No. 54.] SATURDAY,
MAY 5, 1860 [PRICE 2d.
THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
———•———
THE HOUSEKEEPER’S NARRATIVE CONTINUED
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 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 ahandle 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 up-stairs. 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 those
words 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 heart-broken 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 of fresh
advice.”
“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 cost 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 down stairs, 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 seemed 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.
I told him the time.
“Has Lady Glyde been in the room since?”
I replied that she had not. The doctor had absolutely
forbidden her to come into the room, on the evening before, and had repeated
the order again in the morning.
“Have you and Mrs. Rubelle been made aware of the full
extent of the mischief?”—was his next question.
We were aware, I answered, that the malady was
considered infectious. He stopped me, before I could add anything more.
“It is Typhus Fever,” he said.
In the minute that passed, while these questions and
answers were going on, Mr. Dawson recovered himself, and addressed the
Count, with his customary firmness.
“It is not
typhus fever,” he said, sharply. “I protest against this intrusion, sir. No
one has a right to put questions here, but me. I have done my duty to the
best of my ability——”
The Count interrupted him, not by words, but only by
pointing to the bed. Mr. Dawson seemed to feel that silent contradiction to
his assertion of his own ability, and to grow only the more angry under it.
“I say I have done my duty,” he reiterated. “A
physician has been sent for from London. I will consult on the nature of the
fever with him, and with no one else. I insist on your leaving the room.”
“I entered this room, sir, in the sacred interests of
humanity,” said the Count. “And in the same interests, if the coming of the
physician is delayed, I will enter it again. I warn you once more that the
fever has turned to Typhus, and that your treatment is responsible for this
lamentable change. If that unhappy lady dies, I will give my testimony in a
court of justice that your ignorance and obstinacy have been the cause of
her death.”
Before Mr. Dawson could answer, before the Count could
leave us, the door was opened from the sitting-room, and we saw Lady Glyde
on the threshold.
“I must, and
will come in,” she said, with
extraordinary firmness.
Instead of stopping her, the Count moved into the
sitting-room, and made way for her to go in. On all other occasions, he was
the last man in the world to forget anything; but, in the surprise of the
moment, he apparently forgot the danger of infection from typhus, and the
urgent necessity of forcing Lady Glyde to take proper care of herself.
To my surprise, Mr. Dawson showed more presence of
mind. He stopped her ladyship at the first step she took towards the
bedside.
“I am sincerely sorry, I am sincerely grieved,” he
said. “The fever may, I fear, be infectious. Until I am certain that it is
not, I entreat you to keep out of the room.”
She struggled for a moment; then suddenly dropped her
arms, and sank forward. She had fainted. The Countess and I took her from
the doctor, and carried her into her own room. The Count preceded us, and
waited in the passage, till I came out, and told him that we had recovered
her from the swoon.
I went back to the doctor to tell him, by Lady Glyde’s
desire, that she insisted on speaking to him immediately. He withdrew at
once to quiet her ladyship’s agitation, and to assure her of the physician’s
arrival in the course of a few hours. Those hours passed very slowly. Sir
Percival and the Count were together down stairs, and sent up, from time to
time, to make their inquiries. At last, between five and six o’clock, to our
great relief, the physician came.
He was a younger man than Mr. Dawson; very serious, and
very decided. What he thought of the previous treatment, I cannot say; but
it struck me as curious that he put many more questions to myself and to
Mrs. Rubelle than he put to the doctor, and that he did not appear to listen
with much interest to what Mr. Dawson said, while he was examining Mr.
Dawson’s patient. I began to suspect, from what I observed in this way, that
the Count had been right about the illness all the way through; and I was
naturally confirmed in that idea, when Mr. Dawson, after some little delay,
asked the one important question which the London doctor had been sent for
to set at rest.
“What is your opinion of the fever?” he inquired.
“Typhus,” replied the physician. “Typhus fever beyond
all doubt.”
That quiet foreign person, Mrs. Rubelle, crossed her
thin, brown hands in front of her, and looked at me with a very significant
smile. The Count himself could hardly have appeared more gratified, if he
had been present in the room, and had heard the confirmation of his own
opinion.
After giving us some useful directions about the
management of the patient, and mentioning that he would come again in five
days’ time, the physician withdrew to consult in private with Mr. Dawson. He
would offer no opinion on Miss Halcombe’s chances of recovery: he said it
was impossible at that stage of the illness to pronounce, one way or the
other.
The five days passed anxiously.
Countess Fosco and myself took it by turns to relieve
Mrs. Rubelle; Miss Halcombe’s condition growing worse and worse, and
requiring our utmost care and attention. It was a terribly trying time. Lady
Glyde (supported as Mr. Dawson said, by the constant strain of her suspense
on her sister’s account) rallied in the most extraordinary manner, and
showed a firmness and determination for which I should myself never have
given her credit. She insisted on coming into the sick-room, two or three
times every day, to look at Miss Halcombe with her own eyes; promising not
to go too close to the bed, if the doctor would consent to her wishes, so
far. Mr. Dawson very unwillingly made the concession required of him: I
think he saw that it was hopeless to dispute with her. She came in every
day; and she self-denyingly kept her promise. I felt it personally so
distressing (as reminding me of my own affliction during my husband’s last
illness) to see how she suffered under these circumstances, that I must beg
not to dwell on this part of the subject any longer. It is more agreeable to
me to mention that no fresh disputes took place between Mr. Dawson and the
Count. His lordship made all his inquiries by deputy; and remained
continually in company with Sir Percival, down stairs.
On the fifth day, the physician came again, and gave us
a little hope. He said the tenth day from the first appearance of the typhus
would probably decide the result of the illness, and he arranged for his
third visit to take place on that date. The interval passed as before—except
that the Count went to London again, one morning, and returned at night.
On the tenth day, it pleased a merciful Providence to
relieve our household from all further anxiety and alarm. The physician
positively assured us that Miss Halcombe was out of danger. “She wants no
doctor, now—all she requires is careful watching and nursing, for some time
to come; and that I see she has.” Those were his own words. That evening I
read my husband’s touching sermon on Recovery from Sickness, with more
happiness and advantage (in a spiritual point of view) than I ever remember
to have derived from it before.
The effect of the good news on poor Lady Glyde was, I
grieve to say, quite overpowering. She was too weak to bear the violent
reaction; and, in another day or two, she sank into a state of debility and
depression, which obliged her to keep her room. Rest and quiet, and change
of air afterwards, were the best remedies which Mr. Dawson could suggest for
her benefit. It was fortunate that matters were no worse, for, on the very
day after she took to her room, the Count and the doctor had another
disagreement; and, this time, the dispute between them was of so serious a
nature, that Mr. Dawson left the house.
I was not present at the time; but I understood that
the subject of the dispute was the amount of nourishment which it was
necessary to give to assist Miss Halcombe’s convalescence, after the
exhaustion of the fever. Mr. Dawson, now that his patient was safe, was less
inclined than ever to submit to unprofessional interference; and the Count
(I cannot imagine why) lost all the self-control which he had so judiciously
preserved on former occasions, and taunted the doctor, over and over again,
with his mistake about the fever, when it changed to typhus. The unfortunate
affair ended in Mr. Dawson’s appealing to Sir Percival, and threatening (now
that he could leave without absolute danger to Miss Halcombe) to withdraw
from his attendance at Blackwater Park, if the Count’s interference was not
peremptorily suppressed from that moment. Sir Percival’s reply (though not
designedly uncivil) had only resulted in making matters worse; and Mr.
Dawson had thereupon withdrawn from the house, in a state of extreme
indignation at Count Fosco’s usage of him, and had sent in his bill the next
morning.
We were now, therefore, left without the attendance of
a medical man. Although there was no actual necessity for another
doctor—nursing and watching being, as the physician had observed, all that
Miss Halcombe required—I should still, if my authority had been consulted,
have obtained professional assistance, from some other quarter, for form’s
sake.
The matter did not seem to strike Sir Percival in that
light. He said it would be time enough to send for another doctor, if Miss
Halcombe showed any signs of a relapse. In the mean while, we had the Count
to consult in any minor difficulty; and we need not unnecessarily disturb
our patient, in her present weak and nervous condition, by the presence of a
stranger at her bedside. There was much that was reasonable, no doubt, in
these considerations; but they left me a little anxious, nevertheless. Nor
was I quite satisfied, in my own mind, of the propriety of our concealing
the doctor’s absence, as we did, from Lady Glyde. It was a merciful
deception, I admit—for she was in no state to bear any fresh anxieties. But
still it was a deception; and, as such, to a person of my principles, at
best a doubtful proceeding.
A second perplexing circumstance which happened on the
same day, and which took me completely by surprise, added greatly to the
sense of uneasiness that was now weighing on my mind.
I was sent for to see Sir Percival in the library. The
Count, who was with him when I went in, immediately rose and left us alone
together. Sir Percival civilly asked me to take a seat; and then, to my
great astonishment, addressed me in these terms:
“I want to speak to you, Mrs. Michelson, about a matter
which I decided on some time ago, and which I should have mentioned before,
but for the sickness and trouble in the house. In plain words, I have
reasons for wishing to break up my establishment immediately at this
place—leaving you in charge, of course, as usual. As soon as Lady Glyde and
Miss Halcombe can travel, they must both have change of air. My friends,
Count Fosco and the Countess, will leave us before that time, to live in the
neighbourhood of London. And I have reasons for not opening the house to any
more company, with a view to economising as carefully as I can. I don’t
blame you—but my expenses here are a great deal too heavy. In short, I shall
sell the horses, and get rid of all the servants at once. I never do things
by halves, as you know; and I mean to have the house clear of a pack of
useless people by this time to-morrow.”
I listened to him, perfectly aghast with astonishment.
“Do you mean, Sir Percival, that I am to dismiss the
in-door servants, under my charge, without the usual month’s warning?” I
asked.
“Certainly, I do. We may all be out of the house before
another month; and I am not going to leave the servants here in idleness,
with no master to wait on.”
“Who is to do the cooking, Sir Percival, while you are
still staying here?”
“Margaret Porcher can roast and boil—keep her. What do
I want with a cook, if I don’t mean to give any dinner-parties?”
“The servant you have mentioned is the most
unintelligent servant in the house, Sir Percival——”
“Keep her, I tell you; and have a woman in from the
village to do the cleaning, and go away again. My weekly expenses must and
shall be lowered immediately. I don’t send for you to make objections, Mrs.
Michelson—I send for you to carry out my plans of economy. Dismiss the whole
lazy pack of in-door servants to-morrow, except Porcher. She is as strong as
a horse—and we’ll make her work like a horse.”
“You will excuse me for reminding you, Sir Percival,
that if the servants go to-morrow, they must have a month’s wages in lieu of
a month’s warning.”
“Let them! A month’s wages saves a month’s waste and
gluttony in the servants’-hall.”
This last remark conveyed an aspersion of the most
offensive kind on my management. I had too much self-respect to defend
myself under so gross an imputation. Christian consideration for the
helpless position of Miss Halcombe and Lady Glyde, and for the serious
inconvenience which my sudden absence might inflict on them, alone prevented
me from resigning my situation on the spot. I rose immediately. It would
have lowered me in my own estimation to have permitted the interview to
continue a moment longer.
“After that last remark, Sir Percival, I have nothing
more to say. Your directions shall be attended to.” Pronouncing those words,
I bowed my head with the most distant respect, and went out of the room.
The next day, the servants left in a body. Sir Percival
himself dismissed the grooms and stablemen; sending them, with all the
horses but one, to London. Of the whole domestic establishment, in-doors and
out, there now remained only myself, Margaret Porcher, and the gardener;
this last living in his own cottage, and being wanted to take care of the
one horse that remained in the stables.
With the house left in this strange and lonely
condition; with the mistress of it ill in her room; with Miss Halcombe still
as helpless as a child; and with the doctor’s attendance withdrawn from us
in enmity—it was surely not unnatural that my spirits should sink, and my
customary composure be very hard to maintain. My mind was ill at ease. I
wished the two poor ladies both well again; and I wished myself away from
Blackwater Park.
All The Year Round, 21 April 1860, Vol.III, No.54, pp.73-78
Weekly Part 24.
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