The Woman in White (42 page)

He appeared to me as one among many other men, none of whose faces
I could plainly discern. They were all lying on the steps of an
immense ruined temple. Colossal tropical trees—with rank
creepers twining endlessly about their trunks, and hideous stone
idols glimmering and grinning at intervals behind leaves and
stalks and branches—surrounded the temple and shut out the sky,
and threw a dismal shadow over the forlorn band of men on the
steps. White exhalations twisted and curled up stealthily from
the ground, approached the men in wreaths like smoke, touched
them, and stretched them out dead, one by one, in the places where
they lay. An agony of pity and fear for Walter loosened my
tongue, and I implored him to escape. "Come back, come back!" I
said. "Remember your promise to HER and to ME. Come back to us
before the Pestilence reaches you and lays you dead like the
rest!"

He looked at me with an unearthly quiet in his face. "Wait," he
said, "I shall come back. The night when I met the lost Woman on
the highway was the night which set my life apart to be the
instrument of a Design that is yet unseen. Here, lost in the
wilderness, or there, welcomed back in the land of my birth, I am
still walking on the dark road which leads me, and you, and the
sister of your love and mine, to the unknown Retribution and the
inevitable End. Wait and look. The Pestilence which touches the
rest will pass ME."

I saw him again. He was still in the forest, and the numbers of
his lost companions had dwindled to very few. The temple was
gone, and the idols were gone—and in their place the figures of
dark, dwarfish men lurked murderously among the trees, with bows
in their hands, and arrows fitted to the string. Once more I
feared for Walter, and cried out to warn him. Once more he turned
to me, with the immovable quiet in his face.

"Another step," he said, "on the dark road. Wait and look. The
arrows that strike the rest will spare me."

I saw him for the third time in a wrecked ship, stranded on a
wild, sandy shore. The overloaded boats were making away from him
for the land, and he alone was left to sink with the ship. I
cried to him to hail the hindmost boat, and to make a last effort
for his life. The quiet face looked at me in return, and the
unmoved voice gave me back the changeless reply. "Another step on
the journey. Wait and look. The Sea which drowns the rest will
spare me."

I saw him for the last time. He was kneeling by a tomb of white
marble, and the shadow of a veiled woman rose out of the grave
beneath and waited by his side. The unearthly quiet of his face
had changed to an unearthly sorrow. But the terrible certainty of
his words remained the same. "Darker and darker," he said;
"farther and farther yet. Death takes the good, the beautiful,
and the young—and spares me. The Pestilence that wastes, the
Arrow that strikes, the Sea that drowns, the Grave that closes
over Love and Hope, are steps of my journey, and take me nearer
and nearer to the End."

My heart sank under a dread beyond words, under a grief beyond
tears. The darkness closed round the pilgrim at the marble tomb—
closed round the veiled woman from the grave—closed round the
dreamer who looked on them. I saw and heard no more.

I was aroused by a hand laid on my shoulder. It was Laura's.

She had dropped on her knees by the side of the sofa. Her face
was flushed and agitated, and her eyes met mine in a wild
bewildered manner. I started the instant I saw her.

"What has happened?" I asked. "What has frightened you?"

She looked round at the half-open door, put her lips close to my
ear, and answered in a whisper—

"Marian!—the figure at the lake—the footsteps last night—I've
just seen her! I've just spoken to her!"

"Who, for Heaven's sake?"

"Anne Catherick."

I was so startled by the disturbance in Laura's face and manner,
and so dismayed by the first waking impressions of my dream, that
I was not fit to bear the revelation which burst upon me when that
name passed her lips. I could only stand rooted to the floor,
looking at her in breathless silence.

She was too much absorbed by what had happened to notice the
effect which her reply had produced on me. "I have seen Anne
Catherick! I have spoken to Anne Catherick!" she repeated as if I
had not heard her. "Oh, Marian, I have such things to tell you!
Come away—we may be interrupted here—come at once into my room."

With those eager words she caught me by the hand, and led me
through the library, to the end room on the ground floor, which
had been fitted up for her own especial use. No third person,
except her maid, could have any excuse for surprising us here.
She pushed me in before her, locked the door, and drew the chintz
curtains that hung over the inside.

The strange, stunned feeling which had taken possession of me
still remained. But a growing conviction that the complications
which had long threatened to gather about her, and to gather about
me, had suddenly closed fast round us both, was now beginning to
penetrate my mind. I could not express it in words—I could
hardly even realise it dimly in my own thoughts. "Anne
Catherick!" I whispered to myself, with useless, helpless
reiteration—"Anne Catherick!"

Laura drew me to the nearest seat, an ottoman in the middle of the
room. "Look!" she said, "look here!"—and pointed to the bosom of
her dress.

I saw, for the first time, that the lost brooch was pinned in its
place again. There was something real in the sight of it,
something real in the touching of it afterwards, which seemed to
steady the whirl and confusion in my thoughts, and to help me to
compose myself.

"Where did you find your brooch?" The first words I could say to
her were the words which put that trivial question at that
important moment.

"SHE found it, Marian."

"Where?"

"On the floor of the boat-house. Oh, how shall I begin—how shall
I tell you about it! She talked to me so strangely—she looked so
fearfully ill—she left me so suddenly!"

Her voice rose as the tumult of her recollections pressed upon her
mind. The inveterate distrust which weighs, night and day, on my
spirits in this house, instantly roused me to warn her—just as
the sight of the brooch had roused me to question her, the moment
before.

"Speak low," I said. "The window is open, and the garden path
runs beneath it. Begin at the beginning, Laura. Tell me, word
for word, what passed between that woman and you."

"Shall I close the window?"

"No, only speak low—only remember that Anne Catherick is a
dangerous subject under your husband's roof. Where did you first
see her?"

"At the boat-house, Marian. I went out, as you know, to find my
brooch, and I walked along the path through the plantation,
looking down on the ground carefully at every step. In that way I
got on, after a long time, to the boat-house, and as soon as I was
inside it, I went on my knees to hunt over the floor. I was still
searching with my back to the doorway, when I heard a soft,
strange voice behind me say, 'Miss Fairlie.'"

"Miss Fairlie!"

"Yes, my old name—the dear, familiar name that I thought I had
parted from for ever. I started up—not frightened, the voice was
too kind and gentle to frighten anybody—but very much surprised.
There, looking at me from the doorway, stood a woman, whose face I
never remembered to have seen before—"

"How was she dressed?"

"She had a neat, pretty white gown on, and over it a poor worn
thin dark shawl. Her bonnet was of brown straw, as poor and worn
as the shawl. I was struck by the difference between her gown and
the rest of her dress, and she saw that I noticed it. 'Don't look
at my bonnet and shawl,' she said, speaking in a quick,
breathless, sudden way; 'if I mustn't wear white, I don't care
what I wear. Look at my gown as much as you please—I'm not
ashamed of that.' Very strange, was it not? Before I could say
anything to soothe her, she held out one of her hands, and I saw
my brooch in it. I was so pleased and so grateful, that I went
quite close to her to say what I really felt. 'Are you thankful
enough to do me one little kindness?' she asked. 'Yes, indeed,' I
answered, 'any kindness in my power I shall be glad to show you.'
'Then let me pin your brooch on for you, now I have found it.' Her
request was so unexpected, Marian, and she made it with such
extraordinary eagerness, that I drew back a step or two, not well
knowing what to do. 'Ah!' she said, 'your mother would have let
me pin on the brooch.' There was something in her voice and her
look, as well as in her mentioning my mother in that reproachful
manner, which made me ashamed of my distrust. I took her hand with
the brooch in it, and put it up gently on the bosom of my dress.
'You knew my mother?' I said. 'Was it very long ago? have I ever
seen you before?' Her hands were busy fastening the brooch: she
stopped and pressed them against my breast. 'You don't remember a
fine spring day at Limmeridge,' she said, 'and your mother walking
down the path that led to the school, with a little girl on each
side of her? I have had nothing else to think of since, and I
remember it. You were one of the little girls, and I was the
other. Pretty, clever Miss Fairlie, and poor dazed Anne Catherick
were nearer to each other then than they are now!'"

"Did you remember her, Laura, when she told you her name?"

"Yes, I remembered your asking me about Anne Catherick at
Limmeridge, and your saying that she had once been considered like
me."

"What reminded you of that, Laura?"

"SHE reminded me. While I was looking at her, while she was very
close to me, it came over my mind suddenly that we were like each
other! Her face was pale and thin and weary—but the sight of it
startled me, as if it had been the sight of my own face in the
glass after a long illness. The discovery—I don't know why—gave
me such a shock, that I was perfectly incapable of speaking to her
for the moment."

"Did she seem hurt by your silence?"

"I am afraid she was hurt by it. 'You have not got your mother's
face,' she said, 'or your mother's heart. Your mother's face was
dark, and your mother's heart, Miss Fairlie, was the heart of an
angel.' 'I am sure I feel kindly towards you,' I said, 'though I
may not be able to express it as I ought. Why do you call me Miss
Fairlie?—-' 'Because I love the name of Fairlie and hate the
name of Glyde,' she broke out violently. I had seen nothing like
madness in her before this, but I fancied I saw it now in her
eyes. 'I only thought you might not know I was married,' I said,
remembering the wild letter she wrote to me at Limmeridge, and
trying to quiet her. She sighed bitterly, and turned away from
me. 'Not know you were married?' she repeated. 'I am here
BECAUSE you are married. I am here to make atonement to you,
before I meet your mother in the world beyond the grave.' She drew
farther and farther away from me, till she was out of the boat-
house, and then she watched and listened for a little while. When
she turned round to speak again, instead of coming back, she
stopped where she was, looking in at me, with a hand on each side
of the entrance. 'Did you see me at the lake last night?' she
said. 'Did you hear me following you in the wood? I have been
waiting for days together to speak to you alone—I have left the
only friend I have in the world, anxious and frightened about me—
I have risked being shut up again in the mad-house—and all for
your sake, Miss Fairlie, all for your sake.' Her words alarmed me,
Marian, and yet there was something in the way she spoke that made
me pity her with all my heart. I am sure my pity must have been
sincere, for it made me bold enough to ask the poor creature to
come in, and sit down in the boat-house, by my side."

"Did she do so?"

"No. She shook her head, and told me she must stop where she was,
to watch and listen, and see that no third person surprised us.
And from first to last, there she waited at the entrance, with a
hand on each side of it, sometimes bending in suddenly to speak to
me, sometimes drawing back suddenly to look about her. 'I was
here yesterday,' she said, 'before it came dark, and I heard you,
and the lady with you, talking together. I heard you tell her
about your husband. I heard you say you had no influence to make
him believe you, and no influence to keep him silent. Ah! I knew
what those words meant—my conscience told me while I was
listening. Why did I ever let you marry him! Oh, my fear—my mad,
miserable, wicked fear!—'She covered up her face in her poor worn
shawl, and moaned and murmured to herself behind it. I began to
be afraid she might break out into some terrible despair which
neither she nor I could master. 'Try to quiet yourself,' I said;
'try to tell me how you might have prevented my marriage.' She
took the shawl from her face, and looked at me vacantly. 'I ought
to have had heart enough to stop at Limmeridge,' she answered. 'I
ought never to have let the news of his coming there frighten me
away. I ought to have warned you and saved you before it was too
late. Why did I only have courage enough to write you that
letter? Why did I only do harm, when I wanted and meant to do
good? Oh, my fear—my mad, miserable, wicked fear! 'She repeated
those words again, and hid her face again in the end of her poor
worn shawl. It was dreadful to see her, and dreadful to hear
her."

"Surely, Laura, you asked what the fear was which she dwelt on so
earnestly?"

"Yes, I asked that."

"And what did she say?"

"She asked me in return, if I should not be afraid of a man who
had shut me up in a mad-house, and who would shut me up again, if
he could? I said, 'Are you afraid still? Surely you would not be
here if you were afraid now?' 'No,' she said, 'I am not afraid
now.' I asked why not. She suddenly bent forward into the boat-
house, and said, 'Can't you guess why?' I shook my head. 'Look at
me,' she went on. I told her I was grieved to see that she looked
very sorrowful and very ill. She smiled for the first time.
'Ill?' she repeated; 'I'm dying. You know why I'm not afraid of
him now. Do you think I shall meet your mother in heaven? Will
she forgive me if I do?' I was so shocked and so startled, that I
could make no reply. 'I have been thinking of it,' she went on,
'all the time I have been in hiding from your husband, all the
time I lay ill. My thoughts have driven me here—I want to make
atonement—I want to undo all I can of the harm I once did.' I
begged her as earnestly as I could to tell me what she meant. She
still looked at me with fixed vacant eyes. 'SHALL I undo the
harm?' she said to herself doubtfully. 'You have friends to take
your part. If YOU know his Secret, he will be afraid of you, he
won't dare use you as he used me. He must treat you mercifully
for his own sake, if he is afraid of you and your friends. And if
he treats you mercifully, and if I can say it was my doing—-' I
listened eagerly for more, but she stopped at those words."