The Woman in White (47 page)

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 letter to the
lawyer to show him how serious the case was, and I represented our
removal to Limmeridge as the only compromise which would prevent
the danger and distress of Laura's present position from
inevitably affecting her uncle as well as herself at no very
distant time.

When I had done, and had sealed and directed the two envelopes, I
went back with the letters to Laura's room, to show her that they
were written.

"Has anybody disturbed you?" I asked, when she opened the door to
me.

"Nobody has knocked," she replied. "But I heard some one in the
outer room."

"Was it a man or a woman?"

"A woman. I heard the rustling of her gown."

"A rustling like silk?"

"Yes, like silk."

Madame Fosco had evidently been watching outside. The mischief
she might do by herself was little to be feared. But the mischief
she might do, as a willing instrument in her husband's hands, was
too formidable to be overlooked.

"What became of the rustling of the gown when you no longer heard
it in the ante-room?" I inquired. "Did you hear it go past your
wall, along the passage?"

"Yes. I kept still and listened, and just heard it."

"Which way did it go?"

"Towards your room."

I considered again. The sound had not caught my ears. But I was
then deeply absorbed in my letters, and I write with a heavy hand
and a quill pen, scraping and scratching noisily over the paper.
It was more likely that Madame Fosco would hear the scraping of my
pen than that I should hear the rustling of her dress. Another
reason (if I had wanted one) for not trusting my letters to the
post-bag in the hall.

Laura saw me thinking. "More difficulties!" she said wearily;
"more difficulties and more dangers!"

"No dangers," I replied. "Some little difficulty, perhaps. I am
thinking of the safest way of putting my two letters into Fanny's
hands."

"You have really written them, then? Oh, Marian, run no risks—
pray, pray run no risks!"

"No, no—no fear. Let me see—what o'clock is it now?"

It was a quarter to six. There would be time for me to get to the
village inn, and to come back again before dinner. If I waited
till the evening I might find no second opportunity of safely
leaving the house.

"Keep the key turned in the lock. Laura," I said, "and don't be
afraid about me. If you hear any inquiries made, call through the
door, and say that I am gone out for a walk."

"When shall you be back?"

"Before dinner, without fail. Courage, my love. By this time to-
morrow you will have a clear-headed, trustworthy man acting for
your good. Mr. Gilmore's partner is our next best friend to Mr.
Gilmore himself."

A moment's reflection, as soon as I was alone, convinced me that I
had better not appear in my walking-dress until I had first
discovered what was going on in the lower part of the house. I
had not ascertained yet whether Sir Percival was indoors or out.

The singing of the canaries in the library, and the smell of
tobacco-smoke that came through the door, which was not closed,
told me at once where the Count was. I looked over my shoulder as
I passed the doorway, and saw to my surprise that he was
exhibiting the docility of the birds in his most engagingly polite
manner to the housekeeper. He must have specially invited her to
see them—for she would never have thought of going into the
library of her own accord. The man's slightest actions had a
purpose of some kind at the bottom of every one of them. What
could be his purpose here?

It was no time then to inquire into his motives. I looked about
for Madame Fosco next, and found her following her favourite
circle round and round the fish-pond.

I was a little doubtful how she would meet me, after the outbreak
of jealousy of which I had been the cause so short a 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 he taken?" I asked carelessly.

"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 Halcombe?"

"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.

When 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 possibility 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 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 fervently 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 toward 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, and I 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 Sir Percival, and without
noticing anything more, and was glad to find that the landlady had
received Fanny with all possible kindness. The girl had a little
parlour to sit in, away from the noise of the taproom, and a clean
bedchamber 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 unpardonable fault, when no blame could be laid at
her door by anybody—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 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 one. They are of the last importance to
your mistress'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 downstairs.

"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 moment.'
'Indeed, indeed,' I said, 'I don't.' 'You do!' he called back.
'I'll crush your obstinacy—mind that!—I'll wring it out of you!'
He went 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 downstairs, Marian? Come up again in the evening."

"Yes, yes. Don't be uneasy if I am a 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?

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 attentive 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 invariable suppression (at any cost) of Sir Percival's
clumsy violence, have been the means he has resolutely and
impenetrably 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 produced 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.

"What are you going away for?" asked Sir Percival—"I mean YOU,
Fosco."

"I am going away because I have had dinner enough, and wine
enough," answered the Count. "Be so kind, Percival, as to make
allowances for my foreign habit of going out with the ladies, as
well as coming in with them."

"Nonsense! Another glass of claret won't hurt you. Sit down again
like an Englishman. I want half an hour's quiet talk with you
over our wine."

"A quiet talk, Percival, with all my heart, but not now, and not
over the wine. Later in the evening, if you please—later in the
evening."

"Civil!" said Sir Percival savagely. "Civil behaviour, upon my
soul, to a man in his own house!"

I had more than once seen him look at the Count uneasily during
dinner-time, and had observed that the Count carefully abstained
from looking at him in return. This circumstance, coupled with
the host's anxiety for a little quiet talk over the wine, and the
guest's obstinate resolution not to sit down again at the table,
revived in my memory the request which Sir Percival had vainly
addressed to his friend earlier in the day to come out of the
library and speak to him. The Count had deferred granting that
private interview, when it was first asked for in the afternoon,
and had again deferred granting it, when it was a second time
asked for at the dinner-table. Whatever the coming subject of
discussion between them might be, it was clearly an important
subject in Sir Percival's estimation—and perhaps (judging from
his evident reluctance to approach it) a dangerous subject as
well, in the estimation of the Count.

These considerations occurred to me while we were passing from the
dining-room to the drawing-room. Sir Percival's angry commentary
on his friend's desertion of him had not produced the slightest
effect. The Count obstinately accompanied us to the tea-table—
waited a minute or two in the room—went out into the hall—and
returned with the post-bag in his hands. It was then eight
o'clock—the hour 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.