II (2/3)

by Wilkie Collins

She spoke those words with a tone and a look that brought tears to my eyes—like she was saying goodbye forever.

“Goodbye, my lady,” I said, helping her into the carriage, trying to sound cheerful. “Goodbye, just for now; goodbye, with my best wishes for happier times ahead.”

She shook her head, shivering as she settled into her seat. The guard closed the door. “Do you believe in dreams?” she whispered to me through the window. “Last night’s dreams were unlike any I’ve ever had. The fear of them still lingers over me.” The whistle blew before I could respond, and the train began to move. Her pale, quiet face looked at me one last time—sorrowful and solemn from the window. She waved her hand, and then she was gone.

Later that afternoon, around five o’clock, I found a moment to myself amid the household duties that had begun to weigh on me. I sat alone in my room, hoping to calm my mind with my husband’s collection of sermons. For the first time, I found my thoughts drifting away from those comforting words. Realizing that Lady Glyde’s departure had affected me more deeply than I had realized, I set the book aside and decided to take a walk in the garden. Sir Percival hadn’t returned yet, so I felt no hesitation about stepping outside.

As I rounded the corner of the house and caught sight of the garden, I was startled to see a stranger walking there. It was a woman—she was casually strolling along the path, her back to me, gathering flowers.

As I approached, she turned to face me.

My heart raced. The stranger in the garden was Mrs. Rubelle!

I was frozen, unable to move or speak. She walked up to me, as calm as ever, flowers in hand.

“What’s the matter, ma’am?” she asked, her tone unfazed.

“You’re here!” I gasped. “You didn’t go to London? Or to Cumberland?”

Mrs. Rubelle smiled, inhaling the scent of her flowers with a hint of malicious pity.

“Certainly not,” she replied. “I’ve never left Blackwater Park.”

I gathered enough breath and courage for another question.

“Where is Miss Halcombe?”

Mrs. Rubelle laughed at my inquiry, responding with a smirk, “Miss Halcombe hasn’t left Blackwater Park either.”

That shocking revelation sent my thoughts racing back to my farewell with Lady Glyde. I can’t say I blamed myself, but in that moment, I would have given anything to have known just four hours earlier what I now understood.

Mrs. Rubelle continued to arrange her bouquet, seemingly waiting for me to say something.

But I was speechless. I thought of Lady Glyde’s frail health and exhausted spirit, and I trembled at the thought of how she would react to this news. For a minute or more, my worries for the two ladies silenced me. Finally, Mrs. Rubelle glanced up from her flowers and said, “Here comes Sir Percival, ma’am, back from his ride.”

I spotted him as soon as she did. He approached us, swinging his riding whip and striking at the flowers. When he got close enough to see my face, he stopped, hit his boot with the whip, and burst into a harsh, raucous laugh that startled the birds from the nearby tree.

“Well, Mrs. Michelson,” he said, “you’ve figured it out at last, have you?”

I didn’t respond. He turned to Mrs. Rubelle.

“When did you come out to the garden?”

“I came out about half an hour ago, sir. You said I could take my liberty as soon as Lady Glyde left for London.”

“Quite right. I don’t blame you—I just wanted to know.” He paused, then turned back to me. “You can’t believe it, can you?” he said mockingly. “Come along and see for yourself.”

He led the way around to the front of the house, and I followed him, with Mrs. Rubelle trailing behind. After passing through the iron gates, he stopped and pointed with his whip at the unused middle wing of the building.

“There!” he said. “Look up at the first floor. You know the old Elizabethan bedrooms? Miss Halcombe is snug and safe in one of the best of them right now. Take her in, Mrs. Rubelle (you have your key?), and let Mrs. Michelson see for herself that there’s no trickery this time.”

The way he spoke to me, along with the few moments that had passed since we left the garden, helped me regain some composure. I couldn’t say what I might have done at that critical moment if my life had been spent in servitude. But with the upbringing and principles of a lady, I knew I had to act decisively. My duty to myself and to Lady Glyde made it clear that I couldn’t stay employed by a man who had so shamelessly deceived us both with a string of outrageous lies.

“Sir Percival, may I have a moment to speak with you privately?” I said. “Once we’ve spoken, I’ll be ready to take this person to Miss Halcombe’s room.”

Mrs. Rubelle, whom I indicated with a slight nod, sniffed at her flowers with a haughty air and strolled away toward the house.

“Well?” Sir Percival snapped. “What is it now?”

“I want to inform you, Sir Percival, that I intend to resign my position at Blackwater Park.” That was how I put it. I was determined that my first words in his presence would clearly express my intention to leave.

He glared at me with one of his darkest expressions, shoving his hands angrily into the pockets of his riding coat.

“Why?” he demanded. “Why do you want to leave?”

“It’s not my place to comment on what’s happened in this house. I don’t wish to offend anyone. I simply feel that it’s not right for me to remain in your service, considering my duty to Lady Glyde and to myself.”

“Is it part of your duty to stand there and cast suspicion on me?” he erupted, his voice rising in anger. “I see what you’re getting at. You’ve twisted an innocent deception aimed at Lady Glyde’s well-being into something sinister. She needed a change of air for her health, and you know she would never have agreed to leave if she’d known Miss Halcombe was still here. She’s been misled for her own good—and I don’t care who knows it. Go ahead and leave—there are plenty of housekeepers just as good as you. But be careful about spreading rumors about me and my affairs once you’re out of my service. Speak only the truth, or you’ll regret it! Go see Miss Halcombe for yourself—check if she hasn’t been well looked after in this house. Remember the doctor’s orders that Lady Glyde needed to get away as soon as possible. Keep all that in mind, and then dare to say anything against me!”

He spat out these words, pacing back and forth, waving his whip in the air.

Nothing he said or did could change my mind about the disgraceful lies he had told me the day before, or the cruel deception that had separated Lady Glyde from her sister and sent her off to London, all while she was in a state of distress over Miss Halcombe. I kept these thoughts to myself and chose not to provoke him further, but my resolve to leave remained firm. A gentle response can defuse anger, so I held back my feelings when it was my turn to speak.

“While I’m in your service, Sir Percival, I trust I know my duty well enough not to question your motives. Once I’m out of your service, I hope I know my place well enough not to discuss matters that don’t concern me—”

“When do you want to leave?” he interrupted me, cutting me off without ceremony. “Don’t think I’m eager to keep you—don’t think I care if you leave. I’m being completely straightforward about this. When do you want to go?”

“I would like to leave at your earliest convenience, Sir Percival.”

“My convenience doesn’t matter here. I’ll be out of the house for good tomorrow morning, and I can settle your accounts tonight. If you’re concerned about anyone’s convenience, you should think about Miss Halcombe’s. Mrs. Rubelle’s time is up today, and she has her own reasons for wanting to be in London tonight. If you leave now, Miss Halcombe won’t have anyone left here to look after her.”

I hope it’s clear that I couldn’t possibly abandon Miss Halcombe in the crisis that had befallen both her and Lady Glyde. After confirming with Sir Percival that Mrs. Rubelle would leave immediately if I took her place, and securing permission for Mr. Dawson to return to his patient, I agreed to stay at Blackwater Park until Miss Halcombe no longer needed my help. We decided that I would give Sir Percival’s solicitor a week’s notice before I left, and he would handle finding my replacement. The conversation was brief. Once we finished, Sir Percival abruptly turned away, leaving me to join Mrs. Rubelle, who had been patiently waiting on the doorstep for me to follow her to Miss Halcombe’s room.

I barely made it halfway to the house when Sir Percival, who had walked off in the opposite direction, suddenly stopped and called me back.

“Why are you leaving my service?” he asked.

His question was so unexpected, especially after our earlier conversation, that I struggled to find a response.

“Just so you know, I don’t understand why you’re going,” he continued. “You’ll need to provide a reason when you find another job. What will it be? The family breaking apart? Is that it?”

“I can’t deny that’s a valid reason, Sir Percival—”

“Good! That’s all I needed to hear. If anyone inquires about your character, that’s your reason, as stated by you. You’re leaving because of the family’s disintegration.”

He turned away again before I could say anything more, striding quickly into the grounds. His behavior was as unsettling as his words, and I couldn’t shake the feeling of unease.

Mrs. Rubelle’s patience was wearing thin by the time I rejoined her at the door.

“Finally!” she exclaimed, shrugging her slender shoulders. She led me into the occupied part of the house, climbed the stairs, and unlocked a door at the end of the hallway that connected to the old Elizabethan rooms—a door I had never used during my time at Blackwater Park. I was familiar with those rooms, having accessed them from the other side of the house on several occasions. Mrs. Rubelle stopped at the third door along the old gallery, handed me the key, and told me I would find Miss Halcombe inside. Before entering, I felt it necessary to clarify that her attendance was no longer required. I informed her plainly that the care of the sick lady was now entirely my responsibility.

“I’m glad to hear it, ma’am,” Mrs. Rubelle replied. “I’m eager to leave.”

“Are you leaving today?” I asked, wanting to confirm.

“Now that you’ve taken charge, ma’am, I’ll be leaving in half an hour. Sir Percival has kindly arranged for the gardener and a carriage whenever I need them. I’ll need them in half an hour to get to the station. I’m already packed. Good day to you, ma’am.”

She gave a quick curtsy and walked back down the gallery, humming a cheerful tune and keeping time with the small bouquet in her hand. I was genuinely relieved that was the last I saw of Mrs. Rubelle.

When I entered the room, Miss Halcombe was asleep. I looked at her with concern as she lay in the dreary, high, old-fashioned bed. She hadn’t changed for the worse since I last saw her. It was clear she hadn’t been neglected in any way I could see. The room was gloomy, dusty, and dark, but the window—overlooking a lonely courtyard at the back of the house—was open to let in fresh air, and everything possible had been done to make her comfortable. The full weight of Sir Percival’s deception had fallen on poor Lady Glyde. As far as I could tell, the only mistreatment Miss Halcombe had suffered from either him or Mrs. Rubelle was the initial act of hiding her away.

I quietly slipped out, leaving the sick lady peacefully asleep, to instruct the gardener about bringing the doctor. I asked him, after he dropped Mrs. Rubelle at the station, to swing by Mr. Dawson’s and leave a message for him to come see me. I knew he would come for my sake, and I was certain he would stay once he realized Count Fosco had left the house.

Eventually, the gardener returned and informed me that he had stopped by Mr. Dawson’s after dropping off Mrs. Rubelle. The doctor sent word that he was feeling unwell himself but would try to come by the next morning if he could.

After delivering his message, the gardener was about to leave, but I stopped him, asking if he could return before dark and stay in one of the empty bedrooms that night, just in case I needed him. He quickly understood my reluctance to be alone in that desolate part of the house, and we agreed he would come back between eight and nine.

He arrived right on time, and I was grateful for my decision to call him in. Before midnight, Sir Percival’s strange mood erupted in a violent and alarming way. If the gardener hadn’t been there to calm him down immediately, I shudder to think what might have happened.

All afternoon and evening, Sir Percival had been pacing around the house and grounds, clearly agitated. I suspected he had indulged in too much wine during his solitary dinner. Whatever the reason, I heard him shouting angrily in the new wing of the house while I was pacing back and forth along the gallery late that night. The gardener rushed down to him, and I closed the door to keep the commotion from reaching Miss Halcombe.

It was nearly half an hour before the gardener returned. He told me that Sir Percival was completely out of his mind—not from drunkenness, as I had thought, but from a kind of panic or frenzy that was impossible to explain. The gardener found him pacing alone in the hall, swearing with a fury that suggested he could hardly contain himself. Sir Percival insisted he wouldn’t spend another minute alone in his “dungeon” of a house and declared he would leave immediately in the middle of the night. The gardener had been forced to rush off, amidst oaths and threats, to get the horse and carriage ready.

In just fifteen minutes, Sir Percival had joined him in the yard, jumped into the carriage, and driven off at a gallop, his face pale as ashes in the moonlight. The gardener heard him shouting at the lodge-keeper to get up and open the gate, and then he heard the wheels clattering away into the still night once the gate was unlocked. After that, he had no idea what happened next.

A day or two later, I can’t remember exactly when, the carriage was returned from Knowlesbury, our nearest town, by the stable hand from the old inn. Sir Percival had stopped there before leaving by train, but the man couldn’t say where he was headed. I never received any further information about Sir Percival’s whereabouts or actions, and I still don’t know if he’s in England or abroad. Since that night he drove away like a fugitive from his own home, we haven’t crossed paths, and I sincerely hope we never will again.

As for my part in this tragic family saga, it’s coming to a close.

I’ve been told that the details of Miss Halcombe waking up and what transpired between us when she found me by her bedside aren’t crucial to the story I’m telling. It’s enough to say that she wasn’t aware of how she had been moved from the inhabited part of the house to the uninhabited section. She had been in a deep sleep at the time, whether naturally or artificially induced, she couldn’t say. While I was away in Torquay and with all the resident servants absent except for Margaret Porcher—who was either eating, drinking, or sleeping when she wasn’t working—the secret transfer of Miss Halcombe was likely easy to accomplish.

Mrs. Rubelle, as I discovered while searching the room, had provisions and all the necessities, including ways to heat water and broth without starting a fire, at her disposal during those few days of confinement with the sick lady. She had declined to answer Miss Halcombe’s questions but hadn’t treated her with cruelty or neglect. The only disgrace I can honestly attribute to Mrs. Rubelle is her complicity in a vile deception.

I don’t need to go into detail about how Miss Halcombe reacted to the news of Lady Glyde’s departure, or the even more sorrowful news that followed shortly after at Blackwater Park. I had prepared her for both events as gently as I could, guided by the doctor’s advice, especially since Mr. Dawson was too unwell to visit us for several days after I called for him. It was a difficult time, one that still pains me to think about or write down. The comforting words I tried to share took a while to reach Miss Halcombe’s heart, but I hope they eventually found their way to her. I stayed by her side until she regained her strength. The train that took me away from that miserable house also carried her away. We parted sadly in London. I stayed with a relative in Islington, while she continued on to Mr. Fairlie’s home in Cumberland.

I have just a few more lines to write before I conclude this painful account. They come from a sense of duty.

First, I want to make it clear that I believe Count Fosco bears no blame for the events I’ve just described. I’ve heard that a terrible suspicion has arisen, and that serious accusations are being made about his behavior. However, I remain convinced of the Count’s innocence. If he helped Sir Percival send me to Torquay, it was under a misunderstanding for which he should not be held responsible, given that he is a foreigner and a stranger. If he was involved in bringing Mrs. Rubelle to Blackwater Park, that was unfortunate, not his fault, especially since that foreign woman chose to aid a deception orchestrated by the master of the house. I firmly believe it is unjust to place blame on the Count’s actions without cause.

Secondly, I regret my inability to recall the exact day Lady Glyde left Blackwater Park for London. I understand how crucial it is to determine the precise date of that unfortunate journey, and I’ve tried hard to remember it. Unfortunately, my efforts have been in vain. All I can recall is that it was toward the end of July. We all know how difficult it can be to pinpoint a past date after some time has passed, especially if it hasn’t been recorded. This difficulty is compounded in my case by the alarming and confusing events surrounding Lady Glyde’s departure. I sincerely wish I had made a note of the date. I wish my memory of it was as clear as my memory of that poor lady’s face when she looked at me sadly for the last time from the carriage window.

THE STORY CONTINUES IN SEVERAL NARRATIVES

1. THE NARRATIVE OF HESTER PINHORN, COOK IN THE SERVICE OF COUNT FOSCO

[Taken from her own statement]

I regret to say that I’ve never learned to read or write. I’ve been a hardworking woman all my life and have maintained a good reputation. I know it’s wrong to speak falsely, and I promise to be truthful in what I say. I will share everything I know, and I kindly ask the gentleman writing this down to correct my language as he goes along and to be understanding of my lack of education.

Last summer, I found myself out of work (through no fault of my own) and heard about a position as a plain cook at Number Five, Forest Road, St. John’s Wood. I took the job on a trial basis. My master’s name was Fosco, and my mistress was an English lady. He was a Count, and she was a Countess. There was a girl doing housemaid’s work when I arrived. She wasn’t particularly clean or tidy, but she meant no harm. We were the only two servants in the house.

Our master and mistress arrived after we settled in, and as soon as they did, we were informed downstairs that company was expected from the country.

The visitor was my mistress’s niece, Lady Glyde, and we prepared the back bedroom on the first floor for her arrival. My mistress warned me that Lady Glyde was in poor health, so I needed to be especially careful with my cooking. She was supposed to arrive that day, as far as I can remember—but don’t rely too much on my memory for details like that. I’m afraid I’m not great with dates, and unless it’s Sunday, I often lose track of time, being a hardworking woman and not much of a scholar.

All I know is that Lady Glyde did arrive, and when she did, she certainly startled us all. I’m not sure how my master managed to bring her home since he was busy with work at the time. But I believe he brought her in the afternoon, and the housemaid opened the door for them, leading them into the parlor. Before long, she was back in the kitchen with me when we heard a commotion upstairs—the parlor bell ringing frantically and my mistress calling out for help.

We both rushed upstairs and found Lady Glyde collapsed on the sofa, her face pale and her hands clenched tightly, her head tilted to one side. My mistress said she had been struck by a sudden fright, and my master informed us that she was having convulsions. I dashed out, knowing the neighborhood better than the others, to fetch the nearest doctor. The closest help was at Goodricke’s and Garth’s, who were partners with a good reputation in St. John’s Wood. Mr. Goodricke was in, and he came back with me right away.

It took him some time to be of much assistance. The poor lady kept slipping from one fit into another, exhausting herself until she was as helpless as a newborn. We managed to get her into bed, and Mr. Goodricke left to fetch some medicine, returning in less than fifteen minutes. Along with the medicine, he brought a piece of hollow mahogany shaped like a trumpet. After waiting a moment, he placed one end over Lady Glyde’s heart and the other to his ear, listening intently.

When he finished, he turned to my mistress, who was still in the room. “This is a very serious case,” he said. “I recommend you contact Lady Glyde’s friends immediately.” My mistress asked, “Is it heart disease?” He confirmed, “Yes, it’s a very dangerous kind of heart disease.” He explained what he believed was wrong, though I didn’t fully grasp it. But I remember him saying he feared neither his help nor that of any other doctor would be of much use.

My mistress took the bad news more calmly than my master. He was a large, peculiar older man who kept birds and white mice, speaking to them as if they were children. He seemed deeply affected by what had happened. “Ah! Poor Lady Glyde! Poor dear Lady Glyde!” he lamented, pacing around and wringing his hands like a dramatic actor rather than a gentleman. For every question my mistress asked the doctor about the lady’s chances of recovery, he must have asked at least fifty in return. I swear he nearly drove us all mad, and when he finally quieted down, he went out into the small back garden, picking tiny little bouquets and asking me to take them upstairs to make the sickroom look nice. As if that would help. Sometimes I thought he must have been a bit soft in the head. But he wasn’t a bad master—he had a polite way of speaking and a cheerful, coaxing manner. I liked him much more than my mistress, who was as tough as they come.

As night fell, Lady Glyde began to stir a little. Before that, she had been so exhausted from the convulsions that she hadn’t moved or spoken at all. Now, she shifted in bed and looked around the room at us. She must have been a lovely woman when she was well, with light hair and blue eyes. My mistress, who stayed up with her, told me that her rest was troubled through the night. I only went in once before bed to see if I could help, and then she was talking to herself in a confused, rambling way. It seemed she desperately wanted to speak to someone who was not there. I couldn’t catch the name the first time, and the second time, my master knocked at the door, bringing his usual barrage of questions along with another of his little bouquets.

The next morning, when I arrived early, the lady looked completely exhausted again, lying in a faint sleep. Mr. Goodricke had brought his partner, Mr. Garth, along for advice. They insisted that she must not be disturbed while she rested. From across the room, they asked my mistress a series of questions about the lady’s health history, who had cared for her, and whether she had ever experienced prolonged distress. I remember my mistress answering “Yes” to that last question.

At that, Mr. Goodricke exchanged a concerned glance with Mr. Garth, both shaking their heads. It seemed they believed her emotional struggles might be connected to the issues with her heart. She looked so fragile, that poor thing! I would say she had very little strength at any time—just so frail.

Later that morning, when she finally woke up, there was a sudden change, and she appeared to improve significantly. I wasn’t allowed back in to see her, nor was the housemaid, as they wanted to keep her undisturbed by strangers. The news of her improvement reached me through my master. He was in remarkably good spirits about the change and peeked in at the kitchen window from the garden, wearing his large, curly-brimmed white hat as he prepared to head out.