Serial Installments of The Woman in White (1859-1860)
Serial Installments of The Woman in White (1859-1860)
(No. 31) – 23 June 1860
PART THE SECOND. HARTRIGHT’S NARRATIVE.
THUS far, the information which I had received from Mrs. Clements—though it established facts of which I had not previously been aware—was of a preliminary character only. It was clear that the series of deceptions which had removed Anne Catherick to London and separated her from Mrs. Clements, had been accomplished solely by Count Fosco and the Countess; and the question whether any part of the conduct of husband or wife had been of a kind to place either of them within reach of the law, might be well worthy of future consideration. But the purpose I had now in view led me in another direction than this. The immediate object of my visit to Mrs. Clements was to make some approach at least to the discovery of Sir Percival’s secret; and she had said nothing, as yet, which advanced me on my way to that important end. I felt the necessity of trying to awaken her recollections of other times, persons, and events, than those on which her memory had hitherto been employed; and, when I next spoke, I spoke with that object indirectly in view.
“I wish I could be of any help to you in this sad calamity” I said. ” All I can do is to feel heartily for your distress. If Anne had been your own child, Mrs. Clements, you could have shown her no truer kindness—you could have made no readier sacrifices for her sake”. There’s no great merit in that, sir,” said Mrs. Clements, simply. “The poor thing was as good as my own child to me. I nursed her from a baby, sir; bringing her up by hand—and a hard job it was to rear her. It wouldn’t go to my heart so to lose her, if I hadn’t made her first short-clothes, and taught her to walk. I always said she was sent to console me for never having chick or child of my own. And now she’s lost, the old times keep coming back to my mind; and, even at my age, I can’t help crying about her—I can’t indeed, sir!”
I waited a little to give Mrs. Clements time to compose herself. Was the light that I had been looking for so long, now glimmering on me—far off, as yet—in the good woman’s recollections of Anne’s early life?[1]
“Did you know Mrs. Catherick before Anne was born?” I asked
” Not very long, sir—not above four months. We saw a great deal of each other in that time, but we were never very friendly together.”
Her voice was steadier as she made that reply. Painful as many of her recollections might be, I observed that it was, unconsciously, a relief to her mind to revert to the dimly-seen troubles of the past, after dwelling so long on the vivid sorrows of the present.
“Were you and Mrs. Catherick neighbours?” I inquired, leading her memory on, as encouragingly as I could.
“Yes, sir—neighbours at Old Welmingham”
“Old Welmingham? There are two places of that name then, in Hampshire?”
“Well, sir, there used to be in those days— better than three and twenty years ago. They built a new town about about two miles off, conv