(Housekeeper at Blackwater Park)
I
I am asked to state plainly what I know of the progress of Miss
Halcombe’s illness and of the circumstances under which Lady Glyde left
Blackwater Park for London.
The reason given for making this demand on me is, that my testimony is
wanted in the interests of truth. As the widow of a clergyman of the
Church of England (reduced by misfortune to the necessity of accepting
a situation), I have been taught to place the claims of truth above all
other considerations. I therefore comply with a request which I might
otherwise, through reluctance to connect myself with distressing family
affairs, have hesitated to grant.
I made no memorandum at the time, and I cannot therefore be sure to
a day of the date, but I believe I am correct in stating that Miss
Halcombe’s serious illness began during the last fortnight or ten days
in June. The breakfast hour was late at Blackwater Park—sometimes as
late as ten, never earlier than half-past nine. On the morning to which
I am now referring, Miss Halcombe (who was usually the first to come
down) did not make her appearance at the table. After the family had
waited a quarter of an hour, the upper housemaid was sent to see after
her, and came running out of the room dreadfully frightened. I met the
servant on the stairs, and went at once to Miss Halcombe to see what
was the matter. The poor lady was incapable of telling me. She was
walking about her room with a pen in her hand, quite light-headed, in a
state of burning fever.
Lady Glyde (being no longer in Sir Percival’s service, I may, without
impropriety, mention my former mistress by her name, instead of calling
her my lady) was the first to come in from her own bedroom. She was
so dreadfully alarmed and distressed that she was quite useless. The
Count Fosco, and his lady, who came upstairs immediately afterwards,
were both most serviceable and kind. Her ladyship assisted me to get
Miss Halcombe to her bed. His lordship the Count remained in the
sitting-room, and having sent for my medicine-chest, made a mixture for
Miss Halcombe, and a cooling lotion to be applied to her head, so as
to lose no time before the doctor came. We applied the lotion, but we
could not get her to take the mixture. Sir Percival undertook to send
for the doctor. He despatched a groom, on horseback, for the nearest
medical man, Mr. Dawson, of Oak Lodge.
Mr. Dawson arrived in less than an hour’s time. He was a respectable
elderly man, well known all round the country, and we were much alarmed
when we found that he considered the case to be a very serious one.
His lordship the Count affably entered into conversation with Mr.
Dawson, and gave his opinions with a judicious freedom. Mr. Dawson,
not over-courteously, inquired if his lordship’s advice was the advice
of a doctor, and being informed that it was the advice of one who had
studied medicine unprofessionally, replied that he was not accustomed
to consult with amateur physicians. The Count, with truly Christian
meekness of temper, smiled and left the room. Before he went out he
told me that he might be found, in case he was wanted in the course of
the day, at the boat-house on the banks of the lake. Why he should have
gone there, I cannot say. But he did go, remaining away the whole day
till seven o’clock, which was dinner-time. Perhaps he wished to set the
example of keeping the house as quiet as possible. It was entirely in
his character to do so. He was a most considerate nobleman.
Miss Halcombe passed a very bad night, the fever coming and going,
and getting worse towards the morning instead of better. No nurse fit
to wait on her being at hand in the neighbourhood, her ladyship the
Countess and myself undertook the duty, relieving each other. Lady
Glyde, most unwisely, insisted on sitting up with us. She was much
too nervous and too delicate in health to bear the anxiety of Miss
Halcombe’s illness calmly. She only did herself harm, without being of
the least real assistance. A more gentle and affectionate lady never
lived—but she cried, and she was frightened, two weaknesses which made
her entirely unfit to be present in a sick-room.
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.”
We found Mrs. Rubelle still enjoying herself at the window. When I
introduced her to Mr. Dawson, neither the doctor’s doubtful looks nor
the doctor’s searching questions appeared to confuse her in the least.
She answered him quietly in her broken English, and though he tried
hard to puzzle her, she never betrayed the least ignorance, so far,
about any part of her duties. This was doubtless the result of strength
of mind, as I said before, and not of brazen assurance, by any means.
We all went into the bedroom.
Mrs. Rubelle looked very attentively at the patient, curtseyed to
Lady Glyde, set one or two little things right in the room, and sat
down quietly in a corner to wait until she was wanted. Her ladyship
seemed startled and annoyed by the appearance of the strange nurse. No
one said anything, for fear of rousing Miss Halcombe, who was still
slumbering, except the doctor, who whispered a question about the
night. I softly answered, “Much as usual,” and then Mr. Dawson went
out. Lady Glyde followed him, I suppose to speak about Mrs. Rubelle.
For my own part, I had made up my mind already that this quiet foreign
person would keep her situation. She had all her wits about her, and
she certainly understood her business. So far, I could hardly have done
much better by the bedside myself.
Remembering Mr. Dawson’s caution to me, I subjected Mrs. Rubelle to a
severe scrutiny at certain intervals for the next three or four days. I
over and over again entered the room softly and suddenly, but I never
found her out in any suspicious action. Lady Glyde, who watched her
as attentively as I did, discovered nothing either. I never detected
a sign of the medicine bottles being tampered with, I never saw Mrs.
Rubelle say a word to the Count, or the Count to her. She managed Miss
Halcombe with unquestionable care and discretion. The poor lady wavered
backwards and forwards between a sort of sleepy exhaustion, which
was half faintness and half slumbering, and attacks of fever which
brought with them more or less of wandering in her mind. Mrs. Rubelle
never disturbed her in the first case, and never startled her in the
second, by appearing too suddenly at the bedside in the character of a
stranger. Honour to whom honour is due (whether foreign or English)—and
I give her privilege impartially to Mrs. Rubelle. She was remarkably
uncommunicative about herself, and she was too quietly independent
of all advice from experienced persons who understood the duties of
a sick-room—but with these drawbacks, she was a good nurse, and she
never gave either Lady Glyde or Mr. Dawson the shadow of a reason for
complaining of her.
The next circumstance of importance that occurred in the house was the
temporary absence of the Count, occasioned by business which took him
to London. He went away (I think) on the morning of the fourth day
after the arrival of Mrs. Rubelle, and at parting he spoke to Lady
Glyde very seriously, in my presence, on the subject of Miss Halcombe.
“Trust Mr. Dawson,” he said, “for a few days more, if you please. But
if there is not some change for the better in that time, send for
advice from London, which this mule of a doctor must accept in spite
of himself. Offend Mr. Dawson, and save Miss Halcombe. I say this
seriously, on my word of honour and from the bottom of my heart.”
His lordship spoke with extreme feeling and kindness. But poor Lady
Glyde’s nerves were so completely broken down that she seemed quite
frightened at him. She trembled from head to foot, and allowed him to
take his leave without uttering a word on her side. She turned to me
when he had gone, and said, “Oh, Mrs. Michelson, I am heartbroken about
my sister, and I have no friend to advise me! Do you think Mr. Dawson
is wrong? He told me himself this morning that there was no fear, and
no need to send for another doctor.”
“With all respect to Mr. Dawson,” I answered, “in your ladyship’s place
I should remember the Count’s advice.”
Lady Glyde turned away from me suddenly, with an appearance of despair,
for which I was quite unable to account.
“HIS advice!” she said to herself. “God help us—HIS advice!”
The Count was away from Blackwater Park, as nearly as I remember, a
week.
Sir Percival seemed to feel the loss of his lordship in various ways,
and appeared also, I thought, much depressed and altered by the
sickness and sorrow in the house. Occasionally he was so very restless
that I could not help noticing it, coming and going, and wandering
here and there and everywhere in the grounds. His inquiries about Miss
Halcombe, and about his lady (whose failing health seemed to cause
him sincere anxiety), were most attentive. I think his heart was much
softened. If some kind clerical friend—some such friend as he might
have found in my late excellent husband—had been near him at this
time, cheering moral progress might have been made with Sir Percival.
I seldom find myself mistaken on a point of this sort, having had
experience to guide me in my happy married days.
Her ladyship the Countess, who was now the only company for Sir
Percival downstairs, rather neglected him, as I considered—or, perhaps,
it might have been that he neglected her. A stranger might almost
have supposed that they were bent, now they were left together alone,
on actually avoiding one another. This, of course, could not be. But
it did so happen, nevertheless, that the Countess made her dinner at
luncheon-time, and that she always came upstairs towards evening,
although Mrs. Rubelle had taken the nursing duties entirely off her
hands. Sir Percival dined by himself, and William (the man out of
livery) made the remark, in my hearing, that his master had put himself
on half rations of food and on a double allowance of drink. I attach
no importance to such an insolent observation as this on the part of a
servant. I reprobated it at the time, and I wish to be understood as
reprobating it once more on this occasion.
In the course of the next few days Miss Halcombe did certainly seem
to all of us to be mending a little. Our faith in Mr. Dawson revived.
He appeared to be very confident about the case, and he assured Lady
Glyde, when she spoke to him on the subject, that he would himself
propose to send for a physician the moment he felt so much as the
shadow of a doubt crossing his own mind.
The only person among us who did not appear to be relieved by these
words was the Countess. She said to me privately, that she could not
feel easy about Miss Halcombe on Mr. Dawson’s authority, and that she
should wait anxiously for her husband’s opinion on his return. That
return, his letters informed her, would take place in three days’ time.
The Count and Countess corresponded regularly every morning during his
lordship’s absence. They were in that respect, as in all others, a
pattern to married people.
On the evening of the third day I noticed a change in Miss Halcombe,
which caused me serious apprehension. Mrs. Rubelle noticed it too. We
said nothing on the subject to Lady Glyde, who was then lying asleep,
completely overpowered by exhaustion, on the sofa in the sitting-room.
Mr. Dawson did not pay his evening visit till later than usual. As soon
as he set eyes on his patient I saw his face alter. He tried to hide
it, but he looked both confused and alarmed. A messenger was sent to
his residence for his medicine-chest, disinfecting preparations were
used in the room, and a bed was made up for him in the house by his
own directions. “Has the fever turned to infection?” I whispered to
him. “I am afraid it has,” he answered; “we shall know better to-morrow
morning.”
By Mr. Dawson’s own directions Lady Glyde was kept in ignorance of
this change for the worse. He himself absolutely forbade her, on
account of her health, to join us in the bedroom that night. She tried
to resist—there was a sad scene—but he had his medical authority to
support him, and he carried his point.
The next morning one of the men-servants was sent to London at eleven
o’clock, with a letter to a physician in town, and with orders to bring
the new doctor back with him by the earliest possible train. Half an
hour after the messenger had gone the Count returned to Blackwater Park.
The Countess, on her own responsibility, immediately brought him in to
see the patient. There was no impropriety that I could discover in her
taking this course. His lordship was a married man, he was old enough
to be Miss Halcombe’s father, and he saw her in the presence of a
female relative, Lady Glyde’s aunt. Mr. Dawson nevertheless protested
against his presence in the room, but I could plainly remark the doctor
was too much alarmed to make any serious resistance on this occasion.
The poor suffering lady was past knowing any one about her. She seemed
to take her friends for enemies. When the Count approached her bedside
her eyes, which had been wandering incessantly round and round the room
before, settled on his face with a dreadful stare of terror, which I
shall remember to my dying day. The Count sat down by her, felt her
pulse and her temples, looked at her very attentively, and then turned
round upon the doctor with such an expression of indignation and
contempt in his face, that the words failed on Mr. Dawson’s lips, and
he stood for a moment, pale with anger and alarm—pale and perfectly
speechless.
His lordship looked next at me.
“When did the change happen?” he asked.