The Woman in White

Chapter 5

June 17th.--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 determined to efface from our

memories all recollection of what had passed in the library that

afternoon. Lively descriptions of his adventures in travelling,

amusing anecdotes of remarkable people whom he had met with

abroad, quaint comparisons between the social customs of various

nations, illustrated by examples drawn from men and women

indiscriminately 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. Women can resist a

man's love, a man's fame, a man's personal appearance, 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 apparently 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

officiating medium through which her lord and master composed

himself with tobacco-smoke!

Laura and I went out together alone.

It was a misty, heavy evening. There was a sense of blight in the

air; the flowers were drooping in the garden, and the ground was

parched and dewless. The western heaven, as we saw it over the

quiet trees, was of a pale yellow hue, and the sun was setting

faintly in a haze. Coming rain seemed near--it would fall

probably with the fall of night.

"Which way shall we go?" I asked

"Towards the lake, Marian, if you like," she answered.

"You seem unaccountably fond, Laura, of that dismal lake."

"No, not of the lake but of the scenery about it. The sand and

heath and the fir-trees are the only objects I can discover, in

all this large place, to remind me of Limmeridge. But we will

walk in some other direction if you prefer it."

"I have no favourite walks at Blackwater Park, my love. One is

the same as another to me. Let us go to the lake--we may find it

cooler in the open space than we find it here."

We walked through the shadowy plantation in silence. The

heaviness in the evening air oppressed us both, and when we

reached the boat-house we were glad to sit down and rest inside.

A white fog hung low over the lake. The dense brown line of the

trees on the opposite bank appeared above it, like a dwarf forest

floating in the sky. The sandy ground, shelving downward from

where we sat, was lost mysteriously in the outward layers of the

fog. The silence was horrible. No rustling of the leaves--no

bird's note in the wood--no cry of water-fowl from the pools of

the hidden lake. Even the croaking of the frogs had ceased to-

night.

"It is very desolate and gloomy," said Laura. "But we can be more

alone here than anywhere else."

She spoke quietly and looked at the wilderness of sand and mist

with steady, thoughtful eyes. I could see that her mind was too

much occupied to feel the dreary impressions from without which

had fastened themselves already on mine.

"I promised, Marian, to tell you the truth about my married 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!' 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 my 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 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, thinking 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

whether 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 suffered? 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 and waiting for him while he was earning our

bread--sitting at home and working for him and loving him all the

better because I had 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 see 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.

"I would 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!"

"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 when I opened

my heart to him at Limmeridge 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 beautifully, and some of the

guests prevailed on her to show us her drawings. We all admired

them, but something I said attracted her attention particularly to

me. 'Surely you draw yourself?' she asked. 'I used to draw a

little once,' I answered, '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 upstairs as usual. But the moment we were in

the drawing-room, he 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

Limmeridge,' 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

shoulders.' Whenever he is angry with me now he refers to what I

acknowledged to him in your presence with a sneer or a threat. I

have no power to prevent him from putting his own horrible

construction on the confidence I placed in him. I have no

influence to make him believe me, or to keep him silent. You

looked surprised to-day when you heard 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 Limmeridge, rose before me in

mute, unendurable 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 long

wreath of smoke. The mist over the lake below had stealthily

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 a whisper, 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 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 breathless 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 a long, 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.

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 meantime 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 upstairs 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 pretence 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 Fosco 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 outside."

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?" 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 grey 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," she said.

The moment he turned round to get me a chair, 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 servants had been passing

their time.

"Have you been suffering much from the heat downstairs?" 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?"

"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 us were not the footsteps 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.