It was no time then to inquire into his motives. I looked about for Madame Fosco next, and found her following her favourite circle round and round the fish-pond.
I was a little doubtful how she would meet me, after the outbreak of jealousy of which I had been the cause so short a time since. But her husband had tamed her in the interval, and she now spoke to me with the same civility as usual. My only object in addressing myself to her was to ascertain if she knew what had become of Sir Percival. I contrived to refer to him indirectly, and after a little fencing on either side she at last mentioned that he had gone out.
‘Which of the horses has he taken?' I asked carelessly.
‘None of them,' she replied. ‘He went away two hours since on foot.
As I understood it, his object was to make fresh inquiries about the woman named Anne Catherick. He appears to be unreasonably anxious about tracing her. Do you happen to know if she is dangerously mad, Miss Halcombe?'
‘I do not, Countess.'
‘Are you going in?'
‘Yes, I think so. I suppose it will soon be time to dress for dinner.'
We entered the house together. Madame Fosco strolled into the library, and dosed the door. I went at once to fetch my hat and shawl. Every moment was of importance, if I was to get to Fanny at the inn and he back before dinner.
When I crossed the hall again no one was there, and the singing of the birds in the library had ceased. I could not stop to make any fresh investigations.
I could only assure myself that the way was clear, and then leave the house with the two letters safe in my pocket.
On my way to the village I prepared myself for the possibility of meeting Sir Percival. As long as I had him to deal with alone I felt certain of not losing my presence of mind. Any woman who is sure of her own wits is a match at any time for a man who is not sure of his own temper. I had no such fear of Sir Percival as I had of the Count. Instead of fluttering, it had composed me, to hear of the errand on which he had gone out. While the tracing of Anne Catherick was the great anxiety that occupied him, Laura and I might hope for some cessation of any active persecution at his hands. For our sakes now, as well as for Anne's, I hoped and prayed fervently that she might still escape him.
I walked on as briskly as the heat would let me till I reached the cross-road which led to the village, looking back from time to time to make sure that I was not followed by any one.
Nothing was behind me all the way but an empty country waggon. The noise made by the lumbering wheels annoyed me, and when I found that the waggon took the road to the village, as well as myself, I stopped to let it go by and pass out of hearing. As I looked toward it, more attentively than before, I thought l detected at intervals the feet of a man walking close behind it, the carter being in front, by the side of his horses. The part of the cross-road which I had just passed over was so narrow that the waggon coming after me brushed the trees and thickets on either side, and I had to wait until it went by before I could test the correctness of my impression.
Apparently that impression was wrong, for when the waggon had passed me the road behind it was quite clear.
I reached the inn without meeting Sir Percival, and without noticing anything more, and was glad to find that the landlady had received Fanny with all possible kindness. The girl had a little parlour to sit in, away from the noise of the taproom, and a clean bedchamber at the top of the house. She began crying again at the sight of me, and said, poor soul, truly enough, that it was dreadful to feel herself turned out into the world as if she had committed some unpardonable fault, when no blame could be laid at her door by anybody -- not even by her master, who had sent her away.
‘Try to make the best of it, Fanny,' I said. ‘Your mistress and I will stand your friends, and will take care that your character shall not suffer.
Now, listen to me. I have very little time to spare, and I am going to put a great trust in your hands. I wish you to take care of these two letters.
The one with the stamp on it you are to put into the post when you reach London tomorrow. The other, directed to Mr Fairlie, you are to deliver to him yourself as soon as you get home. Keep both the letters about you and give them up to no one. They are of the last importance to your mistress's interests.'
Fanny put the letters into the bosom of her dress. ‘There they shall stop, miss,' she said, ‘till I have done what you tell me.'
‘Mind you are at the station in good time tomorrow morning,' I continued.
‘And when you see the housekeeper at Limmeridge give her my compliments, and say that you are in my service until Lady Glyde is able to take you back. We may meet again sooner than you think. So keep a good heart, and don't miss the seven o'clock train.'
‘Thank you, miss -- thank you kindly. It gives one courage to hear your voice again. Please to offer my duty to my lady, and say I left all the things as tidy as I could in the time. Oh, dear! dear! who will dress her for dinner today? It really breaks my heart, miss, to think of it.'
When I got back to the house I had only a quarter of an hour to spare to put myself in order for dinner, and to say two words to Laura before I went downstairs.
‘The letters are in Fanny's hands,' I whispered to her at the door.
‘Do you mean to join us at dinner?'
‘Oh, no, no -- not for the world.'
‘Has anything happened? Has any one disturbed you?'
‘Yes -- just now -- Sir Percival --'
‘Did he come in?'
‘No, he frightened me by a thump on the door outside. I said, ‘‘Who's there?'' ‘‘You know,'' he answered. ‘‘Will you alter your mind, and tell me the rest? You shall! Sooner or later I'll wring it out of you. You know where Anne Catherick is at this moment.'' ‘‘Indeed, indeed,'' I said, ‘‘I don't.'' ‘‘You do!'' he called back. ‘‘I'll crush your obstinacy -- mind that! -- I'll wring it out of you!'' He went away with those words -- went away, Marian, hardly five minutes ago.' had not found her yet.
‘You are going downstairs, Marian? Come up again in the evening.'
