X (2/2)

by Wilkie Collins

“It’s a gentleman this time, sir.”

A gentleman made all the difference. I glanced at the card.

Good heavens! My bothersome sister’s foreign husband, Count Fosco.

Did I really need to explain my first impression upon seeing my visitor’s card? Surely not! With my sister marrying someone from abroad, any sensible person would feel the same way. Naturally, the Count had come to ask me for money.

“Louis,” I said, “do you think he’d leave if you offered him five shillings?”

Louis looked genuinely shocked. To my surprise, he insisted that my sister’s foreign husband was dressed impeccably and looked prosperous. With that in mind, my initial impression shifted somewhat. I began to assume that the Count had his own marital troubles to deal with and had come, like the rest of the family, to unload them onto me.

“Did he mention why he’s here?” I asked.

“Count Fosco said he came because Miss Halcombe couldn’t leave Blackwater Park.”

More troubles, it seemed. Not exactly his own, as I had thought, but dear Marian’s. Troubles, nonetheless. Oh dear!

“Show him in,” I said, resigned.

The Count’s entrance startled me. He was such an alarmingly large man that I felt a tremor of fear. I was sure he would shake the floor and topple my art collection. But he did neither. He was dressed refreshingly for summer—his demeanor was calm and composed, and he had a charming smile. My first impression of him was surprisingly positive. It’s not something I’m proud to admit, as the story will reveal, but I’m a naturally honest person, and I acknowledge it nonetheless.

“Allow me to introduce myself, Mr. Fairlie,” he said. “I come from Blackwater Park, and I have the honor and happiness of being Madame Fosco’s husband. Let me take advantage of that circumstance by asking you not to treat me as a stranger. Please, don’t disturb yourself—I beg you, don’t move.”

“You’re very kind,” I replied. “I wish I were strong enough to get up. It’s a pleasure to see you at Limmeridge. Please, have a seat.”

“I’m afraid you’re not feeling well today,” said the Count.

“As usual,” I replied. “I’m just a bundle of nerves dressed up to look like a man.”

“I’ve studied many subjects in my time,” he remarked sympathetically. “Among them, the endless topic of nerves. May I make a suggestion, both simple and profound? Would you allow me to adjust the light in your room?”

“Of course—if you promise not to let any of it shine on me.”

He walked over to the window. Such a contrast to dear Marian! He was so considerate in all his movements.

“Light,” he said in that soothing tone that comforts an invalid, “is the first essential. Light stimulates, nourishes, preserves. You can no more do without it, Mr. Fairlie, than a flower can. Observe. Here, where you sit, I’ll close the shutters to help you relax. There, where you don’t sit, I’ll draw up the blind and let in the invigorating sun. Let the light into your room if you can’t bear it on yourself. Light, sir, is the grand decree of Providence. You accept Providence with your own limitations. Accept light on the same terms.”

I found his argument quite convincing and attentive. He had certainly won me over with his thoughts on light.

“You see me confused,” he said, returning to his seat. “On my word of honor, Mr. Fairlie, you see me confused in your presence.”

“I’m shocked to hear that. May I ask why?”

“Sir, how can I enter this room, where you sit suffering, and see you surrounded by these remarkable works of art without realizing that you are a man whose feelings are deeply impressionable, whose sympathies are always alive? Tell me, how can I do this?”

If I had been strong enough to sit up in my chair, I would have bowed. Instead, I smiled my acknowledgment. It sufficed; we understood each other.

“Please follow my line of thought,” the Count continued. “I sit here, a man of refined sympathies myself, in the presence of another man of refined sympathies. I feel a terrible need to wound those sympathies by mentioning domestic matters of a very sad nature. What is the inevitable result? I have already pointed it out to you. I sit here, confused.”

Was this when I began to suspect he might bore me? I think it was.

“Is it really necessary to bring up these unpleasant topics?” I asked. “In our straightforward English way, Count Fosco, can’t they wait?”

The Count, with alarming seriousness, sighed and shook his head.

“Must I truly hear them?”

He shrugged his shoulders, the first sign of any foreign behavior since he entered the room, and looked at me with an unsettling intensity. My instincts urged me to close my eyes, and I followed their lead.

“Please, break it to me gently,” I said. “Is anyone dead?”

“Dead!” the Count exclaimed, his tone more dramatic than necessary. “Mr. Fairlie, your calmness terrifies me. What have I said or done to make you think I’m bringing news of death?”

“Please accept my apologies,” I replied. “You haven’t said or done anything wrong. I have a habit of preparing for the worst in distressing situations. It softens the blow by meeting it halfway, you see. I’m incredibly relieved to hear that no one has died. But is anyone ill?”

I opened my eyes and studied him. Had he looked so yellow when he walked in, or had he turned that way in the last few moments? I couldn’t say, and I couldn’t ask Louis, as he wasn’t in the room.

“Is anyone ill?” I repeated, noting that my calm demeanor still seemed to unsettle him.

“That’s part of my bad news, Mr. Fairlie. Yes, someone is ill.”

“I’m truly sorry to hear that. Who is it?”

“To my great sorrow, it’s Miss Halcombe. Perhaps you were somewhat prepared for this? When you noticed that Miss Halcombe didn’t come here alone as you expected, and didn’t write again, your concern may have led you to fear she was unwell?”

I had no doubt that my concern had led to that gloomy thought at some point, but at that moment, my wretched memory failed me completely. Still, I nodded in agreement, wanting to be fair to myself. I was shocked. It seemed so unlike the strong Marian to be ill that I could only assume she had suffered an accident—perhaps a fall or a mishap with a horse.

“Is it serious?” I asked.

“Serious, without a doubt,” he replied. “Dangerous—I hope not. Miss Halcombe unfortunately got soaked in a heavy rain. The cold that followed was severe, and now it has led to the worst outcome—fever.”

When I heard the word fever, and remembered that this unscrupulous man had just come from Blackwater Park, I felt faint.

“Good God!” I exclaimed. “Is it contagious?”

“Not at the moment,” he said, with a disconcerting calmness. “It might become infectious, but no such unfortunate development had occurred when I left Blackwater Park. I’ve taken a keen interest in her case, Mr. Fairlie—I’ve tried to assist the regular doctor in monitoring it—so please accept my personal assurance that the fever was not infectious when I last saw her.”

Accept his assurances? I was nowhere near accepting anything he said. I wouldn’t have believed him even if he swore on it. He looked too yellow to be trusted. He resembled a walking epidemic, large enough to carry typhus by the ton and stain the very carpet he walked on with scarlet fever. In moments of crisis, my mind is made up quickly. I decided then and there to get rid of him.

“I hope you’ll excuse an invalid,” I said, “but long conversations tend to upset me. May I ask what brings you here?”

I fervently hoped this clear hint would throw him off balance—confuse him, make him apologize, and ultimately leave the room. Instead, it seemed to settle him in his chair. He became even more solemn, dignified, and confidential. He raised two of his dreadful fingers and gave me another one of those penetrating looks. What was I to do? I was too weak to argue with him. Imagine my predicament, if you can. Is there any way to adequately describe it? I think not.

“The reasons for my visit,” he continued, unable to contain himself, “are simple and can be counted on two hands. First, I must express my deep sorrow regarding the unfortunate conflicts between Sir Percival and Lady Glyde. I am Sir Percival’s oldest friend, I am related to Lady Glyde by marriage, and I have witnessed everything that has transpired at Blackwater Park. In these three roles, I speak with authority, confidence, and a heavy heart. Sir, as the head of Lady Glyde’s family, I must inform you that Miss Halcombe has not exaggerated anything in her letter to you. I believe that the solution she proposed is the only way to avoid the horrors of public scandal. A temporary separation between husband and wife is the only peaceful resolution to this situation. Separate them for now, and once the sources of tension are removed, I, who have the honor of addressing you, will take it upon myself to bring Sir Percival to reason. Lady Glyde is innocent; she is wronged, but—follow my reasoning here—she is, regrettably, the source of irritation while she remains under her husband’s roof. No other household can accommodate her appropriately except yours. I urge you to open your doors to her.”

It was as if a storm was brewing over the South of England, and here I was, invited by a man whose coat seemed to radiate tension, to step out from the North and face the downpour. I tried to make my point clearly, just as I’ve stated it here. The Count, however, deliberately lowered one of his grotesque fingers, kept the other raised, and continued—he simply bulldozed over me without even the courtesy of a warning.

“Consider my thoughts once more, if you would,” he resumed. “You’ve heard my first purpose. My second reason for coming here is to do what Miss Halcombe’s illness has prevented her from doing herself. My extensive experience is often sought for difficult matters at Blackwater Park, and I was asked for my opinion regarding your letter to Miss Halcombe. I understood immediately—because your concerns are my concerns—why you wanted to see her here before you committed to inviting Lady Glyde. You are absolutely right to hesitate in receiving the wife until you are certain that the husband won’t try to reclaim her. I agree with that. I also believe that the delicate nature of this situation cannot be adequately addressed through writing alone. My presence here, despite my own inconvenience, proves that I speak sincerely. As for the explanations themselves, I—Fosco—I, who know Sir Percival far better than Miss Halcombe does, assure you, on my honor, that he will not come near this house or attempt to communicate with it while his wife is living here. His affairs are troubled. Offer him his freedom by allowing Lady Glyde to be absent. I promise you he will seize that freedom and return to the Continent at the earliest opportunity. Is that clear? Yes, it is. Do you have questions for me? If so, I am here to answer them. Please, Mr. Fairlie—ask away to your heart’s content.”

He had already said so much despite my attempts to interject, and he looked all too capable of saying even more, so I declined his polite invitation purely for my own defense.

“Thank you very much,” I replied. “I’m feeling quite unwell. Given my condition, I must take things at face value. Allow me to do so this time. We understand each other perfectly. Yes. I truly appreciate your kind intervention. If I ever recover and have another chance to strengthen our acquaintance—”

He stood up. I thought he was leaving. But no. More conversation, more time for the spread of his unsettling influence—in my room, no less—keep that in mind, in my room!

“Just a moment,” he said, “before I take my leave. I need to impress upon you something urgent. You must not wait for Miss Halcombe to recover before you bring Lady Glyde here. Miss Halcombe has the doctor, the housekeeper at Blackwater Park, and a skilled nurse attending to her—three people whose abilities and dedication I trust with my life. I assure you of that.

I also want to point out that the worry over her sister’s illness is already taking a toll on Lady Glyde’s health and spirits, making her completely unfit to help in the sickroom. Her situation with her husband is becoming more precarious and distressing every day. If you leave her at Blackwater Park any longer, you’re not only doing nothing to help her sister recover, but you’re also risking a public scandal that we all have a responsibility to avoid for the sake of the family.

I strongly advise you to relieve yourself of the burden of delay by writing to Lady Glyde and asking her to come here immediately. Do your duty—your honorable, inevitable duty—and whatever happens next, no one can blame you. I speak from experience and offer my friendly advice. Will you accept it—yes or no?”

I just looked at him, my expression revealing my disbelief at his audacity and my growing determination to call for Louis and have him shown out. It’s hard to believe, but my face didn’t seem to faze him at all. He was clearly someone who was completely unbothered.

“You’re hesitating?” he said. “Mr. Fairlie, I understand that hesitation. You’re concerned—look, I can see right into your thoughts!—you’re worried that Lady Glyde isn’t well enough to make the long journey from Hampshire to here on her own. Her maid is gone, as you know, and there are no other suitable servants at Blackwater Park to accompany her. You’re also worried that she can’t comfortably stop and rest in London on her way here because she wouldn’t feel safe going alone to a public hotel where she doesn’t know anyone.

I acknowledge both of those concerns, but I can also address them. Follow me, if you will, for the last time. When I returned to England with Sir Percival, I intended to settle near London. That plan has just been successfully completed. I’ve rented a small furnished house in St. John’s Wood for six months. Keep that in mind and consider my proposed plan. Lady Glyde travels to London—a short journey—I’ll meet her at the station and take her to my house, which is also her aunt’s, where she can rest and recover. Once she’s feeling better, I’ll escort her back to the station, and her maid—who is currently under your roof—will be there to greet her at the carriage door.

This plan ensures her comfort, respects propriety, and fulfills your duty—your duty of hospitality, sympathy, and protection to a distressed lady in need of all three—made simple from start to finish. I sincerely invite you to support my efforts for the family’s sake. I strongly recommend that you write, through me, offering the hospitality of your home—and mine—to that injured and unfortunate lady whose cause I’m advocating today.”

He gestured dramatically, striking his chest as if addressing a crowd in Parliament. It was clear that I needed to take some decisive action. It was also time to call for Louis and consider fumigating the room.

In this tense moment, a brilliant idea struck me—an idea that would help me deal with both the Count’s tiresome chatter and Lady Glyde’s endless troubles. I decided to comply with this annoying foreigner’s request and write the letter right away. There was no real risk of the invitation being accepted; Laura would never agree to leave Blackwater Park while Marian was sick. It was baffling how this conveniently obvious detail had escaped the Count's notice, but somehow it had. My fear that he might realize it if I gave him any more time pushed me into action. I forced myself into a sitting position, grabbed the writing materials beside me, and dashed off the letter as quickly as if I were a regular office clerk.

“Dearest Laura, Please come whenever you like. Break the journey by staying in London at your aunt’s house. I’m so sorry to hear about dear Marian’s illness. Ever affectionately yours.”

I handed the letter to the Count, holding it at arm’s length, then sank back into my chair. “Excuse me—I’m completely exhausted—I can’t do any more. Will you rest and have lunch downstairs? Love to everyone, and my sympathies, and so on. Good morning.”

He launched into another speech—the man was relentless. I closed my eyes, trying to tune him out. Despite my efforts, I couldn’t help but hear a lot of what he said. My sister’s endlessly talkative husband congratulated himself and me on the outcome of our meeting. He went on about his sympathies and mine, lamented my poor health, offered to write me a prescription, and stressed the importance of light. He graciously accepted my invitation to rest and have lunch, suggested I expect Lady Glyde in a few days, and asked if he could look forward to our next meeting instead of saying goodbye, which would only cause us both pain. He added a lot more, but thankfully, I didn’t pay attention to it then and don’t remember it now. I heard his sympathetic voice gradually fading away, but despite his size, he was surprisingly quiet. I didn’t notice when he opened or closed the door. After a moment of silence, I dared to open my eyes again—he was gone.

I called for Louis and retreated to my bathroom. Tepid water mixed with aromatic vinegar for myself, and a thorough fumigation for my study were the obvious precautions, and I took them. I’m pleased to say they worked. I enjoyed my usual nap and woke up feeling refreshed.

My first question was about the Count. Had we really managed to get rid of him? Yes—he had left on the afternoon train. Did he have lunch, and if so, what did he eat? Just fruit tart and cream. What a man! What a digestion!

Am I expected to say more? I don’t think so. I believe I’ve reached the limits of what I can share. The terrible events that occurred later, thankfully, did not happen in my presence. I sincerely hope no one is so heartless as to place any blame for those events on me. I did everything with the best intentions. I am not responsible for a tragic calamity that was impossible to foresee. I am shattered by it—I have suffered in ways no one else has. My servant, Louis (who is genuinely fond of me in his own clueless way), thinks I’ll never recover. He sees me dictating this now, with a handkerchief to my eyes. I want to clarify, in fairness to myself, that none of this was my fault, and I am completely exhausted and heartbroken. Do I need to say more?

THE STORY CONTINUED BY ELIZA MICHELSON

(Housekeeper at Blackwater Park)