The Woman in White (74 page)

The train left me at Welmingham early in the afternoon.

Is there any wilderness of sand in the deserts of Arabia, is there
any prospect of desolation among the ruins of Palestine, which can
rival the repelling effect on the eye, and the depressing
influence on the mind, of an English country town in the first
stage of its existence, and in the transition state of its
prosperity? I asked myself that question as I passed through the
clean desolation, the neat ugliness, the prim torpor of the
streets of Welmingham. And the tradesmen who stared after me from
their lonely shops—the trees that drooped helpless in their arid
exile of unfinished crescents and squares—the dead house-
carcasses that waited in vain for the vivifying human element to
animate them with the breath of life—every creature that I saw,
every object that I passed, seemed to answer with one accord: The
deserts of Arabia are innocent of our civilised desolation—the
ruins of Palestine are incapable of our modern gloom!

I inquired my way to the quarter of the town in which Mrs.
Catherick lived, and on reaching it found myself in a square of
small houses, one story high. There was a bare little plot of
grass in the middle, protected by a cheap wire fence. An elderly
nursemaid and two children were standing in a corner of the
enclosure, looking at a lean goat tethered to the grass. Two
foot-passengers were talking together on one side of the pavement
before the houses, and an idle little boy was leading an idle
little dog along by a string on the other. I heard the dull
tinkling of a piano at a distance, accompanied by the intermittent
knocking of a hammer nearer at hand. These were all the sights
and sounds of life that encountered me when I entered the square.

I walked at once to the door of Number Thirteen—the number of
Mrs. Catherick's house—and knocked, without waiting to consider
beforehand how I might best present myself when I got in. The
first necessity was to see Mrs. Catherick. I could then judge,
from my own observation, of the safest and easiest manner of
approaching the object of my visit.

The door was opened by a melancholy middle-aged woman servant. I
gave her my card, and asked if I could see Mrs. Catherick. The
card was taken into the front parlour, and the servant returned
with a message requesting me to mention what my business was.

"Say, if you please, that my business relates to Mrs. Catherick's
daughter," I replied. This was the best pretext I could think of,
on the spur of the moment, to account for my visit.

The servant again retired to the parlour, again returned, and this
time begged me, with a look of gloomy amazement, to walk in.

I entered a little room, with a flaring paper of the largest
pattern on the walls. Chairs, tables, cheffonier, and sofa, all
gleamed with the glutinous brightness of cheap upholstery. On the
largest table, in the middle of the room, stood a smart Bible,
placed exactly in the centre on a red and yellow woollen mat and
at the side of the table nearest to the window, with a little
knitting-basket on her lap, and a wheezing, blear-eyed old spaniel
crouched at her feet, there sat an elderly woman, wearing a black
net cap and a black silk gown, and having slate-coloured mittens
on her hands. Her iron-grey hair hung in heavy bands on either
side of her face—her dark eyes looked straight forward, with a
hard, defiant, implacable stare. She had full square cheeks, a
long, firm chin, and thick, sensual, colourless lips. Her figure
was stout and sturdy, and her manner aggressively self-possessed.
This was Mrs. Catherick.

"You have come to speak to me about my daughter," she said, before
I could utter a word on my side. "Be so good as to mention what
you have to say."

The tone of her voice was as hard, as defiant, as implacable as
the expression of her eyes. She pointed to a chair, and looked me
all over attentively, from head to foot, as I sat down in it. I
saw that my only chance with this woman was to speak to her in her
own tone, and to meet her, at the outset of our interview, on her
own ground.

"You are aware," I said, "that your daughter has been lost?"

"I am perfectly aware of it."

"Have you felt any apprehension that the misfortune of her loss
might be followed by the misfortune of her death?"

"Yes. Have you come here to tell me she is dead?"

"I have."

"Why?"

She put that extraordinary question without the slightest change
in her voice, her face, or her manner. She could not have
appeared more perfectly unconcerned if I had told her of the death
of the goat in the enclosure outside.

"Why?" I repeated. "Do you ask why I come here to tell you of
your daughter's death?"

"Yes. What interest have you in me, or in her? How do you come to
know anything about my daughter?"

"In this way. I met her on the night when she escaped from the
Asylum, and I assisted her in reaching a place of safety."

"You did very wrong."

"I am sorry to hear her mother say so."

"Her mother does say so. How do you know she is dead?"

"I am not at liberty to say how I know it—but I DO know it."

"Are you at liberty to say how you found out my address?"

"Certainly. I got your address from Mrs. Clements."

"Mrs. Clements is a foolish woman. Did she tell you to come
here?"

"She did not."

"Then, I ask you again, why did you come?"

As she was determined to have her answer, I gave it to her in the
plainest possible form.

"I came," I said, "because I thought Anne Catherick's mother might
have some natural interest in knowing whether she was alive or
dead."

"Just so," said Mrs. Catherick, with additional self-possession.
"Had you no other motive?"

I hesitated. The right answer to that question was not easy to
find at a moment's notice.

"If you have no other motive," she went on, deliberately taking
off her slate-coloured mittens, and rolling them up, "I have only
to thank you for your visit, and to say that I will not detain you
here any longer. Your information would be more satisfactory if
you were willing to explain how you became possessed of it.
However, it justifies me, I suppose, in going into mourning.
There is not much alteration necessary in my dress, as you see.
When I have changed my mittens, I shall be all in black."

She searched in the pocket of her gown, drew out a pair of black
lace mittens, put them on with the stoniest and steadiest
composure, and then quietly crossed her hands in her lap.

"I wish you good morning," she said.

The cool contempt of her manner irritated me into directly avowing
that the purpose of my visit had not been answered yet.

"I HAVE another motive in coming here," I said.

"Ah! I thought so," remarked Mrs. Catherick.

"Your daughter's death—-"

"What did she die of?"

"Of disease of the heart."

"Yes. Go on."

"Your daughter's death has been made the pretext for inflicting
serious injury on a person who is very dear to me. Two men have
been concerned, to my certain knowledge, in doing that wrong. One
of them is Sir Percival Glyde."

"Indeed!"

I looked attentively to see if she flinched at the sudden mention
of that name. Not a muscle of her stirred—the hard, defiant,
implacable stare in her eyes never wavered for an instant.

"You may wonder," I went on, "how the event of your daughter's
death can have been made the means of inflicting injury on another
person."

"No," said Mrs. Catherick; "I don't wonder at all. This appears
to be your affair. You are interested in my affairs. I am not
interested in yours."

"You may ask, then," I persisted, "why I mention the matter in
your presence."

"Yes, I DO ask that."

"I mention it because I am determined to bring Sir Percival Glyde
to account for the wickedness he has committed."

"What have I to do with your determination?"

"You shall hear. There are certain events in Sir Percival's past
life which it is necessary for my purpose to be fully acquainted
with. YOU know them—and for that reason I come to YOU."

"What events do you mean?"

"Events that occurred at Old Welmingham when your husband was
parish-clerk at that place, and before the time when your daughter
was born."

I had reached the woman at last through the barrier of
impenetrable reserve that she had tried to set up between us. I
saw her temper smouldering in her eyes—as plainly as I saw her
hands grow restless, then unclasp themselves, and begin
mechanically smoothing her dress over her knees.

"What do you know of those events?" she asked.

"All that Mrs. Clements could tell me," I answered.

There was a momentary flush on her firm square face, a momentary
stillness in her restless hands, which seemed to betoken a coming
outburst of anger that might throw her off her guard. But no—she
mastered the rising irritation, leaned back in her chair, crossed
her arms on her broad bosom, and with a smile of grim sarcasm on
her thick lips, looked at me as steadily as ever.

"Ah! I begin to understand it all now," she said, her tamed and
disciplined anger only expressing itself in the elaborate mockery
of her tone and manner. "You have got a grudge of your own
against Sir Percival Glyde, and I must help you to wreak it. I
must tell you this, that, and the other about Sir Percival and
myself, must I? Yes, indeed? You have been prying into my private
affairs. You think you have found a lost woman to deal with, who
lives here on sufferance, and who will do anything you ask for
fear you may injure her in the opinions of the town's-people. I
see through you and your precious speculation—I do! and it amuses
me. Ha! ha!"

She stopped for a moment, her arms tightened over her bosom, and
she laughed to herself—a hard, harsh, angry laugh.

"You don't know how I have lived in this place, and what I have
done in this place, Mr. What's-your-name," she went on. "I'll
tell you, before I ring the bell and have you shown out. I came
here a wronged woman—I came here robbed of my character and
determined to claim it back. I've been years and years about it—
and I HAVE claimed it back. I have matched the respectable people
fairly and openly on their own ground. If they say anything
against me now they must say it in secret—they can't say it, they
daren't say it, openly. I stand high enough in this town to be
out of your reach. THE CLERGYMAN BOWS TO ME. Aha! you didn't
bargain for that when you came here. Go to the church and inquire
about me—you will find Mrs. Catherick has her sitting like the
rest of them, and pays the rent on the day it's due. Go to the
town-hall. There's a petition lying there—a petition of the
respectable inhabitants against allowing a circus to come and
perform here and corrupt our morals—yes! OUR morals. I signed
that petition this morning. Go to the bookseller's shop. The
clergyman's Wednesday evening Lectures on Justification by Faith
are publishing there by subscription—I'm down on the list. The
doctor's wife only put a shilling in the plate at our last charity
sermon—I put half-a-crown. Mr. Churchwarden Soward held the
plate, and bowed to me. Ten years ago he told Pigrum the chemist
I ought to be whipped out of the town at the cart's tail. Is your
mother alive? Has she got a better Bible on her table than I have
got on mine? Does she stand better with her trades-people than I
do with mine? Has she always lived within her income? I have
always lived within mine. Ah! there IS the clergyman coming along
the square. Look, Mr. What's-your-name—look, if you please!"

She started up with the activity of a young woman, went to the
window, waited till the clergyman passed, and bowed to him
solemnly. The clergyman ceremoniously raised his hat, and walked
on. Mrs. Catherick returned to her chair, and looked at me with a
grimmer sarcasm than ever.

"There!" she said. "What do you think of that for a woman with a
lost character? How does your speculation look now?"

The singular manner in which she had chosen to assert herself, the
extraordinary practical vindication of her position in the town
which she had just offered, had so perplexed me that I listened to
her in silent surprise. I was not the less resolved, however, to
make another effort to throw her off her guard. If the woman's
fierce temper once got beyond her control, and once flamed out on
me, she might yet say the words which would put the clue in my
hands.

"How does your speculation look now?" she repeated.

"Exactly as it looked when I first came in," I answered. "I don't
doubt the position you have gained in the town, and I don't wish
to assail it even if I could. I came here because Sir Percival
Glyde is, to my certain knowledge, your enemy, as well as mine.
If I have a grudge against him, you have a grudge against him too.
You may deny it if you like, you may distrust me as much as you
please, you may be as angry as you will—but, of all the women in
England, you, if you have any sense of injury, are the woman who
ought to help me to crush that man."

"Crush him for yourself," she said; "then come back here, and see
what I say to you."

She spoke those words as she had not spoken yet, quickly,
fiercely, vindictively. I had stirred in its lair the serpent-
hatred of years, but only for a moment. Like a lurking reptile it
leaped up at me as she eagerly bent forward towards the place in
which I was sitting. Like a lurking reptile it dropped out of
sight again as she instantly resumed her former position in the
chair.

"You won't trust me?" I said.

"No."

"You are afraid?"

"Do I look as if I was?"

"You are afraid of Sir Percival Glyde?"

"Am I?"