A day or two after the servants all left I was again sent for to see
Sir Percival. The undeserved slur which he had cast on my management
of the household did not, I am happy to say, prevent me from returning
good for evil to the best of my ability, by complying with his request
as readily and respectfully as ever. It cost me a struggle with that
fallen nature, which we all share in common, before I could suppress
my feelings. Being accustomed to self-discipline, I accomplished the
sacrifice.
I found Sir Percival and Count Fosco sitting together again. On this
occasion his lordship remained present at the interview, and assisted
in the development of Sir Percival’s views.
The subject to which they now requested my attention related to the
healthy change of air by which we all hoped that Miss Halcombe and Lady
Glyde might soon be enabled to profit. Sir Percival mentioned that both
the ladies would probably pass the autumn (by invitation of Frederick
Fairlie, Esquire) at Limmeridge House, Cumberland. But before they went
there, it was his opinion, confirmed by Count Fosco (who here took up
the conversation and continued it to the end), that they would benefit
by a short residence first in the genial climate of Torquay. The great
object, therefore, was to engage lodgings at that place, affording
all the comforts and advantages of which they stood in need, and the
great difficulty was to find an experienced person capable of choosing
the sort of residence which they wanted. In this emergency the Count
begged to inquire, on Sir Percival’s behalf, whether I would object to
give the ladies the benefit of my assistance, by proceeding myself to
Torquay in their interests.
It was impossible for a person in my situation to meet any proposal,
made in these terms, with a positive objection.
I could only venture to represent the serious inconvenience of my
leaving Blackwater Park in the extraordinary absence of all the indoor
servants, with the one exception of Margaret Porcher. But Sir Percival
and his lordship declared that they were both willing to put up with
inconvenience for the sake of the invalids. I next respectfully
suggested writing to an agent at Torquay, but I was met here by being
reminded of the imprudence of taking lodgings without first seeing
them. I was also informed that the Countess (who would otherwise
have gone to Devonshire herself) could not, in Lady Glyde’s present
condition, leave her niece, and that Sir Percival and the Count had
business to transact together which would oblige them to remain at
Blackwater Park. In short, it was clearly shown me that if I did not
undertake the errand, no one else could be trusted with it. Under these
circumstances, I could only inform Sir Percival that my services were
at the disposal of Miss Halcombe and Lady Glyde.
It was thereupon arranged that I should leave the next morning, that
I should occupy one or two days in examining all the most convenient
houses in Torquay, and that I should return with my report as soon as
I conveniently could. A memorandum was written for me by his lordship,
stating the requisites which the place I was sent to take must be found
to possess, and a note of the pecuniary limit assigned to me was added
by Sir Percival.
My own idea on reading over these instructions was, that no such
residence as I saw described could be found at any watering-place
in England, and that, even if it could by chance be discovered, it
would certainly not be parted with for any period on such terms as I
was permitted to offer. I hinted at these difficulties to both the
gentlemen, but Sir Percival (who undertook to answer me) did not appear
to feel them. It was not for me to dispute the question. I said no
more, but I felt a very strong conviction that the business on which I
was sent away was so beset by difficulties that my errand was almost
hopeless at starting.
Before I left I took care to satisfy myself that Miss Halcombe was
going on favourably.
There was a painful expression of anxiety in her face which made me
fear that her mind, on first recovering itself, was not at ease. But
she was certainly strengthening more rapidly than I could have ventured
to anticipate, and she was able to send kind messages to Lady Glyde,
saying that she was fast getting well, and entreating her ladyship not
to exert herself again too soon. I left her in charge of Mrs. Rubelle,
who was still as quietly independent of every one else in the house as
ever. When I knocked at Lady Glyde’s door before going away, I was told
that she was still sadly weak and depressed, my informant being the
Countess, who was then keeping her company in her room. Sir Percival
and the Count were walking on the road to the lodge as I was driven by
in the chaise. I bowed to them and quitted the house, with not a living
soul left in the servants’ offices but Margaret Porcher.
Every one must feel what I have felt myself since that time, that these
circumstances were more than unusual—they were almost suspicious. Let
me, however, say again that it was impossible for me, in my dependent
position, to act otherwise than I did.
The result of my errand at Torquay was exactly what I had foreseen.
No such lodgings as I was instructed to take could be found in the
whole place, and the terms I was permitted to give were much too low
for the purpose, even if I had been able to discover what I wanted. I
accordingly returned to Blackwater Park, and informed Sir Percival, who
met me at the door, that my journey had been taken in vain. He seemed
too much occupied with some other subject to care about the failure of
my errand, and his first words informed me that even in the short time
of my absence another remarkable change had taken place in the house.
The Count and Countess Fosco had left Blackwater Park for their new
residence in St. John’s Wood.
I was not made aware of the motive for this sudden departure—I was
only told that the Count had been very particular in leaving his kind
compliments to me. When I ventured on asking Sir Percival whether Lady
Glyde had any one to attend to her comforts in the absence of the
Countess, he replied that she had Margaret Porcher to wait on her, and
he added that a woman from the village had been sent for to do the work
downstairs.
The answer really shocked me—there was such a glaring impropriety
in permitting an under-housemaid to fill the place of confidential
attendant on Lady Glyde. I went upstairs at once, and met Margaret on
the bedroom landing. Her services had not been required (naturally
enough), her mistress having sufficiently recovered that morning to
be able to leave her bed. I asked next after Miss Halcombe, but I was
answered in a slouching, sulky way, which left me no wiser than I was
before.
I did not choose to repeat the question, and perhaps provoke an
impertinent reply. It was in every respect more becoming to a person in
my position to present myself immediately in Lady Glyde’s room.
I found that her ladyship had certainly gained in health during the
last few days. Although still sadly weak and nervous, she was able to
get up without assistance, and to walk slowly about her room, feeling
no worse effect from the exertion than a slight sensation of fatigue.
She had been made a little anxious that morning about Miss Halcombe,
through having received no news of her from any one. I thought this
seemed to imply a blamable want of attention on the part of Mrs.
Rubelle, but I said nothing, and remained with Lady Glyde to assist her
to dress. When she was ready we both left the room together to go to
Miss Halcombe.
We were stopped in the passage by the appearance of Sir Percival. He
looked as if he had been purposely waiting there to see us.
“Where are you going?” he said to Lady Glyde.
“To Marian’s room,” she answered.
“It may spare you a disappointment,” remarked Sir Percival, “if I tell
you at once that you will not find her there.”
“Not find her there!”
“No. She left the house yesterday morning with Fosco and his wife.”
Lady Glyde was not strong enough to bear the surprise of this
extraordinary statement. She turned fearfully pale, and leaned back
against the wall, looking at her husband in dead silence.
I was so astonished myself that I hardly knew what to say. I asked Sir
Percival if he really meant that Miss Halcombe had left Blackwater Park.
“I certainly mean it,” he answered.
“In her state, Sir Percival! Without mentioning her intentions to Lady
Glyde!”
Before he could reply her ladyship recovered herself a little and spoke.
“Impossible!” she cried out in a loud, frightened manner, taking a step
or two forward from the wall. “Where was the doctor? where was Mr.
Dawson when Marian went away?”
“Mr. Dawson wasn’t wanted, and wasn’t here,” said Sir Percival. “He
left of his own accord, which is enough of itself to show that she was
strong enough to travel. How you stare! If you don’t believe she has
gone, look for yourself. Open her room door, and all the other room
doors if you like.”
She took him at his word, and I followed her. There was no one in
Miss Halcombe’s room but Margaret Porcher, who was busy setting it to
rights. There was no one in the spare rooms or the dressing-rooms when
we looked into them afterwards. Sir Percival still waited for us in the
passage. As we were leaving the last room that we had examined Lady
Glyde whispered, “Don’t go, Mrs. Michelson! don’t leave me, for God’s
sake!” Before I could say anything in return she was out again in the
passage, speaking to her husband.
“What does it mean, Sir Percival? I insist—I beg and pray you will tell
me what it means.”
“It means,” he answered, “that Miss Halcombe was strong enough
yesterday morning to sit up and be dressed, and that she insisted on
taking advantage of Fosco’s going to London to go there too.”
“To London!”
“Yes—on her way to Limmeridge.”
Lady Glyde turned and appealed to me.
“You saw Miss Halcombe last,” she said. “Tell me plainly, Mrs.
Michelson, did you think she looked fit to travel?”
“Not in MY opinion, your ladyship.”
Sir Percival, on his side, instantly turned and appealed to me also.
“Before you went away,” he said, “did you, or did you not, tell the
nurse that Miss Halcombe looked much stronger and better?”
“I certainly made the remark, Sir Percival.”
He addressed her ladyship again the moment I offered that reply.
“Set one of Mrs. Michelson’s opinions fairly against the other,” he
said, “and try to be reasonable about a perfectly plain matter. If she
had not been well enough to be moved do you think we should any of us
have risked letting her go? She has got three competent people to look
after her—Fosco and your aunt, and Mrs. Rubelle, who went away with
them expressly for that purpose. They took a whole carriage yesterday,
and made a bed for her on the seat in case she felt tired. To-day,
Fosco and Mrs. Rubelle go on with her themselves to Cumberland.”
“Why does Marian go to Limmeridge and leave me here by myself?” said
her ladyship, interrupting Sir Percival.
“Because your uncle won’t receive you till he has seen your sister
first,” he replied. “Have you forgotten the letter he wrote to her
at the beginning of her illness? It was shown to you, you read it
yourself, and you ought to remember it.”
“I do remember it.”
“If you do, why should you be surprised at her leaving you? You want to
be back at Limmeridge, and she has gone there to get your uncle’s leave
for you on his own terms.”
Poor Lady Glyde’s eyes filled with tears.
“Marian never left me before,” she said, “without bidding me good-bye.”
“She would have bid you good-bye this time,” returned Sir Percival, “if
she had not been afraid of herself and of you. She knew you would try
to stop her, she knew you would distress her by crying. Do you want to
make any more objections? If you do, you must come downstairs and ask
questions in the dining-room. These worries upset me. I want a glass of
wine.”
He left us suddenly.
His manner all through this strange conversation had been very unlike
what it usually was. He seemed to be almost as nervous and fluttered,
every now and then, as his lady herself. I should never have supposed
that his health had been so delicate, or his composure so easy to upset.
I tried to prevail on Lady Glyde to go back to her room, but it was
useless. She stopped in the passage, with the look of a woman whose
mind was panic-stricken.
“Something has happened to my sister!” she said.
“Remember, my lady, what surprising energy there is in Miss Halcombe,”
I suggested. “She might well make an effort which other ladies in her
situation would be unfit for. I hope and believe there is nothing
wrong—I do indeed.”
“I must follow Marian,” said her ladyship, with the same panic-stricken
look. “I must go where she has gone, I must see that she is alive and
well with my own eyes. Come! come down with me to Sir Percival.”
I hesitated, fearing that my presence might be considered an intrusion.
I attempted to represent this to her ladyship, but she was deaf to me.
She held my arm fast enough to force me to go downstairs with her,
and she still clung to me with all the little strength she had at the
moment when I opened the dining-room door.
Sir Percival was sitting at the table with a decanter of wine before
him. He raised the glass to his lips as we went in and drained it at a
draught. Seeing that he looked at me angrily when he put it down again,
I attempted to make some apology for my accidental presence in the room.
“Do you suppose there are any secrets going on here?” he broke out
suddenly; “there are none—there is nothing underhand, nothing kept from
you or from any one.” After speaking those strange words loudly and
sternly, he filled himself another glass of wine and asked Lady Glyde
what she wanted of him.
“If my sister is fit to travel I am fit to travel” said her ladyship,
with more firmness than she had yet shown. “I come to beg you will make
allowances for my anxiety about Marian, and let me follow her at once
by the afternoon train.”
“You must wait till to-morrow,” replied Sir Percival, “and then if you
don’t hear to the contrary you can go. I don’t suppose you are at all
likely to hear to the contrary, so I shall write to Fosco by to-night’s
post.”
He said those last words holding his glass up to the light, and looking
at the wine in it instead of at Lady Glyde. Indeed he never once looked
at her throughout the conversation. Such a singular want of good
breeding in a gentleman of his rank impressed me, I own, very painfully.
“Why should you write to Count Fosco?” she asked, in extreme surprise.
“To tell him to expect you by the midday train,” said Sir Percival. “He
will meet you at the station when you get to London, and take you on to
sleep at your aunt’s in St. John’s Wood.”
Lady Glyde’s hand began to tremble violently round my arm—why I could
not imagine.
“There is no necessity for Count Fosco to meet me,” she said. “I would
rather not stay in London to sleep.”
“You must. You can’t take the whole journey to Cumberland in one
day. You must rest a night in London—and I don’t choose you to go by
yourself to an hotel. Fosco made the offer to your uncle to give you
house-room on the way down, and your uncle has accepted it. Here! here
is a letter from him addressed to yourself. I ought to have sent it up
this morning, but I forgot. Read it and see what Mr. Fairlie himself
says to you.”
Lady Glyde looked at the letter for a moment and then placed it in my
hands.
“Read it,” she said faintly. “I don’t know what is the matter with me.
I can’t read it myself.”
It was a note of only four lines—so short and so careless that it quite
struck me. If I remember correctly it contained no more than these
words—
“Dearest Laura, Please come whenever you like. Break the journey
by sleeping at your aunt’s house. Grieved to hear of dear Marian’s
illness. Affectionately yours, Frederick Fairlie.”
“I would rather not go there—I would rather not stay a night in
London,” said her ladyship, breaking out eagerly with those words
before I had quite done reading the note, short as it was. “Don’t write
to Count Fosco! Pray, pray don’t write to him!”
Sir Percival filled another glass from the decanter so awkwardly that
he upset it and spilt all the wine over the table. “My sight seems to
be failing me,” he muttered to himself, in an odd, muffled voice. He
slowly set the glass up again, refilled it, and drained it once more at
a draught. I began to fear, from his look and manner, that the wine was
getting into his head.
“Pray don’t write to Count Fosco,” persisted Lady Glyde, more earnestly
than ever.
“Why not, I should like to know?” cried Sir Percival, with a sudden
burst of anger that startled us both. “Where can you stay more properly
in London than at the place your uncle himself chooses for you—at your
aunt’s house? Ask Mrs. Michelson.”
The arrangement proposed was so unquestionably the right and the
proper one, that I could make no possible objection to it. Much as I
sympathised with Lady Glyde in other respects, I could not sympathise
with her in her unjust prejudices against Count Fosco. I never before
met with any lady of her rank and station who was so lamentably
narrow-minded on the subject of foreigners. Neither her uncle’s note
nor Sir Percival’s increasing impatience seemed to have the least
effect on her. She still objected to staying a night in London, she
still implored her husband not to write to the Count.
“Drop it!” said Sir Percival, rudely turning his back on us. “If you
haven’t sense enough to know what is best for yourself other people
must know it for you. The arrangement is made and there is an end of
it. You are only wanted to do what Miss Halcombe has done before you—-”
“Marian?” repeated her Ladyship, in a bewildered manner; “Marian
sleeping in Count Fosco’s house!”
“Yes, in Count Fosco’s house. She slept there last night to break the
journey, and you are to follow her example, and do what your uncle
tells you. You are to sleep at Fosco’s to-morrow night, as your sister
did, to break the journey. Don’t throw too many obstacles in my way!
don’t make me repent of letting you go at all!”
He started to his feet, and suddenly walked out into the verandah
through the open glass doors.
“Will your ladyship excuse me,” I whispered, “if I suggest that we
had better not wait here till Sir Percival comes back? I am very much
afraid he is over-excited with wine.”
She consented to leave the room in a weary, absent manner.
As soon as we were safe upstairs again, I did all I could to compose
her ladyship’s spirits. I reminded her that Mr. Fairlie’s letters to
Miss Halcombe and to herself did certainly sanction, and even render
necessary, sooner or later, the course that had been taken. She agreed
to this, and even admitted, of her own accord, that both letters were
strictly in character with her uncle’s peculiar disposition—but her
fears about Miss Halcombe, and her unaccountable dread of sleeping
at the Count’s house in London, still remained unshaken in spite of
every consideration that I could urge. I thought it my duty to protest
against Lady Glyde’s unfavourable opinion of his lordship, and I did
so, with becoming forbearance and respect.
“Your ladyship will pardon my freedom,” I remarked, in conclusion, “but
it is said, ‘by their fruits ye shall know them.’ I am sure the Count’s
constant kindness and constant attention, from the very beginning of
Miss Halcombe’s illness, merit our best confidence and esteem. Even
his lordship’s serious misunderstanding with Mr. Dawson was entirely
attributable to his anxiety on Miss Halcombe’s account.”
“What misunderstanding?” inquired her ladyship, with a look of sudden
interest.
I related the unhappy circumstances under which Mr. Dawson had
withdrawn his attendance—mentioning them all the more readily because I
disapproved of Sir Percival’s continuing to conceal what had happened
(as he had done in my presence) from the knowledge of Lady Glyde.
Her ladyship started up, with every appearance of being additionally
agitated and alarmed by what I had told her.
“Worse! worse than I thought!” she said, walking about the room, in a
bewildered manner. “The Count knew Mr. Dawson would never consent to
Marian’s taking a journey—he purposely insulted the doctor to get him
out of the house.”
“Oh, my lady! my lady!” I remonstrated.
“Mrs. Michelson!” she went on vehemently, “no words that ever were
spoken will persuade me that my sister is in that man’s power and in
that man’s house with her own consent. My horror of him is such, that
nothing Sir Percival could say and no letters my uncle could write,
would induce me, if I had only my own feelings to consult, to eat,
drink, or sleep under his roof. But my misery of suspense about Marian
gives me the courage to follow her anywhere, to follow her even into
Count Fosco’s house.”
I thought it right, at this point, to mention that Miss Halcombe had
already gone on to Cumberland, according to Sir Percival’s account of
the matter.
“I am afraid to believe it!” answered her ladyship. “I am afraid she is
still in that man’s house. If I am wrong, if she has really gone on to
Limmeridge, I am resolved I will not sleep to-morrow night under Count
Fosco’s roof. My dearest friend in the world, next to my sister, lives
near London. You have heard me, you have heard Miss Halcombe, speak
of Mrs. Vesey? I mean to write, and propose to sleep at her house. I
don’t know how I shall get there—I don’t know how I shall avoid the
Count—but to that refuge I will escape in some way, if my sister has
gone to Cumberland. All I ask of you to do, is to see yourself that
my letter to Mrs. Vesey goes to London to-night, as certainly as Sir
Percival’s letter goes to Count Fosco. I have reasons for not trusting
the post-bag downstairs. Will you keep my secret, and help me in this?
it is the last favour, perhaps, that I shall ever ask of you.”
I hesitated, I thought it all very strange, I almost feared that her
ladyship’s mind had been a little affected by recent anxiety and
suffering. At my own risk, however, I ended by giving my consent. If
the letter had been addressed to a stranger, or to any one but a lady
so well known to me by report as Mrs. Vesey, I might have refused.
I thank God—looking to what happened afterwards—I thank God I never
thwarted that wish, or any other, which Lady Glyde expressed to me, on
the last day of her residence at Blackwater Park.
The letter was written and given into my hands. I myself put it into
the post-box in the village that evening.
We saw nothing more of Sir Percival for the rest of the day.
I slept, by Lady Glyde’s own desire, in the next room to hers, with the
door open between us. There was something so strange and dreadful in
the loneliness and emptiness of the house, that I was glad, on my side,
to have a companion near me. Her ladyship sat up late, reading letters
and burning them, and emptying her drawers and cabinets of little
things she prized, as if she never expected to return to Blackwater
Park. Her sleep was sadly disturbed when she at last went to bed—she
cried out in it several times, once so loud that she woke herself.
Whatever her dreams were, she did not think fit to communicate them
to me. Perhaps, in my situation, I had no right to expect that she
should do so. It matters little now. I was sorry for her, I was indeed
heartily sorry for her all the same.
The next day was fine and sunny. Sir Percival came up, after breakfast,
to tell us that the chaise would be at the door at a quarter to
twelve—the train to London stopping at our station at twenty minutes
after. He informed Lady Glyde that he was obliged to go out, but added
that he hoped to be back before she left. If any unforeseen accident
delayed him, I was to accompany her to the station, and to take special
care that she was in time for the train. Sir Percival communicated
these directions very hastily—walking here and there about the room all
the time. Her ladyship looked attentively after him wherever he went.
He never once looked at her in return.
She only spoke when he had done, and then she stopped him as he
approached the door, by holding out her hand.
“I shall see you no more,” she said, in a very marked manner. “This is
our parting—our parting, it may be for ever. Will you try to forgive
me, Percival, as heartily as I forgive YOU?”
His face turned of an awful whiteness all over, and great beads of
perspiration broke out on his bald forehead. “I shall come back,” he
said, and made for the door, as hastily as if his wife’s farewell words
had frightened him out of the room.
I had never liked Sir Percival, but the manner in which he left Lady
Glyde made me feel ashamed of having eaten his bread and lived in his
service. I thought of saying a few comforting and Christian words to
the poor lady, but there was something in her face, as she looked after
her husband when the door closed on him, that made me alter my mind and
keep silence.
At the time named the chaise drew up at the gates. Her ladyship was
right—Sir Percival never came back. I waited for him till the last
moment, and waited in vain.
No positive responsibility lay on my shoulders, and yet I did not feel
easy in my mind. “It is of your own free will,” I said, as the chaise
drove through the lodge-gates, “that your ladyship goes to London?”
“I will go anywhere,” she answered, “to end the dreadful suspense that
I am suffering at this moment.”
She had made me feel almost as anxious and as uncertain about Miss
Halcombe as she felt herself. I presumed to ask her to write me a
line, if all went well in London. She answered, “Most willingly, Mrs.
Michelson.”
“We all have our crosses to bear, my lady,” I said, seeing her silent
and thoughtful, after she had promised to write.
She made no reply—she seemed to be too much wrapped up in her own
thoughts to attend to me.
“I fear your ladyship rested badly last night,” I remarked, after
waiting a little.
“Yes,” she said, “I was terribly disturbed by dreams.”
“Indeed, my lady?” I thought she was going to tell me her dreams, but
no, when she spoke next it was only to ask a question.
“You posted the letter to Mrs. Vesey with your own hands?”
“Yes, my lady.”
“Did Sir Percival say, yesterday, that Count Fosco was to meet me at
the terminus in London?”
“He did, my lady.”
She sighed heavily when I answered that last question, and said no more.
We arrived at the station, with hardly two minutes to spare. The
gardener (who had driven us) managed about the luggage, while I took
the ticket. The whistle of the train was sounding when I joined her
ladyship on the platform. She looked very strangely, and pressed her
hand over her heart, as if some sudden pain or fright had overcome her
at that moment.
“I wish you were going with me!” she said, catching eagerly at my arm
when I gave her the ticket.
If there had been time, if I had felt the day before as I felt then,
I would have made my arrangements to accompany her, even though the
doing so had obliged me to give Sir Percival warning on the spot. As it
was, her wishes, expressed at the last moment only, were expressed too
late for me to comply with them. She seemed to understand this herself
before I could explain it, and did not repeat her desire to have me for
a travelling companion. The train drew up at the platform. She gave the
gardener a present for his children, and took my hand, in her simple
hearty manner, before she got into the carriage.
“You have been very kind to me and to my sister,” she said—“kind when
we were both friendless. I shall remember you gratefully, as long as I
live to remember any one. Good-bye—and God bless you!”
She spoke those words with a tone and a look which brought the tears
into my eyes—she spoke them as if she was bidding me farewell for ever.
“Good-bye, my lady,” I said, putting her into the carriage, and trying
to cheer her; “good-bye, for the present only; good-bye, with my best
and kindest wishes for happier times.”
She shook her head, and shuddered as she settled herself in the
carriage. The guard closed the door. “Do you believe in dreams?” she
whispered to me at the window. “My dreams, last night, were dreams I
have never had before. The terror of them is hanging over me still.”
The whistle sounded before I could answer, and the train moved. Her
pale quiet face looked at me for the last time—looked sorrowfully and
solemnly from the window. She waved her hand, and I saw her no more.
Towards five o’clock on the afternoon of that same day, having a little
time to myself in the midst of the household duties which now pressed
upon me, I sat down alone in my own room, to try and compose my mind
with the volume of my husband’s Sermons. For the first time in my life
I found my attention wandering over those pious and cheering words.
Concluding that Lady Glyde’s departure must have disturbed me far more
seriously than I had myself supposed, I put the book aside, and went
out to take a turn in the garden. Sir Percival had not yet returned, to
my knowledge, so I could feel no hesitation about showing myself in the
grounds.
On turning the corner of the house, and gaining a view of the garden,
I was startled by seeing a stranger walking in it. The stranger was
a woman—she was lounging along the path with her back to me, and was
gathering the flowers.
As I approached she heard me, and turned round.
My blood curdled in my veins. The strange woman in the garden was Mrs.
Rubelle!
I could neither move nor speak. She came up to me, as composedly as
ever, with her flowers in her hand.
“What is the matter, ma’am?” she said quietly.
“You here!” I gasped out. “Not gone to London! Not gone to Cumberland!”
Mrs. Rubelle smelt at her flowers with a smile of malicious pity.
“Certainly not,” she said. “I have never left Blackwater Park.”