‘Oh dear, no,' said the housekeeper. ‘She lives at Welmingham, quite at the other end of the county -- five-and-twenty miles off, at least.'
‘I suppose you have known Mrs Catherick for some years?'
‘On the contrary, Miss Halcombe, I never saw her before she came here yesterday. I had heard of her, of course, because I had heard of Sir Percival's kindness in putting her daughter under medical care. Mrs Catherick is rather a strange person in her manners, but extremely respectable-looking. She seemed sorely put out when she found that there was no foundation -- none, at least, that any of us could discover -- for the report of her daughter having been seen in this neighbourhood.'
‘I am rather interested about Mrs Catherick,' I went on, continuing the conversation as long as possible. ‘I wish I had arrived here soon enough to see her yesterday. Did she stay for any length of time?'
‘Yes,' said the housekeeper, ‘she stayed for some time; and I think she would have remained longer, if I had not been called away to speak to a strange gentleman -- a gentleman who came to ask when Sir Percival was expected back. Mrs Catherick got up and left at once, when she heard the maid tell me what the visitor's errand was. She said to me, at parting, that there was no need to tell Sir Percival of her coming here. I thought that rather an odd remark to make, especially to a person in my responsible situation.'
I thought it an odd remark too. Sir Percival had certainly led me to believe, at Limmeridge, that the most perfect confidence existed between himself and Mrs Catherick. If that was the case, why should she be anxious to have her visit at Blackwater Park kept a secret from him?
‘Probably,' I said, seeing that the housekeeper expected me to give my opinion on Mrs Catherick's parting words, ‘probably she thought the announcement of her visit might vex Sir Percival to no purpose, by reminding him that her lost daughter was not found yet. Did she talk much on that subject?'
‘Very little,' replied the housekeeper.' She talked principally of Sir Percival, and asked a great many questions about where he had been travelling, and what sort of lady his new wife was. She seemed to be more soured and put out than distressed, by failing to find any traces of her daughter in these parts. ‘‘I give her up,'' were the last words she said that I can remember; ‘‘I give her up, ma'am, for lost.'' And from that she passed at once to her questions about Lady Glyde, wanting to know if she was a handsome, amiable lady, comely and healthy and young -- Ah, dear! I thought how it would end. Look, Miss Halcombe, the poor thing is out of its misery at last!'
The dog was dead. It had given a faint, sobbing cry, it had suffered an instant's convulsion of the limbs, just as those last words, ‘comely and healthy and young,' dropped from the housekeeper's lips. the change had happened with startling suddenness -- in one moment the creature lay lifeless under our hands.
Eight o'clock. I have just returned from dining downstairs, in solitary state. The sunset is burning redly on the wilderness of trees that I see from my window, and I am poring over my journal again, to calm my impatience for the return of the travellers. They ought to have arrived, by my calculations, before this. How still and lonely the house is in the drowsy evening quiet!
Oh me! how many minutes more before I hear the carriage wheels and run downstairs to find myself in Laura's arms?
The poor little dog! I wish my first day at Blackwater Park had not been associated with death, though it is only the death of a stray animal.
Welmingham -- I see, on looking back through these private pages of mine, that Welmingham is the name of the place where Mrs Catherick lives.
Her note is still in my possession, the note in answer to that letter about her unhappy daughter which Sir Percival obliged me to write. One of these days, when I can find a safe opportunity, I will take the note with me by way of introduction, and try what I can make of Mrs Catherick at a personal interview. I don't understand her wishing to conceal her visit to this place from Sir Percival's knowledge, and I don't feel half so sure, as the housekeeper seems to do, that her daughter Anne is not in the neighbourhood after all. What would Walter Hartright have said in this emergency? Poor, dear Hartright! I am beginning to feel the want of his honest advice and his willing help already.
Surely I heard something. Was it a bustle of footsteps below stairs?
Yes! I hear the horses' feet -- I hear the rolling wheels. Away with my journal and my pen and ink! The travellers have returned -- my darling Laura is home again at last!
