetic science‘have placed at
the disposal of mankind. He has hitherto declined to avail
himself of my assistance. Miserable man!
Finally, those sentiments dictate the lines -— grateful,
sympathetic, paternal lines — which appear in this place. I
close the book. My strict sense of propriety restores it (by
the hands of my wife) to its place on the writer’s table. Events
are hurrying me away. Circumstances are guiding me to
serious issues. Vast perspectives of success unrol themselves
before my eyes. I accomplish my destiny with a calmness
which is terrible to myself. Nothing but the homage of my
admiration is my own. I deposit it, with respectful tender-
ness, at the feet of Miss Halcombe.
I breathe my wishes for her recovery.
I condole with her on the inevitable failure of every plan


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