The Woman in White (55 page)

Sir Percival and the Count came in the morning to make their
inquiries.

Sir Percival (from distress, I presume, at his lady's affliction
and at Miss Halcombe's illness) appeared much confused and
unsettled in his mind. His lordship testified, on the contrary, a
becoming composure and interest. He had his straw hat in one hand,
and his book in the other, and he mentioned to Sir Percival in my
hearing that he would go out again and study at the lake. "Let us
keep the house quiet," he said. "Let us not smoke indoors, my
friend, now Miss Halcombe is ill. You go your way, and I will go
mine. When I study I like to be alone. Good-morning, Mrs.
Michelson."

Sir Percival was not civil enough—perhaps I ought in justice to
say, not composed enough—to take leave of me with the same polite
attention. The only person in the house, indeed, who treated me,
at that time or at any other, on the footing of a lady in
distressed circumstances, was the Count. He had the manners of a
true nobleman—he was considerate towards every one. Even the
young person (Fanny by name) who attended on Lady Glyde was not
beneath his notice. When she was sent away by Sir Percival, his
lordship (showing me his sweet little birds at the time) was most
kindly anxious to know what had become of her, where she was to go
the day she left Blackwater Park, and so on. It is in such little
delicate attentions that the advantages of aristocratic birth
always show themselves. I make no apology for introducing these
particulars—they are brought forward in justice to his lordship,
whose character, I have reason to know, is viewed rather harshly
in certain quarters. A nobleman who can respect a lady in
distressed circumstances, and can take a fatherly interest in the
fortunes of an humble servant girl, shows principles and feelings
of too high an order to be lightly called in question. I advance
no opinions—I offer facts only. My endeavour through life is to
judge not that I be not judged. One of my beloved husband's
finest sermons was on that text. I read it constantly—in my own
copy of the edition printed by subscription, in the first days of
my widowhood—and at every fresh perusal I derive an increase of
spiritual benefit and edification.

There was no improvement in Miss Halcombe, and the second night
was even worse than the first. Mr. Dawson was constant in his
attendance. The practical duties of nursing were still divided
between the Countess and myself, Lady Glyde persisting in sitting
up with us, though we both entreated her to take some rest. "My
place is by Marian's bedside," was her only answer. "Whether I am
ill, or well, nothing will induce me to lose sight of her."

Towards midday I went downstairs to attend to some of my regular
duties. An hour afterwards, on my way back to the sick-room, I
saw the Count (who had gone out again early, for the third time)
entering the hall, to all appearance in the highest good spirits.
Sir Percival, at the same moment, put his head out of the library
door, and addressed his noble friend, with extreme eagerness, in
these words—

"Have you found her?"

His lordship's large face became dimpled all over with placid
smiles, but he made no reply in words. At the same time Sir
Percival turned his head, observed that I was approaching the
stairs, and looked at me in the most rudely angry manner possible.

"Come in here and tell me about it," he said to the Count.
"Whenever there are women in a house they're always sure to be
going up or down stairs."

"My dear Percival," observed his lordship kindly, "Mrs. Michelson
has duties. Pray recognise her admirable performance of them as
sincerely as I do! How is the sufferer, Mrs. Michelson?"

"No better, my lord, I regret to say."

"Sad—most sad!" remarked the Count. "You look fatigued, Mrs.
Michelson. It is certainly time you and my wife had some help in
nursing. I think I may be the means of offering you that help.
Circumstances have happened which will oblige Madame Fosco to
travel to London either to-morrow or the day after. She will go
away in the morning and return at night, and she will bring back
with her, to relieve you, a nurse of excellent conduct and
capacity, who is now disengaged. The woman is known to my wife as
a person to be trusted. Before she comes here say nothing about
her, if you please, to the doctor, because he will look with an
evil eye on any nurse of my providing. When she appears in this
house she will speak for herself, and Mr. Dawson will be obliged
to acknowledge that there is no excuse for not employing her.
Lady Glyde will say the same. Pray present my best respects and
sympathies to Lady Glyde."

I expressed my grateful acknowledgments for his lordship's kind
consideration. Sir Percival cut them short by calling to his
noble friend (using, I regret to say, a profane expression) to
come into the library, and not to keep him waiting there any
longer.

I proceeded upstairs. We are poor erring creatures, and however
well established a woman's principles may be she cannot always
keep on her guard against the temptation to exercise an idle
curiosity. I am ashamed to say that an idle curiosity, on this
occasion, got the better of my principles, and made me unduly
inquisitive about the question which Sir Percival had addressed to
his noble friend at the library door. Who was the Count expected
to find in the course of his studious morning rambles at
Blackwater Park? A woman, it was to be presumed, from the terms of
Sir Percival's inquiry. I did not suspect the Count of any
impropriety—I knew his moral character too well. The only
question I asked myself was—Had he found her?

To resume. The night passed as usual without producing any change
for the better in Miss Halcombe. The next day she seemed to
improve a little. The day after that her ladyship the Countess,
without mentioning the object of her journey to any one in my
hearing, proceeded by the morning train to London—her noble
husband, with his customary attention, accompanying her to the
station.

I was now left in sole charge of Miss Halcombe, with every
apparent chance, in consequence of her sister's resolution not to
leave the bedside, of having Lady Glyde herself to nurse next.

The only circumstance of any importance that happened in the
course of the day was the occurrence of another unpleasant meeting
between the doctor and the Count.

His lordship, on returning from the station, stepped up into Miss
Halcombe's sitting-room to make his inquiries. I went out from
the bedroom to speak to him, Mr. Dawson and Lady Glyde being both
with the patient at the time. The Count asked me many questions
about the treatment and the symptoms. I informed him that the
treatment was of the kind described as "saline," and that the
symptoms, between the attacks of fever, were certainly those of
increasing weakness and exhaustion. Just as I was mentioning
these last particulars, Mr. Dawson came out from the bedroom.

"Good-morning, sir," said his lordship, stepping forward in the
most urbane manner, and stopping the doctor, with a high-bred
resolution impossible to resist, "I greatly fear you find no
improvement in the symptoms to-day?"

"I find decided improvement," answered Mr. Dawson.

"You still persist in your lowering treatment of this case of
fever?" continued his lordship.

"I persist in the treatment which is justified by my own
professional experience," said Mr. Dawson.

"Permit me to put one question to you on the vast subject of
professional experience," observed the Count. "I presume to offer
no more advice—I only presume to make an inquiry. You live at
some distance, sir, from the gigantic centres of scientific
activity—London and Paris. Have you ever heard of the wasting
effects of fever being reasonably and intelligibly repaired by
fortifying the exhausted patient with brandy, wine, ammonia, and
quinine? Has that new heresy of the highest medical authorities
ever reached your ears—Yes or No?"

"When a professional man puts that question to me I shall be glad
to answer him," said the doctor, opening the door to go out. "You
are not a professional man, and I beg to decline answering you."

Buffeted in this inexcusably uncivil way on one cheek, the Count,
like a practical Christian, immediately turned the other, and
said, in the sweetest manner, "Good-morning, Mr. Dawson."

If my late beloved husband had been so fortunate as to know his
lordship, how highly he and the Count would have esteemed each
other!

Her ladyship the Countess returned by the last train that night,
and brought with her the nurse from London. I was instructed that
this person's name was Mrs. Rubelle. Her personal appearance, and
her imperfect English when she spoke, informed me that she was a
foreigner.

I have always cultivated a feeling of humane indulgence for
foreigners. They do not possess our blessings and advantages, and
they are, for the most part, brought up in the blind errors of
Popery. It has also always been my precept and practice, as it
was my dear husband's precept and practice before me (see Sermon
XXIX. in the Collection by the late Rev. Samuel Michelson, M.A.),
to do as I would be done by. On both these accounts I will not
say that Mrs. Rubelle struck me as being a small, wiry, sly
person, of fifty or thereabouts, with a dark brown or Creole
complexion and watchful light grey eyes. Nor will I mention, for
the reasons just alleged, that I thought her dress, though it was
of the plainest black silk, inappropriately costly in texture and
unnecessarily refined in trimming and finish, for a person in her
position in life. I should not like these things to be said of
me, and therefore it is my duty not to say them of Mrs. Rubelle.
I will merely mention that her manners were, not perhaps
unpleasantly reserved, but only remarkably quiet and retiring—
that she looked about her a great deal, and said very little,
which might have arisen quite as much from her own modesty as from
distrust of her position at Blackwater Park; and that she declined
to partake of supper (which was curious perhaps, but surely not
suspicious?), although I myself politely invited her to that meal
in my own room.

At the Count's particular suggestion (so like his lordship's
forgiving kindness!), it was arranged that Mrs. Rubelle should not
enter on her duties until she had been seen and approved by the
doctor the next morning. I sat up that night. Lady Glyde
appeared to be very unwilling that the new nurse should be
employed to attend on Miss Halcombe. Such want of liberality
towards a foreigner on the part of a lady of her education and
refinement surprised me. I ventured to say, "My lady, we must all
remember not to be hasty in our judgments on our inferiors—
especially when they come from foreign parts." Lady Glyde did not
appear to attend to me. She only sighed, and kissed Miss
Halcombe's hand as it lay on the counterpane. Scarcely a
judicious proceeding in a sick-room, with a patient whom it was
highly desirable not to excite. But poor Lady Glyde knew nothing
of nursing—nothing whatever, I am sorry to say.

The next morning Mrs. Rubelle was sent to the sitting-room, to be
approved by the doctor on his way through to the bedroom.

I left Lady Glyde with Miss Halcombe, who was slumbering at the
time, and joined Mrs. Rubelle, with the object of kindly
preventing her from feeling strange and nervous in consequence of
the uncertainty of her situation. She did not appear to see it in
that light. She seemed to be quite satisfied, beforehand, that
Mr. Dawson would approve of her, and she sat calmly looking out of
window, with every appearance of enjoying the country air. Some
people might have thought such conduct suggestive of brazen
assurance. I beg to say that I more liberally set it down to
extraordinary strength of mind.

Instead of the doctor coming up to us, I was sent for to see the
doctor. I thought this change of affairs rather odd, but Mrs.
Rubelle did not appear to be affected by it in any way. I left
her still calmly looking out of the window, and still silently
enjoying the country air.

Mr. Dawson was waiting for me by himself in the breakfast-room.

"About this new nurse, Mrs. Michelson," said the doctor.

"Yes, sir?"

"I find that she has been brought here from London by the wife of
that fat old foreigner, who is always trying to interfere with me.
Mrs. Michelson, the fat old foreigner is a quack."

This was very rude. I was naturally shocked at it.

"Are you aware, sir," I said, "that you are talking of a
nobleman?"

"Pooh! He isn't the first quack with a handle to his name.
They're all Counts—hang 'em!"

"He would not be a friend of Sir Percival Glyde's, sir, if he was
not a member of the highest aristocracy—excepting the English
aristocracy, of course."

"Very well, Mrs. Michelson, call him what you like, and let us get
back to the nurse. I have been objecting to her already."

"Without having seen her, sir?"

"Yes, without having seen her. She may be the best nurse in
existence, but she is not a nurse of my providing. I have put
that objection to Sir Percival, as the master of the house. He
doesn't support me. He says a nurse of my providing would have
been a stranger from London also, and he thinks the woman ought to
have a trial, after his wife's aunt has taken the trouble to fetch
her from London. There is some justice in that, and I can't
decently say No. But I have made it a condition that she is to go
at once, if I find reason to complain of her. This proposal being
one which I have some right to make, as medical attendant, Sir
Percival has consented to it. Now, Mrs. Michelson, I know I can
depend on you, and I want you to keep a sharp eye on the nurse for
the first day or two, and to see that she gives Miss Halcombe no
medicines but mine. This foreign nobleman of yours is dying to
try his quack remedies (mesmerism included) on my patient, and a
nurse who is brought here by his wife may be a little too willing
to help him. You understand? Very well, then, we may go upstairs.
Is the nurse there? I'll say a word to her before she goes into
the sick-room."