The Solitary House (242 page)

He said those last words, holding his glass up to the light, and looking at the wine in it, instead of at Lady
Glyde. Indeed, he never once looked at her throughout the conversation. Such a singular want of good breeding in a gentleman of his rank impressed me, I own, very painfully.

“Why should you write to Count Fosco?” she asked, in extreme surprise.

“To tell him to expect you by the mid-day train,” said Sir Percival. “He will meet you at the station, when you get to London, and take you on to sleep at your aunt’s, in St. John’s Wood.”

Lady Glyde’s hand began to tremble violently round my arm—why, I could not imagine.

“There is no necessity for Count Fosco to meet me,” she said. “I would rather not stay in London to sleep.”

“You must. You can’t take the whole journey to Cumberland in one day. You must rest a night in London—and I don’t choose you to go by yourself to an hotel. Fosco made the offer to your uncle to give you house-room on the way down; and your uncle has accepted it. Here! here is a letter from him, addressed to yourself. I ought to have sent it up this morning; but I forgot. Read it, and see what Mr. Fairlie himself says to you.”

Lady Glyde looked at the letter for a moment; and then placed it in my hands.

“Read it,” she said, faintly. “I don’t know what is the matter with me. I can’t read it, myself.”

It was a note of only three lines—so short and so careless, that it quite struck me. If I remember correctly, it contained no more than these words:

“Dearest Laura, Please come, whenever you like. Break the journey by sleeping at your aunt’s house. Grieved to hear of dear Marian’s illness. Affectionately yours, Frederick Fairlie.”

“I would rather not go there—I would rather not stay a night in London,” said her ladyship, breaking out eagerly
with those words, before I had quite done reading the note, short as it was. “Don’t write to Count Fosco! Pray, pray don’t write to him!”

Sir Percival filled another glass from the decanter, so awkwardly that he upset it, and spilt all the wine over the table. “My sight seems to be failing me,” he muttered to himself, in an odd, muffled voice. He slowly set the glass up again, refilled it, and drained it once more at a draught. I began to fear, from his look and manner, that the wine was getting into his head.

“Pray don’t write to Count Fosco!” persisted Lady Glyde, more earnestly than ever.

“Why not, I should like to know!” cried Sir Percival, with a sudden burst of anger that startled us both. “Where can you stay more properly in London, than at the place your uncle himself chooses for you—at your aunt’s house? Ask Mrs. Michelson.”

The arrangement proposed was so unquestionably the right and the proper one, that I could make no possible objection to it. Much as I sympathised with Lady Glyde in other respects, I could not sympathise with her in her unjust prejudices against Count Fosco. I never before met with any lady, of her rank and station, who was so lamentably narrow-minded on the subject of foreigners. Neither her uncle’s note, nor Sir Percival’s increasing impatience, seemed to have the least effect on her. She still objected to staying a night in London; she still implored her husband not to write to the Count.

“Drop it!” said Sir Percival, rudely turning his back on us. “If you haven’t sense enough to know what is best for yourself, other people must know for you. The arrangement is made; and there is an end of it. You are only wanted to do what Miss Halcombe has done before you——”

“Marian?” repeated her ladyship, in a bewildered manner; “Marian sleeping in Count Fosco’s house!”

“Yes, in Count Fosco’s house. She slept there, last night, to break the journey. And you are to follow her example, and do what your uncle tells you. You are to sleep at Fosco’s, tomorrow night, as your sister did, to break the journey. Don’t throw too many obstacles in my way! don’t make me repent of letting you go at all!”

He started to his feet; and suddenly walked out into the verandah, through the open glass doors.

“Will your ladyship excuse me,” I whispered, “if I suggest that we had better not wait here till Sir Percival comes back? I am very much afraid he is over-excited with wine.”

She consented to leave the room, in a weary, absent manner.

As soon as we were safe up-stairs again, I did all I could to compose her ladyship’s spirits. I reminded her that Mr. Fairlie’s letters to Miss Halcombe and to herself did certainly sanction, and even render necessary, sooner or later, the course that had been taken. She agreed to this, and even admitted, of her own accord, that both letters were strictly in character with her uncle’s peculiar disposition—but her fears about Miss Halcombe, and her unaccountable dread of sleeping at the Count’s house in London, still remained unshaken in spite of every consideration that I could urge. I thought it my duty to protest against Lady Glyde’s unfavourable opinion of his lordship; and I did so, with becoming forbearance and respect.

“Your ladyship will pardon my freedom,” I remarked, in conclusion; “but it is said, ‘by their fruits ye shall know them.’ I am sure the Count’s constant kindness and constant attention from the very beginning of Miss Halcombe’s illness, merit our best confidence and esteem. Even his lordship’s serious misunderstanding with Mr. Dawson was
entirely attributable to his anxiety on Miss Halcombe’s account.”

“What misunderstanding?” inquired her ladyship, with a look of sudden interest.

I related the unhappy circumstances under which Mr. Dawson had withdrawn his attendance—mentioning them all the more readily, because I disapproved of Sir Percival’s continuing to conceal what had happened (as he had done in my presence) from the knowledge of Lady Glyde.

Her ladyship started up, with every appearance of being additionally agitated and alarmed by what I had told her.

“Worse! worse than I thought!” she said, walking about the room, in a bewildered manner. “The Count knew Mr. Dawson would never consent to Marian’s taking a journey—he purposely insulted the doctor to get him out of the house.”

“Oh, my lady! my lady!” I remonstrated.

“Mrs. Michelson!” she went on, vehemently; “no words that ever were spoken will persuade me that my sister is in that man’s power and in that man’s house, with her own consent. My horror of him is such, that nothing Sir Percival could say, and no letters my uncle could write, would induce me, if I had only my own feelings to consult, to eat, drink, or sleep under his roof. But my misery of suspense about Marian gives me the courage to follow her anywhere—to follow her even into Count Fosco’s house.”

I thought it right, at this point, to mention that Miss Halcombe had already gone on to Cumberland, according to Sir Percival’s account of the matter.

“I am afraid to believe it!” answered her ladyship. “I am afraid she is still in that man’s house. If I am wrong—if she has really gone on to Limmeridge—I am resolved I will not sleep to-morrow night under Count Fosco’s roof. My dearest friend in the world, next to my sister, lives near
London. You have heard me, you have heard Miss Halcombe, speak of Mrs. Vesey? I mean to write, and propose to sleep at her house. I don’t know how I shall get there—I don’t know how I shall avoid the Count—but to that refuge I will escape in some way, if my sister has gone to Cumberland. All I ask of you to do, is to see yourself that my letter to Mrs. Vesey goes to London to-night, as certainly as Sir Percival’s letter goes to Count Fosco. I have reasons for not trusting the post-bag down stairs. Will you keep my secret, and help me in this? it is the last favour, perhaps, that I shall ever ask of you.”

I hesitated—I thought it all very strange—I almost feared that her ladyship’s mind had been a little affected by recent anxiety and suffering. At my own risk, however, I ended by giving my consent. If the letter had been addressed to a stranger, or to any one but a lady so well known to me by report as Mrs. Vesey, I might have refused. I thank God—looking to what happened afterwards—I thank God I never thwarted that wish, or any other, which Lady Glyde expressed to me, on the last day of her residence at Blackwater Park.

The letter was written, and given into my hands. I myself put it into the post-box in the village, that evening.

We saw nothing more of Sir Percival for the rest of the day. I slept, by Lady Glyde’s own desire, in the next room to hers, with the door open between us. There was something so strange and dreadful in the loneliness and emptiness of the house, that I was glad, on my side, to have a companion near me. Her ladyship sat up late, reading letters and burning them, and emptying her drawers and cabinets of little things she prized, as if she never expected to return to Blackwater Park. Her sleep was sadly disturbed when she at last went to bed: she cried out in it, several times—once, so loud that she woke herself. Whatever her
dreams were, she did not think fit to communicate them to me. Perhaps, in my situation, I had no right to expect that she should do so. It matters little, now. I was sorry for her—I was indeed heartily sorry for her all the same.

The next day was fine and sunny. Sir Percival came up, after breakfast, to tell us that the chaise would be at the door at a quarter to twelve; the train to London stopping at our station, at twenty minutes after. He informed Lady Glyde that he was obliged to go out, but added that he hoped to be back before she left. If any unforeseen accident delayed him, I was to accompany her to the station, and to take special care that she was in time for the train. Sir Percival communicated these directions very hastily; walking, here and there, about the room all the time. Her ladyship looked attentively after him, wherever he went. He never once looked at her in return.

She only spoke when he had done; and then she stopped him as he approached the door, by holding out her hand.

“I shall see you no more,” she said, in a very marked manner. “This is our parting—our parting, it may be for ever. Will you try to forgive me, Percival, as heartily as I forgive
you
?”

His face turned of an awful whiteness all over; and great beads of perspiration broke out on his bald forehead. “I shall come back,” he said—and made for the door, as hastily as if his wife’s farewell words had frightened him out of the room.

I had never liked Sir Percival—but the manner in which he left Lady Glyde made me feel ashamed of having eaten his bread and lived in his service. I thought of saying a few comforting and Christian words to the poor lady; but there was something in her face, as she looked after her husband when the door closed on him, that made me alter my mind and keep silence.

At the time named, the chaise drew up at the gates. Her ladyship was right—Sir Percival never came back. I waited for him till the last moment—and waited in vain.

No positive responsibility lay on my shoulders; and yet, I did not feel easy in my mind. “It is of your own free will,” I said, as the chaise drove through the lodge-gates, “that your ladyship goes to London?”

“I will go anywhere,” she answered, “to end the dreadful suspense that I am suffering at this moment.”

She had made me feel almost as anxious and as uncertain about Miss Halcombe as she felt herself. I presumed to ask her to write me a line, if all went well in London. She answered, “Most willingly, Mrs. Michelson.” “We all have our crosses to bear, my lady,” I said, seeing her silent and thoughtful, after she had promised to write. She made no reply: she seemed to be too much wrapped up in her own thoughts to attend to me. “I fear your ladyship rested badly last night,” I remarked, after waiting little. “Yes,” she said; “I was terribly disturbed by dreams.” “Indeed, my lady?” I thought she was going to tell me her dreams; but no, when she spoke next it was only to ask a question. “You posted the letter to Mrs. Vesey with your own hands?” “Yes, my lady.” “Did Sir Percival say, yesterday, that Count Fosco was to meet me at the terminus in London?” “He did, my lady.”

She sighed heavily when I answered that last question, and said no more.

We arrived at the station, with hardly two minutes to spare. The gardener (who had driven us) managed about the luggage, while I took the ticket. The whistle of the train was sounding, when I joined her ladyship on the platform. She looked very strangely, and pressed her hand over her heart, as if some sudden pain or fright had overcome her at that moment.

“I wish you were going with me!” she said, catching eagerly at my arm, when I gave her the ticket.

If there had been time; if I had felt the day before, as I felt then, I would have made my arrangements to accompany her—even though the doing so had obliged me to give Sir Percival warning on the spot. As it was, her wishes expressed at the last moment only, were expressed too late for me to comply with them. She seemed to understand this herself before I could explain it, and did not repeat her desire to have me for a travelling companion. The train drew up at the platform. She gave the gardener a present for his children, and took my hand, in her simple, hearty manner, before she got into the carriage.

“You have been very kind to me and to my sister,” she said—“kind when we were both friendless. I shall remember you gratefully, as long as I live to remember any one. Good-by—and God bless you!”

She spoke those words, with a tone and a look which brought the tears into my eyes—she spoke them as if she was bidding me farewell for ever.

“Good-by, my lady,” I said, putting her into the carriage, and trying to cheer her; “good-by, for the present only; good-by, with my best and kindest wishes for happier times!”

She shook her head, and shuddered as she settled herself in the carriage. The guard closed the door. “Do you believe in dreams?” she whispered to me, at the window. “
My
dreams, last night, were dreams I have never had before. The terror of them is hanging over me still.” The whistle sounded before I could answer, and the train moved. Her pale quiet face looked at me, for the last time, looked sorrowfully and solemnly from the window—she waved her hand—and I saw her no more.

Towards five o’clock on the afternoon of that same day, having a little time to myself in the midst of the household duties which now pressed upon me, I sat down alone in my own room, to try and compose my mind with the volume of my husband’s Sermons. For the first time in my life, I found my attention wandering over those pious and cheering words. Concluding that Lady Glyde’s departure must have disturbed me far more seriously than I had myself supposed, I put the book aside, and went out to take a turn in the garden. Sir Percival had not yet returned, to my knowledge, so I could feel no hesitation about showing myself in the grounds.