The Woman in White (73 page)

I was not proof against this appeal, it would have been
unspeakably mean and cruel of me if I had resisted it.

"I am afraid there is no doubt of the truth," I answered gently;
"I have the certainty in my own mind that her troubles in this
world are over."

The poor woman dropped into her chair and hid her face from me.
"Oh, sir," she said, "how do you know it? Who can have told you?"

"No one has told me, Mrs. Clements. But I have reasons for
feeling sure of it—reasons which I promise you shall know as soon
as I can safely explain them. I am certain she was not neglected
in her last moments—I am certain the heart complaint from which
she suffered so sadly was the true cause of her death. You shall
feel as sure of this as I do, soon—you shall know, before long,
that she is buried in a quiet country churchyard—in a pretty,
peaceful place, which you might have chosen for her yourself."

"Dead!" said Mrs. Clements, "dead so young, and I am left to hear
it! I made her first short frocks. I taught her to walk. The
first time she ever said Mother she said it to me—and now I am
left and Anne is taken! Did you say, sir," said the poor woman,
removing the handkerchief from her face, and looking up at me for
the first time, "did you say that she had been nicely buried? Was
it the sort of funeral she might have had if she had really been
my own child?"

I assured her that it was. She seemed to take an inexplicable
pride in my answer—to find a comfort in it which no other and
higher considerations could afford. "It would have broken my
heart," she said simply, "if Anne had not been nicely buried—but
how do you know it, sir? who told you?" I once more entreated her
to wait until I could speak to her unreservedly. "You are sure to
see me again," I said, "for I have a favour to ask when you are a
little more composed—perhaps in a day or two."

"Don't keep it waiting, sir, on my account," said Mrs. Clements.
"Never mind my crying if I can be of use. If you have anything on
your mind to say to me, sir, please to say it now."

"I only wish to ask you one last question," I said. "I only want
to know Mrs. Catherick's address at Welmingham."

My request so startled Mrs. Clements, that, for the moment, even
the tidings of Anne's death seemed to be driven from her mind.
Her tears suddenly ceased to flow, and she sat looking at me in
blank amazement.

"For the Lord's sake, sir!" she said, "what do you want with Mrs.
Catherick!"

"I want this, Mrs. Clements," I replied, "I want to know the
secret of those private meetings of hers with Sir Percival Glyde.
There is something more in what you have told me of that woman's
past conduct, and of that man's past relations with her, than you
or any of your neighbours ever suspected. There is a secret we
none of us know between those two, and I am going to Mrs.
Catherick with the resolution to find it out."

"Think twice about it, sir!" said Mrs. Clements, rising in her
earnestness and laying her hand on my arm. "She's an awful woman—
you don't know her as I do. Think twice about it."

"I am sure your warning is kindly meant, Mrs. Clements. But I am
determined to see the woman, whatever comes of it."

Mrs. Clements looked me anxiously in the face.

"I see your mind is made up, sir," she said. "I will give you the
address."

I wrote it down in my pocket-book and then took her hand to say
farewell.

"You shall hear from me soon," I said; "you shall know all that I
have promised to tell you."

Mrs. Clements sighed and shook her head doubtfully.

"An old woman's advice is sometimes worth taking, sir," she said.
"Think twice before you go to Welmingham."

When I reached home again after my interview with Mrs. Clements, I
was struck by the appearance of a change in Laura.

The unvarying gentleness and patience which long misfortune had
tried so cruelly and had never conquered yet, seemed now to have
suddenly failed her. Insensible to all Marian's attempts to
soothe and amuse her, she sat, with her neglected drawing pushed
away on the table, her eyes resolutely cast down, her fingers
twining and untwining themselves restlessly in her lap. Marian
rose when I came in, with a silent distress in her face, waited
for a moment to see if Laura would look up at my approach,
whispered to me, "Try if you can rouse her," and left the room.

I sat down in the vacant chair—gently unclasped the poor, worn,
restless fingers, and took both her hands in mine.

"What are you thinking of, Laura? Tell me, my darling—try and
tell me what it is."

She struggled with herself, and raised her eyes to mine. "I can't
feel happy," she said, "I can't help thinking—-" She stopped,
bent forward a little, and laid her head on my shoulder, with a
terrible mute helplessness that struck me to the heart.

"Try to tell me," I repeated gently; "try to tell me why you are
not happy."

"I am so useless—I am such a burden on both of you," she
answered, with a weary, hopeless sigh. "You work and get money,
Walter, and Marian helps you. Why is there nothing I can do? You
will end in liking Marian better than you like me—you will,
because I am so helpless! Oh, don't, don't, don't treat me like a
child!"

I raised her head, and smoothed away the tangled hair that fell
over her face, and kissed her—my poor, faded flower! my lost,
afflicted sister! "You shall help us, Laura," I said, "you shall
begin, my darling, to-day."

She looked at me with a feverish eagerness, with a breathless
interest, that made me tremble for the new life of hope which I
had called into being by those few words.

I rose, and set her drawing materials in order, and placed them
near her again.

"You know that I work and get money by drawing," I said. "Now you
have taken such pains, now you are so much improved, you shall
begin to work and get money too. Try to finish this little sketch
as nicely and prettily as you can. When it is done I will take it
away with me, and the same person will buy it who buys all that I
do. You shall keep your own earnings in your own purse, and
Marian shall come to you to help us, as often as she comes to me.
Think how useful you are going to make yourself to both of us, and
you will soon be as happy, Laura, as the day is long."

Her face grew eager, and brightened into a smile. In the moment
while it lasted, in the moment when she again took up the pencils
that had been laid aside, she almost looked like the Laura of past
days.

I had rightly interpreted the first signs of a new growth and
strength in her mind, unconsciously expressing themselves in the
notice she had taken of the occupations which filled her sister's
life and mine. Marian (when I told her what had passed) saw, as I
saw, that she was longing to assume her own little position of
importance, to raise herself in her own estimation and in ours—
and, from that day, we tenderly helped the new ambition which gave
promise of the hopeful, happier future, that might now not be far
off. Her drawings, as she finished them, or tried to finish them,
were placed in my hands. Marian took them from me and hid them
carefully, and I set aside a little weekly tribute from my
earnings, to be offered to her as the price paid by strangers for
the poor, faint, valueless sketches, of which I was the only
purchaser. It was hard sometimes to maintain our innocent
deception, when she proudly brought out her purse to contribute
her share towards the expenses, and wondered with serious
interest, whether I or she had earned the most that week. I have
all those hidden drawings in my possession still—they are my
treasures beyond price—the dear remembrances that I love to keep
alive—the friends in past adversity that my heart will never part
from, my tenderness never forget.

Am I trifling, here, with the necessities of my task? am I looking
forward to the happier time which my narrative has not yet
reached? Yes. Back again—back to the days of doubt and dread,
when the spirit within me struggled hard for its life, in the icy
stillness of perpetual suspense. I have paused and rested for a
while on my forward course. It is not, perhaps, time wasted, if
the friends who read these pages have paused and rested too.

I took the first opportunity I could find of speaking to Marian in
private, and of communicating to her the result of the inquiries
which I had made that morning. She seemed to share the opinion on
the subject of my proposed journey to Welmingham, which Mrs.
Clements had already expressed to me.

"Surely, Walter," she said, "you hardly know enough yet to give
you any hope of claiming Mrs. Catherick's confidence? Is it wise
to proceed to these extremities, before you have really exhausted
all safer and simpler means of attaining your object? When you
told me that Sir Percival and the Count were the only two people
in existence who knew the exact date of Laura's journey, you
forgot, and I forgot, that there was a third person who must
surely know it—I mean Mrs. Rubelle. Would it not be far easier,
and far less dangerous, to insist on a confession from her, than
to force it from Sir Percival?"

"It might be easier," I replied, "but we are not aware of the full
extent of Mrs. Rubelle's connivance and interest in the
conspiracy, and we are therefore not certain that the date has
been impressed on her mind, as it has been assuredly impressed on
the minds of Sir Percival and the Count. It is too late, now, to
waste the time on Mrs. Rubelle, which may be all-important to the
discovery of the one assailable point in Sir Percival's life. Are
you thinking a little too seriously, Marian, of the risk I may run
in returning to Hampshire? Are you beginning to doubt whether Sir
Percival Glyde may not in the end be more than a match for me?"

"He will not be more than your match," she replied decidedly,
"because he will not be helped in resisting you by the
impenetrable wickedness of the Count."

"What has led you to that conclusion?" I replied, in some
surprise.

"My own knowledge of Sir Percival's obstinacy and impatience of
the Count's control," she answered. "I believe he will insist on
meeting you single-handed—just as he insisted at first on acting
for himself at Blackwater Park. The time for suspecting the
Count's interference will be the time when you have Sir Percival
at your mercy. His own interests will then be directly
threatened, and he will act, Walter, to terrible purpose in his
own defence."

"We may deprive him of his weapons beforehand," I said. "Some of
the particulars I have heard from Mrs. Clements may yet be turned
to account against him, and other means of strengthening the case
may be at our disposal. There are passages in Mrs. Michelson's
narrative which show that the Count found it necessary to place
himself in communication with Mr. Fairlie, and there may be
circumstances which compromise him in that proceeding. While I am
away, Marian, write to Mr. Fairlie and say that you want an answer
describing exactly what passed between the Count and himself, and
informing you also of any particulars that may have come to his
knowledge at the same time in connection with his niece. Tell him
that the statement you request will, sooner or later, be insisted
on, if he shows any reluctance to furnish you with it of his own
accord."

"The letter shall be written, Walter. But are you really
determined to go to Welmingham?"

"Absolutely determined. I will devote the next two days to
earning what we want for the week to come, and on the third day I
go to Hampshire."

When the third day came I was ready for my journey.

As it was possible that I might be absent for some little time, I
arranged with Marian that we were to correspond every day—of
course addressing each other by assumed names, for caution's sake.
As long as I heard from her regularly, I should assume that
nothing was wrong. But if the morning came and brought me no
letter, my return to London would take place, as a matter of
course, by the first train. I contrived to reconcile Laura to my
departure by telling her that I was going to the country to find
new purchasers for her drawings and for mine, and I left her
occupied and happy. Marian followed me downstairs to the street
door.

"Remember what anxious hearts you leave here," she whispered, as
we stood together in the passage. "Remember all the hopes that
hang on your safe return. If strange things happen to you on this
journey—if you and Sir Percival meet—-"

"What makes you think we shall meet?" I asked.

"I don't know—I have fears and fancies that I cannot account for.
Laugh at them, Walter, if you like—but, for God's sake, keep your
temper if you come in contact with that man!"

"Never fear, Marian! I answer for my self-control."

With those words we parted.

I walked briskly to the station. There was a glow of hope in me.
There was a growing conviction in my mind that my journey this
time would not be taken in vain. It was a fine, clear, cold
morning. My nerves were firmly strung, and I felt all the
strength of my resolution stirring in me vigorously from head to
foot.

As I crossed the railway platform, and looked right and left among
the people congregated on it, to search for any faces among them
that I knew, the doubt occurred to me whether it might not have
been to my advantage if I had adopted a disguise before setting
out for Hampshire. But there was something so repellent to me in
the idea—something so meanly like the common herd of spies and
informers in the mere act of adopting a disguise—that I dismissed
the question from consideration almost as soon as it had risen in
my mind. Even as a mere matter of expediency the proceeding was
doubtful in the extreme. If I tried the experiment at home the
landlord of the house would sooner or later discover me, and would
have his suspicions aroused immediately. If I tried it away from
home the same persons might see me, by the commonest accident,
with the disguise and without it, and I should in that way be
inviting the notice and distrust which it was my most pressing
interest to avoid. In my own character I had acted thus far—and
in my own character I was resolved to continue to the end.