The Woman in White (51 page)

"Yes—deeply concerned."

"I am glad to hear it, Percival, for your sake. Don't be
discouraged, my friend. Our money matters, as I told you, leave
me plenty of time to turn round in, and I may search for Anne
Catherick to-morrow to better purpose than you. One last question
before we go to bed."

"What is it?"

"It is this. When I went to the boat-house to tell Lady Glyde
that the little difficulty of her signature was put off, accident
took me there in time to see a strange woman parting in a very
suspicious manner from your wife. But accident did not bring me
near enough to see this same woman's face 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!!!" he exclaimed eagerly.

"Fancy my wife, after a bad illness, with a touch of something
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?"

"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 Percival.

"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-shutters. It
had been raining, raining all the time. I was cramped by my
position and chilled to the bones. When I first tried to move,
the effort was so painful to me that I 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, as I 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 retreat had been
discovered.

June 20th.—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 remember the persuasion
settling 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 our weapons of defence against
them as well. I recall the impulse 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, before 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 recall it, from the beginning by
candle-light, to the end on the page before this, in the sunshine
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!

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?

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—-

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 regular, and the date
is "June the 21st." It contains these lines—

POSTSCRIPT BY A SINCERE FRIEND

The illness of our excellent Miss Halcombe has afforded me the
opportunity of enjoying an unexpected intellectual 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, refreshed, 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 inexpressibly
increased my admiration of this sublime creature, 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 painted in 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 how worthy I should have been
of Miss Halcombe—how worthy Miss Halcombe would have been of ME.

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
considerations. 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 offer to the unimpressionable
doctor who attends on her my vast knowledge of chemistry, and my
luminous experience of the more subtle resources 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 unroll 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 tenderness at the feet of Miss Halcombe.

I breathe my wishes for her recovery.

I condole with her on the inevitable failure of every plan that
she has formed for her sister's benefit. At the same time, I
entreat her to believe that the information which I have derived
from her Diary will in no respect help me to contribute to that
failure. It simply confirms the plan of conduct which I had
previously arranged. I have to thank these pages for awakening
the finest sensibilities in my nature—nothing more.

To a person of similar sensibility this simple assertion will
explain and excuse everything.

Miss Halcombe is a person of similar sensibility.

In that persuasion I sign myself,
Fosco.

It is the grand misfortune of my life that nobody will let me
alone.

Why—I ask everybody—why worry ME? Nobody answers that question,
and nobody lets me alone. Relatives, friends, and strangers all
combine to annoy me. What have I done? I ask myself, I ask my
servant, Louis, fifty times a day—what have I done? Neither of us
can tell. Most extraordinary!

The last annoyance that has assailed me is the annoyance of being
called upon to write this Narrative. Is a man in my state of
nervous wretchedness capable of writing narratives? When I put
this extremely reasonable objection, I am told that certain very
serious events relating to my niece have happened within my
experience, and that I am the fit person to describe them on that
account. I am threatened if I fail to exert myself in the manner
required, with consequences which I cannot so much as think of
without perfect prostration. There is really no need to threaten
me. Shattered by my miserable health and my family troubles, I am
incapable of resistance. If you insist, you take your unjust
advantage of me, and I give way immediately. I will endeavour to
remember what I can (under protest), and to write what I can (also
under protest), and what I can't remember and can't write, Louis
must remember and write for me. He is an ass, and I am an
invalid, and we are likely to make all sorts of mistakes between
us. How humiliating!

I am told to remember dates. Good heavens! I never did such a
thing in my life—how am I to begin now?

I have asked Louis. He is not quite such an ass as I have
hitherto supposed. He remembers the date of the event, within a
week or two—and I remember the name of the person. The date was
towards the end of June, or the beginning of July, and the name
(in my opinion a remarkably vulgar one) was Fanny.

At the end of June, or the beginning of July, then, I was
reclining in my customary state, surrounded by the various objects
of Art which I have collected about me to improve the taste of the
barbarous people in my neighbourhood. That is to say, I had the
photographs of my pictures, and prints, and coins, and so forth,
all about me, which I intend, one of these days, to present (the
photographs, I mean, if the clumsy English language will let me
mean anything) to present to the institution at Carlisle (horrid
place!), with a view to improving the tastes of the members (Goths
and Vandals to a man). It might be supposed that a gentleman who
was in course of conferring a great national benefit on his
countrymen was the last gentleman in the world to be unfeelingly
worried about private difficulties and family affairs. Quite a
mistake, I assure you, in my case.

However, there I was, reclining, with my art-treasures about me,
and wanting a quiet morning. Because I wanted a quiet morning, of
course Louis came in. It was perfectly natural that I should
inquire what the deuce he meant by making his appearance when I
had not rung my bell. I seldom swear—it is such an
ungentlemanlike habit—but when Louis answered by a grin, I think
it was also perfectly natural that I should damn him for grinning.
At any rate, I did.