The Face in the House

9

Dearest Friend,

Please forgive me for my last letter, William, as I do not know what possessed me to write in such a troubling manner. Though it may not serve as an excuse, and may only add to my torment, I must admit I had perhaps one too many drops of Master White's whiskey prior to writing you last. While I do not recall the exact content of my letter, I have memory enough to know it was a truly troubling thing, and your kind response to confirm it.

I am dearly sorry to have plagued your heart with such worry. I hope in this letter, to put your kind heart at ease, and to assure you that your old friend is not deserving of any sleepless nights on my behalf. In proper words, I shall give you the very heart of the matter, of which I so awfully failed to convey last:

I am at peace with my departure from the field of science. I am content and fulfilled here. In fact, I believe I will stay here a long, long time.

There, William, I sincerely hope this puts your tired mind at rest. Now, do not waste any more of your precious prayers on me! I will accept none of them.

If these words thus far do not appease you, allow me to warm your heart with tales of 24 Thornewood road. As I've told you, the characters here are quite peculiar. Since I last wrote of the Whites, I have had the unfortunate privilege of humoring the Mistress's desire for companionship. Recall my colorful analogy of Arabella White to to a curious bird—squawking about the house, in desperate need of attention and affection. The more time I spend with her, the more confident I am in the metaphor.

She wears only the latest fashions—or what I can only assume are the latest fashions—as if she expects some honorable guests to call on her on any ordinary day. She powders her face, rouges her lips, preparing for some event that exists only in her head. Like a bird trapped in a cage, Arabella White frets about the house, day and night, restless and miserable.

Do not pity her, William, as I know your kind heart is so inclined to do. I am kind to her, in my solemn way, and Master White treats her quite well too despite his contrasting appetite for solitude and his long days at work. Mrs. White is a fine woman, by all accounts—it is her abundance of energy that grates at my nerves.

I have found myself caught in her presence increasingly over the past several weeks. It appears she has taken a liking to me, and though I am certain the maid is thankful to be rid of her, I am now her primary source of entertainment.

It began one morning when I entered the kitchen and, by chance, happened upon the Mistress, in the midst of some sorrowful soliloquy. 'Twas not the first time I've discovered her this way—disconsolate, muttering her woes and wiping her tears with an silk handkerchief—this instance, however, I was ensnared. There was no sneaking away, no turning back down the stairs to seek refuge in my quarters. There was nothing to do but offer my sympathy.

"O, Mr. Poole!" she cried, entirely unashamed of her emotion. "Please, sit with me, if you haven't someplace to be."

So I sat, offered my arm to the tearful Mistress, and listened to her speech. She proceeded to lament, to unleash her most personal sorrows, as if I were her dearest, most faithful confidant, a trusted priest, or even the Lord Himself. It was quite an unnatural encounter, William, one that seems to have forged an unnatural friendship between myself and Arabella White. It is quite backward how she went about it: divulge secrets first, form a bond second.

It is as I first supposed: she is a lonely, sad woman, isolated in this country house, isolated from her husband who works more than he rests, and isolated from her children, who have been sent away to the best school money can buy. She is wealthy and comfortable, which somehow, she claims, only succeeds in making her despair all the worse. All the luxury, without a soul with whom to share it.