The Greatest Mysteries of Wilkie Collins (Illustrated Edition). Уилки Коллинз
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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 Dawson had withdrawn his attendance — mentioning them all the more readily because I disapproved of Sir Percival’s continuing to conceal what had happened (as he had done in my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 tomorrow 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 tonight, as certainly as Sir Percival’s letter goes to Count Fosco. I have reasons for not trusting the postbag downstairs. 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 a 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